Mal froze at the door to the bridge unsure of what to do. His hand reached out instinctively, but his legs did not move. Zoe sat in the pilot's chair, chin tucked, hugging a dinosaur-shaped pillow that no grown person had any right to admit publicly that they owned. He debated whether he should turn and leave, closing the door behind him, but then she would know that he had been there. He could also close the door with him inside, but then he'd still be... Either way, he felt the overwhelming need to close that door and shelter her from the prying eyes of the crew.

Zoe sobbed anew into the pillow and he wanted more than anything to run over and embrace her. But he couldn't. Not Zoe. He never touched her except to push her out of the way of a bullet or give her a leg up scaling a wall. Everything else, they conveyed with simple glances that spoke volumes more than any words could. His breath pounded sadly through him as he watched his best friend broken over the loss of the man she loved more dearly than life itself. And all he could do was stand by the door.

"Mal," she choked, her voice heavy with grief and tears. She kept her face downcast, but her grip on the pillow loosened. She never called him Mal. Never. But she knew he was there and in her grief, was summoning him. His breath coming in short puffs, he closed the door and walked slowly toward her. Every fall of his boots on the deck plate roared like thunder in his ears. He reached out his hand, but couldn't touch her, so he just let it hover over her shoulder. If only she would meet his eyes. Then without words, everything would be said.

But she didn't lift her eyes and his hand remained hovered. What if he touched her? Would everything change? The way they drew strength and calm from each other. The way they protected each other from their weaknesses. Would she be exposed? Would he?

Zoe's hand suddenly snaked through the air and grabbed his, pulling it down to touch her shoulder. She squeezed his hand lightly, and he in turn squeezed her shou