Zoe straightened up, her hand in the small of her back, rubbing at the ache. She knew she’d offered, and she also knew Mal was working just as hard, but sometimes, when she looked at the size of the cargo bay, she wondered if it was just too much for two people. At least he’d dealt with … whatever it was in the middle of the floor, but that was only a small mercy.

Every single surface was dirty. Or greasy. Or dirty and greasy. Or … if she’d taken an inventory of every square inch she’d shied away from touching, she’d have run out of paper a long time since. Not that she minded handling things that weren’t pristine – hell, couldn’t live through a war and be fussy, considering what had gone through her fingers in her time. But that was over. They didn’t win, and maybe some folks still acted like they were fighting, but the war was finished.

They weren't, though. Finished, that is. The Sergeant had bought this ship, paid good money for it, probably more than it was worth, but she’d finally seen a little of the man shine through that he used to be. He’d even chided her for saying what she thought, that it was a death trap.

Dropping her rag in the bucket by her feet, and ignoring the splashes it made up her leg, she shook her head. Trust him to go for a ship that was more than a little broken. That was why he hadn’t told her before he handed over the credits, she knew that. And it was also why she hadn’t argued too much.

He saw something in this Firefly, this old, somewhat decrepit boat, that mirrored his own soul, and maybe, if they could put her back together, make her fly again, maybe some of his cracks could be healed too.

She didn’t kid herself. She knew she was damaged, had been for a long while, but at least she hadn’t lost her faith. If anything, her faith had been in her Sergeant, and he’d kept them going when everyone else had abandoned them. And now it was her turn.

She leaned forward to regain the rag, maybe rinse it out, then paused. No, she needed fresh water.