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.

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"Touch"

(c) HawkMoth, 2/23/2003

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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 some