simon_doctor | (no subject)

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His sense of time is starting to slip.

Simon notices this more than once, and then forgets it in the blur of -- no, it isn't really a blur. It's closer to a kaleidoscope image: countless reflected shapes, sharp-edged, brightly colored, constantly moving. Too many things whirling by to let him focus on any one, but he can see them all clearly at once.

It's the delusion of clarity, he tells himself at times. Of course, he can only tell himself that once the moment of delusion has passed. That becomes the gauge for whether or not his mind is really clear: if he can doubt his perception, it's likelier to be reliable.

This is no help at all during the times when he can't.

They won't let him into the infirmary, and that's completely infuriating. He's the doctor. He has work to do. He explains this at some length, to no avail; he curses at Mal, and at the Alliance guards, and at Eddie Dean, until someone comes with the hypodermic full of artificial sleep and sends him spinning down into blackness again.

It's a little better when he wakes up. At least briefly.

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There's a very tiny light in the room -- low, and dim, and unobtrusive.

It's sitting on the desk. That's where Kaylee is. Shoulders hunched, head leaning into her hand, fingers threaded through her hair. The scratching of a pen isn't audible over the usual sounds of Serenity, but her other hand is moving.

_"Ai-"

His mouth and throat are dry, and his first attempt to speak is barely a croak; he swallows before trying again.

"Ai ren?"

She turns, and rises. The light is behind her. It hides her expression.

There's a cold and untouched cup of tea (her own) on the desk. Kaylee brings it with her when she comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Can you drink some of this?"

Simon takes the cup, and drinks about half of it without pausing.

Lowering the cup, he swallows and draws breath. "Mild dehydration," he murmurs. "Side effect of the sedative."

Beat.

"What time is it?"

"About four in the morning."

He's not going to be himself for long. They both know it.

It's not easy to know what to say.

Beat.

"...What day?"

One corner of her mouth turns up. It's not a smile. "Wednesday." Beat. "Want me to get you a refill?"

One hand comes up to touch hers.

"I ... think I'd rather you stayed."

"Then I'm not goin' anywhere." She holds his hand securely between both of hers.

"I feel like I shouldn't be this tired," he says, a little ruefully. "I know it's normal when you wake up from sedation, but ... "

"I'm sorry."

Maybe doing it over and over has a cumulative effect.

(It's like she's too numb for that thought to hurt.)

"Don't be. At least I slept."

And I'm coherent again, he doesn't say.

Kaylee nods once, twice, and then there's a silence that isn't much of anything -- comfortable or awkward.

Then Kaylee cracks a (small) smile. "Don't suppose I could get you to budge up?"

It gets an answering smile, and he pulls himself into a sitting position and scoots a little sideways.

Stretching out feels almost impossibly good. (There are a few crackles that support this, as she does.)

"You remember takin' a walk on Hadrian?"

His smile deepens.

"On the beach."

She can hear it. "Yeah."

She can hear it, and it's -- reassuring.

"Just -- been thinkin' about it."

While he was out, she pulled out the necklace he made, and spent a while looking at it, tracing the curve of each shell with her thumb.

It's something of why she was at the desk when he woke up.

He leans his head against her shoulder.

"Any particular reason?"

Kaylee's hand comes up, absently, to rest on his head. "It was a good day."

Because it was the kind of day, and the kind of place, where she felt free enough to bring up the kinds of questions that keep you awake at night.

(Please god they're questions, and not -- disorders.)

Because it was the kind of day and the kind of place that seem to go on for ages.

Because that day was a good day after a whole slew of bad ones -- getting locked out of Milliways, getting Simon shot, getting Wash killed, getting Serenity in the state she was, getting the captain with all his nightmares, like he was hallucinating, going cr --

Oh.

Kaylee's breath catches.

Simon shifts, lifting his head to look at her.

"...what is it?"

Kaylee is grateful for the light that's dim, that's all the way over on the desk, that most of the room is dark.

"Simon."

Slow, and careful.

"When you do sleep, and it's not -- "

She doesn't say it.

(And the signs are there, have been there, he's got to be causing it, this didn't start until they ran into him out in the woods.)

"Are you havin' nightmares?"

He's not sure why she's asking --

-- and then he knows exactly why she's asking.

"I don't..."

Shaking his head. "I don't think so. No."

He can't remember any of his dreams over the past week. But he's sure none of them have been all that bad; certainly not the kind of heart-pounding cold-sweat nightmare that keeps you awake.

A very, very soft sigh.

"Okay."

Kaylee doesn't try to keep the relief out of that word.

There's a brief silence. Simon's hand finds Kaylee's again.

"Have you ... gone to talk to him again?"

She's shaking her head. "No. I..."

"No."

"Because of this?"

"I'm not leavin' you for who knows how long to go talk to him when it don't seem like I got to."

Barely audible.

"Okay."

Barely a whisper.

"And that's love, too."

He doesn't get to see her cry about all of this. That's something she swore to herself after River put him out the first time.

It's getting hard to keep that promise. Hard in the immediate sense. Her free hand presses against her mouth.

"Kaylee--"

He turns, his arms coming up to wrap around her, and it's half offering comfort and half seeking it.

She composes herself quickly, because she has to. Breathing slowly, in and out, as she returns the embrace, one hand smoothing idly up and down his back.

She tries to think about how good this feels.

How normal this feels.

Simon's eyes are closed.
In bed with somebody a touch away with nothing to do
It does feel good, that's the thing. It does feel normal.
We're surrounded
Except it's four in the morning. Except his throat is still dry with the aftereffects of the sedative.
Triggering nothing, we're sinking, the sea takes the ship
Except he knows the symptoms will start again in another hour, maybe less. Maybe a lot less.

And he probably won't be able to tell when they do.

And I'm really dying in here
I'm really dying in here
(I hate it because I know it'll go away)
I'm afraid
I'm afraid
No, I'm scared
I'm just scared

"You know I love you."

Murmured against his neck, after a minute or so.

"Remember that."

She's still rubbing his back.

"Somethin' that's not gonna change."

"I love you too."

Whispered into her hair.

Over on the desk is a half-written letter she'll either stow away with the others that never got sent, or destroy, later. It's a letter to her mother, and in it Kaylee doesn't bother to try and explain what's going on. She just writes about it, and she doesn't try to make it sound pretty or play down what's dangerous.

Over and over again, in the letter: I don't know what to do.

It's better than not talking about it at all, but not by much.

And it's bad, when every moment you're waiting for a sign that it's starting up again.

If he gets violent --

It probably wouldn't surprise her to know that he's thinking much the same.

Fearing much the same.

(Trying very hard not to think of River with the gun, River with the butcher knife.)

Her head falls on his shoulder, and stays there.

"Anything you need to do before...?"

Before. It's like being condemned to execution, thinks a distant detached part of his mind, and having a certain amount of time to set your affairs in order.

Or like having a terminal illness.

He closes his hands on each other, to stop them from shaking.
God I've never been afraid like this
"Is River all right?"

"Sleepin', last time I looked in."

Which tells the truth without telling the whole truth.

Of course River isn't all right.

"And everybody else?"

"...it is four in the morning." Wry, and gentle.

Wry back at her: "I didn't mean just right now."

"Everybody's okay. Worried. But okay."

"Good."

Beat.

"Is my medkit in here?"

There's a second's hesitation before she replies.

"Yeah."

He starts to move as though to get to his feet, then stops and sits still.

A breath, and he says to the far wall: "In the upper right-hand part of the main case, there should be a handful of mirtazodone ampules. It's a mild soother, in premeasured doses."

Beat.

"If you're not sure about its safe usage, there's an entry in the medical encyclopedia that should be clear."

No.

He doesn't get to see her cry.

He doesn't.

She's got a death grip on the edge of a pillow, and she nods, and doesn't say anything.

It's two hours later when the first signs start to show again.

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