[ Faye's silent. The last thing she could remember was lounging on the couch, listlessly thumbing through a magazine while Jet tended to his Bonzai in the other room -- same as it ever was. She recalls the numbing quietude that often swept through the ship when they weren't talking, or bickering, or she was flipping through channels while he cooked or tinkered with some parts.

The same ache from before seems to swell to an extreme before it finally relents. She missed having that little bit of normalcy, in spite of the lingering pain they both shared in the wake of there only being half a crew then. It's a pain that has since morphed and splintered off for a number of reasons. But at least there were the three of them, together again. She could find comfort in that much. ]

But we're not fine anymore, Jet. We're in Hell. For every moment that isn't terrible, there's a multitude of shit waiting to counteract it. Spike will tell you.