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Notes: Written for the ff_friday drabble community weekly challenge on live journal. The community allows works to be up to 1000 words long. That week's challenge was desire.
A cacophonous silence followed Mal's words.
Then Inara was standing, stumbling, leaving as quickly as she could, her eyes bright, her movements not quite graceful.
"You don't deserve her," Simon spat.
Mal shrugged. "Never said different," he answered. His voice was emotionless, indifferent.
"Then let her go," Simon said. "Let her go."
"She don't answer to me," Mal said. "I never asked her for anything."
"Right, Mal," Simon said. "Damn you. How can you stand there and pretend this isn't about you? Do you know how much it kills me to see her cry? You push and you pull at her until she doesn't know which way is up. And then when she gives in, you blow cold again. But when someone else has a chance with her, a real chance, you've got to make it ugly."
Mal slammed his mug down and rose. "I think you'd best remember who's in charge here. I'm the captain! I won't be talked to that way on my own ship."
Simon continued on perilously. "You selfish chžnrŽn, she deserves better. The second someone fails to live up to your expectations you turn on them. Even God couldn't live up to your expectations, isn't that right, Captain?" In Simon's mouth the title was a curse.
Mal looked down dangerously on Simon. "You don't want to go there, boy."
By this time Simon was standing as well. "You think you can put me in my place by calling me boy? You think you can shut me up? You'll have to do better than that, Captain. A thousand people die every day, Captain, horribly, unfairly. A thousand people lose every day. You're a smart man, Captain, so I bet you knew that. You knew that, and you still believed. But let something happen to you, and suddenly there's no God. Did you think you were special?"
Mal's fist sent Simon tumbling backward, his head slamming into the bulkhead. Blood leaked from his nose. Mal gaped, as shocked as everyone else by what he'd done. "You make me sick," Simon whispered. "Tianna, you don't even love her. You're nothing but a petty, jealous child. You wouldn't treat her like this if I didn't want her." Simon wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "And I do, Mal. I could make her happy. If you give me a chance."
"I'm not jealous of you," Mal snapped.
"Made, Mal," Simon said, holding up his hand to show off the blood. "Then what's this all about? Anytime I start to get close to her, you get in the way. It's not jealousy? Fine, then what is it? What is it you want? What is it you desire?"
Mal sighed, and turned away, his hands clenched fists at his side. The walls seemed to be closing around him; he couldn't breathe. His words were soft, barely audible. "You," he said. Simon froze. "What?"
Mal bent his head. "I'm not jealous of you; I'm jealous of her."
The End