He is sleeping. The white line in his hair stares at me. Where his brain rebelled and he almost left me. Yet here he is, in our bed, in our shuttle (“… just keep it ready for when I need it and I won’t be charging rent …”), next to me.

Why me?

Why not me?

What makes him love me?

I’m broken. Cracked.

Crazy as all crazy can be.

Lunatic assassin.

Yet he sleeps with me. Stays with me.

Loves me.

Me.

Why? What in the gaps between my molecules does he see?

When the days are hard and I can’t get the words out, let alone make sense to anyone listening, he holds my hand.

When Simon has to give me drugs (hateful, makes the world squishy, pick at the edges and see if it bleeds) and I sleep for hours, he holds my hand.

When the days are good and I can play and run and live and love, he holds my hand. (“…day is a vestigial mode of time measurement, based on solar cycles. Not applicable. I didn't get you anything …”)

When we tuck Caleb into his bed at night, our son, the fruit of our loins, he holds my hand.

And my heart.

I should buy him roses. Sprinkle them over the shuttle. Or ammunition. He would be happy with either, although not admit it about the roses.

We have seen so much, done so many things, and more to come, I wonder at his tenacity. He would call it being stubborn, and be truthful, but there is more. So much beneath the surface shinyness he wears. When he was bad he was determined to be the best bad he could be, and now he is good he is better.

I can’t help myself – I smile. Like the roses, he would never admit to being good. Then I will amend myself. He is … mine.

His chest is rising and falling as the oxygenated air passes in and out of his lungs, his heart beating slowly and sending life through him. I can feel it as my hand tangles in the hair across his pectorals, slicing time into manageable portions.

Those muscles make me weak, and I am not weak. He showed me how to be strong, how to overcome, and if I can’t be that all the time he is there to hold me up, support me.

He’s dreaming. I see the shape, and it looks like Simon. Roses, goodness … he won’t admit he likes my brother either. But I hear the conversation about him.

Jayne: “Never thought the Doc’d ever get the stick out of his pi gu long enough to get Kaylee into bed, let alone knocked up. Twice.”

Book: “God works in mysterious ways.” (Only Book is dead, but that doesn’t stop him visiting.)

Zoe: “You do know we’d probably all be dead by now if it wasn’t for him.”

Jayne: “Well, yeah, but I ain’t gonna get all gushy over it.”

Jia yan: “Me neither.”

Zoe: “Never said you should, sir.”

Wash: “Handy with the knockout drops, I know that.” (Like Book, dead now, but Jayne grieved, unknown to others except me.)

Jayne: “Little angels …”

And in the distance, amongst the foothills of Ezra, a hundred children playing, all of them parented by Serenity, progenitor, nurturer, womb.

He’s awake. I can feel the change in his brainwaves, his breathing patterns, the conductivity of his skin … and he’s opened his eyes.

“You watching me again?” Blue, soft, piercing to my core.

“Jia yan watches mu qin.”

Smiling for me alone. “He ain’t your Pa, and I’m pretty sure she ain’t your mother, neither.”

“They believe otherwise.”

“You figure that, do yah?”

“I do.”

“They ain’t your blood.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, blood is not thicker than water.”

“No?”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“You use long words like that, I'm gonna fall back to sleep. Having a damn good dream, too.” (Campfires, cigars, love songs …)

He pretends, and I pinch him. “No sleeping. Not yet.”

“Thought you wanted me out of it so you could watch me. Like Mal watches Frey.”

“To make sure she lives.”

“And you’re doing the same for the same reason?”

“Yes.”

“I ain't gonna leave you, River.”

Warmth floods through me when he says my name. He calls me so many other things, but when he says my name … “One day.”

“Nope. I think we’re gonna go together. You and me. Blaze of glory.”

There are similar conversations echoing from the past from others on board. “I will kill you if you go first.”

He is laughing. Not hard, because he’s not laughing at me. But enough that his chest wriggles under my hand. “You promise?”

“Yes.”

He lays his fingers on mine, running the calloused tips across the ring tattoo he put there. “So did I, Riv. Love, honour and cherish, long as we both live. And I ain’t thinking that’s gonna be the end of it, either.”

“My Jayne.”

“Got that right.”

He is so strong, so sure … I could stand on him and move the ‘verse. Instead I wrap myself around him, flesh on flesh, his body responding as much as my own. He groans, just a little.

“Be my rock. My blood. My handhold. And I will buy roses.”

“Roses, huh?”

“Red.”

“My Ma always liked roses. Pa’d buy her one, on her birthday.” (From the perspective of the little boy that Jayne once was, they are tall, wonderful, a single bloom between them. “… my wife …”)

“A sign of love.”

His arm tightens about me, pulling me even closer. “Don’t need flowers to bribe me, moonbrain. I’ll tell. I love you.”

And I am in heaven, flying through the Black with my wings unfurled, outshining the very stars. “Say my name.”

“River.”

“Jayne.”

And then there is nothing but us, and he makes me sing.