gonna_live | (no subject)

Did you ever ask about it? she doesn't ask.

"You never saw a single shrine to somebody's ancestors. Or went to a funeral."

"I'd seen shrines before," he says. "Not ... not a funeral. Not before I left Osiris."

She knows about all the ones he's been to since then.

"But never anything like the service."

If she says something right now it's not going to be nice and it's not going to be productive.

Kaylee doesn't say anything.

"I wonder if Jordie would take me there again." It's very low, as though not quite aware he's saying it aloud. "If I asked."

And that's enough to make Kaylee sit straight up, peering at him incredulously.

Well, she thinks, a little bemused. People do change.

"You'd have to ask, I reckon."

Pause.

"Only I bet he's gonna want to know why. And you're gonna have to explain it."

A small, rueful laugh. "That would mean I'd have to understand why. Which ... I should, if I'm going to ask."

Another half-glance at him, and Kaylee edges out of bed, hair trailing after her, making for the closet to see if --

Yes. It's there.

She pulls out a heavy, brocaded man's smoking jacket, and starts to shrug it on. "I don't understand it, either." Frank, as she pulls the jacket tightly about her and fumbles for the ends of the sash. "I mean -- it's hers, so all of a sudden you're okay with death? Is that how this is workin'?"

"What?" Simon blinks up at her. "No."

She ties the sash tight, but doesn't get back into bed right away.

"Then who's it about? If not her?"

He's shaking his head.

"It isn't about death." Beat. "Or not directly."

I need to be patient.

"Then what's it about?"

His expression's a touch blank, as though not sure where the confusion came in.

"Religion," he says. "Prayer. ... Faith, I guess."

Just for an instant, a flash of -- irritation? anger? -- crosses her face.

She folds her arms.

All Kaylee says, though: "You want to think long and hard about why you're askin' him before you do it. 'Cause if your response to something that personal that he showed you is 'now you need to go out of your way to do this thing for me' -- that's not polite."

"No," he says, sounding faintly taken aback, "no, I wouldn't ask him right away. Not so soon after this."

Half a beat.

"I did say," lower, "I would want to understand why I'm asking before I ask."

Tight-lipped, she looks at him.

And says nothing.

Very soft, and a little apprehensive: "What is it?"

"You don't find faith in a church, Simon." Her words are clipped. "And I don't think you're capable of suspendin' whatever disbelief you got long enough to make it through a service long enough to learn something. What're you gonna do if they start to pray? Call 'em a bunch of harmless eccentrics like you did me the one time you caught me at it? How good do you think that's gonna go over?"

Simon opens his mouth.

Closes it, and looks away. Even in the room's dim light, his flush is clearly visible.

"That was a long time ago," he says, barely audible.

"Yeah, well, it wasn't so long ago that you looked me in the eye and told me you could stop death because that's what you do. That's playin' God. And that ain't exactly gonna go over well in church, neither. Or are you gonna say that opinion's changed?"

"I thi--"

His voice tries to twist upward and away from him; he presses his lips shut for a moment, and closes his eyes, and when he opens them his face has sealed over.

Low, but perfectly clear and toneless: "I think I've been quite thoroughly disabused of any notion I may have once held on the subject of being God."

"I don't."

Now she does look angry.

"You do whatever you want. Convert. I don't care. But whatever belief you think you got -- it's hollow. Because you're arrogant. You've been arrogant. And I don't see a ruttin' thing that's changed."

"I see." Whispered.

The flush has drained out of his face, taking most of the original color with it.

He shifts to the edge of the bed opposite her, brings his feet to the floor, stands up.

"Excuse me, please," and he starts for the bathroom door.

She watches him go, and waits several seconds after the door shuts.

Her hair's tangled.

(He did seem to like it.)

Feeling ghostlike, she sits on the edge of the bed, absently raking her fingers through the blonde mass.

Thinking.

When it's manageable, she pulls it back, and tries tying it up in a loose knot at the nape of her neck.

He spends some time bent over the sink, clutching its edge with unsteady hands, eyes pressed shut, until he's sure he isn't going to weep or throw up.

The violence of his own reaction is entirely too familiar.

After a few minutes the bathroom door opens.

Simon looks drained and pale, and doesn't say a word.

Good. It gives her an opportunity.

Slowly, as though expecting to lose her balance, she stands.

"I was harsh with you just now." Her words are painstaking. "I'm sorry for that."