This is a story involving characters created by Joss Whedon. These magnificent characters' real story was tragically cut short by those at Fox so they could put on something like "Ethiopian Midget Tossing Contest." You know... that wouldn't be a bad name for an alternative band. It's not my vision, but dude if I didn't wish I could write something so sharp and true sounding, and dude if I don't respect JW for doing it. And he so ruled, making it a movie, even if I did yell "YOU BASTARD!" at the screen. Both times I saw it. Probably will again. I'm pathetic.
This may be the first in a series of reaction pieces to Wash's death. I don't know. It's entirely possible. I am a leaf on the wind, watch me soar. This one's, once again, for Aemilia, as they always are, since she's my buddy, and all short and stuff, which makes her cute. That was an ode, by the way. I may have played with the time-line details, but I'm not sure. I hope not. Oh well.
Zoe lay near sleep in their bed, or at least what she still thought of as their bed, not resting but unable to stay awake any longer. It felt much too wide. It had been a long two months. Wash didn't lay beside her, nor did he lay atop her, nor beneath her. Zoe's sweet husband lay under six feet of dirt on Mr. Universe's planet. A little hologram was the only thing that remained of his light, and the closest thing to his soft hands were the pebbles strewn around the gravestone. Three good men in the ground, no, two good men and the BEST man of all in the ground, and neither she nor Mal had killed the wang ba dan behind it, damn all. Zoe twisted in the sheets, tried to wrap into some warmness, wondered if she wanted to dream about his curve against her, the semi-soft crescent of his belly, pressed against her smooth back, being slick and sweaty after sex. She could hear him, Zoe, baby, here lies my love, all brown and sticky, like a cinnamon bun, with some sugar, maybe, or a sugared ham, Zoe, I've grown my mustache back, can't you feel it on your neck, sweetie?
Some tickle made her sit upright. Sleepy sadness clogged her mind, neither thing a stranger, both sharper than she'd ever known. Zoe pushed her hand beneath the massed brown curls and rubbed the nape of her neck, "Well, I figured it would happen, sooner or later. Now I'm gorram crazy, like everyone else on this boat." She lay back down. "Damn"
"You're not crazy, sweetie."
Zoe sat back up, the sheets pooled around her waist, "Wash? That you, baby?" She held her head, "Ta ma de, now I know I'm crazy."
"No, you're not crazy, babe. Well, you are. You're a dangerous, gun toting psychopath, and so are all your friends, but that's one of the things I've always loved about you. That and your cute little tush, which I long to pinch and squeeze." Zoe could almost feel him sigh, beside her, his stomach move in and out, the sweet sound of his breath rushing out, could feel him say it, in her brain. "There are some drawbacks to being incorporeal."
Zoe lay back, "Maybe I aint crazy. You're the first ghost that I've run across, though, husband. I'm sort of new to this. Did you really grow back that awful mustache?"
"Well, considering I've got no upper lip to grow it on, sweetie, no. I just thought that it would get your attention."
She nestled against the pillows, trying to recapture its ethereal feel against her flesh, "It did, babe, it did. Now shave it off, okay?"
"No hands. Can't hold a razor. Sorry. You won't part me from my machismo this time, darling, my invisible mustache is staying put."
"Whatever. As long as you do, too."
"I am as a leaf, though I am no longer on the wind, nevertheless a leaf, won't you see how I soar?"
"What does that mean?" A cold, long finger traced down Zoe's neck, across her breasts and belly. The skin dimpled and contracted "What does that mean? You've said that before, and I thought I knew, but..."
"Shhh... shhh... it means everything, nothing. I don't know. I just say it, to clear my mind. Do you remember our wedding? And how beautiful it was?"
"Husband," Zoe said, "your death has affected your memory. I thought you might avoid that, not getting old and all. We were married in Serenity's cargo hold, and Kaylee just about killed herself stringing lights up for us. One bad circuit she missed, and her hair smelt like burnt monkey for a week."
"Yeah, and you told Mal that unless he gave us our vows, you wouldn't dig that slug out of his thigh. I almost took you right there, on the floor. Not in the blood puddle, though. That would've been gross. I'm not really into kinky, so much, you know."
"And then at our reception, Jayne did a Morris dance, got naked, and passed out."
"Good times."
"Good times, sweetie." Zoe wondered why she wasn't crying, crazy as she was, here, grief-stricken, talking to her dead husband. "How's it working out for you, babe?"
"As a reverse widower? Well, it beats having the old wisdom teeth cut out, but not by much. God I want to touch you, and kiss you, and eat you up like sweets, maybe like a maple roll. Those are very good, you know. I miss them quite a lot, not so much as, you know, sex, cuddling, breathing--but it's on up there."
"I want you to touch me, too." The queer coldness settled, again, like a frigid blanket, and she welcomed it, pouring up her thighs, through blood and meat, settling into organ, settling into bone like a soak so icy that it was scorching, and Zoe felt herself burned and sweating, felt the sweat freezing, snapping off her skin in little vapor puffs. "Mmm, husband. You can still do it, baby."
"Wanted dead or alive, darling." She could feel him drawling, in her head, such cold kisses on her belly.
For the first time in two months, Zoe giggled, and it didn't make any sense, and she had really gone crazy, but God this felt so good, forget that it hurt so bad. "I wish we could still start that flight school you always talked about."
"Why can't you, one day? The "Hoban Washburne School of Flight." It has a ring, I think, and not just that cheap one on your finger, which I always meant to replace with something... not... plastic... As for me? I'm still flying, baby, I'm still flying."
Zoe twisted the neon yellow plastic ring, her antarctic orgasm still ringing through her nerve endings like a terraforming event that had turned two moons dead when one had exploded, throwing hunks of rock that burst like shells against the other. "What do you mean, Wash? How are you still flying?"
"I am a leaf, though no longer on the wind," she could almost hear it, the signal was so strong, "see how I soar."
"Speak straight, husband, I'm tired of riddles, gorramit." The tears were close, and she wondered if they would freeze on her cheeks.
"It's part of being exanimate, sweetie-pums, the riddles come with the territory. Something to do with enlightenment, I think. I'm not really sure, I slept through that part of history class. Anyway, if you listen you can hear me, if you reach out, you can feel me. I am a just leaf though not on the wind, see how I soar, grab my stem and fly with me." Wash was silent for a moment, then she felt him again. "Ta ma de! Wa cao! Go shi gan ni niang!" Zoe felt the air turn blue around her, and felt Wash sigh into her thick curls. "That might have come out wrong. Just stop giggling and please go with it. I'm attempting to be all metaphysical,here, and that just completely ruined the mood I worked so hard to establish with my pretty Zen metaphors."
Zoe reached out, with her mind, for Wash's hand, tried to look again, into his eyes, and woke up in an empty bed, clawing upwards, clawing for his hand and finding air, tangled in the sheets, hoping that they'd strangle back her cries, unaware she made no sound. The room was still, and she knew that she'd been dreaming, and she wished like hell that she hadn't been. Zoe tried to cry again, tried to let the tears fall, and she failed.
Serenity hurtled through her silence and the larger silence, sailed across the windless Black.