The characters and situations in this story are the property of Joss Whedon, FOX, and probably other entities I don’t know about, and I do not have any permission to borrow them. No infringement is intended, and this story is not for profit. Feedback is most appreciated; my address is upleaf@yahoo.com.

Echoes

It was the smell that woke him.

After an instant of disorientation, he sat up, staring into the dimness of his cabin and trying to damp down the shudders. He knew that the odor his dreaming mind conjured up had only a fraction of the intensity of the real thing, but...

It’s the associations. With the routine brought by years of repetition, he pushed the memories back down into the depths of his mind. The screams and explosions, the thunder of the big gun beneath his feet and hands--and that persistent link to memory, the stench of death and terror and rage.

He rubbed his face with his hands, smearing away sweat and inhaling the innocent scent of clean skin and warm cloth. His muscles started to unknot as the grip of the dream faded, but he was now thoroughly awake.

Mal sighed and got out of bed. The best way to hope of recapturing sleep tonight was to refrain from chasing it for a while. He pulled on the pants and shirt he’d discarded earlier and stuffed his feet back into grubby socks. The chill of the decks always pulled the warmth right out of his soles, and he couldn’t see how River stood it. But who knows what goes on with her? Poor kid.

There was no one about when he emerged from his cabin, which didn’t surprise him. His steps were silent as he wandered up toward the cockpit. He knew that too would be empty, but still his mind half-expected to see Wash there, leaning back casually in his seat, confident in his control of Serenity. Mal looked over the boards, automatically noting the calm blink of the lights at station-keeping. He glanced out the window, but suddenly found the cockpit too confining, even with no one else there, and