simon_doctor | (no subject)

(no subject)

Mal's sitting in the lounge area of the kitchen when Simon finally finds him. Apparently reading.

Simon hesitates, unwilling to interrupt.

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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."

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