deathpixie | Mprov fic number 6

Fandom: Firefly/Serenity.
Rating: PG-13.

Prompts: From [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]: heart, liqueur, concrete.

Spoilers for Serenity, references to the Firefly episodes "Ariel", and "War Stories".

Warning: Not safe for work. Something of a tear-jerker.

Back on Ariel, when they'd been working to bring together the elements of Simon's plan, Wash had brought home a bottle of expensive fancy liqueur. For their anniversary, he'd said with one of those irrepressible grins of his. He'd been scrounging for parts with Kaylee and snuck away to make his purchase, presenting it to her with small-boy enthusiasm. When she'd pointed out it was money spent they could ill-afford on something as ephemeral as alcohol, his disappointment had been heart-wrenching. So she'd suggested that they'd have one shot each, every anniversary, one of those small rituals that cement long-term relationships. The beginning of a tradition their children and maybe their grandchildren would tease them about - it was a big bottle.

Wash had laughed delightedly and taken her in his arms, swinging her around their small cabin to the peril of several furnishings. The idea appealed to the poet in him, and their first anniversary they'd cracked open the seal on the bottle, sipping their shots with a solemn reverence. The liqueur was as thick as honey and the colour of sunlight hitting atmosphere, warm and potent as laughter; Wash's mouth had been sticky with it as she kissed him.

Zoe sat on their bunk, staring at the bottle on the shelf, barely touched. Something in her broke then, and the stern demeanour cracked. "Oh God, make me a stone," River had prayed on Miranda, and Zoe echoed that prayer now. A heart as hard as concrete, as steel, so that she might survive this. During the war she'd seen death, walked with it every day, lost comrades and friends and even lovers, and she'd survived, come through intact. Even Serenity Valley, although that had left its marks; the distrust, the need to sleep with a weapon close by, the nightmares... The first month of sleeping with Wash regularly she'd nearly brained him several times with the butt of the shotgun, waking suddenly and not knowing who he was. He'd make a joke about sleeping in body armour, and she'd laughed - he always made her laugh. Then the laughter dissolved into tears and she'd told him of those endless weeks, the death, the suffering, the sheer helplessness of watching those she'd fought beside die for no reason. He'd made soothing noises but hadn't spoken, hadn't cheapened the confession with trite words, and after that whenever she woke in the night his presence was a comfort, the first in a very long while.

She was a soldier, always had been and always would be, and loss was a familiar companion. She should be able to cope with this, only... Wash wasn't a soldier, the polar opposite in fact, and she hadn't expected him to die a soldier's death, hadn't prepared. By now her face was sticky with silent tears, her nose blocked and her jaw aching from clamping down on the sobs, the keening she knew waited.

She missed him so much. How could she go on without him?

Someone would check on her soon, she knew. One of them would remember her bunk had been his too, full of his possessions, his smell, his presence, and they'd tap hesitantly on the door, making sure she was okay. Well, Mal and Kaylee and probably Simon would. Maybe Jayne - he'd already been casting looks in her direction. The other day he'd been trying, in his rough clumsy way, to ask her how she was, and he'd offered to clean her guns for her. As close as he got to a sentimental gesture, she supposed. River of course would already know how she was, and right now Zoe didn't think she should be around the psychic. The words 'If it hadn't been for you,' kept circling her brain like buzzards over a corpse and it wasn't fair on River. It wasn't the girl's fault, wasn't anyone's really except maybe the Reavers and those that had created them. It had been war, and in war there were casualties.

Wash had never been part of the war, had kept out of it by virtue of keeping his head down, his feet on the ground. Pilots were gold during that time, and so he'd stopped being a pilot, giving up the stars in order to keep his life. When he'd first told her that he'd been afraid she would hate him, but she saw it had taken a strange sort of courage and she'd come to admire that in him. He'd surprised her on Nishka's station, surprised her and not all at the same time. He'd spent so much time reminding the world of his cowardice that she'd forgotten that core of steel in him. He'd understood, though, the situation with Mal, and later when he'd woken from his own nightmares he'd asked: "Mal, he did that for you? Back then?" and she'd nodded. It hadn't made the problems between the three of them disappear, but there was understanding and the beginnings of a mutual respect between her men.

They'd be leaving soon. The repairs were nearly complete, wounds were healing, the dead were buried. The Alliance would recover from its state of shock soon, decide their fate, and the pursuit could well begin again. They'd have to rebuild their contacts after the Agent's policy of leaving them no ground to run to, and that wouldn't be easy, not with that memory sharp and clear in the minds of the Rim's underside, or Mal's way with that particular element. Work would need to be found, decisions made, tactics planned... and she'd be there, at Mal's side the way it had always been. Mal needed her, the ship needed her, and for now, that was enough.

Wiping off her face with the back of her sleeve and taking down the bottle, Zoe slowly spun the cap. The liqueur's scent filled the cabin as she poured the shot, carefully, reverently. Then she held it up, a toast, a benediction, a farewell:

"Happy anniversary, baby," she said, and her voice hardly cracked at all.