simon_doctor | (no subject)

(no subject)

The last two days before the exams are spent in the most intensive cramming he's ever done in his life. Kaylee makes him stop periodically: to eat, to sleep, to take a break before his eyes fall out of his head. He grumbles about that being physiologically unlikely, but doesn't argue.

On the last night, he firmly puts the texts away in time to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. The exams would be grueling even if he weren't coming off of a debilitating illness; the last thing he needs is to attempt to sit for them with a brain full of fatigue toxins.

He tells himself that, and finally manages to drop off with seven hours to go.

-----

When Simon steps into the apartment late that afternoon and closes the door behind him, he's moving slowly as an old man and aching in every limb. And smiling a small exhausted smile.

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Kaylee isn't.

She did try to get up and do things. She made Simon eat breakfast and sent him off. She cleaned up. She cleaned the kitchen. Straightened the living room. Settled in to do a load of laundry. Watched a vid.

By early that afternoon she was fast asleep on the couch.

Late that afternoon, she moved to the bed. She hasn't stirred since.

He stands in the bedroom door for a few moments, watching her.

And then carefully sets down his briefcase, shuffles toward the bed, and more or less collapses onto it.

He manages to unfasten and remove one shoe before falling asleep.

Half-awake, Kaylee shifts, moving closer, draping an arm over his chest.

"Simon."

Mumbled, as she pushes herself up on an elbow. "Simon. You need to -- eat somethin'."

"Mnn," he protests, eloquently.

"Relapse." Still mumbled, as she rubs at her eyes with her other hand.

"Nn won't," he mumbles back, but he's starting to wake up again despite himself.

"Prove it." She rests her chin on his chest.

"Half an hour," he insists, bleary-voiced.

Something goes through her mind to the effect of I've gotten to sleep all day.

"Half'n hour," she agrees, and closes her eyes again, seeming to forget that he is not a pillow.

Right now he seriously doesn't mind.

"Love you," he mumbles, already mostly asleep again.

"Sayin' that 'cause I let you sleep." Said with a sigh. "Now shh."

No objection.

No anything at all, at the moment.

Kaylee doesn't wake up in half an hour.

It's closer to two hours later when Simon finally does, and is briefly disoriented: the angle of light in the room is wrong, and there's the tingling ache of cut-off circulation in his foot.

(Because it's been hanging off the edge of the bed this whole time, with his shoe still on it.)

Kaylee hasn't moved at all.

Very carefully, he starts to edge out from under her head.

"Hey," he whispers.

A small noise of protest.

Kaylee pushes herself up, and rolls over on her side, running a hand through her hair. She doesn't look happy. (She doesn't look awake.)

He could easily go back to sleep.

...No; he should eat something first. Kaylee's right.

Moving slowly and trying not to groan, he levers himself up into a sitting position and leans over to unfasten his remaining shoe.

Her voice is a little graveled. "'ll make you somethin'."

"You don't have to," he says, "I can get something."

"'m hungry too." She pushes herself to standing, and stumbles, a little, on her way to the door. "You don't get to cook 'f I'm eatin' too."

"I was going to make something I can't ruin." Wry. "Like rice porridge. Or ... a sandwich."

He pads after her, barefoot.

"Honey, I've eaten your rice porridge, and I never want to do it ever again." She looks over her shoulder, with a small smile. "And you never cut the crust off the bread."

It's just barely light enough that she's okay maneuvering in the kitchen. "Now. How'd it go?"

"...what's wrong with my rice porridge?" he protests, leaning against the counter.

"...sorry for askin' about your day," she says, pausing in front of the cold box to put her hands up in surrender. "You're the congee king. Feel better now?"