Fic: The Eyes Don't See (Firefly: Simon/Inara, PG)
Title: The Eyes Don't See
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Simon/Inara
Words: 785
Disclaimer: They're Joss's creations, as ever.
Summary: He tries, to no result. He tries and nobody listens.
Notes: A late entry into the Firefly prompt-a-thon, for the prompt Simon/Inara, curiosity.
This is what doubt is made of--hands where hands don't belong, an impolite breach of everything that is good, and right, and known.
In a way, he doesn't see it coming. In a way, it saves him from making a fool out of himself. Not, if he were honest, that he minds too much.
She is patient. Not a patient; her words are patience, and it is obviously a skill for which a great deal of care has been taken in developing. But a small voice tells him that he'd do well not to compare, to give too much history as to when and where she might have once done this before. It is his curiosity that accompanies the shivering edge of reluctance; ironic, really, as the further they go, the more he wants.
And he wants it. Badly. What he's never been able to get from Kaylee, sweet and honest as she is. What he's seen pass, disguised beneath indifference and collective scorn, between the captain and the companion. Once, River had pulled him aside, and accused him of trying too hard. Simon could only scoff in reply, brushing her away in a brotherly fashion. River's eyes tell tales, wrapped up amongst the side effects of her medication. Simon does try. He tries, to no result. He tries and nobody listens.
At least, so he believes.
They meet under the pretence of a dozen or more carefully thought-out scenarios--when all company on board are otherwise involved in a plan of lies, loot, and thieving, and River has lost herself in some hidden enclave of the ship, Inara invites Simon to her shuttle. He is nervous. He is always nervous, like a badly prepared medical student faced suddenly with a cadaver and told to find the cause of death using mere sight, observation, and truth. Observe, and you will know, was a favourite phrase of an old teacher. It made him wonder what he was missing. He believed there had to be something in death that the eyes don't see.
Of course, he tells her none of this; what he takes to be politeness, the rich hues of her dress and sincerity of her smile, together they soothe his nerves, and Simon is left with a feeling that maybe, just maybe, the curiosity that he lets slip is also shared.
So, he thinks, observe. And do what? Know what?
And then he feels strange, because he is doing this, looking at her with observant eyes, in some oddly detached manner, but she is asleep, hair unpinned and caught beneath her shoulder. The shoulder is bare, and Simon has it in his mind that he should erase all evidence, because letting go of his curiosity, letting her do what she does so well, has simply uncovered a vein of guilt, disguised, absurdly, in River's voice. He is trying too hard. Again.
There is a thud from the direction of the hold, happy, hurried shouts and curses. Wash's voice pipes distantly over the comm--hey, Cap'n, does this mean we're getting off this lovely little moon?--and Inara opens her eyes.
She yawns, quite oblivious to his gaze, and Simon looks away; he is already half-dressed and ready to go. Rising from the bed, she places a hand on his, and smiles. It is her nature to be kind to men. And it is also her job. He is aware of her but does not look; in the corner of his eye he sees a thigh, naked, one moment the whole length of it, and then a robe covers her body, and she is walking silently across the room to a basin. Next comes the sound of water lapping onto skin, and he can't listen any more, and mumbling some excuse, he hurries away. Her voice calls after him, the same voice that teased his curiosity into admission, but Simon is unable to respond. This is what doubt is made of--hands where hands don't belong, lips meeting in half-whispered promises, a room lit by candles, so even with eyes open, all he sees are shapes, and all he feels is her sympathy. She wants to help him, and he knows this. But he walks away instead, to watch Mal argue with Jayne over which way to best divide up their newly acquired bounty.
He knows this, and it is why, when River meets his eyes later on, he shrugs, happy to bemuse her in the short time he has before she overwhelms him with her persistence--her own curiosity--and drags the truth from him. Simon has tried, but this time found somebody who will listen.
It is why he will always come back.
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Simon/Inara
Words: 785
Disclaimer: They're Joss's creations, as ever.
Summary: He tries, to no result. He tries and nobody listens.
Notes: A late entry into the Firefly prompt-a-thon, for the prompt Simon/Inara, curiosity.
This is what doubt is made of--hands where hands don't belong, an impolite breach of everything that is good, and right, and known.
In a way, he doesn't see it coming. In a way, it saves him from making a fool out of himself. Not, if he were honest, that he minds too much.
She is patient. Not a patient; her words are patience, and it is obviously a skill for which a great deal of care has been taken in developing. But a small voice tells him that he'd do well not to compare, to give too much history as to when and where she might have once done this before. It is his curiosity that accompanies the shivering edge of reluctance; ironic, really, as the further they go, the more he wants.
And he wants it. Badly. What he's never been able to get from Kaylee, sweet and honest as she is. What he's seen pass, disguised beneath indifference and collective scorn, between the captain and the companion. Once, River had pulled him aside, and accused him of trying too hard. Simon could only scoff in reply, brushing her away in a brotherly fashion. River's eyes tell tales, wrapped up amongst the side effects of her medication. Simon does try. He tries, to no result. He tries and nobody listens.
At least, so he believes.
They meet under the pretence of a dozen or more carefully thought-out scenarios--when all company on board are otherwise involved in a plan of lies, loot, and thieving, and River has lost herself in some hidden enclave of the ship, Inara invites Simon to her shuttle. He is nervous. He is always nervous, like a badly prepared medical student faced suddenly with a cadaver and told to find the cause of death using mere sight, observation, and truth. Observe, and you will know, was a favourite phrase of an old teacher. It made him wonder what he was missing. He believed there had to be something in death that the eyes don't see.
Of course, he tells her none of this; what he takes to be politeness, the rich hues of her dress and sincerity of her smile, together they soothe his nerves, and Simon is left with a feeling that maybe, just maybe, the curiosity that he lets slip is also shared.
So, he thinks, observe. And do what? Know what?
And then he feels strange, because he is doing this, looking at her with observant eyes, in some oddly detached manner, but she is asleep, hair unpinned and caught beneath her shoulder. The shoulder is bare, and Simon has it in his mind that he should erase all evidence, because letting go of his curiosity, letting her do what she does so well, has simply uncovered a vein of guilt, disguised, absurdly, in River's voice. He is trying too hard. Again.
There is a thud from the direction of the hold, happy, hurried shouts and curses. Wash's voice pipes distantly over the comm--hey, Cap'n, does this mean we're getting off this lovely little moon?--and Inara opens her eyes.
She yawns, quite oblivious to his gaze, and Simon looks away; he is already half-dressed and ready to go. Rising from the bed, she places a hand on his, and smiles. It is her nature to be kind to men. And it is also her job. He is aware of her but does not look; in the corner of his eye he sees a thigh, naked, one moment the whole length of it, and then a robe covers her body, and she is walking silently across the room to a basin. Next comes the sound of water lapping onto skin, and he can't listen any more, and mumbling some excuse, he hurries away. Her voice calls after him, the same voice that teased his curiosity into admission, but Simon is unable to respond. This is what doubt is made of--hands where hands don't belong, lips meeting in half-whispered promises, a room lit by candles, so even with eyes open, all he sees are shapes, and all he feels is her sympathy. She wants to help him, and he knows this. But he walks away instead, to watch Mal argue with Jayne over which way to best divide up their newly acquired bounty.
He knows this, and it is why, when River meets his eyes later on, he shrugs, happy to bemuse her in the short time he has before she overwhelms him with her persistence--her own curiosity--and drags the truth from him. Simon has tried, but this time found somebody who will listen.
It is why he will always come back.