His fingers find the cool stillness of other fingers in the darkness. They touch the strong hands, hands that once held guns and small children with equal care. He feels the starched edge of the jacket. He knows it is black, even though he can see nothing. He doesn't need to see, doesn't want to see. If he sees it, he knows he will have to face the reality. And he isn't ready for that yet.
Gently his hands move up the swell of a forearm beneath the crisp suit. Strong arms, he knows. Arms that were there to comfort him when he needed it, whether or not he chose to admit his own vulnerability at the time. Gliding over one firm shoulder, his fingers brush the smoothness of the face.
Peaceful in repose, perhaps, clean now of all the blood and sweat and grime that so often worked its way into the creases of the wide brow. His fingertips find thick eyebrows that he remembers arched, questioning his abilities. They stroke downwards over the nose. His thumb brushes the lips.
The chest, broad and strong, where a steady heart once beat. He remembers the power of that heart, the conviction with which the morals were upheld. He remembers listening to that heartbeat in darkness like this.
But the chest no longer rises. The lungs no longer draw air. Blood cannot flow in those veins. His hands close over the hands, tenderly, and one rises to the face again, drawn to the hair. It is still soft, still thick, still unruly and growing in a thousand different directions with equal fervour. Brown hair, he knows. With black eyebrows. And beneath the eyelids, green eyes.
His left hand, forefinger and middle finger bandaged, comes to rest on the motionless chest. His own shoulders shudder ever so slightly, and his eyes close as his head bows and the tears begin to fall.
If warmth could be given...if he could, with a touch, stir life in those veins...
If breath could be shared...if he could press his lips to that cold mouth and give years from his own destiny...
If love could save...