Disclaimer: Serenity and her crew are the sole and rightful property of Joss Whedon, Tim Minear and Mutant Enemy. No disrespect is intended by my borrowing them, no financial gain is mine by my use of them in this story. ***

He never tires of the feel of her under his hands. At odd moments, without any conscious thought on his part, he reaches out his fingers to stroke her - just a brief touch, no more than a whisper of his skin against her, the connection between them maintained from such electric instants.

He loves the sound of her at night when everyone else is asleep. The rhythm of her, the pulse; it is a heartbeat, a lullaby from her to him. He sometimes thinks he can hear his own heart answer in measured time. She is a song in his ears, and he wants her to be the last sound he takes from this life.

There was a time when home meant earth and grass and cloud and wind. There was a time when he had no thought to how fragile could be peace and faith and freedom. But that time is gone. Buried as sure as if he dug the grave with his own scarred hands.

She brought him life again. He didn't know that she was out there somewhere - a dream of what was, a hope against all proof that nothing lived of who he once had been. He went looking for a ship - for a means to an end - and he found, instead, resurrection.

She is his peace and his faith and his freedom. She is his home. She is his.