Email: Sheila_McSly@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: This whole thing belongs to The Man, Joss Whedon and the other people and companies who own the rights (Universal?). It is written with respect to a superior artist.

Spoilers: None.

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They saw each other one last time at the port bar on Shiloh.

It was not something Wash had intended. It had been near on four years, and still would rather have flown straight into the sun than see Zoe again. But she hadn't waved him. No; it had been Mal on the phone, pale and weary and softly speaking. We ain't gonna get out of this. We need you.

He was a ship's captian. And a friend. What could Wash do?

So he came.

Shiloh was a little moon. Only one city and not a lot of port business. Wash was one of the only pilots. When he came in there was a cheerful chorus of welcome and catcalls. Wash felt obliged to smile and say hello, and especially to speak with the new customs agents off Osiris. But the whole time he felt a gaping hollow feeling and could hardly muster the will to speak.

It must have shown on his face, because they soon left him alone. Plastering on a professional smile, he walked slowly to the bar.

"G'een, Mister Wash," said the girl behind the counter. She was small and blonde and looked far too young to be mixing drinks.

"Hey, Mary Ann." He pulled himself onto a bar seat, propped up a leg. He spun to stare at the brown double doors. He was ten minutes late. He had been delayed--ahem, allowed himself to be delayed--by a minor problem with the weekly wheat run. He was secretly hoping that Mal would give up and go away. But that wasn't how it worked, he remembered; a guy like Mal would have been in place an hour early, and would wait to see Wash before he made an appearance. That was how soldiers did it. Wash was relieved that he hardly ever had to think that way anymore.

Without waiting for him to order, Mary Ann pulled him a chilled mug of beer. At his sign she poured a second.

"You wai