Title: Tough

Rating: PG. For now, but it could bump up. Will bump up.

Characters: the whole crew, plus the Pirate Children and Alistair Caramia (the latter are mine, the rest are Joss's)

Pairings: Canon pairings. I will openly admit that I heavily, heavily favor Mal and Inara and the Reynolds Family. (Trying hard to rectify that without negatively affecting the storyline.)

Summary: Yet another Pirate Children story. Set twenty-eight years post-BDM. A not-so-fluffy (but still slightly fluffy) look at the future. Serenity's adjusting to her grown children.

Author's Note: There's been much chatter about Mal's conversation with Serra, which excites me as a writer. A very important part of Serra and Mal's relationship is that while she's still partly his "little girl", he knows exactly what she's capable of and he really respects her as (nearly) an equal. And we've all seen how terrible he can be to women he loves and respects.

Part 3

“How do ya feel about filicide?” Mal huffs, throwing himself onto the couch in their shuttle. “Are we speaking in general or just a certain case?” Inara asks, calmly, not looking up from her reading. “Our daughter. I’m gonna kill her. I’m gonna run out there, find her, drag her ass back here, and then kill her.” “I’d prefer if you didn’t,” Inara says, just as nonchalant as before. “The killing part, I mean. If you feel the need to go look for her, I won’t try to stop you.” “You ain’t worried about her?” “Of course, I’m worried about her, Mal,” Inara sighs, finally looking up at him. “But she’s nineteen years old and can take care of herself for an afternoon. She did well enough for six months without us.” “Did she? I wouldn’t know, ‘cause the two of ya won’t tell just what happened while she was gone.” “I don’t know all of it myself,” Inara objects, putting down the book. “And that’s her story to tell. You know my part of it.” Mal feels the ache of that in his chest, of the fights that were worse than they had been in decades, the words that came out that could have, should have ruined everything. Watching her walk off his boat for a second time, and if the first time nearly killed him, he shouldn’t be alive now. The second time was after twenty-five years of marriage and two children who also jumped ship. They fought over Serra’s long absence, which Inara took harder than any of them.

--- “You agreed to this.” “I agreed that she needed some time away from Serenity, that she needed space to grow and be her own person. But I was thinking more along the lines of a few months on Shadow or Sihnon, or even another ship. Somewhere where I would know where she was, where I would know if she were lying dead in a gutter!” “I didn’t kick her off this ship! She left on her own, without telling any of us.” “Because you made her feel like she wasn’t welcome.” “I made her feel... How about we try that again? We made her feel, Inara…” ---

And so it went, night after night. Mal took to sleeping on the couch or in the cockpit or in the empty passenger dorms, anywhere to avoid the evenings’ requisite fights. When they weren’t fighting, they weren’t speaking, and that was even worse. They’d had bad patches before, but this was the worst, worse than the two week cold war following the first time Mal took Abe on a job, despite Inara’s objections. It wore on both of them, the absence of their children, one of whom was incommunicado and the other wrapped up in medical studies, and they continued to pick and snipe at each other, until Mal let loose that certain w-word he had long since erased from his vocabulary, and Inara walked off with a suitcase the next day. And Mal was alone. He doesn’t like to think about the month he spent without his wife and children, stomping around Serenity, letting loose the beast their presence usually tamed, alienating the rest of his family. Sometimes he can pretend it never happened. Six months ago, Serra and Inara walked back onto his boat, back into his life. Made him whole again. Except while he is now whole, Serra came back with something missing, from her eyes, from her smile. She has been a living paradox to Mal for most of her adolescent years, in equal measures light and dark, the ability to smile and laugh and tease innocently, but not flinch when shooting someone point blank, nor refrain from what is necessary, no matter what, for the family. The dark’s still there, her brown eyes still haunted as they once only occasionally were, but the light’s so much dimmer. He feels Inara’s fingers on his wrist, bringing him back to the present. She’s still so beautiful it hurts. Not ageless, but age-resistant. If she had lived out her years in the comforts of House Madrassa, she still wouldn’t look a day over thirty. But life is tough in the Black, it takes from you and gives nothing back. But not all of those scarce lines are from worries or frowns; they’re from smiles and laughter, from the great things this life has given them: a large, loving family, two beautiful, brilliant, sometimes exceedingly tough children, and enough to make ends meet, generally. “She’ll be back by nightfall. She’s angry, not stupid.” “Sometimes they’re the same thing. I just wish she’d tell me what happened, why those six months are such a touchy subject.” “Aside from the obvious?” Mal meets her eyes. “Well, yeah, ‘part from that.” “Maybe she will, in her own time.” Mal grunts, nods. “She’s not back by nightfall, I’m goin’ after her.”

***

Serra knows how to spot an easy mark. He (or she) has to be arrogant, arrogant enough to show their wealth in public, flaunt it without fear of losing it. He generally doesn’t pay attention to what is going on around him, so caught up is he in his self-congratulation. Those types don’t notice her fingers slipping into their pockets as they bump in the street. Serra also has a natural advantage with those who tend towards womenfolk, and even a few who don’t. Her beauty, inherited from her mother, is the kind that kicks people in the gut, even as dressed down as she often is. Serra searches for such a mark now, if only to take her mind off of her father’s words. They are partially true, of course. She spent a significant amount of time in the Core, first on Ariel with Abram for a month, then finishing her six months of wandering with two weeks on Londinium with Sue Ling, meeting Noor, and six weeks with the Serras on Sihnon. And a large amount of time in the middle was spent on Shadow, with Ari Westgate, the young man Mal calls her “farm boy”, childhood friend of her cousins. But not all of her time away was leisurely. Pushing those memories aside, Serra scans the crowd one last time, she finds her mark and starts across the midday rush of the bar towards an unsuspecting local business man, whose wallet bulge is just begging to be lifted off of him. He’s leaning against the bar, talking friendlily with the barkeep and downing what looks to be his second beer. Serra sidles up along the bar as well, nodding familiarly to the tender and asking politely for a mug of cider. She feels her mark’s eyes on her, studying her from top to bottom and lingering in the middle, and she knows she has him. Pointedly ignoring him, she smiles sweetly at the bartender when she accepts her drink and passes coin across to him. As she turns away from the bar, she spills the entire mug onto the man’s shirt and trousers. Feigning horror, she hurriedly grabs a towel from the barkeep and tries to dry her mark off, apologizing profusely in the face of the man’s mix of surprise, anger, and embarrassment. He finally fights her “advances” off after a long pause considering his options with this pretty little lady, never noticing the loss of his billfold until long after she tosses an apologetic smile over her shoulder and sneaks out the back door. Leaning against the wall in the dusty alley just a block away from the bar, she smiles and checks out her spoils. A mediocre take, not terrible but certainly not exciting. Eyeing two urchins huddling by a dumpster on the opposite side of the street, Serra removes the bills from the wallet and tosses the leather into the trash, making eye contact with the scared street children (a little boy and what looks to be his younger sister) as she lays most of the money a few steps away from them, then backs up. They scramble for the money and take off down the alley, disappearing from view. She hears a slow applause behind her. Her hand drops to the pistol on her hip, flipping off the safety and slowly beginning to draw it. “Bravo, Robin Hood,” a sultry voice purrs. Serra turns to face the woman, leveling her gun at her and cocking it when she recognizes her as the woman from last night. “Now, now. Put that away… I was just complimenting you. Do you do that often? Take from the rich and give to the poor. Did you learn that from your father? And obviously your mother’s skills as a whore rubbed off on you as well.” The shot takes the woman by surprise. She feels the bits of rock flying from the wall next to her stinging her flesh. This makes things even more interesting. It seems she’s hit on quite the touchy subject. “You’d do well to keep my mama out of this,” Serra says, and the woman notes for the first time the lack of twang in the girl’s accent. Rim-slang, less-than-conventional contractions, and elongated vowels in ‘mama’, but other than that she speaks perfect Core English. “And don’t start to think for a moment that I didn’t miss on purpose. Identify yourself. And you should probably try to give me a good reason not to shoot you while doing so.” The woman raises her hands, concedes temporary defeat. “Sweetheart, you need to calm down. I’m not trying to hurt you…” This shot kicks up the dirt by her feet. “Quit the patronizing go se, lady. Tell me your name and how you know my parents.” “My name isn’t important, but I am your father’s first wife.” The woman is on Serra before the next shot can go off, elbowing her injured arm quickly and kicking the gun away. Serra hisses a little with the pain, but quickly represses it. “Just leveling the playing field,” Yosaffbridge claims, backing away from Mal’s daughter and putting her foot on the pistol. “I see you’ve heard the story. I am not going to hurt you anymore than you give me reason to, sweetie. I was just admiring your handy-work. Did Daddy teach you to pickpocket on lazy Sundays?” “Kinda just picked it up,” Serra shrugs, nonchalance slipping back into place. “Yes, life you lead, I imagine you would. So, you’re fighting with Daddy now. I guess it’s only natural. He’s a pain in the pi gu, isn’t he? All those high, lofty morals a girl has to live up to… And such a hypocrite.” Serra snorts, one eye always on Saffron, the other scanning her surroundings. “Some could see it that way. Usually I just think he’s an ass. Cut the small talk. Are you approaching a point anytime soon? I have moody teenage moping to do and you’re kinda cutting into my time.” “Not a point,” Saffron says, giving up the vein of conversation. “A job.” “Already have one of those. Now I’d like to leave, if I could have my gun back. It’s a favorite.” “Not until you hear me out, Serra Reynolds. That man in there, the one whose money you just liberated, is in the middle of a spat with the one local bank. He withdrew all his money in cold, hard coin. Real precious metal. Now he’s put it in a safe in his room. And not a particularly strong safe.” Serra loops the thumb of her loose arm into her belt loop, studying the woman for traces of treachery. There’s something off about her, but so far she seems to have been telling the truth. “So?” “He took a real liking to your… assets back there, and he has no idea that you’re the one who lifted his money. You use that. You get in, you get the coin, we split it down the middle.” Serra laughs. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. From the Lassiter to some backwater business man.” “A year in an Alliance prison cell puts a damper on your appetite,” Saffron bites back, too caught in her own bitter memories to see the brief flash of stricken emotion across Serra’s face. “Are you in or not?” “What’s the take?” Serra asks, knowing that Saffron will swindle her at the first chance she gets, but thinking that bringing that coin and this story back to her dad will be a nice way of sticking it to him a little. “Twelve times what you gave away to those little urchins.” Serra nods. A decent take. “And why the rut are we going fifty-fifty? I’m not seeing you doing anything, old lady. What do you need me for anyway? From what I hear…” Saffron’s eyes flash angrily. “Age is a bitch, baby-girl; you might as well get used to that. And I get half because I brought the job and I’m doing the dirty work of distracting the local authorities.” “Seventy-thirty,” Serra says. “And that’s a generous offer considering I could walk off right now and take it without you getting involved at all.” “Sixty-forty and I don’t go to the cops. I’m fairly certain you’ve racked up your fair share of misdemeanors flying on that piece of go se. Maybe even a few felonies. And you especially don’t want the cops searching Serenity, now, do you?” Serra narrows her eyes, considering. “Deal. Can I have my gun back now?” “Are you going to shoot me?” “Depends on how well-behaved you are.” “Sweetheart, I need you,” Saffron pouts, “I’m not going to hurt you.” She kicks the gun over to Serra, who dusts it off and holsters it. “What happened to your arm?” “Someone stepped out of line.” “Well, it doesn’t seem to slow you down. You were a gem back there. Did your mother teach you seduction and the other arts of whoring…” Saffron should know that the punch is coming, but lets her contempt for Inara Serra override her judgment. The force of the blow knocks her onto the dusty alley ground, and her jaw stings as she shakes the stars out of her head. She looks up at the girl leaning over her, gun drawn, face set in stone cold anger. “Let’s get one thing straight. That was your second chance: you won’t get a third. I’ve broken better humans’ noses for lesser insults. You even mention my mother again and I will not hesitate to shoot you between the eyes, dong luh ma?” Saffron is taken aback by the fury in the girl’s dark eyes and eyes the gun barrel warily. “I understand. You’ve got mother issues; the topic is closed.” Serra holsters the gun violently and says wearily. “Get up. And one other thing. Stop with the gorramn pet names. You’re not family, and I don’t generally lean towards women. And even if I did, I definitely wouldn’t lean towards a dried up has-been like you.” Saffron should have known then that she was losing the upper hand.

TBC