Perhaps he was picking up some of his sister's uncanny skill, because he felt as though someone was watching him. The injured surgeon opened one eye and, careful not to dislodge his ice pack, found River sprawled across the end table, her feet in the air, watching curiously as he reclined on a sofa in the dim lounge outside the infirmary. At eye contact she ducked her head and began writing in a frenzy in the journal he'd given her.

The approaching stomping on the metal stairs paused on the landing, and he glanced up in time to fumble with then secure a thrown flask of whiskey. Simon surveyed the projectile, then the barrel-chested animal in a lewd tee-shirt who had been aiming for his face. "Have we downgraded to barroom rules now?"

Jayne frowned, the expression exaggerated by his unkempt goatee, his thick eyebrows meeting in a furrow. The brute almost looked hurt, almost turquoise eyes squinted despite the dim light. "Drink some already," he insisted, in an impatient rustic grumble, "Gotta have words an' be easier if y'got a few shots in you." The less violent of the two men opted not to comment on the unfortunate turn of phrase. Simon unstoppered the bottle and felt his sinuses burn - the fumes alone might be deadly. "Best'n I got stowed," the philistine insisted, lumbering the rest of the way to loom over the couch, "least what didn't get all smashed when Mal belly-flopped us into the ground."

A professional killer really shouldn't have been able to guilt him, but he could recognize this was some bizarre attempt at male bonding. River narrowed her eyes at the distraction. "Inconclusive results. More study needed," she muttered, and went back to work.

"I shouldn't, I'm effectively on duty," the medic argued. "With the captain's propensity to find trouble, the odds are he'll be in bad shape when he gets back." After all, Mal had been out of sight for more than thirty seconds.