simon_doctor | (no subject)

Costello's is a hole in the wall; it's nearly a dive.

He's ensconced in a booth by the long wall, legs stretched out long nearly into the aisle, all scuffed brogans and hunched shoulders.

As Simon approaches, Jordie puts out his cigarette. "I'd appreciate it," he says, by way of greeting, "if you refrained from informing Aunt Tildy that I'm smoking. She's waging a campaign."

"I won't say a word," says Simon. "...I don't need to ask if you're getting lungbaths, do I?"

While it's not as though cancer isn't curable, it's still bad; and prophylactic treatments can mean not having to go through it in the first place.

"I'm an orthopod, not an idiot." Jordie nods to the wall beside them. "Menu's up there. Did you find the place all right?"

"No trouble at all." Simon glances up at the menu. "Anything you'd recommend in particular?"

"Whatever you do, get the onion rings." Jordie shifts, pulling his legs back under the table, knitting his long fingers together on the tabletop. "How's the adjustment going? Is there an adjustment? Dunash was rather silent on the subject of where it is you came from."

"It's ... definitely an adjustment," he says. "And I think it's going well so far. At least --"

Half a beat. "At any rate, I can certainly tell you something about where I've been for the past five years, if that was meant to be a polite hint."

"Not particularly, no, but not that I'd mind."

There are still a few problems getting his smiles to look less like grimaces. This one's no exception. "I'll admit to curiosity. But whatever you find easiest."

(It's so different from Jordie's old smile. He tries not to react.)

"Well, the short short form is that I've been living on a small cargo vessel for most of that time. Working as ship's medic."

Jordie's eyebrows go up.

He can draw a few conclusions; some of them aren't wise to be spoken aloud, even here. Even now, when there's been name-clearing.

"Well." The word's a drawl. "I'm sure that was... an experience." The sentence gets tempered by something a little closer to a smile. "And is, unless I'm mistaken. That's where you came from, when you started with these classes?"

Simon nods. "Still is, yes. I've ... grown accustomed to it."

He absently traces the edge of the tabletop with one fingertip. "Which makes being back here feel very strange."

"I'd imagine so," Jordie says, casting a look at the pack of cigarettes on the table -- and, with a slight shake of his head, he picks up his glass of water. "Especially since I'd also imagine that the trade routes you'd ply didn't involve as much civilization as the Core. Unless, of course, you've gotten significantly more dastardly and cunning since the day you had to be convinced to sneak onto the statue of Hippocrates."

"You do realize you're now part of a cautionary tale about the evils of sake," Simon tells him very seriously.

There's a faint tinny chime, and the selector screen in the center of the table lights up with a holograph of the words ARE YOU READY TO ORDER? in English and Mandarin. The display's a little grainy, and flickers in sideways jags.

He glances down at it, and back up. "Are we?"

Jordie nods. "On my part." He touches five characters, swift and without thought, and lowers his hand. "That," he says, with an extra layer of offended dignity, "was an entirely appropriate expression of freedom and jubilation. It is not my fault that the feds didn't see it the same way."

Simon takes a few beats longer to select his order, then touches the SEND pad; the holograph winks out with another chime.

"And it wasn't the feds' fault that our entirely appropriate expression of freedom and jubilation violated several laws."

Jordie says, with the kind of weight that means this is not the first time this conversation has occurred, "Ordinances, Tam. Nothing so severe as laws. Municipal ordinances."

"Which it is still their job to enforce," he points out, still very seriously.

Jordie tilts his head, birdlike, hooded gaze sharp.

"I'd wondered," absently, "if you'd have started to see laws a little differently in the last five years. I suppose not."

There's a pause.

"...Somewhat differently," he says, "under certain circumstances. I was just ..." He gestures with one hand. "Sliding back into the old argument, there."

"Which was as pointless then as it is now." He reaches for his glass of water. "But. You're adjusting?"

"I'm adjusting," he agrees. "Albeit with occasional moments like that one."

"That's what happens when you change." Jordie regards the ice in his glass. "Does it look smaller?"

"Osiris?" He takes a sip from his own glass of water. "Or the MedAcad?"

"Any of it. All of it."

"Not smaller." He turns the glass in his hands. "It's different, but ... "

The right word remains elusive.

"But every so often it's like a slap in the face and you wonder whether or not it was all just some really godawful dream."

It's not really a question. Jordie drains his glass of water.