Mal’s grown used to that gun-calloused hand. He’s seen it in action so many times: sliding lovingly over knives, spilling blood when it was needed. He’s felt it too: gripping his shoulder tight as support, fighting him in half-hearted manner to be top dog. Pulling him off night after night until he’s raw and utterly spent. That hand is always warm and always strong and now that it’s laying limp and cooling in his lap, Mal’s lost. Gentle fingers try to tug him away, but he fights hard because he’s not ready. Not yet. Finally, once the tendons draw up and then relax, he can let go, knowing full well that Jayne won’t be tussling with him ever again. |
DONE