river_meimei | (no subject)

(no subject)

Today at dinner, Simon was subdued. Perfectly friendly, and everybody has moods, but -- quiet.

River watched him, out of the corner of her eye and in quick startled glances, and didn't laugh along at the mealtime banter. Most of the crew didn't notice; it's River, after all.

Today it's River's job to clear the dishes. She's distracted, even by her usual standards, and Inara has to gently steer her back to focus several times. (River's well enough these days to take on a carefully selected share of the crew chores, but everyone feels -- wisely -- that most of these are best done with someone else supervising.) Inara finally takes over the last of the silverware, and River slips out of the kitchen with her hands still damp.

She's not so distracted, now.

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Simon's in the infirmary. It's not really due an inventory check for another few weeks, but ... he has the urge to be doing something.

Almost anything would do, really.

River hesitates in the lounge outside the infirmary, one foot resting on the bottom stair and her hand ghosting over the railing.

Slowly, she moves towards the door, her hand sliding absently along the wall.

Liquid bandage, six vials. Same as last time -- it's been a while since anyone on board took an injury serious enough to need it.

(He's read the official obituary, by now.)

Butterfly sutures, twelve packages of four each, likewise.

The door's open.

River watches Simon for a moment, leaning half-hidden against the frame, before she slips inside. Her bare feet are quiet, but she's not making any effort to stay unnoticed, as she crosses the floor and boosts herself onto the reclining operating chair in the center of the room. The cloth over it rustles slightly as she settles into place, sideways with her legs dangling and hands in her lap, watching her brother still.

Anaesthetics, local and general, several varieties. Analgesics.

(In the years before her death, Liz Whitaker was working on a treatment for Ng-Hadary, a neurodegenerative disease affecting primarily the young. According to the obituary, her research was widely hailed as a real step toward a cure.)

It's a moment before he consciously registers River's presence. When he does, it's without surprise.

River waits.

(She's subdued too, now.

And listening.)

(Neurodegenerative. What an ugly coincidence.)

"Hey, meimei," he says quietly.

River slides a hand over the cloth next to her, fingers splayed to feel its texture. Her eyes drop to the floor, and for a long moment, she doesn't say anything.

Then, softly, "You miss her." Her gaze flicks back up to Simon on the last word, though her head stays a little bowed.

Simon looks up at her. The surprise is muted, and quickly gone.

"What did you see?"

River's gaze slides across countertops, drawers, cabinets, and to Simon's face.

"She was your friend," she says, still quiet, and in the direction of another closed sterile cabinet.

"Died. You didn't know."

He nods.

"Liz Whitaker," he says quietly. "Do you remember Liz?"

"Bad influence."

There's a quirk of fondness there, subdued and wistful, even though River only met her a handful of times and as Simon's kid sister. Liz was more a self-described bad influence than any kind of real one.

(I took you away from all that)

"Time for a break."

"Yes," he whispers, and can't say any more.

"I never tried writing back to her," he says, looking directly at River, "and now it's too late."

Blink and his gaze is still downward and distant, and he hasn't said a word.

"I remember," River says, low.

(there shall I sing)

Her hands close on the edge of the chair, and spread again: close and splay, fretful.

"There's going to be a memorial service," he says after a long moment. "I think I need to go."

River nods, a little. Another lock of hair, which had been precariously tucked behind an ear, slips free to swing alongside one cheek.

Softly, "You can."

He nods.

Looks down at the little box of vials of local anaesthetic, still in his hands.

Silence.

River slips off the chair in one motion, soundless except for the rustle of cloth. She moves carefully, one tile for each barefooted step, across the infirmary to Simon.

Silently, she leans a shoulder against her brother's upper arm, and rests her cheek against his shoulder.

The ache that rises in his throat isn't unexpected at all, but it's still all he can do to swallow it down.

Simon lets out a long breath, and holds out his hand to River, palm up.

"She'll remember," River whispers to his empty hand, those deft surgeon's fingers and the palm open in supplication. "Too."

"She did."

These moments are rarer now than the used to be; the times when he has no idea at all what River means.

Somehow it's comforting anyway, just knowing that she means to comfort.

"Time for a break," River whispers again, almost as if to herself.

She lifts her hand to his, delicate and almost hesitant, and her slim fingers brush against her brother's palm. She breathes out in a long sigh, and her eyes close. She looks old and young all at once, and weary, or she would if anyone were at the right angle to see; Simon probably isn't, with her head still leaning against his shoulder. Softly, "Gonna be okay, gē ge."

His hand closes on hers, and squeezes lightly.

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.

She knows, and it has nothing to do with being psychic.

He's her brother. And certain things are reciprocal.

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