w h i s k e y . a n d . w r y

Whiskey and Wry
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: There's a difference between what a man wants and what he knows is right.

Notes:Thanks to Elizabeth Scripturient and Flora Hart for the superspeedy beta. Thanks to Pru and James for help with Mandarin. All errors are mine.

Date: October 26, 2005

After Miranda, jobs are still scarce, and they have fewer options than before, what with near to everybody who gave them work or shelter dead. And though he's happy to have Inara back, she's still working. He'd known that wasn't going to change, but he'd kind of hoped it was, and now he feels foolish.

He tries not to let it bother him -- got more important things to worry about, like the way he can't turn around on his own damn boat without tripping over Kaylee and the doc making googly-eyes at each other, and Zoe looking like a ghost that ain't yet realized it's a ghost. He tells himself he's just worried, is all, after seeing what that Atherton Wing fella was like; it ain't jealousy that makes him pick at her, and never was.

Sometimes he even believes it.

This is not one of those times.

They'd argued again, over some rutting unimportant thing he can't rightly recall now, though it seemed so gorram vital half an hour ago, and then she took off for her appointment, leaving him fuming in her wake.

He grabs a bottle of Jayne's best whiskey and a glass, and sits himself down at the kitchen table, alone.

River glides into the kitchen, legs bare under a short, flowy skirt, and he finds himself noticing the curve of her calf, the arch of her foot. Wonders if her moonwhite skin is as fine and soft as it looks. He sits back to get a better look without thinking too much about it.

In a motion both graceful and somewhat freakish, she lifts her foot into his lap, toes pointed and resting lightly on his thigh. She has no trouble keeping her balance, but he's thrown.

"Ni zai gan shen me?" But he doesn't jump up and push her away, like he knows he should. Her nearness warms him in ways he don't want to admit, even to himself. Especially to himself.

Her eyes sparkle in the warm yellow light, holding him. "Giving you a chance to find out," she says. He runs a finger up along the curve he was just admiring and feels her quiver under the touch. "Tickles," she says with a giggle, and he snatches his hand away.

"Mal." The way she says his name sends a shiver through him, and not the kind he ought to be having about this girl.

Since Wash died, they've been spending a lot of time together. She's easier to be with now she's not so skittish all the time, and he needs that, 'cause watching Zoe mourn is damn near breaking him, and the tension with Inara is wringing out whatever he's got left. He and River got a rhythm now, an understanding, and it ain't like this.

"When something's broken, can't be made whole," she says, slipping into his lap, the insides of her thighs pressing against the outsides of his, "we mend it best we can and keep going."

He swallows hard. "I ain't had enough whiskey for this to be a good idea, darlin'," he says as she cups his cheek, other hand resting light on his shoulder, warm like sunlight. "Don't think there's enough whiskey in the 'verse for this to be a good idea." His hand settles on her thigh almost of its own volition; her skin is fine and smooth as silk, too tempting to resist.

"You're wrong." She rocks against him and he can feel the heat of her through the layers of their clothing, can feel his body respond. "You're thinking too much. Not your strong suit."

He laughs. "So I've been told."

She leans forward and kisses him, lips soft and inviting, tongue slick and wet in his mouth. He drinks her in, headier than the whiskey he's been knocking back, raising his hands to cup her face, tangle in the long fall of her hair. He slides his hands down her back, feeling the delicate bones through the flimsy cotton of her dress, light as a bird and stronger than he can imagine. Her breath whispers across his skin as she kisses her way up to his ear, and she begins rolling her hips, hot and demanding.

He dips his head to lick at the long line of her neck and she gives this breathy little moan that makes him ache. He slides a hand up under her skirt again, and she gasps and shivers when he brushes the elastic on her underwear. He can feel how wet she is, how much she wants him, and it would be so easy to--

He jerks his hand away, wraps both around her upper arms, and lifts her off his lap. Her eyes are wide and dark, confused; her lips are glistening, red and kiss-swollen, and it takes all his considerable self-control to push his chair back and step away.

He's breathing heavily and his voice is hoarse when he says, "We can't do this."

She shakes her head, her gaze never leaving his. "You want to. I can feel it."

"That's just biology, bâobèi. Nature taking its course. Don't mean a thing."

"Means what you want it to mean."

"Well, I don't want it to mean--"

"I know you're lying."

He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Course you do." He takes another deep breath. "River, bâobèi, there's a difference between what a man wants and what he knows is right. And this ain't right. You're--"

"Broken." She steps toward him and he steps back, flinching from her the way he never would from a man, and not because he knows she could knock him flat if she wanted. "Like you."

"That's not what I was gonna say, and you know it."

"Under your protection," she says, nodding, and he don't know if he'll ever get used to her plucking the thoughts from his head. "On Earth-that-was, that's what they'd say of a woman who became a man's mistress. She was under his protection." She steps forward again, and this time he holds his ground. "You need to learn that you don't have to protect me from yourself. It's okay. I'll wait." She stands up on tiptoe and kisses him again, then flits out in a cloud of hair and a trail of flowing cotton.

"But who's gonna protect me from you?" he mutters when she's gone.

He puts the whiskey away, not wanting to wash away the taste of her from his mouth. He goes to his bunk and takes himself in hand, imagining her laughing face and fluttering hands, and the breathy little sounds she made when he touched her.

He wonders if she's reading him right now and doing the same thing, and he comes with a curse on his lips.

End

***

Ni zai gan shen me = "What the hell are you doing?"

bâobèi = precious

***

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