Thanks to Mal4Prez for beta and encouraging me to actually post, and to Guildsister for her inspirational fics. Also thanks to the various BSR authors and commenters that make this a place worth posting to!

Legally meaningless disclaimer: Firefly belongs to people not me, and this in no way represents any of them. Joss, however, has said on more than one occasion that he’s fine with fanfic, so my conscience is eased.

Dignity

“Is that what they taught you rich kids? …In them fancy core world schools?”

Mal’s question was at once incredulous and weary, with a sarcastic edge that threatened to devolve into raw anger. Simon had encountered Mal’s raw anger before, far more often than he had ever intended, and hoped to avoid another foray into that territory. Such trips ended painfully for him, more often than not.

“Well… I…” Simon struggled to clarify his initial assertion, without further raising the ire of the captain. He set the blue enameled cup of what was to have been a relaxing tea onto the counter behind him, the warmth of the steam stifling now more than soothing.

Simon marveled at his ability to place himself in these situations with this man. Never intentionally; well, not usually - and not now, at least. He had developed a better understanding of ‘their world’ - the captain’s world - this world which was now his own. His missteps were fewer, but still painfully common. There were certain things that Simon had reorganized in his brain during his time aboard Serenity, his impression of the Alliance being not the least of them. But still, some things had been so ingrained… He’d not had a chance to systematically trace through them all, to reframe them in the context of his current life. So inconsistencies continued to crop up and pop out at the most unexpected times. Things that, with just a moment of reflection, were easily identifiable as absurd, naïve, or even just…quaint.

“Yes,” he finally answered the captain, realization dawning. This time, it was about the war. Dangerous territory there, he knew. His experience of it was so vastly different than that of the captain - the former sergeant, the veteran, the loser. History is programmed by the victor, indeed, and Simon’s time spent with those from the losing side was helping him to work through the half-truths. But Simon also recognized that these former Independents’ experience of the war, of the Alliance, colored their own judgment of history, often easily blurring together acts of purposive brutality and cruelty with simple effects of bureaucracy and indifference.

“We were told that their policy – our policy - was to treat all prisoners of war, all of the Independent soldiers, humanely and with dignity,” he continued, “providing for their needs while necessarily keeping them… under observation.” Simon spoke carefully; the captain snorted derisively.

“I take it that wasn’t your experience in the aftermath of the war.”

“No, no, it was shiny!” Mal’s feigned cheerfulness bit into Simon. “All humane and…” Mal swallowed, “dignified.” The light facade all but disappeared by the last word, exposing the restless emotion beneath. It seemed to hold the captain for a moment, until he abruptly turned back to the pile of invoices he had been sorting, rifling though the papers now with an absent determination.

Simon wasn’t sure how to respond. He wanted to know more, but didn’t want to push the captain any further. Really, wasn’t that all he needed to know? Did the details even matter?

Simon’s assumption - that once the fighting had finished for good, the Independent soldiers had been justly and efficiently met with medical care and boarding, and… if not compassion, then at least propriety at the hands of the victorious Alliance…

His assumption was obviously naïve.

But still, Simon was a doctor, and understood the seriousness with which his colleagues undertook their oaths to heal. He could not believe that, in wartime or not, good-hearted MedAcad graduates would allow needless suffering. But then, the medical professionals weren’t necessarily the ones to create policy on the processing of former enemy soldiers, and the policy itself wasn’t necessarily adhered to by those enforcing it. The captain had firsthand experience with the de facto nature of the Alliance military hierarchy, and Simon had certainly learned to respect that. Whatever the well-intentioned, well-publicized policy may have been, it need not have had any bearing on what the unspoken actuality was.

A silence hung between the two men, punctuated only by the pronounced shuffling of papers, but Simon’s need to reconcile his pride in his profession with the hints of impropriety spurred him to push further.

“You know, the purported purpose of the war, was to spread enlightenment…” Simon pressed. “Surely they - the Alliance doctors, I mean – surely they treated the wounded and the ill…”

“Sure, sure,” Mal granted. “They did treat for sicknesses… n’ patch up our hurts… At least, them as they weren’t causing.”

Causing… Simon pondered. “Well, I suppose it was a war… But, once the war had ended, things must have been fairly…stable.”

Mal looked at Simon doubtfully. “I thought you were a mite bit smarter than that, Doc.”

“So… even after the war had ended? After the hostilities had ceased? What cause could they have had to… I mean, there’s no…”

“It was what it was,” Mal cut him off. “No need to be a reason.”

Simon regarded the simple truth of the statement. “So you…? Zoë…?” Simon trailed off, shaking his head, uncomfortable with asking, but compelled by the realization. “They…?”

“I’d really rather not revisit that unpleasantness, just now, Doctor,” collecting together the irregular slips and forms, and standing up from the table, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“No, I mean… I… No.” Stammering. He does a lot of stammering these days. “I don’t mean to pry, I just…” Simon gave up. “I’m sorry.”

Mal turned to leave, tucking the last errant corners of paper into the well-worn file. “Yeah, well—” His voice grew tired. “—so am I.”