Reaffirmation of Life – by Dreaming 'n Watercolors
Disclaimer – Except for the pleasure I get from writing I make no profit and certainly intend no copyright infringement. All character's herein belong to the very talented Joss Whedon.
Summary – This story takes place a few months after the events of Serenity.
-oOo-
"Take my love take my land - Take me where I cannot stand."
Everything should have slowly returned to normal after the events of last month just as they always had ever since Mal and Zoë had met in the same fighting unit and yet with Wash's death how could it really? Yes they had wounded the Alliance but it was more like winning a minor skirmish rather than a definite defeat. The 'verse would now know what the Alliance was truly capable of but what would come of that? Would the appalling discovery of how the Reaver's came to be change anything? Would the Alliance be able to whitewash the atrocity as they had so many other crimes? But mostly were the losses of their companions worth this skirmish?
With thoughts like these troubling the crew of Serenity there was little wonder that life had not quite returned to normal. Jayne was perhaps the first to shrug it all off as well as the first to start to get antsy. Kaylee too had resumed her life moving forward with Simon who now felt some of his burden had been lifted now that River's secret had been discovered. But though the doctor and his sister were full of relief and plans for the future they spoke in hushed whispers as if afraid of disturbing the others, most specifically Zoë.
For the past month Mal had been quietly observing Zoë. She went about her duties as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened to her or the crew, as if death had passed them by and nothing had changed in the 'verse. He ordered . . . she obeyed; standard fare for her, business as usual. And why not, he wondered, mostly thankful that she hadn't lost her composure after everything. It's what he admired most about her that she was as stoic as he was, that neither death nor the flames of hell nor cannibalistic Reaver's could deter her quiet, calm, efficient demeanor.
Even now while the others were taking much needed down time she was working. Hard too, with sleeves rolled up and sweat beaded on her forehead. There was no cheerfulness or playfulness in her – never had been or least wise not with him – but Mal didn't mind. That part of her had been reserved for Wash alone. Still, though Mal knew all this, something, some inner voice, a gut feeling – call it what you would – something told him this was not good. It wasn't anything other than what he'd come to expect from her but somehow it just wasn't right. Not now, not after losing Wash. And that's why he watched her unobtrusively hoping to see something, some sort of sign that Zoë was all right, that his instincts were wrong this time and she was coping just fine.
"Mal?" A sweet voice woke him from his dark reverie. From his seat on a crate he looked into dark depths of golden brown orbs that somehow always undid him.
"A word?" Inara said.
"Go on."
"Everyone else is out exploring and enjoying themselves except . . ."
He didn't wait to hear her out but interrupted almost coldly, "Except us as in you an' me an' Zoë? I would've thought your schedule was all filled up. Business gettin' a mite slow?"
The regal and lovely Companion paused then smiled her soft smile and continued as if Mal's slur had never been voiced, "I was thinking about Zoë. Perhaps she would like to get away for a while. I know a beautiful meditation temple . . ."
His dry laugh made her pause again. She studied him wishing she could understand him.
"Neither of you ate much at breakfast," she finally said. "In fact, neither of you have been eating much at all." And when he said nothing her voice took on a pleading note she couldn't hide, "You can't keep blaming yourself, Mal. Like the war – you have to let it go and so does Zoë."
"Sometimes that ain't so easy," he muttered.
"She looks up to you – surely you can do something! Can't you see she's hurting?"
That Inara was worried too wasn't something Mal had expected, as if they were on the same wavelength for a change. His eyes moved from Inara to Zoë who was still stacking supplies in the cargo bay with as much determination as she'd had when she'd first started nearly forty-five minutes ago. She did everything with determination, another thing he admired about her.
"She needs to release her pain, Mal . . . she needs to cry," Inara said quietly.
Mal looked at Inara thoughtfully then said, "Don't reckon I've ever seen Zoë cry. Don't rightly know if she ever has."
Again Inara paused before speaking as she too watched Zoë's robotic motions.
"She needs to mourn," Inara whispered before she glided off, her long silk gown gently rustling, her soothing scent trailing behind her.
And Mal was glad she was gone. She always had a way of mixing him up; turning him around in the opposite direction he'd planned on going, making him lose his bearings – something Zoë never did.
"Time for a break people," he found himself saying after Inara was gone even though it was only him and Zoë.
"Captain, you haven't been working," Zoë said giving her captain a wry look.
"Well, now . . . I was . . . I'm just not now."
"That was half an hour ago, sir," was her terse reply.
"Don't mean you can't take a break," was Mal's genial reply.
"With all due respect sir, we need to get these supplies ready."
"They'll keep. Way I see it we got plenty of time. 'Bout four days, some odd hours and a few seconds to be exact. An' if our luck holds we might even make it in five days," he teased.
They stood facing each other in silence and for a split second Mal wondered if she was going to be difficult and so he said, "Reckon me an' you don't need to be doin' nothin' 'cept takin' that break. It's what we came to this gorram forsaken planet for, right? Little relaxation, little recreation."
"Yes, sir," she said smoothly, obedient now as she realized there was no point in arguing.
She wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand then swiped her hand against her pant leg as she drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. She suddenly felt very tired.
"Let's get a drink," Mal said.
"Sounds good," she said.
In the dining area Mal opened a bottle of red wine, not what Zoë had been expecting. She pulled out various packages of protein in different colors while Mal poured two mugs. After he took a drink he inspected the small bowl of apples Kaylee had placed in the center of the table earlier. He finally selected one then cut a small slice off and popped it into his mouth as he watched Zoë make up a quick batch of soup – protein and rosemary. He was always watching her now, always on the alert for anything untoward. All along he'd known Inara was right. Zoë needed to let go, to mourn but she was too much like him, too stubborn. Yet another thing he admired about her.
She was perched upon the counter next to the stove now watching over the cold soup. He saw her shoulders had slumped and a dull far off look covered her face but when she caught him gazing at her she quickly straightened up and tossed her thick curly ponytail over one shoulder then stirred the soup vigorously seemingly determined to watch it until it began to boil. It was only an instant that she had let her guard down but Mal had seen and felt a great emptiness within her and he realized she was hurting more than he'd thought.
After a few drinks Zoë was still as sober as she always was but Mal knew her better than anyone else and he filled her glass again. After yet another glass of the potent wine her body was less rigid even relaxed. She met his intense look with less of the obedience than he was so used to and it surprised him. It looked to him as if she was apprizing him in an amused kind of way.
"You got somethin' on your mind, captain?" she asked.
"Well now, looks like we got no kind of choice but to deal with what's in front of us," he blurted out.
"Best be gettin' back to work then," she said and made an attempt to stand but he leapt up and pushed her back down.
"Think we got some things we need to discuss," he said when she looked at him inquiringly.
They looked at each other in silence, he leaning over her still but no words came to Mal. He wondered what he'd gotten himself into. He wasn't good with confronting emotions or offering comfort. He didn't have the slightest idea how to broach the subject. Wash. What could he say to ease her pain as Inara seemed to think he could? He didn't believe in all that mumble jumble at meditation temples like Inara believed in so what could he offer, what could he do to help his oldest friend?
"Wash . . . he was a fine man, a good pilot," he found himself saying as he returned to his seat.
When she closed her eyes and raised her head slightly and exhaled he cursed himself for the fool he was. What had made him think Inara was right that he could help her? It would've been best to leave things as they were just making sure she took breaks so she didn't work herself into an early grave. And what more could anyone ask of him? But then her long lashes fluttered and her eyes opened and though she was looking off with that far away look again he thought her face had brightened.
"The best," she whispered.
"That he was," Mal agreed with a grin.
But some memory had taken the light from her eyes and the dull lifeless gaze that he had worried about ever since the funeral returned full force.
Wash was never coming back, she thought, eyes closing again. Her beloved Wash was gone. But she didn't and wouldn't think about that, not ever, she told herself and her eyes opened widen flashing with the determination Mal so appreciated. She would never let that thought in again because to admit it meant that it was true and if it was true she had nothing left.
Mal, at a loss, raised his glass, proposed a toast. "To Wash then," he said, clinging his mug against hers.
When her eyes met his he saw a faint glint of the old steel he was so used to seeing and it gave him hope.
The mug in her hand seemed to vibrate even after Mal had raised his mug to his lips.
"To Wash," she murmured taking a small sip before sitting the mug down once again shoving encroaching memories of her late husband back into the darkness that continually called to her.
The darkness seemed so close and only then did she realize she'd allowed herself to drink to much.
"What do you suppose he was goin' on about bein' a leaf?" Mal asked suddenly.
His words were jarring, an intrusion into her soul and her eyes bore into his, a bitter look on her face.
"He was like that; always had a joke to make you feel like things wasn't half so bad," Mal said as he, like Zoë, tried to avoid remembering Wash's last moments.
Again her eyes closed. She bowed her head slightly as if in prayer or admitting defeat but which it was Mal didn't know. He watched her ever gesture. He'd thought he'd known her so well but he was swimming blind here feeling for words and hoping against hope that he could somehow help her all while feeling he was floundering.
"What's burning?" Jayne asked as he sauntered in giving Zoë, whose eyes were still closed, an odd look.
Seeing apples on the table he helped himself to one. He weighed it in his hand a moment then sniffed it a few times before taking a tentative bite.
"You remember what he thought about Jayne?" Mal asked Zoë with a chuckle.
A startling laugh, deep and rich and undulating like some wild music they had never heard before filled the air and where the room had felt large and empty before it now felt cozy and welcoming. Zoë was laughing.
"What's so ruttin' funny?" Jayne asked with a smirk despite a mouth full of apple.
But Zoë only laughed harder barely able to shake her head. Yes, she remembered what Wash had thought of Jayne and as Jayne stood there with his typical half confused look of fury Zoë couldn't help the merriment the memory gave her.
"You've both lost it! Burn the gorram ship down for all I care," Jayne growled before storming out.
Mal was smiling now, amused and pleased. "And how he loved those dinosaurs of his, playin' with 'em like a kid an' all – remember that?" he asked as he got up and turned the stove off.
Her laugher faded now, her eyes were full and threatening to spill over. But she inhaled deeply and when she exhaled she was herself again, firm, hard and unmoving. But Mal had seen a flicker of the old Zoë and encouraged he continued, hoping he wasn't pressing his luck as he sat down beside her again.
"You remember how he was so worried we'd done, well you know you an' me . . ."
She looked at him and smiled then nodded. He'd been so jealous, out of the blue it had seemed. She'd had no idea. All that time he'd been jealous. She sighed. He should have known it was only him.
"An' remember when we were gonna have to do it right in front of him just to make him feel better?" Mal said.
And now she threw her head back and roared with that unexpected rich laughter so few had had the privilege to hear. She remembered all right, how awkward the captain had been and she, she had been as obedient as ever going along with Mal ready to consummate their friendship but only to tease Wash. That truly had been funny. Poor sweetie. How they'd been able to laugh about it when they'd gone back to their quarters, she and Wash. Somehow they'd seemed even closer after that.
"An' you played right along with it! Did you see his face when he snatched you like that? He was so gullible!" Mal laughed now in genuine pleasure at the memory.
"I-I never knew . . ." Zoë gasped in between bouts of buoyant laughter.
A shadow passed them – Inara in her long flowing gown observing quietly, satisfaction clearly written over her beautiful face. She paused to pluck an apple from the bowl and then she was gone neither Mal nor Zoë noticing more than that they were so caught up in their shared memory. They reminisced a little more recalling Wash's uncanny skill as a pilot and his quirky sense of humor. They laughed so hard tears seeped from their eyes, tears that Zoë let flow until they wouldn't stop and he couldn't tell when the laughter had died and the mourning had begun.
He scooted his chair closer to her then hesitantly placed an arm around her. She made a move as if to rebuff him and all he could think to do was to hold her, to comfort her and he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce hug, whispering nonsensical sounds as he tried to soothe her. He could feel her body sag in his arms and he let her cry out her misery.
Long afterwards, tears finally spent he still held her tight, determined to make things as right as he could for her. In the distance he heard footsteps and laughter. Kaylee and Simon. He was vaguely aware of feeling annoyed that they were back so soon. As he held Zoë memories came unbidden and he remembered that fateful day he and Zoë became the sole survivors of a battle that had changed their lives. Blood and death all around them. The putrid stench, the gore . . .
Somewhere laughter drew nearer like some unrealistic intrusion in their world where the ship's mess had become a bloody battlefield and he rose up taking Zoë with him and led her out and through the winding passages to the staff dorms.
"You okay?" He asked when they stopped before the door to her quarters.
"Always," she replied.
It was an obvious lie. He could see it in her eyes. He turned towards his room feeling guilty but not sure what else he could do and hoping the laughter and remembering had somehow been enough. But then he saw her moving down the corridor away from her room, fast as if she felt the need to escape and he realized suddenly that she had not once spent the night in her room – hers and Wash's room – since Wash had died.
He quickly caught up with her and pulled her around to face him. They stared at each other – so many memories, so many ties. And then he hugged her to him wanting to erase all her misery, to take away all her pain. He felt her body heave slowly against his as she sighed. Of sorrow or contentment which he didn't know but he took it as a sign that he was getting through to her. He stepped back and grinned at her but his smile quickly died. He'd caught her off guard and the look of anguish on her face stunned him.
There was only one time before that he had seen her look so hopeless and lost and as they looked at each other, their defenses obliterated, in that moment it was as if they were transported back to another time, a time of blood and death and defeat, a time when he had held her just as now when they had almost given up hope, had almost given into defeat. And they both remembered that once before they had shared a kiss and more, something neither of them had allowed themselves to linger over, something they would never have admitted to Wash. And now, like then, so very long ago, without conscious thought of what he was doing he pressed his lips to hers and held her hard against him. She seemed to melt into him her arms going around him as they once had before in desolate grief.
He didn't stop to think or speak but scooped her up and carried her to his room. Unlike now they had been the lone survivors then. Nothing but mutilated bodies had been left, charred and broken, pieces of flesh scattered all over. And they had fled together in shock with hate in their hearts, the rage threatening to consume them. They knew then there was nothing they could have done to save the others and yet the guilt refused to budge. They'd never left a man behind – until that day. They had done all they could but their angels had never come and the horror that they felt because only they remained would never leave them. Mal sensed that Zoë was there again, feeling the same stark emotions, too intense, too unreal to cope with on her own.
Dirty, bloody and wounded, desperate revolutionaries escaping on foot, literally all odds against them, they had clung to each other, talking about anything to keep the other going. Their rations running low, their water already gone they'd both known it was the end. And then they had discovered a small stream – fresh water! And they had drank and bathed and in the chill of the growing dusk, their clothes drying by a small fire, they had held each other to keep warm still talking of things that held no importance trying to stave off the memories of the massacre of friends and comrades.
Then, like now, he had gazed at her lovely face, the large dark brown eyes that were full of unmasked pain and yet her face was so still. Her hair, so thick, was still damp and he'd fingered a wet strand amazed that it had still retained its curl as if nothing had changed in the 'verse. Her pupils had been dilated, her eyes brimming with unshed tears as she'd talked about the future, getting a place of her own, starting a business somewhere. And she'd talked without rhyme or reason never letting the tears fall and he couldn't help thinking how he admired her calm, her reserve and how it served to calm him then as always. And the next thing he knew his arms were reaching for her clumsily and he kissed her. Just a light tentative kiss but she'd continued talking, her arms hugging her body while he held her and kissed her face randomly above one eye then on the chin and on the underside of her cheek.
Slowly her talk had ceased. Her luminous eyes had darted away from him and for once he'd seen her face utterly unguarded and the look of defeat she wore threw him. He had never seen her cry and he'd vaguely wondered if she would. But she had directed those expressive eyes of hers on him and he had lost all coherent thought. There had been no going back. They'd moved as one, their lips meeting, arms clinging, and all the horrors of war were pushed aside as they pressed their bodies together in a desperate need to feel something – anything. And that once, only once, they'd given into their emotions, giving into the need to reaffirm that life was still worthwhile.
And now he felt that need again and he knew she felt it also. Somehow he knew the only way to make things right for her and so he carried her to his bunk. Her face was damp from silent tears; she sniffed quietly, her eyes full of pain and questions and an aching need. Her hand caressed his face tentatively and then he was above her, his lips devouring hers and she relished the touch of another, her arms pulling him to her so his heavy weight was crushing her. And soon they wrestled each other free of their cumbersome clothes and they came together in heated passion, both needing this release just as they had so many years ago, to put the horrors out of thought and memory once again.
Zoë respected and admired Mal, she even adored him with his sometimes harebrained schemes, that they had made love once before this was something necessary and vital just as it was now. She loved him as her captain and she would have followed him anywhere. He had always been there for her, like now, and the knowledge that he would continue to be there for her was all she needed from him. And Mal, who had never thought about love much, when he'd held Zoë that long ago night by the stream he had known he loved her. It wasn't a besotted love full of longing but love based on friendship, trust and loyalty. He looked to her as his first mate, to cover him in danger and to stand by him in whatever decision he made. He needed her calm, sensible reasoning that oftentimes tempered his impetuousness in the heat of battle. She was beautiful and shapely but they had never gone there because they were so much alike. Victory had been their focus and then survival but that night, as now, their coming together had been full of uncharted emotions that neither would have dared dipped into under any other circumstance.
There hadn't been any reason for Wash to know, maybe because it wasn't something either of them could explain but also because neither of them had ever mentioned it afterwards – almost as if it had never happened, another memory of the war that had been stored away in order to maintain their sanity. Perhaps it was the only way they had been able to come to know true serenity afterward for they had both come to see what serenity was or could be after that. Wash had been Zoë's, the ship was Mal's. The one had a deep and abiding lover; the other had no demands, freedom and control over his life. And with serenity they had never once thought about their one night together.
"You couldn't have done nothing, the way it is is the way it is," Mal whispered in the dark. "None of us could of, Zoë. As much as I wish we could've. You don't know how much I wish I could've."
"I know," she breathed wistfully.
They had made love with a passion that neither had expected. Hungry for contact, the warmth of another body, insatiably taking and giving till release had come. It was all they could do to hold back the terror filled memories, the guilt and the pain and the loss. And now after it was over they laid together, she with her head on his smooth chest, he with an arm around her and they both felt the tension seeping from them. She stroked his chest idly and he ran his hand over her hair absently, both lost in thoughts of other things.
She was alive still, she told herself, and because Wash would want her to live so she would. There were no tears now and no fear of memories of what was and would never be again. As in Serenity Valley she gave up the past, accepting it for what it was – invaluable and precious but gone.
Zoë never made him lose his bearings, Mal thought. With her he always knew where he stood just as much as she knew where she stood. They were both soldiers doing their duty, working stiffs doing their job and now, twice, they had been lovers consoling each other, chasing away the horror and fear, giving each other peace after war and death, reaffirming life.
"Sometimes we just gotta learn how to let go, Zoë," he said.
"It ain't always that easy," she said.
"Sometimes it's the knowin' that's all you need."
"Sounds somethin' the Shepherd might've said."
"Get some sleep," he said, pulling her closer needing to feel her warmth seep into him.
They slept in peace, no nightmares visiting them for once. When morning came there was no awkwardness between them. He could see she was more relaxed, having lost the rigid movements that had been so characteristic of her after Wash's death. It made him believe everything was right now, the way it should be. His crew was whole and they could go on. Inara had been right after all he mused even though he didn't like to think so but maybe just this once he would concede that she had been.
"What now?" Zoë asked.
"This here could surely be a problem if it was anyone else but us," Mal said.
She sighed languidly, feeling satisfied and yet a little sad. "Guess we've got those supplies to finish organizing," she said.
"They'll keep. Reckon we gotta settle a few more things here," he said, lifting her chin with his free hand before his lips met hers.
Much later he watched her get dressed allowing himself this one time to admire how fine she looked in her form fitting pants. She was truly beautiful, not only in looks but in spirit too. When she caught him staring he grinned and finished shoving his feet into his boots. Just like that it was over, just like before. And as they had never mentioned it then, they would never mention it now. Why, he didn't know but it suited them and it worked. It affected no one else, was their business alone. But they didn't know that Inara had been searching for Mal last night. She had questioned all onboard but none had known where their captain was. It was only when she had sought out Zoë and couldn't find her that she'd guessed. Her mind ventured down a path perhaps her occupation naturally led her and yet she thought she was being preposterous. Surely Mal was only consoling Zoë, nothing more. Still, Inara had gone to his room not wanting to believe what she knew in her heart to be true but once there she hadn't been able to knock.
The need she'd felt to thrust open the door, to determine for herself that nothing was as she feared it was had faltered. Unsure of herself for the first time in a very long time, confused by her own unspoken feelings for Malcolm and above all else knowing that it was not her place to interfere in his life and especially in Zoë's life she had turned away. She'd gone to bed but found she was unable to sleep. She laid there feeling irritated and inexplicably angry and too, something akin to jealousy.
When Mal's door opened and he and Zoë stepped out into the passageway Inara had just gone down the ladder to the common room. But as she had throughout the afternoon she soon retraced her steps, climbing slowly up the ladder again arguing with herself all along. She saw them as she pulled herself up. They were standing close though not touching. Nothing unusual. But then Mal lifted a hand and moved a long curl away from Zoë's face. The corner of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin as he looked at Zoë whose smile, Inara saw, had lost its sorrow.
"You gonna be okay?" he asked.
Inara saw the thoughtful look Zoë gave him and wondered why she didn't answer but then . . .
"Always."
Mal took Zoë's hands in his looking hard at her as if trying to determine her sincerity. He saw her face was as still as usual but there was peace there too and he knew she really would be alright.
"You need anything, Zoë – I mean anything you know you can come to me, dong ma?"
"Thanks for sayin' but I know it, Mal. I know."
To Inara, Malcolm's name sounded strange on Zoë's lips but that one syllable told her all she needed to know and feeling like an intruder she cleared her throat delicately as she climbed up to show herself.
Neither were surprised to see her there. They had nothing to hide though Mal's hands let go of Zoë's and she took a slight step back. Then, unexpectedly she stepped forward and pressed her lips to Mal's for the briefest of seconds, so brief, so light he barely felt her kiss.
"Thank you, sir," she said before she turned and walked past Inara then disappeared into her room now ready to face the memories of her dead husband.
"There somethin' I can do for you, Inara?" Mal asked when she remained in the passageway staring at him in silence.
She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
"Well now, don't know 'bout you but I feel like I could eat a whole side of beef this fine mornin'," Mal said, his usual nonchalant grin in place as he moved passed her.
Inara closed her eyes briefly as she wondered what to say, if anything. When she looked up Mal was gone and with his passing she felt for the first time that she understood the complicated man that Malcolm Reynolds was and she smiled.