Mal is in the infirmary. Nothing's wrong, really, just Mal is looking on some of the med-references Simon has collected there. Something about 'hypoglycemia' and palming a small vial in his hand over and over.
"Yes," Mal retorts defensively, turning off the screen where his information had been scrolling. Still rolling the vial in his hand, he continues, "Can't help it if I'm educatin' myself."
Mal doesn't say anything for a long moment, but doesn't leave the infirmary either.
"It's a Dreamless Sleep potion Bar had given her once. She thought I should try it. And as far as what I was lookin' up in your medbooks, I went to go see Dr. Sandhu in the bar the other day."
Simon's chin comes up, and his voice thins even further.
"Captain, I would never. Ever. Discuss with anyone else something a patient told me in confidence.
"And if you intend to as you say take your problems elsewhere, you might do me the courtesy of informing me. If I ever have to prescribe you anything and I don't know what other meds you're taking, I could do you a great deal of unintentional harm."
If that sounds just a tiny bit like a threat, Simon's probably not aware of that implication. Probably.
"Fine. Shiny. I went to the bar to find someone else because I didn't really feel like sharing that I haven't slept more 'n 2 or 3 hours a night in weeks, my gun hand keeps shakin' like I'm strung out on drops, my back hurts all the time, and apparently now I'm hypoglycemic! What in the good gorram is hypoglycemia?"
Mal's face seems to be flushing in direct proportion to his tone increasing in volume.
The irritation is completely gone from his tone; it's calm and professional now, with only the slightest touch of something that might be called concern.
Or possibly alarm.
"You said you've been having trouble sleeping -- have you been having trouble eating as well?"
Mal breathes of a second to let his rankles fall back into place, then starts, "Eh. I eat when I'm hungry. Don't know what really classifies as trouble, Simon.
"Inara told me once that I eat like I'm on death row," he offers, not quite sure what the doctor is looking for.
Quiet, almost apologetic: "That could account for the other symptoms you've described. Loss of appetite; loss of sleep leading to buildup of fatigue toxins..."
"Well, I went to Dream about 'em to see if he could get 'em to stop and all he mumbled about was some dàxiàng bàozhàshì de lādùzi about there bein' a difference between dealing with them and stopping them.
"I don't know what to do about them. I just need to sleep."
"That's definitely a good idea. I could, ah ..." His voice goes slightly hesitant. "If you're not comfortable with the, ah ... I could prescribe you a soother. I've used them myself, la -- occasionally."
That last word sure sounded a lot like it was going to be lately.
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