She'd worn a blue dress six months to the day standing in his cargo bay, all her boxes and trunks packed, waiting for them to be trundled off to her new life. Mal remembered at the time thinking that blue was a particularly good color for her.

And that he'd lost his chance to tell her so. Not that it would have made a difference.

None of it mattered any more.

Or at least, that was the lie he comforted himself with when he'd wake up late at night from a particularly vivid dream of her smiling at him as she slipped those slender blue silk straps off her shoulders to let the dress whisper down her body. And then doing the sorts of things to him he'd only imagined other men paid fortunes to experience.

Cold comfort at best, found in his own hand as he worked his release, knowing that he'd just wake up the same way again the following night from a dream of her giving him access to places on her body other men didn't get to go.

And just when he could almost convince himself that maybe this time it was real and not a dream, he'd startle awake, groin hard and aching for things he'd never have.

Blue really was her color.