HOW LIKE A WINTER By Otter (otter@fadedpress.com)

The chapel in Bixton was small and cold, nothing but whitewashed wood and neat little rows of neat little pews. Book hesitated in the doorway and watched his breath as it drifted toward the rafters, and then he walked with slow, soft, measured steps toward the front of the church, and the big wooden cross on the wall.

Mal was standing at one of the windows, wearing nothing heavier than his duster, as if unwilling to admit that such a thing as the weather could influence any of his choices. He was looking outside, over the little churchyard, but he couldn't have been seeing much through the mist that his breath was casting over the glass. Book lowered himself gingerly into the second pew, folded his hands together and closed his eyes. He could still see the cross, like it was burned onto the back of his eyelids.

He said a short prayer, silently though his lips were moving, and then he eased himself to his feet again, wincing at the stiffness in his cold knees. He joined Mal at the window, swiping a hand across the glass to clear away the fog that shrouded his view.

Outside, the pallbearers were letting the ropes slip through their hands, slow inch by slow inch, gently lowering the rough wooden coffin into the ground. Jayne's head was lowered, his eyes fixed on the dark of the grave. The snow clung to his hair and the rough, dark wool of his coat, and it drifted down into the pit, too, as if the world were intent on burying the body so the mourners could go home and grieve. Jayne's sisters all stood together at his back, huddling like livestock against the cold weather. Their mother stood alone, and she hadn't moved through the entire service, so Book wasn't sure whether he'd imagined her shudder when Jayne and the other men picked up the shovels and started pitching rich black soil back into the hole in her life where her son used to be.

Mal turned away, leaned against the wall and let his head fall back. He looked thin and worn through, as if it was his funeral they were attending. "Shouldn't you be out there?" he said, not looking at Book. "Prayin' or offerin' condolences or somesuch?"

Book clasped his hands together and wiggled his toes inside his boots, just to make sure he hadn't lost them to the cold. He said, "The family has their own pastor. I wouldn't want to step on any toes."

Mal said, "Mmm," and closed his eyes. Book imagined that he could feel the impact of shovels against earth, vibrating up through the floorboards.

They stayed like that for a long time as the mourners wandered away from the grave, back to their herds and fields and workshops and their normal lives. Jayne still stood at the graveside even after his family had gone; his fists were clenched tight and Book could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. Kaylee left the Doctor's side and sidled up to Jayne's instead, slipping her arm around his elbow and pressing close to his side. She stretched up on her toes to whisper something into his ear, and he leaned down to meet her, but whatever it was that she said seemed to have no effect on his mood; even when she pressed her lips to his cheek and clung limpet-like to his arm, his face remained unchanged.

Eventually even Serenity's crew drifted away, back to their snug little berths where Simon could dote on his sister and Kaylee could curl up in the warmth of the engine room to strip the chill out of her bones. Wash and Zoe would go straight to bed to touch each other as married folk do, to kiss and caress and thank the Lord and the stars and whatever powers might exist that they were still alive and together instead of buried deep in Bixton. The storm kicked up outside, and in the swirling whiteness all the world seemed to disappear, taking Jayne with it.

"We'd best be heading back," Book said, finally. "This is no weather to be caught out in."

As if to solidify the point, the door banged open, and the weather barged in as a sharp wind and a whipping curtain of snow. Jayne swept in with it, and then he slammed the door shut again to keep the quiet inside. His face was flushed red with the cold, or maybe with the effort of holding in the tears or the howls that seemed ready to break free from his body.

Book said, "I'm sorry for your loss, son," and knew as soon as the words were gone that he shouldn't have said anything at all.

Jayne's face flushed a little darker, and he thrust his hands into his coat pockets, probably to restrain himself from throttling someone. Book took an involuntary step back, but Mal had already smoothly stepped around the Shepherd to block him from Jayne's view.

Mal said, "I've got a bottle of scotch stashed away," and Jayne grunted out a sound that might've been assent, and then they went out the door together. Book shuddered out a sigh and watched it creep like a living thing over the window.

The end