The black was still the same. The cockpit felt like a ghost town, and the rest of Serenity was constantly getting smaller with every look of pity from the crew. But the black was still the same empty, endless black that it's always been. Nothing could ever change that.

Zoë watched, sitting tense and rigid in the co-pilot chair; watched the stars go by.

She and Wash used to make up dirty constellations when he had to watch the helm instead of sleep. She'd keep him company and they'd connect the stars to form naughty star patterns that had them both laughing. Cunts and clits and cocks in the black, they'd say.

As long as the black had stars, Zoë would always be reminded of Wash, so she stopped trying to forget, and just let herself hurt.

Mal was at the helm, much more calm piloting his ship than he'd been at first, when River had to help him. She taught him how to fly, then left him to it, not wanting to get in the way of love. The way the reavers got in the way-

Stars were never constellations anymore. Those died with Wash. They were just stars now, just little dots in the black.

Never did Zoë curl up into herself and sob, for Wash. She didn't hide or avoid all contact with the crew. She mourned and missed her husband, but she didn't break down. She'd just sit there and listen to Kaylee's sobbed apologies, Simon's polite condolences, Inara's wisdom, and River's nonsense without complaint, but without conversation.

She never herself felt the urge to cry.

In the war, folks died every day, and Zoë never cried for a one of them. Tears blurred the vision, and blurred vision made any soldier that much more vulnerable and that much more likely to get shot down or blown up in the long run.

Wash's chair, his buttons and switches and dinosaurs were all off limits to Zoë; she wouldn't go near them, always staying on the other side of the cockpit.

Mal wasn't going to paste a smile on his face and tell Zoë how much he knew Wash loved her. Zoë didn't need to be told, and Mal didn't need to bullshit