[ fic ] five times mal reynolds didn't kiss inara serra (and the one time he did)

[sardonicynic]

title: five times mal reynolds didn't kiss inara serra (and the one time he did)
author: sardonicynic
summary: he can't afford to let himself be taken in by her wiles
rating: r for language (though the majority of the cursing's in mandarin, y'all, i swear)
character(s): mal, inara; mentions of simon, kaylee, jayne and zoë
pairing(s): mal/inara
spoilers: for the entire series
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, the words are (save for one line of dialogue taken straight from an objects in space deleted scene). joss, please don't sue — lowly copy editors aren't worth the effort.
a/n: written for whedonland's heart of gold challenge. the prompt: "mal, inara, mal/inara;" this starts with their first meeting and continues just post-objects in space. this is also baby's first-ever firefly fic, so while feedback is love, be brutal; i welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
props: mad props and buckets of sugary baked goods to adam_bat for her eyes and brain.



i. She smells like cinnamon.

"Captain Reynolds, decreasing my board by ten percent will not impact your net earnings in the slightest. In fact, my presence on this ship is going to gain you a foothold with Alliance officials that you wouldn't have otherwise."

Cinnamon and rice powder and something just a little smoky, some kind of incense, maybe, and gorram if he can't afford to let himself be taken in by her wiles. He won't break his own rule: no grappling with crew.

"So you're sayin' it's a business decision."

She's looking at him from under those long lashes, and —

Wiles, he reminds himself.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, yes."

He smiles, quick and bright and false.

"I want no part of your whorin' business."

"And I want no part of your smuggling racket."

"I think we're in agreement, then."

Her mouth curves into a small smile, simultaneously cool and warm; he's going to give her that discount, and they both know it.

Later, when he's alone in his bunk, her smell still fills his nose and he can still see those red, red lips, but he don't let his hand wander below the blanket.





ii. "M'fine."

"You're sick."

"Ain't nobody callin' me depraved on my own boat, least of all — "

"A whore?"

"I was gonna say ... "

Inara doubles and swims in his vision; he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the cot. He thought he'd be full-on healed from Atherton gorram Wing's gorram gut wound by now and where the gŏu cào de guĭ is the doc when he needs him?

"S'gonna say ... "

Reaching for the edge of the razor-thin mattress, he finds smooth, cool skin and delicate bones, and his surprise registers on his features in the half-second before the room pitches and rolls.

"Shh, don't talk."

Her voice is as soothing as the backs of her fingers on his hellfire-hot skin. He opens his eyes, but focusing on her kohl-lined ones and ruby mouth is a feat he don't have strength for.

"Don't give me orders, s'my ship."

"Captain Reynolds," she says, crisp and even, withdrawing her hand as Simon enters the infirmary, "shut up."





iii. It's his turn for dishes.

Only fair, he reckons, despite the qiángbào hóuzi de sink full of them staring him in the face; Jayne had cleared the septic vat earlier — Jayne ain't been much for talking since they left the mudders — and little Kaylee's still fiddling with the compression coil in the engine room.

Mal's down to the last of the mess, turning a tin cup in his hand, when he spots the unmistakable lipstick stain, a perfect crimson crescent on the dented rim. He pauses for a heartbeat before dunking the mug in the dishwater, and he don't let himself wonder what her mouth and tongue would feel like against his collarbone.





iv. He likes seeing her riled, if only for rarity's sake.

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are darker than usual. If he lets his line of sight fall — and he don't want to, but he does — he can see her pulse fluttering at her throat like a tiny bird in a satin cage.

"Mal — "

"It's done decided, Inara."

"Mal — "

"There an echo only I can hear in here? We're skirtin' the Core this round."

"I haven't had work in weeks — "

Shénshèng de gāowán, she makes his blood itch beneath his skin, especially when she's so damn logical.

"Wŏ de mā hé tā de fēngkuáng de wàisheng dōu, woman, would it kill you not to spread for a spell?"

Her eyes go flat and her already perfect posture morphs to marble. She turns to leave, silks whispering behind her, and her silence cuts him deeper than any icy retort.

A better man might apologize.

But Mal finds himself an Alliance-friendly bar on a backwater moon, and Zoë hauls him, bruised and bloody, back to Serenity.





v. "Fills you to the brim but you don't let anyone see. Your cup runneth over, but nobody's there to catch the spill."

Mal don't scrub his face, but it's a near thing. There's a litany of what he don't have time for today, and River's riddles are high on that list.

"She's thirsty, you know."

He looks over, sharp and sudden.

"What?"

"Not what, who," River says, looking at him like his intellect is something to be pitied. (Which, next to hers, it is, but that ain't the point.) "Inara. She'd catch it. You. She'd — "

He dumps the last of his tea in the sink and stalks toward the bridge, leaving River alone in the kitchen and nearly slamming into Serenity's resident Companion in the corridor.

"Precious Buddha, Mal — "

"Don't you have a client to be attendin' to?" He shrugs her steadying hand from his forearm and breezes past her. "'Cause I got captaining to do."





vi. It's late.

"Late" is relative in the black, but Mal's been up so long his eyes feel like they've been pitched into the thick of a dust storm and screwed back in their sockets. Every joint in his body's protesting, and Kaylee's homemade rice wine ain't helping his headache.

He's been pushing his crew hard and himself harder the past week, all in the name of getting Inara to Sihnon.

Rutting stupid, thinking she was at home here.

Kaylee's concoction is catching up to him; best be for bed before he sleeps where he sits.

"Mal?"

Dàxiàng bàozhàshì de lādùzi, this is not the night for this.

He looks up.

"Shouldn't you be gettin' your beauty sleep?" A beat. "Not that you — you need it."

"I'm just having some tea," she says, her voice as smooth and polite as ever, while his teeth catch his tongue like shards of glass. "Would you like some?"

"No." He pushes away from the table; standing straight is more of an effort than it should be. "M'just goin' to bed."

"Oh." Her hands still on the kettle briefly. "Then I wish you a good night's rest."

The pleasantness — the propriety — is like a physical slap, and a riptide of anger and alcohol rushes through him till he's half-dizzy.

"Last conversation we'll ever have, and it's this gŏu pì?"

He turns, grimly satisfied when he sees her frozen expression.

"Mal, it's not — "

He closes the distance between them to cup her cheek, porcelain-smooth under his callused palm, and tiānna, she's pressing into the touch, tilting into the brush of his thumb against her lower lip.

"'Nara — "

He dips his head, mouth hovering over hers.

"Mal — "

She tastes like lipstick and chai, and there's no art to this like he thought there'd be with her, just lips and tongues and teeth, and —

"Wait," she says, pulling back. "Not like this."

His eyes darken and his jaw tightens; with a stiff nod, he turns to leave.

"A tease till the end. Well, it's fittin', at least."

"Mal — "

"Wish you a good night's rest."

He makes it to his bunk, but he don't sleep, and when they reach Sihnon, he don't ask her to stay.





- - - - -

translations:

gŏu cào de guĭ: dog-humping hell
qiángbào hóuzi de: monkey-raping
shénshèng de gāowán: holy testicle Tuesday
wŏ de mā hé tā de fēngkuáng de wàisheng dōu: holy mother of God and all her wacky nephews
dàxiàng bàozhàshì de lādùzi: explosive diarrhea of an elephant
gŏu pì: bullshit
tiānna: oh God