simon_doctor | (no subject)

(no subject)

Chittenden's behind them, Shadow ahead.

The mobile-clinic circuit on Chittenden used up some supplies; Simon's in the infirmary, late in the night shift, running down his checklists.

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Nor a mechanic. How many times is it now, after all, that Dream has saved Kaylee?

There's the sticking point; there's the little hitch. He can't very well object to the Endless on purely ideological grounds only when they do something that hurts him.

"And you don't make the rules," he says quietly. "So who does?"

She just smiles.

"Please, I.... This isn't a rhetorical question."

Simon takes a step toward her, his hand leaving the chair back and falling to his side, his voice just a little tight with something that isn't anger. It might be frustration.

"Is there someone who makes the rules? Is there someone checking up to make sure you follow them? Or is it just ... consequences and, and laws of nature? Laws of metaphysics? If you don't make the rules, where do they come from?"

"Kiddo... there's stuff out there that even I don't want to look too closely at. And that's all I can tell you."

For a moment he wants to echo his earlier words -- that's bizarre; you're Death.

If the unfathomable is unfathomable to her --

In a strange way, that's almost comforting.

"I see."

His gaze drops away from her face. "Thank you."

There's a tiny sliver of a smile.

"Whatever for?"

He's not smiling, but when he looks up again his gaze is direct and clear.

"For coming to talk about this. In person."

"Well. You're welcome."

There's a ghost of a smile there somewhere.

There's a short pause.

That turns into a longer one.

"Ennis," he says finally, to the floor.

She bites her lip.

"Yeah."

The man does not have long.

"I'd make him comfy, if I were you."

"He won't let me do much else."

It's weary, more than bitter.

"Sounds about like Ennis."

"You know him."

It's halfway a question.

"I know everyone."

And that is a smile, right there. A real one. Wide as the 'verse.

A beat, as he assimilates that.

"And you..."

It's hard to put the words to it, but not for the usual reason; not because he can't find them.

"When he dies. You'll be there."

"I will."

That's what she does, what she is.

"I..."

He takes a breath, and hesitates before saying it.

"I've never lost a patient before."

To the floor again: "I don't know if this counts."

"There's a first time for everything. Hell, it might not count. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

It is what it is.

A rather sharp glance up, at that, until he's sure she isn't mocking him.

"It's my job, though. To keep people from dying."

That's what he does. What he is.

"Does that ... I'm not sure how to say this. Doesn't that put us in opposition?"

She's not one for mocking.

"Everyone dies, Simon. It's just a matter of when."

"And the when ... doesn't make a difference to you, in general."

"Generally? Not really."

Everyone gets the same thing. One lifetime.

It does to us, he wants to say. But she knows that already.

What he says instead, meeting her eyes directly again, is:

"I'm not going to stop fighting you."

"Good."

This is as it should be.

She loves him, as she loves them all.

Good.

That's ... not something he expected. Nor is the undisguised affection in the word.

There's a small sound from near the infirmary -- just one of the usual quiet creaks of the ship in the night watches, he recognizes a moment later, but it's enough to make him glance in that direction.

When he looks back, she's gone.

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