* * *

Simon walked through the field, unaware of the long ears of wheat tugging at his trousers, at the cool breeze that gave him goose skin; he was dressed a little too lightly for the chilly evening. He did not notice. He did not care. The pain that pulsated within him anaesthetized him to everything sort of physical discomfort. He saw the gravestone, and felt as thought his entire soul was being shattered into pieces all over again. He hadn't come to the funeral. He could not. The pain had been too hard, blinding, choking, overwhelming, shattering; only now, months later, it had subsided and was more or less manageable. Months... It seemed only days ago when he was sleeping in his lover's warm arms, comfortable and at peace. Now, his bed, and more importantly, heart, was cold. He knelt by the gravestone, tears, like a rock, stuck in his throat. He laid a single white rose on the ground, a beautiful, pure-white flower with satin petals – the symbol of dead love. 'Hey,' he said, hoarsely, 'it's me. Sorry I didn't come earlier. It's the first time we've come here, in three or four months. No-body wanted to come, too, but I insisted. I had to see you. I thought you'd be upset if I didn't turn up to say goodbye...' Faltering, his voice quietening. He could not talk out the pain. It was absurdly like pretending his love was still alive. Long, nimble fingers rose to graze the moving recording that was set into the simple, grey marble. Serious, almost sombre, features, dark hair, intense, piercing blue eyes. He did not like being recorded, Simon remembered fondly, smiling a small, sad smile. He took in, almost hungrily, the features that he'd been robbed of so soon, so unexpectedly – too soon. Painfully unexpectedly. The gravestone was plain, just the name and dates, but in it's plainness, it was exquisite. Simon had know Mal would not have wanted something elaborated, would have been against poetic lines and things of that sort. He closed his eyes, and his mind instantly flew back, and he remembered...

* * *

A HUNDRED DAYS EARLIER

'Wake up, sleepyhead,' warm, gentle lips were kissing Simon's neck. The young doctor smiled involuntary – he was very ticklish. 'One more minute,' Simon mumbled, turning away. 'Simon, that's the fifth time I'm hearing this. Ain't going to wait much longer,' Mal was not annoyed, merely amused. 'Spoilt rich kids...' Mal rambled on, and Simon had no choice but to get up. He opened his eyes, albeit unwillingly. 'Okay. I'm up. What do you want?' 'Alleluia,' Mal spun around, buttoning his shirt as he did, a radiant smile lighting his face. 'The sleeping prince awakens.' 'I wasn't the one who kept me up till God-knows what time,' Simon grumbled, sitting up. 'Hey, don't tell me you didn't enjoy the whole me-keeping-you-up-all-night thing,' Mal plopped onto the bed, 'get dressed.' 'Why?' 'Because I want to take you somewhere.' 'Oh, God...' Simon exhaled in awe, fifteen minutes later, staring out of the window in awe. Mal smiled. He'd seen this, many times now, but he took was amazed by the beauty of sight. And he sure knew why Simon was standing there with his jaw practically hanging open. A sunrise from space sure was a terrificly beautiful sight. The planet lay before them, a huge sphere of blues and browns and greens, and the sun was hidden behind it. The rays curved around the planet, giving it a sort of golden halo, the hemisphere they were facing was entirely black, but Simon saw the light slowly creep, claiming it, bringing morning there, just as night was coming to the opposite side of the planet. He watched as the seas turned, from nark navy, to a lapis-lazuli blue, as if by magic. The sun then peeked form around the edge of the planet, blinding the two men in the cockpit. The light was so intense that Simon had to close his eyes. Mal swiveled in his chair, and pressed something, turning on the filtering screens. The light lost it's intensity. The captain pulled an unresisting Simon closer, claiming his mouth for one searing, intense kiss, drinking it like a man dying of thirst drinks water. 'No, Mal,' Simon pulled away, 'someone might walk in.' 'No-none gonna walk in, everyone's sleeping.' Simon relaxed a little – Mal was right. 'Are we landing today?' Simon asked, standing behind Mal's chair, and beginning to massage the tight muscles of the captain's neck expertly. 'No. I just brought us here to show you this,' Mal answered. 'It's beautiful,' Simon smiled, behind to place a tender kiss on Mal's temple. 'No, you are.'

* * *

NINETY-NINE DAYS EARLIER

'Mal?' Simon called, walking into the cargo bay, expecting to see Mal and Zoe back from yet another successful job. Silence met him. The first thing that struck him is that Zoe was crying. To say that Simon was surprised would be a vast underestimation. Zoe did not cry – not a strong woman like her, not somebody whose been possibly through every hell there was. And yet silent tears were streaming down her face, mingling with blood and make-up. 'What's -?' Simon began, but he never did finish his sentence. Mal was lying on the floor, surrounded by the crew. His shirt, which had, some hours ago, been white, was crimson with blood. The captain's face was as white as paper, and his lips were bloodless. 'I – I couldn't do anything,' Zoe said, chocking on her tears, 'there were too many, and my radio was jammed and -' She was sobbing aloud now. Simon ran to Mal, throwing himself on his knees. His hands flew to the Captain's neck, then pulse. Nothing. Not even the faintest heartbeat. He was dead. The full realization hit Simon. He back towards the door, his breathing becoming shallow, and ran out of the cargo bay, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. Only when he was in his room did he let his feelings out. He screamed like a wounded animal, screamed until his throat was raw and throbbing, until he lost his voice completely. He was shaking like a 7 on the Richter Scale, cold and hot at the same time, and unable to think clearly at all. Tears came later, together with an exhaustion and a lethargy. He lay on his bed, pillow soaked with tears, until he could cry no more. He did not move, as if lying still could stop time, as if it could make the pain a little less. Somehow, he did not care that everyone knew now. He'd wanted to keep it a secret, so as not to hurt Kaylee, but in his despair he had forgotten all about wanting to do that. Twelve hours later, Kaylee found him with a scalpel. She walked in, her pretty face swollen and flushed, and her eyes widened in shock. Simon looked up, suddenly calm. 'I'm sorry,' he said, not really knowing why he was apologizing. 'He wouldn't want you to, Simon,' she said, very quietly. Simon looked gloomily at the scalpel. He'd wanted to, he really did. 'He'd want us all to live on,' she continued, 'I know it painful, it is for all of us. But we'll -' 'Don't tell me we'll get through,' Simon said, fury lacing his voice. He could not hear that, not now, not when the pain was still so unbelievably raw. But he understood that, eventually. He understood Mal would have wanted him to keep going, for both of them. Life went on, no matter how much that hurt and how unfair it seemed, but that was the truth. He had River to take care of. He had to help the others, and he let them help him.

* * *

The evening grew darker. Simon smiled to himself. The recording looked back at him, bringing a rush of more and more vivid, precious memories. It hurt, still. And Simon knew that hurt will always be there -it was the sort that never went away. He raised his face to the darkening sky, almost like in prayer. Then he looked back at the gravestone, and touched it fondly for one last time. He'd been a boy until recently. A boy in love, a little naïve, a little idealistic. Now, a man sat by the grave of his lover, a man made to mature by the sudden and unfair loss that had almost broken him. But he was strong. He got past it. 'Goodbye, Mal,' he said, finally. He bent to place a kiss on the stone. 'I love you.'