simon_doctor | (no subject)

"Like what?"

It's not a challenge; it's an honest question.

"Like I did somethin' wrong because I just wanted to keep it to myself until I found out whether it'd work or not."

"No," he says, "no, it's all right if you do, just ..."

He looks away.

A little sharp: "Would you just tell me what you think I did wrong so I can say I'm sorry, get some gorram drugs, and go back to work?"

"It's important to you," he says, low. "Clearly important. And you didn't want me to know about it at all. I don't know how that would feel to you if our positions were reversed."

Kaylee folds her arms. (Gingerly.) "And the fact that I wanted to show you somethin' complete and whole that I did, all by myself, to show you that I can make us secure and you don't have to worry about me -- that don't come into it at all. Is what you're sayin'. Do I have that right?"

He looks at her.

A little unsteady: "You didn't say that before."

"Well, now I am. But I guess I'll just give up on that to make you happy." She throws up her hands and heads for the door. "And I guess we can have a secret-tellin' session later where I'll confess all my other sins."

"Kaylee --"

He takes a step after her, and another.

"What in god's name makes you think that would make me happy?"

His voice is sharp, until it cracks on the last word.

"Because you never want me to do anything independent," she says, also sharply, over her shoulder. "You always got to have a hand in everything. So fine. I'll give it up. Make you happy."

"I don't," he insists. "I don't need to have a hand in everything --"

"You got a hell of a way of showin' it." She opens the door and walks out. "Don't expect me back tonight."

"Kaylee!"

He catches the door and goes after her.

Tightly: "Kaylee, there is a difference between wanting to have a hand in everything and wanting to have some idea of what's going on."

Without turning around: "I said I'd stop what I was doing. That's enough."

"I don't want you to stop. And if you stop, it's not going to make either one of us happy."

"Don't you get -- " She's in front of the infirmary, trying to open and close the door to the cargo bay to get a door back to the bar. "I would rather have no project at all than have to share it. You get yours, and I don't get mine?"

"You don't have to share it with me. I don't need to be involved, at all --"

He's coming up behind her, moving slower now.

It won't go.

"You just made me share it with you." Cold.

"The fact that it exists," he protests. "That doesn't -- that's all I wanted."

Her shoulders slump a little.

(It's hard not to feel pretty stupid when you're opening and closing a door over and over again, and nothing happens.)

"So you got what you want. Okay? We done here?"

"Does that ruin it?"

Soft, now. He's trying to understand.

"Is it ... not just yours anymore if I know about it?"

Without turning around:

"It's like you're gonna be watchin'. To see how I do. And if I can do it."

But I don't do that, objects an internal voice.

"What if I promised not to?"

"Can't we just stop talkin' about it?"

He's quiet. Biting his lip.

"All right," he says finally, low. "I'm sorry."