Written for a prompt by hjea back in March.

River. Inara.

Future fic, post-movie but nothing actually spoilery.

Not aaangsty per se, but not totally fluffy either.

Rated G.

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Wisdom That Holds

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There are flashes of green and white-bright light.

"Catch me, catch me if you can!"

Inara dreams of naked feet on the grass and slipping in hidden puddles. Child bruises and stains and Timothy Naveed stumbling and rolling over her.

"Tag," It's a nice dream. "You're it!"

The smile spills over onto her sleeping form. Beauty in the memory. She felt it more than the others, even then. Capturing the essence of peace. Mark of the Companion.

River's spider fingers are tracing patterns on the blanket. The handwritten signature of a man 900 years dead who wrote a library about the intricacies of human folly. She's been here for hours. Contemporary literature invisi-covers the windows of the room she hates.

There is stirring on the bed. Inara is fighting her way to the present.

"Welcome back."

She bestows a kiss, because that sounds pretty. Bestows rather than gives or leaves or presses, and it's supposed to be pretty because it was instructed as such.

"Give my wife a kiss for me, little one."

Pretty is always implied.

"River?"

The hand is shaky, reaching up to tangle in her hair. Stringy, long. Never took to being brushed and there aren't ties in the 'verse she will put on herself.

"I love you."

It's not the thing that will unconfuse Inara, but it's the thing she has waited hours to say.

Sometimes people move in ways she can't predict and it's as close to wonder as River can come without the stars. Move to save her. Move to hurt her. Move so fast to throw themselves in front of Simon.

"Simon?"

Simon.

"Swelling's gone down."

Inara frowns and radiates questions visual and otherwise. Focus, River, focus on the flow.

"Where