Fic: Picture Perfect (Firefly, Mal, Inara, Simon) PG 1/1
Title: Picture Perfect
Author: tigerlady
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: PG
Pairings: Inara/Simon, Mal/Inara, Mal/Simon, all implied
Summary: They're pretty as a picture, one of the prettiest things he's ever seen.
Notes: In an effort to keep the writing going, I was looking at the communities I'm in. This was intended for civilizedrules, but maybe it should go in the_pretty_fits. Eh, I'll post a link in both.
They're a perfect picture of elegance, framed in by the galley hatch of his ship. Two dark heads bend together over an old-fashioned book and a battered teapot. Mal's feet pull him past the entry of his own cabin, stepping slowly in that quiet cat-like way that Zoe despaired of teaching him. He should leave them be, or go on in and make conversation; but he doesn't. It's his ship, after all, and his crew. If he wants to eavesdrop, he should be able to. In the interest of ship safety and smooth running and all that.
Mal ignores the twitterings of his own brain and slides on up to the hatch. They're angled toward each other, backs mostly to him, so they won't see him unless they turn all the way around. If that happens...well, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. Most of the time. Usually. Often enough that he can justify standing here, just a few feet away from them.
Simon's delicate hands ghost across the paper pages like he's handling one of his patients. Inara is watching him, her eyes drifting from his face to hand and back again. Mal can see that they are talking to each other. He can even hear the murmurs between them, but he can't make out the words. His frustration rises as Inara throws back her head and laughs at something Simon says. It's a carefree laugh, not the biting chuckle he frequently hears aimed at himself.
Mal shifts a little closer, presses his cheek into the cold metal of the frame. Simon is still smiling, obviously pleased with himself, dimples showing and white teeth gleaming. Not an expression he usually sees on the doctor, either. They both seem relaxed and open with each other. Must be because they're both civilized. Fancy manners and fancy clothes to cover up the harsh realities of life and human nature. Mal can't stand any of it. He'd prefer not to have it on his ship, but well, Inara is a paying client. Her high-brow whorin' has seen them through many a pinch, so he can't argue the manners without biting himself in the ass. And the doctor...the fact is, it's good to have a doctor, no matter how much trouble he causes. No matter that he never seems dirtied by life, even when Mal tries to dirty the man his own self.
Inara points to a line in the book, her red-painted nail tapping elegantly against the page. Mal can feel it like a shiver against his skin. Simon lays his hand next to hers, shadowing her gesture. Inara doesn't move her hand back. Mal sends a glare her way, but it's ineffective. Imagine that. Their heads bend closer together-as if to see the pages better in the dim light. Inara's dark curls tumble over her shoulder. His view is obscured, but he can guess what's happening behind those fine tresses.
Mal pulls back, jealousy burning in his gut like a lit flare. He swallows a few times, reigning in his temper. He wants to storm in and tear the two apart. It's his ship, his crew, his right. Except he's got that deep-down core of honesty that makes him acknowledge the idiocy of that impulse. So instead he shuffles back towards his cabin, stepping loudly the last few paces as he opens the hatch.
He strips off his suspenders, then chugs down a finger of his carefully-rationed whiskey. It's a different kind of burn. One that he prefers. He switches off the light and climbs into bed, though he knows he won't sleep.
Mal can't stop picturing the two dark heads together. Pretty as a picture, they were. Jealousy overwhelms the whiskey burn.
He just wishes he knew which one stokes the flames.
Author: tigerlady
Fandom: Firefly
Rating: PG
Pairings: Inara/Simon, Mal/Inara, Mal/Simon, all implied
Summary: They're pretty as a picture, one of the prettiest things he's ever seen.
Notes: In an effort to keep the writing going, I was looking at the communities I'm in. This was intended for civilizedrules, but maybe it should go in the_pretty_fits. Eh, I'll post a link in both.
They're a perfect picture of elegance, framed in by the galley hatch of his ship. Two dark heads bend together over an old-fashioned book and a battered teapot. Mal's feet pull him past the entry of his own cabin, stepping slowly in that quiet cat-like way that Zoe despaired of teaching him. He should leave them be, or go on in and make conversation; but he doesn't. It's his ship, after all, and his crew. If he wants to eavesdrop, he should be able to. In the interest of ship safety and smooth running and all that.
Mal ignores the twitterings of his own brain and slides on up to the hatch. They're angled toward each other, backs mostly to him, so they won't see him unless they turn all the way around. If that happens...well, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. Most of the time. Usually. Often enough that he can justify standing here, just a few feet away from them.
Simon's delicate hands ghost across the paper pages like he's handling one of his patients. Inara is watching him, her eyes drifting from his face to hand and back again. Mal can see that they are talking to each other. He can even hear the murmurs between them, but he can't make out the words. His frustration rises as Inara throws back her head and laughs at something Simon says. It's a carefree laugh, not the biting chuckle he frequently hears aimed at himself.
Mal shifts a little closer, presses his cheek into the cold metal of the frame. Simon is still smiling, obviously pleased with himself, dimples showing and white teeth gleaming. Not an expression he usually sees on the doctor, either. They both seem relaxed and open with each other. Must be because they're both civilized. Fancy manners and fancy clothes to cover up the harsh realities of life and human nature. Mal can't stand any of it. He'd prefer not to have it on his ship, but well, Inara is a paying client. Her high-brow whorin' has seen them through many a pinch, so he can't argue the manners without biting himself in the ass. And the doctor...the fact is, it's good to have a doctor, no matter how much trouble he causes. No matter that he never seems dirtied by life, even when Mal tries to dirty the man his own self.
Inara points to a line in the book, her red-painted nail tapping elegantly against the page. Mal can feel it like a shiver against his skin. Simon lays his hand next to hers, shadowing her gesture. Inara doesn't move her hand back. Mal sends a glare her way, but it's ineffective. Imagine that. Their heads bend closer together-as if to see the pages better in the dim light. Inara's dark curls tumble over her shoulder. His view is obscured, but he can guess what's happening behind those fine tresses.
Mal pulls back, jealousy burning in his gut like a lit flare. He swallows a few times, reigning in his temper. He wants to storm in and tear the two apart. It's his ship, his crew, his right. Except he's got that deep-down core of honesty that makes him acknowledge the idiocy of that impulse. So instead he shuffles back towards his cabin, stepping loudly the last few paces as he opens the hatch.
He strips off his suspenders, then chugs down a finger of his carefully-rationed whiskey. It's a different kind of burn. One that he prefers. He switches off the light and climbs into bed, though he knows he won't sleep.
Mal can't stop picturing the two dark heads together. Pretty as a picture, they were. Jealousy overwhelms the whiskey burn.
He just wishes he knew which one stokes the flames.