It's night, and the silence of the shuttle haunts him. If he listens hard enough, he can almost hear the sound of her voice, soft and broken over the hum of his ship.

"Please leave. I can't see you like this. It's best I don't see you at all."

He squeezes his eyes tightly, trying to block out the noise he knows is only in his head. Static, broken bits of language, words he wishes he could forget but knows are seared into the darkest depths of his brainpan.

"We're only dancing in circles, Mal. I don't want to hurt like this anymore.

He presses his palms tightly to his face, as if he could rub the weariness away with the sheer will of his force. He tries to forget her. He really does. It's just so damn hard when she dances through his head like a wraith in the middle of the night. She brings him here, everynight, like a damn dog lapping at her shapely heels. Except she's not here anymore. Hasn't been for three months now. But here he is. Haunted. And she ain't got no mercy for him.

Mal?

His eyes snap open. Damned if he ain't positive he really heard her this time.

"Mal?"

He pushes himself up off the ground, away from the wall against which he had been propped. Her shadow enters the shuttle before she does, but he knows her shadow. He's spent too much time studying her frame to not know it's her.

And then there she is, the real thing. Living and breathing and here. She's clad in rust colored gauze, and gold bracelets climb the lengths of her forearms, circling her arms like snakes. The raven of her hair glints in the dim light of the shuttle, as dark as the endlessness of her eyes. She's a glittering, tangible reality, and suddenly his head is swimming.

"Inara? How-?" He stops, unable to comprehend. How can she be here? He moves towards her. He needs to touch her, or else she's a dream. Or a nightmare. Either way, he's sure his mind is hell-bent on torturing him right now.

"Mal? Why are you here in the shuttle? It's the middle of the night." She looks closely at him. "Dear Buddha, Mal. When was the last time you slept?"

She crosses the room and places a hand on his bicep. It burns, the spot where she's touching him, and he knows she's really here. Wu de tyen ah, she's really here.

"Inara, what are you doin' here?"

She meets his gaze. Concern passes over her features, and confusion clouds her dark eyes.

"Mal, I never left." She pulls him closer, runs a hand over his brow, and he closes his eyes as a bittersweet tenderness washes over him. He leans into the embrace, and when he opens his eyes again, he's breathing a sigh of relief. It comes out ragged, and he doesn't try to brush away the emotions racing across his face.

"'Nara. I've got to be honest with ya; thought I was losing you. Sort of thing doesn't settle right with a man."

She smiles at him, and he can't help but think she looks a bit like those angels he stopped believing in.

"Mal."

It's a simple word, but when she says it, the meaning evolves, and he knows she's made it her own.

He pulls her to him, and suddenly she's soft and yielding in his arms. She tastes a bit exotic, like cinnamon and jasmine. Sweet and spicy, but he always figured as much. Ai ya, she tastes good.

And then, somehow, they're on the floor, and he's leaning over her, braced on his elbows, and she's pulling at his shoulders, his hair. He pulls his shirt over his shoulders, bunches it into a ball. He lifts her head, burying his fingers in the dark curls, and lays the shirt down for her as a makeshift pillow. She's a special thing, and hell if he won't show her just how much he thinks so.

When the sari folds away, he wonders how he ever kept his hands away. She's soft and curved in a way that his mama always warned him about, but he needs to know the arch of her back, and the slope of her breast, the line of her leg. She's pushing against him, and he knows he's not long for this world.

He pushes against her hips with his own, and the feeling is that of coming home for the first time. She's tight and warm and he's pretty sure he's a goner. She meets him thrust for thrust, and somehow he ends up on his back, and she's above him, smiling down at him. She rides him like she speaks, with a passion and a fire, and he's lost in her.

She pants and cries out before she crumbles astride him. She falls apart as he pushes himself up to her and embraces her, lips whispering endearments he never envisioned himself saying.

She shivers as he holds her, as she coasts the waves of her pleasure, and he runs his fingertips over her spine, wishing to lose himself in her forever. He can feel his fall approaching, and allows her to set the pace for him. He'd follow her to the edge of the 'verse, if she wanted. She guides him, and tips him over.

He lays panting, as he catches his breath. She traces the bridge of his nose, and he smiles at her as he rests her hand on his chest.

"Ai ya, 'Nara."

She chuckles. "I agree."

He pushes up on an elbow and looks down at her, his blue eyes dancing with love and merriment. "What brought this about?"

She returns the gaze, but there is a light missing that does not equal his. "I thought it was what you wanted."

He nods. "Safe to say it was." He brings her closer to him, keeping her warm. "Thought on it for a time now."

She whispers quietly. "So much so that you've brought me back to you."

He knuckles his temple, rubs away at the fog that's gathering. "'Nara, I'm feelin' a bit on the slow side right now. Sexin' tends to rob a man of his brain power. You care to talk in plainer words than what you're spoutin'?"

"I'm only what you wanted of me."

He pulls back, looks down on her as he brushes the hair from her face.

"Baobei, I want more from you than what you do on your back."

"You can't have me. You could only have this now. None of it means a damn thing."

He sits up, rubs his head, stares at her in bewilderment, wondering if she's turned into River overnight. "'Nara, what-"

She looks him dead in the eye. "You drive us all away, Mal. I'm just another ghost."

Mal jolts awake with a start. He's perched up against the wall of Inara's shuttle, and his back aches from the position. He's sweating, the collar of his shirt soaked and his hair is matted to his forehead. He looks around, but noone greets him but the remains of the night. He's completely alone.

He swallows painfully, willing away the knot that's gathered in his throat. He sighs, and stands, pulling himself up heavily.

It's too quiet in this damned shuttle, he thinks as he walks to the door. He gives one last look before exiting.

Too damned quiet, except for the ghosts.