Before

The ship is quiet. Light levels low, operating in ‘sleep mode’ for the night. Mal sits at the head of the table in the mess. Sleepless. Turns the teacup in his fingers again. Thumb brushing the uneven, raised edge of the crack that runs from lip to base in a jagged, unyielding line. Useless now. There’s no reason to keep it, damaged as it is. Save one. Doesn’t matter that it’s finer than any other cup on the ship, even with the crack. Doesn’t matter that it would never hold liquid again without some of it seeping through. Burning your fingers. Was only one reason he still has the cup.

He’d been furious with himself when he’d knocked it accidentally. Felt almost like crying when he’d seen the ugly break in the otherwise smooth perfection. Hit a little too close, how perfectly it mirrored reality - what he was in her life, her world. Not to mention that it was a perfect metaphor for his heart. Broken and empty.

He sighs. Turns the cup. Thumbs the crack. Curses himself for keeping it. Unable to let go this piece of her. Alone in the dark. Night after night after night.

During

He doesn’t know what to do, having her here. So close, again. It muddles him up, and it’s not something he can afford to let himself think on. Not now. Not yet.

He can’t go back to her shuttle, not with her there now. Can’t