Sometimes Nathaniel really hates his brother, wants to punch him, just to shut him up for good, to stop making Wash blush a beautiful shade of red as Miles runs his fingers along the three scars at the right side of his head and, with a smirk on his lips, calls them Wash’s Mark since it had been her who stitched him up.

Jim isn’t one for art, never has been, but the way the early sunlight falls across their bodies, paints them in different shades of gold, the Commander’s hand cupping Wash’s neck in a distinctively possessive manner as he kisses her, a flash of tongue and teeth, the Colonel’s arm slung low over her waist, moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth trails along shoulder, makes Jim wonder if he hasn’t been missing something out.