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Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins

Chapter 7: Acceptance

Part II

"Yeah. This is all very doable. Shouldn't be a problem at all."

Watching the man crawl up from behind the command console, Zoë wondered if it hadn't been doable, would he have said as such? Leaning against the wall, her arms folded, her eyes narrow, her mind had settled on "probably not." A mind that didn't seem to be on the same level as Mal's, who was watching the pilot with an aura of calm approval, but still, her mind, and according to some branches of philosophy, the only thing she knew to exist.

The man sat down in the pilot's chair. "A few modifications, might get some real manoeuvrability out of this boat. You'll be surprised."

Not in the mood for surprises, Zoë reflected.

"So you'll take the job then?" Mal asked.

Zoë watched as the man swivelled around in the chair. She knew what she was doing. Heck, if she was in the same position, she might have tried the same thing herself. Only she'd have failed, and the aspiring pilot of Serenity was succeeding. Certainly succeeding with Mal at least. And on some level, even succeeding on her.

"Might do, might do," the man said. "Think I'm startin' to get a feel here."

Zoë had a feeling as well – that this was a terrible mistake.

"Good," said Mal. "Well, take your time. Make yourself at home."

Zoë gave him a withering glare, before heading for the cockpit's exit. On the way out, she heard Mal say, "just, uh, fiddle around with the dials there. We'll be nearby."

Oh spare me.

As she exited the room, Zoë gave the pilot one last look. He wore a shirt that he'd described as Hawaiian – supposedly a chain of islands on Earth-That-Was, when she'd asked him what the hell a Hawaiian was. Unkempt hair covered his head, standing in contrast to his much better maintained moustache. He was back to swinging in his chair again, as if he were a child being taken on his first shuttle ride. Which meant he either was a child, or worse, pretending to be a child. To catch them off-guard, so he could seal the cockpit, asphyxiate the crew, and take Serenity for himself. Not that the ship could actually get off Hera yet, but when that happened, and if the man who called himself Hoban Washburne was still there, then…

Zoë wished she had a pistol on her. Unfortunately, all she had at her side right now was Mal. And while that was a good thing most of the time (well, half of the time technically), it was clear that Mal had fallen for the ship's latest crew member.

"Great, ain't he?" Mal asked her.

"I don't like him."

"What?"

"Just somethin' about him bothers me," Zoë said, not seeing any reason to beat round the bush.

"What?" Mal sounded aghast. "What about him bothers you?"

"I'm not sure. It's…something." She paused, turned around, and looked at the entrance to the cockpit. From here, Washburne was out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.

"Well, your 'something' comes up against a list of recommendations as long as my leg," Mal said, having stopped walking as well. "Tanaka raves about this guy. Renshaw's been trying to get him on his crew for a month. And we need us a pilot."

A month. Half as long as it had been since she'd turned up on Hera, saw the flying death trap Mal wanted to call home, and forsaking her better judgement, agreed to join him. Not like Captain Renshaw himself, who'd been a captain in an Independents, and now wanted to be a captain in space as well. Turned out a lot of former Browncoats wanted to go their own way after the war. But to get into space, they needed a pilot, and if they needed a pilot, then…

"I understand sir," Zoë said. "But he bothers me."

Why though?

She didn't have an answer. Not even for herself.

"Look, we finally got ourselves a genius mechanic," Mal said. "It's about time we hired someone to fly this damn thing."

"Genius? No-one's ever called me that before. Shiny"

Both heads turned to see Bester walking by. A mechanic who was dressed in clothes as unkempt as Washburne's hair, and who, as far as Zoë was concerned, as close to being a genius as she was to being the empress of Sihnon. But, seeing the way he smirked at her, she could at least call Bester honest. He was a sleaze, he was a womanizer, he was doing too little work for too much pay, but at least he didn't hide who he was. Not unlike their pilot, who was hiding…well, something. What it was, her gut couldn't tell her, but her gut had kept her alive for 28 years, and as far as she was concerned, that was a pretty good service record.

Mal looked away from Bester, a stern look on his features. A look that betrayed his misgivings about Bester as well. But also a look that told her that if she had any concrete objections, she should voice them now.

"He just bothers me," she murmured.

"Duly noted." Mal headed down the corridor.

"Where you headed sir?"

"Quarters. Have a pilot to add to the payroll."

"You know he might not actually be joining the…" Zoë trailed off. The wind was blowing in one direction, and Mal being Mal, he'd sail in that direction till the wind changed or the mast broke. Sighing, she leant against the wall, and glanced back at the cockpit. Wondering what it was about the pilot that bothered her so much. And if that was going to affect their ability to work together.

"Yep, think I'll definitely take this bird for a spin," the pilot called out.

Zoë grit her teeth.

"Um, guys? You still there?"

"Oh yeah," Zoë murmured, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the wall. "This is gonna work out great."

When Zoë's mind returned to the present, the present reminded her that money made the universe go round, not dark energy.

"So, I'm wondering – do we get extra payment for you being late?" Jayne asked.

"No."

"Oh. You gonna tell us why you're late?"

"No."

"Okay. Also, since you paid us forty-thousand last time, I can't help but feel that this is a bit of a reduction? Like, compound interest? Or, something?"

Miranda gave Jayne a withering look before turning back to Mal. "Five-thousand credits," she said, putting a wad of notes into the captain's hand. "And no interest."

"Not even simple?" Mal asked.

This time, Miranda gave Mal a look; one that suggested she was surprised he knew the difference. Nevertheless, she murmured, "a pleasure doing business with you."

Mal snorted, and Zoë couldn't blame him. She doubted that this was a pleasure for Miranda. And even calling this "business" was a stretch. Granted, it was the type of business that the crew of Serenity engaged in more frequently than that of the legitimate kind. Still, maybe it was seeing Miranda again, after over a year since Argo. She looked the same. Talked the same. Carried herself the same. But there was a difference as well, one Zoë couldn't put her finger on.

"So how are things?" Zoë asked.

Miranda looked at her.

"How's your insurrection going?"

"Well enough that I can pay you for medical supplies abducted from Alliance transport vessels."

"But, you need the medical supplies, right?" She looked at the troopers she'd brought with her. "Gunshot wounds? Stabbings? Heck, Simon would look at them for free."

Miranda glared at her, and Simon himself shot her a look that asked what the heck, Zoë? Jayne, for his part, smirked, carrying Ivanka over his shoulder as he turned his gaze to the Caliban troopers. Same black armour, same planetary insignia with a buzzard clutching two worlds. Only while Zoë had heard about Caliban on the Cortex a year ago, in the time since, they'd been mostly silent. Heck, the whole 'Verse had been silent. Miranda, the planet, might be remembered. Those who'd risen up and formed the New Resistance, to honour the dead? Not so much.

"Can't be too careful," Miranda murmured eventually, gesturing to her men to load the crates onto the shuttle. "Anyway, you hit a ship, you hurt the Alliance. I'm happy, you're happy…"

"We're happy?" Mal asked.

"…since I paid you five-thousand big ones, I assume you are." She paused, before asking, "ever feel like getting back in the game, Captain Reynolds? I can name lots of other targets for you."

Mal shook his head. "We all stabbed the Alliance in the paw at some point or another." He looked at Simon and Kaylee, before Zoë, before Jayne, before Miranda again. "Don't mean I gotta keep doing it."

Miranda chuckled. "You spare John Calvert, and now you go soft."

"Boy's always been soft," Jayne murmured.

"I look out for me and mine," Mal said. "You ain't among 'em. And while I might cheer from the sidelines, you want me in the game? You can make the offer. But I get to decide whether I walk onto the field."

Miranda didn't say anything, and in the silence, Zoë recalled the hit on the Hernu. A dummy beacon which simultaneously drew the ship in, before Serenity reactivated its engines and closed in. The transport had had enough sense to realize that they couldn't outrun the Firefly-class, and even enough sense to heed the words that the ship had two dozen armed and dangerous space pirates that would drop anyone without a second thought if need be. Course, the crew quickly realized that two dozen might have been a bit of an overestimate, but they'd given up the crates all the same. No muss, no fuss, and Caliban now had access to medical supplies that had been en route to some purple bellies enforcing the peace at the Rim.

"Fine," Miranda said eventually. She stuck out her hand. "Until next time then."

Mal shook it, though with a very soft grasp. And after a moment, Miranda broke the grip. She looked at Zoë, before going to join her men in the shuttle.

"Well," Mal said. "That was fun. Ready to go?"

Jayne grunted. "Count me in."

Zoë began following Miranda.

"Zoë?" Mal asked.

"There in a moment sir." She quickened her pace, but she needn't have done so. Miranda had stopped outside the hatch, and she looked around as Zoë approached. As if she'd sensed her approach, or more likely, heard her footsteps. Soft, yes, but this was an Operative. Even if she'd left the Alliance, Zoë figured it stood to reason her senses hadn't left her.

"Here to join us?" Miranda asked.

Zoë glanced at the shuttle, noticing how much of the paint was falling off, plus what looked like micro-meteorite impacts. "Depends. You need me?"

"Could say that," Miranda murmured.

Zoë frowned. "What about the master list?"

"It had its uses. But there's only so many targets we can hit. And even fewer once the Alliance realized what had happened." Miranda looked down, pressing her hands together. "You know, for what it's worth, it's made me appreciate the Independents more. Fighting a war they could never win, but doing so anyway."

Zoë glanced at Mal, now on his way back to the Mule. "Some people might take issue with the whole 'couldn't win' thing."

"I'm sure some people would."

Zoë looked back at her. Miranda stood there, silent. She'd definitely changed, Zoë reflected. How and why though, she couldn't say. The old Miranda had executed a boy in cold blood. The old Miranda had only taken her to Ithaca because she'd told her the truth about what had happened on Theophrastus. This Miranda however, was calmer. Sadder, almost. Like Mal, after the war. Maybe more like him than she'd care to admit. Just flying her own way, following her own guiding star as long as she could before it collapsed into a white dwarf.

"Well," Miranda said. She extended a hand. "If you don't care to join us, then you might care to stand clear. I gave you a ride in one of these shuttles once. Don't see why I have to do so again."

"You don't have to," Zoë said. "You don't have to do anything."

Miranda snorted. "We both know that's not true."

"Excuse me?"

"You're going to follow Malcolm Reynolds wherever he goes. You're going to give everything you have for your daughter. And you're going to keep your head to ground as long as this universe allows you to." Miranda gave a wry smile. "Been a year, Zoë Alleyne. And you haven't changed."

Zoë wasn't sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult. But she was sure that she had to stand clear. Because Miranda walked up into the shuttle, and if she didn't stand clear, then Serenity would be leaving this world with one less body onboard. So, she stood back, raising her hand to shield herself from the shuttle's downdraft. Watching the shuttle as it rose up into the night sky. Headed for the stars, either to hide in shadows where their light didn't touch, or coat them with yet more blood.

"So," Mal said eventually, walking over. "Tell you anything shiny?"

Zoë just stood there. Reflecting on what the Operative had said. Of not changing. Wondering not so much if it was an insult or not, but whether that was for the better, or for the worse.

"Zoë?"

She looked back at Mal and shrugged. "Nothing worth repeating."

"Great," Jayne said. "Can we go now?"

At least, nothing worth repeating in front of the crew. Of how the words were crawling under her skin.

After all, she'd embraced change before. She'd embraced it when she'd boarded Serenity.

And changed much, much more after that…

The gravity feels off.

Such were Zoë's thoughts as she sat at a table outside Kongfu Hustle – a Chinese eatery on a waystation named Paradise Found. A name that Zoë didn't really get, because despite being set on a major trade route between the White and Red Sun star systems, it wasn't a piece of paradise. Not too down-market, but hardly a place where docking bay blast doors were all pearly, or where deck crews had halos and immaculate robes. Also, the gravity was off. She could feel it in her stomach. She could feel it in her hands as she smothered the black dress she was wearing. Beads of sweat lingered on her forehead, which was odd, because the temperature of this place was set to 25 degrees. She knew what the temperature was, because Kaylee had told her as soon as they'd arrived, and the temperature reading on one of the many flatscreens that hung from the way station's roof reinforced what her mechanic knew. But since the gravity was off, and Kaylee hadn't noticed, then that raised the question of what she could trust in this universe.

"Kya aap ordar dena chaahenge?"

Or who. Case in point, a waiter who'd spoken to her in a language she didn't recognise.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

The man, with short black hair, brown skin, and an awkward smile, cleared his throat, and asked, with forced Mandarin, "bàoqiàn. Nín yào dìnggòu ma?"

"Oh, no, not yet." Zoë raised the glass of water she'd only taken a few sips from. "Just waiting for someone."

"Waiting…long, yes?" The man looked at his watch. "Man late?"

In spite of everything, Zoë smiled. "How do you know it's a man?"

"Many people here eat. Men late. More than women."

Zoë, deciding not to point out that she'd arrived early, instead said, "I'll wait some more, thanks."

"Yes. Of course." The man nodded, and went to another table – likely a pitstop before going to tell his manager that the spacer with a pistol in her holster wasn't moving yet. And also, perhaps wondering why a place called Paradise Found allowed non-automatic weapons to be taken onto the station, or why she needed it in the first place.

I'm wondering the same thing.

She sipped more of her water. It was recycled from icy bolides taken from White Sun's Oort cloud, but it tasted normal. Heck, it tasted even better than the recycled water on Serenity. She looked beyond the restaurant – at the crowds of people milling about, the throng a discordant symphony of English and Mandarin, with fringe languages acting as drums. Not coming in often, but being heard all the same. Her eyes going upward, she looked at the waystation's roof – mostly hard rock from the asteroid it had been carved out of, before being pushed by tugs into the darkness between star systems. Steel girders acted as supports, and Zoë could see the more upmarket establishments rising to the roof itself. And between ground and stone sky were flatscreens. All of them on full volume, all of them drowning out the other, all of them showing things from Alliance broadcasts to advertisements, all of them vying for attention.

"Sorry I'm late."

And all of them failing, as her eyes came back down to ground, along with her attention. Because walking to her was a man. A man with blonde hair that was still unkempt, unkempt clothing, and a moustache that made her want to grab a knife and cut it. A man that was named Hoban Washburne, and who was carrying a bottle of liquor with him.

"You been waiting long?"

Zoë folded her arms as Wash took the seat opposite her. "Very."

"Sorry," he said. "There was this queue, and then there was a fight, and some guy got a nasty cut."

"Uh-huh." Zoë gestured to the waiter, before looking at the bottle. "Ngkapei," she said. "Acanthopanax-bark liquor."

Wash looked uneasy.

"Cost much?"

"Not really," he said.

"I see."

"I mean, wanted to get something better, but y'know, credits have been tight. Captain said he might be able to pick us up a job here, but until that happens, don't have that much to spend. Mean, could take out a loan, but…sorry."

The menus were put on the table, but Zoë barely noticed. So caught off-guard by Wash's ramblings, she leant forward to say, "it's alright. I appreciate it."

I do?

Wash's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, not exactly fine wine, but this isn't fine dining." She looked at the waiter. "Sorry."

He gave a smile. Wash gave a laugh. And Zoë wondered what the hell had just happened.

It wasn't meant to happen like this. It had been three months since they'd left Hera, one month after they'd picked up Kaylee (replacing Bester, thank God), one month since they'd arrived in Red Sun, nine days since they'd headed off for White Sun (much to Mal's chagrin, but that was where the jobs were), and eight hours since she'd talked to Hoban "Wash" Washburne about certain things. That over the last three months, she'd tried to keep her distance from him, that she was willing to call him "Wash" (since he hated "Hoban") like everyone else, and that even if there was something off about him, she could at least learn to work with him. And to formalize that arrangement, she was willing to have dinner with him on Paradise Found at a restaurant of his choice. The idiot, who'd been playing with toy dinosaurs in the cockpit at the time, had smiled, said sure, told her he'd meet her at 19:40 station time, and went back to playing with the dinosaurs, leaving Zoë to leave the cockpit, ask herself what the hell she was thinking, and set her on a course to realize that dates usually involved better attire than her old Browncoat uniform.

Except it wasn't a date. Even as the waiter left, only to return with wine glasses, she told herself it wasn't a date. No matter what Kaylee said. No matter the traditions of vesselsiders hooking up with people from other ships (after all, the man was a pilot). And even if it was a date, Serenity was Mal's boat. They'd been at each other's sides for years without going into any funny business, there was no reason to start now with a new crewmember. Besides, the war had taught her that shipboard relationships usually led to disaster, be it on the battlefield or on the ship itself. Yeah, there were her parents – they'd met, fucked, and given birth in space, and plenty of vesselsiders did the same but that was totally different. Vesselsiders were extended families. The crew of Serenity…well, close as she was with Mal, and has close as she'd become with Kaylee, it wasn't the same. Because…reasons.

"Cheers," said Wash.

"Cheers." Zoë clinked her glass against his and sipped the wine.

"That bad?" Wash asked.

"No, it's…actually not that bad."

"Oh, good. Really afraid that it wouldn't be. I mean, I don't really know much about wine, or stuff, but…"

Zoë laughed. "Relax. I don't know much about wine either."

"Oh. Right. Of course."

Zoë took another sip. It tasted fine, but she really had no benchmark for it. She was pretty sure she'd tasted wine before, likely on the Torres, but she couldn't remember exactly when. She could remember seeing teens knocking themselves up on juice, but when her teen years had come, she'd managed to stay clear of that nonsense, keeping her wits and sights sharp every time she went planetside. Maybe the fact that she was with Hoban Washburne this evening at all was making up for lost time. Maybe, as they agreed to order dim sims followed by rice and lemon chicken (no beef, that was too expensive), this was just her living some missed out part of her youth. They'd eat, they'd laugh, they'd drink, and they'd return to the ship understanding that while they didn't like each other, they could at least work together.

That said, Wash wasn't making it easy. He ate with gusto, but managed to ask her things along the way – how was the food? Where did she grow up? What was it like living on a spaceship for most of her life? How did she join the Independents? Why? Are you alright talking about it? Zoë answered each question politely and succinctly, though by the time the lemon chicken arrived, she realized that she was spending less time eating, and more time talking. Because, she realized, as she finally took a bite of that damn chicken, it felt good to get it all out. She didn't talk about the war with Mal – there was nothing left for them to discuss. But Wash was asking. Wash was allowing her to get it out. And while she was pretty sure it was just a trick, he was coming off as if he was genuinely interested. So much so that, as she leant back in her chair, her chicken half finished, she asked, "what about you?"

For a brief moment, Wash looked surprised at the question, but it was surprise that didn't match how surprised Zoë was with herself that she'd asked the question in the first place.

"Come from Beaumonde," he said, glancing aside as if ashamed of it.

"Beaumonde? That's the fourteenth planet of Kalidasa, right?"

"Fifteenth." Wash still wasn't looking at her. He was looking at some Alliance marines making their way through the crowd, reassuring the good citizens of the 'Verse that after the war, they were all part of the same dysfunctional family that required firearms to stay in line. That the Alliance had brought civilization here. "Nice place."

"What, Beaumonde?"

"Nah. This place." He looked back at her. "Beaumonde though? It's an industrial hub, run by the Blue Sun Corporation, no matter what its governor says. Pollution there's so thick, you can't see the stars." He leant back in his chair. "That's why I went to flight school. An excuse to get off the planet and stay off it."

Zoë remained silent, not sure what to say. But Wash must have taken her silence for amusement, given what he said next.

"Pretty funny, eh?"

"No, actually that's…sweet."

"Sweet?"

"Yeah. Sweet." Zoë leant back in her chair, and chuckled.

"What?"

"Never thought I'd say sweet again."

"When did you say it last?"

"Hell if I know."

Wash laughed. So did she.

"So, yeah. Flight school, graduated second in my class, and between you and me, the guy who came first hacked the system."

Zoë nodded, believing it for some unknown reason.

"And since then, well, one boat after another. Short trips, long trips, medium trips, trippy trips…"

Remembering the t-shirt he wore half the time, Zoë had a good idea of what those "trippy trips" entailed.

"And all kinds of other trips."

"And trips during the war?" she asked.

"Well, yeah. Wars are fought, but someone's still gotta get from point a to point b. Mean, the Alliance paid good credit for it, but the Independents did too. Not that I fought, not really my thing. Good thing really, given all the zhēn de hěn kǒngbù de dōngxī that went down, right?"

Zoë clenched her left fist, after moving her hand under the table. "You've got no idea."

"Yeah," said Wash. "Guess I don't."

He leant back in his chair, looking awkward. As if he were afraid he'd said too much, or maybe too little. He was on a ship with two Browncoats who'd fought together, killed together, and nearly died together more than once. But the thing was, while the irritation was there, festering beneath her skin like a lodged bullet, Zoë didn't mind. Wash had talked about his trips, and she'd been willing to listen. Especially since a lot of the time, Mal didn't know when to shut up, and Kaylee? She was a sweet girl, but sweet girls had a tendency to speak too much, and when they realized they'd spoken too much, spend even more time speaking to apologize for their prior speaking. Wash, however? He was somewhere between them. He was at home on a waystation, let alone a ship, but there was a quietness to him. A gentleness. Something that she wasn't used to these days, let alone during the war. If it wasn't for that juéduì huāngmiù moustache he had, she'd…

Do what?

The conversation returned to normal soon afterwards, though Zoë wasn't sure what normal was. That tingling in her fingers, and that warmth between her legs certainly wasn't normal. Her laughing as much as this wasn't normal either. And splitting the bill? That wasn't normal either. The fact that there was a bill to share at all, not the whole splitting thing. The crew of Serenity, all four of them, were used to splitting things up pretty evenly, as meagre as the takings were these days.

"So," Wash asked, as the waiter took the credits away. "So…so…"

"You sew?" Zoë asked. "I used to, back in the Independents. Fixing uniforms, sewing wounds…"

Wash didn't laugh. She didn't either.

"So, yeah," Wash said. "Um…should we do this again? Sometime? Some point in the undetermined, non-descript future that…like, totally doesn't have to be too long, or too soon, or, um…"

Zoë wanted to get him to shut up, because the poor guy was speaking so fast, his heart was liable to come out of his mouth like something out of a horror-holo. Problem was, she wasn't sure what to say. Her first instinct was to say "no." This dinner had been a way to clear the air, to get a sense of where they stood, some friendly details, and then they could get back to their jobs. And even if that wasn't the case, if she said yes, what would that lead to? More dinner, more wine, more talking of all things. And if that talking led to more talking, if their tongues were used for things other than talking, then that was a nightmare in the making. Nine times out of ten, relationships didn't work, and when they fell apart on a ship, the fallout was as deadly as any radiation leak. There were a thousand reasons why she could, why she should, say no, but given the look in Wash's eyes, she knew she only needed one of them. So, settling on a reason, she gave her answer.

"Sure."

"Oh. Really?"

Wash's baby-blue eyes were resembling a binary star system.

"Yeah. Sure. I mean, when we get to White Sun…well, Alliance proclaims itself as a beacon of civilization, must be somewhere good to meet on the Inner Planets. I mean, course we've met, I mean, met awhile ago, and…" She trailed off. Her tongue was doing something, and she had little idea as to what. But she wished Wash would stop smiling, because the gravity was still off, and smiles like that were too good to be true. No-one in her company had smiled like that since the Alliance had won the war. But Wash was smiling, and…damn it, she wanted to see more of it.

"Just one thing though," Zoë said. "If we want to have these…discussions again, there's one caveat."

"Yeah? Sure, anything."

"The moustache goes."

Wash looked taken aback and ran a finger through his whiskers. "The moustache? Why? What's wrong with it?"

Zoë laughed. "Oh baby, you've got no idea."

Given the look on Wash's face, he clearly didn't. And as she laughed, Zoë realized that she had no idea either, as to what the heck she was doing.

But maybe that wasn't a problem, she told herself. Things had changed in her life. As the war had shown, sometimes for the worse.

Was it too much to hope for that they could change for the better as well?

They returned to the ship in silence. Silence that extended from closed mouths. Silence that emanated from the barren landscape. Silence so deafening, so encompassing, that even the constant whir of the Mule couldn't break it.

Memories whirled in Zoë's mind. Memories that went as far back as far as eight years ago, when a get-together on Paradise Found had led to her own piece of paradise, to eight minutes ago, when she'd seen Miranda and her crew depart into the night sky. A sky where paradise wouldn't be found, and would never be made by Miranda or Caliban. She didn't begrudge the former Operative the choices she'd made. After the war, she'd made choices of a similar kind, before Mal had requested she meet him on Hera, giving her a new home, and a new wind to sail by. Plus a pilot, who became her friend, who became her husband, who became her soul-mate. Things had changed then. Things were changing now. Because it was in silence, that Zoë remained, as the Mule sailed across the wastes of Sho-Je Downs. In silence, that she remained in the Mule as it came to a stop outside the transport ship. In silence, as she shivered in the wind, and thought of a far-off planet named Ithaca. A planet where she'd left the ship to meet someone who'd been fighting his own war. A planet where she couldn't leave the ship without imagining Wash flying it. Of hearing his name over the radio, in the vain hope that the dead could speak.

So it was still in silence that they got out of the ship. Silence that was broken by the ship's loading ramp descending, but silence that returned once it touched the ground. And in silence, Simon, Kaylee, and Jayne dismounted from the Mule.

"Zoë?"

Silence that was broken again, as Mal talked to her.

"Sir?"

"We're home."

"Yeah. Right." She got out of the Mule, and figured that she must have sounded more despondent than she felt, because she felt Mal's hand on her shoulder. And looking towards it, saw it as well.

"You okay?"

She brushed the hand aside. "Someday sir, you'll have to stop asking me that."

"I'm the captain. It's my job to ask that."

Zoë couldn't help but smirk. "Even for Jayne?"

"If he ever stops being okay." Mal looked at the merc and the kids, as they began to unload the Mule.

"How will you know when he's not okay?" Zoë asked.

"Hey, you two gonna help?!"

"When he stops being an arse," Mal said. He looked at Jayne. "Unload the Mule Jayne, it's what you're paid for."

"No, you pay me to shoot people."

"Yeah, well, you ain't shot no-one this evenin', so make up for it."

Jayne gave Mal a look that might as well have been a shot across the bow of the ship, if eyes could shoot bullets. Or lasers. Or something.

Zoë looked at Mal. "Keep prodding him, he might shoot something."

"Maybe." He looked at Simon and Kaylee. "Know one of those two is shooting something, so why shouldn't Jayne get in on the fun?"

Zoë hit Mal. Hard.

"Gāisǐ de nǚrén!" Mal exclaimed. He looked at Zoë, and she laughed.

"What?"

"Oh, you know. This. Old times."

Mal rubbed his arm. "Don't remember no bruises back when."

"Well, we all carry scars," Zoë murmured.

She knew she could leave it there. But standing here, under the bow of Serenity, berthed in an ocean of dust and rock…she had the opening to speak. She wanted to speak.

"Sir, I want you to know…that I'm fine," Zoë said.

"Course you are," he murmured.

"On Ithaca, when we met Troy," she whispered. "Not last time, but the time before. Kept waiting to hear Wash's voice over the radio. Kept thinking he was the pilot, and not River. Eight months wishing the bulge in my belly would go away. Heck, I'd have been willing to make it disappear if he could come back into my life." She wrapped her arms around herself and kicked some of the dust.

"What about now?" Mal asked.

"Now?" Zoë looked at him. "Now I've got a daughter. Now I can wake up on that ship every day and see a smaller crew, and be used to it. Now I…" She took a breath. "Now is the now, sir. And I'm in it. Finally. Or at least, as deep in as I can be."

Mal, after a moment, patted her on the shoulder. "I know you are."

Zoë smiled.

"Anyway," Mal said. He began walking into the cargo bay. "Bring the Mule in will you?"

She almost asked what would happen if she said no. But that was fine with her. Being out here, alone, in the wind, under the stars. Under the cockpit.

They'd got married here. Two years after they'd met on Hera. It had been on Newhope, as if the 'Verse itself wanted to send them a message. Somehow, they'd scrounged together enough credits for a wedding dress, a suit that was mildly presentable, and liquor that was a bit more upmarket than ngkapei. Inara, who'd joined the crew by then, had officiated it for free. Mal had been her best man. Kaylee had cried like a baby, but had nonetheless proven herself adept with flowers in addition to machines. And Wash? Wash had been Wash. Even without his moustache, which he'd removed after their third date. Wash had been Wash, from that day, to his last day. On a world so far from this one, where he'd given his life, so that the lives of 30 million people might have a voice. A voice that had long since fallen silent, but even now, remained in echoes. Be it through the New Resistance, Caliban, or the whole of humanity. People might be silent. But not all of them would forget.

Maybe that was all they needed to do. Maybe that was all that was needed at all. Maybe…Zoë closed her eyes, and took a breath. Remembering that day. Remembering that moment. Where Wash's lips and hers met, for the first time, as husband and wife. On that day, so fresh in her mind, so close to her heart.

The wind was blowing, and with it, her hair, and her dress. Petals from the flowers she held were carried in the wind like leaves, and-

No. No more daydreams.

She opened her eyes and looked up at the stars. At the moons. There was so much to see, with her eyes still open. So much to comprehend, while still in the present. To experience in the here and now, rather than in the past.

She walked over to the Mule, before bringing it into the belly of the ship. Her daughter was waiting for her. Wash's daughter was waiting for her. Wash, whom she would never forget.

But Wash was gone. He'd been gone for two years. And from her denial, from her pain, there had come the last step. Finally. At last. The wound closed, as much as it could. If all the world was a stage, she was in the final act, that ended this strange, eventful history.

She drove the Mule into the bay, and the door behind her closed with a heavy clunk.

Echoing.

Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.