Written aaaaaages ago in June '06 for a drabble prompt by 2x2.

Free for all ages. Unfluffy. "Heart of Gold"-AU. Nandi didn't die.

----------------- Greyscale -----------------

The imprint of her embrace stays a few minutes, long as she can bear to watch her walk away. Tight. Believe me, I'll be fine. And she meant it, too. Always did, Inara. Like riverwater passing through.

It pricks like tears in her eyes, but the air is too dry and turning her head she knows that she's the luckier one for having lost that particular struggle long ago. Malcolm Reynolds is doing an admirable job of not looking at anything but an unwashed cup of coffee.

They're alone for a minute, silent, while his people gather for leaving, her girls start cleaning up their dinner. Little Jonah's wailing somewhere. Safe. Saved.

"I'm sorry."

He looks up startled like a boy. Like all the boys.

"Don't much know what you got to be sorry for." Like all the boys, he swallows. "Should be me that's apologizing."

They both know what he's talking about. Only people in this room is you and me. The lie she was looking for. That's what she learned, at the House. Eyes closed tight like rice wine and imagination. It's not using, if it's offered willing. Not really.

Not that he believes it.

He thinks he's so old, but he's barely more than a child, in his way. She can't help but love him a little bit, for that startling flash of purity he's hiding away so close.

"I thought I was doing you a kindness." Offered up like the condolences they are. "If I'd known... Not much of a way to repay you for your help."

Both of them.

He chances another glance at the cup before stumbling on, scratching out what he's been wanting to ask since morning. "What you said before, 'bout Inara..."

It'd be a cruelty to let him finish.

"You're a good man, Malcolm Reynolds." Good and bad. Just enough of both to earn and lose him more than she ever could, from her. "Don't think she doesn't know that. Don't think it's that."

Her hand on his shoulder, the pity in her smile. They tell him about traces in the snow and trying to stem a stream with bare hands.

Something fades in his eyes, barely stillborn light that it was.

"Right."

There's a dread to his posture when he nods and turns.

He's bracing himself.

She watches them walk, long after they're gone.

- - - END.