To Wash's surprise, Zoe is sat on their bed when he climbs down the ladder a few hours later. “Doctor says he'll call us when he looks like waking up,” she explains off his curious expression, “And you're right, about the sleeping.” “You don't seem to be though,” he replies, sitting down on his side of the mattress and pulling off his boots and Hawaiian shirt. “What?” “Sleeping. Would that be down to your worrying?” She smiles, not entirely without humour, and lets him pull her into his arms. His fingers knead her shoulders for a moment and she feels some of the tension she's carrying there fall away. “Maybe,” she admits. He kisses the back of her neck, touch feather light. It's a gentle kiss, chaste and unassuming. She's had a long day and they're both worried. It demands nothing, and it's for that reason so simple a gesture sends the slightest shiver of pleasure down her spine. “Do I want to know how close it was to you lying in the infirmary now?” he whispers. She takes his hands from her shoulders to the top button of her shirt. He undoes the row of them, one by one, and slowly slides it off to reveal the dented armour she's still wearing. There are buckles at her side and he undoes those too, depositing the vest onto the floor with a dull thud. The bare skin of her back is pressed against the rough material of his flight suit and she leans back against him, so he can see straight down her body to her belt-buckle. Normally his hands would be wandering by now, almost of their own volition, but tonight they stay on her shoulder. His attention is entirely focussed on the bruises blossoming on her torso. Three raised red weals that will soon start staining purple. Two on her stomach and one on the left side of her chest, right where he likes to start tracing over her breast with his thumb in their more intimate moments. Right over her heart. He bought the armour as a wedding present for her, and she'd been touched but adamant he couldn't afford it. She was right, but he hadn't cared. She hadn't understood then that it was actually a rather selfish gift to give her, and still doesn't now. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her, and spending obscene amounts of money was a small price to pay for this extra scrap of protection. He hates moments like this, when he knows all that stood between him and widower-hood was a few millimetres of Alliance-approved woven mylar and steel. Mostly he hates himself, for wanting with all his heart to take her away from this, to keep her safe somewhere. She wouldn't be Zoe any more if she was locked in some gilded cage, and the price to pay for loving a warrior-woman are these hateful moments. Besides, for all the pain Serenity causes him sometimes, for all the times he chafes under Mal's captaincy: she's still the best boat he's ever flown. He's no more willing than Zoe, when push comes to shove, to walk out on this particular Firefly. He finally tears his eyes away from what should be bullet-holes and nuzzles her neck, burying his face in her hair. “My beautiful wife,” he murmurs, “Don't scare me like this.” She lets him hold her for another moment, and then gently extricates herself from his embrace. She finishes undressing quickly and hangs her clothes; soldierly efficiency in her actions. He watches her, unselfconsciously naked, as he unzips his flight suit; thinks back to days when a nude Zoe in his bunk was an implausible dream. He smiles slightly and she catches his roving eye, the faintest flush in her cheeks. He likes making Zoe blush, perhaps because she does it so rarely. She hits the light switch, ending his ogling with the air of someone winning a moral victory. His fingers find her shoulders again under the blankets and begin working out more of the knots of tension. Zoe would happily admit it feels wonderful. Pilots have a reputation for being good with their hands and Wash is a very good pilot. It takes a while for her to tire of it, but eventually she decides she wants the warmth of his body against her back. She wiggles close to him. His left hand slides down from her shoulder, coming to rest on her thigh and her skin tingles pleasantly. She turns to face him, pressing her lips to his and he responds hungrily. Now his hands wander, taking care not to brush her bruises, and the sudden rush of need surprises her. She hooks her leg around him, pulling his hips close. She can feel his own arousal and it sends a swift ache straight between her legs. His mouth moves over hers then slips sideways, trailing kisses down her neck to her collarbone. She finds his lips again and kisses him more fiercely. He reads her desire clearly; shares it. He doesn't stop kissing her as he shifts so he's on top. She arches almost automatically; this moment is so familiar to them, but not without pleasant anticipation. She sighs as he enters her; a soft 'oh,' the gruffer companion of which rumbles in his own throat. He's not going to last long, he realises as they find their rhythm, but to his delight neither is his wife. She clutches at him, fingers raking down his back and then he's lost too, holding her shoulders tightly as he rides out his own release to the finish. “Mmm,” he manages, a few moments later and she chuckles. It's a perfect kind of moment. One of the sort that first lead her to realise Wash was worth hanging on to, even if he did talk too much. He's taken the lead weight of worry and pushed it somewhere else, even if only for long enough to let her sleep deep. She never will understand how it is he coaxes her out of the icy cladding she's worn for as long as she can remember, but she enjoys these moments where she's not a Corporal, not the first mate, but simply Zoe. She feels her eyelids begin to droop as he moves again, leaving a possessive but entirely welcome arm remaining draped over her stomach. “You sleepy now?” he murmurs. “Mm-hm.” He smiles against her shoulder, and lets his own eyes close.