Kind of want to see Simon on Atlantis. Single Simon
The mirror looks completely out of place in the warehouse – unlike everything else, it isn't covered in dust, or cracked around the edges. It clearly isn't a spare part of some sort, unless it's intended for a Companion's bedroom. Inara would love it, its spare lines and clear reflection.
Absently, Simon steps forward, reaches out to touch it, wondering if he should suggest it to Mal. Perhaps they will have spare money, after the supplies are acquired.
And he blinks at the sudden sunlight, the scent of green, the humid air. "What – " he starts, and then ducks, automatically, when something comes screaming past his head. A moment later, he's being thrown to the ground by a large, cursing man.
It isn't the first time.
*
Later, when he's been dragged out of harm's way, when he's been taken through a round gate, examined, and interrogated, he stops trying to make sense of it. Quantum mirrors, parallel universes, alien creatures, technology operated by genetic interfaces.
It all sounds ridiculous, a fantasy, an illusion.
But the city lights up around him, hums at him in a way that he can't quite ignore. "Well," he says, trying to digest it all. "Thank you for saving my life." His ribs still hurt from the way he'd landed, crushed under a ridiculously large body.
Ronon Dex – the owner of said ridiculously large body – shrugs. "Wasn't intentional. You got in my way."
Charming, Simon wants to respond, but perhaps now isn't the time to try and alienate new people.
"We can't get you back," McKay says to him later, not quite looking him in the eye. "We're too busy. Don't have the resources to find your universe. The planet is Wraith-infested, anyway."
"You're welcome to stay with us," Weir says, smiling, and she looks directly at him, openly. He can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't quite trust her. "Maybe at some point in the future we can find a way to get you home."
"You have the gene," Sheppard tells him, grinning loosely. "Could use you around here."
"A trauma surgeon could do a lot to help around here, lad," Beckett says.
Simon doesn't know how to respond to each of these statements. It's not like he has much of a choice.
"River would love this," he says, speaking to the wall, the city.
He's not sure if he imagines it, but the wall flashes once, briefly, and for a moment, it almost feels comforting.
*
Simon doesn’t understand how the war got started, or how there can be aliens in this 'verse. He doesn't understand how these people manage to survive battle after battle, how they can continue to fight an enemy that is clearly superior in numbers and technology. There's something about them, about the way they move and think and believe that Simon knows would resonate with Mal.
Even if Mal wouldn't have a clue what to say when he saw a Wraith.
The air of desperation is exhausting, though. It's pervasive, in all of the rooms, clinging to the way the scientists work, to the way the military personnel train and train and then train some more.
Simon does what he can – he sews up innumerable injuries, turns on various pieces of technology, learns to pilot one of their ships, decides on triage order, removes arrows and bullets, attempts to fix the internal injuries Sergeant Collins sustains on an off-world mission, and wishes, too often, for a dermal sealer and some of the medications from Serenity's infirmary. Most of all, he wishes for his sister to tell him that she's okay.
He learns to handle a gun, revels in food that isn't protein powder, wishes that Ronon could meet Jayne, and that he could witness Mal butting heads with Weir.
Part One
The mirror looks completely out of place in the warehouse – unlike everything else, it isn't covered in dust, or cracked around the edges. It clearly isn't a spare part of some sort, unless it's intended for a Companion's bedroom. Inara would love it, its spare lines and clear reflection.
Absently, Simon steps forward, reaches out to touch it, wondering if he should suggest it to Mal. Perhaps they will have spare money, after the supplies are acquired.
And he blinks at the sudden sunlight, the scent of green, the humid air. "What – " he starts, and then ducks, automatically, when something comes screaming past his head. A moment later, he's being thrown to the ground by a large, cursing man.
It isn't the first time.
*
Later, when he's been dragged out of harm's way, when he's been taken through a round gate, examined, and interrogated, he stops trying to make sense of it. Quantum mirrors, parallel universes, alien creatures, technology operated by genetic interfaces.
It all sounds ridiculous, a fantasy, an illusion.
But the city lights up around him, hums at him in a way that he can't quite ignore. "Well," he says, trying to digest it all. "Thank you for saving my life." His ribs still hurt from the way he'd landed, crushed under a ridiculously large body.
Ronon Dex – the owner of said ridiculously large body – shrugs. "Wasn't intentional. You got in my way."
Charming, Simon wants to respond, but perhaps now isn't the time to try and alienate new people.
"We can't get you back," McKay says to him later, not quite looking him in the eye. "We're too busy. Don't have the resources to find your universe. The planet is Wraith-infested, anyway."
"You're welcome to stay with us," Weir says, smiling, and she looks directly at him, openly. He can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't quite trust her. "Maybe at some point in the future we can find a way to get you home."
"You have the gene," Sheppard tells him, grinning loosely. "Could use you around here."
"A trauma surgeon could do a lot to help around here, lad," Beckett says.
Simon doesn't know how to respond to each of these statements. It's not like he has much of a choice.
"River would love this," he says, speaking to the wall, the city.
He's not sure if he imagines it, but the wall flashes once, briefly, and for a moment, it almost feels comforting.
*
Simon doesn’t understand how the war got started, or how there can be aliens in this 'verse. He doesn't understand how these people manage to survive battle after battle, how they can continue to fight an enemy that is clearly superior in numbers and technology. There's something about them, about the way they move and think and believe that Simon knows would resonate with Mal.
Even if Mal wouldn't have a clue what to say when he saw a Wraith.
The air of desperation is exhausting, though. It's pervasive, in all of the rooms, clinging to the way the scientists work, to the way the military personnel train and train and then train some more.
Simon does what he can – he sews up innumerable injuries, turns on various pieces of technology, learns to pilot one of their ships, decides on triage order, removes arrows and bullets, attempts to fix the internal injuries Sergeant Collins sustains on an off-world mission, and wishes, too often, for a dermal sealer and some of the medications from Serenity's infirmary. Most of all, he wishes for his sister to tell him that she's okay.
He learns to handle a gun, revels in food that isn't protein powder, wishes that Ronon could meet Jayne, and that he could witness Mal butting heads with Weir.