A/N: This is the first addition to my "Dancing with Demons" 'Verse. I recently rewatched Serenity to do some research for that story and was noticed that while everyone paired up nicely at the end, Zoë was left with nothing but a grave. That much angst was too good to pass up. Reviews are love!

Zoë hated folding socks. Somehow, even if you started a full pack of identical socks, they'd all turn into a mismatched pile of differently-sized and differently-colored knits within a few washes. Even if every sock had a pair before you put them in the dryer, there was always at least one lone extra when you were done. It was maddening. Her husband knew how much folding socks bothered her, and had usually volunteered to do the chore himself. He always managed to find a new home for the extras, usually as rags, but occasionally as puppets or other crafts.

He was gone, so Zoë was folding her own socks. She eyed the mandatory loner with distaste. She didn't want to have it cluttering up her now-Spartan bunk, so she decided to take it to Kaylee. The mechanic always had a use for grease rags.

Zoë took the long way around, just for variety. The silence of the ship was broken by some very… energetic sounds coming from the engine room. Apparently Kaylee and Simon were at it again. Zoë knew from experience that it wasn't a very comfortable location for that sort of activity, but they seemed to like it there. Zoë was happy for them, really. They'd been making moon-eyes at each other for too many months already. They had both been so lonely for so long, and deserved whatever happiness they could find in each other.

Zoë hated them for it. Hated every touch and kiss and embrace. Hated every gasp and moan and shriek of pleasure. They were just another reminder that she'd never have that kind of love in her arms again. Never. Her husband had filled their bunk with passion, but he was gone now, and her bed was always too cold without him. So she passed by the engine room and went down to the hold to check the cargo. Keeping busy had always worked to keep the ghosts away before.

She had barely stepped onto the walkway when it became apparent that Mal and Inara had finally gotten around to making some energetic noises of their own in the shuttle. It had only taken them, what, three years? She hoped they would never have occasion to regret all that wasted time. Zoë would give anything to have those awkward months of discovery with her pilot back again. Zoë was happy for them, really. They'd been dancing around each other, twisting their brains into knots, for too many years already. They had both been wandering for so long, and deserved whatever happiness they could find in each other.

Zoë hated them for it. Hated every witty retort that snapped between them and every meaning-filled glance. Hated every subtle favor and 'anonymous' gift. They were just another reminder that she'd never have that kind of romance in her life ever again. Never. Her husband had wooed her like a cheesy novel, but he was gone now, leaving her heart as cold as the ashes of burned paper. So she exited the hold and made towards the cockpit on instinct. Something about watching the stars fly by always soothed her.

She was surprised to see the cockpit door closed, but she soon discovered why. River and Sam were an odd couple, but apparently they made love just like everyone else: loudly and energetically. It was good to hear them laugh, at least. The cockpit had been too quiet recently. It needed some happy memories to cover up the bloodstains. Zoë was happy for them, really. They'd been separated by space and ignorance of each other's well-being for far too long already. They had both suffered so much, and deserved whatever happiness they could find in each other.

Zoë hated them for it. Hated every time they finished each other's sentences or knew each other's every thought with a glance. Hated how they laughed together at jokes only they could understand and built entire universes for themselves out of nothing but words and imagination. They were just another reminder that she'd never have that kind of companionship in her life ever again. Never. Her husband had made her laugh until her sides ached, but he was gone now, and the spear through her chest would never stop hurting. So she retreated back to the kitchen. Perhaps some tea would help her settle.

She saw that the previously-empty kitchen was now full of guns and manly voices. Dean and Jayne had covered the kitchen table with weapons and were in the process of cleaning them over energetically-chugged whisky and loudly-told tall tales. They encouraged her to join them, but she declined. They were all warriors, but her scars were still too fresh and tender to be telling jokes about killing and dying. Zoë was happy for them, really. They'd been wasting their energy on posturing for too many days already. They had both fought through so much, and deserved whatever happiness they could find during the peace they had won.

Zoë hated them for it. Hated every brotherly dig and friendly punch. Hated every exaggerated story and each sarcastic quip. They were just another reminder that she'd never have that kind of rapport with anyone ever again. Never. Her husband had filled the many holes that the War had left behind, but he was gone now, and the old wounds left by lost comrades gaped like freshly dug graves. So she fled, running until she ran out of places to run, and then she'd hid.

Somewhere in there she'd lost the sock that had been the point of this whole mess. She couldn't find it in herself to care. Zoë felt just about like a discarded sock without its pair. Everyone else had a match. She had a match. Perhaps he wasn't flawless, but he'd been perfect for her. And now he was gone and she was alone.

Castiel's distinctive footfalls echoed on the grating. He stopped, and Zoë prayed he would not find her. She didn't really want to explain herself right now to the socially-inept man.

"The couples have ceased their fornicating," he said to the room at large, "I will be in the lounge if you desire company." He paused for a moment, considering his words. "Not the fornicating kind, of course."

Zoë felt the edge of her mouth curl in a smile. Castiel was the most awkward fed she'd ever met. Dean said he used to be an Operative, but Zoë didn't quite believe him. No one as clumsy and clueless as Cas could have ever been an Operative. He didn't exactly fit in with the rest of the crew either. Mal didn't exactly trust him because of his involvement with the Alliance during the War. Simon tended to avoid him for similar reasons. Jayne looked at him funny because the small man had managed to knock him unconscious with a light tap on the forehead. Inara was kind enough to him, but Castiel was clearly nonplussed by her mere presence. Kaylee was perpetually annoyed with him for accidentally breaking some part of Serenity or another. River was unusually disoriented in his presence, as was Sam on occasion. Something to do with him set off their psychoses. Dean clearly saw Castiel as a brother and a brother-in-arms, but he was often too obsessed with taking care of Sam to really pay him much attention.

It struck her that Castiel was just as much a lone sock as she was. She found herself uncurling from the corner she'd wedged herself in. A few brisk tugs to straighten her clothes and a quick wipe of the face to remove any lingering tears, and she was ready to face the 'Verse again.

She found him in the lounge, as he'd said. He held up the sock she'd dropped.

"I believe this is yours?"

"My husband's," she answered honestly. For once, her voice didn't catch on the words.

"My condolences for your loss," he said simply.

After that, they fell silent for a long time. It wasn't awkward like it was with most folks. Zoë appreciated it. Many people wanted to either comfort her, or have her comfort them. She just wanted to relearn how to be in this new 'Verse. Castiel seemed to understand.

They would never make a good pair, of course, but they could at least be mismatched together.