WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH
Hey there, reader! I've decided to be upfront with the warning. If you'd rather read about bunnies and magical rainbow ponies then this isn't really the fic for you. There are neither. I'm very sorry. However, it's not like I'm killing bunnies and/or magical rainbow ponies. So really, this isn't that bad. When you look at it in perspective. It's also the first fic I've ever written that's made it beyond my own computer screen, and I'm a tad nervous. So if you're gonna hate, please do it politely.

Anyway, here's my alternate ending to Shindig. It's my second favourite episode for the sheer Mal/Inara nature of it, so I hope I've done it justice. Also, if this had been done before... oh well. Here's my version.

Rating: T for character death.

Disclaimer: Joss is Boss. And all the best dialogue isn't mine.

'Best be careful, Ath. Hear these things are sharp.'

Inara groaned inwardly. Beside her, Sir Warrick voiced her thoughts. 'He thinks he's doing well, doesn't he?'

Inara grimaced. 'He's being toyed with.' She felt a tightness in her chest, a tightness that was wound with every clash of the swords, until it felt like she could hardly breathe. She wondered how the Ball had come to this. It was supposed to be night of dancing and frivolity. But Inara supposed that if she could rely on Mal for anything, it was to make trouble out of any situation, no matter how genial.

She gasped along with Mal as Atherton slashed at his shoulder. She knew it would take more than that to stop the captain, but things were only going to get worse. She had a good understanding of swordplay from the Academy, but even one who wasn't as trained could have seen how the duel was going to end.

The clash of swords stopped. Atherton stood, hands behind his back, a wicked smile on his face. A split second, and Inara realised his plan. A wave of panic rose up inside her.

'Don't fall for that!' she cried. But Mal, idiotic Mal, charged anyway. Charged straight into the point of Atherton's sword. Inara gasped, shutting her eyes in an attempt to block out the wave of fear that had swept through her. She whispered a quick prayer, and a curse at that hun dan Atherton. What had she ever seen in him, anyway? And now Mal, her Mal…

When she opened her eyes, Mal was clasping his stomach, blood dripping through his hand. But still alive, still fighting. Still flying.

He charged again. Atherton parried, and retreated. Inara watched Mal gasp, watched him tighten his loosening grip on the sword. His eyes flicked to her for a split second, and what she saw in them scared her.

'Mal, no!' she cried, but too late. Mal had charged once again, his feeble attempt to take a swing at Atherton failing. With a nimble flick of his wrist, Atherton disarmed Mal, sent his sword flying across the grass.

Inara opened her mouth. She had to say something, she had to stop this. 'Atherton!'

But she received no reaction from the man, and Inara had to wonder if he had even heard her cries at all. Mal did, however, and glanced at her once more. Inara almost ran to him, would have run to him, but when Atherton sank his sword into Mal's chest for a second time, she found she couldn't move. The tightness in her chest that had been growing since the start of the duel suddenly burst, filling her whole body with pain. She barely registered Mal's groan as Atherton withdrew his sword and prepared for another stab.

A hand caught his arm, however. Sir Warrick. Suddenly amongst the action. Inara hadn't even noticed him leave her side.

'It's over, son,' he said. 'It's finished.'

Atherton looked down at Mal, Mal, who had collapsed onto his side, his hands clamped feebly on his stomach.

He smiled. 'I guess it is,' he turned to Inara and spat. 'This worthless pile of go-se got his due. And rest assured, I wont be seeing you again, whore.'

His use of that word, Mal's word, brought her out of her stupor. She ran, ungracefully, and fell to the captain's side.

'Mal,' she cried. 'Mal, Mal, Mal…'

Mal looked up at her, with piercing blue eyes. Tears began spilling down her cheeks. No! This man has survived a whole war, how could he let one man with a sword bring him down?

'No, Mal. Stay with me,' Inara cried, holding his face in her hands. 'You're stronger than this.'

She felt, rather than saw, him shake his head. 'Inara,' he coughed, reaching a hand up to her face. 'Don't… don't cry.'

She grabbed his hand, clasping it tight. And met his eyes again, a wave of pain surging through her. Using her other hand, she brushed back his hair.

'Mal, I…' for the first time in her life, words failed her. Instead, she leaned closer to Mal, planting a soft kiss on his mouth. She could feel him gasp, and she pulled away.

'You can't die,' she whispered. 'You can't. I – I love you.'

She felt Mal's hand tighten around hers, and she stared into his eyes. She watched as the brightness faded, until he saw her no longer. But she clasped his hand tighter, pressed it between hers.

She couldn't let go.

Chinese (which you probably know anyway)

Hun dan : Bastard
Go-se : Crap

A/N Okay, please don't hate me for killing Mal. I can see you sharpening your pitchfork. I just had an idea, and I ran with it. So, if you have to avenge his death, blame the Muse that gave it to me. Or you can use your pitchfork to sift through some hay, or whatever pitchforks are really used for. I don't know.

I hope you liked it, though! If you did (or even if you didn't) please review. Even just a couple of words. You'll make my day.

Thanks for reading!