simon_doctor | (no subject)

(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."

Mal swallows, hard. He hasn't talked about a lot of this in...a long time.

I killed for you.

"You...don't see 'em as people, after a spell. Just, somethin' that'd kill you as soon as you let them. So you don't let them."

"Like the Reavers."

It's unclear whether he means thinking of the enemy as Reavers, or thinking of the enemy the way Reavers would.

Possibly it's unclear to him, too.

Mal does not notice the ambiguity.

"Like anyone. You gotta protect you and yours. If you can't do that, then there's not much you can do about anything else."

"...isn't that the truth."

Mal tightens his lips, causing the muscles of his jaw to tense momentarily in thought. Or concern.

"That there? Pretty much the only job description I ever got taught for leadin' folk, before, in and after the War. Some folk took to it, some didn't. I've killed for my friends, to protect 'em, keep them breathing."

Swallowing, "Does that make me like it?" A barely perceptible motion of the head. "No. Just...somethin' I have to be willin' to do."

Simon nods.

It's logical; harsh, but logical. Life's too fragile out here. You have to be willing to kill, if you want to survive; if you want the ones you love to survive. He's taken up a gun more than once, since joining the crew.

Logical. There's no reason at all for the thought to

(my turn)

hurt.

Mal's been increasingly lost in his own memories while talking to Simon.

Something he'd never thought to ask before crosses his mind, and he almost doesn't realize he's asking it.

"Does that make me xiōngcán shāshŏu?"

Simon's startled by the question.

"What? No."

The denial's reflexive. If he'd taken more time to think about it, the answer might have been different; longer, probably, and heavily qualified.

"Good to hear."

He's seen Mal kill often enough before -- seen it within days of meeting him, in fact. He remembers it now: the shot fired past him as he stood hesitating with the unfamiliar gun in his hand, knocking down the Federal agent ... what was his name? ...

He remembers River's scream; remembers the captain striding past him, holstering his gun with an impatient gesture, Jayne coming to his side to haul the dead man off the ship like a bag of trash.

Remembers his sister recoiling from the gun he'd forgotten he was holding.

Mal stares down Simon like he might have a new recruit to his platoon. This only lasts for about two seconds before his mouth turns downward in an expression of weariness.

"'S good to hear even if it's just said to be nice. White lies are pretty things to captains too."

"...I wouldn't lie to you."

As kind as he can pull it off: "Good answer. Pretty reciprocal too, if such means a thing."

Quietly, meeting Mal's gaze: "It does."