He has only ever gotten as far as the shuttle’s door. He’s stood here outside it more times than he can remember, one palm resting light against it’s surface feeling the cold, cold metal and trying to decide if it’s time yet but it never is.

And he’s not sure it ever will be.

His hand slides away and he runs it through his hair, shoves it in his pocket.

He still wants to look too much.

Gorram it when’s this gonna be done…

River lifts her head, looks at him with a frown.

You don’t want it to be.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “I do.”

She shrugs, sticks her head between the railings, her hair hanging down in long twists, as she looks at her feet hovering above the cargo bay and framing the busted up Mule with her arches.

She doesn’t believe him.

Neither does he.

“Broken.” She nods at her feet, brings them together, apart, together. “Pieces used to fit, scattered everywhere now… lost now… breadcrumbs hidden under the leaves, hiding the way…”

“I wouldn’t worry ‘bout that none. Kaylee’ll get that heap up and runnin’ ‘fore we git planet side.”

“Not worried. The birds haven’t come yet.”

She swings her legs slowly, points her toes at the floor, ceiling, floor, hums a bit.

The first time he saw her out here he kept going, picked up his pace like he had somewhere to be. The second time she caught his pant leg as he passed, murmured, “Visit,” and pulled him by the cuff towards the shuttle a step before letting go. “You’re hungry,” she’d said with another little shove, those long bare legs swinging, swinging in the air. “Starving to death.” And then she’d stilled herself, looked up at him, eyes large and dark, solemn little mouth, “It’s ok. I can keep secrets too…”

And she has. Kept his.

She lets him have this without questions, without knowing looks. When she’s here she ignores him, studies the mess Jayne’s left below and tries to squish the random bits of tarp and tools and clips between her toes from way up high. She sings to herself, little snatches of songs she’s heard or made up and it’s almost like being alone, but better because he ain’t.

He’s surprised at how much he doesn’t mind River being privy to whatever this is. She seems not to mind it either. She has her bad days same as ever, days of hurling things, screaming, cussing, crying, but she always seems calm here. Serene. When he can’t handle torturing himself any longer sometimes he just watches her touch his ship, watches her stroke Serenity’s railings and walls lovingly as she looks at her the way he does. With pride.

“She speak to you darlin’?”

“Everything does… but… I like her best…”

“Shuttle’s a problem. Black hole.” She shifts, pulls something up from underneath her, a mess of orange and yellow yarn she pulls down over her head. “Cold.”

“Jayne know you have that?”

“He knows.” She turns to him suddenly, the hat lopsided, too big for her and making him smile. She glares. “You’re running out of time.”

He looks away from her, turns again to those closed doors of the shuttle that’s still hers, that’ll always be hers no matter who’s paying the credits for it.

This morning on the bridge Zoe suggested renting it out again. Things have been slow, last job’s take starting to run thin. Wasn’t out of line for her to be suggesting it, but when she did she spoke mostly to the floor while Wash kept himself busy inspecting the jagged plastic teeth of his T-Rex and he got angry. It’s been over a month and they’re still walking on eggshells even though he hasn’t been giving any indication that he’s all tore up inside with missing her. He hasn’t been giving any indication that he feels anything about it at all.

He gave Zoe a tight smile, said, “Shiny. We’ll put up a post when we touch down. I’ll have Kaylee check it out, make sure everythin’s in order ‘fore we start showin’ it.”

Which should be in about 10 hours.

He had to say yes.

They needed the extra credits.

Besides, saying no’d only prove to them what ain’t true anyway - that he’s counting on her coming back.

River gets up. She makes her way towards him, moving like liquid, one foot after the other, a slow sweep across the catwalk. She stops, stands beside him looking at the door and slowly lifts a hand, knuckles, fingertips trailing up, up, and then down, down until her palm is against it, an echo of a hundred of his touches. She looks up at him with that ridiculous hat still plunked down haphazardly on her head, and he glances down at his chest feeling a slight pressure on his heart. Her hand there as well now too.

“Balm…” she murmurs. Her fingers hook briefly into his pocket, knuckles against his heart. “Won’t work. Sad.” She lets him go, continues on her way, “Sad everywhere sticking to your skin.”