Yvi

Title: Thalposis
Fandom: Firefly
Pairing: Simon/River
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don’t own ’em, making no profit off ’em, etc.
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: Cream of asparagus soup drips down River's temples and he dabs it away with a kitchen towel.

Notes: Hints of incest. Be warned. Written for wiccanslyr's fandom_stocking.



Kaylee offers to walk River up to Inara, but River tucks herself against his side and won't move.

“I'll take care of it,” says Simon.

Dairy products are capable of coating the digestive system and providing relief from some ailments that way. Nothing he's read about indicates applying them to the head might have a similar effect, but it can't be doing any more damage than the medications she's been on lately. Simon doesn't want to dwell on the fact that the sister he used to know wouldn't ever have jumped to such an illogical conclusion.

Cream of asparagus soup drips down River's temples and he dabs it away with a kitchen towel. “Come on. Let's clean you up.”

“You could have just told Book you preferred lentil,” he tells her, once she's perched on a chair and leaning back over the infirmary sink.

River makes a face.

“How are you doing now?” He's past the point of asking why she does anything anymore. At least her outbursts have mostly been occurring during the day lately. Sleeping through the night is a big improvement for both of them. “Do you feel sick?”

“Not really.” She sighs and closes her eyes. “It was too noisy.”

Simon moves one hand too fast and water goes scattering over River's face and shoulder. She squints up at him, nose wrinkling. “You're not very good at this.”

“I've never had to get soup out of anyone's hair before.” He flicks his fingers at her again and specks of wetness scatter over the front of her dress.

She tugs it off her shoulders and squirms until it's pooled down around her waist, then shoots him a defiant look. “You're not improving. There could be casualties.”

Simon's reminded that he really does need to look into getting her more things to wear underneath. He could ask Kaylee about it if he trusted himself to string a sentence together. For now, all he can do is reach out to darken the windows in case Jayne wanders by. “Head down for me; it's okay. Almost finished.”

River is still so small. With her back arched and her head tilted back, he can see the outlines of ribs each time she breathes. There are still a few drops of soup clinging above her collarbones. He doesn't bother telling her that her behavior isn't appropriate. He'd have no voice left anymore if he did. “You haven't been eating enough. Playing with your food isn't acceptable.” It's something their mother used to say and he winces as soon as it leaves his mouth.

“Watering the plants with lobster bisque,” River mutters back. “Daddy didn't believe it was really a science experiment, but he let you get away with it anyway.”

“I was fifteen,” he protests, scrubbing harder and trying not to let his voice falter. It isn't often that River mentions the past, at all. “And lobster bisque is disgusting.”

River, seventeen, shakes her head slightly. “Old enough to know better.”

Simon doesn't have any response to that. Resuming, working away the worst of the soup with shampoo and using the sprayer to rinse her clean until River's eyes are closed peacefully and her hair floats across the basin in clean dark strands.

He's as neat as he can be, but stray drops of water still occasionally go spilling between her breasts and over her stomach and Simon clinically wipes them away and pretends not to notice when she wriggles, when a droplet rolls down over the small peak of a nipple, the way River goes arching back a little more, tiny breasts thrust out and eyes lidded as he kneads his fingertips against her scalp and eases through the tangles as best he can.

“Stay still,” he tells her, crossing the room so he can gather up a towel. River listens for all of three seconds, complacently staying in place with her head over the sink and her dress still bunched at her middle, but she sits up before he can bring it over, soaked hair sending streams of water down her body. Dark patches are already spreading on the cloth in her lap, but Simon towels her off as well as he's able. “River. You're not very good at this either.”

She straightens up and that dress slips a little lower. There's still water beading on her shoulders, gathered in the dip of her navel. "Prevalence is difficult to generalize, but research has estimated ten to fifteen percent of the general population has had at least one incestuous experience."

“Um.” Simon wraps that towel around her a little more tightly. “The, uh, official language of Santo is English, but at least sixty percent of inhabitants prefer Cantonese and between thirty-five and forty-five percent are proficient in at least one other dialect.” If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he's at the hospital, back on Osiris, and his sister is just another patient exhibiting signs of dementia.

River lets her damp head fall against his chest and yawns. Simon's already-precarious illusion abruptly disintegrates. “According to eighty-four percent of students in my sixth-year chemistry class, doctors have the most appealing hands of any profession.”

“According to me, twelve-year-old girls are an inherently flawed demographic.”

The dress slides down as she stands and instead of hitching it back into place River seems content to step out of it entirely, leaving a pool of fabric on the infirmary floor. “A compliment is one of the easiest things to take. For most people.”

Sometimes, he prefers it when River speaks nonsense. He kisses her forehead, slips a drawer open, a needle in, and watches her eyes go dark and heavy. His shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin where her head had rested. “I know, mei-mei.”

A sedative is one of the easiest things to give.