Disclaimer: Firefly and all its characters belong to Joss Whedon, and probably Fox. I mean no harm, I'm just playing with them.

Treasure

One man's trash is another man's treasure.

Simon keeps extensive notes. He can't break the habit, though he knows full well that he is writing to no one. If…(when)… something happens to him, Mal and Zoe will be back in charge, and if they use his reams of paper for anything, it will be to wipe up bloodstains.

He doesn't read them himself, either, never looks at them after he sets them down. They had served a purpose once, on Osiris, when he worked through seventy patients a month and rarely saw the same face twice. In those days, his pre-ops came to him with medical histories dictated to three nurses before they reached his door. His emergency room staff ran beside him through the hallways, reading off endless lists of allergies, pre-existing conditions, and vital stats before the stretchers burst into the green light of the operating room. Colleagues depended on his records of every stitch drawn and every drug prescribed in order to plan rehab successfully.

He had depended on accurate records, too, for reasons more personal. He'd still been learning how to keep his head in a crisis…(it feels so long ago). The ritual reading and dictation of notes had kept him cool and focused, with the rock-solid certainty of medical procedure acting as his wall against panic and paralysis. He had learned how to think when people were screaming. He had learned how to forget his surroundings. He had learned how to take responsibility.

Now, he is responsible for seven people and his sister…(she is a separate category). He remembers everything about them; every stitch, every inoculation, every drug. It's hardly a challenge; they don't even have one allergy among them. The only one with a pre-existing condition is River, and he couldn't forget anything about her even if he wanted to; every fragment of data, every shot, every scar will be his to live with forever. He doesn't need to keep notes as reminders, and they no longer serve as a psychological crutch in moments of chaos. His emergencies have grown along with him; he and his perils are both stronger than they were on Osiris. They have moved beyond words and beyond procedure.

But he writes his records anyway, meticulous as always. They have lost their meaning, but he's good at remembering what's lost. He's grateful for the ingrained routine; it's a part of his past that served its purpose, something he can carry with him without pain. The writing fills a few of his empty hours, and even helps him think. It seems a silent and solitary comfort, but it suits him. When he finishes each page, he sets it aside, knowing he'll never return to it.

He doesn't know that River glides into the infirmary…(she hates this room)…late at night, every now and then, just to pore over the paper stacks. She rifles through his discarded writing, page by page, tracing cramped letters in the dim artificial light. At the academy, they had stopped Simon's letters very early.

She'd spent years writing to no one.

Her fingers brush against Mal's name, and Kaylee's, and her own, set down in her brother's hand, and there is something awestruck in her touch.