The light was beginning to fall, and with it the temperature, a slight chill filling the air. Mal tried to ignore it; he didn’t want to lose the pleasant, warm days to winter’s cold inhospitality. Despite the coolness, Mal was relaxed; he preferred being out here to the confining chill of the powered-down housing unit that felt so much more like a real prison with the little comforts of life gone. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the fence, feeling the cool breeze play across his face. It was pleasant, a quiet reminder of places and times he’d loved.

He opened his eyes, his body still relaxed as he heard slow footsteps approaching. He knew it was Wash without looking.

“Interrupting anything?” asked Wash.

Mal gave the pilot a grin. “Nothing serious, just my plot to overthrow the world. It can wait.”

Wash feigned a look of anger. “Hey, just one minute there, buddy,” he said, planting his fists on his hips. “I got here first, and my plot is significantly more fiendish and evil and brilliant than yours, so just - back off!”

Mal sighed and stretched, closing his eyes again. “Okay, okay. World domination always did strike me as an awful overabundance of work.”

Wash gave a triumphant grin and sat down beside Mal, his face sobering as he looked at his friend. “Do they hurt?” he asked.

“Huh –what?” responded Mal intelligently.

Wash nodded at Mal’s ankles. “Those – things. Do they hurt you?”

“Only when I try to do something crazy and impulsive, like walkin,” said Mal dryly. “Nah, my pride is howling pathetically, but that’d be about the only thing they hurt,” he assured the sympathetic pilot.

“I’m sorry,” said Wash gently. “I’ve been givin’ you a hard time about it, but-“

“I’d rather have a spot of fun with it than mope, believe me,” said Mal. He considered for a minute, then asked, his own voice equally gentle, “How does a guy like you know how it feels to be beat up and chained to a gate? Been nagging at me a trifle.”

Wash looked away. Finally he said, “I was a bit – stupid - when I got here, pretty much won every competition held for plunging headlong into trouble. They didn’t hand out ribbons and trophies.”

“And?” pressed Mal quietly.

Wash raised an eyebrow. “And, one time a guard threw a guy up against a fence and started screaming at him. He yelled back, the guard started punching him, and I, being the intelligent and coolheaded individual that I am, came up with the brilliant plan of tackling the bùyàoliǎn gǒuzázhǒng.”

Mal grinned. “I like how your mind works.”

Wash grinned back wryly. “You mean – how it doesn’t?”

“Well, there is that, too,” said Mal. “But don’t let me stop you, wouldn’t want to throw a hitch in my story time here.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Glad you find it so entertaining, oh bloodcurdling one. I wound up blindfolded and they cuffed my hands to the fence above my head. I couldn’t sit down, lower my arms, or anything and they just left me there. Doesn’t sound so horrible, but after a while it - was.”

“What, you mean they didn’t feed you strawberries and wine?” asked Mal in mock surprise. “Thought that was how Mal’s Storytime was supposed to end.”

Wash chuckled, but the stress in his expression told Mal that the experience wasn’t something Wash could shrug off that easily. “They leave you there for a long time?” he asked.

Wash nodded. “All day. I’ve never had to try so hard just to stay on my feet and not - cry.” His expression as he looked at Mal was plaintive, imploring him not to mock him for admitting that. He absently began picking up the small pebbles at his side and tossing them, his tension seeking some outlet.

Mal flicked one at him lightly. It’s okay.

Wash’s tense shoulders relaxed. “Finally Khiloh showed up. I really didn’t know him well then, but he let me go, stayed there and talked for a long time.”

“He’s helped you through a lot, hasn’t he?” said Mal.

Wash nodded. “I – don’t know what a guy like me did to earn his friendship, but at some point I think he decided to just take me by the hand and lead me through all this.”

“Good Khiloh,” said Mal, his voice soft. “I guess if you gotta suffer at the hands of a bunch of heartless maggots, it’s nice to have someone to turn to. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a few minutes alone with them that did that to you.”

Wash smiled slightly and looked away, falling silent. “Not often you talk about this,” said Mal.

Wash closed his eyes. “It – was a year of my life I would do anything to erase. I’d give so much to get shot down again and just get it right this time.”

“Well, if you really mean that, I’m sure you could talk the Alliance into sending you up in a hot air balloon and using you as target practice,” said Mal.

Wash grinned. “Well, aren’t you all supportive and cuddly and – and –“

“I’m known for my overly sensitive nature,” said Mal, grinning back. “I don’t imagine you did so terribly bad, though. Might be it’d be better to think of what’s ahead than daydreaming about doin’ it all over again.”

"So what did you do before the war?" Wash asked after a moment of silence. “Speaking of what lies ahead?”

"Worked on my family's ranch. Ran cattle," Mal replied.

Wash raised his eyebrows with a grin. "So - you were a cowboy?"

Mal returned the grin. "Yep, real, old-fashioned, horse-ridin' gun totin' cowboy. Even had my very own lasso.”

"That's really cool," said Wash. "So, you gonna go home and take back up with that once you're out of here?"

Mal's eyes seemed to lose their color as he schooled himself not to react. "Nothin' to go back to. I'm from Shadow, an’ from what-"

Wash cut him off, horrified. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," said Mal. "So - you folks heard about that in here?"

"Uh, I think the whole universe heard about it." He looked at Mal in concern. "You lose anyone?"

"My mom, my whole family," Mal quietly. "Didn't know a thing about Shadow 'til a good while after I got here."

Wash hung his head. "Wow, now I really feel like go se. I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Sorry it happened, sorry I brought it up."

Mal shook his head in reassurance, a fraction too rapidly. "What's happened is happened," he said. "No percentage in ignoring it." Despite his casual manner, it wasn’t hard to see his fingers digging hard into the ground he was leaning on, or his jaw set just a fraction too firmly, betraying an otherwise remarkably impressive façade.

Wash nodded before asking timidly, "So, what next? Are you ever going to go back to it, start up a ranch somewhere else?"

Mal shook his head. "No. Can't see goin' back."

"Too many bad memories?" asked Wash with understanding.

"No." Mal remembered lying on his back on the floor of their huge, comfortable ranch house, trying to catch his breath and laughing as the ranch hand who'd tackled him pinned him down so his ma could drizzle maple syrup all over his face. Remembered screaming in mock indignation as she took advantage of the opportunity to plant a kiss on his forehead without his bein' able to escape.

"Too many good ones," he answered, biting his lip in an attempt to quash the tears that were suddenly filling his eyes, blurring his vision as he tried to force back the grief that he still couldn't escape. It didn't work. Every thought he had was one of his family, his ranch, of the hard but deliciously fun work of running cattle, of managing the small team of hands who'd helped raise him and become his fathers and his brothers.

Mal stood and walked away, finding himself clinging to the chain-link fence just as he'd clung to the bars of his cell when he'd first learned of their death. He had to have something to hold, to support him and to cling to as he wanted to cling to his family. He remembered his mom and their hug before he left for Hera. They'd both known it could be their last, but he'd been thinking he was the one gonna die, not her. Not her. He saw her loving eyes looking at him plain as day, and started sobbing. Why hadn't he held her forever?

The knowledge that they were gone eternally, living, loving human beings reduced to lifeless bodies somewhere, caused new waves of tears every time he thought of it. He’d seen so many dead bodies, knew all too well the finality of death, of seeing someone who had been alive, with all the personality and soul of the living become an unmoving object that merely resembled a poor imitation of the person they had been minutes before.

Just enough to remind you of who they once were. And it was that thought, the image of the bodies of the people he had loved, that was causing his tears of grief. I want them to be alive. Please – they have to exist, and they don’t.

She was perfect, and smart. Funny. Loving. She was a treasure. Mal couldn’t bear the thought of her being gone. Murdered.

“Mal?” asked Wash’s voice very softly. “Do you want me here, or you want to be alone?”

“Alone,” choked Mal. Yes, he wanted to be alone. If they’d let him go off in a corner and grieve, instead of sticking him in a white box under a microscope, maybe he’d have been over this by now. Wash touched him quietly on the arm and walked away slowly. Without even being aware of his actions, Mal laid down with his back pressed against the chain-link fence for support and buried his face in his arms as he sobbed.

Lying in the dark with tears flowing down his face, he experienced the grief freely for the first time. Before, it had choked him, overwhelming him to the point where, with no safe outlet, he had simply stopped functioning. And to bring himself to go on, he’d forced them as far from his mind as he could. But now, he had the freedom to grieve. He cried seemingly without end, until finally he went limp on the ground, slowly becoming aware of his surroundings again.

The tears fading, Mal rolled over on his back and stared up at the countless sparkling stars. They looked almost exactly like the ones he'd seen on Shadow, and he tried to go back there, tried to forget that he was lying on gravel in a prison yard surrounded by chain link and barbed wire, his ankles shackled.

The graveyard shift guard’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Sir? Are you all right in there?”

Mal realized he must make an odd sight, crumpled against the fence in the gravel. The guard’s soft tone made him wonder just how obvious his grief was. “I’m fine, sir,” he called quietly, trying not to disturb those who might be sleeping.

The guard walked away, and Mal found his eyes exploring the electronic tracking band that had been locked around his left wrist on the day of his arrival, the digital display listing his name, his inmate number, and housing unit. It was light and no more bothersome than a watch, but it irritated him. Mal had been determined not to let the thing bother him, hadn't pulled away or struggled when they put it on, but despite his best efforts he resented the constant reminder that he was in fact a prisoner, forcibly tagged like a piece of property.

In a way, he was grateful that the woman who so cherished both freedom and her son had never had to think of her boy as a prisoner. Or, come to think on it, know that the Alliance now ruled the ‘verse.

No. Better she never had to see it. Life was good there, and we knew it full well. He allowed his thoughts to drift back to those good times. It wasn’t so hard to imagine himself lying in a bed of soft meadow grass on a warm summer night, listening to the quiet rustlings of horses enjoying their evening meal and crickets singing in the background. Not a fence to be seen, just hills and plains, trees and tiny, clear mountain lakes that formed a blissful playground for hot, tired young cowboys. He’d never seemed to have trouble finding the energy to leap into the refreshing water for a quick swim after the day's work, even when his legs were so sore from fatigue they’d buckle under him as he dismounted.

Too many good ones. His own words to Wash rang in his ears as he played the memories through his mind, grief giving way to something less painful. He'd had as deliciously happy a childhood as any man had a right to ask for.

It was odd, the things he remembered most. The smell of fuel in the truck shop that doubled as a warehouse, where he used to take refuge in the dark coolness on hot summer days. He figured most folks would think him crazy for loving a warehouse, but he had. There was something about the place, when it was empty and quiet, that he relished. The feel, the smells, the nooks and crannies and hidey-holes. The pile of canvas tarps that made a surprisingly comfortable place for a tired boy to tuck himself out of view and close his eyes as he enjoyed a cold soda.

Then there was camping on the range, listening to the contented sound of horses munching on grass, punctuated by the occasional snort, nicker, or the high-pitched bray of a pack donkey. About an hour into the night, one of his two cattle dogs would sneak up behind him and press a cold nose into his ear, nuzzling him until she received the ritual affectionate curses. After he’d made an assortment of barbaric threats to her life, she’d curl up against his legs with a contented sigh, never quite sleeping as she maintained a constant awareness of the herd and the wilderness around them.

Mal found himself smiling. It was the sort of smile that came with tears, but he relished these happy memories. His breath caught as, for the first time in years, he recalled a childhood heartbreak. “When you love a place, it doesn’t go away,” his ma had told him, comforting the sad boy lying in her arms after a wildfire had destroyed the fort he’d built so carefully deep in the woods behind the ranch house. “You’ll be even fonder of it in your dreams.”

Schooling hadn’t been a formal thing: Lizzie had always maintained that schools were best suited for wasting a man’s time. Mal had gotten an unusual education, working the ranch by day and spending his mornings and evenings studying on the cortex, fascinated by everything from ancient poetry to psychology. Often to his frustration, his ma had never been content to see him “just” be a rancher, and she’d dragged him to business meetings, dances, and every level of society a businesswoman such as herself had access to.

I must have been quite the challenge for her, he thought with a wry grin, remembering his indignation when his ma refused to let his 13-year-old self accompany the hands to go track down rustlers they suspected of making off with part of a herd. He’d reckoned he was perfectly competent for such a mission, and he figured on proving it by bringing them in his own self. He did have a gun, after all, and he was braver than any ten men combined.

He’d be the town hero, the way he figured it. Eleven hours later he and his oversized steed Snort returned, not with rustlers, but with the missing cattle which he’d discovered stuck in the snow on the downhill side of a steep bank. It had just about killed him getting them out of there, but he’d been so determined to manage on his own it that little things like hypothermia weren’t about to get in his way.

He’d staggered proudly in the door to be greeted by a shotgun wielded by an anxious ranch hand, who lowered it quickly with a shout. “Lizzie! He’s home!”

She ran to greet him, equal parts angry and relieved, listening to his excited tale with the resigned manner of a woman familiar with hearing the dangerous activities her son had most recently managed to engage himself in. “I really am gonna take you out back an’ an drag you behind a horse one of these days,” she said crossly.

“Lookin’ forward to it, ma,” he replied, grinning and kissing her on the cheek.

She hugged him back, cursing affectionately. “Evil boy,” she said with a grin. “Go get cleaned up for dinner, and don’t you ever be pullin’ a ‘Little Joe the Wrangler’ reenactment on me, ya hear?”

It had been less than a year later, at the startlingly young age of fourteen, that she’d handed him a staggering responsibility. As casually as could be, she’d sat him down at the kitchen table and placed him completely in command of the day-to-day operations of the ranch.

It scared him, the notion of being in charge of the group of men he'd looked up to and loved as family his entire life, which was just as his ma had planned it. As he always had, he turned to the crew of ranch hands for advice and guidance. After laughing hysterically when he slunk into the bunkhouse and tried his level best to sound casually confident as he announced that he was their new boss, they’d risen to the newest challenge. They taught him to be their leader, and gave him their love and support and the occasional severe tongue-lashing as he gradually took over the reins. To be rewarded with their trust was the proudest accomplishment of his young life.

He'd been keenly aware of the mystique and lore surrounding his often mundane job, and it had been a source of pride and exhilaration. It never mattered how tired he was, nothing could steal the thrill of thundering down the sloping hills to the main corrals at a canter beside a herd of cattle, expertly steering to and fro anticipating the moves of each steer. It always felt so - cool. There was even a triumphant joy in being out in the depths of a winter storm, dragging cattle out of a ditch to safety. He remembered thinking, I live in the best of all worlds.

Lived. He firmly forced back the tears that threatened to prick the corners of his eyes again, telling himself that it was for the last time. Not many folks fortunate enough to have what you did.

He looked up at the stars, envisioning the many planets and moons stretching out over incalculable distances. Out there, beyond the sight of man, a space so vast and unknown that it could still encompass mysteries and dreams and the faint, heartbroken hopes of a man trapped in reality. “I’ll be even fonder of you in my dreams,” he whispered up at the sky so quietly that even he could barely hear.