Disclaimer: It's all someone else's, i.e. The Man They Call Joss.
A/N: So there I was, minding my own business, when all of sudden, this idea came to me - assaulted, really - fully formed and most importantly/oddly, it was a Mal/Inara.
...I'm just as shocked as you are.
Anyway, here it is - whatever it is.
Counterfeit
by Tince
He wondered what it would be like to touch her.
To feel golden skin - smooth and impossibly, undeniably, maddeningly soft - under his fingertips; to caress crimson lips with his own - teasing, exploring, tasting - until he can't breathe and doesn't want to; to wrap thick black curls - like silk and satin - around his fingers; to intertwine small, graceful hands within his own larger, rougher ones.
But daydreams and fantasies are especially dangerous for a man like him. They sting like salt in open wounds, reminders that some things can never heal - some men can never heal...not fully, anyway.
And dreams remain - must remain - dreams.
So instead he touches her.
Runs his hand along a bulkhead - obsidian in the diminished light of the night cycle; breathes in the recycled air - cool and vaguely musky - steadying himself; taps the engine affectionately - oil and grease coating his fingers - as he helps make repairs; rests his elbows on the rough oak table, feeling the ridges and grooves and memories that the years make.
And it's enough.
It has to be.
But he still wonders - too often, he thinks - what it would be like to touch her.
A/N: What do you think? Never show my face again to respectable Raynefolk?