Nothing can prepare you for the Sleep of the Parents. If sleep is an ocean, then I used to sleep on the floor of it, a sunken thing among the catfish, bubbles blooping from my dreaming mouth towards the surface. Now I sleep in a little rowboat. In a thunderstorm, during a war, with cannons going off all night long. And also sharks.
Wash: Don’t fall asleep now. Sleepiness is weakness of character, ask anyone.
Zoe: It is not!
Wash: You’re acting Captain. You know what happens, you fall asleep?
Zoe: Jayne slits my throat and takes over?
Wash: That’s right.
Zoe: And we can’t stop it?
Wash: I wash my hands of it. Hopeless case. I’ll read a nice poem at the funeral. Something with imagery.
Zoe: You could lock the door. Keep the power-hungry maniac at bay.
Wash: Don’t know. I’m starting to like this poetry thing. “Here lies my beloved Zoe, my autumn flower… somewhat less attractive now that she’s all corpsified and gross—”
You would probably not say that he was sleeping the sleep of the just, unless you meant the just asleep, but it was certainly the sleep of someone who was not fooling about when he climbed into bed at night and turned off the light.
Cosmo Castorini: I can’t sleep any more. It’s too much like death.
Lady Mary: I hope you know that really smart people sleep in separate rooms.
Robert: I always keep the dressing room bed made up so I at least pretend we sleep in separate rooms. Isn’t that enough?
Lady Mary: No. Never mind.
Betsy: Goodnight, Mr. Solverson.
Lou: Goodnight, Mrs. Solverson. And all the ships at sea.