Disclaimer: Inara belongs to Joss Whedon. And possibly Malcolm Reynolds. I'm only trying to make sense of them.

* * * * * *

THE GAPS BETWEEN.

The gap between us is wide. Too wide to cross in safety. Any bridge we could build would only be a flimsy affair of hope and dreams, swaying precariously above the chasm below. And falling would mean a kind of death.

* * * * * *

It annoys me when he calls me a whore.

But it doesn't reach me. The word hovers in the air between us where it loses all force. I never feel the sting he intends it to deliver.

He isn't the first – and surely won't be the last – man to call me such. It's an easy mistake to make, after all. Whores sell their bodies just as I sell mine. They have meaningless sex just as I do. The only difference, really, is that I am selling a dream of the perfect woman. At the House Madrassa I trained long and hard in all the pleasuring arts and now I can be any kind of perfect a client wants. Or any kind of bad.

Ofcourse, I can't ever let him get away with it. Nor with any of the multitude of other little insults he tosses my way on a daily basis. Not on a ship like this. Our lives are so tightly entangled, so closely bound up with each other's, that I can't ever let him cross the gap between us. So I stand my ground. Defend my position.

And keep him at bay.

* * * * * *

It amuses me when he lets his desire show. When he nearly touches me. Sometimes the light in his eyes when he looks at me is of pure awe, as though I were an angel, a goddess. Something to be worshipped on bended knee.

But I'm used to such reactions from men. I've had them all my life, even since before I was a woman. They stare, stutter and blush. Or they swagger and pose. Or they throw themselves at my feet. All because of this polished, perfect exterior. And without ever knowing me.

Anyway, he knows I'm out of his class. All I need do is hint at the enormous social gulf between us. Echo his words back to him. I'm a fine lady, a Registered Companion no