simon_doctor | (no subject)

And she's there, leaning against the doorframe.

It's possible that there is something weary in her posture.

"Hey."

Simon looks up from his datareader.

And goes very, very still.

Yeah.

She expected something like that.

There's a waggling of her fingers, and a tiny little smirk. Not unfriendly.

His eyes flick from her to Ennis asleep on the infirmary's main bed, to her again, and he takes a step forward.

She holds up a hand, head ducked down, hiding her smile. Such as it is.

"Relax. I'm not here for him."

"...Then who are you here for?"

His tone's just a little sharper than it should be, and his eyes just a little wider.

"I'm here to talk."

Ennis shifts in his sleep; Simon glances down at him, and at the door, and lowers his voice.

"There's a lounge just outside."

She nods.

The click of her bootheels is muffled.

She doesn't sit down, arms crossed, posture a little stiff.

He doesn't sit either; he closes the infirmary doors carefully, and then takes up a position behind the armchair, one hand lightly resting on its high back.

"Here to talk, you said?"

"That's what I said."

She's doing such an excellent job of it, too.

"All right."

He waits.

She looks up, squinting a little, lips pursed.

Her voice is very soft.

"Do you know the story of Orpheus, Simon?"

"I've read some versions of it."

His voice is absolutely toneless; his hand is steady, resting on the chair back.

She's still looking up.

"He was my nephew."

He's silent.

He has no idea where she's going with this.

"I've done far more than I should have here already. Far more."

Boots scuffing on the floor.

"Do you know that Orpheus, the poor kid, he wound up as a head, on an island, for a few thousand years?"

"Because he looked back."

It's half a question -- but that's always been the moral of the tale as he's read it. Orpheus, Lot's wife, Bluebeard's wife, Pandora; all the same story, all with the same moral: when the gods tell you not to look, don't look.

"That's about the extent of it."

There's a tiny, humourless smile.

"I tried to talk him down. I guess I should have tried harder."

Deep in his eyes, a spark of alarm.

"Is there ... are you saying that this is something that could happen here?"

"No."

And now her eyes burn into his. They are deeper than space, and older, and sadder than anything.

"I'm saying that he's getting off light."

He looks away, forces his tone to evenness.

"Yes. I understand that."

She eyes him.

"You don't, really."

It's tough. She knows.

Simon's glance up at her is sharp, and fearful.

He doesn't say anything.

"This is as bad as it gets, Simon. He goes away for the ghost months. That's it. If there's anything more to this, it's not going to have anything to do with me."

Her tone is gentle, the best bedside manner you ever did see.