Email: Sheila_McSly@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: This whole thing belongs to The Man, Joss Whedon and the other people and companies who own the rights (Universal?). It is written with respect to a superior artist.

Spoilers: None.

======= They saw each other one last time at the port bar on Shiloh. It was not something Wash had intended. It had been near on four years, and still would rather have flown straight into the sun than see Zoe again. But she hadn't waved him. No; it had been Mal on the phone, pale and weary and softly speaking. We ain't gonna get out of this. We need you. He was a ship's captian. And a friend. What could Wash do? So he came. Shiloh was a little moon. Only one city and not a lot of port business. Wash was one of the only pilots. When he came in there was a cheerful chorus of welcome and catcalls. Wash felt obliged to smile and say hello, and especially to speak with the new customs agents off Osiris. But the whole time he felt a gaping hollow feeling and could hardly muster the will to speak. It must have shown on his face, because they soon left him alone. Plastering on a professional smile, he walked slowly to the bar. "G'een, Mister Wash," said the girl behind the counter. She was small and blonde and looked far too young to be mixing drinks. "Hey, Mary Ann." He pulled himself onto a bar seat, propped up a leg. He spun to stare at the brown double doors. He was ten minutes late. He had been delayed--ahem, allowed himself to be delayed--by a minor problem with the weekly wheat run. He was secretly hoping that Mal would give up and go away. But that wasn't how it worked, he remembered; a guy like Mal would have been in place an hour early, and would wait to see Wash before he made an appearance. That was how soldiers did it. Wash was relieved that he hardly ever had to think that way anymore. Without waiting for him to order, Mary Ann pulled him a chilled mug of beer. At his sign she poured a second. "You waitin' on someone?" Wash didn't turn from the door. "Yeah." He tapped his fingers anxiously in sequence on the long smooth bar. Tip-tip-tip-tip-tip. "Lucy can't be comin' down from the hill this late," Mary Ann probed. "Nope," said Wash sharply, but what he was thinking was please shut up. Usually a champion talker, Mary Ann shut. He was expecting Mal. He pictured Mal, marching through the door in that old war coat. It would be like a neon sign on Shiloh, drawing a cloud of rumors around Wash for weeks, and--quite possibly--for the rest of his life. He could hear Mary Ann talking about it with the customs agents, with Wash's own shipping crew. A Browncoat sergeant come up to see Mister Wash yesterday. They was talking for almost an hour. It was silly, he realized later, to be so sure that it would be Mal, and that Mal would come alone. It could just as easily have been Jayne or even Simon, or all of them. Especially if--as Wash assumed--Mal had been touched. We ain't gonna get out of this. That sounded like trouble with the law, or worse. But at the time all he had thought was, I'll tell him no, and then I'll go home. It was not Mal. It was not Jayne or Simon. The door opened only a fraction, paused. Someone was getting the lay of the place before coming all the way in. The caution was a dead give. It was ridiculous to expect any kind of surprise on Shiloh; you heard about trouble from miles away. Wash was not the only person in the bar who noticed. But he was the only one who flinched. Tip-tip-tip-- It was Zoe. She looked just the same. Dark. Dressed like a fighter but not like a soldier, not like a Browncoat; she was too careful for that kind of play-acting. Her brown hair tied back in a loose knot, brown eyes sweeping the room, snagging on Wash, passing him by. Wash could see no guns but she stood like she was bristling with weapons. Her face didn't register a single emotion, which was a tell all by itself. The way soldiers do it. For a long moment the frames of his life snapped together into one, and it was as if the four years had not gone by at all, that he had not changed so terribly. He grinned, without intending to. He combated the urge leap to his feet, to go to her and draw her to him. He had the overwhelming sense that the calvalry had arrived, the occupation had ended, that Zoe was here to free him from exile and take him home. Their home. Serenity. And because the old Wash--haa, the young Wash--said exactly what he felt and felt exactly what he said, he very nearly made a bad joke. Hey, it's my knight in shining armor. Which meant: I miss you, I still love you, let's get out of here. Exactly. He wanted it so badly that his muscles twitched. But in the years since Serenity, a lot had changed. He found it harder to be easygoing. He did not do or say what he felt was right anymore; he did what he thought was right. So even as every atom in his body oriented on Zoe, he hardly moved, and a very small voice in his heart whispered, Remember the hill, remember Luce, remember your company, remember your wedding, remember the mining camp on Janayanda and the sad tired days and the long dark nights and remember that you told her to go away. You told her. And only because she was utterly done with you. Remember remember remember. And before the debate was resolved, she had crossed the room and sat down beside him, next to the second beer. Focusing on a very clear mental picture of Lucy, trying not to forget her at all, Wash took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and spread it out on the bar. "Mar--" He coughed. "Mary Ann, rounds for everybody, OK? Dub--double for customs." He did not look to see if she went away. Zoe sat there, looking businesslike. Wash opened his mouth to speak. "You got married," Zoe said. Wash was wearing his platinum ring. He fingered it thoughtfully. He hadn't worn a wedding ring when he and Zoe were married. Soldiers couldn't wear them and they hadn't the money anyway. "It's a small moon," said Wash. "Everybody's married." "You live here?" she said. There was the faintest notion of incredulity in her voice. "I have a life here," said Wash, with the faintest note of hostility in his. She nodded slowly, accepting this. With her eyes she explored the room again, this time more thoroughly. Trying to envision it as a place where her husband might live. Don't, thought Wash. Fight with me. Hate me. He had felt happy before, but now he felt dizzy, and sick. "It's contraband," said Zoe, turning to business as if to a shield. "Not problematic of itself, but the people after it are." And Mal can't escape that kind of thing anymore? She waited for him to speak, but he had more patience; he always did. "It don't have to be our boat," Zoe promised. "And you get a ten percent share, like usual.' But it was not like usual, not anymore. Nothing was. He wanted to. He really did. He had not done anything illegal since stepping off Serenity, though there had been many offers, some on much better terms than ten per. But for them, he would do it. He really would. Wash opened his mouth to say, Absolutely. But what he said was, "I have a family." It was the first time Wash saw more than a flicker of emotion in her. For just a second, her eyes glowed, like banked coals. In the way of married people, her face said, you also got family right here. "I have a son and a daughter," said Wash, struggling to get the words out, wondering who he was punishing. "Twins. Sarah and Malcolm. They're two years old." It was like a confession. She had to know that she could make him do it. Without even speaking she could. And he wanted to. It would bring him one step closer to being himself again. Zoe smiled a little bit and cocked her head, reassessing him like she had reassessed the room. Trying to decide what kind of husband lived in a place like this. She took a deep breath. On the bar their fingers were an inch away from each other. She drew her hand back. She said, "We're sorry we wasted your time." Never, he thought. I'll do it. Ask me again. She got up carefully and walked to the door. She never looked back. Wash watched the door for a long time, as if he could set it on fire by staring. He did not drink. When he heard the start of the afternoon rain, he took a deep breath, picked up his walking stick from where it leaned against the bar, and limped outside. He turned east toward the port, as if he might see a small ship taking off under the cover of clouds. Of course there was nothing. Wash turned around and began walking, back to the hill and home, with the rain tapping on his head and neck like little children's fingers.