simon_doctor | (no subject)

Folding a clean tissue around the soiled one, he says "She hasn't left the apartment since I first came down with this. Would you like to speak to her?"

"No, that's alright, I just...well, you sound like you're trying to cough up a lung."

Mal's expression contorts into a worried one, but awkwardly so. More like he is watching a part of the ship splinter and crack rather than a man who is ill and trying to get better.

A small wry smile. "That's normal for this stage. It was a lot worse before."

It would have been a great deal worse -- fatally so, almost certainly -- if they hadn't been able to get the medication for it. Simon doesn't see any particular point to bringing this up.

Mal can pretty much already guess that anyhow.

"You ready for classes to be over?"

"Well, the classes themselves are already over --"

Something like a wince crosses his face.

"Just the exams left."

Simon's expression has been pretty pained the entire conversation, so the wince is especially noticeable.

"Are you even going to be able to sit for them?"

"I hope so. I've been able to study at least a little, over the past few days, and the exams aren't for another week."

He sounds ... doubtful.

Mal doesn't have a response to that. Not really. The class depends on the exam, the equipment depends on the class...the justification for them having lived in the world depends on the equipment.

"I feel like I should be making a joke about gettin' a hold of a doctor's note for your teacher."

This time he can't quite suppress the puff of laughter; it comes out husky and whispery, almost silent, but mercifully it doesn't start him coughing again.

"Worst case, I'll make an appeal to retake the exam at a later date. I don't have any reason to think my instructor would turn it down."

"Sounds like you've got everything in order then."

Beat.

"Except...you know. Disease. Business."

Another half-strength smile. "I'm already recovering."

Beat.

"And this whole experience is probably going to build character, or something."

"Yeah, I'm going to have to disagree. That's like sayin' I aim to get shot at 'cause it helps in my business affairs."

Simon's eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch.

Very mildly: "You mean you don't?"

"Bein' sick didn't make you any funnier, did it?"

After a second: "Doc -- what should I look for in the way o' hygienics at a tattoo shop?"

"...Well, you want to make sure the instruments are clean and sterile, and ... is this a practical question or theoretical?"

"Practical. Inara and I have been left unsupervised."

"...Kaylee and I really do need to get home soon, don't we."

"We may be beyond help, Doc. It's very sad."

"I would hope --"

The cough ambushes him in mid-word, and he waves a hand at the screen for a moment in apology, unable to speak through it yet.

"Simon -- "

Half Don't make me come over there and half Don't worry, I'm coming over.

"It's all right," he finally manages, thickly, reaching for a tissue again and wiping his mouth. "I'm all right. Really."

Another clean tissue, carefully folded around the soiled one.

Mal's expression is grounded firmly in I don't believe you.

"I think you were about to chastise me for willingly being wounded some point in the future," he leads.

"I think I may have been about to give up on that, in fact."

He's leaning back against the pillows as he speaks, and his smile is genuine but tired.

"You look about ready to give up on bein' conscious for the night," Mal notes. "I'll let you get some sleep, Doc."

A beat of looking downward, "Don't do anythin' too...stressful."

"I'll try not to. Xiexie, Mal."

He's asleep within a few seconds of touching the disconnect.