Firefly fanfic
Jul. 29th, 2005 10:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieTitle: Don't
Fandom: Firefly
Disclaimer: Don't own blah, blah
Spoilers and Ship: Mal/Inara, set after Heart of Gold
Rating: No idea. PG?
Summary: Don't wish for what you can't have, don't be jealous of what is not yours.
The ancient tea ceremony, relic of Earth-that-was, is soothing. She pours with practiced ease. The motion is graceful and fluid and controlled. If her hands shake a little as she holds the delicate cup, it is merely because of exhaustion.
Inara Serra, registered Companion, inspiration of poets and desire of men, is in a cage of don'ts.
Don't look at Mal's eyes because of what you might see in them. But she can't help and sneak looks when he is distracted, and sometimes their eyes meet, and she survives it, and it makes her want more, and that is the most dangerous thing.
Don't talk to Mal too much because there are too many things unsaid, and the pauses get longer, each time. But she can't help but want to talk to him, even though it usually ends up in hurt anger or angry hurt, or infinite permutations of the two. She always looks forward to it, and tries not to think of whys.
Don't wish for what you can't have, don't be jealous of what is not yours. But even though Nandi is dead and waves of guilt are making her faintly sick despite the tea, Inara can't help but picture Mal's hands on Nandi's skin, Mal's mouth against her throat, Mal with Nandi, always with Nandi, in a horrible, inescapable loop. And she knows she wishes it had been her, and she had to bite back "but he is mine!" back on the Moon, and she shrinks from her childish, useless cry on the hard dusty floor. And she remembers the feel of his mouth, even though he doesn't, and if she concentrates less than she should, she will imagine him coming to her, and the heat of his skin against her, his fingers tangled in her hair.
Don't fall in love. It is unprofessional, it interferes, it hurts. She does not analyze this don't too close, afraid of what she will find. Certain of it, if she is honest with herself, and it's late and she is tired of pretending, and has no strength to keep up the charade. But she always finds her strength again in the morning, somehow, and the mask is put on and Inara retreats.
She sips her tea in measured rhythm, poised and serene. Inara Serra, registered Companion, practiced and untouched. Inara Serra, bound in a cage of don'ts, twisting against the self-made bars.
Fandom: Firefly
Disclaimer: Don't own blah, blah
Spoilers and Ship: Mal/Inara, set after Heart of Gold
Rating: No idea. PG?
Summary: Don't wish for what you can't have, don't be jealous of what is not yours.
The ancient tea ceremony, relic of Earth-that-was, is soothing. She pours with practiced ease. The motion is graceful and fluid and controlled. If her hands shake a little as she holds the delicate cup, it is merely because of exhaustion.
Inara Serra, registered Companion, inspiration of poets and desire of men, is in a cage of don'ts.
Don't look at Mal's eyes because of what you might see in them. But she can't help and sneak looks when he is distracted, and sometimes their eyes meet, and she survives it, and it makes her want more, and that is the most dangerous thing.
Don't talk to Mal too much because there are too many things unsaid, and the pauses get longer, each time. But she can't help but want to talk to him, even though it usually ends up in hurt anger or angry hurt, or infinite permutations of the two. She always looks forward to it, and tries not to think of whys.
Don't wish for what you can't have, don't be jealous of what is not yours. But even though Nandi is dead and waves of guilt are making her faintly sick despite the tea, Inara can't help but picture Mal's hands on Nandi's skin, Mal's mouth against her throat, Mal with Nandi, always with Nandi, in a horrible, inescapable loop. And she knows she wishes it had been her, and she had to bite back "but he is mine!" back on the Moon, and she shrinks from her childish, useless cry on the hard dusty floor. And she remembers the feel of his mouth, even though he doesn't, and if she concentrates less than she should, she will imagine him coming to her, and the heat of his skin against her, his fingers tangled in her hair.
Don't fall in love. It is unprofessional, it interferes, it hurts. She does not analyze this don't too close, afraid of what she will find. Certain of it, if she is honest with herself, and it's late and she is tired of pretending, and has no strength to keep up the charade. But she always finds her strength again in the morning, somehow, and the mask is put on and Inara retreats.
She sips her tea in measured rhythm, poised and serene. Inara Serra, registered Companion, practiced and untouched. Inara Serra, bound in a cage of don'ts, twisting against the self-made bars.
