Title: Your Loving Son Characters: Jayne, Book, snippets of River Pairing: None Words: 719 Rating: G Cross posted to livejournal's ff_friday.

Dear Son, I hope this letter finds you well. I am sending you another hat as you told me you lost the last one in a fight. Try to take care of this one. Everyone here is well, and Matty’s cough disappeared with the warmer weather. Harvest is coming along and Heck Jackson has loaned us his harvester so we will get it all finished on time this year. I am thinking of you. Your loving mother.

Jayne’s new hat is red with two yellow tassels and some sort of fluffy brim. From the expression on his face, it may be too much even for his supremely self-confident head to bear. River, on the other hand, is entranced by it and when he gives it to her she wears it all day. Book blinks at the sight of the thing crouched on her head, and the wide grin beneath the fluffy brim, and shakes his head. He is, however, impressed that he has finally seen the hat that is too ugly for Jayne to wear. “That’s an interesting headpiece you got sent this time, Jayne”, he remarks to his companion as the two of them prepare for three sets each at around sixty kilos. Nothing too strenuous today, mostly just action to fill the spaces between sentences as they talk. Jayne shrugs. “My maw always sends ‘em. I prob’ly got an even dozen by now.” He settles on the bench and does not even grunt as he lifts the barbell above his head. “Guess she reckons it gets pretty cold out here.” Book is stung by the tiniest inflection of longing that Jayne has tried to bury under casual indifference. The man is not a gifted actor. Book is silent as Jayne completes his set, and reaches out to help set the weight back in the bracket. Jayne’s boots make abrasive noises as he stands up and makes way for the Shepherd. “And what do you send your mother in return?” Book asks as he trades places with the mercenary. Jayne shrugs. “Credits when I can spare ‘em. I’d WAVe, but there ain’t but two Cortex connections within distance of the homestead, and maw ain’t never taken too much to that sort of thing anyways.” Book edges the weight into his grip and is surprised by how easy it is to lift. He must be getting some extra benefit from these sessions with Jayne. “No letters home?” he asks. Jayne shrugs. “Nope. I’m not much for expressin’ and all that. I reckon as long as the parcels don’t get returned, and the credits keep comin’ she’ll know I’m okay.” Book contemplates this. He can feel the muscles in his chest contracting and expanding. The sheer physicality of the exercise relaxes him. “I send letters back to the Abbey regularly,” Book says, glancing up at Jayne, who towers over him. “I find that the act of writing the letter helps me to feel connected to my brethren, even though I know they may not all read it. It feels as if I am there relating the words myself.” “Yup,” Jayne says absently, “that sounds real comfortin’.” Book completes his set and stands up. One muscle in his back protests a little, and he thinks he should probably warm up a little next time. He picks up his towel. “Goin’ already? We got another two sets to do, Preacher.” Jayne raises his eyebrows. Book shakes his head. “We’re going to go and write a letter to your mother, son.” Jayne’s mouth drops open and he crosses his arms across his chest. “Now, preacher –“ Book will have none of it. “Now Jayne,” he shushes, “the woman is your mother. She deserves a word or two, don’t you think?” Jayne cannot think of a reply. When the Shepherd thrusts a pencil into his hand, it feels small and awkward, and he is thankful that the other man does not watch as he forms his letters.

Dear Mother, Thank you for the hats, they are all real nice. I gave the red one to a girl on the ship. She is a moon brain and her head needs all the warming it can get. I am well. I hope this letter finds you well as well. Your loving son Jayne Cobb