Summary: Simon sighs, and Mal thinks he’s probably the only person that he has ever met who can even be annoying when he’s just breathing.
Disclaimer: I own Firefly as much as I own Veronica Mars and Lost. Which is not at all.
Author's Note: For cynthia_arrow, who wanted Simon patching up Mal after a bad run-in with somebody. I’m still rusty at this, so I hope this is even the least bit what you had in mind.
“At this point, I’m forced to ask, are you actively trying to get yourself killed?”
“Not today, but who knows what tomorrow will bring.”
Simon sighs, and Mal thinks he’s probably the only person that he has ever met who can even be annoying when he’s just breathing. He can’t come into the infirmary fresh from yet another scrape with someone trying to take a piece of his piece of the pie without getting the third degree and a lecture to boot from Simon.
He thinks time after time about throwing him off the boat, while it was moving, and if he was in a good mood, letting him take his sister with him, but he’s a smart enough man to realize that he needs a doctor around for moments like this. So, he’s gonna have to put up with Simon until he gets used to him, if that was even possible.
“My god.” Mal turns his head sharply, because that is not something you want your doctor to say while he’s stitching you up, and finds him staring, wide-eyed, at a long scar on his arm. “That look monstrous.”
“Really? Because I can assure you, it felt just wonderful goin’ on.”
“Was it...during the war?” Simon asks, timidly.
“Most of ‘em are.” Mal looks down at the one Simon had been gaping at and confirms, yes, it is a war scar. “That one’s from a jagged piece of metal that went flyin’ and hit me in the arm.”
Simon makes a face and Mal thinks it’s a weird thing for a doctor to do. “What about this one?” he asks.
Mal turns again and his face hardens when he sees the one Simon is indicating. “We’re almost done here, right?” he asks. Simon makes a completely new face, a much more confused one, but he nods.
“As long as you don’t pull out the stitches, you should be fine,” Simon replies, backing away, sensing that is the right thing to do at this point. Mal nods curtly, detached, and heads for the door.
“Captain, I didn’t mean to-” Simon calls after him confused.
“I know,” Mal says, turning back for a second. It isn’t Simon, really, and it wasn’t the kid’s fault for being curious when he was the one that had opened the door. “Don’t worry about it.”
Simon’s shoulders slump as he watches Mal walk out the door and he gives a sigh, shaking his head at himself.