In between looking after River, trying to get along with Captain Reynolds, trying to snatch the odd moment with Kaylee where he doesn't manage to put his foot into proceedings, and trying to avoid, completely and to the letter, that oaf of a mercenary they call Jayne--Simon has reckoned on his having all of twelve minutes each day to himself.

He doesn't count sleep. River, though he tells her over and over that she's safe here, still refuses to close her eyes at night, and so passes the hours not only fighting against her own body but Simon's pleas as well. Driven this way to exhaustion, she has taken to silently crying into her pillow, no movement except for the restless flutter of her reddened eyes, until the sedatives run dry and he is forced to begin the cycle again.

It's all starting to weigh down on him, but love is buoyant, cuts through the guilt he feels each time he is forced to press metal to her skin, and so his only response--to keep going--comes as naturally as it does without thought. For Simon, it is no longer a choice he can make. To retreat would be the easiest thing in the world, but he's lost the will to imagine life by those means anymore. Not now. Serenity is a microcosm in the black, and he's fallen into the centre, and fast.

Tonight River is in the passenger dorms, not sleeping of course, but she has been calm for a good while now, and it is all he can do to hope she'll stay that way until morning. And so Simon waits, lingering in the infirmary, busying himself with familiar objects, with routines, instruments and cleanliness and the like. If nothing else, it gives him something in those twelve or so minutes of quiet that isn't tinged with regret, or a feeling that maybe the ones who helped him with River's rescue were right--that she's too far gone for anything, or anyone, to heal her again.

He is packing up his suture kit, thinking if it's late enough the others will probably have retired for the night, and he can grab some food from the galley without being noticed, when a voice makes him stop.

"All alone?"

Looking at Inara is like looking into a mirror of light and dark. She is unlike anyone he has ever known, and yet so similar are they that here, when she catches his eye in the shadows beyond the half-closed door, he almost thinks it an act of betrayal to his broken, mei-mei sister, that he returns the smile at all.

"I was just tidying up," he says. "River took it upon herself to re-organise my...well, to re-organise." He spots another smile on her lips and shrugs, though unsure to who or what he is actually defending. "I don't mind. It's quiet."

"It is."

"So, what's your excuse?"

The pleasant look wanes slightly. "My excuse? Oh. Jayne and Mal are playing...drinking games."

"Sounds like fun."

Inara sighs. "It will be in the morning. When I left, the pair of them were doing double shots and looking all but ready to keel over. That table's going to smell like a distillery for weeks."

She turns from the door and lowers herself onto the couch. Her dress is a pale olive green, folds of glistening satin tucked perfectly to every curve. She smoothes the shawl around her bare shoulders, touching it gently, fingers smoothing the fabric and lingering where the fringed ends brush against her neck. She is stunning, almost too beautiful, and he finds himself staring at the lobe of her right ear, the flash of garnet and silver earring bright in the infirmary lights. As the silence draws out he watches her, feeling something tug in his chest, and the blush, always the blush, creeping across his face.

He tears his eyes away before they speak for him.

"How is Captain Reynolds treating you?" Simon's voice is too loud; he fiddles with the spools of thread until one slips out of his grasp and hits the floor with a clatter, rolling in a gradually decreasing circle until finally coming to a stop beside his left shoe. He bends to pick it up. He can feel her gaze on him as he stands, and adds hesitantly, "I mean, he doesn't strike me as a man who would tolerate a Compan--someone such as yourself, on this ship. On his ship."

"You haven't been here long, Doctor." Indulgently, secretly, she smiles at her hands, the nails matt-dark against her skin. A downward ebb, the flattened note of a sigh, floats in her voice as she leans back against the couch. "Or else you'd realise why."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm used to it."

Simon clasps the spool, feeling the sharp edges press into his palm. He drops it onto the tray and steps out of the infirmary, turning off the light.

For one shocking moment it is very dark, and he reaches back quickly for the switch. But Inara lifts a hand.

"No," she murmurs, "leave it, please. I've been standing around in a bright teahouse all day, chatting even more brightly to some of the dullest people I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. My cheeks ache from smiling, and this dress..." Irritably, she rustles the billowing skirts, plucking them away from her knees and letting the filmy layers fall. "This dress picks up static worse than something out of Kaylee's engines. You've no idea what a relief it is to sit here and do nothing, even for just a few moments."

"Do you have a headache?" Simon steps forward, frowning, and leans down toward her.

Inara shakes her head.

"I'm just tired. But you're very sweet to be concerned."

Her hand is still hovering above her knees. For want of something to do he takes it, rubbing the skin gently with the ball of his thumb. "It's my job," he says, this time smiling before she does. "Okay. No lights, then."

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "You know, I'm not the only one who thinks that."

"Thinks what?"

"That you're sweet."

Simon sighs and sits down. He pulls a cushion over and spins it between his hands. "Has...has Kaylee said anything to you?"

"No."

"No. Right."

"Well, not in the last hour..."

"Oh." The blush returns with force. He's almost glad it's so dark.

Inara regards him steadily, the teasing glint disappearing from her eyes. "Look," she says, "Kaylee's a sweetheart. She thinks the world of everyone, and everything in it. She can't help it. Love is like breathing for her, and when she feels something--anything--believe me, she's not going to hide it for long."

He leans back. The air is cool down here, nestled as they are in the belly of the ship. "She is," Simon replies, after a moment. He looks away briefly. "Sweet, I mean."

There is sympathy in Inara's smile, though he feels somewhat as if half of it is missing. To find out where might divulge some sense to this game of words they seem to be playing, but right now he's not sure he has the heart to ask.

"But it doesn't remind you of home, does it?" she offers quietly. "The home you remember, I mean. Before everything changed."

Her eyes are gentle, and for a moment he stalls, unsure of what to say. Of what to admit. "It's--it's a different sort of home," he replies at last, drawing a weary hand across his forehead. "In an endless variety of ways, I have to say, which never cease to surprise me. The way they can steal from a good man just as easily as a bad one. The fantastic trust that seems to be missing from any corner of authority. The blatant disregard for anything remotely resembling what you or I would otherwise call manners. The drawls, the curses...the dropped consonants. And the fascination--oh, the fascination, Inara--of guns, drink, and this wondrous thing they call coin."

The sympathy turns into a chuckle. She reaches across and presses a hand to his arm. "Are we still talking about Kaylee, or has this conversation drifted back to Jayne?"

"Um...the latter. Sorry."

"Our favourite mercenary has made quite an impression."

"Unfortunately yes."

They lapse once again into silence. At the top of the stairs a fluorescent tube is blinking, a slight imperfection biting into the quiet. Simon shifts a little, breathing with the flickering light as a wave of disquiet flutters briefly in his chest. After a moment he looks across; Inara's eyes are closed, but she is smiling, faintly.

The shawl has fallen again, exposing the creamy white of her shoulders. "Do the girls like that?" he asks softly, trying not to look at the shadows beneath her collarbone, the taut, pretty line hugging from shoulder to bust.

"Jayne?"

"No, no." Simon shakes his head, blushing again despite himself. "I meant...before."

"Ah. Sweetness." Inara's smile tweaks lazily. Her eyes open but do not meet his. "Of course. Out here, it can be a beautifully rare thing. When it's genuine, that is." She pauses, gazing out at the darkened space beyond the infirmary, to the vast hold, empty and silent. "Yours is."

Sitting there an arm's length from this woman, he suddenly feels transparent, as if through that smile he is being appraised in the most gentle and natural of means. On mentioning Mal's name earlier on he feels almost certain that he saw a flash in her eyes--of something, a moment, or a frustration not yet reconciled--and he refuses to believe that this tiredness has stemmed from her working a day off ship, world-bound, surrounded but alone in the company of men. As an actress Inara is flawless, but as a woman brought up in a world almost parallel to his own, he can't help but think that she shares this transparency a little too much to be without purpose. It is a passable theory, this love; after all, like attracts like, just as opposites spark to start fires of quick-burning passion.

Simon shakes his head, tossing the cushion to one side. Theories, he thinks, are all well and good, but here maybe just a little too poetic to be real. Much better to stick to crushes. Sweet, innocent, happy--and so far removed from fire to be almost entirely free of risk.

"Yes, well...I'm sure you say that to all fellows you meet."

"Simon." She turns slightly, appraising him. "Is all this leading somewhere? You seem almost lost. In yourself. In everything. I know these are all new connections--for you and for River, and you are right to be wary...but you've kept yourself so far apart from what real friendships there are on this ship, that it can't just be for your sister's sake. Otherwise I don't believe you would be sitting here asking questions of Kaylee, or the captain. Or of me." A tiny smile graces her lips. "Are they...is this so very different to what you know of the Core, that you can't accept a life outside of it?"

He stares back, a little stubbornly, not wanting to admit the truth of her words. "So you have?"

"I didn't say that. I don't claim anything. But I know that Serenity is my home. And I know Mal has offered a part of that to you, and a part again to River. You should take it."

Simon lifts his shoulders into a shrug. The light above the stairs flashes briefly, a surge in the tube, and then goes dark again. There are shadows on the steps; deep blue and grey, like the spools of surgical thread in his abandoned kit. He remembers Osiris, going with River to see the ballet; of his mother sitting them both down in cushioned seats in the Capitol Theatre, and holding onto their hands as the dancers, a line of white swans in bright ribbon and tulle, graced the stage so that a great and fantastic story might begin. And he remembers the curtain falling, like the shadows fall now. It is too much, Simon thinks, too great, to want and trust happiness like that again.

"I wonder," he says, letting the words out slowly. "Should I miss it? That life, I mean. Privilege. Culture." He sighs, looking into the darkened infirmary. "Safety. I know it sounds funny to be saying this--especially now, and especially with River--but there are people out there living quite happily under Alliance rule, and will probably continue to do so all their lives. And I don't just mean the rich...though they may indeed outnumber the...Malcolm Reynolds and Jayne Cobbs of this world." He grimaces, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. That made about as much sense as the game they're playing upstairs."

She studies his face, for a long time saying nothing. Her kohl-rimmed eyes offer a look of understanding, echoed in her voice when she speaks.

"Don't ever apologise for your life. You were born to it under no greater or lesser circumstances than Mal was to his, or that I was to mine. Your missing it is only real, shows that you have goodness in you. Keeps you firmly, resolutely, on two feet."

Simon laughs; he can't help it. "Thank you. That's a whole bunch of mean untruths...but very noble. You almost sound like the captain."

"Do I?" Inara looks away, rescues the dropped shawl and threads it through her fingers. He can tell that she wants to smile. "Well, please. Don't tell him that."

"You needn't worry. We're not exactly on chatting terms. Our conversations thus far have centred almost entirely around how little he thinks of me. As a general topic, I have to say you don't spring up too often."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"No?"

She lifts an eyebrow. "I supported unification."

"I'll bet he took that well," Simon says, hiding his amusement.

"He..." And suddenly she is reaching across, taking his hand, the touch of her fingers surprisingly urgent through the feather-light silk. Her voice catches, falling to a whisper. "There are things I miss, too. Some of them more than I can say."

She stands up then, all in a rush, the shawl floating from her hands and falling to a soft pile in his lap. She opens her mouth to say something more but closes it. Curiosity burns in Simon's stomach; he holds her gaze to his, peering through the dark to the halo of questions around her eyes.

"Maybe," he says, ignoring the fact that this is exactly what he wasn't going to ask, "maybe, one day, you'll tell me?"

It occurs to Simon that if she was going to answer--truthfully answer--it would have really been before this moment, before the lights went out and left them to sort darkness into meaning. But it passes; Inara breaks away and walks to the stairs, a flawless creature, gentle of foot, glancing back only once when she nears the light at the top. And although she doesn't speak, he thinks an agreement has been exposed in the tiny nod they share, and a single word captured in her smile, that by the silence, tells him yes.