Nice and tragic. Put me in my jester place, like marzipan in my pie plate. Yes, well, those were some of the rules in my house, so...it wasn't too precious, was it? Cause that's a danger when you write something thinking "oh, that would be cute," It could be like the Renesmee of scenes.(And now I've got to find out what he says to her. But Vince, Imo, doesn't spend enough time with women where sex is off the table...or, you know, out of the coat closet.)

Yay! Oh, cheers - glad they're working so far! Here's another one:

iv

It's not a secret, exactly. But it's not something they discover through any official channels at the Madrassa. It's not something that Inara learns from her sensei or her fencing instructor, not something they ever mention in deportment classes, or in dance lessons. It isn't something she hears discussed by any of the teachers; not by chefs or diplomats or masseuses, not by courtiers or courtesans, poets or composers, linguists or psychologists. Oh, everybody knows – but it's not something they're ever officially told about. It's something she learns from the other students, something whispered about as they sit in the hot baths after classes, boiling themselves like lobsters, soaking away the honest sweat of weapons drill or sex. A sly joke passed from reddened lip to shell-perfect ear at the sight of someone who looks beside themselves with bliss, someone who has been shell-shocked by sensual delight. Speculation. Envy, even, buried deep beneath the ripple of laughter. Recognition that there walks someone truly special, someone blessed. Or cursed. Or both.

There isn't a name. Or – there are countless names. Names are fluid, anyway. None of them wear their birth names, once they become Companions. They shed them, along with their native accents and responses. They let themselves be remade, boys and girls alike. They become mirrors, and vessels; confidantes and confessors; masters and slaves; confections for the rich. Exquisite, ephemeral possessions. Pliant and unshockable objects of desire. Perfect toys. Perfect spies. Perfect weapons.

Inara is an exceptional student. Inara glows. She listens, and she learns, and she pushes herself to be the best; to maintain her calm and her poise in the face of any test, to gauge a person's needs before they know their needs themselves. She knows all about listening to what is left unspoken, and how to read the tiniest tells on the face of a man or a woman in order to recognise what is truly the wish of their heart. How to judge whether she needs to be soft and yielding, to be passive and vulnerable and sweet as a new fall of snow, or to be rough and demanding and in charge. How to be sure she knows whether someone wishes to hurt or to be hurt – and if so, whether in play or in truth, for there are those a person in her profession must needs avoid, and sometimes it's difficult to pick them out from the crowd. Some customers want to leave scars or do worse, and a Companion needs to learn how to recognise that particular hunger so that they can avoid it without giving offence, or redirect it, or be ready to incapacitate an attacker as quickly and efficiently as possible.

She's very, very good at what she does. It helps that she is beautiful, of course – but that is only to be expected. They are all beautiful. It helps too that she is intelligent, quick-witted, flexible in mind and body, charming, and an exceptionally good actress. These skills have helped her to make the most of the rigorous training a Companion undergoes in all the many arts of espionage and entertainment. But that, too, is only to be expected. Only the most exceptional young people are accepted into the Companion Houses – the children whose extraordinary potential far outstrips their parents' wealth. They are all beautiful, and intelligent, and flexible.

No, the real thing that makes Inara Sera special, the thing that keeps customers clamouring for her, that keeps them coming back once they have had her, is the gift she has for leaving them unsatisfied. Leaving them spent, and glowing, and sated, and grateful, and feeling cherished – but leaving them with the nagging knowledge that they have not had her. That there was always something secret and wonderful of herself that they didn't reach, something unspeakably lovely and precious that they never quite touched. That she remains her own, always her own, and that for all the intimacy of her mouth, the pliability of her limbs, the sincerity of her delight (continued...)

( continues...) – she does not need them. That she will walk away from them, and no entreaty can bring her back.

Even as a student she has offers upon offers for permanent contracts, and she declines them all with such grace and charm that her patrons cannot feel insulted at the time, however they might find themselves railing later.

It is perhaps small wonder, then, that she should be chosen. But it still comes as a suprise when another student crosses the sun-drenched courtyard and hands her a billet doux. Inara's mouth falls open just a little as she looks down at the fold of paper, and when she looks up to demand an explanation, she finds that the courtyard is empty. Impossibly so. She swallows, and looks down again. The paper is thick and heavy in her hand. Expensive. She tugs gently at the crimson ribbon and it falls away with a soft slither of silk, releasing the faintest trace of some warm aroma, something sweet and half-familiar. Tantalising. The calligraphy inside is exquisite, and enigmatic: elegant swirls of ink present a time and a place, nothing more. It might be a jest; this, after all, is how he – or she – traditionally requests one's services. And surely it's nothing but a legend? A long-running joke? But the faint scent of peaches makes her mouth water, and the creamy paper trembles in her hand. Inara does not think this is a joke. She accepts the assignment.

She is kneeling, when her patron arrives. Head bowed in supplication, as she would greet a king or a general. The ghostly scent of peaches is cloying and tainted with rot, and yet it is still completely irresistible.

“Well, aren't you delicious?” She cannot tell, from the voice, whether it is a man or a woman, and that shocks her. Inara is not in the business of being uncertain about something so basic. And it is not that she thinks this voice belongs to someone of more flexible gender – for she knows fine well how many possible variations there are of male and female and inbetween and neither. But this voice is not quite human – and it is, somehow, both perfectly, totally masculine and perfectly, totally feminine in a way that Inara has never heard before.

She waits. She is startled to find that she is trembling, as her mysterious patron paces around her, looking her over like she's a prize heiffer. This is not uncommon. This is something she knows how to endure gracefully, and usually it would be a simple enough matter to sink into a calmer state, to modulate her breathing – but she cannot. Her blood is racing. This, she thinks, is something new. Something truly unexpected.

“Stand up, sweeting.”

Inara rises, as graceful as any trained dancer – for such she is – and the folds of her simple gown fall with a studied elegance, wafting the faintest scent of freesias onto the air. She looks up, her head tilted at precisely the approved angle, her lashes lowered provocatively, and then she freezes quite still at the sight of the single most heartbreakingly lovely creature she has ever set eyes on in all her life. And she still does not know – could not guess, if her life depended upon it – whether this person is male, or female, or neither, or both.

“Oh yes, you'll do. You'll do very well, my child.” He, or possibly she, sounds richly amused at some private jest. “It's your sincerity that will break their hearts.”

Inara swallows. “Forgive me, honoured patron. I do not understand.” She's taking a chance, risking giving offense, but she has always hated this vertiginous sense of vulnerability. She likes to be in control, even when she presents the illusion of surrender. This interview has her off balance, the mask of her professionalism suddenly paper-thin.

“Ah, you are mistaking me for someone who cares.” The smile that accompanies this is as cold as it is irresistible. “People often do. Now, let's see – a pillow book, I think. Yes. Let's test your much-vaunted restraint. You won't last, of course – but that's only to be expected. But if you amuse me, then I may be of a mind to grant you a boon.” Slender fingers twitch (continued...)

( continues...) through the air, indicating that she should undress. “Quickly, child. It doesn't do to keep a client waiting. Or at least – not this one. All your arts will avail you nothing. It's the heart that intrigues me.” She – or possibly he – gives a sudden throaty laugh that makes Inara go weak at the knees, and her fingers tremble on the ties of her embroidered robe. When she is standing naked, Inara usually feels strong, sure of her youth and her beauty. This time she feels like a virgin on her wedding night, and she has no idea why – only that this person, this nameless patron, is stimulating all her senses and making her heart race with unaccustomed yearning. This time it truly matters, in a manner terrifying and profound, that she not be found wanting.

Inara lets herself be lain down upon the scattered pillows, feeling the stiff gold threads of intricate embroidery press hard and unyielding against her nipples, and she tries to stay quite still while her anonymous, impossible patron produces ink and a brush and begins, with agonising slowness, to write a ribbon of tidy letters on the warm curves of her skin, reading out line after line as they are formed. The brush licks over every hollow and swell, sensitising Inara's body inch by inch, and she tries very hard not to tremble as the mesmerising voice reads out sonnet after sonnet in a warm and wicked rasp, growing ever more vivid, ever more detailed, ever more filthy and intimate – but always with impeccable attention to meter and rhyme, always filled with delicate nuances of meaning as well as lovely aliteration. Inara bites her lower lip so hard she tastes her own blood, and her fingers dig into the pillows with the desperate attempt to stay quite, quite still. She feels herself shuddering and tries to force her muscles to be still, but her breath grows ragged and her thighs grow wet with more than ink.

When Inara finally comes, from nothing more than the delicate swirl of the ink over her skin, and the shockingly arousing whisper of her patron's voice in her ear, she has words curling down her spine and nuzzling her hips, words spiraling around her buttocks and down her calves and straggling out to touch her toes, words sweeping sweet and perfect over the pristine curve of her arms and losing themselves in her collarbone.

She lies face down in the pillows, panting, tears in her eyes, startled at the intensity of the experience, and listens to her patron laugh.

“Not bad, my lovely. Not bad at all. So then: a gift.” He, or possibly she, lays a cool hand upon Inara's shoulder, where the ink is dry, and turns her over. She sprawls on her back in an ungainly heap, knowing that her hair is tangling in sweaty curls, and that her breasts and belly bear the imprint of the cushions' beading and embroidery. She has almost forgotten her own name, and can only blink helplessly up into catlike golden eyes that study her like she is some strange new toy. “I will give you your heart's desire, Inara Serra, but at a price.” The perfect mouth curls unkindly. “There is always a price, of course. But it never makes a difference.”

“My heart's desire?” repeats Inara, stupidly.

“You want your freedom, don't you? That, more than anything. You want a way out. This is the key to your success, my sweet – they all know that they can't have you. They all know you're a bird they cannot keep. And I can give you the chance to spread your wings, my dear. An opportunity will come your way, and sooner than you think. But – if you take it, you will find that it is a different kind of cage. A cage you long for, and fear, in equal measure.”

“My heart's desire,” Inara says again, uncomprehending, her body still racked with aftershocks of pleasure, and her peculiar patron leans forward and drops an idle kiss upon her brow.

“Just like in the stories, sweeting.” Another smile, this one even crueller than the last. “Of course, those stories rarely end well.”

FAY.

I just.... YES.

Thank you for this.

Holy Fuck, woman. Each one gets better and better. You have nailed everyone, but never so much as Inara right now. I think for the first time, I truly understand her. And she was my least favorite character of the show.

::swallows. mutely::

Damn! That was great.

::beams::

I'm sorry that they didn't do more with Inara, and with the idea of the Companions. 'Cause what we got in canon (and, you know, Firefly is probably my favourite Whedon show) was just a mess. But they could have done something like the Bene Jesserit, or something more Jacqueline Carey-ish, and that would have been just AWESOME. I loved the little glimpses we got, though - Saffron, for example - that suggested there was a whole lot more going on with the Companions than just the Pretty Woman schtick.

Anyway, another one. Shorter, this time:

v

It feels like having his throat severed by a blade so impossibly sharp that for a long, long instant the arteries don't realise their integrity is gone, and the blood continues to flow down its normal path. It feels like missing a step in the dark, and realising, all of a sudden, that one is in the wrong house. It feels like looking at one of those freaky images from Earth That Was, where you realise, all of a sudden, that the black lizards crawling on a white floor are actually white lizards crawling on a black floor. It feels like being gut shot. Like losing his Ma.

There's the shock, the stomach-churning instant of recognition, the fulcrum, and then – then the flood of bitter horror as the world shifts around him, and he understands how badly he has erred.

This is – he doesn't believe it, is the thing, even though his eyes are telling him, even though his ears are telling him, even though he can smell the blood and the stink of shit where a man's just been shot down in front of him. Too pretty to die. Oh, it's a joke, of course, always been a joke, but he's still always believed it. Believed God was looking out for him, believed his prayers were heard and weighed, and that when he threw himself crazy-reckless into danger, dragging Zoe along behind him, that he was somehow protected. That it couldn't happen to him. Not really. He's just playing, and he's special, after all. His Ma always said so – and although he knows that's what mothers say, apparently on some level he believed it anyway. He's big and strong and true of heart, he's a hero, all the girls tell him so. And he laughs at that, and jokes about it, but deep down he knows that he's an honourable man, and his cause is just. He knows that he has integrity in the very bones of him, and he's sharp enough to see that this is not true of everyone.

Sure, other people lose, other people die in stupid, pointless ways – but it could never happen to him.

They must all think that. It must be such a surprise, when they realise they ain't nothing special after all. He thought he was better'n that, wiser'n that. Thought he wasn't some wet-behind-the-ears cadet, full of dumb ideals. Thought he knew what he was doing. Thought that, underneath the bravado and the seat-of-the-pants heroics, he was still pretty smart. Still taking calculated risks, not simply throwing himself into danger. Thought he had someone up there on his side.

He's been a fool. He's been walking around with blinders on this whole time, pretending the world is other than it is. Pretending there's a God looking out for them, high-falutin' generals looking out for them; pretending that there's somebody, somewhere, who gives a shit about 'fair' and 'just' and 'rewards'. Somebody who'll notice how hard he tries, how bright he shines, and do right by him and his.

There's nobody.

There's just people, stupid people, ordinary people placing their trust in priests and in no-good sons of bitches in uniforms, and getting screwed over for their trouble. Getting shot down where they stand, no matter how young, no matter how brave, no matter how pretty.

Mal Reynolds looks out at the glittering lights over Serenity Valley, and listens to the sound of gunfire and dying soldiers, and his heart feels like someone has pierced it with a dozen fishhooks and is tearing it into pieces while he breathes.

There is no rescue. No cavalry. No God. There is nothing for a man to have faith in but the strength in his own two hands, (continued...)

( continues...) and the friend who's got his back.

His mama's crucifix slips out of Mal's fingers and falls into the mess of blood and shit spreading out from the soldier who lies dying at his feet.