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 be