simon_doctor | (no subject)

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The ship isn't really any quieter than usual, he tells himself.

It's the truth: at this hour of ship's night, in their bunk with the door closed, it's always this quiet. There's the constant low hum of the engine, and the almost subliminal vibrations through the floor of River moving quietly about in her room across the hall, and little else. When there's no crisis aboard the ship, this level of quiet is normal.

It doesn't change anything.

Simon sits on the edge of the bed, his forgotten shirt hanging loosely from one hand, and stares at the far wall.

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And the next words --

(Kaylee's head rises, very slowly.)

-- the next words will be the important ones. The really important ones.

Won't they.

In a dry-leaf whisper: "I will not do that. Not ever."

The antecedent of that may be a little unclear.

"Do what?"

Sharper than she intends.

He meets her eyes directly.

Will you make me say it?

What he gets is Kaylee looking away, exasperated, mouth tight.

She slides off the bed and stands, arms folded.

"Kaylee..."

"No use forcin' what's not gonna come."

He flinches back as though she turned and slapped him.

And looks down, as though he feels he's deserved it.

"I don't know what else I could have done."

Kaylee doesn't know what he --

No. Kaylee knows what he did. (In general. Not the specifics.) Kaylee doesn't know why he did it.

So she doesn't say anything.

There's no use forcing what's not going to come. Especially not when too many other things are

(all these things, when they're broken, make you feel ill at ease)

not how they're supposed to be.

"If I'd taken him as my patient ...."

He lets out a small unhappy breath.

"Maybe if I'd been the only doctor there. I don't know. Maybe it would have been different. Maybe that's just avoiding the responsibility, I don't know."

Very, very quietly: "I don't know what you're talkin' about. And if you just want to talk it out that's fine, but I can't answer anything. That how you want it?"

"I'm sorry."

Simon rubs one hand over his forehead and eyes, hard.

He's still covering his eyes when he speaks.

"Kaylee, I would have killed him."

She doesn't move, or turn around, and it's a long moment before she speaks.

When she does, it's evenly.

"And Bernard had a problem with you steppin' aside?"

"There was more," he says to his knees, tonelessly. "I told Bernard I didn't want him in my infirmary. Not without a direct order."

That answers that.

There's a difference between refusing treatment and actively killing someone (though of course the end result is the same).

Very, very quiet:

"You would have gone in and taken care of him. Later. Is that it?"

"It wouldn't even have had to be later. The wrong medication, the wrong combination of medications, too much of the right one...."

His throat moves with a hard swallow.

"Half a dozen ways, without even thinking about it. Two of them probably wouldn't even be noticed as deliberately inflicted. Maybe not even by another doctor. And even if they were, he'd still be dead."

Simon's hands aren't clasped anymore; they're tucked into his armpits, as though cold.

Kaylee understands, now, why Mal -- back before Miranda, back before the Academy, even -- wanted them to see him as Mal, and not 'the captain'. She comprehends.

Because the question here and now: does she respond to Simon as someone concerned about staying on good terms with Bernard and Security, and ask those questions that must be asked? Does she, in other words, respond as the acting captain?

Or does she respond as his wife?

Kaylee turns, and moves the few steps to stand next to him where he's sitting, and rests the back of her hand against his cheek.

"You stepped back."

His hand comes up to clasp hers.

"I had to."

"It was the right thing." She rests her other hand at the base of his neck.

Simon lets out a long, long breath.

"I shouldn't have said that about the infirmary, though," he says, low. "That was ... I overreacted."

"I'm guessin' tempers was runnin' hot, on all sides." Gently. "And there's nobody hasn't done somethin' they regret. He'll get that."

It's easier just to fix one problem at once. One thing at a time.

"I don't know how to explain it to him." Still low. "He may want to take me off the medics' registry, before this is over."

"Maybe I should be the one to talk to him, then." The hand at the base of his neck rises; now she's stroking his hair. "Try to smooth things over."

"Maybe." His voice goes apologetic. "I hate to send you to apologize for me, but ...."

"Right now that's my job."

Very, very quietly.