Heirloom
They don't talk much about the future. It makes the war and their slim odds all too real. It's too painful. He wants to make plans, he wants to let himself daydream about a house, or a cabin somewhere, about laughing children and getting to see her smile more often. About what she'll look like when she gets older, about lazy mornings spent wrapped in each other's arms.
But even thinking about it hurts. When he thinks about the past, that hurts too, not nearly enough good memories, and what few there are just remind him of what he's lost. So when the old memories stir up, he reaches for the pocketknife in his BDUs and tries to think about when he was a kid, about summers on the coast, fishing with his granddad. The knife is an old thing, but his grandfather had always kept it well sharpened and cleaned, and he continues to do the same. It's all he has of home.
One day it's not in his pocket anymore, and he nearly rips apart the ship looking for it. It's stupid, given all that's on their plate, but she notices the change in his demeanor and doesn't let him rest until he tells her what's wrong.
Three weeks go by, and he still hasn't found it. He still reaches for his pocket at times, forgetting that it's not there. He's down in the shuttle bay checking on supplies, and as his hand goes to reach for the phantom limb, she comes up behind him and presses a small, long box into his hands.
"Make a new heirloom," she whispers over her cup of coffee, and she gives him a restrained smile that's sad but somehow still manages to give him hope. By the time he's opened the box to reveal a brand new blade, the elevator doors have already closed behind her.
They don't talk much about the future. But he dares to hope.