Written for the LJ Zoe/Wash ficathon, for the prompt: sex under auspices of tragedy. Sorry for those of you still in wait for Moving in a Non-Linear Fashion and This is Your Brain on Drugs. They're coming! Promise. :) Now enjoy, and feedback is love.

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i. denial

It's been five months since Hoban Washburne died, and Zoe Washburne don't believe in ghosts.

Won't let herself, more like, if she's to be honest. And ever since that harpoon sailed its way through Serenity's window and into Wash's heart, Zoe's tried her best to stay truthsome with her own self. Tried her best to communicate to the crew, to her very reflection, that Wash is dead--and that he ain't coming back. Tried her best not to dwell on how gutted she is, deep and clean and hollow. No use in trying to fill them empty spaces up, 'specially not by hankerin' for a sandy-haired phantom to touch her shoulder when the moments get too hard, or when the job gets too rough. That sort of thing is just too romantical for the likes of her.

"But that's me, sugarlips. Romantical even unto death."

Yes, Zoe's tried to stay on an even keel, but there are things that could rattle even the most unshakeable wills, the most level of heads. Hearin' her lover's voice--even though she put him in the ground herself, dirt hitting the coffin like gunshots against dead flesh--is one of them things.

The voice is sing-songy and dry, and pure Wash. So purely Wash that it's damn hard to ignore. Zoe should know, because she always tries. Her breath catches in her chest, hitching for just a second, before she's taking a drag of air, in and out. Sometimes, just breathing is hard enough to do these days. 'Specially with the dregs of her own darkness coming at her in the most unguarded times, the go se left at the bottom of the coffee cup when all the good's just been drained away.

The shirt she's folding falls out of her hands, puddling to the ground in a bright, soft pile. She blinks down at the flower print, unseeing, till the orange