(On the Bebop)

Morning in space is a lot like night in space; the scenery doesn't shift much unless you're traveling. Then the stars go racing by like streaks of diamonds: a million shooting stars, especially when the hyperspace drive is about to kick in and time slows down and speeds up at the same moment.

But when you stay put, it's just a whole lot of dark.

Beth is nestled against him covered in a sheet; it's still warm on the ship. No coolant, he remembers, and holds her body close. And he listens for the telltale sounds of anyone else on board: a footstep here, a distant cough, water running, an engine kicking on.

He doesn't hear any of that. Just as well.

He lets his eyes close again for a moment. It would be so easy to just stay here, lazy, nothing to do, no need to do anything. But if there's only enough fuel to run the emergency systems that means there's no hot water, and no hot water means no shower. It also means no food, no coffee, nothing.

It might be a smart thing to try to find a door that leads back to the bar. Either that or say fuck it, fire up the engines, and give fate a run for its money.

In his arms, Beth stirs a little bit. As much as he wants to take her everywhere, he has to admit she might not want to go.

It needs to be her choice, not his. He loves her that much.