I'LL KEEP FLYING

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is my first fanfic, so be nice, please! Comments are wonderful, of course... hint hint... Disclaimer: these people aren't mine, and nor is the ship. Darn.

Broken glass. All my pieces, shaken. Shattered. Bits missing, shards lost forever. My halls are quiet now, a fragile grace haunting my air. Shadows on the wall, no more puppets. The laughing one has gone from here, his presence lingering in plastic creatures on my surfaces. Gone too is the peaceful one, the one whose darkness was spread thin and coated with his own serenity. Tears in the night. Her arms wrapped around her knees, her body rocking in her bunk. Silent. Alone. She leaves the lights off so she won't have to see the emptiness. He's gone, and he's never coming back. Their baby is a nightmare now, not a dream. I want to comfort her. I creak and groan and make my noises, hoping in her grief she will interpret them. The pain is so fresh, so heavy. A loss she never expected. They always thought she'd be the one. She was his autumn flower, but now she's turning to dust. I wait. Time will heal. Skin on skin, bodies slick. Taut. Muscles moving under flesh, mouths leaving burning trails and driving minds to madness. Her smile is like sunshine. It warms my hull, makes my own skin smooth and shining where it was rough and worn. Her hands bring healing to my inner workings, and now they heal another's hurt. It makes me happy that he's given in, let go. His work is to fix the broken, but no one could fix him. Until now. They want it to be a secret, so she won't be hurt. Both of them, fixers. Healers. They don't want to remind her of what she's lost. He sleeps loudly, without pride or caution. Snores like thunder, echoing against my walls. He's primal, this one, a rough sketch of a man. I like him. He's like me: rough, a little ugly, but I shine. He shines too, sometimes. When he lets himself. He catches the blanket up close, and I wonder who he dreams about. Everything's so simple for him. I feel his easy, uncomplicated grief for the ones who never came back. He'll move on. She's not asleep. Awake in her bunk, lying on her back. It's not her fault. They all understand that. But she can't help but feel it. He told her love kept me flying, and she knows he's right. She knows she's home. But they're gone, and she brought them there. She brought them into it, and it's her fault they're gone. Not gone. Dead. I hear her clearly, more clearly than almost anyone. It's getting better for her. The nightmares are seldom, and what was broken is mending. Slowly. The festering is gone, cut out by a faded name I can barely catch. Miranda. I think of mirrors, showing what is there and what is not there. Hiding truth? Sometimes. And sometimes they show exactly what must be seen. Red sheets, soft pillows. A lantern glowing, dim light making her face softer, calmer. She's harder than she was before, new hurts in her eyes. She keeps a gun under her pillow now. It's small, a lady's gun, that he gave her. She'll probably never use it. But she keeps it, because he gave it to her. It helps her sleep. Incense makes the shuttle smell like trees, so strange out here in the black. Her shuttle used to be so seperate from me, attached by steel and clamps and not really there. I used to think that, anyway. Now, I feel her like I feel the others, so close to my heart. She's one of them, part of me. I remember when she left, the pain too much to handle. I remember the corner of my being she took with her, and the corner of his. Now that she's back, the shattered glass of my crew holds together a little better. He's healing. I hear him the best, feel his heartbeat right with mine. He is mine, and I am his, and his pain was hurting me. But he's healing, now. His shadows are larger than anyone else's, his darkness weighting him down. He is the leader, the protector. He failed. Because he failed, two of his people are lost to him. Two more added to so many. I worried he would fall, but it was a needless worry. He won't fall. He can't. To fall would be to fail all of them, and he won't do that. His very nature won't allow it. Now that she's back, the wound in his soul is scabbing over. He'll get better. They'll all get better. He doesn't sleep much, but I know he will. She'll come to him soon, and together they'll find a way. That's what's left of me. Finding a way. To go on. To make peace. To repair the broken pieces, fit them back together. Doing it draws them closer, sharp edges cutting. But the edges will wear down, and one day they'll fit like a dream. The others, the ones who aren't here, who won't ever be here again, will always brush their sides, never fade. But the pieces will fit again. I'll keep flying.