Chapter Text
The thing about these in-between worlds—the ones that still have a semblance of high society but that are closer to the border worlds, Mal reckons, than what some consider ‘civilized’—is that they’re a home to all sorts, and there’s a little more room for playin’ with the way of things than there is on the core or the rim.
That’s how Mal finds himself headin’ toward the apothecary of a woman who was once a doctor on Sihnon. But lately, she runs a shop full of mostly-natural remedies on the outskirts of a town in Perspehone—one that neighbors the bustlin’ capital, so still has access to a lot of its resources but is a mite quieter, more settled.
He gets an earful about certain aspects of the job from the doctor on the walk there as they journey closer to the shop they’re lookin’ for.
“I’m not saying there are no possible benefits to homeopathic approaches,” Simon insists again, sweat glistenin’ on him right fierce as the late afternoon sun beats down on them. He’d brought the doctor along so he could negotiate the prices on a large order they were facilitatin’ for an old client of Inara’s on Sihnon that had reached out to contract them. Apparently, the great apothecary used to be the man’s doctor before she up and left. He’s got a nephew with some condition painin’ him enough that he’s ready to try just about anythin’. It’s about as legit as their jobs get, just facilitating the sale with a transport fee.
Mal lets the doc rant, figurin’ it’ll least get it outta his system before they enter the shop itself. As he does, Mal peels around for a sign that says ‘Magda’s Apothecary’.
“But many of them aren’t well-studied, and if they are, they’re often found to be placebo at best. It’s one thing to use them to supplement sanctioned treatments, but to sell them as cure-alls,” Simon shakes his head, rather than completin’ the thought.
“But if it helps the pain, even if it’s just in their heads, what’s it matter?” Mal wonders aloud. He ain’t even really tryin’ to stir up the doctor no more than he already is, just doesn’t tamp down the thought when it comes. ‘Sides, the shop don’t just carry those natural remedies—tell says the woman’s still got her license and ability to prescribe medication, too, when she thinks it’s needed, and she’d been very willing to accommodate her old patient. That’s why Simon’s even with Mal on this job in the first place.
“It matters because shops like this often convince people to abandon medicine entirely and promise things they can’t deliver. And what’s a doctor from Sihnon doing here? You’re not at all curious as to why she left home?”
Spottin’ the sign, Mal places a quick hand on the small of Simon’s back jus’ to guide him where Mal needs him walkin’ since he’s a little distracted by his own spiel. Mal don’t expect him to pay it any mind, but Simon looks at him, his previously aggravated expression lookin’, for all the ‘verse, soft and unsure for a moment. Mal frowns.
“Hm, true. I wonder why a doctor of such fine stature might go ‘n do that for.” Okay, now he’s pushin’ a little, but the boy just makes it so easy. He don’t hardly recognize the expression on Simon’s face, and it fades as soon as it came, so quick Mal might oughta think he imagined it. Simon scowls at him, breaking away from his touch as they both walk inside, Mal after him, the bell ringing out a sound more tinny than melodic as they do.
Bein’ perfectly honest, their more legitimate work always leaves Mal reelin’ a lil. He keeps waitin’ for somethin’ to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop, but there’s not much that even can go wrong on a job like this. Even the prices seem fair reasonable to Mal. They don’t even pay ‘em themselves or gotta worry about bein’ paid back; Inara’s client had sent them the credits already. It oughta be plenty, and he’d insisted they keep whatever was leftover, along with their transport fee. Seems like a good enough guy, so Mal’s twitchin’ a little extra.
But nothing seems to be going wrong as Simon traces a finger down the list prices while Mal takes in the shop. Ain’t packed to the brim, but there’s more here than he’d have probably expected, especially ‘round this time of day. Candles are burning in the low light, and swaths of colorful fabric hang just about everywhere they can. He catches a faint whiff of something pleasant and sniffs. Mal turns back to Simon and Magda.
“Somethin’ smells mighty nice,” Mal says, flashin’ a quick smile. Now things seem to be jus’ about settled, he’s in decent enough spirits.
“You want to know the secret?” Mal tilts his chin in agreement, waiting. “We burn candles throughout the shop. Incense, sometimes.”
Mal blinks, then grins, the feel of it a little wry. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Simon shifts beside him, counting something out for what looks like the third time. He’d almost like to tell the boy to get on with it, but he’d guess it’s probably better Simon take it serious than not.
“Well, anyway, we change the scents nearly daily. Like to keep an element of surprise. But we also use diffusers to dispense something else; we call it the love drug,” she laughs lightly.
“The what-now?”
“It’s a bit of a trick, really. You’re already smelling something commonly thought of as pleasant, and then we add something that heightens sensation. Whatever you smell has more to do with your own psychology than anything.”
Mal frowns. He’s standin’ next to Simon, so all he smells, besides whatever that pretty, delicate floral must be that’s perfuming the air, is Simon’s shaving cream (he’d been looking a bit shadowed in the face until this morning) and clean skin and coffee.
“Ain’t heard of that, I don’t reckon.” Though it does get another memory burnin’ in his mind, thinkin’ of the time Saffron’d come aboard and used that “good-night” whatever drug on him. Almost a year back by now, and not quite the same he imagines, but he don’t got any fondness for the memory.
“These all look fine. I’ve marked the one the client decided against off the list,” he says, setting the clipboard down on the counter. Then, as though just now processing what Magda had said: “You use Hydrolavidpramine in your mixture?” Simon says, nose well and wrinkled.
“Just to give the shop an air of mystery. Romance. It’s a little trade secret. Most apothecaries don’t have the benefit, after all, of my background in clinical practices—”
“Do you dilute it at all.” Simon’s voice is flat now, clipped in a way that suggests he’s about three seconds away from snappin’. Mal himself has been on the receivin’ end more than a coupla times.
He glances sideways at the doctor. Ain’t much like the doc to interrupt if it can be helped, so he’s gotta figure somethin’s wrong.
Magda only stares back at Simon, her own mouth setting into a small frown.
“It’s not necessary,” Magda says. “It isn’t dangerous.”
“So you don’t.” Simon raps his knuckles against the counter; Mal notes his expression is growing rather grey and pale, though his neck seems to be flushin’ somethin’ fierce.
“‘S that bad?” Mal asks.
“It is dangerous,” Simon insists, half in answer, half still spittin’ the words out at Magda. “Where the hell did you train?” She opens her mouth to respond, expression wearin’ great offense, but before she can manage: “No, sorry. Outside of the fact that you are drugging patrons without their consent,” Simon practically snarls, “Without any knowledge of their background or medical history…” Mal elects not to mention Simon’s own foray into what he guesses could be called medical malpractice, the time he got to druggin’ Jayne. Don’t quite seem the moment to point that particular flaw in the argument out. “Any drug at all that works has risks. People can have adverse reactions.” There’s somethin’ left unsaid that Mal picks up on but don’t know about, and Magda’s eyes widen as she realizes what it is.
“Oh, that’s only a myth.”
“No. It isn’t.” Then, without waiting for a response or the supplies they still gotta cart or Mal himself, Simon storms out the front, bell ringing, Simon shoots back over his shoulder, “Thank you so much for your help.”
It’s several miles back to the ship, and it becomes clear to Mal quickly that Simon won’t make it that far. He ain’t got a clue what’s wrong, but the boy is well-flushed now, even though it’s evening, and on-edge, restless, gritting his teeth.
Mal pulls him to an inn, the drugs in tow behind them as he pulls at the cart and Simon carries the bag with the more delicate glass vials. Mal shells out for a room for the night. Ain’t planned for the expense, but he uses the credits leftover from their purchase. Only gets ‘em one bed, but not much to be done about it.
Simon’s near-frantic as he kneels down by the bed, placing his medkit on it as though he just went and remembered somethin’.
“Doc, what is goin’ on?” Mal asks as he watches Simon search out his medkit. “You said… at the shop, you said ‘adverse reactions’. You havin’ those?”
“I just… I need…” Simon swears under his breath then, looking throug his medkit. “It’s not there. I didn’t replace it.” In a fit of frustration, Simon throws the bag to the ground, and something clatters; Mal winces. What’s stored there ain’t come cheap, Mal knows, but he has more pressing concerns because Simon’s now hyper-ventilating, with wide eyes and tense shoulders and hollow gasps of air that don’t get nothin’ in.
Without thinkin’ ‘bout it much, Mal takes Simon by the shoulders and pins him to the wall, caging him in. Simon tenses, struggling as his eyes dart in every direction but Mal’s eyes, a little wild ‘n animal-like.
“Get off of—”
“Breathe, Doc,” he insists, squeezing Simon’s shoulders where he has ‘em pinned. If something’s wrong, then he needsta get it out of the doc so they can deal. Ain’t much way of doin’ that if the boy can’t catch his gorram breath. “In and out. Come on,” he says, inhaling himself and then exhaling again, slow, ‘til Simon can catch on and mimic him. “There ya go. What’s happenin’? What is this?”
Mal watches as Simon’s eyes flutter closed. “Please stop touching me,” Simon whispers, breathing more even but his eyes screwed tight, and when Mal shifts so that all his weight ain’t on one foot, he stills when he feels the hard length in Simon’s trousers pressed against his thigh.
“Oh.” Oh.
It clicks into place for Mal; he glances between their bodies, then back up at Simon and finds, with a jolt, the other man’s got embarrassed tears trailing down his face. Mal eases up some, and Simon quickly wipes at them with one hand, blinking several times.
“Just leave me alone, alright?” Simon says, trying to twist outta his grip, now he’s got some freedom, but Mal don’t budge the hand still on ‘im..
“Hey… it’s—look, it’s fine, okay?” He likes to poke at the boy sometimes, can’t quite seem to help it, but really, nothin’ so funny about this, and he don’t got any real desire to humiliate Simon. “Could be worse, even—I almost sent Jayne with you on this job instead—”
“Please shut up,” Simon says.
“Right.” Mal frowns then, letting his hands fall, and Simon takes the opportunity to move to sit down on the bed, wringing his hands together in front of him, head bent low.
“So, how’s this work, anyway? The whole—airborne Ambrosia-of-the-gods deal? Should… ” He frowns. “Should I be freakin’ out right now, too? Since it was there for the takin’ and all.”
“No,” Simon says on a sniffle, clearly trying to get himself together. “No, you would feel it already if it were having this same impact. You may feel a bit more on-edge than usual,” Simon notes with a frown. “But even that’s a guess. It’s usually a liquid drug. I don’t know how it works this way, entirely.”
Mal don’t feel particularly different, other than maybe a subtle heat, though whether that’s down to the effects of the hydro-plavid-whatnot or seein’ Simon so worked up in ways beyond mere panic is anyone’s guess. “So it’s not gonna get us both, uh, all stirred up?”
“It’s… not an Aphrodesiac, if that’s what you mean. In the traditional sense.” Simon tries for another deep inhale, then adds, “It’s more clinical than that; it’s a highly concentrated form of mixed synthetics that mimic the human body’s natural response to dopamine and oxytoc—”
“Jargon, Doc. Get to the point.”
“You asked!” Simon’s shoulders, if it’s possible, slump even more as he says, “There’s something else in it. Highly regulated. I’m not even entirely sure what it’s made of. And I’m… well, I suppose ‘allergic’ is an apt enough term. For most, it’s just supposed to be a boost. If they’re struggling with their libido.” He struggles a bit on the word.
Mal raises his brow. “There’s a market for that?” Mal asks, pressin’ on the medical angle even though he understands it only in the broadest strokes. Doc’s voice has gotten a bit calmer, though, and he ain’t shrinkin’ in on himself quite so much anymore, since he’s talkin’ ‘bout the medicine. And he needs the info anyway. Two birds and all that.
Simon shrugs, placing his palms against his knees and tapping his feet in a nervous rhythm. “Some people struggle with it, for any number of reasons. Depression, trauma—side effects from other drugs—”
“But for you… ?”
Simon’s flush reaches his cheeks, and Mal pulls up a rickety old chair from the corner to sit down parallel to him.
“For those prone to side effects,” he says, clearing his throat. “The results are… intensified. Heightened.”
Tracking the small movement of Simon’s throat working as he still can only manage fairly shallow breaths, Mal shifts in his seat.
“And it gets worse as time goes on. There’s, ah, arousal. Heat. But it’s… intense. The need to be—touched,” Simon chokes out. “Is. Is a major symptom.” Mal thinks the drug must be gettin’ to his head more by now; the doctor ain’t normally one to stutter so terribly much, his speech usually a study in crisp, measured control. “There’s a drug to reverse the effects, but…”
“You don’t have it.”
Head still hanging low, Simon puts it in his hands.
“I used it the only other time I was exposed, back when I was an intern. That’s how I found out. And Hydrolavidpramine has fallen out of common use. There are much less dangerous medications that serve the same purpose.”
“Simon. What happens if you—if you don’t?” Mal himself don’t think he’s usually half as squeamish on the topic, but he’ll admit there’s a certain awkwardness to the situation.
Simon takes another slow, shaky breath and looks up at him with nervous eyes, and that’s all the answer Mal really needs.
“And you can’t, uh—take care of it yourself?”
Simon scrunches his nose and casts his gaze away, clearly mortified. Even so, he seems to consider it with a tilt of his head. “I don’t know. I feel like I need,” he glances at Mal, his breath shaky, “to be. Um. Touched. But I haven’t tested the theory. And haven’t heard of anyone else doing so successfully. Fifty-fifty chance?”
The air around Mal seems stifled. That ain’t close to good enough. Hand grenades and horseshoes won’t do here.
Slowly, so slowly Simon could break from the touch if he wanted, so as not to startle him, Mal places a hand on his knee. It stills from its jitterin’, and Simon looks up at him with wide eyes, pupils dark as aged molasses.
“How long do we have, then?” Because they’ve shaved off about an hour of however long Simon has already, and the doctor looks just about ready to burst outta his skin, though with embarrassment or desperation, it’s hard to tell.
It’s almost comical, how wide Simon’s mouth opens. “You—we—”
“You see anyone else around? Unless you wanna proposition the inn’s desk clerk, but I gotta be honest, Doc, way she was eyeing the woman with red hair as she was checkin’ in before us, not sure you’re her type.”
It makes Mal smile a little, the way Simon rolls his eyes at the joke as he crosses his arms and runs his thumbs in circles against his skin where he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dark button-up.
Simon shakes his head, eyes closed a moment. “She’s not my type, either,” he murmurs. Mal files that information away. He himself leans toward women, or has, all things bein’ equal, but he ain’t so set against the notion. “Standard range before it becomes fatal is twenty-four hours,” Simon manages to choke out. “But it’s… better to get it done sooner than later. I’d imagine. I mean, at five hours it becomes more dangerous; I’ll lose what coherence I do have. The effects worsen over time, and I’m, I’m already—”
They’re not gonna let it get to five hours. Mal’s already decided on that. He may push at times, but Mal don’t mean to play with his medic’s life. Not when it’s already at risk pretty much constantly.
And it won’t do for Simon to get much worse off than this, mentally. Mal ain’t no reader or trained in psychology or what-have-ya, but he ain’t dumb on the score of people. Simon clings tightly to control, to his mental acuity, and he’s probably already got his dignity dinged up plenty for the night.
Mal stands up and places his own hands on Simon’s shoulders then, watching as he shivers and using his own weight to push Simon to his back on the bed. His breathing is startin’ to grow shallow again, but the way his body seems to give for Mal tells him it’s not quite so outta panic anymore. But the doctor’s already provin’ an easily startled animal, and they got some time from the sounds of it, so Mal means to ease him in.
“You don’t have to.” Simon shakes his head. “I know you don’t—you don’t have to.”
Mal frowns down at him, at the self-interruption. “Well, I’m hardly gonna let my medic die, am I?”
Climbing up on the bed, Mal places his knees on either side of the boy’s waist, straddlin’ him. Simon is very still.
“How’s it feel? Does it hurt?”
His hands are pressed down on the boy’s wrist, pinnin’ Simon because he seemed to like that earlier, little as he wanted to admit it. But they both know that’s not what he’s askin’ on. Simon makes a sound Mal ain’t ever had cause to hear from him before, pitched just above his normal voice, a high and thready moan.
Mal’s been with a few men here and there before—not common, but not unheard of, either. He’s perfectly capable of appreciatin’ beauty in any form, and for the first time without any kinda snark attached to the thought, he lets himself acknowledge Simon is all kindsa pretty. His dark hair splayed against the bedsheets might just undo him too early, and that’s really not an option here.
Point is, hearin’ that moan, Mal manages not to growl but does press down harder. This, with the two of ‘em, ain’t ever really occurred to ‘im before, not anywhere near consciously anyway, but now he’s heard that sound, he wants to hear it again. Make it happen again. He tries not to get too much pleasure from it, but there’s somethin’ to havin’ this disgraced Alliance golden boy, desperate and pliant, squirmin’ underneath him. Like Simon is somethin’ he took from them. Somethin’ Mal don’t plan to give back.
They can’t have him.
Simon bucks underneath him, hips rolling up and clearly lookin’ for friction, and Mal lets him but don’t move again, keepin’ the pressure there instead.
“Simon. Need an answer.” It’s not mere curiosity; he needs to know how it feels. Needs to know how to play this.
“It’s… “ Simon pants, mouth parted slightly, though whether in pain or pleasure or overwhelm, it’s difficult to say. “Sort of, it’s just—it’s like burning underneath my skin, everywhere, and it feels—it feels…” he rasps out.
“Better or worse when I’m touching you?” Mal asks, nosing against Simon’s shiny collarbone.
“Better?” Simon tries at guessin’. “Worse?” He laughs, sounding half outta his mind. “I really couldn’t say.”
“How do you want this, Doc?” Mal asks then.
“Please,” Simon whispers. “I need… I… please.”
“Yes, I know, you’re very polite,” Mal murmurs on a sigh. Drug’s clearly wearin’ on his faculties and skin’s just about burnin’ underneath Mal’s hold. “Well, not to me. Ordinarily.” But this situation ain’t exactly ordinary. “Does something specific need to happen for this to work?”
Simon shakes his head, hardly seeming in control of the motion. “It’s just… just until I—”
Mal takes pity on him. Well, sorta. He rolls his hips again to get Simon shuttin’ up, since he thinks havin’ to say the words really might break the boy, like as he is to startle and grow pale at the mere mention of sex on a given day. Simon whines underneath him, growing impatient and less able to string two sentences together by the moment.
“Look, I can treat you all kindsa well if you let me. But you gotta tell me what you want, yeah?"
It’s a long, silent moment as Mal watches Simon’s face do something complicated, eyes closed and his expression seemin’ in another world. But when he opens ‘em again, his eyes are clear and bright. He don’t look unsure of what he wants, but he does look pretty nervous.
“Kiss me?” Simon finally manages.
That weren’t hardly what Mal were expecting. He blinks, pausing for a moment too long, and Simon swears under his breath, trying to shift away but unable to under Mal’s grasp.
“You—you don’t have to…” Simon tries to retract it, but Mal swoops down and obliges before Simon can get too panicked again and presses their lips together, hard enough to bruise.
Simon moans into the kiss, and it seems to settle him more than he has been since leavin’ the apothecary, so Mal lingers there, licking into the small parting of his mouth and rolling their bodies together again before breaking his hold on Simon’s right arm to reach between them in search of his zipper. Mal suspects it’ll be a long night, but he don’t got no particular qualms about the matter, just this second.
Fingers that shaky shouldn’t be able to look so graceful. Mal can’t help but think it as he watches the doctor button up his black shirt, his own self still wakin’ up.
“Well, that weren’t half a bad time,” Mal says, tryin’ to keep his voice real casual as he looks to his medic.
Simon startles at the sound, turnin’ to look at him and rollin’ his eyes. He looks well and rumpled, and not particularly rested, dark circles under his eyes, but he ain’t so flushed no more, and not half as jittery as he’d been actin’ the night prior.
“Ain’t a way to be treatin’ a man done you a favor, now is it?” He means it as a joke, but the word lands flat, stale in the air.
Simon starts to respond, then stills. Shakes his head. He moves to put his medkit back together, zipping it up carefully from where he’d thrown it last night.
“Yes, well. I appreciate your sacrifice,” Simon manages finally, the words low and acidic.
Mal frowns, sittin’ up and leanin’ over the bed in search of his clothes. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing,” Simon sighs. “Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t mention it,” Mal shrugs, sliding out of bed to pull his pants on. Simon carefully avoids lookin’ at him, which seems a little ridiculous to Mal considerin’ everything they got up to the night prior, skin against skin against skin, Mal buried to the hilt in Simon who was all but cryin’ out, words like harder and more and yours—
Mal’a gettin’ off track, and anyway, he can’t hold Simon to anythin’ he said half outta his mind with a lust not entirely his own. Simon’s response sets him back in the moment.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.”
Mal furrows his brow, confused and a mite annoyed by now. “That’s not—”
Simon turns away, fiddling with what’s in his medkit on the other side of the bed again, even though Mal’s sure he’s organized it plenty by now. He don’t seem panicked, exactly, but somethin’s wrong.
Mal walks over to him, circlin’ to the other side of the bed where Simon stands so he can grip him by the shoulders again and—
“Stop!” Simon breaks away suddenly at the touch, lookin’ wounded. The room goes dead-silent. Mal gulps, but don’t back away. It's several beats before Simon adds, “You can’t just—you can’t just do that. You can’t just… put me where you want me because you know I’ll—” Mal blinks. What? “You’re—you’re being cruel,” Simon chokes out, the words barely recognizable the way he has to force them outta where they were lodged in his throat. He’s screwin’ his eyes shut tight enough Mal figures he must be seein’ stars, and—yeah, what?
Mal frowns and drops his hands from where they’d stayed in the air, feeling somethin’ like bile risin’ in his chest, his throat. Tears are glittering at the corners of Simon’s eyes again, leakin’ out despite his efforts, and Mal’s startin’ to feel hollow for havin’ seen the boy cry twice in the last day when he ain’t ever seen it before at all.
“What?” Mal voices then, starting to feel a mite panicked himself. “What am I doing? You—didn’t want—?” He really thinks he might be sick.
The whole of Simon’s body seems to deflate. “I needed it.”
Mal shakes his head because that is so beyond not bein’ the point. Actually, might make it worse. “That I ain’t what I asked.” He needs to know how much damage he’s done here, how much he’ll be hatin’ himself back on the ship, how much disdain he’ll see in River’s eyes across the dinner table since there’s no way she won’t know, whether this is fixable or—
“I wanted it, alright? I’ve wanted…” Simon interrupts that train of thought quickly. Simon winks an eye open at him, then, and Mal waits. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Simon insists in a voice quiet and tremulous.
“Doc,” Mal says on a sigh, trying to keep his voice patient but feeling it wear a bit thin. “I assure you my befuddlement is jus’ about as earnest as it is profound.”
Simon stares at him for a long moment. “I’ve wanted it,” he repeats quietly, “Since… ” Mal blinks at him again. Freezes. Feels Simon’s lips, careful and searching against his after asking kiss me of him, like he needed to feel it just once. Sees Simon looking at him, shocked and fond, with Mal’s hand pressed against the small of his back. Hears Simon’s voice many months back say, almost wonderingly, you don’t even like me, the smell of smoke still clinging to his hair.
Mal just about shudders. “Simon…”
“Let’s not discuss it further,” Simon says then, voice clipped too rigid, the way he sometimes falls back into. The voice of some high society boy who is well and truly above all this. “It doesn’t matter.”
“If it’s makin’ you hate me, it matters. I don’t… I don’t…” Know Mal means to say. What he feels, what to make of any of this. Simon’s had time, to figure out what he means, what he feels, but Mal’s still catchin’ up to what’s even goin’ on. It don’t feel real. If he searches, Simon still smells like shaving cream and the faintest hint of coffee, though that should be impossible by this juncture.
“You don’t,” Simon sighs, not allowing him to finish the thought. Probably not knowin’ there’s a thought to finish. “I know. You didn’t do anything wrong, alright?” Simon says, avoiding his eyes now as he hauls up his medkit, a hand wandering through his own messed hair. “We should go. The others will be worried.”
Mal nods slowly and watches as Simon moves toward the door, but doesn’t budge. Doesn’t know what to dow with any of this at all. Closin’ his eyes, he remembers his own words from that fire-worn night months back, too. Y’all got somethin’ that belongs to us.
He’d meant them both, he realizes with a start. The rest of it, he’s still unclear of, but that night, wind howling in his hair, he’d meant them both when he thought he was only talkin’ bout the girl. And with Simon…
Mal shakes his head. Don’t know what good it does. The boy’s a fugitive. The neither of them can make any promises, but even so… if he had known there’d been a heart involved to be less careless with, he’d like to think he’d have done somethin’ different. Though he can’t entirely speak as to what.
“Alright,” he agrees, long after Simon’s gone out from the door. “Alright.”
After Mal follows him out, the sun burns against them, a kaleidoscope of melting color washing over them as they walk back to the ship, Simon strides ahead. Mal don’t say nothin’ ‘bout that, neither.