Work Text:
Simon’s busy working on Jayne (bullet through his shoulder, curses in his mouth), so it’s Mal who sits down beside her with needle and thread.
“Might sting a bit,” he says, setting needle to flesh. It does, but she holds back, tries not to breathe; still sees pain reflecting in his face, that flash of, Sorry, darlin’.
(Where did you learn would be a foolish question; that’s why it hurts.)
“Not so pretty as the Doc woulda done,” he says, and frowns; looking down at regimented stitches, she says, “I love it,” though what she means is, you’ve marked me.