Short fic about Mal's Parents

Yeah, okay, I know, needs a better title, but...
I have been distracting myself today by writing a short fic about Mal's parents. I don't know what hit me -- I was going to work on Ends with a Horse, or maybe make my notes on Inara's backstory presentable (as requested by Bytemite), but then this idea popped into my head and begged to be written down. It's not complete yet, but I decided to post what I have written so far. Feedback is nice. Also, I want to know how it works outside the context of my headcanon. It fits in with my series of stories, but is not sequential, and I'm curious as to whether or not the story makes any sense if you haven't read my series. (That would be...most of you other than Bytemite , y'all. )
Alright, enough babble. Here 'tis.

* * *

“You heard the news, Dean?”

He took a moment to swallow his drink, leaned back, and looked his interrogator in the eye. “Depends on which news you mean, Hank.”

“New schoolteacher,” Hank said eagerly.

Over-eagerly, in Dean’s opinion. “Why, you thinkin’ about goin’ back for more schoolin’, tryin’ to make up for your natural deficiencies?” He gave his friend a smile, all charm and open-hearted warmth.

Which immediately set off Hank’s alarm bells. He was used to Dean’s natural mix of charm and obnoxiousness. “Ain’t what I said.” He took a pull of his own drink. “New teacher.”

“And this is supposed to interest me how, exactly?”

“New blood on the Northside,” Hank told him. To him, it was plain as daylight. In a country as sparsely populated as the Northside of Shadow, any new arrival was of interest, and if that new arrival should happen to be an unmarried woman of suitable age…well, so much the better, in Hank’s opinion. In a community like theirs, just weren’t that many opportunities for an unmarried fella to interact with members of the fair sex as weren’t blood kin or raised up together like your sisters and therefore out of bounds. The monthly Saturday night dances at the Tairbeart Community Hall just didn’t come around often enough, and even then, there was stiff competition, bein’ as the young men outnumbered the women by a goodly amount. “Hope she’s pretty.”

Dean scoffed. “You said that about the new clerk at Piper’s General Store, last year. Turned out she was older than Methuselah, and about as good a looker as your Great Aunt Gippy.” Placing a coin on the bar, he nodded at the bartender, who refilled his glass. “What do you say to a round of darts, Hank?”

Hank hadn’t yet lived down the reputation he’d acquired on account of that store clerk. Still, he couldn’t help speculating further. “New teacher probably come from Edmunds City.”

Dean had been to Edmunds City. Despite the name, Shadow’s largest town was no more than that: a town. Didn’t even have a proper university, so he couldn’t imagine a teacher from Edmunds City as being anything to get so worked up and excited over. Though there was promising talk of establishing a proper Agricultural College in Edmunds City in the near future. Now that was a useful idea. “Yeah, and like as not, new teacher’ll be a man, Hank. You thought of that?”

“Huh.” Hank paused for a moment. “No, I didn’t. Though I reckon Leo’s done thought of it.”

“Oh, he’s probably thought of it every night since Chuck left him and paired off with Bob,” Dean remarked drily.

“Shepherd MacLeod—”

“Shepherd MacLeod don’t have a leg to stand on, Hank. He’s just ireful ’cause Bob’s granddad talked his pa out of some of the best grazing land this side of the Brook, and he’s been full of the wrath of God ever since they shook hands on the deal. Besides,” he added, draining the last of his pint, “Shepherd don’t really have nothin’ against sly folk. It’s unmarried folk that gets him all riled up. Can’t stomach the thought of anyone in his flock committing the sin of forni—”

“The Lord is with us,” Hank inserted hastily. It was their signal that the Shepherd was within earshot.

“Praise the Lord,” Dean Reynolds responded. He turned his head casually and greeted the Shepherd, who had entered the saloon and walked up to the bar to order his favorite temperance beverage. “Rather dry this season, ain’t it, Shepherd? How’s the grazing holdin’ up on Miz Molly’s ranch?”

* * *

The new teacher was a woman. A woman from the Core.

For a woman who hadn’t yet made her appearance on Shadow, she was creating quite a stir. Dean Reynolds was sick of it. “It’s a mistake,” he told Hank, “subscribing to these programs that send Core-world teachers out to the Rim. You’d think they were tryin’ to civilize us.”

“I don’t doubt they are,” Hank laughed. “But if she’s good-lookin’, I’m up for bein’ civilized.”

“You really got a one-track mind, Hank.”

“Can’t help it. When the drought’s been goin’ on this long—”

“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s that confounded Alliance, tryin’ to spread their influence by educatin’ the Rim worlds’ children in their ways. New teacher’ll just preach Unification, mark my words. She’ll make the young folk long for things they can’t have here. The glamour of the big cities in the Core will lure them in, and they’ll leave the land and head for the Core, leavin’ their kinfolk to fend for themselves without the strong backs and willing effort of the young folk. She’s probably—”

“You’re just resentful ’cause Mr fancy-pants Trésor d’Arblay stole your Cathy’s heart, finished his two-year teaching stint, and whisked her away with him to the Core.”

“Maybe I am,” Dean admitted. It still stung. He’d had his eye on Cathy van der Rijn for years, and thought she kinda fancied him, too. Just as he was workin’ up the gumption to ask her ma and pa for permission to court her formally, she up and decided to run off to the Core with this Mr Teacher d’Arblay person. Married him, even. Dawg-gone Core-bred—. His brain, out of long habit, censored the swear words. He rarely let them pass his lips. Leaving Shadow wasn’t an option for him, nor leaving the Northside neither. His parents had died young in one of the raids not long after he’d come of age, and responsibility for running the ranch had fallen on his shoulders. The Good Lord had provided, and the ranch had prospered. The Reynolds ranch was one of the largest on the Northside, though all agreed it had yet to reach its full potential. It was as fine a piece of creation as ever a man was blessed with, fine grasslands surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains ever created by God and modified by the hand of man through terraforming, and not far from the sea with its bounty. The ranch provided Dean Reynolds and an assortment of ranch hands with a means of making a living, and he knew a good thing when he saw it. It was his duty to be a responsible steward of the gifts the Lord had provided him. “But it probably don’t make no nevermind. Like as not, she ain’t young at all. Just some washed-up Core lady havin’ a mid-life crisis and lookin’ out for a wild Rim-world adventure.”

Hank and Dean laughed. Wildest thing happened on the Northside of Shadow recently was Charles Wilson (the Unofficial Mayor of North River), while holding court in The Taproom (the local temperance-beverage watering-hole), had proposed allowing Piper’s General Store to open up on Sundays. This outrageous proposal stimulated Shepherd MacLeod to preach a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon in church next day, on the Perils of Perdition, the Temptations of Sin, and the Evils of Sunday Shopping. The Lord’s Day was to be kept sacred, and that meant that if you were so fallen from grace as to find yourself run out of toothpaste on a Saturday night, you had to do without until Monday. That, and the other wild thing was when Old Man Keath caught a forty-inch, fifty-pound rockfish down at Little River pier earlier that summer, a truly remarkable feat. The whole neighborhood had flocked to catch a sight of the magnificent creature before Keath scaled and gutted it and took it home to feed his family.

* * *

“Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth. Ain’t that a mouthful!”

“Pretentious,” was Dean’s assessment. “Wonder what motivated her to sign up for this teaching gig, anyhow? Name like that, she’s gotta be upper-crust—heiress to some Londinium fortune, most like.”

“I’m still hopeful.” Hank’s enthusiasm hadn’t dampened a bit, especially since it had been confirmed that the new teacher was young, fresh out of teaching college, with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature and a Master’s degree in Education. “I imagine she’s a special lady.”

“She’ll just come out here to sneer at our ignorance, and collect stories she can tell to her society girl friends back home in the Core.”

* * *

The new teacher was pretty. Or rather, more than. Prettier than the stars that shone through the Black. She was the most gorram beautiful creature Dean Reynolds had ever laid eyes on. Oh, Lord forgive him! Did he just swear?

She greeted Shepherd MacLeod politely, with a smile that lit up the heavens, and Dean swore—again—that she was the most beautiful critter yet to alight on this shiny world of Shadow, created by the hand of God and improved by the hand of man—or perhaps he oughtta amend that to read, improved by the hand of woman. The Shepherd handed her down from the wagon that had brought her to their little hamlet, and introduced her to the care of his wife Molly. She was to lodge with the Shepherd’s family.

* * *

Like all the young single men with a lick of common sense, Dean Reynolds attended church the following Sunday. Miss Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth sat up in the front pew with Miz Molly MacLeod and the rest of the Shepherd’s family. There was one hel—heck of a lot of prayin’ goin’ on in that church that Sunday, but it had precious little to do with Shepherd MacLeod’s sermon.

Some of those prayers were answered after the service in the church social hall, as the young men of the neighborhood vied for the opportunity to bring Miss Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth refreshment and introduce themselves. She smiled and shook hands and made small talk, but Dean was not one of those favored with a word from her lips. He worked his way through the throng of people—honestly, church hadn’t been so well-attended since Easter—politely greeting old Mrs Primrose and two of her daughters and other friends of his late parents, waylaid by Nelson Wang with a shaggy-dog story about a possum in his compost pile, and finally he was within range of Miss Eugenia W.-W. when his gorra—dawg-gone comm sounded with an urgent message from the ranch. Brunhilde, the prize sow, was farrowing. Things weren’t going well and his presence was needed forthwith. As he made his way toward the door, the sound of her laughter reached his ears. It sounded like music.

* * *

There's more to this story, but (ahem) Haven't. Written. It. Yet!

I can still read it though? I'm reading anyway!

Oh yes, I really like the imagining of the people, and how they react to even the slightest news and someone new coming in, that's very small town and western.

I have some similarities, without knowing too many specifics about what you had planned, so I think it makes a lot of sense. In my story it was Mal who lost both his parents (his mother lived a decade or so longer than his father) and had to take up the work. under the tutelage of the overseer, that was how he developed the skills to command guys during action, while his mother had taught him the business side of things.

But the ranch was also northside. GR likes to put it there too, see the northern lights. I researched the names of places on Shadow in the QmX map, and only saw what I think are provincial names. But I put it in a place called Vertrag, which is german for founding or charter, and I figured the ranch might go all the way back to founding, which is why founder's day is such a big deal to him.

Anyway, this was a lot of fun. Definitely like to see more. See how much that pretty thing from the core thin\ks of them. I'm imagining her almost like Inara, really taken by the quaint good nature of the people and their lifestyle, but which a guy might take the wrong way and think she was being judgmental.

Next part. There's more to the story, but again -- Haven't written it yet.


* * *

It wasn’t until the Harvest Fair that he actually had a chance to speak with the new teacher. Like most ranchers, Dean spent much of the Harvest Fair doing business. A number of his prime Shadow Angus cattle were on exhibit, and between attending the bull calf judging event (one of his bull calves was awarded the blue ribbon on account of his excellent conformation, which pleased Dean to no end), auctioning off some of his two-year-old steers, arranging the sale of a freemartin, bidding on a new bull, and generally glad-handing all and sundry, Dean was plum tuckered out. Although he’d brought along a change of clothing, he considered calling it a night and skipping the Harvest Dance altogether. But that was before he overheard Miss Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth (why did the woman have to have such a gorra—dawg-gone nine-syllable name?) telling Penny Hwong that she was sure lookin’ forward to going to the dance that evening.

A minute later, Dean had slipped into one of the back stalls of the Heifer Barn to change into his glad-rags, and was giving himself a fresh shave.

* * *

Soon as he heard the sound of the fiddles, his tiredness evaporated. He didn’t know why, but something about fiddle music made his feet want to dance. His momma always told him, that a sure way to a woman’s heart was to ask her to dance, and to know how to do it properly. “Women like a man what knows how to dance,” she told him. “A man who don’t whine about how dancin’ ain’t manly, and don’t act like he’d rather be shooting the breeze with the men-folk out back than leadin’ his partner out to the dance floor.” Dean had applied himself to the task, and was a fine stepper. He stood up for every dance, and despite the sorry gender imbalance of the neighborhood, he rarely lacked for a partner.

The Harvest Dance was packed. Not only was it the social event of the season for the entire Northside, but Cottonwood Cousins was one of the finest stringbands on the whole wide world of Shadow. The smile rarely left his face as Dean danced and talked with his partners between dances. The music was so good, even the duty dances weren’t no chore. He danced with Mrs MacEachern, the cook he’d recently hired to manage the growing culinary needs of his ranch; Mrs Bahri and Widow Oistrakh, who’d helped him after his parents’ sudden demise; Miz MacLeod, the Shepherd’s wife; and did his good deed for the night in asking Shen Zhang’s kid sister to dance. She was young and gangly, not yet blossomed into womanhood, and she was being ignored and left to sit on the sidelines. She was of an age where her sole idea of happiness was to dance all night without having to sit out, and all it took was his invitation to change her evening from a tragedy to a pure unadulterated shininess. He escorted her right up to the center of the floor in front of the band, and her transformation from ugly duckling to swan was complete—a heart-warming sight to see. She didn’t lack for partners after that.

Of course, it wasn’t all duty dances. Dean Reynolds was a popular dance partner, and he had his choice of the loveliest, liveliest women of the Northside, as he danced Two Little Sisters, Glencoe Mills, and a long string of square dances he couldn’t put a name to. Still, he hadn’t caught a sight of that schoolteacher.

At last, one of his favorite squares was being called. It was called “Cheat or Swing,” and considering how looked-down-upon cheatin’ was on Shadow in real life, it was amazing how popular this dance was on the Northside. It was Dean’s favorite dance to sit out, because although it started as a regular square dance, with couples chaining, starring, circling, and whatnot, at some point the caller would slip in the call “cheat or swing!” and all hel—heck would break loose on the dance floor. ’Cause that call meant the active couple had a choice—swing each other, or choose to “cheat” and swing somebody else. That included other people in the square—or in another square—or indeed anywhere in the dance hall. It was Dean’s policy to lurk on the sidelines, waiting for the call, and then swoop in and take an unsuspecting lady by surprise, swing her before she knew what hit her, and disappear like a shadow soon as the next call came. Then he’d move to another part of the floor, figure out who he’d like to swing next, and wait for the next “cheat or swing.”

He was in the middle of this dance—having flirted with both the Monegal twins, “cheated” the Northside’s newest bride right out of her husband’s waiting arms, and managed to take Girasol Bennet so much by surprise that she squealed like a stuck pig—when he finally spotted her. Miss Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth, Core-bred teacher lady with the pretentious nine-syllable name, dancing Shadow squares like she was born to it. When the caller sang out, “Cheat or swing!” he was ready.

She wasn’t expecting someone from outside her own square to claim her for a swing, but her surprise was quickly followed by laughter, and as he gazed into her beautiful blue eyes, he was smitten. He waited until the swing was nearly over. “Dean Reynolds,” he introduced himself. “Pleased to meet ya.”

“Eugenia Weir—” was all she had a chance to say in response, before the call changed.

“Next dance?” he asked quickly, and she nodded, before her corner claimed her for an allemande.

* * *

The next dance was a slow waltz, as Dean knew perfectly well it would be. For five whole minutes he had Miss Teacher Lady all to himself, and plenty of time to talk. “So you’re the famous Miss Eugenia Weir,” he began, teasing. “May I call you Jeannie?”

“Actually, it’s Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth,” she corrected, but she was smiling. Gosh, he loved her dimples. “I have no reason to be ashamed of my family name, but the longer I spend here, the more out of place it seems.”

“So change it,” he blurted. Stupid! What was he saying? Too fast.

“Change it?” she asked archly. “Change it to what?”

“Well, it’s got too many syllables,” he joked, as a way of covering for his gaffe, speaking his mind unfiltered like that, especially when his mind seemed to be bent on constructing pie-in-the-sky fantasies without his say-so. “Here on Shadow, when something’s got too many syllables, we shorten it. There’s a family down by Lytle Cove, used to be called Fotheringhay. Got tired of spelling and pronouncing all that extra 废话 fèihuà [nonsense], so now it’s Fong.”

“And how do you propose to shorten my name, Mr Reynolds?”

“Call me Dean. I think first of all we gotta deal with the overabundance of syllabification. For instance, there’s Natalya Bhukkanasut, lives down by Shell Bluff. We all call her Nat B.”

“Hmm. And so my name would be…?”

“Jeannie Dub,” he answered.

“Jeannie Dub!” she exclaimed. “Would you care to explain the derivation of this moniker?”

“Jeannie’s clear enough. See, Eugenia’s a mighty fine name—”

“It means ‘well born’,” she explained.

“I figured you for a blue blood,” he smirked.

“A blue blood? Hardly!”

“Why not? You got an excellent conformation—nice topline, superior neck conformation—neither too long nor too short—fine shoulder width indicating good capacity in the heart and lungs, exceptional teeth and ideal eye structure.” He could have added that her rump conformation was nice and wide, a good indicator of fertility and ease of calving, but he was sure he’d get slapped for making a comment like that, and held his tongue. At her confused look, he explained, “I’m a rancher, Miss Jeannie, and I got an eye for good bloodlines.”

She was silent a moment, and he was unsure how she’d taken his comment. But he hid his insecurity behind a cocky, confident grin. At last she spoke. “I do believe you just compared me to a cow, Mr Reynolds.”

His smile grew. “Properly speakin’, that would be a heifer I reckon.” Now was definitely not the time to point how lay-folks’ misuse of the term “cow” to refer to any and all bovines irked rancher-folk.

“Oh, 对不起 Duìbuqǐ [Excuse me], I’m still getting used to the terminology. But seriously, a cow? Is that how you Shadow gentlemen impress a lady? By comparing her to a cow?”

“喂 Wèi [Hey], cows are shiny!” he objected. He feared he had overstepped his bounds. But to his great relief she began to laugh.

“I’ll have to say, that’s definitely unique in my experience. I’ve never before been likened to a cow. Or, not in a complimentary way. At least, I think you meant to be complimentary. Now, would you care to return to your explanation?”

“Explanation?” he replied, stupidly. Her brilliant smile and musical laughter were knocking all the good sense out of his head.

“Of my nickname. Jeannie Dub.”

“Oh, right. Well, it’s ‘Jeannie’ because clearly you gotta reduce the excess syllabification of that mighty fine name ‘Eugenia’.”

“And why ‘Dub’?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” he asked. She shook her head, but she was still amused, he could see it in her eyes. Her absolutely gorgeous blue eyes. “There was an old farmer, lived over by Warring Station—which ain’t there no more, so I suppose that bit of geography ain’t overly helpful—anyways, his name was Walter Dubose, but everybody called him Dub.”

“Short for ‘Dubose’?”

He shook his head. “Short for ‘Walter’.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Nothin’ to be afraid of, Miz Jeannie. I’m here to protect you,” he smirked. She gave the closest thing to a snort of annoyance that a proper lady could allow herself, so he hastened to add, “W. Dubose. But double-you is even longer to say than what it stands for. So, Dub.” His grin widened.

“So I’m ‘Jeannie’ Weirleigh-Wigglesworth. 'Dub' for double-you.”

“對了Duìle [That’s right]. Though properly speakin’, I oughtta call you Jeannie Dub-Dub, seein’ as you’re hyphenated.”

She was tempted to slap him for his cheekiness, he could tell. Truth was, they weren’t yet intimately acquainted enough (seriously, five minutes?!) for such playful shenanigans, and in any case…At that very moment the music swelled to its final climax and he twirled her round expertly, so that her skirt belled out and she sank down into a curtsey like a princess, while he bowed gracefully over their extended hands.

He straightened up. She remained sunk in the curtsey, as her skirt slowly deflated around her.

“Umm…” Why wasn’t she getting up? Had he inadvertently hurt her? He took a step back in panic, before he saw she was laughing at him with her eyes. She stood up at last, and laughed aloud, those beautiful dimples of hers coming into view as she did so.

“You were standing on the hem of my dress, Mr Reynolds,” she remarked.

“Dean,” he reminded her, although why he was reminding her of his identity following such a goof-ball, un-smooth move, he couldn’t fathom.

“Thank you for the dance…Dean. Would you save a dance for me in the second half? I haven’t had so much fun in years.”

* * *

The band took a break after that waltz, and Dean managed to monopolize Miss Jeannie Dub-Dub’s attention for most of the intermission, reluctantly letting her go shortly before the end of the break. People would talk if he didn’t let her mix and mingle, and do some more mixing and mingling hisownself.

He made sure to ask Miss Jeannie Dub for the last square dance of the evening. It was a rowdy and complicated one called Crazy Eights, another one of his favorites, and it involved a lot of balance-and-swing your partner (no cheatin’ allowed).

“This one a bit complicated for you?” he asked her, though he was seriously impressed with how seamlessly she moved—like she’d been born to the Shadow style of square dancing.

“Not at all,” she answered. “There’s actually a very similar dance done on Londinium. I learned it at Miss Taylor’s Dance Academy.”

“Similar, eh? Wouldn’ta guessed that.”

“The Londinium version is…shall we say, somewhat more sedate?”

Dean took the next opportunity to balance with a startlingly loud stomp followed by an impressive leap, one of his trademark moves.

“That’s just what I mean,” Miss Jeannie remarked, as they began to swing with a high velocity pivot turn. “On Londinium, it’d be more like…well, next time I’ll show you.”

Next time the balance-and-swing came up, he let her take the lead, and mimicked her mincing steps for the balance, while the so-called “swing” involved a ridiculous slow-motion rotation while touching only the backs of their raised hands.

“Have to agree, ma’am, sedate is the proper word for it. Or maybe pretentious.”

She laughed again, and it was music to his ears. He couldn’t get enough of her smiles, her laughter, and the sparkle of those remarkable blue eyes.

* * *

When the band struck up the last waltz immediately following the Crazy Eights square, Dean simply held up his arms in ballroom position, Miss Eugenia Weirleigh-Wigglesworth stepped right into them, and they began to dance once more. He was the luckiest fella on the Northside, the one with the beautiful new schoolteacher in his arms, gliding around the dance floor effortlessly, as if they were made for each—wait. What kind of thoughts were these? They didn’t even know each other! Not really. Still, when the last note faded away, and the last bow and curtsey were made (thankfully without a repeat of the embarrassing dress-stepping incident), he felt as if he did know Jeannie Dub much better than he had a right to after spending such a short time in her company.

“Will you see me again?” he asked her, as they said their goodnights.

“Of course. I’ll see you in church tomorrow, won’t I?”

That was good news and bad. She’d noticed him in church then. His diligent attendance since her arrival on the Northside had not been in vain. Still, that wasn’t at all what he meant. He wanted to ask her out. Court her.

“And perhaps you and I can take tea together, afterwards, at my lodgings,” she added.

He detested tea. Always drank coffee. But for her, he’d drink bilgewater, and gladly, so long as he got to do it in her company. “I’d love to,” he answered, and they parted with a warm handshake.

So his first proper date with her was going to be a tea party in Miz MacLeod’s parlor, chaperoned by the Shepherd. Shiny.

* * *

That's what our fairs are like, except nobody actually dances as far as I know. Maybe they used to, but the younger generation likes a different style. You seem to know a lot about it though. Can't say I do.

The Reynolds are the sort for mischief, that seems just what they'd do with a cheat or swing dance.

And comparing women to heifers when they know better *headshake* I'm wondering how Inara would react if Mal pulled the same stunt on her. Hilarious. They've got a bit of the cad in them. Makes it fun writing. I'm imagining Mal making some reference to Inara making cow eyes at him, and her completely baffled whether that's a compliment or not.

I wonder what cultural differences might be in that tea party offer. Just a politeness? A subtle rejection by offering a not courting activity, paired with her deliberate misunderstanding that they'd see each other in church? Or maybe in the core upper class that IS courting. Is it unusual for her to offer, or forward? Is a tea party with chaperones exactly the kind of suitable meeting that she'd expect for a first "date"?

Maybe in the next section Dean could be trying to figure that out. And he's still trying to figure it out all the way through the tea party, while entertainingly demonstrating to Eugenia in a number of small ways that he really isn't a tea drinker.

Bytemite wrote:That's what our fairs are like, except nobody actually dances as far as I know. Maybe they used to, but the younger generation likes a different style. You seem to know a lot about it though. Can't say I do.

I went to a dance like this at the Indiana State Fair one time. Everybody was dancing, then somebody announced that the sow was dropping a litter, and everybody deserted the dance floor and headed over to the hog barn!
I have a friend who's a square dance caller. He's the one who called Crazy Eights. I don't have a clue what the calls are in that dance, so I just made stuff up; all I remember that it was called Crazy Eights and it was fun. I looked up the other square dance names on a website. "Cheat or Swing" is a real dance. It's just as fun as I made it out to be.

Bytemite wrote:And comparing women to heifers when they know better *headshake* I'm wondering how Inara would react if Mal pulled the same stunt on her.

LOL! because I wrote this after writing a scene for Mal and Inara in which Mal does pretty much the same thing, in a slightly different way. So I already know (teehee) how Inara will react.

Bytemite wrote: I wonder what cultural differences might be in that tea party offer.

Still workin' the details, but I've got the tea party section written now.
Thanks for the feedback. It's very good to have input, very helpful as I figure out where this is headed next. Quite exciting as I've never posted anything that's quite so much a work-in-progress before.

Oh, sorry I missed your response, doing field work this week. I even have to go in tomorrow on my day off, but I am cheating because I will not go in at the beginning of the day (I'm not needed then anyway).

While my initial thoughts about the Indiana State Fair "piglets!" and that I'm charmed, my other thought is that I'm sure those people have seen birth before and it's kind of not a spectator sport?

I think the square dance calls were good. I think maybe individual callers have their own specific calls maybe that are take off from the moves people already know.

Mal and Inara in which Mal does pretty much the same thing, in a slightly different way. So I already know (teehee) how Inara will react

Okay, looking forward to that.

I've got the tea party section written now.

Happy to help.

It's kind of freeing to just post up something as it comes. That is what this fic board is all about.

Bytemite wrote:While my initial thoughts about the Indiana State Fair "piglets!" and that I'm charmed, my other thought is that I'm sure those people have seen birth before and it's kind of not a spectator sport?

It was an animal exhibit specifically about farrowing, so I suppose it was set up for the purpose of educating people about birth. I'd bet most of them had never seen piglets being born. At our local county fair, there's a children's barn with mother and baby animals, and one of the highlights is the sow with piglets.

It's kind of freeing to just post up something as it comes. That is what this fic board is all about.

Have to admit, it's a thrilling process. This is a good place to put it up first, as it's limited exposure.

Generally speaking your fic here has a lost better grammar and spelling then my unproofed writing.

Next section. Turns out escaping from RL is conducive to writing comedy. I wasn't sure if the high-falutin' way of referring to horseback riding was "equestration" or "equitation" (anybody know?), so I put them both in, each with their own pun. Glad to have a better-informed opinion on that point.



* * *

Turned out when she said “tea,” she really meant “food.”

Delicate, fancy, exotic little bites of food, but food nonetheless. Dean wondered how Miss Eugenia had found the time to whip up such prodigious quantities of fripperies without breaking the Sabbath or skipping church, but somehow she had. There were delicate little bite-sized sandwiches with cucumbers in ’em and hard-boiled eggs with the yolks whipped up into a creamy filling and stuffed back in. Some kind of salad made of couscous the size of salmon eggs with a light tasty herbal dressing. Fancy-shaped biscuits (she called ’em “scones”) served with strawberry jam and whipped cream. Cookies (funnily enough, those were the things she called “biscuits”) with white sugar frosting and preserved cherries, and cookies filled with pieces of stem ginger. Little bitty fruit tarts with fresh raspberries in ’em.

He managed to convey his marvel at all the fine delicacies without sounding like he was accusing her of breaking the Sabbath.

“Oh, I bake every Saturday, Mr Reynolds—Dean. I prepared most of this food yesterday, before I went to the fair. It wasn’t but five or ten minutes’ work to assemble it today, and I did that after church, while I was waiting for you to arrive.”

While she was waiting for him—that sounded nice.

“That way I can entertain visitors on Sunday, without feeling like I’m breaking the spirit of the Lord’s Day of Rest by spending the day cooking in the kitchen.”

“Oh,” he said, trying to sound as if he meant how clever she was to plan ahead like that. “So you entertain visitors every Sunday, then?” Dang it, it came out sounding jealous and accusatory anyway! As if he had any right to such feelings. He’d only just properly met her the day before.

“I do,” she answered, looking him in the eye. “I’m an outsider, but I’ve come to Shadow to live and work. I think it’s important to get to know the people in this community. So, each Sunday since my arrival, I’ve invited the parents of my students, the church elders, the principal ranch owners—”

Dean was about to retort that he was a principal ranch owner in these parts, when she continued, “—but I didn’t want to invite you as part of a crowd, so I didn’t ask anyone else at church today.” His disgruntlement evaporated as she gave him a friendly smile, and he was glad he hadn’t made the testy, hot-headed comment. “Now, I believe you take your coffee with cream, no sugar, isn’t that right, Mr R—Dean?”

“How’d you kno—? I mean—yes, please, Miss Jeannie.”

“You never take tea,” she remarked matter-of-factly, as she poured some heavenly-smelling coffee from the pot and added just the right amount of cream. “But I’ve noticed you prefer your coffee this way.” She paused and regarded his nonplussed expression with some amusement. “Someday, I’ll get you to try some proper Londinium tea. It isn’t the sad stew of leaves you think it is—you’d really enjoy it. But until then, I’ll be glad to serve you coffee.”

He took a sip of coffee with the best attempt at nonchalantry he could muster. Truth was that he was completely spun about. This prodigy of a high-class teacher from Londinium had singled him out for a solo invitation, had noticed details like his regular attendance at church, his preference for coffee over tea—even how he liked his coffee. Contrary to his expectation, Miz MacLeod and the Shepherd weren’t present as chaperones—hadn’t interrupted their little tea party even once. They were given complete privacy, which was extraordinary, as Miz MacLeod was famous the whole country ’round as a busybody who couldn’t keep out of other folks’ affairs. Had he not known otherwise, he would have sworn this was Miss Jeannie’s own house, not the Shepherd’s. Dean was rapidly coming to the conclusion that Miss Jeannie had complete command of the situation and had engineered it to suit her.

They talked, and ate, and talked some more, a regular getting-to-know-you. Despite that she was a sophisticated Londinium lady from the Core and he’d made so many gaffes she had every right to think of him as an underbred yokel, they got on very well, like peas in a pod. She seemed to be genuinely curious about life on Shadow, the Northside community, about ranching—even about his life, though he didn’t attach particular meaning to those questions, much as he’d like to. Weren’t egotistical enough to think she meant anything more than general friendly interest at this point in time, though he hoped he could build on that. Her questions were thoughtful and intelligent, and showed she’d either studied up on ranching ahead of time, or had been paying prodigious close attention since her arrival on Shadow. He’d never been off-world, and was genuinely curious about the Core and the ways of Core-folk, or at least in the ways of the one particular Core folk in whose company he was spending this afternoon. Time flew like an arrow as they swapped stories, and before he knew it, it was getting to be late in the afternoon. Much as he’d like to prolong the visit, he had duties back at the ranch, and needed to take his leave. He stood and held his hat in hand.

“Thank you, Miss Weirleigh-Wiggles—”

“Please just call me Eugenia.”

“Jeannie Dub it is. Thank you for the so-called ‘tea’.”

“It is called tea!”

“Sandwiches are tea. Salad is tea,” he enumerated, counting them off on his fingers. “Biscuits are tea. No wait, biscuits are scones, and cookies are biscuits—”

“Tea-time. The mid-afternoon meal.”

“—And, turns out, even coffee is tea,” he teased. “Learned quite a few new things today. And one of ’em is, how quickly time flies when I’m in your winsome company. I find the clock reads four pm, when I’m sure I ain’t been here even an hour yet. I’m afraid you owe me the missing two hours on credit. I’ll expect you to pay me back in kind. So now it’s my turn to issue an invitation. Would you like to go riding with me next Saturday? And afterwards, maybe we could grab a cup of coffee?”

She smiled, her eyes dancing with mischief. “I’d love to. And if ‘coffee’ means tea, then yes to that as well.”

* * *

She rode like a natural-born horsewoman.

Dean had made careful inquiries, gathering data on her riding skills. Koretsky brothers told him they reckoned she could ride, and Old Jackson, jawing away at The Taproom one night, had confirmed it when he said that Miss W.-W. had “spent years in a barn studying orchestration [quotations].” Took him a while to make any sense of that outlandish bit of intel, but after chewing it over for a bit, Dean interpreted it to mean that Jackson (an uneducated yokel even by Shadow standards) had overheard Miss W.-W. talkin’ about studying equestration [equitation] at a stable. Which was nothin’ more ’n a fancy Core way of sayin’ she could really ride. This info correlated with what Miss Farrell apprised him of; namely, that Miss Eugenia had brought with her some kind of fancy Core-world riding clothes. On that basis, he figured he had better pull out all the stops. So instead of mounting her on the reliable but placid Fern, he’d saddled up the spirited Isolde, his finest mare and a glorious sight to behold when she galloped across the open country.

He found he had no complaints about the exotic riding duds. (She called them “jodhpurs.”) No one ’round Shadow, at least this side of Edmunds City, wore clothes like that when riding, but nosirree, he had no complaints whatsoever about the form-fitting garments. Particularly when he rode just a bit behind Miss Jeannie Dub.

Clearly wasn’t her first time sittin’ a-horseback. Miss Jeannie’s tight pants merely accentuated her seat. Nevermind that it was an exotic Londinium style of sittin’ a horse, and contrasted oddly with the Western tack. She rode Isolde like an expert. As he rode next to her on Sunny Jim, one of his regular saddle horses, Dean found himself wishing that he and Miss Jeannie might ride together more often. Every day, if she’d let him.

When they returned to the home paddock after the ride, Miss Jeannie was full of praises—for his ranch, for the beauty of the snow-clad mountains that ringed it, and for the magnificent Isolde.

“Can’t accept no credit for the ranch, Miss Jeannie, nor for the beauty of the mountains. That’s God’s doing. And mayhap my great-grandfather’s, for having the sense to stake his claim in this valley when Shadow’s Northside was first settled.” Dean had arranged for a couple of the hands to take care of the horses and tack, a job he would’ve ordinarily done himself. The fellas knew the boss wanted to focus his attention on his guest, and quietly led the horses away, leaving Dean and Miss Jeannie standing by the paddock fence. “As for Isolde—well, you seen for yourself how she moves. Prettier sight you never will behold—can be improved upon only by mounting a skilled rider such as yourself—”

“Speaking of which, thank you so much for your generosity in lending me the use of a mount. I know it costs a fair amount to maintain a horse—”

“Pshaw, Miss Jeannie. You can see I got horses to spare. I’d be happy to mount you any time you have the inclination.”

She looked at him sharply, and he ran that last bit over in his head again. 哦天啊 Ò tiān ā [Oh God (literally “sky” or “heaven”)], if she thought he meant—. “To ride, I mean. Any time you have the inclination to ride, it would be my pleasure to mount you.” Oh, 糟糕 zāogāo [darn, crap (literally “too bad”)], he was just digging himself a deeper and deeper hole, if Jeannie’s shocked expression was anything to judge by. “On a horse. I mean, doin’ it on a horse.” Oh, Lord, this was just gettin’ worse and worse. He shut his mouth. Wanted to shut his eyes, too, and maybe go crawl in a hole. He held her gaze, however, and tried to carry it off with cocky bravado—but it weren’t no good. He’d never been completely able to control his blushing. Laughter bubbled up in Miss Jeannie’s eyes, displacing the scandalized expression and finally spilling over into her voice, as he meanwhile turned an embarrassing shade of beet-red.

“Coffee,” he announced gruffly, as her musical laughter filled the air. “Inside.” He turned abruptly and led the way toward the substantial ranch house. He stomped onward for a pace or two before he realized he’d committed yet another social error in leaving his guest behind, so he turned back and attempted to offer her his arm. He was still so flustered that his half-assed attempt at gallantry came off lookin’ more like a lewd gesture, and Jeannie’s laughter redoubled. Gorram ruttin’ hell. He felt like the world’s biggest fool. “You comin’?” he all but demanded.

“Oh, heavens, Mr Reynolds!” she exclaimed between outright whoops of laughter. “Am I coming? Oh, to be sure!”

* * *

I looked it up, seems to be equitation.

"And mayhap my great-grandfather’s, for having the sense to stake his claim in this valley when Shadow’s Northside was first settled."

Entirely plausible and I like that.

The only way he could have made that worse is if he had a horse named Double Entendre. Or maybe complimented her on her "fine seat." I enjoy how you handled tea, and how Dean fell flat on his face here.

I thought tsao gao was literally "spoiled cake."

And the majority says...equitation! I'll go with that.
Looked up tsao gao...you're right, "rotten cake" it is.

You're setting this backstory up well. It's all idyllic now, but we know, eventually the Dub-Dub family will come in and have their say. And it might nearly wreck everything.

You're right, the idyll won't last indefinitely. We'll eventually see more of the Dub-Dubs. And maybe some of the extended Reynolds clan. Meanwhile, to entertain you, I will post another section. It kind of ends up in the air, but I haven't written the next part yet. I sketched out a few more scene ideas on the back of an envelope yesterday, while sitting in the car waiting for one of my children to return from a field trip. I've been distracted from my distraction (this fic) by my main fic (Ends with a Horse), which has been calling to me with a siren song for more editing and some filler-scene writing.

* * *


* * *

That was the low point, the absolute nadir—date didn’t get no worse than wishing the earth would split open and swallow you whole while the girl you wanted to impress laughed at you ’til her eyes streamed. He managed to get himself and his guest into the house without saying anything stupider than what he’d already said (mainly by virtue of keeping silent—that, and, he’d already said the stupidest things imaginable); and she managed to get a-hold of herself and rein it in to smiles and snickers by the time they reached the parlor.

Praise be to God, and thank Heaven for Mrs MacEachern, he thought, as they entered the room. He promised himself right then and there that he would get down on his knees and thank the Lord properly for sending Mrs MacEachern his way, soon as—well, soon as gettin’ down on his knee wouldn’t just get him into more trouble with his visitor. For Mrs MacEachern, clearly catching on to her employer’s anxiety to do right by his guest, had outdone herself. The parlor was spotless, shiny, and most of all civilized. Coffeepot and teapot stood at the ready, and plates of the finest delicacies Shadow had to offer, were all laid out on that spindly little parlor table that had been his ma’s pride and joy. He’d never before comprehended the why of that ridiculous piece of furniture, but like a revelation it suddenly struck him that its purpose was to give women-folk an impression of civility, propriety, and high-breedin’. Mrs MacEachern had understood what it was for, and placed it front and center.

Seemed to work on Miss Jeannie Dub-Dub. “Oh my, Dean! You have an antique 魯班 作坊 Lǔ Bān Zuōfang [workshop of Lu Ban, legendary master craftsman carpenter] tea-table!” she exclaimed, moving forward to examine the piece more closely. Her eyes were lit with excitement. Had to say he preferred that to bein’ laughed at.

He could listen to her say “Oh, my Dean!” ’til the cows came home. (His brain supplied the emphasis and re-arranged the placement of the comma.) “Was my ma’s pride and joy,” he told her, “and I like it, too.” He was liking it better and better by the second, because that ridiculous tea-table was going to be the avenue for turning this date from a disaster to a success, he could tell.

“Shadow is full of surprises,” she said, allowing herself to be seated in the chair he pulled out for her. “Imagine finding a 魯班 作坊 Lǔ Bān Zuōfang table here, of all places.”

“Why should it be such a surprise?” he inquired.

“Indeed, I don’t know, Dean,” she replied, with true warmth in her voice. “Any answer I give might make me sound like a stereotypical Core snob—full of myself and a sense of superiority, no respect for Rim-worlders and no sense of humility. But the truth is that although I supposedly came to Shadow to teach, I have at least as much to learn.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“You’re aware that the program that brought me to Shadow is meant to provide well-qualified teachers to underserved areas.”

“The Teacher Corps, yes.”

“Shadow is considered ‘underserved’ because there are no post-secondary educational institutions on the entire world.”

“A situation we’re tryin’ to rectify, Miss Jeannie,” Dean hastily inserted. “There’s a movement to establish a proper Agricultural College in Edmunds City, our largest center of population. Stands to reason, if there ain’t post-secondary education on Shadow, our brightest and most enterprising young folk will seek it off-world. Seems like there’d be no harm in that, but what happens is they leave and get educated in some field they can’t get a job in, when they return to Shadow. So they stay off-world. Sends our best talent elsewhere. I don’t see no point in that. What we aim to do is provide higher education in subjects they can use right here on-world—Agricultural Sciences, Enterprise Management, and the like. It’s been more difficult than you’d imagine. Edmunds City don’t have a big enough population in and of itself, to support such an endeavor. The rest of the population of this world is spread out so thinly, that we’re comin’ to the conclusion that most of the lectures will have ta be delivered via the cortex, or by correspondence courses—and I do mean old-fashioned letter writin’—for the more remote areas where the cortex ain’t reached yet.” He was in full flow. Miss Jeannie had touched on a subject that he’d spent a lot of time thinkin’ on recently, and he had a lot to say to a person who was herself a trained educator. “That’s the best way to reach our target population—the brightest and most motivated young folk—’cause most of them, if they stay on the land instead of goin’ off-world, are already heavily involved in running family ranch enterprises by the time they graduate high school, and can’t easily re-locate to Edmunds City. There’s still some hurdles—how to verify that the people submitting the work remotely are really the registered students they say they are, for example—but I think that within a year or two, three at the outside, we’ll work the details, and hire Shadow’s first proper Ag professors. But I reckon there’ll be an advantage in that most of the students will have practical experience that students at a Core or Border world Ag School might not be able to get so easy. And there’s—”

She interrupted him. “You’re part of it.”

“Part a’ what?”

“You are part of the consortium who are trying to establish an Agricultural College here.”

“Of course.” He didn’t see what was the big deal, and drew breath to go on with his description of the plans for the Ag School.

“That is just what I was talking about. So much to learn.”

“What?”

“The management of Teacher Corps isn’t even aware that there’s interest in building a home-grown institution of higher learning here on Shadow. All their efforts are directed at encouraging the best students to pursue higher education off-planet—by increasing the high school graduation rate and providing scholarships, for example.”

“Scholarships are well and good, but they just contribute to the brain drain I was talkin’ about. Better put that money into building our own Ag School right here.”

“And are you, then?”

“What, putting my money into building our own Ag School? Absolutely. I want my own children to have the opportunity I didn’t have. I had to self-study, no particular guidance except what my ma and pa could provide. Leaving the land to study elsewhere wasn’t really an option—especially after they passed on.”

“How old were you? When your parents passed?”

“Twenty-one,” he answered briefly. He didn’t want to talk about the raid that had claimed their lives, and would’ve claimed his, too, had he not been out riding the range in a remote part of their land at the time.

Miss Jeannie seemed to understand his reluctance to speak of the incident, and turned the subject. “It really is extraordinary. I have so much to learn. This remote place, the Northside of Shadow, has taught me more in just a few months than six years at Bridgeford University. More than I even expected.”

She paused for a breath, and Dean gave her a look of curious interest. He waited for her to explain her thinking.

“I meet a young fellow at a country fair. He’s polite and charming—an excellent dancer—and he makes me laugh like I’ve never laughed before. Makes quite an impression.”

That’s for damn sure, he thought, but didn’t say. The right kind of impression, or the wrong one?

“When I tell Mrs MacLeod I’ve invited him for tea, she goes on and on about what a good catch he is—”

“She did?” he blurted.

“—and how all I have to do is set bait and I’ll have hooked the Northside’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Oh, good grief, this is embarrassing.”

“Though he’s too modest to mention it, the young man is the sole proprietor of what the community acknowledges to be one of the largest and finest ranches on the Northside. And then it turns out he’s deeply involved in a project to improve the state of higher education on Shadow.”

“Luckily, he took an early opportunity to correct this misapprehension of his perfection by steppin’ on your dress and makin’ inappropriate insinuations about mounting and riding,” Dean remarked drily.

“And did I mention his sense of humor?” she continued, eyes sparkling.

* * *

She raved about the apple tart.

“Is that tarte tatin?”

“Is it what?” He had no idea what made a tart tat-tan, or not.

“Tarte Tatin.”

“You mean the skillet tart?”

“Is that what you call it? The apple tart.”

“That’s just an apple skillet tart.”

“Your housekeeper made it?”

“I don’t have a housekeeper.”

“But I thought—”

“Mrs MacEachern is my cook. Hired her last month. Gettin’ to be too many of us, ranch hands and all. Used to rotate cook duty, but I finally realized it was a job for a full-time professional.”

“So she made the apple tart.”

“No. I made that myself.”

“You did? Mr Reynolds, you have hidden talents; you never cease to amaze me.”

“Dean. And I don’t see what’s so extraordinary, Miss Jeannie. It’s just a skillet tart.”

“Which you’d pay good money for in a patisserie back on Londinium. The caramel apples, the artistic design, the heavenly flaky crust—.” She rolled her eyes in ecstasy. (Now that was a look he’d like to see on her face again, and him the cause of it). She ate another bite, and he had to tear his eyes away from her lips as the fork passed between them. “It’s a divine tarte tatin. Are you sure you’re not really a pastry chef in disguise?”

“Don’t see what’s so special about melting butter and sugar in a cast-iron skillet, layin’ a circle of apple quarters in it, toppin’ it with pastry and baking it. Easy as pie.”

“Do you also know how to make pie, then?” she asked, her eyes widening with enthusiasm.

* * *

Ooh, smooth recovery. Yeah, joking about the faux pas usually helps.

I see a brief mention of the hint of reavers on Shadow that has developed in your main story - and as you know, glad to hear it's coming along too.

Hee, I notice Dean is becoming more and more inclined to swearing. Infatuation can certainly change the behaviour.

I wonder if Dean also has the Reynolds snow cream recipe from 2x2's stories. That would go really well with an apple tart.

I agree, really nothing he could do but turn all those mis-steps into a joke. Luckily the guy has a sense of humor.
Nice catch on the Reaver hint.
I'm pretty sure Dean Reynolds knows about snow cream. I definitely liked that 2x2 fic.
This section not as funny as the previous ones, but I wanted to show that Dean and Jeannie really did have some things in common besides simply liking each other. Like the interest in education and self-improvement through study. And both liking to cook or bake. And enjoyment of riding and the outdoors.

It's cute, and they do make a cute couple. Lots in common.

I wonder, if Mal and Inara have anything in common except for the dancing. Poetry?

I also wonder what his parents would think about companions and Inara.

Bytemite wrote:I wonder, if Mal and Inara have anything in common except for the dancing. Poetry?

A number of intangibles. Desire for freedom and independence, for example. An inclination to break the mold, and break rules. Not a lot of inclination to suck up to authority. They also have in common some somewhat pathological tendencies: hiding one's true self behind a surface persona; avoiding and/or repressing one's true feelings; I could probably come up with a few more like that if I thought for a while.

I also wonder what his parents would think about companions and Inara.

Oh, good idea! I should write them discussing such a topic.

Oh personality wise they have a lot in common. I wasn't very clear. I meant more do they have INTERESTS in common. Not like keeping the crew safe and their mutual friends, but like riding, poetry, dancing, baking.

Oh, good idea! I should write them discussing such a topic.

Yay!

I'm kinda on the hedge about it. Mal's mother and father were from the core in my story. I also think his mother might have been honestly religious but at the same time, being from the core, maybe she'd have a more understanding and tolerant view of companions, and Mal got most of his ideas from shadow?

Or maybe shadow has it's mixed views as well. The religious types, but it's also a frontier, and men can't be picky about women if they're available.

Bytemite wrote:Oh personality wise they have a lot in common. I wasn't very clear. I meant more do they have INTERESTS in common. Not like keeping the crew safe and their mutual friends, but like riding, poetry, dancing, baking.

I can think of a lot of interests they have in common, but I do believe most of them are headcanon, so anyone could disagree with me and be quite justified in thinking so! In my headcanon, Mal and Inara both like dancing, they're both pretty good at horseback riding (though he rides Western and she rides English), both are interested in cooking (he more in the production of food and preparation, she in the fine dining aspects), both like the same kind of music (she plays the dulcimer, he likes listening). They both like reading, though her tastes are more for classical Chinese literature, his run more toward English literature. She practices artistic Chinese calligraphy; he doesn't do it himself, but knows what he likes in the calligraphy line (he chose the piece of calligraphy that decorates his bunk). They both love ships; they both love to travel; they both love looking at stars.

I think Mal knows HOW to dance. I'm not sure he particularly likes it. I also think that Mal's cooking abilities extends to making almost drinkable black coffee, and heating up canned food. Not quite as bad as Simon making everything somehow taste foul and spoiled, but Mal's cooking is probably a very bland experience, nutrients and not much else. Just kind of as a nod to many western story protagonists and also migrant workers that Mal's story was drawn from.

And I think Inara can technically cook, but she tends to use weird spices and no one on the ship actually likes her cooking.

Mal has calligraphy in his bunk? I wonder if Inara painted it and is the one who gave it to him.

I think where Mal and Inara have the most in common might be literature, I would agree there.

Oh, very interesting! I like to hear your views on this, and also the reasons why you decided to have it this way in your headcanon. Cool.
I'm going to start a new thread on cooking on Serenity.

Meanwhile, a question on the actual topic of this thread, the so-called Short Fic about Mal's Parents. It's turning into a rather Long Fic, and I'm thinking I might need to go back and label the sections with Chapter numbers or titles. Anyway, I've written quite a bit more of it now, but not necessarily in chronological order. So...should I post what I have, or wait until I've gone back and written the intervening sections?

Ooh, exciting. Hmm. I think that the spirit of this section is to post whatever you feel like whenever you feel like.

You could post some empty posts that you could go back and fill in later when you have the other sections. Or you could wait.