n o . h e r o . i n . h e r . s k y

No Hero in Her Sky
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: Shouldn't be thinking about Inara while he's kissing River. Shouldn't be kissing River at all.

Spoilers: none

Notes: Thanks to cadi_b and Kass for betaing. All errors are mine. Title from "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice. River quotes from the King James Version of the bible.

Date: March 8, 2006

He sees the look in her eye. He's seen it before, the kind of puppyish devotion a new recruit gets for the sergeant who saves her life. There's probably some fancy name for it--the doc would know, but Mal's not going to ask him. He don't think the doctor would be pleased to learn his baby sister is nursing those kinds of feelings for anyone, let alone--

Mal can't bring himself to think on it, 'specially not when he knows she might be reading his mind--he doesn't know how that works, and he hasn't worked up the nerve yet to ask. And it ain't like it's serious. Just a girl learning how to be a girl, with nowhere else to turn to give outlet to those urges.

And that's another thing he don't like to think on, so he puts River in the same box as Kaylee and Zoe: beautiful women he don't think about sexing. Thinking of them that way is the fastest road to trouble on a boat with more than its fair share of tribulations, even at the best of times. A good captain oughtn't be getting involved with his crew, and he always tries to be a good captain.

He treats her the way he treats Kaylee, though he's slow at first to touch her, not wanting to spook her, and not wanting to encourage her, neither. She leans into his hand, like a puppy eager to be petted, and even he ain't proof against that, much as he might try and pretend otherwise. She knows it, too.

Still, he's pretty dead-set against the whole thing. He'd tell her so, too, if she wasn't pressed up against him on the couch, all soft girl parts and iron will, her mouth moving awkwardly over his, kissing like someone who's maybe watched it done but never done it her own self.

She breaks the kiss, stares at him for a long moment, looking for something he don't think she'll find.

"'His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely,'" she whispers, brushing his lower lip with her thumb.

He shivers, startled. "Where did you learn that?" He keeps his voice low, wishing it didn't sound hoarse, lover-like.

"Am I doing it wrong?"

He opens and closes his mouth, knowing he has to choose his words with care or he'll make an even bigger mess than the one he's already got on his hands. "Ain't no wrong way," he says, which ain't exactly true, but he'll be damned if he's giving her lessons. He figures he's damned anyway, when she wiggles into his lap and he don't set her on her feet mashang. "Just what feels good and what don't."

"And this doesn't?" She holds his gaze, eyes wide and warm.

Wo de tian a. "I didn't say--"

"We can do it again." She puts a small, warm hand on his cheek, and he tries not to think about the strength and skill in it, the sheer grace of her when she's killing. She's not shy at all; she kisses him again, her tongue slipping inside his mouth to curl against his, not awkward anymore.

She's a fast learner.

He cradles her head in his palm, silky hair wrapping around his fingers--not the hair he dreams about, smelling of jasmine and incense, but dark and soft and--

Inara's gone again, no going back this time. Shouldn't be thinking about her while he's kissing River. Shouldn't be kissing River at all. She makes a little moaning sound, pressing closer, and he finds it easier than he'd like to lose himself in the slick, wet heat of her mouth, the soft curves of her body, when he should be pushing her away.

He ain't sure who's taking advantage of who, here, and that don't sit right, neither. He knows he has to take some responsibility, being the adult, and the non-crazy one, to boot, even if there's them who'd argue he's just as moon-brained as she is sometimes.

More reluctant than he'd like to admit, he disentangles his hands from her hair, puts them on her shoulders, skin soft and bones both strong and delicate beneath his fingers, and pulls away.

"Can't do this," he says. "It ain't right--"

"I'm not a child--"

"And it ain't fair to you." He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, knowing if he lets her talk he'll just end up doing what she wants, even though it's wrong. "You deserve a man who's thinking of you when he's kissing you. Deserve to be courted and cuddled, not tumbled on the down low by a mean old húndàn whose own crew ought to put him out the airlock for even thinking about touching you."

"You're not mean," she says, trailing long, white fingers over his face.

He sucks in a breath, lets it out in a rueful laugh, and repeats, "It ain't right."

River cocks her head, eyeing him like some kind of mathematical problem she's fixing to solve, and comes to her conclusion. "I'm not her."

After a long, silent moment, he turns his face, presses a kiss to the palm of her hand and then removes it from his cheek. "No," he says gently. "You're not." It's not that he don't love River, in a way. It just ain't the kind of love she wants from him, though it might be the kind she needs. He doesn't know, and she's not interested in finding out.

She nods and unfolds herself from his lap in one graceful movement. Jaw set, head held high, she walks away. The air is cool against his skin, and he's oddly bereft. He wonders again why doing the right thing don't make him feel good.

end

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