simon_doctor | (no subject)

(no subject)

"River?"

Five minutes. He was gone from the infirmary for barely five minutes --

River's gone. And one of the cabinets is hanging open, its former contents scattered over the floor, vials and packets and syringes.

Simon whirls to stare down the hallway. She couldn't have gone far, unless --

Not in her room. Not in his room. Not in the lounge.

Milliways? oh god please let it be that simple--

His voice scales upward, uncontrollably. "River?"

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Eventually, "It's okay."

Soft. It's hard to pinpoint where her voice is coming from. She's not visible anywhere.

He freezes.

"River?"

And turns, slowly.

Behind the wall, right there ...

"Meimei, where are you?"

Silence, for a second.

Then, "Doesn't matter."

"I'm safe."

Down the wall a little further, there -- an access hatch, almost completely camouflaged by the bend of the corridor but not quite.

Simon bends to lever the door open, and ducks through.

The storage niche on the other side is higher than he might have expected; he can almost stand up without banging his head. It's about longer than he expected too, about half the length of one of the passenger bunks -- which, he estimates, they're right behind.

River's huddled at the other end.

Her eyes flick to him, and then away.

She's limp, as if in deep sleep, but her eyes are open. There's an empty pressure injector lying not far from her hand, and several vials heaped in a corner.

He's on his knees next to her in under a second, picking up one of the vials.

"...River, this is muscle relaxant."

Alarm is rising in his eyes as he scans the vials in the corner -- about half of them empty -- but his voice is quite calm.

"This is a lot of muscle relaxant."

"It's safer."

"Meimei, no..."

He slides an arm under her shoulders, and carefully lifts her to a sitting position, leaning against the wall.

There's blood on her forehead.

It isn't hers.

"They're afraid of me."

"...No. River, no, they ... they're not. Not really."

It's a somewhat feeble denial. Simon's never been able to lie to his sister.

"They should be."

Her eyes glitter with unshed tears.

"What I will show them... Oh God..."

None of her usual gestures of agitation. She's propped up like a doll, hands limp in her lap. Only her face moves, and it shows desperate agony.

A tear slides down, and then another.

"Shh, shh ..."

He reaches out to brush her hair out of her face. A few strands stick to the drying blood on her forehead.

"It's okay, meimei."

Simon digs in his pocket, finds a handkerchief, wipes at her tears.

"It's okay."

And carefully starts to clean the blood off her face.

"Show me off like a dog," she mutters. Breathing too fast, and the tears still fall. "Old men covered in blood, it never touched them but they're drowning in it. So much loss..."

Her eyes close, and her head tilts back. Her neck muscles are weakend by the drug, too; it's close to lolling.

"I don't know what I'm saying. I never know what I'm saying." Her breath sobs in her throat.

His own throat aches. Oh, River.

"...In the Maidenhead," he says a little tentatively, "you said something. When you were triggered, do you remember?"

He starts rubbing at a spatter of blood on her shoulder. This isn't hers either.

"The captain saw you say something on the feed..."

None of it's hers.

"Miranda."

"Miranda."

Her face twists, and she laughs softly. It's bitter, half tears and all pain.

"Ask her."

"She'll show you all."

"Show us what? Who is Miranda?"

A pause, and his eyebrows furrow.

"...am I ... talking to Miranda now?"

...A Look. Capital letter included.

It says, very eloquently, Don't be a moron.

A wry smile touches his face, just a little.

"No. Right."

He picks up her hand (it hangs limp in his, unnaturally relaxed), and very carefully begins wiping the blood off her knuckles.

"But I think ... somehow when they triggered you, it brought this up. This memory."

"It isn't mine."

She focuses on him. Tears swim in her eyes.

"The memory." Her voice is choked with pleading -- It's not fair, it says. It's not fair. "I didn't bring it and I shouldn't have to carry it. It isn't mine."

She's crying again, or maybe still. In a begging whisper, "I don't want to sleep. Don't put me to sleep."

"Shh. I won't."

"Put a bullet to me."

Laughing and crying together, now, tinged with hysteria, as she rolls her head to look away from him. Most of her body is still limp and heavy.

"Bullet in the brainpan. Squish!"

He reaches to take her face between his hands, and turns her back towards him.

"Don't say that. Not ever."

His voice is low, and firm, and barely shakes at all.

"We'll get through this."

She meets his eyes.

"Things are going to get much, much worse."

He takes her hands, and holds them.

"The captain will think of something. We'll --"

"He has to see," she interrupts.

"More than anyone. He has to see what he doesn't want to."

A pause.

"River?"

He clasps her hands a little tighter, in a preemptive gesture of comfort.

"What will Miranda show us?"

There's a long silence.

Softly, "Death."

"...Whose death?"

Silence, again. And then she starts to laugh.

Or maybe it's crying.

It's both, together, all tangled up. She's laughing harder and harder, tears pouring down her face.

"Everyone's!"

She catches her breath on a harsh gasp of a sob.

"Oh, God..."

"Shh, River...."

He pulls her into a hug, rocking back and forth just slightly.

"Shh."

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