Title: To the Names of Our Wounds

Author: Shannon

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Pre-series Firefly and New Who.

Summary: Two strangers in a park. (Firefly/Doctor Who)

A/N: For mari4212. Title from The New Pornographers - Adventures in Solitude. Unbeta-ed.

To the Names of Our Wounds

Just gone 9pm on the second U-Day and she's dumped Mal clean on his ass in their motel room. He didn't even make it to the bed - which, really, is probably a good thing, given the smell coming from him and the likelihood of vomit when he wakes.

Zoe figures she'll go for a wander outside. Not tired yet, and too wired from the fight to sleep proper. Ain't really safe to go walking - not by normal people standards anyway - but she doesn't think she's dealt in the normal people kind of safety since she was fifteen. If ever.

She's walking through the park at the end of the street – well, the dustbowl that passes – and ends up at the well in the middle. Her mama used to tell her stories about wishing wells, and every time they saw one planetside, she'd give Zoe a little old coin or charm to throw in.

She's got no use for wishes anymore.

There's no one around, mostly, 'cept for one skinny man standing under a tree a hundred feet away. It's enough to bother her though and she tenses, staring into the well. She doesn't look around but keeps track of him, waiting for a hint of what he's going to do.

No need for a hint. "Lovely evening, isn't it?" he calls, strolling over to her. "Happy Unification Day! Peace, prosperity, joy and unity!"

He stops about ten feet from her, a dark object in his hand swinging from side to side, and she turns to face him, half-keeping the well between them. The man grins at her. She stares back; doesn't say anything.

He keeps smiling. "Saw you with the bloke. Browncoats, was it?"

She doesn't tug at her jacket – decidedly green – just raises an eyebrow. "That obvious."

"Him, yes. You hide it a little better."

She eyes him critically up and down. No company colours – just an odd black jacket – but he fought. No doubt. "Which side were you on?"

The annoying grin slips off his face. "Neither."

Odd. Most people usually went one way or the other, even without having fought, 'less they were too focused on money to care. He didn't seem like that kind. "Neither?"

"Wasn't my war."

There weren't any others; not in his lifetime, anyway. "So what was your war?"

"Not one you'd know," he says, and his eyes lose their focus for a moment. Then he's back and gazing at her.

Zoe is good at vague; she likes vague. But only when it's coming out of her own mouth. "What do you want?"

He holds the object in his hand out to her, and she glances at it. Whiskey. Not a brand she recognises. "Just a drink," he says.

"You lost people," she says, eyes flicking away for a second. But just a second.

He doesn't say anything, just keeps offering the bottle.

She sighs, takes it from him and holds it up. "To those we've lost," she says, pausing for a moment, then taking a swig. The whiskey burns.

The man takes the bottle back and holds it up to her. He smiles, and it's different from before. "To hope."

They stand in silence for a few minutes.

"Well," he says, energy springing into his step, "I best be off."

She looks at him, then nods.

He clasps her hand. "Thank you, Zoe," he says, and his smile widens. "Maybe we'll meet again."

He lets go, spins around, and she watches him leave, shaking her head. Then she turns and heads back to the motel, promising to make Mal clean up any mess he's made.

Ain't till later that she realises she'd never told the man her name.