simon_doctor | (no subject)

It smells like paint.

There's a clank from the back of the room; barely visible in the shadows are the soles of a pair of boots.

She doesn't answer.

He moves further in.

This is her place, on the ship. Her sanctum. He's not at all sure he should be here.

If she tells me to go, I'll go.

Simon finds an upended crate not far from the engine block, and slides it over to where he can see her.

It's another five minutes or so before she worms her way out, and stands.

Kaylee glances at Simon, and then bends to pick up the small chest she brought over there with her.

"I didn't want to interrupt you," he says quietly.

"That bit's done." She weaves her way around him to the larger chest and starts putting things away, one by one; they drop into their places briskly, with a roundly metallic sound every time.

He nods. It's a wasted gesture; she isn't looking at him.

"Are you doing anything else right now?"

Clank.

"Always somethin' to do."

Clank.

"That's true."

A long pause. Two more tools clatter into their places.

"I was thinking about something Peter said to me."

That's enough to get her to pause and glance over her shoulder.

"He asked if we knew how it happened. And I told him there didn't seem to be any immediate cause."

Simon's looking across the room.

"And he said, you know this isn't your fault."

Something around Kaylee's eyes tightens.

"And ... I know it wasn't. It wasn't anyone's."

His hands clasp each other loosely, not moving.

"But I've found myself ... almost wanting it to have been someone's fault. Even mine."

Kaylee turns around.

Doesn't go back to what she was doing, but she turns around.

He goes on speaking to her back.

"And it's ... irrational. And counterproductive. I know that. But knowing that doesn't make it stop."

Her fingers rub against the edge of one of her leather gloves.

She doesn't say anything.

His voice falls, a little.

"I just ... I don't know if that's anything like how you're feeling about it, or if it's completely different."

"Does that matter?"

Softer still: "Only in that I'd like to know."

"Nothin' can change the fact of it. And the fact of it's what I got to deal with. Right now there ain't exactly room for much else."

Her arms are folded.

What we all have to deal with, he thinks but doesn't say.

"I can understand that," he says, "but..."

"...you don't want to start tellin' me how to feel with this."

She's turned around.

"You really don't."

Simon looks up at her, unsmiling.

"I'm asking. Not telling."

Not like Kaylee's smiling, either.

"That wasn't enough?"

One of his hands comes up, hovers palm-up in the air as though to help support whatever he's about to say, and sinks back to his lap in silence.

Low: "I don't mean to demand anything from you."

"...but you're gonna?"

"Not if you'd rather drop the subject."

Here's how it's been.

When she sleeps, it's fitful; she's also not sleeping more than six hours at a stretch. Waking time is spent in the engine room, prowling, coming up with things that don't strictly need doing but could stand doing -- soon she'll be down to scrubbing the deckplates. Several times a day, seemingly at random, she stops and has to sit still for fifteen or twenty minutes while she cries. She hasn't been eating, and what little she has been eating has been obtained off-hours and chosen for its facility in preparation -- the sooner to get out of the kitchen; she doesn't want to see how they're looking at her. Every now and again she tries Milliways, and every now and again Peter corners her, and they watch a movie in the way where Kaylee couldn't tell anybody what it is they've just seen, but it's better than being alone and Peter doesn't push her to talk. Only when she's near-shaking with exhaustion will she sleep again. Sooner or later she's going to drop, and part of her hopes it's sooner; something's got to give.

Might be this.

"Would you just make up your mind? Either talk, or ask, or -- don't."

He is not going to snap back at her.

He loves her. And she's still in pain; that's why she's talking like this, that's the only reason she's talking like this --

(is it, though? is it really?)

-- he is not going to snap back at her.

"I won't, then. Not now."

"Which means you are." Kaylee turns around and --

Well. She's slamming things around. "Go on. Tell me -- " Clang. " -- what you want to -- " Clank. " -- hear, so I can just -- " Thunk. " -- go on and do what I'm -- " Clank. " -- told, and say whatever it is will -- " Thunk. " -- fix this, because that's my -- " Clang. " -- gorram -- job, ain't it, except I'm ruttin' incapable of takin' -- " Clank. " -- care of you or anybody else just now, thank you very much for asking."

The entire chest gets slammed shut. It's tall, and it's heavy, and right now it's four inches away from where it used to be.

She's also yelling.

"I'm not asking you to fix this."

And he's on his feet now, and his voice is louder than he means it to be.

"And I'm not asking you to take care of me, and I'm trying not to ask you to let me take care of you, because it's clear you don't want that --"

He stops, swallowing.

"What I don't want?"

She's facing him now.

"What I don't want is you stayin' on ruttin' tiptoe around me like I'm some kind of freak, always askin' how I am, how I'm feeling -- how the hell do you think I'm feeling? Just -- you either talk about you, or lay the hell off, because I'm sick of bein' some thing that gets poked at for no good reason, 'cause it sure as hell ain't like anything's helped -- "

It may be the word freak that stings blood into Simon's face.

She doesn't mean that, he thinks blindly, that is not what she means--

"I can't talk about me without talking about you," he says, struggling now to keep his voice from rising.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we're two separate people." Kaylee's perilously close to being in his face. "So maybe you ought to try."

"Maybe."

There's a pause, and it turns into a longer pause.

"...There are things I could say that don't involve you. None of them seem important. Not right now."

"Then why are you here?"

Because I miss you.

Because you haven't told me to go.

Because --

"I wanted to talk."

His voice is tired, now.

"I wanted us to talk."

"And here I was thinkin' you just wanted somebody to blame."

Her arms are folded. Her eyes are narrowed, and bright.

"And blamin' me would be pretty gorram logical, you think about it. So go on and do it, you want to blame anybody. It's not like it'll bring him back. Won't make a ruttin' bit of difference."

Low and tight: "Blaming you wouldn't be logical in the slightest. Blaming anyone wouldn't be logical. That's what I was trying to tell you --"

One hand comes up as though to push his hair out of his eyes. A few inches from his face it pauses, hovers a moment, closes on itself and falls back to his side.

(He's just seen the engine grease on his fingers, from the crate.)

"I'm finding myself wanting to, and I want it to stop."

She's shaking her head, expression bitter (and there: one tear, two, three).

"Maybe you can be a robot. Maybe you can turn it off. Or try. Or even think about tryin'. But don't you dare expect me to understand that. I never have. Not ever. And I'm not about to start with this."

He's blocking her way out; she moves forward anyhow, because if she stays any longer --

He gives way, lets her shoulder past him and out. He doesn't speak as she passes; the only thing coming to mind is a question he doesn't dare ask.

Because if he asked,

(who do you blame?)

he's not sure he could take any answer she might give.