[EM] 23 - Tom McRae Lyrics
He wasn’t quite sure if she was aware that he was watching her or not, but right then Mal didn’t much give a good gorram. Then again, she probably *wasn’t* aware if she was sitting there like that...she’d never be doing it if she were. Too unseemly and unladylike and all that go se.
He’d been thinking on her again. And stewing...boy, had he been stewing. She’d taken a new client after nearly three weeks of nothing, a fairly robust specimen off of Zesyphrus...some chancellor magistrate type without enough authority to blow his own nose, but enough credits to buy Inara’s bed for a night.
It was a damn vicious cycle...stewing led to brooding, brooding led to pacing, which more oft than not led to talking to hisself...and conversations like that never ended well. His only saving grace was that he hadn’t yet started answering himself, ‘cause then he’d *really* be crazy...then again, maybe if he *were* answering himself, the talking might not hurt so bad. Least he’d have answers he could deal with.
And as usual, the talking led to a thirst deeper than in his throat and body. Wasn’t his whistle needed wetting, was his mind needed stopping and his heart needed numbing for a little while. He needed to be rid of the notion of her admitting that she loved him, then clinging to another man in the heat of passion. He needed to be rid of the sight of her outside her shuttle in one of those pretty, proper kimonos of hers...the kind she threw on to leave her shuttle when she was fresh out of bed from either sleep or work. All a man had to do was look at the flush in her cheeks to tell which was the cause of the sudden fit of casual.
Now she was in the mess hall, curled in one of the chairs in the corner. She had a plate of protein squares by her side, a cup of tea, and a book in her lap.
Good one, too, if the attention she was giving to it bore any indication.
And that’s what took the green out of his eye as he watched her...because that high-falutin’ punk may have had the coin to bed her, but he wasn’t standing here now, watching Inara read her book with a finger to her mouth, the perfectly manicured nail caught lightly between her teeth in an uncharacteristic moment of raw, human imperfection and unladylike fascination that no client would ever see.
And as he finally entered the kitchen, making his presence known, he knew that not even the rest of the crew would ever bear witness to her head lifting, hand leaving her mouth, only to return a moment later when she dismissed him by going back to her reading.
She gave him that gift and didn’t even realize it...and that’s what made it all the more valuable.
It was the only reason that he could bear the pain of waiting for her to come to him...the only reason he was so damn sure that she *would* come to him.
Eventually.
And while you wallow in your wounds
You let the devils draw near
One more mile is all we have
You got nothing to fear
Muse: Malcolm Reynolds
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Words (w/o lyrics): 529
He’d been thinking on her again. And stewing...boy, had he been stewing. She’d taken a new client after nearly three weeks of nothing, a fairly robust specimen off of Zesyphrus...some chancellor magistrate type without enough authority to blow his own nose, but enough credits to buy Inara’s bed for a night.
It was a damn vicious cycle...stewing led to brooding, brooding led to pacing, which more oft than not led to talking to hisself...and conversations like that never ended well. His only saving grace was that he hadn’t yet started answering himself, ‘cause then he’d *really* be crazy...then again, maybe if he *were* answering himself, the talking might not hurt so bad. Least he’d have answers he could deal with.
And as usual, the talking led to a thirst deeper than in his throat and body. Wasn’t his whistle needed wetting, was his mind needed stopping and his heart needed numbing for a little while. He needed to be rid of the notion of her admitting that she loved him, then clinging to another man in the heat of passion. He needed to be rid of the sight of her outside her shuttle in one of those pretty, proper kimonos of hers...the kind she threw on to leave her shuttle when she was fresh out of bed from either sleep or work. All a man had to do was look at the flush in her cheeks to tell which was the cause of the sudden fit of casual.
Now she was in the mess hall, curled in one of the chairs in the corner. She had a plate of protein squares by her side, a cup of tea, and a book in her lap.
Good one, too, if the attention she was giving to it bore any indication.
And that’s what took the green out of his eye as he watched her...because that high-falutin’ punk may have had the coin to bed her, but he wasn’t standing here now, watching Inara read her book with a finger to her mouth, the perfectly manicured nail caught lightly between her teeth in an uncharacteristic moment of raw, human imperfection and unladylike fascination that no client would ever see.
And as he finally entered the kitchen, making his presence known, he knew that not even the rest of the crew would ever bear witness to her head lifting, hand leaving her mouth, only to return a moment later when she dismissed him by going back to her reading.
She gave him that gift and didn’t even realize it...and that’s what made it all the more valuable.
It was the only reason that he could bear the pain of waiting for her to come to him...the only reason he was so damn sure that she *would* come to him.
Eventually.
And while you wallow in your wounds
You let the devils draw near
One more mile is all we have
You got nothing to fear
Muse: Malcolm Reynolds
Fandom: Firefly/Serenity
Words (w/o lyrics): 529