Here's the epilogue. Eventually, there will be Simon throwing Kaylee's clothes on the bunk floor. Promise. *grin* By the way, the quote is different because I thought it fit this piece better. In case you cared. Or wondered.

You know the drill. Feedback at kaylee@kikiroxxorz.com is appreciated. Also, for timeline purposes, I am George Lucas. I worked backwards.

2, 3, 4, 5, 1, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 if you're new to the series.

A happy ending. Weird? I think so.

Any problems can be directed to my dear and fluffy muse, Ryan Adams. He sings, I write.

"Where do you go when you're lonely Where do you go when you're blue Where do you go when you're lonely I'll follow you When the stars go blue" ~Ryan Adams, When The Stars Go Blue

***

I like to get up early and watch the Tempest rising. It’s like a ballet—it starts out slow, sleepy, deliberate, blinking and scrunching and curling with surprising feminity, the crescendo rising, up, up, stretch and fret, maybe even a little cry like a sudden and wholly shocking crash of thunder in the middle of the night, then all of the tension collapses, suddenly, a wild, toothless grin, big eyes emerging from a weirdly dense thatch of hair. If you’re interested, two-year-olds dream of the beach, strawberry yogurt, what the ‘verse looks like from on their fathers’ shoulders and the day they were born.

***

At first, Mal wasn’t too keen on a baby on his boat. He still ain’t, he supposes, but Tempest is the exception to the rule. Mal adores her. He figures he’ll have her doing captainy things by two and a half, and in the cockpit as soon as she pays more attention to the controls and less attention to the gorram plastic dinosaurs. Inara comes up behind him, blindsiding him with coffee. He’s always at his most peaceful when watching Tempest. “Mornin’,” he says around the mug. Inara nods in Tempest’s direction. “What would you think of one of your own?” she asks, smiling up at him in a way that reminds him of Kaylee. “Really?” She nods, and he chokes on his coffee, considering how best to answer. “Well, Mrs. Reynolds,” he replies after awhile, draining the mug. “That would be…just shiny.”

***

Three years. For three years I have woken up next to living, breathing, laughing, talking proof that there is a higher power. I kiss her neck softly until she opens her eyes, one ear cocked to listen for our twenty-five-month-old daughter, Tempest. “Good morning, beautiful,” I whisper, dropping feathery kisses down her collarbone. “Good…ah…mornin’,” she replies, stretching. “Where’s…oh, God…Tempest?” I grin up at her, nipping her collarbone gently. “River has her. Just relax.” As we lean back against the pillows several minutes later, ready for sleep again, I play absently with her hair, wondering at the absolute perfection of my life and remembering how I almost lost it all.

*** She looks like her daddy, all milky-white skin (when it’s clean, which ain’t too often) an’ dark hair, but she’s my baby. Knew all the parts to Serenity ‘fore she was even two, and she can help me put in new ones when we get ‘em. You wanna know why we named her Tempest? Simon says that’s what brung her here—a tempest, a storm. When I was a li’l girl, I never liked storms. When they’d come, I’d hide under my parents’ bed ‘til it went away and my world was back the way it was s’posed to be. First time Tempest saw a storm, she was only ‘bout a year old. We were stuck planetside ‘cause of it, and while I tried to keep us all from fryin’, River took Tempest into the cockpit an’ stood her on the dash so she could see out. “Kaylee, you have to come see this,” Simon said, draggin’ me out of the engine room an’ into the cockpit, where Tempest was sound asleep, face pressed against the windowpane. Now that I think of it, maybe storms ain’t so bad after all.