Disclaimer: Not mine. Blah.

A/N: Mal and Inara drabble. Couldn't help myself. Read, review, enjoy. Changed the horrid name spelling. Yeah me! Thanks for all the reviews that were kind in spite of my terrible mistake. Keep 'em up!

Mal didn't know why he was attracted to women like her. Women that didn't take very kindly to the idea of staying in one place with one man for very long. Not that he had loved a lot of companions. Not that he had loved a lot of women that left him; he was the one that did most of the leaving. Yet, Mal still didn't know why he was attracted to women like her. The dangerous kind, by dangerous in a way that was different from Zoë, or Jayne or even River, the sort of dangerous that you never saw coming. The sort of dangerous that really was.

She was sharp, smart, beautiful, classy and wicked, all rolled into one. She would swear night in and night out that she wasn't the latter of those things and so would he, if he was asked but Mal knew that they both knew that wasn't the case. She was wicked, in a beautifully dangerous type way, the way that made you hurt a lot more then when you took a bullet to the shoulder. He didn't like it but he couldn't seem to spot from going back.

Sometimes, when he looked at her, Mal was reminded of just how unstable she really was. He could see the threat of capsizing flash in her eyes every so often, could see her start to stare wistfully away and he would start steeling himself against what was inevitable. What they both knew was going to come next. But somehow, it was never enough for Mal allowed her to come back into his life, onto his ship, into his heart whenever she wished and somehow couldn't see the inevitable until it was right upon him. Maybe that was why he often made a piss-pour soldier, though he knew war was nothing like loving. Nothing at all like loving Inara. For one thing, there were a lot less bullets in the bedroom but Mal often wondered if he'd take war over the girl because, at least, there were no false promises in fighting. You knew what you were getting into, you knew you were going to get hurt.

Though, Mal figured he should have known that about her by now.

Not that he ever would have shown the way she always managed to hurt him, whether she meant to or not. Sometimes, Mal wondered if she did the things she did on purpose, simply to see how far she could push him until he finally snapped and couldn't take anymore. Sometimes he knew that she did what she did because that was who she was; he, too, understood what it was like to need to get off the ship, to be on solid ground at times. But that didn't mean he ever left. He had a crew to look after, jobs that needed doing; but he supposed leaving a lover was a lot easier then abandoning a family. After all, wasn't that what she was good at?

Mal could see that look entering her eyes then, as she lay beside him on her crimson silk sheets, her hair billowing out behind her in sharp contrast to the fabric beneath her head and the alabaster skin of her neck and shoulders. She was staring upward, studying the ceiling as if there was something interesting there that he was just not seeing, pretending to ignore the way that he was staring at her. She did this often.

Gently, Mal reached out to her, he touched her cheek, her hair before withdrawing his hand. Inara turned her face away from the ceiling and offered him a wane smile, one that was both exhausted and satisfied. In a gruff manner, he questioned, "Thinkin' about leaving again?" simply because he didn't want her to get the jump on him. She did so every time.

That vixen smile remained on her painted lips as she stared at him. "No." It was a lie, they both knew it. "Of course not." It was her standard answer. They both knew that she was thinking about running, about taking off and leaving him behind until it entered her mind to come back and string him out, toy with him, tire him, use him until she was ready to leave again.

Mal grunted, a tone that suggested that he didn't really believe her but wasn't ready to challenge her statement. If she said she was going to say then he wanted to believe her; maybe a part of him did believe her, though that maybe things would be different this time and that she really would stay. But, though he knew this was not the case, he didn't want to admit that to himself just yet. He had gotten very good at ignoring what was right in front of him.

As usual, she did leave. The following day, he found her, gathering her things, something she could do in a short period of time because she had done it so many times. Mal reckoned that even he could pack her things just like she did.

"Where are you going now?" Mal questioned, his voice gruff, causing Inara to turn away from her bag and face him, surprise evident on her face. The surprise quickly turned to guilt and she did not answer him. "Why don't you stay?" He offered her a crooked, devil-may-care smile that always made her smile.

This time, however, she did not. "Why do you always do this, Mal?" Inara questioned, sounding rather weary in her question. Her voice was as smooth as the silk sheets that she bedded men upon, cultured like wine, as rich as mahogany.

His face remained stony. "Do what?" Mal questioned, though his tone suggested he wasn't trying to feign innocence. "Ask you to stay?"

Ignoring the bitterness in his tone, Inara sighed, a delicate sound. "Yes. You know I can't stay." Mal wanted to ask why this was so and how he knew this but remained silent. "I'm sorry Mal." He wondered if she really was.

Shrugging, Mal frowned, just as he always did when he found her like this; he was certain he was developing frown lines. "Guess it's my fault anyhow." He muttered, glancing down at his feet, his dirty, worn, comfortable boots. "Thinkin' you're actually gonna stay. That's what I get for lovin' a whore." In a mocking manner, he backtracked. "S'cuse me, a companion."

Inara frowned, and Mal wondered if she was pretending that she handed been hurt by his words. "Don't be that way." She instructed, refusing to look away from him, even when he wished she would. "Don't be nasty."

"Rather be nasty then truthful." Mal remarked, his tone still slightly cutting. Again, he studied his boots; he knew he needed a new pair, these were scuffed, worn beyond repair but he couldn't stand the idea of getting something else, even if he knew a new pair would be more dependable. These just felt right.

When Inara frowned, she did it in a graceful way that turned her lips into a fine, crimson line. "If you've got something to say, Mal, say it." She commanded, though her voice retained the same calculated tone that it always did.

"Nope. Ain't got nothing to say." Mal knew that even if he did say something to her, he would just be wasting his breath.

They did this every time, they bickered as though it would make her leaving easier but it didn't but that didn't stop them from following their little ritual. Mal figured his life was all about rituals when it came to Inara.

Without saying anything more, he turned left her shuttle, leaving her behind, wondering when he would be seeing her again. This time, he told himself, he was not going to let her get to him; he would let her to return to the ship, that was fine, but he wasn't going to let her return to him. He was not going to let her use him and toss him aside like he was another one of his clients; he was better then that.

But Mal knew what Inara knew. She would be back. She would need him and he would let himself be needed; she would use him and he wouldn't complain and she would leave and he would let her. He wondered if he tried to stop her, if she would stay or if she would simply drive the knife that much deeper into his stomach when she left again. So Mal decided not to try.

He knew nothing he could say would stop this strange cycle they had started, the cycle that they both depended on more then they would ever admit. She needed him as much as he needed her. She needed to know that she always had someone to come back to.

And Mal knew that he would always be there when she returned.