A.N. Rated R for a little bit of sex. Twice warned. No complaining.

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Inara woke up early, feeling Mal’s fingers still interlaced with hers. It was an odd position for them, both lying on their backs in their shared bed, connected only at the hands. He’d tried several times, in a semi-conscious state, to roll on his side and wrap himself around her, but was met with cries from the bullet hole in his side. Each time, she’d woken up to his screams, she helped him lie on his back again, checked the bandages, and hovered near his face until he fell asleep again. Sliding out of bed carefully, so as not to wake him, Inara padded barefoot across their bunk, pulling her hair away from her face. It was years of practice and training that compelled the move. The need to be clean and refreshed when her client awoke – or as was the case now, her husband. Even after six years of marriage, the habit stuck. Mal had no idea how long it took her to get ready in the mornings, and if he did, he never complained. She sat in front of the sink, washed the old make-up off her face, and considered herself in the mirror. No new lines since yesterday. No gray hairs. A little puffiness around the eyes from crying so much, but she treated it easily with a cream. She stripped down and sponged herself clean, going easy on the water and soap as they were on a particularly long stint in the black and resources were low. Smoothing her skin with fresh lotion, Inara considered the dress she’d set out for herself today and hesitated. The soft satin and light fabric, though heaven on the skin, seemed as inviting as a prison, and once she put it on, she’d be sitting straight and proper for the rest of the day. Mal couldn’t leave the bed and she wanted nothing more than to lay next to him, cozy and warm. Inara reached for her robe, but her eyes fell on Mal’s shirt, draped over the back of the chair. Sleeping outside her husband’s arms last night had been like murder, and she started to wonder if wrapping herself in his shirt would be enough. She’d never put on his clothes before. She’d seen Kaylee walking around in Simon’s shirts often enough, and the special glow such a move brought to her face. Mal had once jokingly put on one of her dresses, but that didn’t really have the same effect. Tentatively, she slid into the blue, button-down shirt, and it embraced her with a sigh of happiness. Mal’s scent fell across her shoulders, the material not nearly as dusty or grimy as she’d imagined. The soft cotton massaged her skin, and she felt immediately the glow of happiness that comes from being wrapped in the memory of someone else. Her make-up forgotten, she climbed back into bed, wanting to sleep, wrapped up in Mal. She lay on her side, facing him, placing one hand on his arm, and closed her eyes. Mal’s head lolled to the side, the taste of sleep on his tongue, and he looked at Inara through lazy lids. His wife rarely crawled back into bed, unless she was planning something or wasn’t feeling well. “Whoa,” he breathed, his hand coming immediately to touch her face. Inara’s brown eyes fluttered open, looking at him with concern. For the first time in his life, he saw her pale pink lips part – not shaded ruby red. He could see the soft delicate border of her eyes and perfect, delicate lashes not traced and enhanced by black liner. Her cheeks had their own, special peachy glow, and light freckles that had always been covered by foundation. Without makeup, she was more beautiful than he had ever imagined her to be, and he could feel a lump of joy growing in his chest. “Are you alright?” Inara asked, propping herself on her elbows, concerned that his breathing had quickened. He just stared at her, open-mouthed, wondering at the loose ponytail her hair was pulled into, noticing that she wore his shirt. The top three buttons were undone and when she leaned over, it fell sweetly low on her cleavage. “I’m fine,” he said, touching the collar of his shirt on her, feeling a fire start to burn inside of him. “I just –” He swallowed hard. “It’s nice to finally see you.” “Oh,” she said, smiling bashfully, looking down at his hand as it slid through the open buttons of her shirt, grazing her breasts. He reached up, cupping her chin, guiding her lips toward his. She leaned over carefully, opening her mouth to the kiss. He sucked her bottom lip, then kissed across her face. She even tasted different without the makeup. Her lips were pure and smooth, and her eyelashes felt so light against him, like the soft wings of a butterfly. Unable to help himself, Mal reached his other hand out, trying to lift his body toward her, but was suddenly struck senseless by the pain in his side. Inara cradled his head against her breast, and lowered him easily onto the pillow. “I’m sorry, my love,” she whispered, and he could feel her laughing as she held him. Teasingly, she ran a finger down his sternum. “If I’d have known this would turn you on so much, I wouldn’t have done it.” “Then when would I have seen you?” he asked, the near hand snaking up her thigh, teasing under the lower hem of the shirt. Inara could see the sheet tenting from his hardness. She pulled his hand off her, and stroked his hair like a concerned mother might. “Mal, you’re hurt. We can’t do anything today.” “‘Nara.” “I promise I’ll wear the shirt again when you’re feeling better.” “Please,” he begged, pulling her hand under the sheet. She complied with a few light strokes, feeling herself become wet with her own desire. Maybe she could, if she were gentle. Maybe they could. “Simon will never let you recover in your own room again,” she moaned, as his hand found its way to her and stroked as well. Mal chuckled. “Like that Infirmary bed ain’t been christened by him already.” Inara laughed too, feeling mirthful waves of fire beginning to rock through her. “Stay very still,” Inara whispered, straddling him and guiding him into her. He arched instinctively, then cried out and winced. Inara froze. “Maybe we should stop.” “No,” Mal cried out, grabbing her arm, his eyes still pressed closed from the pain. “Pain makes it more intense. Keep going.” Her eyes watchful and concerned, she noticed the pain on his face melt again into pleasure as she slid slowly up and down, her hands bracing her hips. His eyes were pressed closed, his breathing shallow, both his hands gripping her forearms. Every now and then, pain would strike across his features, and it twisted Inara’s heart agonizingly to see. After the first few waves of pain, his eyes seemed glued shut and he grew softer, not harder from her touch. “Mal?” she asked, sliding off him in concern. “Yeah,” he gasped, releasing her one arm so she could go from on top of him to beside him. “This pain thing. Not all it’s cracked up to be.” “I’m sorry, my love,” she whispered, touching his face, mopping the sweat from his brow with her sleeve. His breathing calmed and when he opened his eyes, she immediately saw the wonder and awe with which he regarded her. “There you are,” he smiled, touching her face again. “Here I am.” She put her hand on his as he traced her lower lip. She waited a beat before pulling back. “I should go get dressed.” “Are you leavin’?” “I shouldn’t have done this.” “Come ‘ere.” “Mal, I don’t want to hurt you.” “Then come here,” he ordered, starting to push himself onto his elbows. Inara complied quickly, just so he wouldn’t hurt himself. He took her hand and pulled her under him to replace his pillow. “Mal, just let me put some proper clothes on,” she begged. “No. I’ll not have pretending between us.” “It’s not –” she began, but couldn’t complete the lie. “Why’d you put my shirt on today?” Mal asked seriously. “What do you mean?” she stalled. “Why today and not any other day?” He nearly regretted asking so harshly, seeing the tears of confusion in her eyes. “I’m not sure,” she stammered. “I just… wanted to feel you.” “Then wear the shirt,” he told her, as the tears spilled over her chin onto his face. He reached up and cupped her face, unable to properly wipe the tears from her cheek in his current position. “Mal, I’m not pretending with you,” she insisted urgently. “I know,” he assured. “I know most days, you’ll wake up, study your face in that mirror, cover it with make-up, and fix your hair. And I know when you do that, you ain’t pretending one bit. That’s just who you are.” She nodded her agreement, trying to still the sobs choking up from her heart. “But right now, you wanna wear my shirt,” he said quietly. “Anything else is just pretending.” Shaking with new freedom, Inara curled herself around her husband’s head. His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her belly-button to his lips and kissing. Worried that she’d arouse him again, Inara sat up stiffly, and scooted to the other side of the bed. “Are you hungry?” she asked, standing up and pulling together the food she’d brought down the night before. She briefly cursed her foresight, knowing that if she’d not had breakfast already in the room, she would not have hesitated to dress properly for the day. “A little,” he confessed. She folded one leg under herself and sat next to him. Mal looked at her, knowing he was smiling like a goon, and touched her face, dancing his thumb across her cheek. “What are you doing?” “Countin’ your freckles.” “Why?” she countered, stilling his hand, looking sad. “Woman, I’ve known you ten years, been married to you for six of ‘em, and this is the first time I’ve seen your freckles.” “That’s because I hate my freckles.” Mal’s grinned deepened. “I gather that. I don’t know when I’m gonna get to see ‘em again, and I wanna know how many there are so as I know if any of ‘em went missin’ in the meanwhile.” He was grateful when a mirthful smile played across her rosy pink lips. He loved how her lips changed shade with her emotion. Painted lips don’t do that. Her hand touched his face and he sighed in contentment. Suddenly, Inara furrowed her brows perplexed, and her hand grazed his torso. “You can’t sit up.” “We have established that,” Mal agreed, flinching as she ghosted over his wounded belly. “How am I going to feed you if you can’t sit up?” “Guess I’ll go hungry and die.” Inara pressed her lips together into a thin line that darkened from the pressure. “That does seem our only option.” “Then come ‘ere and let me die with you on my lips.” “Mal,” she chastised. “That’s not what I meant,” he laughed, tugging her hand until their lips met again. His mouth opened, letting her tongue plunge past his teeth. Mal loved the way his wife kissed – how she purred into his mouth. He asked her once if she’d learned it at the Academy and she confessed that she’d never done it until she met him. She couldn’t help it; it was a response to her own pleasure. “You certainly are hungry,” she teased pulling away from his lips. She had to stop tormenting him like this while he couldn’t move. She was a professional. She should be able to control herself. Deep breath. Deep. Control. “Just get some pillows under me.” “I’ll wait for Simon. He’ll know how to move you.” “Simon?” The air suddenly went stale around Mal, his eyes widening. Inara nodded, confused. “You were shot, Mal. The only reason you’re here is because you held a gun to his head. He’s coming to check on you.” “When?” “He said after breakfast.” “Oh,” Mal said quickly, tugging the bottom of her shirt. “Then we have to move quickly.” “We tried this, Mal. You’re not strong enough.” “I ain’t tryin’ to sex you, ‘Nara. I gotta get this shirt off.” Inara shook her head, her eyes crimping in confusion. “You’re not making any sense.” “‘Nara, this is the first day I’ve seen your freckles. T’ain’t fair if the Doc gets to see ‘em too.” “Ah,” Inara smiled, knowingly, leaning over so he could reach the buttons on the shirt better. She hovered inches above his skin, letting him slide it off her, then kissed his cheek lightly and whispered in his ear. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.” He touched her cheek again, felt her soft, silky eyelashes, absorbing the beauty of her clean, pure face gazing lovingly at him. “Any time.”

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Mal's feeling better, so the story continues with: That Shirt Makes You Look Naked