Disclaimer: all things Firefly/Serenity are the property of Whedon et al. I'm not making any money off this, just playing with the toys.

Not beta'd.

His fingers wrapped around the neck of the guitar with a gentleness he didn’t know he still had. Bent knuckles went into familiar positions above the strings as he pressed the tips of his fingers down. The tune was off, but felt right, like it was supposed to be a little odd. Letting the last note fade, he breathed deeply.

How long it had been since he picked up the instrument, he couldn’t rightly say. Days all seemed to mix themselves up. He knew, though, that sometime back when he wasn’t alone, when all he cared about were still near, he’d played it and saw the contented looks and happy faces. Music had made the Black a little less dark.

Yet on dirt, the music was different. He remembered that campfire night on Haven and the sullen melody floating through his hands and into the strings. Like his body knew what was coming, the fear and terror that his mind had not yet discovered. The Shepherd would be ripped down and his friends torn apart. He’d been glad, at the time, that it hadn’t been him. Course, now, he wondered if’n that might not have been the better way to go.

His thumb pulled on the strings, down then up, in a song that he thought long gone. He shut his eyes as the dull ache began. Doc had said this might happen some day, but he’d scoffed. Men like him didn’t see “some day”. If someone had been in the small house with him, they would have called it ironic.

He paused in his light playing, flexing his hand. The arthritis was getting worse, he knew, but he’d been mightily pleased that the Doc had been able to let him keep his hand. That job they’d done had nearly crushed it right off his arm, but Simon did done a gorramn miracle. Hand never worked the same again, but at least he could still fire Vera.

The thought of his once favourite gun brought his eyes to the wall farthest from him. She hung there, dusty a