Inara had set up her landing downwind of the cabin, and the dust and fumes wafted away Eastward into the valley. The shuttle's harmonic whine spooled down and silence crept back over the meadow like a shy foal.

Zoe shifted her shoulders, her feet, her hands in her lap, trying to pour calm into her body; trying to betray nothing; knowing the attempt would not only fail, it would be seen and noted. She stretched her feet out and picked up a pebble, rolling it from one pair of toes to the next in an unconscious imitation of the Duck of Death exercise, and waited.

The hatch opened.

Zoe stood and stode across the verge as Inara ran with arms open (she must have planned!) and swept her up, half spinning around, in that unababashed all-body hug that women can do with women. Zoe suddenly realized she couldn't remember a time she had touched like this. It went on and on. It required effort not to draw away, but it was pleasant; it was good.

"--Eight years." Inara's voice was muffled in Zoe's neck. She felt the smile push Inara's cheek up against her dark skin. Strange to be touched by someone new.

"Thank you for coming."

"I wanted to come, so many times. We all did."

And you wouldn't have found me, and you knew that too, Zoe thought. She makes it so easy. She doesn't require answers, or reasons. This is how humans should be.

"Well."

Inara pulled back. "Ready to go home?" She looked toward the cabin. Clever, always the diplomat.

"Help me with my things." Zoe turned and began to walk up the path. She knew Inara would see the hesitation.

"What was it like, Zoe?"

"--What was what like?"

...It wasn't pain. Pain was a familiar nuisance, a tolerated old friend that reminded you that you still lived, or warned you that something needed urgent attention. Pain could be moved aside while you took care of matters of survival, or it could be used to help keep you conscious until the endorphins kicked in. Pain was well-known; this was not pain. This was something new and terribly unfamiliar. This was Pu