A Certain Essence

A Firefly fanfic by DSDragon

Disclaimer: I do not own Firefly, or any of the characters therefrom. Joss Whedon, FOX and the studios that the BDM was filmed by do. More’s the pity, ‘cause if I did, I certainly wouldn’t let that be all there was.

Spoilers: Shindig.

He should have been paying attention to what that hick was saying, instead of to the tone in her voice as she answered the other man’s greeting. If he’d been doing as he ought, Atherton might have been able to refuse Reynolds’s request in a socially acceptable manner. (Never mind that there really was no way to do so.) But he had been too busy pondering the difference in Inara’s voice from just a few moments before.

Before, her voice had been as warm and lovely as the tones of a fine viola, not unlike the ancient Stradivarius from Earth-that-Was he’d once heard played solo on Londinium; now, it still reminded him of the masterwork viola, but there was something different to its timbre. Some added extra that had nothing—or was it everything?—to do with the irritation she used to color it.

He was shaken from his reverie as Inara’s arm was pulled from fingers he hadn’t realized had tightened in the few seconds that had passed since she had introduced that feh feh pi goh.

As he turned to watch her dance and ignore the “Captain,” he pondered what that difference could have been, but it was so mo min chi meow that when he heard Sir Harrow’s mocking compliment, the thought left him entirely for a moment.

“I know what’s mine,” he answered, putting as much scorn as he could into the sentiment, not looking away from the dance floor as he spoke, propriety be damned.

And then it was there again—that indefinable something—even though the dance had barely begun. Only this time, he couldn’t hear her voice. It was in the way she moved as she danced. He had seen her dance before—held her, even, as she did it. She was very graceful, and danced as flawlessly as she did everything else. But if a dance or a movement could have a timbre, then that strange timbre would be coloring the music of her movements in this dance as well.

He studied her some more as she joined that man for the first turn, saw her lips move as she spoke. It seemed they might be having an argument, and that lifted his spirit for a moment.

But it was only for a moment, as he noticed that, even in her disagreement, that indefinable, unfamiliar quality mocked his ignorance. He did not like to be mocked, and he prided himself on his lack of ignorance, but for all his wealth and all the times he’d contracted with Inara, he had never seen this part of her before.

He thought on it some more as the dance came through a second turn and the palm of her hand came together with Reynolds’s. Was it his imagination, or did her hand slide a bit as it parted from his, as if it were loathe to do so? The thought burned Atherton, but he pushed it to the back of his mind in favor of continuing his previous train of thought.

Just what was it that was different at this moment from the way she normally spoke, danced and looked? Surely, there was no lack of warmth or propriety; Inara was much too professional for that.

Then it struck him—professional.

Could it be that he had never seen the real Inara Serra? A less observant man might miss the slight differences between a well-trained act and the genuine woman, but there was no other possible conclusion in Atherton’s mind. And that realization made him want nothing more than to rip that man’s head off. Inara belonged to him tonight, to Atherton Wing. She had no business showing herself to some wu ming shao jwu this evening, when she was supposed to show it only to him. What right did Reynolds have, pulling that out of her when Atherton was supposed to be the one to do it?

The oaf tripped over his own feet, and Atherton, in a rage, barreled past him, grabbing Inara on the way.

“Woah, now. No need for any hands-on,” he heard from behind him.

Atherton swung around. “Excuse me,” he spit. “She’s not here with you, Captain. She’s mine.”

“Yours? She don’t belong to nobody.” Honestly, where did this sah gwa get his ideas? Inara was contracted to him for the next three days; therefore, she belonged to him.

“Money changed hands, which makes her mine tonight. And no matter how you dress her up, she’s still—“

Te ma duh, the man had a fist like a battering ram! Atherton shook himself as Reynolds made some smartass remarks to Inara. Picking himself up off of the floor, Atherton said the one thing he could not do when it came to his own shortcomings:

“I accept.”

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Feh Feh Pi Goh – Baboon’s ass crack

Wu Ming Shao Jwu – Peon, small fry, a nobody, literally, “nameless little foot soldier”

Mo Min Chi Meow – Ridiculously strange, illogical or nonsensical, literally, “not understanding the peculiarity”

Sah Gwa – Fool, literally, “stupid melonhead”

Te Ma Duh – Damn, damn it, literally, “your mother’s . . .”