For rocketgirl - Mal/Inara Ficlet
Life changed after Miranda. All the things that had driven Inara off the ship didn’t seem to matter any longer. All the things that had kept Mal from speaking his heart seemed to just fade away. The loss of Wash and Book made their differences seem so small, made any bit of happiness they could eke out so much more important.
And they truly believed that they could be happy.
They started slowly. Mal sought her out for advice, tapping politely on the shuttle door. Inara smiled, blushed and stuttered when he took her advice. They touched hands when they passed each other, sought each other out for quiet conversation. And one night, after sharing a drink and some laughter, their lips touched.
They moved quickly. The sparks were undeniable, and they fell into the shuttle with lips still locked. Inara’s clever fingers undid a pin here, and knot there, and silken fabric whispered to pool at her feet. The rich colours and warm lighting she’d furnished the shuttle with made her skin look soft and incredibly touchable.
So he touched. His hands were rough, so he just barely skimmed them down her shoulders, her arms, to her hips. She shivered, and pressed against him, trying to silently signal for more pressure, more speed, more of everything. She pulled at his shirt, scattering buttons and scraping her fingernails down his chest. They fell into the bed, pulling, tugging, pressing...
Soft moans.
Whispers.
Gasps.
Begging.
Demands.
They dressed quickly. He slipped out the door with a crooked, apologetic smile and no eye contact. He tried to make it to the bridge with no one noticing his path, but it was a small ship.
Everyone thought they knew. Thought that the tension would dissipate, that the bickering was done with, that Mal and Inara would be happy.
But they couldn’t look at each other. They didn’t touch hands anymore, they didn’t have quiet conversations or laugh at each other’s gentle teasing.
She just slipped into his bunk a few times a week. He just slipped into her shuttle when no one was looking.
She was an itch he needed to scratch. He was a personality she needed to control. This was what they were supposed to want. This was supposed to be their happy ending.
But in the end, neither of them was happy.
But neither of them could figure out a way to stop.
And they truly believed that they could be happy.
They started slowly. Mal sought her out for advice, tapping politely on the shuttle door. Inara smiled, blushed and stuttered when he took her advice. They touched hands when they passed each other, sought each other out for quiet conversation. And one night, after sharing a drink and some laughter, their lips touched.
They moved quickly. The sparks were undeniable, and they fell into the shuttle with lips still locked. Inara’s clever fingers undid a pin here, and knot there, and silken fabric whispered to pool at her feet. The rich colours and warm lighting she’d furnished the shuttle with made her skin look soft and incredibly touchable.
So he touched. His hands were rough, so he just barely skimmed them down her shoulders, her arms, to her hips. She shivered, and pressed against him, trying to silently signal for more pressure, more speed, more of everything. She pulled at his shirt, scattering buttons and scraping her fingernails down his chest. They fell into the bed, pulling, tugging, pressing...
Soft moans.
Whispers.
Gasps.
Begging.
Demands.
They dressed quickly. He slipped out the door with a crooked, apologetic smile and no eye contact. He tried to make it to the bridge with no one noticing his path, but it was a small ship.
Everyone thought they knew. Thought that the tension would dissipate, that the bickering was done with, that Mal and Inara would be happy.
But they couldn’t look at each other. They didn’t touch hands anymore, they didn’t have quiet conversations or laugh at each other’s gentle teasing.
She just slipped into his bunk a few times a week. He just slipped into her shuttle when no one was looking.
She was an itch he needed to scratch. He was a personality she needed to control. This was what they were supposed to want. This was supposed to be their happy ending.
But in the end, neither of them was happy.
But neither of them could figure out a way to stop.