Out of the black - arrival [[OTA]]
Once Serenity is all fixed up, it's the first night without Wash that's the hardest. Zoë kept herself good and occupied working on making sure Mal's boat could fly again, wearing herself out and sleeping wherever she wound up once she was exhausted. She usually worked silently up on the bridge in front of the cockpit, in the space between panels and the front glass. No one bothered her, not even the captain. River sometimes sat, quite-like in Wash's - no, the pilot's chair - but she never said a word.
And then the firefly is all patched up, shiny as ever, and they're in the sky again. And there's nowhere to go except down to her bunk. She just stands there for a while, breathing in the air that still smells like Wash and the aftershave he uses. Their stuff is scattered everywhere from the hard landing and Zoë treads carefully, kneeling down to pick up one of his dinosaurs. She never understood this obsession from Earth that Was, how fossils could be the most interesting thing to be fascinated with. She stares at the toy, turning it over in her hand again and again, inspecting it until it starts to blur. For the first time she finally lets herself cry, sinking down to the ground against the bed, one hand clutching the damn dinosaur, the other over her face. She has no idea how she's supposed to sleep in this bed that feels too small when she's hot and sweaty and he's pressing against her, because now it's too big. It might as well be as vast as the dark for all the space there is. She never came up with a plan to do this by herself, not after she fell in love with the goofiest guy in the entire 'verse. He'd changed her. Made it so that she knew what it was to smile and immerse herself in people and good things again. Now things feel about as cold and dark as they did after the war.
When she's cried out Zoë stands, taking a deep breath and composing herself. She's never been one for extended mourning. It doesn't bring anyone back, and it doesn't do anyone else any good. Most days, she's not even sad for herself. She's sad for the future she's never going to have. The baby that Wash never even had a chance to know about - the one she didn't even know about until two nights ago. But she knows one thing for certain now: She won't cry any more. She won't crumble when she thinks about her husband. She'll smile, and she'll tell their baby stories, but she won't attach sadness to his memory.
She's caught up in her thoughts, straightening, putting weapons where they're supposed to go, when the hair stands up on the back of her neck. Cocking her weapon, she turns around quick as a cat and has a rifle pointed right in someone's face. There's silence for a few seconds until she exhales, realizing that she's outside, red sky above her and green grass below her feet. But that doesn't mean she feels better about lowering her weapon. Especially considering she's got no good gorram idea about how she got here.
And then the firefly is all patched up, shiny as ever, and they're in the sky again. And there's nowhere to go except down to her bunk. She just stands there for a while, breathing in the air that still smells like Wash and the aftershave he uses. Their stuff is scattered everywhere from the hard landing and Zoë treads carefully, kneeling down to pick up one of his dinosaurs. She never understood this obsession from Earth that Was, how fossils could be the most interesting thing to be fascinated with. She stares at the toy, turning it over in her hand again and again, inspecting it until it starts to blur. For the first time she finally lets herself cry, sinking down to the ground against the bed, one hand clutching the damn dinosaur, the other over her face. She has no idea how she's supposed to sleep in this bed that feels too small when she's hot and sweaty and he's pressing against her, because now it's too big. It might as well be as vast as the dark for all the space there is. She never came up with a plan to do this by herself, not after she fell in love with the goofiest guy in the entire 'verse. He'd changed her. Made it so that she knew what it was to smile and immerse herself in people and good things again. Now things feel about as cold and dark as they did after the war.
When she's cried out Zoë stands, taking a deep breath and composing herself. She's never been one for extended mourning. It doesn't bring anyone back, and it doesn't do anyone else any good. Most days, she's not even sad for herself. She's sad for the future she's never going to have. The baby that Wash never even had a chance to know about - the one she didn't even know about until two nights ago. But she knows one thing for certain now: She won't cry any more. She won't crumble when she thinks about her husband. She'll smile, and she'll tell their baby stories, but she won't attach sadness to his memory.
She's caught up in her thoughts, straightening, putting weapons where they're supposed to go, when the hair stands up on the back of her neck. Cocking her weapon, she turns around quick as a cat and has a rifle pointed right in someone's face. There's silence for a few seconds until she exhales, realizing that she's outside, red sky above her and green grass below her feet. But that doesn't mean she feels better about lowering her weapon. Especially considering she's got no good gorram idea about how she got here.