Actually, if you are Liz...
Have a Christmas ficlet.
Firefly, Zoe/Wash.



Three AM and he still couldn’t sleep.
He was definitely up much too late. His favorite apatosaurus was beginning to look at him quizzically; quite a feat since it was plastic. Perhaps reptiles didn’t have insomnia. Did reptiles get insomnia? Something to ponder in the future. But for now, the question that was keeping him awake demanded attention.
He was not tormented about this, in any way. Wash did not suffer torment, except some of outside infliction having to do with his given name. It wasn’t anguish keeping him up at night. It was simply... confusion.
Not just any confusion, either. This was bewilderment on a fundamental and basic level, an uncertainty second to none. Even the time he’d come in second to the worst pilot he’d ever met had nothing on this. He could ask Mal, he supposed, but Mal would probably just laugh at him. Neither Bester nor Jayne would understand what he was asking. Zoë was out of the question for obvious reasons.
...course, she really wasn’t out of the question, considering he hadn’t even asked her the question yet. And therein lay the trouble.
Hoban Washburne was not a coward, not by any stretch of the imagination. He’d flown at top speed through an asteroid belt on a dare (admittedly one fueled by bottle courage, but he’d been painfully, muscle-clenchingly sober on the flight itself), gone headlong through maneuvers that could have killed him with the tiniest mistake, and signed on with Malcolm Reynolds, for God’s sake. ‘Course, he wasn’t exactly fond of death, and given his druthers he’d prefer to go the safer route, but what man wouldn’t?
...Mal didn’t count.
That, he thought, might be the problem here. There was no safe route. Either he asked her, or he didn’t. Either she said yes, or she didn’t. Either it worked, or it didn’t. Either he was crazy...or he wasn’t.
“Hey, Zoë,” he whispered, to the apatosaurus, which looked even more confused. “Want to get some dinner sometime? You know, like actual food?”