A/N: Just a little take on a certain moment between captain and companion. Can be considered somewhat tied in to Sky Song's timeline. That being said, reading Sky Song is not required to understand this one-shot. Enjoy. Rated for sexual themes and mentions of rape.
Triggers
She may no longer be a stranger to his bed, but she's still an intruder to his nightmares.
crawl inside this body,
find me where I am most ruined-
love me there.
-Rune Lazuli
He's got a softer side. It's there, just covered beneath layers of scar tissue and hard earned musculature. Somewhere beneath the strong bones and sinew, there's a man with a beating heart who remembers the days he wasn't always a wreck. She likes to think he only shows it to her, this vulnerability, this weakness, but she'd be a fool to assume that that was true. She knows she means something to him different from all the rest; that much he can tell her with a simple glance. It's written in his eyes, the way they immediately soften whenever he finds her in the room; a feat they never fail to do. Everyone else can see it, too, and it can almost make her blush. She's part of that reason, part of his exposed weakness, and he's made it abundantly clear that he's finally okay with that. He lets her in.
She can say he's certainly one of the prettier ones she's taken to bed, but he'd never believe it if she did. He's got this body; tall, strong and lean, enough to make her dizzy with want. Sure, he's got his scars and some are uglier than others, but she finds a story in each one of them, and he loves to tell her about it. She loves to listen to him tell it, loves seeing that spark of energy light up his handsome, rugged features. She likes the way the muscles in his arms curve, and the prominent bridge of his nose, and his strong jaw line, and the way his skin wrinkles at his finger joints and next to his eyes. She can think about the soft, fair hairs that dust his arms and legs, and some of his chest and belly too, each fiber an extension of his color, painting him to life. She can think of his lashes, a pretty dark fringe against the vast, deep hues of blue in his eyes, or his lips, soft and pink and warm against the contrasting gentle prickle of his five o'clock shadow. She loves learning him in this new way, coming to observe things about him she never would have before because she couldn't grant herself the privilege. Like the tiny marks the sun could leave on his skin. They were barely noticeable, the freckles, unless one has the opportunity to be so close to him, to be so near his face in order to see them there, just below his eyes and also on his cheekbones.
All of it is so inexplicably him, and he can never understand how much she longs to become a part of that, how much every single detail about him entices her. From the way he smells (soap, a musky spice, and crisp linen with a hint of sweat, like a farmer's loving labor as he toils in his fields), to the familiar colours of his clothing and the creases and folds of his cotton dress shirt. She wants to meld to him, intertwine and lock wherever they can, press tightly against him to feel every inch of him, to breathe him in through her own flesh. Skin on skin, fingers laced, legs wrapped around legs, she doesn't want to tell where he ends and where she begins.
He's her favorite well kept secret. No one else has the right to know him like she does; no one else gets to feel the gentle surprise of his shy kisses, or the way his roughened, calloused fingers can caress her bare skin like the finest of silks. For the very first time, she finds herself in the bed of a lover, and not a client. For the very first time, she is taking something familiar, growing accustomed to a singular man, and the way he is totally and completely her own. It's a lengthy process, but he makes it so easy for her. With the drop of her clothes, she is also dropping the mask, allowing him to see her naked in more ways than the one. When he works inside of her, she is fascinated with the way his muscles contract, in his arms, in his back and in his broad shoulders. She watches the beads of sweat that form on his forehead and make his hair stick to his face, or the ones that roll slowly down the length of his strong back and chest. She feels the pillow next to her head crinkle when his fingers clutch at it desperately, he's so deep in the throes of passion. She loves the way he fills her, and the way he feels when he's deep within her. When he finally climaxes, the way her name dies on his lips, and the warmth of him in her loins has her reacting in manners she can barely describe.
He takes good care of her in the dreary, cold, lonely nights out in the black, and he's subtle with his affection throughout the days, but never sparing. She craves him and his attention, so much so that her skin tingles and her teeth grind with nervous anticipation for the evening. It gets to the point where she longs to be held by him, to be cradled against him, where all she needs to hear is his steady breathing, and the slow thump of his heart. She can usually manage, up until they are finally given a moment away from any prying eyes, and his mouth finds hers in a maddening hunger that matches her own, only truly dissipating if they are almost caught. But when she sneaks into his bunk for the duration of the next sleep cycle, he is slow and meticulous, always paying attention to the tiniest of details although she can barely handle it. He is always careful with her, even if his hands are shaking.
It is then that she learns that they are both foreign to this concept of their relationship. Later, she learns of the restless nights, the ones where her healing hands can't be of help because she can no longer reach him where he is.
Instead, she is condemned to watching him, distressed and worried as he thrashes about, brows furrowed, breathless and sweat ridden despite being clammy and cool to the touch. She maintains her distance, knowing he would never forgive himself if he accidently hurt her during an episode. Instead, she feigns sleep, not wanting him to wake knowing she'd been witness to all of it. After all, every man had his secrets and everyone their darkest fears. Mayhap she wasn't yet privy to Mal's, but she longs to change that and earn his trust.
"I can't sleep," she confesses to him one night.
She's curled up on his small bed, hugging her knees to her chest and staring at nothing because she can't meet his gaze.
"Why's that?" he asks her.
The bed shifts with his added weight when he sits on the edge to remove his boots.
She shrugs. "Bad dreams," she answers nonchalantly.
"Space monkeys? They can be a mite scary if you give 'em pointy enough teeth, ya know." He's trying to ease her mind with a joke, but what might have worked on Kaylee doesn't quite work as well on the once companion.
She shakes her head, and once his boots and socks are off, he's started in on the buttons of his deep red shirt.
She takes in a deep breath before saying, "The subject of my dreams already comes with sharp teeth."
She's never told anyone this, never been truthful even with herself. It's hard for her to say it aloud, as if by acknowledging it, the truth was made all the more frightening. But maybe if she can open up to him, it might just get him to tell her about his own demons.
The bed shifts again when he gets up, and he's pulling his arms out of his shirt before hanging it up neatly and undoing his belt and suspenders.
"That so? Some kinda animal, then? Rabid dogs? Wolves? In any case, we're a long ways away from any planets with those sorts of creatures as inhabitants, so you don't got to worry about 'em gettin' to you out here in the black," he explains.
She stares blankly ahead and her voice is cold and strange when she speaks. "These...creatures thrive out here in the black..." A chill runs down her spine and she shivers, hugging herself tighter, trying to will away the terrifying thoughts.
She can feel his eyes on her now as he gleans the seriousness in her confession. He gets into bed next to her, on his side, but doesn't move to touch her. She's been trying to convince herself that she could handle this, that it was to help him and that she didn't have to be so frightened, but she's back on that blasted moon again and they surround her like a pack of wolves circling their prey. Their faces haunt her; mangled flesh and bone, bloody and raw as they sneer in her direction, taunting her. She can smell them even at a distance, rank with sweat, blood, feces, urine and death. So much death...
Then one of them is on her again, ripping away at her clothes and at her skin, and this time, Simon isn't there to help her. No one is. Her screams go unheard, and when she touches her neck, her fingers come away wet, warm and sticky. They've torn into her throat, they've shredded her inside and out, and they won't stop no matter the damage they are doing to her. She's their rag doll to do with as they please, and at this point, she wishes she was already dead, but tears roll down her cheeks, fresh and hot, reminding her that such was not the case. Eventually, she stops fighting and succumbs to her fate, her fingers falling away lifeless and bloodied from all the scratching and clawing. She is breathing, but she is also leaving her body behind as well.
She comes out of it numb, and Mal's familiar face is swimming before her, concern and worry written all over him like an open book. It takes her a moment to realize she's actually been crying, and that her teeth are chattering. She wipes away at the wetness on her cheeks, and tries to regain composure.
"It's like reliving it, only this time, the ending is worse. They're on top of me, and they don't stop, they never stop and it never ends," she says to him when she finally finds her quivering voice as well as a scant amount of courage.
He understands. He can't convey that in words, but she knows he does. She's opened her heart to him, told him something she's deeply ashamed of, embarrassed by, and he knows this. He doesn't like seeing her hurting, so he's got his arm draped around her shoulders, where he pulls her into him, keeping her safe.
She can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks; "I'm sorry, darlin'..."
He means it. Like everything else, he's taken the blame for this, too.
"Don't be, it isn't your fault. I chose this, and I'd choose it again if given the chance," she reminds him.
It was his turn to shake his head. "I got you dragged into this mess. I'm the one that's ruined you, and it ain't like there's anythin' I can do to stop the bad dreamin'. Barely know how to stop my own," he confesses.
She moves so that she can look at him now, and she's greeted with the same tired face he gives when he thinks no one is looking, the one that makes him appear decades older than he actually is. Her heart aches for the man crumbling beneath the burden.
When she touches his cheek gently, he smiles half heartedly and says, "I take it as a kindness, you pretendin' not to know, but ain't a soul in the 'verse can sleep easy next to a dying man, 'Nara."
He should know. He's spent plenty of nights next to one or another.
"What do you dream about?" she asks him, tentatively.
She's crossing a line and she knows it. She's aware her question is unwelcome, invading even, but she asks it anyways. She's shy and quiet when she poses it to him, but she makes sure she meets his eyes, open and honest. She wants this with him, all of it, and she's come to accept that that includes the ugly parts they both try to hide as well.
He looks away when he prepares to answer her, his fingers still tangling nervously in her inky black curls. "If I'm lucky, nothin' at all," he claims.
"And if you're not as lucky?" she presses.
He runs a shaky hand through his hair, and takes a moment to pause and think.
"Then suffice it to say that I dream of everything."
She thinks he's going to leave it at that, staying vague because maybe he isn't ready to talk to her about it just yet, that maybe their relationship isn't quite where she thinks it is. This leads her to wonder if he's ever told Zoe about his nightmares, and if maybe she has them, too.
"Mostly, it's just the folks from home. Like, it's my mind that don't want any of 'em slippin' away, so it's as if I get a rundown of all the faces and the names, remindin' me," he says with a small smile.
He's mentioned things to her about his life on Shadow before, when it would have been just pillow talk, or something light hearted that would make her laugh. He's never told her about losing it, and she's never thought to ask. So, she listens now, lets him take his time before he explains. She decides that she will wait forever if that's what it takes.
"Those ain't so bad, usually. Unless I'm relivin' a flogging my Ma gave me for somethin' I ought to not have done. Hopefully that explains any tears," he jokes, grinning genuinely.
She chuckles at his jest, running her hand up and down the broad expanse of his bare chest affectionately. Once the moment has passed, he is silent again and she snuggles into him so that her head rests below his chin, her ear pressed against his heart.
"You dream of the war?" she asks him.
He exhales through his nose. "There're those dreams, too, yes," he answers truthfully.
"Reavers?"
"On occasion."
"Miranda?"
"Not so often anymore, but that woman on that recordin' has paid me a visit or two in a few gruesome ones."
"Mr. Universe?"
"Him, his kěpà de gǒu shǐ kǒng of a moon, the operative, Wash, Shepherd, all them orphans on Haven, any poor bastard got in the way of my bullet. I can go on, but I'm seein' little purpose in doin' so," he lists, growing tired.
"So, which of those did you dream of the other night?" she asks him at last, curiosity getting the better of her.
He is silent now, and she realizes that she's caught him off guard. She had been expecting him to give her the cold shoulder, having gotten sick of her questioning and badgering only moments before. Maybe he would have even snapped at her persistence, but instead, Mal merely seems to be at a loss for words. His hand has stilled, and his mouth is open, as if ready to speak, but no sounds are coming out. She has found him in some sort of unsuspecting trap, and she is now all the more intrigued by his stunned silence. She asks him the question once more, but this time with her eyes, as she shifts in the bed to look at him.
"...Nǐ...," he finally answers, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet of his bunk.
He appears forlorn and guilty, not able to look in her direction.
"You dreamt of me?" she asks, surprised by the revelation.
He nods curtly. He looks a bit embarrassed. "Not usually the bad kind," he insinuates.
The reddening of his neck and ears tells her exactly the sort of content in the dreams he has involving her. She smiles deviously, and rests her hand atop his when she confesses to him; "I think I have those, too, with you. But you were tossing and turning last night, Mal."
He scratches the back of his head like he usually does when he's uncomfortable or nervous about a particular topic. It gives his hands something to do besides fidget in his lap.
"Now, I know it were just a dream, so I don't make nothin' of it, so neither should you. It's just...well, I was... losin' you again...," he discloses, struggling with the words and unable to mask the crack in his voice near the end.
Again.
She doesn't know what to say to that.
She knows she can't ever fathom leaving him again, not when she'd allowed herself to get this close now. They'd all almost died back on Mr. Universe's moon, and the only thought she had had back then was not being able to tell him how she truly felt, and the panic that set in because of it. Her biggest regret would have been not seeing him once more, that the last face she'd see was a reaver's angry, horrifying glare and not Mal's bewitching blue eyes instead. All the time she'd squandered bickering and hiding away, when all she had wanted to do was be with him. She would have regretted never loving him, and never allowing him to love her in return.
"I'm not going anywhere," she assures him anyways.
She gives his hand a squeeze, and the corner of his mouth twitches into a half smile when he looks at her. His hand moves to her face then, cupping her cheek just after he tenderly brushes her hair aside. She closes her eyes at the embrace, revelling in the warmth of his palm. Her heart could leap out of her chest, it beat maddeningly within her.
"We both know that I'd ask you not to this time 'round," he reminds her softly.
She's bleeding badly. It comes out in waves from her open abdominal wound, and try as he might, he just can't stop it. He tries to put it all back in, his hands coming away covered in its warm stickiness. A trickle of it rolls down the corner of her mouth, not unlike the deep red of her lipstick. His heart is racing, his ears are ringing, his mind is buzzing with grief and endless noise as he tries all he can to keep her grounded to this universe, with him, where she belongs. But he's realizing these are her final moments, and it's all he can do to admit it to himself as it happens. He can't think of what he should do, can't think of the right words to say. After all, there are so many of them and not enough time in the universe to say them.
He's losing her, and just like before, he can't stop her. The life is leaving her eyes as she tries to look at him one last time, her head bobbing about in his lap. She's choking on her own blood when she tries to speak, and his own eyes are moist, his throat dry and hoarse. It hurts to swallow and he's too afraid to blink, not wanting to miss a beat.
He's got her limp body cradled against his chest, holding on as tightly as he can when he begs her; "Don't leave me, don't you dare, not now! I ain't lettin' you, damn it!"
But, like usual, he's too late to stop her.
Before he can save her, she's already gone...
"It ain't so bad anymore, though, the horrible dreaming...," he tells her, staring into her vibrant eyes when she opens them, noting his reflection within the dark orbs.
She smiles and agrees. "No, it isn't."
He tucks a stray curl behind her ear and she leans in so that their noses brush, intoxicated with the space that is him. Their lips are inches away and his thumb is on her chin as he tilts her face towards him. Her lips part softly in anticipation, and he grazes her bottom lip with his own.
Against his hot mouth, she whispers breathily, "I think I know what can help me get to sleep."
He breathes in her scent deeply, crushing his nose against hers, both their eyes heavy lidded as their hands explore each other like it is new territory all over again.
"What's that?" He asks, tracing kisses from her ear to her jaw.
His hands are on her waist, rubbing the thin fabric of her nightgown up and down, while her fingers are tangled in his hair, grabbing fistfuls every time he attacks her throat with his mouth.
She just chuckles at his question and when they pull away just a bit, he wears a knowing smile as well. She pulls him down into bed then, atop of her, not giving him the satisfaction of an answer to his redundant question. Everything else (nightmares, reavers, death) is forgotten for the time being. For the moment, they can both pretend it is just them in the room, and not their demons...
However, later that night, Inara wakes to Mal holding her tightly against him as he sleeps behind her, his warm hand clutching protectively at the delicate fabric of her nightgown, curiously just over her belly. She doesn't understand the meaning in his restlessness, the wetness in his lashes, or the implications behind his uncharacteristic, muttered, desperate pleas in her ear, so fraught with pain and longing.
"Please, don't take her..."
It is new to her, both the nightmare and his reactions. Except this time, Inara not only wonders whose life it is Mal begs for in his dreams, but also to whom he is begging...
~Fin
A/N: It's true this is a bit dark, playing on some elements from the show and movie that weren't really explored. Cookies to those who can guess the themes. :) I'd like to think that these two heal one another, most especially Inara to Mal. Like I've mentioned on my profile about this one-shot, it can be considered a sort of attachment to Sky Song (those of you who have been following my pet project, reading this one-shot can enhance the future of Sky Song and add to Mal and Inara's relationship), but of course, does not have to be. Feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading. Translations below.
Translations:
Nǐ: You
kěpà de gǒu shǐ kǒng: dreadful shit hole