You've got your own way of looking at it baby
I guess that proves that I got mine

A soldier does not survive by taking the easy way out. There is no easy way of holding a blood-soaked patch of ground and protecting those men and women who looked up to you with eyes full of fear and respect and expectation. He made sacrifices, he let people die, he questioned his faith. His word was law. Carved in stone from the moment it left his mouth. This was the only way he knew to keep his crew safe and this he would defend; his right to make the decisions.

But soldier's did not always wear torn, reeking, bloody brown coats.

Sometimes they wore silks and satin, stepping lightly in patent heels and smelling of incense and purity and spice. Sometimes they took the burdens of the world and lifted them from one pair of shoulders to another in a cloud of touch, sensation, clean softness and rose oil. Sometimes they cut the throat of a rapist and left him to die on white silk sheets. Sometimes in a gentle sleight of hand, a droplet of pure death rippled in a wine glass.

Some people who were untouchable did not deserve to live.

When a man with a badge abused that power, there was a shot in a pistol waiting for him somewhere.

When corruption ran unchecked because of a single link in a long chain, that link was cleansed.

She, Inara Serra, looked at the world as a facade; ugliness, evil, hatred and corruption covered in silks and the illusion of love in sex. Saw it and tried to extend the facade. Make it deeper. Take away the facade and leave behind the silks and scents.

He, Malcolm Reynolds, looked at the world as a cruel, hard place and if you couldn't keep up then you didn't step up and you stayed the hell out of his way. He had a ship to keep flying.

Seems like our hearts are set on automatic
We say the first thing that comes to mind

Why was it so easy to seep into anger and cool unfeeling? Why was it so easy to ignore the blunt dagger that pierced her heart, whose poison spread through her system even as she wrinkled her nose in apparent distaste and raised her own knife to stab and draw blood.

There they were, engaged in a bloody dance. Stab, cut, whirl, duck, don't let him touch you, don't let her in, scratch at the open wounds, toss the salt uncaringly into the weeping lesions. It was automatic, it was instinctive.

Because who wants to let someone in? Who wants to let the pirate see the scared little girl behind the mask? Who wants to let the whore see the broken man behind the gun?

It's just who we are baby, we've come too far to start over now
I know what you're thinkin' ; I'm not always easy to be around

The incorrigible Malcolm Reynolds. The arrogant, stubborn, spontaneous, reckless pirate soldier.

The beautiful Inara Serra. The quietly strong, chaste, passionate, sensual, intelligent concubine.

They had, anyone could admit, come a long way from the days pre-Miranda. Their walls were down. Oh, they were hesitant and scared to death of the consequences and broken in so many ways. They were slowly trying to heal; but Mal lashed out in much the same way as a dog with its foot caught in a trap. Sure, he was sorry and metaphorically whined and literally limped about looking very sorry for himself for days afterwards, but every time he snapped at Inara, she retreated and they were left, still chasing each other around the game board.

But I do love you
You keep me believin' that you love me too
And I know it's true
This love drives us crazy but nobody's walkin' away
So, I guess we'll to do it the hard way

So why did he make it so easy for her to love him? Why did he let her see him cry, and rage at the God he had almost found his faith in again with the gentle guidance of the now-dead Sheppard? He would hold Kaylee and joke with Simon and fly with River and drink with Zoe and slowly patch the gaping holes in their lives while completely ignoring the wounds in himself, plugged temporarily.

Was that why she stayed? To try and fix him? To remind him to heal himself? To be a silk handkerchief stemming the flow of blood from some terrible, cavernous puncture in his heart?

Maybe it wasn't much. But it was enough.

If I had a genie in a bottle
Three wishes I could wish for us
I wish we'd live forever and get along together
Turn these tempers into trust

He'd raged at the God again when she told him, quietly, after weeks of being poked and prodded and watched worrily and questioned. She looked terrible, as though the life was slipping out of her.

Because it was.

He couldn't accept it. he couldn't stand it. she'd held onto him as hard as she could and tried desperately to give him something, anything, to hold onto as he edged closer to the abyss. The moment she was gone, the moment she ceased to exist, he would dive in after her.

So they laughed. They laughed and made love and ignored the constant clicking of the clock. They fought and made up and danced and got ridiculously drunk.

It was the hard way. But it was a way.