Author: Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Zoë doesn't ask. She doesn't need to. 200 words.
Disclaimer: Whedon's, not mine.
They don't talk about it, not ever, but there were more'n six months 'tween the end of the War and the day Mal 'waved Zoë from Persephone. Alliance weren't about to leave the Independent veterans together in the prison camps, not after the fight they'd put up in the Valley, and she hadn't been able to find hide nor hair of the Sarge even after her own release. Man like him, reputation he'd had after that last battle? She'd figured him down for "re-orientation" at best, made an example of at worst. Day she'd seen his face again, fire still aburn in the depths of his eyes, had been one of the brightest of her life. Only her wedding day outshone it.
They don't talk about where he got the money for Serenity, neither. Ship's nothing fancy, but she flies, and Mal, whose dirtside wealth all burnt up when the Alliance bombed Shadow, surely didn't have the depth of pocket to afford her. The one time Zoë'd asked, he'd given her a look, eyes hollower than the Black, and she'd shut her mouth again.
He's still with her, and they're still flyin'; far as Zoë figures, that's all that matters.