ways_infirmary | (no subject)

(no subject)

Kaylee's been asleep for some time now, since last night.

Simon slept briefly too, in the chair next to the infirmary bed; neither very long nor very well.

Right now he's sitting in that same chair, half the time watching the monitors, the other half watching her closed eyes and her pale face under the oxygen tube.

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It should be said that Mal hates infirmaries. A lot. Especially when there's
a loved one
crew on the table.

Serenity finds herself in that situation now, with Kaylee so very dwarfed by all the medical supplies around her, and the blanket that lays over her legs, hanging below the edge of the primary bed.

Mal's boots clunk hollowly once he steps inside the infirmary, and for a moment, says absolutely nothing.

Simon looks up. Sees Mal.

And swallows hard, and says nothing.

Mal tries a smile on for the good doctor.

Because he is good, and deserves to be smiled at, even if it's from Mal.

"Wèi, Simon."

In an undertone: "Zoe told you what happened?"

"Yes. While I was sitting down. Which was thoughtful of 'er."

Looking again to Kaylee - not that his eyes left her for more than a minute or so - he asks:

"What do I need to know?"

What can I do isn't a question he can ask, not really.

Simon draws a deep breath, and his tone is level and matter-of-fact. "Well, she's still very weak, obviously. She's going to need bed rest for the next few days, oxygen until tomorrow at least. I'm going to be running some tests later in the day, when she's awake -- we still don't know what caused this."

There's the faintest flaw in his voice on that last.

(Some of the border planets are in pretty bad shape -- plagues and famine)

"We might not ever know."

(Some of it's true)

"...But you're not going to dream up the answer fallin' asleep all over this chair."

Simon shifts a little, straightening.

"I've already slept a little."

Not enough.

"On your back in a bed in such a fashion so's to make the thumping headache you've probably got going in you head go away?"

"...I don't have a headache."

Is he a rotten liar.

Mal believes him.

...Really.

"I'm pretty sure there's a line of reasoning here that I'm supposed to throw back at you, in the way of sleep toxins mushifying the brain of the doctor while my mechanic's on the table.

"Go to bed."

It probably sounds like an order.

Mal doesn't intend it that way.

Simon blinks. Where would Mal have heard about fatigue toxins...?

...oh right.

"I, I shouldn't leave her. I promised --"

"I'll stay," Mal offers immediately.

"...You know I debated just punching you and locking you out of the infirmary til you took a nap."

He looks like he's still debating it, if Simon protests more strongly.

He really does.

"I see."

Simon pulls himself up from the chair, and puts out a hand in surprise to catch himself as he sways on his feet.

Reflexively, one hand at Simon's shoulder, the other around his forearm.

Later on, Mal might take some amusement in diagnosing the doctor.

"...The kitchen's on your way to your room."

Simon blinks at him again.

It's a ...yes, and? sort of blink.

The glare is back.

"...you remember eating, right?"

That gets a pause, and then a small rueful smile. Simon rubs his forehead and his eyes, and lets out his breath in a soundless sigh.

"I'll take our room upstairs -- it's closer. And I promise I'll eat something before I come back."

A beat, and then more soberly:

"Make sure someone's with her, if you have to leave? I don't want her to wake up and be alone."

This, Mal doesn't have a problem with.

Everybody dies alone --
"Sure, Doc."

Doesn't mean you have to live alone.
Mal settles in Simon's recently-vacated chair, not appearing as though he had plans on moving in the near future.

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