This was my first real M/I story (well, not counting certain bits of "All Is Bright"), but at the time I wrote it I wasn't yet a true Mal/Inara 'shipper. Although it covers moments through "Objects in Space," it doesn't quite take into account the events of the three unaired episodes.

No archiving, please. The usual disclaimers apply.

****** "Touch" (c) HawkMoth, 2/23/2003

******

It's not the barging in unannounced I mind so much, or the never quite knowing what sort of mood he'll be in. It's not the wondering what thing gone wrong with a job is about to disrupt my schedule, although that can be extremely irritating.

It's the touching. The way he has to--play with things. My things. Tea cups, finger guards, the feathered fan that was a gift, drapes and furniture.

Touch. Touch, touch, touch.

Simple curiosity, I thought at first. Or a display of power, a reminder that while the things themselves were mine, that they and I resided in what was essentially still his. His shuttle--but my home. My things, that he couldn't stop touching.

Playing with them--eyes cast down, then looking up quickly, to catch my reaction. Talking while he's touching--some vague complaint, a reminder about scheduling, or sometimes something totally without meaning, just words, idle conversation. But looking, watching, waiting.

Touching.

***

We actually shook hands the day I handed over the security deposit and the first month's rent. Sealed the deal, as he was used to doing. So polite, so civilized, as if we hadn't spent most of that first meeting testing, baiting each other. As if he hadn't called me names and made a promise he had no intention of keeping.

My hand, swallowed up in his--firm, strong. Clean, even nails. Skin only a little rough, the callouses well-earned. Warm. All the things a Companion would notice. What, if anything, would he notice about mine? Soft and small in his, delicate and pampered, worthy of as much contempt as I was? But my grip was firm and strong as well, and there was something in his eyes, and that slow, enigmatic smile which made it seem as if he was accepting some sort of challenge in having me on board his ship.

When I returned to settle in, with my personal luggage and basic furnishings, I found the shuttle cleared out of all the accumulated junk, cleaned up and smelling much fresher. Wash and Kaylee's work, I found out later, overseen by Zoe. But only one person helped me move bag and baggage in, touching my things.

***

Standing so close, yet not touching, as we assist the young doctor working to save Kaylee's life. We battled each other over her bleeding body as Simon demanded safe passage. Now we stand together, united in the effort of willing her to live. I feel his eyes on me, and when I look up he's looking away. So close, not touching.

Touch--his hand on my shoulder, I can't believe he's touching me with so much tenderness, as Serenity reels, saying my name with such caring as he urges me to take the shuttle and his passengers to safety. To leave him, the others, behind--to leave him. And I go, shaken to the core, my skin still warm from his touch.

***

Our hands touching as we dance on Persephone, his arm around me as we dance around each other, words and emotions whirling in a dance of their own. Atherton's hand on me, like cold steel, wrong, so wrong.

Dueling with swords, with words, his words like a sword in my heart. His eyes so dark, downcast, his voice gone soft in the way that frightens and moves me.

Holding him, holding my head up high, both of us passing a form of judgment on Atherton. Holding him all the way back to the ship, a triumphant grin never quite leaving his face, and I smile back, despite feeling the tremors of pain running through him, the blood seeping through his clothing against my hand.

***

Dodging Saffron's touch, racing to see if her words are true. All control forgotten as I cry his name over and over. But he's warm, alive--I feel his pulse, his breath as I cradle his face. I smother his soft moans with my lips as silent prayers still go up to heaven. Alive--and drugged, as I am now...the room spins, my head spins, how could he have been so stupid, how could I have been so weak...

He returns from pursuit and comes knocking, so politely that I should know better than to think I'll get off easily. But he plays with me, claiming he's not, pricking at my ego and self-esteem, so sly and triumphant because he thinks he's right. I could show him with a touch he'd never forget that he's wrong, but I don't. I can't.

***

He touches Serenity, feeling her pain, as he tells us the plan that may deliver us all from death. The plan has no room for him, and no one can talk him out of it. My words can't touch him, my hands shake as I push him away from the shuttle controls. He's the only one who hasn't put on more clothes to keep the life-stealing cold at bay, and it's only now that he makes any move to seek warmth, arms drawn close to his body, withdrawing deep inside his own shelter.

Words won't reach him, I can't touch him. We leave him behind, following orders. The sight of him left there alone burns a hole in my soul.

We return, to find him near death. We can see the trail of blood he left as he touched Serenity, willing them each to survive. When he wakes, I breathe freely at last. He's doped and confused, but smiling. Giddy. I feel the same, as I rest my hand on the edge of the med-table, not quite touching.

***

Touch.

He touches Serenity--she is his, after all. Touches Kaylee, for she's the one who needs his touch almost more than the ship does. She's the only one who can touch him freely. He is there for her no matter what--in joy, sorrow, or pain. Offering a hand to hold, a fond embrace, a loving kiss.

But he has other ways of touching. Certain words dealt with an outspread hand, fingers gripping a shoulder too tightly. Intimidating. Warning. A touch like cold steel. A look of ice that burns.

A look I can't describe, can't return without feeling I'm giving something up. I'll stand up to him when no one else does, incurring a particular kind of anger, reserved only for me. Words lash out, stinging, leaving marks only we can see.

He touches my things, plays with them like a child plays with forbidden toys. I watch him, remembering what those questing fingers felt like on my skin. The warmth of his battered, bleeding body against mine. Hands touching in the dance.

******

It seems we're dancing further and further apart. Something changed, changed him, when we left Ariel. It has nothing to do with me, I would swear it. He commands, he swaggers, he bullies, he takes his duty as a captain as seriously as ever. He laughs, he teases, he watches me.

They bring him back from Niska's lair, bloody again, torn but not beaten, not truly. I have to think that. It's better if I pity Wash, worry more about what the experience did to him. Wash has Zoe--she'll see him through, the pain will fade.

Some of it.

Things change again. There's anger in his eyes, a quiet despair. He's reached some limit--with our life in the black, with me. I don't know. There are no touches, only words, whose meaning I can't discern. Why can't I touch him? Why won't he understand?

Revelations come. Fear and worry descend, as we debate and argue over poor River. Then we're all touched by the evil that comes out of the black, an invasion of pure malevolence. Serenity is violated. The touch of the bounty hunter's mind is worse than the fear of pursuit by Reavers.

I make a foolish effort to touch back, and feel the force of his madness against my mouth. Then I'm alone, praying for Simon, for River...clutching satin and silk against me in empty comfort.

The touch of River's voice, the waiting. The weight of fear and uncertainty. Zoe's voice, announcing our deliverance over the comm. Relief is a like a balm, salving the wounds. River's triumph is ours. There's laughter and banter, with a hint of tears.

He's relaxed and calm, as if nothing ever went wrong. That strength draws me, like a magnet, to seek reassurance.

He touches me. I want him to touch me. I want what I can't have. What does he want?

Gentle, so gentle. His face so close, his words so simple. Touching, not playing.

How can it hurt me so? Why do I turn away? He moves back at the same instant, and I see the same pain in his eyes. Regret and longing, fear and confusion. Neither of us knows our own mind.

I turn away and leave him. I sit among my splendid things and wait. And wonder.

Will there be a knock, or will he barge in?

Will he touch my things, or me?

******