Hey, the end! Or what passes for it, in an epic. Disclaimer remained the same throughout the whole gorram thing, go me! Soundtrack for this chapter? "Waltz for My Father" - West of Eden and / or "Scarletina" - Alaina Gentry. (Email me if you want the last one, it's a great song, and has been heard on the NBC hit show, "Medium.") Oh, right. The end! Review if you would...

Everyone was gathered around the table in the common area after the ponies had been successfully returned to Abeni. Jayne was wearing Minerva, Vera, and Louise strapped into various holsters, as well as a right purty new hat his Ma had sent him – green on lighter green stripes. The effect was oddly charming. Kaylee was serving up bowl upon bowl of oatmeal from the very large pot that was perpetually warming on the stove since Jayne and Wash's cooking experiment. She sprinkled different things into each one – sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and for River, berries she'd been saving for a special occasion. Wash and Zoë sat at the table, his arm around her in the usual position. Inara sat at the foot of the table. The bandage on her face was still the only remnant from the fight with Emilia, and the cut underneath would fade with time. She would be no less lovely, Mal considered as she smiled at Simon. Miles sat next to Jayne, discussing the properties of various guns and their uses. It was the first day the man not-a-spy had been allowed off his stretcher, but he seemed to be getting about well enough. Mal sat at the head of the table, loving and appreciating every single one of them. And, for the first time in a long time, despising none of them, not even Jayne.

River, the birthday girl, was on Mal's right, next to Simon. She had not said anything in quite awhile. Simon was smiling up at Inara, and they were having some sort of in-depth conversation.

Suddenly Mal was aware of the girl pulling on his sleeve. "What?" he asked, leaning closer. They had all taken to her whispering; her voice wasn't up to snuff just yet.

"Your plant has a new name," she informed him.

Thinking it was something along the lines of "David" or "Wanda," he said cautiously, "What is it?"

"Spiritus servo," she whispered in response, smiling.

"From the Latin, right? You and yer dead languages."

"Life saver," she told him with another smile and a nod.

"I knew that," he told her, and gently kissed her forehead. "You're sweet, and don't y' forget it."

"Mal," she whispered. "From the Latin. Bad." She considered her words. "But not always. Sometimes good. But a mite secretive."

"We all have secrets, cupcake," he informed her.

"Dance with me," she whispered.

He gave her a rueful smile. "This is what I get fer bein' nice." But he got up, his hands in hers, and waited until she put one hand on his shoulder and one on his waist, like they were in some fancy dancing school. "Are we doin' a three-step?" he asked, and without waiting for her answer, swept her into a waltz, steps he barely knew but somehow remembered. She gazed up at him adoringly, then rewarded him with a smile.

"Sometimes very good." She whispered the amendment. "And not ever perfect. Tries hard, though."

"Who could be perfect with y' around t' remind us we're not?" he asked, but he was smiling too. "Happy birthday."

"Oh, it has been," she assured him in her soft voice, and they danced on in silence, without any music, unaware that seven pairs of eyes were watching them and seven mouths were open in surprise.