Shadow, Part 1b
Mal and Zoe try to find enough funds to get Serenity off the ground; Mal and Inara have words.
Mal and Jayne came back to Serenity, tired, dusty, and both in a foul mood. Zoe didn't even need to ask to know the quest for a paying job was fruitless. But Mal wanted to talk to her, probably just because it was better than talking with Jayne, in whose gracious company he'd just spent the last few hours. Jayne was rough company even at the best of times, and this time he had started out in a bad mood—amazing what not getting paid and spending a few days in jail could do to a fella's mood. Jayne's mood had been disimproved by tramping across town and back on foot—it cost money they couldn't afford to run the mule. Add to it that Horowitz had been a bust and Mal wouldn't even let him shoot at anybody, and Jayne's foul mood had grown to colossal proportions.
"No job," Mal said.
"Man was more like to need charity himself," Jayne grumbled darkly, "and I weren't in no giving mood."
"He needed a philanthropist," Mal stated.
Now where did that come from? Zoe wondered.
Jayne was on a roll. "Shoulda just held up that armored car we saw over by the megamart. Get all the coin we need. Make a quick getaway."
"And get thrown back in jail, Jayne? Good thinking." Mal couldn't fathom Jayne's line of thought. A quick getaway on what? A ship with no fuel, no food, no water. No point countering Jayne's assertions with rational argument, Mal realized. Man was just blowing off steam. Might as well let him get it out of his system.
"Woulda worked," Jayne said sullenly.
"If our goal was to rot in jail, Jayne, yeah, it woulda worked great."
. . .
Mal climbed the stairs from the cargo bay wearily. He hadn't even actually been on trial, but 该死 gāisǐ if it didn't feel like he had. The arraignment had taken a lot out of him, and he wanted nothing more than a cup of tea and a bit of shut-eye in his bunk. But as he passed near Inara's shuttle, she put her head out and beckoned him in. They'd exchanged barely more than a dozen words since their acrimonious discussion on the bridge en route to 泥球 Ní Qiú, and he was prepared for an awkward conversation.
But Inara surprised him by placing a stack of bank notes in his hand, saying only, "Rent."
Mal was completely taken aback. He and Inara had never discussed shuttle rent since she had rejoined Serenity after his encounter with the Operative at the Training House. Rejoined? Who was he kidding? It wasn't like she'd had any kind of choice. How was the invitation worded? "Stay here and let the Operative kill you now, or come along with me and the Operative will kill us all later." He'd practically abducted her. That they'd survived Miranda was the dumbest of dumb luck. And was he then going to say, "And for that thrilling brush with death, you owe me two months' rent"? Then they'd started sleeping together, and the notion of rent in such circumstances turned his stomach. No gentleman would charge his girlfriend rent for sharing his bed on his own ship. But was he a gentleman? And was she even still his girlfriend, or had he screwed that up beyond all recovery? 哎呀 Āiyā, it was what he'd always said, shipboard relationships made things complicated. He felt confounded. But it was a fact that Serenity wouldn't fly without an infusion of ready money, and it was his duty as captain to see to the needs of the ship. So he said, "A loan. Not rent." He felt the flush rising up his chest and throat, creeping into his cheeks, and he looked away. "谢谢 Xièxie." He cleared his throat. "This'll keep us flying."
He knew he owed her thanks for a lot more than just the loan. He didn't know how to say it—didn't reckon he could say it nice and polite-like. He really and truly was glad to be out of jail, but…he tried to shove the unbidden thoughts aside. Knowing he was going to say it badly, he soldiered on. "I reckon I oughtta thank you for pullin' strings, workin' your contacts and gettin' me outta jail." As he said it, his head filled with a vision of Inara with her clients—the advocate, the immigration inspector, the judge. It clenched at his heart, making him almost physically ill. "Heartsick" was not just an expression, he decided, but something felt in the most visceral way. She may have been motivated by a desire to help him, but being helped in this way felt like being poisoned. It was hard to express gratitude with thoughts like these running through his head, so his thanks came out as churlish at best. "Thanks for savin' my sorry carcass."
"That's not a very graceful thank you, Mal, considering how much trouble I went through."
Now the bitterness and anger took hold of him. Knowing he'd regret his words, he still couldn't stop himself. "Took you away from your clients, didn't I? Cut into your income-producing time, I conjure. Sorry 'bout that," he added sarcastically.
Inara's eyes flashed, but she spoke calmly. "Actually, Mal, I only addedthose clients to aid your case. My schedule here on Persephone was already filled with the—other business I told you about. I had to cut that short to work the contacts necessary to secure your release."
"Grease the skids, so to speak." It was almost a sneer.
"Don't be coarse, Mal."
"Coarse comes to me natural-like."
"And rude," she spoke with some heat.
"Oh, now, coarse and rude!" Mal's voice was raised. "What's next? Common? Boorish?" He spat out the words.
"Uncommonly boorish."
Mal turned his back and began to walk away, but Inara spoke up vehemently. "You called mea liar."
He turned back. "A liar and a whore, actually."
"How dare you—" she began.
"Sorry," he interrupted. He was unsure at first if this was a sincere apology or not. "I shouldn'ta said it. I just—" he broke off at the unforgiving look on her face. Not. Definitely not. He was seething with anger and he was about to say still more that he'd regret later.
"Listen, Mal, I've gotten used to the 'W' word—亲爱的佛 qīn'àide Fó, you've used it often enough. It barely stings anymore. But how dare you call me a liar."
Mal paused momentarily. It was the word liar that had gotten under her skin? He rushed to his own defense. "When you got secrets you won't tell me—"
"And you have no secrets that you keep from me, Mal?"
He was momentarily silenced.
"I'll match your level of openness—or secrecy," she continued. "I have reasons for not disclosing my business on Persephone. It's something I can't talk about now. It was difficult—exhausting. I have been—"
"Next time, don't try your wiles on me," he blurted.
"What?"
"You coulda just said, 'I got secret business on Persephone, I need to go there,' 'stead of sweet-talking me, kissin' me like—well, like it means something—just to get me compliant. Inara, it ain't that you got business that bothers me—"
That drew a derisive snort from Inara.
"—well, it ain't just that you got business," he admitted, but only to himself. Out loud he continued, "—it's that you tried to play me."
He stopped and looked directly into her eyes. He couldn't bring himself to say how much that hurt him, the thinking that she'd play him. That she'd play him, exactly as if he were one of her clients.
Inara stared into Mal's eyes, trying to fathom the depths. She knew Mal had been unreasonable, calling her liar and whore, as if he'd never told a lie in his life, as if he stood on a pedestal of honesty and virtue, with his smuggling, thieving ways. She stood firm in her righteousness, and he barreled on with his unreasonable, angry, rude retorts—and then he pulled her right off her high horse with those words. "You tried to play me." 亲爱的佛 qīn'àide Fó, she had tried to play him. In trying to avoid hurting him in one way, she'd hurt him in another. She had hurt him. It wasn't all his fault. It was her fault, too.
"I'm sorry, Mal," she whispered. She dropped her eyes and turned away.
"I'm sorry, too, Inara," he said softly, and left the shuttle.
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glossary
该死 gāisǐ [damn]
泥球 Ní Qiú [name of a world]
哎呀 Āiyā [Damn]
谢谢 Xièxie [Thank you]
亲爱的佛 qīn'àide Fó [dear Buddha]
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