For those who face racism, bigotry, and discrimination each day. For those who struggle against socio-economic oppression, or conformity at the risk of death. I cannot forget your stories.

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June 22, 2518 (present)

Wash balanced his supper plate in one hand as he climbed down into his bunk. Zoë had been sick for awhile and hadn’t been eating well. Shepherd Book had helped him prepare something that would be gentler on her stomach, and he hoped she could keep it down. When Wash’s boots hit the deck, they made a soft thump, but Zoë didn’t move. Her writhing left foot told Wash that his wife was still awake, albeit uncomfortable. She lay on her side, curled in a nest of pillows and blankets. Her right arm disappeared into the nest while her left arm lay on top of the covers, her hand trembling ever so slightly. “Hey, sweetie,” Wash whispered, setting down the food plate and stroking her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips dry. When Wash’s hand passed over her abdomen, he could feel her stomach rumbling, though he could tell by the look of her that she wouldn’t eat. Zoë managed a weak smile, though her breath was short. Despite the sweat glistening on her face, her skin was cold as ice. “No better?” he asked. “Must’ve picked up a bug on Angel,” she breathed, her voice smooth and controlled. “I suppose that’s a hazard of naked beaches,” Wash remarked with a smile. “At least I had fun getting it,” she smiled, still not moving aside from her fingers kneading the sheets. “How’s that sunburn?” Wash shrugged and the fabric of his shirt brushed roughly across his dry skin. “I had fun getting it… Maybe I should call Simon.” “No,” Zoë protested softly. “I’m shiny. Just let me rest a little.” Wash adjusted the pile of linens, trying to clear enough space for him to sit on the bed next to her, but Zoë swatted him away feebly, managing to only move her arm from below the elbow. “You are disrupting my zen.” “I’m sure we can find it again. Tell you what. You sit up right now and eat with me and I’ll let you sleep for the rest of the day.” Zoë winced, but made no effort to move. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Wash hit the comm, trying the Infirmary first. “Doc, you there?” “Yes, what is it?” Simon answered almost immediately. “Can you make a house call?” Five minutes later, Simon climbed down the ladder to Wash and Zoë’s bunk, looking uncomfortable as though he was invading their personal space. He swallowed the uncertainty quickly, adopting a doctorly survey of Zoë. “Is there more light?” Wash flipped on the overhead, and they both squinted at the stark fluorescent. It seemed to capture Zoë in a pool of pain, pale as marble. Simon touched her face, but she wouldn’t move, wouldn’t open her eyes … as if she were a statue. “Can you lie on your back?” Simon asked gently. “No. It took me ten minutes to get this comfortable and I intend to remain here for at least another hour.” Wash stifled a laugh at his wife’s dry humor. “How are you feeling?” Zoë hesitated, then groaned, “I hurt from my chest to my knees. It all just aches.” “Not a sharp pain?” Simon clarified. Zoë didn’t answer. Wash started to wonder if Simon knew more than he let on. A small part of him felt offended that Zoë may have revealed something to Simon, but not to him. “What have you been eating?” When Zoë didn’t answer, Simon turned to Wash. “Mostly the bread,” Wash answered. “What about the nutrition supplements I gave you?” “Nothing stays down,” Zoë grunted dismissively. Wash’s curiosity piqued at the mention of the supplements. Simon nodded, weighing possibilities, clearly concerned by Zoë’s refusal to move. “I’d like you to come to the Infirmary.” “No. It took me ten minutes to get this comfortable and I intend to remain here—” “—for at least an hour,” Simon finished, rolling his eyes and running a hand through his hair. Seeing her in the harsh fluorescent light, Wash was getting concerned. She had no color! None! “Do you want me to carry her?” Wash asked, ignoring Zoë’s stern grunt. “No need,” Simon decided, turning to Zoë. “It’s probably just dehydration and vitamin deficiency. I’m going to start an IV that should help balance your body chemistry. Once you’ve finished your hour of being comfortable, you can walk yourself to the Infirmary and I’ll run a few tests, see if I can’t make eating a little easier.” Zoë inhaled sharply and shuddered, but didn’t move from her curled up position. Simon turned to Wash. “I need to prepare the IV. I’ll be back in a moment.” As Simon climbed out of the bunk, Wash switched off the overhead lights, hiding Zoë’s deathly complexion in the safety of dimness. “I’m going to kill you,” Zoë intoned, her voice carrying the threat even when her posture could not. “You have to catch me first,” Wash teased. “I said I was fine.” “Zoë, what does Simon know that I don’t?” “He don’t know a thing.” Wash considered his wife and the slow disruptions of her daily rhythms that he’d noticed over the past few weeks as she got sick, along with the supplements Simon had mentioned. It suddenly occurred to him that she might be pregnant. Was she afraid to tell him? Their last few conversations about starting a family had not ended well, so her hesitance, if she were, would not be surprising. He desperately wanted her to feel safe, but maybe she just hadn’t come up with the words yet. Maybe she wanted to be sure. Maybe she really was sick and he was just being delusional and paranoid. The thought of Zoë being afraid to tell him anything was laughable. But still… maybe Simon could help her better if he left them alone. He squeezed her hand wistfully and kissed her forehead. “I have to go, babe.” “I will catch you,” Zoë promised. “I look forward to it.”

*~*

December 31, 2503 (14 years ago)

“Psst!! Wash!” Wash smiled and ducked behind the bleachers of the high-school football field. The night was chilly and his over-sized gray sweater hung loosely over his gangly frame. The moon glowed red through the smog – it was actually clear enough to see the moon – and it made his blonde hair look red, he was sure. In the dim reflection of the stadium lights from the other side of the bleachers, he saw the love of his life – Callista LaCosta. Callista’s fine black hair fell just past her shoulders, framing her brown features to perfection. She had a square jaw and absolutely huge brown eyes that Wash could fall into and swim in for days on end. She wore a form-fitting, black, thinsulate shirt and dangly green earrings, in spite of her traditionalist upbringing. Callista was the only one who called him ‘Wash.’ Everyone else called him ‘Hoban’. They crawled to the middle of a tangle of supports and cross-bars, concealed from the casual viewer, as had become necessary for them recently. Her parents disapproved of him sharply and his parents, though trying to be neutral, clearly disliked her family’s traditions. Wash and Callista didn’t care. He was in flight school now and in another year, he’d be able to fly them away from this planet to a place where they could find work and get married. Just another year. Until then, they’d have to be content with clandestine meetings in various hiding spots around town. And less frequent visits since her family had started to catch on. Wash kissed her soft pink, painted lips and felt the stickiness of her lip gloss as it transferred to him. Then they sat next to each other on the damp dirt, illuminating their hideout with a red-filtered penlight. Callista offered an anemic smile as she hugged her knees to her chest, and rested her chin on her kneecaps. Wash rubbed her back sympathetically, knowing her parents were putting a tighter leash on her than ever – talking of arranging a marriage and keeping her from finishing college. Callista was the smartest person he knew – she actually designed spaceships! It was because of her that Wash first thought of flying between worlds, not just on them. “Do you want me to talk?” he asked as the silence started driving him mad. He’d grown too accustomed to seeing her bone-weary from fighting with her family. He’d stopped asking what was wrong, because it was always the same thing. Sometimes she wanted to just sit in silence and enjoy his company, sometimes she wanted him to talk, sometimes to hold her, sometimes to make love to her. By the way she hugged her knees, he imagined that tonight was one of the first two. She was keeping her distance, not leaning against him. He worried that they were hurting her. Always worried on those days she didn’t want to be touched. But she assured him that they weren’t and those times when he made love to her, he could clearly see there were no bruises or scars on her body. Though, if her family ever found out she’d lost her virginity to a heathen, they’d outright kill her and him too … in a public square if possible. Wash nearly spoke again, but Callista was clearing her throat, getting ready to talk. She looked him square in the eye and he saw a different level of fear and sadness there. He held his breath, waiting for her to speak. One deep breath. Two. Three. “Wash, I’m pregnant.”

*~*

June 10, 2518 (two weeks ago)

The day had been too long for this conversation. And they’d just had it last week! Wash wanted to have children with Zoë. He longed to have children with Zoë. He was tired of his own excuses and last week he’d slipped up and mentioned Callista, not even realizing that his past was fueling his present fears. He’d thought, that after telling Zoë a little bit about her, they’d move past it. But instead, it only brought a few hopeful dreams about their family that turned slowly into nightmares. “Not tonight, Zoë,” Wash muttered tiredly, peeling of his clothing and slithering under the covers without even brushing his teeth. She had waited up to talk to him, but he’d spent most of the night flying under the radar of an Alliance cruiser, a bounty hunter, and a fellow smuggler. They’d finally fell out of range of the first two and the last didn’t seem interested in Serenity anyway. Wash was half asleep by the time his head hit the pillow and he whimpered a little when Zoë’s hand fell smoothly between his shoulder blades, massaging lightly. She wanted to coax him into a relaxed state and then she’d pounce. And he didn’t even have enough energy to call her on it. “Honey,” she whispered sweetly, her hand caressing his hair. “Not tonight, Zoë.” Zoë sighed, exasperated. “You’ve said that every night this week.” “It’s been a busy week.” “You keep putting me off, and I may find someone else,” she ribbed. Frustrated, Wash lifted his head and looked crossly at his wife. “Stop pushing me, Zoë. The last thing any child needs is a parent who doesn’t want it.” “Oh, now you don’t want children at all?” Wash scrunched his face. “I didn’t say that. But there are a few things I’d like to set right first before we bring a child into this ‘verse.” “Such as?” Wash tugged at his hair in aggravation and flipped onto his back so he could see his wife, resigning himself to the conversation. Zoë looked at him expectantly, not caring in the least that she was keeping him up. “Your parents.” Zoë’s shoulders stiffened and her eyes flashed, suddenly on the defensive. “What about them?” “They don’t even accept us! I want our baby to know her grandparents?” At some point in their discussions, their unconceived child had adopted the gender of female. “What makes you think she won’t?” “They hate me, Zoë!” “Yeah, they do a bit. But Wash, that’s nothin’ a little bundle of joy can’t cure.” Wash rolled out of the bed, pacing the room, pushing against the wall, trying to give form to the hesitation within. “What if they reject her, Zoë?” “Reject? From the family?” Zoë asked slowly, her eyes filling with confusion. “Why would they do that?” “Because I’m white!” Wash shouted, then froze. He was white. The baby would be half-white. He could not pass on to his little one this badge of shame… Heart-beat. Breath. Heart-beat. Breath. Zoë’s stern look deflated him, and left his words echoing in his own mind. He couldn’t believe he could hear those words so clearly in his head. As clearly as the day they were said to him. He could never forget the shame inherent in being rejected for something he was so powerless to change. “The baby… she’d…” he began, but lost steam. Zoë’s expression softened and she crossed the room, pulling Wash into an embrace. She felt so relaxed, pressing his body against hers. Not at all horrified or angry. Zoë cupped his chin and kissed his face, then held their foreheads together, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. “Wash, honey, they don’t hate you because you’re white,” she explained, brushing the shame from his cheeks with the backs of her fingers. “They hate you because you have no military history or political ties.” “They – what?” Zoë laughed a little, shaking her head. “What ever gave you the notion that it was race?” “Your sister. She said…” Wash mumbled, new shame rising where the old had fallen away. He raised his voice, getting suddenly defensive. “She’s very loud and she never stops talking.” “I imagine that’s so,” Zoë agreed. “Suppose I’ll have a chat with her.” “Good luck getting a word in.” Zoë smiled devilishly, kissing Wash on the nose. “I didn’t mean with words.” Wash tried to smile at her light-heartedness, hoping his words hadn’t affected more than she let on. Hoping they hadn’t deflated her spirit the way they deflated his so many years ago.

*~*

January 12, 2504 (14 years ago)

Wash lay on his side on the dusty floor of an abandoned warehouse, spooned around Callista, propped on one elbow, stroking the length of her torso. Surrounded by a nest of their shed clothing, bare skin exposed to the cold night air, he shivered as the sheen of sweat on his skin slowly dried. Callista’s eyes were closed, though she wasn’t sleeping and Wash leaned over to kiss her temple. He couldn’t stop himself from dreaming about the little life growing inside of her, and he relished the peace his simple touch brought to her face. When there bodies were pressed against each other like this, it was so easy to forget the world, bask in love, and know they were going to make it. When they were apart, those dreams crumbled, the fantasies dispelled by the harsh light of reality. Tears brimmed in Callista’s eyes, but Wash kept his hand steadily stroking her side. He couldn’t lie to her and say everything was going to be fine. He could only touch her and hold her, letting her know that his love was constant and he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter what. “Wash?” “Shh, your voice will carry.” They weren’t supposed to be in here. That’s why it was safe. “We can’t have this baby,” she continued, her voice deepened by sadness and regret. She choked on a single sob, but the resolution in her words told him that she’d thought of very little else the entire week they’d been apart. “Yes,” Wash insisted. “Yes, we can.” Callista shook her head miserably, but Wash had spent too many hours scrolling through the possibilities of making this work. “What if I convert to your religion?” “Oh, Wash, no,” she moaned, grabbing hold of his hand and pressing his palm against her cheek. “I can learn what it takes. We can raise the baby in a manner your parents approve.” Her brows furrowed in confusion by his adamancy and her eyes met his. “But Wash, you’re white.” Wash froze, feeling her words like a slap in the face. She’d stated it as though it were a fact he’d been here-to-for unaware of, and then she’d let it drop as if it were the only explanation necessary. Wash swallowed hard, his body falling away from hers. Chilled by the air, she chased after him, but he was already sitting up and reaching for his clothes. “Please, Wash, it’s not me. It’s – my parents would never accept a half-white grandchild.” “So, what?” he retorted crossly. “We’re supposed to kill our baby because they can’t get over their own bigotry.” “Wash,” she cried, grabbing his arm, but he yanked it away. “Were you ever going to leave with me, Callista?” he snapped. “Because leaving the world won’t change their opinion of us! It won’t change the color of our children!” Angrily he shoved his legs into his pants, shrugged on his shirt, and stood to leave. Callista lay on the floor, still completely naked, her body shaking with sobs, her head buried in the crook of her elbow. The vision pierced him and his heart bled. Taking a few deep breaths, Wash suppressed his anger and knelt by Callista’s side, stroking the hair away from her face. She scooted against the dusty floor until her head was in his lap and he quieted her crying lest they be discovered trespassing in the old warehouse. The dust from the floor stuck to her tear-soaked face and he wiped it away with the hem of his t-shirt. “Wash, we can’t bring a baby into this world.” “I know,” he answered gravely, saddened by his own agreement. “So let’s not.” “You don’t want it?” she began, sitting up in surprise, choking on her own incredulity. “No, sweetie, I do,” he soothed. “But if this world won’t have us, let’s leave it. We’ll go steal a shuttle right now and flee this world. We’ll make it because we love each other. Because… I love you.” A tear rolled down her cheek and this one he caught with his thumb. “I love you too,” she wept softly, falling against his chest and crying. “I just don’t think it’s enough.”

*~*

May 31, 2518 (three weeks ago)

The conversation had started early that morning and hadn’t died – though it had taken a hiatus here and there for meals and such. Zoë was unrelenting, insisting that Serenity could be child-proofed; assuring that untimely death was unlikely to strike them both at once. Ever since River had twisted her ankle trying to fly off the catwalk, Wash had added the new excuse of terrible role models to his reasons for not bringing a child into the ‘verse. “You have far too much worry on your head,” Zoë told him as they climbed into their bunk to change after a game of hoop ball. “Did you not see River soaring through the air to catch the ball?” “Jayne caught her.” “Jayne’s not always going to be there to catch her,” Wash retorted. “Then you’ll catch her,” Zoë answered sternly. “Or I’ll catch her.” “Look at the lives we lead, Zoë! You can’t just drop a lone child into the middle of all this with no one to look after her!” “She’ll have us!” Zoë insisted. “Both of us! And we will love her.” “Love isn’t enough, Zoë!” Wash shouted back, then nearly choked on his own words. Why was he shouting? What ghost was speaking through him just now? His skin went cold, realizing he was holding out on Zoë because of something that had happened far too long ago. And the situation was different now. His wife didn’t even know – she just saw him, face red, fists clenched, eyes lost. Zoë flopped on the bed, frustrated. “Wash, stop trying logic with this. If there’s one thing you ain’t, it’s pragmatic. Especially when it comes to love. You aren’t speaking from your head; you’re speaking from your heart!” “What does that even mean?!” “What you said just now about love. Wash, tell me what happened,” Zoë demanded. “What are you so afraid of?” Wash braced his hands on the bureau, gripping the sides until his knuckles went white. He looked at his angry face in the mirror and saw only the tormented teenager he once was. He shook his head, unwilling to speak the truth, but unable to contain the outburst. “What happens if you die? Or if I die? Or the baby dies? The baby… I can’t go through that a –” He choked, cloaking his fear in silence. “Again?” Zoë finished softly, understanding something new. Wash clammed up, but Zoë came beside him, kissing his shoulder, smoothing her hand across his back, meeting his eye through their reflections in the mirror. “Callista?” Zoë asked, and Wash stammered in surprise and confusion. He’d never mentioned Callista to Zoë. Not that he recalled. “How did -?” “Sometimes you say her name when you’re dreaming.” Wash stuttered again, his eyes disappearing to the past, his fears transcending all time. “Tell me about her.” Wash shook his head, keeping his eyes averted, his hands fumbling desperately over Zoë’s, looking for an anchor to the present. “Did you two ever …?” “No,” Wash cried, his body shaking with regret. “We wanted… It wasn’t safe on that world. There was no way…” “We’re not on that world, Wash,” she soothed as he broke into sobs. Zoë embraced him, her fingers smoothing his hair and he clung to her for dear life. “Zoë, that table,” he moaned, remembering with a shudder. “No woman should ever have to lie on that table, watching her own child get skewered out of her. We wanted that baby so much, but our world wouldn’t have it.” “That’s not gonna happen with us, Wash. Not here. Not on Serenity.”

*~*

February 25, 2504 (14 years ago)

It was the middle of the afternoon and Wash knew he’d get an earful for skipping class. Callista had asked him not to come, but he’d be damned if he let her go into that back room alone. He walked down Baker Street, feeling more white than usual as he passed the brown-brick row houses on the poorer side of town. Ever since Callista had mentioned it, he wore his race like a badge of shame – the last obstacle between them that he was powerless to change. A pink-haired prostitute gave him a dirty look and crossed the street, her stilettos clicking hollowly against the pavement. He and Callista often broke into a warehouse in this district to meet – it was the only reason they knew of the back-alley clinic. A nurse practitioner from the downtown hospital came here after hours. It was the only way. Wash kept his head ducked, knowing it wasn’t safe being in this part of town. Not because the people were hoodlums, but because Callista’s family had eyes everywhere. The LaCosta’s were not mafia by any means, but something about their religion created a brotherhood of sorts that protected the virtues of their women. While Wash had known from the start that her parents disapproved of their dating, it wasn’t until later that he’d learned they would kill her to keep them apart. The entrance to the clinic was a rusted metal door, propped open with a brown, steel-toed work boot, situated on the alley side of the street between two dumpsters. It wasn’t that they performed illegal operations here; it was just that the women they served needed some place hidden. The door made no sounds as Wash passed through and the inside was much cleaner than the outside. The walls were painted white, the tops bordered with a pink, floral trim. Soft lamps stood in the corners near potted plants, giving the room a relaxed feel. Ten women sat in folding chairs, keeping their eyes on their knees, most with at least one hand on their belly. A few of them were accompanied by men. A black girl sat behind a small desk, taking notes with a pencil, instructing one young woman with a clipboard. Perhaps he could get a doctor’s note while he was there. Callista sat on the left side of the room near a fake tree, her hands trembling, her eyes filled with tears. Her cousin, Tana, was next to her, the plan being that Tana would take Callista home after. When Callista saw him, relief flooded to her face, and she ran into his arms. He held her and the woes of the place melted away just long enough to feel peace. A part of him wanted to carry her out of the clinic and into a new life together, but unless one of those doors led to Oz, they were pretty much humped. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered, weeping quietly, soaking the shoulder of his sweater with tears. He lifted her just slightly off her feet, swaying her from side to side gently. They sat silently in the waiting room for ten minutes, holding hands, nervously looking at their own feet, hardly daring to look at each other. Ten minutes later, the black girl behind the desk called the false name Callista had given and they went back. Wash took a deep breath, said goodbye to his unborn child, and prayed he’d forgive him for what they were about to do. Callista squeezed her eyes shut and placed a hand on her stomach, no doubt praying the same thing. At first, they would not let Wash into the back room, insisting that only women were allowed in that area. But Callista would not let go of his hand, saying that either Wash came back or the doctor came to the waiting room to perform the operation, and eventually she got her way. The nurse practitioner had two friends helping, but they were so rushed that every step felt mechanical. To them, Callista was as sentient as a spaceship, and their questions were like a preflight checklist. As soon as they saw the baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound, Wash knew they should have left, but they didn’t. Forgive me, baby! Forgive us both! He looked into Callista’s eyes, but they were glazed and numb. Then there was pain. Screaming. Crying. The table was covered with blood!

*~*

June 22, 2518 (present)

Zoë lay flat on her back, eyes closed, boots still on even though it was way past midnight. Simon had worked some magic, bringing color back to her face and rest to her body. She’d even managed to get a few hours of chores in that afternoon, though clearly the activity had exhausted her. Wash rubbed his face tiredly, but smiled at the sight of her. “Hey,” Wash cooed, stroking her chin to navel, slowly soothing her through the loose, green shirt she wore. “You’re looking better.” Zoë inhaled loudly, letting her contentment at his touch speak for itself. His hand brushed past a sticky streak on her cheek where a trail of tears had gone by a little while earlier. Instinctively, his thumb brushed past her eyelashes to see if they were still wet. What if she was mad at him for leaving her earlier? “You feeling okay?” “Wash,” she said thickly, her voice heavy with sadness. He could tell the tears were not well contained. “I don’t want children anymore.” “Yes you do,” Wash chastised softly. “Wanting the baby is your thing. Not wanting is my thing. You can’t change sides on this. It’s one of the few arguments I can still win.” “It ain’t safe, Wash. Bringing a child into this ‘verse.” “Now you’re stealing my logic?” Wash jested. He was joking to keep things light, but also worried by her words. “Zoë, you aren’t allowed to see things my way until you’re on your death bed. And you are not on your death bed.” Zoë smiled at his joke, raising an eyebrow at him. “You know, you could switch sides.” “Oh, no, lambytoes. Stop trying to be devious. You’re using that reverse psychology thing. Well it won’t work. I can’t switch sides because it’s far too dangerous to bring a child into this ‘verse.” “I know,” Zoë said softly, and a new tear fell down her cheek.

*~*

March 3, 2504 (14 years ago)

Wash was starting to panic. It had been nearly a week since the abortion and Callista had yet to come out of her house. He’d done a little surfing on the cortex. Bleeding. Cramping. He expected such things. But he’d been there, holding her hand. There was so much blood! It never should have happened this way. Not to them. Not to their child! Throwing caution to the wind, Wash climbed the fence of the LaCosta home. It was a one-story, five room house with three generations. Callista shared a room with her younger cousin, Tana, who abided by her family’s rules, but had helped cover for him and Callista on occasion. Tana had brought Callista home after the abortion because Wash couldn’t go near the house. It was an awful risk going in now, but he hadn’t heard from either of the girls in too long! Wash knocked on Callista’s bedroom window and waited. Tana opened the window quickly. “Hoban, thank God!” she cried, her voice hushed. Wash started to climb in, but she held up her hand to stop him. “Tana, how is she?” Tana was frantic, her eyes darting fearfully to and fro. Instinctively, Wash turned his head as well. “I’ll bring her to you. You have to get her to the hospital.” “Tana –” “Take her to Mercy. They’ll get her well enough to travel and then someone will come to transport her off world.” “Your family?” Wash gasped in horror. “They know. Oh, Hoban, they know and they mean to kill her. Thank God you came. I didn’t know how I was going to get her out.”

*~*

June 23, 2518 (present)

Wash lay on the bed next to Zoë, taking her in his arms, but it was only the one tear that fell. After that she nestled against his shoulder and fell asleep so quickly, the conversation was over before it finished. For hours, he lay awake, pondering her words, wondering at their meaning. Just a half day earlier, he’d thought her pregnant, but things were not making sense any more. He wanted to wake her up and ask her what was going on, but she had been sick and hadn’t slept soundly in days. Even so, she felt tense against him and there was nothing he could do but hold her until morning. When Zoë tried to wriggle out of his arms early the next day, Wash tightened his grip. She didn’t fight it and didn’t speak. She just fell against him, her hands resting softly against his skin. He didn’t move again until he felt a tear splash against his chest. “Sweetie?” Startled, Zoë inhaled all her grief, clamming it back inside. “Sorry, baby.” “No sorries. Tell me what’s wrong. I almost never see you cry, unless you’ve been dreaming about the war.” “What if I was?” “Don’t lie to me, Zo. I know what that looks like.” “I experienced so much loss in that war. Can’t even compare.” “I know.” Wash had given up counseling Zoë through her grief on the war. He just accepted it as something he couldn’t understand and held her through it. “You and Callista,” Zoë asked tentatively, waiting for him to nod before she continued. “After you helped her escape, did you go find her again?” Wash shook his head, sadly, hugging Zoë tighter. His heart let surface the cold mourning of a horrific letter he’d received not one year after her escape. The wound was so old and scabbed over, it no longer made him cry. “She got off world,” he explained distantly. “But her family had posted pictures and such. They tracked her down.” “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” Zoë cooed, her fingernails grazing his chest. “Your family isn’t like that, Zoë,” Wash stated by way of closing the subject and getting back to the source of Zoë’s tears. “So tell me why it is you are so afraid of losing your baby, you don’t want to try and have her.” He was throwing her words back at her, hoping she’d remember her confidence and strength. It wasn’t just that she’d said she didn’t want children anymore, it was the weakness and sadness that surrounded the statement that scared Wash to death. “Just seems lately we been arguing a lot on kids,” Zoë began, then trailed off. She sat up in bed, folding her knees under herself, and Wash sat up as well, taking her hand. “Zoë, are you pregnant?” Zoë’s face scrunched up, tears welling in her eyes, her hands wrapping protectively around her abdomen. “Zoë, it’s okay if you are.” “No, I’m not,” she cried softly. “But I was … yesterday.” “Yester –” Wash stammered, his eyes losing focus as his mind ran off, thinking on what had happened yesterday between Zoë and Simon after he left. “Zoë, you didn’t – did you? Not because of me?” “No, baby,” she assured, her voice heavy and tired. “I … miscarried.” “Oh, sweetie,” Wash murmured, sweeping aside the bed sheets he was still tangled in and drawing her close. Zoë melted against him, shudders of sorrow coursing through her and into him. His wife may have experienced great loss in the war, but Wash knew this grief. They needed to mourn, and they would together.

*~*

Post A.N.: Dear friends whose struggles have influenced this writing, I pray I’ve treated your stories with dignity and respect. I share them only so that others can hear, be aware, and act out in love.