Welcome to Gaia! ::

Wash was nervous.

He knew nothing he could do would ever begin to make up for his prolonged absence, but - he had to try. He had not expected forgiveness, and he certainly hadn't anticipated that Sasha would go so far as to rekindle something between them.

Fortunately, he had not been entirely idle in his time travelling the various outposts. In between regular missions and basic daily duties, he had found ways of filling his free time. One such method was clutched in a white-knuckled fist. The small volume was plain, black, and leather bound. The pages within were warped and seemed to bulge oddly in places, straining against the small elastic strap that held it shut.

In his other hand, he had a more traditional peace offering - a bouquet of hand-picked easter lillies.

He knocked tentatively on her door.

Wash's initial reaction was pleasant surprise - it was hard, even after all this time, to not fall back into the groove they had once carved together. A time where thinking of you meant sweet dreams and pleasanter things. He watched her move though, and recalled their initial reunion - no, this was not the same woman he had left behind. This was something wilder and far more dangerous.

He did not know where he stood with this new Sasha Belrose.

"Sorry for droppin' by without notice," he began cautiously. He waited as she fetched a suitable container for his initial offering.

"You got some time? I, uh." Wash was hesitant to bring up his absence, but it was unavoidable since it was the very reason he was here. "I had some things I wanted t'show you, from when I was... away."

He lapsed into silence, feeling like an awkward giant in the dainty woman's dainty apartments.

"Okay, yeah," Wash replied, tentatively optimistic as he watched her place the flowers front and center. She didn't seem upset today - she seemed almost, well, chipper.

He joined her on the sofa, maintaining a small but polite distance. He didn't want to push; didn't feel he'd earned the right. The small leather volume was now clutched in both hands. Wash leaned back and tried to relax.

"So," he began, with more bravery than he felt, "I did a tour of th' bases, I dunno if I tole you." He fumbled with the elastic strap on the outside of the tiny book before offering it to her. "I, uh. It's not much," he added, "but I thought you might be interested."

It's not much. But for the last two years, it had been everything.

Wash didn't answer immediately, watching her intently and hoping the contents would sort of explain themselves. He didn't trust himself to speak.









The cover was supple and bent easily, revealing pages that were more often than not yellowed and water-stained. On each page was a sort of ramshackle collection of artifacts - largely featuring pressed plants and flowers, although there were a number of teeth and quite a few feathers. Each item had a written entry, about where and how it was found, and some anecdotal observations based on shared experience.

Some pages held nothing at all - nothing save words. Letters to home. Letters to her, never meant to be delivered.

Sometimes, it seemed as if he had intended to die out there, and this was a kind of eulogy. There were long lapses between some entries; times when waking up in the morning was the only challenge he had the energy to face. Other times, it was like a log - a mission report, as if chronicling their time apart could make it less cruel. It was amazing what you began to notice all around you, when you felt obligated to act as someone else's senses. To convey the dull and everyday experiences so that they might be there, too - if only in the mind's eye.

Wash had spent most of his free periods at the various bases around the world hoarding memories like a magpie, stuffing them into the slender volume. If he ever had the courage, he told himself, he would bring them back to her. A little trove of experiences, as if days and weeks and months could be stowed away with mere words and paper and organic matter.

Wash had left their bed and their home, but he had found ways to keep her with him.

He waited in silence, afraid of what she might and might not say. Afraid of the gulf that had opened up between them, by his own deeds, would prove too much to bridge.

"We can read it together, if you like," he finally said, not bothering to disguise how much this would mean to him.

Wash watched her read, watched her react; recorded it in his mind's eye and etched it into his memory. He allowed himself to hope, for the first time in what felt like forever. Every smile was precious; every laugh a gift.

And then she was done, and she turned to him and her words were like a knife in his heart.

Wash's face crumbled and he leaned forward reflexively, placing his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. I know, he wanted to say, wanted to scream, to shout till everyone gathered. To witness his shame. He had left that girl behind - and she was gone now, dead and buried.

Perhaps it was a eulogy after all - but not for him.

"I don't know," he replied, his voice empty of inflection. He was tired, so tired. He had only wanted her to know - know that he had not forgotten. That he had page homage to her, even as he had betrayed her. That he had left, but had not forsaken. "I'm sorry."

He stood up. He had completed his mission, regardless of the outcome. Like they always did. Perhaps it was time to let go.

"I won't waste your time again," he continued in the same soul-weary monotone. He would keep his promise - he would not run away again - but he needed time. Time to mourn.

Time to remember the dead.

Wash's eyes followed the shirt as she moved across the room and let the words fall around his ears like so much rain.

She was right. He hated it, but she was right. And the worst part was - the worst part was he had known it already. He had known when he had left that she would not wait for him, could not wait for him in the same way that he could not stay. Some small part of him, a hidden, ugly part, was relieved. It was one less thing to fear, one less worry festering in the back of his mind throughout the long night.

Evan. The name sounded familiar - a face surfaced from the depths of his memory, broad shoulders with blonde hair and a set of dogtags - and he nodded automatically. As far as he could remember, he was dependable. Reliable. Not like him. Not like Wash.

He didn't answer, instead placing his hands over hers, onto that last precious artifact of their past; her offering. He leaned forward and gently kissed her cheek, a mere brush of lips. He felt numb.

"I'll be here, whenever you need me," he intoned, voice deep with some hidden emotion. Sadness. Regret. Loss. That's what change was, after all, wasn't it? A small loss. A little death, to lead to new beginnings. She had found hers, and he would be happy for her. More than anything, Sasha Belrose deserved a little happiness.

He took a step back then, leaving the shirt still in her hands. Part of him wanted her to keep it - but most of him hoped, if she had really found in Evan what she described, that she could find it in herself to throw it away.

He watched her, and something like realization dawned in his eyes. "I need you, Sasha," he began.

He paused for a moment, and added, "But I need to understand what 'you' is."

"You smiled, you laughed - you ate every word off every damn page. An' then you tell me it don't mean a thing." His voice grew stronger now, no longer hesitant and no longer uncertain.

"Sasha Belrose, I ain't the only one in this room who's a coward."

He approached her then, taking her elbows gently into his hands.

"I gave you that book, Sasha Belrose, because I thought I could not live without you. But I can't keep doin' this song and dance. You say that that woman who smiles, that woman who laughs and loves an' can be loved, ain't the woman you are anymore, and maybe that's true. Maybe the woman I can't live without is gone, and I gotta go on without her anyway."

He fell silent for a moment, then added softly, "An' maybe it ain't true."

Wash stepped away finally, letting his hands fall slowly to his sides, moving toward the door. "Maybe she's still out there, on a beach somewhere tryin' to forget."

He reached for the lock.

Wash let his hand fall away from the door and didn't move for a moment, the singing tension in his shoulders the only sign that he was listening. There was a spark; a tiny, fragile thing, ignited by the embers of her pain, her raw emotion, catching on the ample kindling and dust in the broken tatters of who he was. Who he always was, perhaps who he would always be - he could run from it, he could turn away and he could try to dislodge himself of the yoke of his existence, but something made him keep coming back.

He wanted to be broken; he wanted to be free, but maybe this was breaking - to watch the world and people change around you, to let yourself shatter so you could become new in their image and yours.

Without warning, he spun around, enveloping her in a rib cracking hug, lifting her off the floor and pressing his face into her hair.

"Darlin', you're worth everythin' t' me," he whispered. "I jus' don't want you to forget who it is you can be." And this time, this time, he pulled back and kissed her properly on the lips, dipping her dramatically for all the world like a soldier come home from war.

And in a way, he was home.