simon_doctor | (no subject)

The commercial flight from Praxed to Osiris takes the better part of two days. Simon's got a berth to himself -- a small one, as these things go, but private.

He spends the first hour or so of the flight going over the next two weeks' schedule: meetings, interviews with potential new employees, a preliminary report on the infancy of the Rural Health Research Initiative. Another half-hour going over his own part of said report one last time. For the rest of the flight there isn't much to do except catch up on sleep, read, write a few textwaves.

(Presenting reports isn't new to him at all; hearing reports is something he's still getting used to, even months into the new job. The report he's looking forward to hearing is the one from Drs. Oberste and Mitel, regarding the current progress of the mobile clinic circuit.)

A few hours before they're scheduled to land, he goes over his part of the report one final last time.

Jordie picks him up at the spaceport, takes him and his luggage in hand, and drives him back to the apartment he remembers of yore.

He's not expecting what he sees when he steps through the front door, suitcases in tow.

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"That might be best."

Simon glances into the living room.

"I'll just ... be right back, then."

No reply from the fire escape.

Slowly he starts toward the coffee table, as the densest concentration of books and papers, and bends over to read the title on the top volume.

"What...?"

The title is Contract Law in the Modern Alliance: Selected Readings.

In the kitchen, Jordie clambers back through the window and shuts it behind him.

About half a minute later, Simon reappears in the kitchen doorway.

"Contract and real estate law?" he asked, bemused.

"Gold star," Jordie says. The pan is steaming on the stove; he's moved on to chopping lettuce. Next to him is a block of cheese and a grater.

A long beat.

"I could ask why the sudden interest," he says, a touch cautiously, "or I could assume you'd have already told me if you wanted me to know."

"So which is it going to be?" Absently.

Simon studies him.

"Why the sudden interest?"

"Considering the materials are everywhere, what makes you think I'm not sick of thinking about it?" he fires back without looking up.

You're avoiding the answer.

Simon makes a noncommittal noise, and drifts closer to peer at whatever Jordie's working on.

The lettuce is in a bowl. Now it's time for the cheese.

Next to the cheese, lined up together: fat tomatoes, more cilantro, an onion, a jalapeno. Beyond them, three avocados.

"I'm pretty sure I could chop vegetables without poisoning anyone," he offers, "if you'd like."

"No," patiently, "your job is to stand there and get tipsy."

"I can handle that too."

He takes another swallow of scotch and melting ice.

Next comes the pico de gallo; that's going to need to go in a bigger bowl. Jordie reaches up in one of the cabinets.

Simon leans against the counter.

"So aside from the thing you're sick of thinking of," he says after a moment, "what's new in your life?"

Jordie's hands still.

He moves the bowl to the counter. "What have you got planned for Saturday?"

"Nothing yet." He turns the glass in his hand. "I was going to ask if you were busy."

"I have my shift at the clinic." Over come the tomatoes. "You want the show?"

Simon brightens.

"I'd like that. Xiexie."

"We'll go out for drinks afterward," he says.

And, without looking up from slicing his tomatoes: "You'll get the story then."

He starts to answer. Stops.

A little quieter than he meant to: "All right."

It's shrimp tacos for dinner.