Conversely, Herc knows he hasn't aged that gracefully, especially not in recent years. He's got red hair, which doesn't gray very attractively to begin with, and the pain and sorrow he's lived through — not to mention the constant stress of battle — have etched deep lines into his face that he's never free of, even in sleep. His temples are gray, his beard is going that way too... He looks in the mirror and sees his dad, an old man who's had to weather too many storms.

Inara looks like a delicate peach by comparison, ripe and firm and so very sweet.

She should be with someone like Raleigh, equally young and vibrant and obnoxiously handsome. Herc is past his prime now. He should leave the pasture for other bulls.

She opens her mouth to say something and he's bracing himself for a change in subject, but what comes out of her mouth is utterly incomprehensible. Never before has he resented his seeming inability to learn foreign languages as much as he does now. He just can't make them stick in his head, no matter how hard he tries. But she's leaning into him when she says it, her eyelids drooping, her lips plush and parted, and he knows what that look means even if he can't understand what words are falling from them.

Kicking himself, he leans in abruptly and meets her halfway, angling his head so he can seal his mouth to hers, muffling a choked-off groan against her lips.