simon_doctor | (no subject)

Simon's gaze cuts across at Mal, suddenly guarded.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

Mal sighs dramatically, reaching over to retrieve his book but not yet opening it.

"Just tryin' to play nice, Doc, that was all."

Simon pauses, and gives a small sigh of his own.

"I appreciate it."

Mal doesn't open the book again, simply leaving it in his lap - gives him something to stare at.

And there's a moment of silence.

When Simon starts speaking, he isn't looking at Mal.

"I mean, yes, Miranda's out of her head, but ... that doesn't mean the damage isn't done. She still picks things up from people around her, and too many of them are going to be things she shouldn't have to know."

"...I don't know what to tell ya, Simon. She's probably going to forever be like that."

Quieter: "Lot o' things happen to folk that they shouldn't have to deal with. But your sister, I'm comin' to think'll be able to deal with anythin' comin' her way better than most folk."

Mal eyes Simon with obvious concern. "Any reason to think otherwise?"

"...I don't know."

It's a more honest answer than the one he wanted to give, which was no.

Mal shrugs in an attempt to return to some form of lightness in the conversation. He probably fails, and he knows this.

""'I don't know' 's a fair enough answer. God knows there're situations in my life don't make not one bit o' sense to me either."

Mal's not trying to push anything. At least Simon's talking to him like Mal's got something to offer.

His voice sinks lower.

"What they did to her, what they turned her into ... it's not something that can be repaired."

"I understand that, Doc," Mal reminds.

Simon glances up at Mal.

"You didn't know her before."

His tone is one of regret.

Mal seems to match his tone when he replies, "Can't imagine that I wouldn't have been a nicer person to meet before the War."

Moving on quickly, "Everyone has events happen to 'em that change them. Can't avoid it."

"Before the war." Simon's mouth twists, a little bit. "I'm not sure there ever was any before the war. Just ... some battles fought before anyone else knew there was a war going on."

He's thinking about Miranda. And the Reavers. And the Academy.

He's not sure there's an after the war either, if it comes to that.

One hand tightens around the small red book.

He's thinking about an entire decade that could have gone very differently.

He's not sure there's an after the war either, if the look on his face tells any tales.

"You survived. River survived." Book didn't. My friends didn't, long before.

(Reavers don't leave no survivors.)

"I suppose so."

(Strictly speaking, wouldn't say they did.)

Still very still, like a pindrop would make Mal drop to the floor to dodge a bullet.

"You got family here."

Simon looks up swiftly, his eyes wide and unguarded.

A pause.

"I know."

dinh

"Good."

It's quiet. Ship's night; nobody else around.

Somehow that makes it a little easier to ask the next question.

"...When you were in the war," he starts, and stalls.

Not a lot easier, evidently.

"Does it keep you awake at night, Sergeant?"

Mal makes no outward change in demeanor.

"Yes?"

"Was there ever ..."

Simon's fingers twist together, groping for words.

"I mean, you must have had ... recruits who weren't ... who didn't have any prior experience. In combat."

"Sure we did. Me, for one. At the beginning of it." Mal almost laughs at the memory. "I was so green, I showed up to basic three weeks earlier 'n everyone to get weapons training."

Sobering again quickly, "There was so many volunteers in the beginning. More 'n half, in my experience, were as babes in baskets."

Simon nods, and studies his hands for a moment.

"Were there ever any who ... seemed to take to it ... a little too well?"

He looks up on the last words, meeting Mal's eyes.

Yes, he's aware that this is a potentially dangerous question.

Mal is very not sure where this is coming from. Besides a second's drumming on the book cover, this is not apparent.

"Yes."

A man comes up against that kind of will, only way to deal with
it, I suspect... is to become it.

Mal winces, as if an old wound is coming back to haunt him for a second. "Folk I saw had usually one o' two reactions. They dealt with it, or they didn't. Those that didn't, died. Those that did...well, there's all ways o' dealing with it. Can't imagine that coming to liking to kill folk wasn't a popular road to take."

They made him watch.

They made me watch.

(kill with my heart)

"I imagine it would be."