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mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Written for Firefly/Torchwood, Jack/Simon, Simon wishes there was a way to report their newest passenger for sexual harassment.
Late night on board Serenity and Simon had remained up late, well after the rest of the crew, checking on Zoe in the infirmary: a firefight at their last pick up that had not gone as Captain Reynolds had planned had their first mate in critical but stable condition, the gunshot wounds in her chest and legs patched up with biotape. In the meantime, while she rested, Simon had headed for his cabin, to make sure River had gotten to bed and to sleep properly: she had taken to sleeping under her bunk for some strange reason and he had tried to curb this behavior, in case she got wedged in there.
As he made his way along the companionway, softly, careful not to tread too heavily on the creakier metal panels in the floor and disturb the sleeping crew and passengers, he heard a door to one of the cabins open and someone emerge, following him down the companionway.
"Up late, tending to your patients, Doctor Tam?" a cocky man's voice asked, lowered to a stage whisper out of deference to the sleeping occupants of the other cabins.
Simon emitted a tired sigh as noiselessly as he could, then turned to face the interloper, that grinning, flirtatious nuisance whom Captain Reynolds had insisted on bringing aboard the ship the last time they refueled at the Landsdown Docks. Apparently, they had met during the war and their captain owed him a few favors. "I was, as a matter of fact, Mister Harkness," he replied. "I was tending to First Mate Washburne: she's at a critical stage of her recovery."
"In your capable hands, I'm sure she'll make a full recovery and live to tell the tale of her near miss with death," Harkness said. Nothing could possess Simon to even think of the annoying passenger as Captain: the title seemed a borrowed handle, though Harkness had a tendency to challenge Captain Reynolds's authority, to the annoyance of the latter. Not that it meant anything, since everyone seemed to annoy the captain of Serenity for one reason or another.
"You don't have to read her chart off to me, Doc: you're good at what you do and we all know she's in capable hands," Harkness said, and he tried to reach out and take one of Simon's hands in his. "Though I think those hands could use a little tender loving care of another kind, from another capable pair," he offered, and the twinkle in the other man's blue green eyes suggested just what kind of care he had in mind.
Simon withdrew his hand, shoving it into one pocket of his trousers. "I think a few hours of sleep would be better -- by myself, the cabin I share with my sister. In separate bunks."
"You had me a little worried there, Doc," Harkness said, with a note of relief. At least the rascal had some semblance of standards for conduct and propriety, however odd, but even that did not say much for him. "I thought maybe you and your sister were from one of *those* planets where that kind of thing goes on. Not that I'm the kind of guy to tell someone who to dance with."
"In that case, I would appreciate it if you kept my name off your dance card," Simon replied, politely.
"Aww, you know I've got an open place on it for your name, in case you should change your mind," Harkness said, thankfully not trying to take his hand again, but not backing down either.
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me and let me ...sit this one out," Simon replied, trying to sound as calm about the refusal as he could, but even he heard a nervous creak in his voice and he could feel a tendril of warmth slide under his collar. At this close range, Harkness smelled good: clean, manly, warm... "I... really should be going," Simon added and made a somewhat hasty retreat to his cabin, feeling his hip brush Harkness's hand.
He would have to have a word with Captain Reynolds. But he had an odd feeling that this would not have much effect on the pest in question. Clearly the term 'harassment' did not seem to have a frame of reference in the nuisance's brain.
Late night on board Serenity and Simon had remained up late, well after the rest of the crew, checking on Zoe in the infirmary: a firefight at their last pick up that had not gone as Captain Reynolds had planned had their first mate in critical but stable condition, the gunshot wounds in her chest and legs patched up with biotape. In the meantime, while she rested, Simon had headed for his cabin, to make sure River had gotten to bed and to sleep properly: she had taken to sleeping under her bunk for some strange reason and he had tried to curb this behavior, in case she got wedged in there.
As he made his way along the companionway, softly, careful not to tread too heavily on the creakier metal panels in the floor and disturb the sleeping crew and passengers, he heard a door to one of the cabins open and someone emerge, following him down the companionway.
"Up late, tending to your patients, Doctor Tam?" a cocky man's voice asked, lowered to a stage whisper out of deference to the sleeping occupants of the other cabins.
Simon emitted a tired sigh as noiselessly as he could, then turned to face the interloper, that grinning, flirtatious nuisance whom Captain Reynolds had insisted on bringing aboard the ship the last time they refueled at the Landsdown Docks. Apparently, they had met during the war and their captain owed him a few favors. "I was, as a matter of fact, Mister Harkness," he replied. "I was tending to First Mate Washburne: she's at a critical stage of her recovery."
"In your capable hands, I'm sure she'll make a full recovery and live to tell the tale of her near miss with death," Harkness said. Nothing could possess Simon to even think of the annoying passenger as Captain: the title seemed a borrowed handle, though Harkness had a tendency to challenge Captain Reynolds's authority, to the annoyance of the latter. Not that it meant anything, since everyone seemed to annoy the captain of Serenity for one reason or another.
"You don't have to read her chart off to me, Doc: you're good at what you do and we all know she's in capable hands," Harkness said, and he tried to reach out and take one of Simon's hands in his. "Though I think those hands could use a little tender loving care of another kind, from another capable pair," he offered, and the twinkle in the other man's blue green eyes suggested just what kind of care he had in mind.
Simon withdrew his hand, shoving it into one pocket of his trousers. "I think a few hours of sleep would be better -- by myself, the cabin I share with my sister. In separate bunks."
"You had me a little worried there, Doc," Harkness said, with a note of relief. At least the rascal had some semblance of standards for conduct and propriety, however odd, but even that did not say much for him. "I thought maybe you and your sister were from one of *those* planets where that kind of thing goes on. Not that I'm the kind of guy to tell someone who to dance with."
"In that case, I would appreciate it if you kept my name off your dance card," Simon replied, politely.
"Aww, you know I've got an open place on it for your name, in case you should change your mind," Harkness said, thankfully not trying to take his hand again, but not backing down either.
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me and let me ...sit this one out," Simon replied, trying to sound as calm about the refusal as he could, but even he heard a nervous creak in his voice and he could feel a tendril of warmth slide under his collar. At this close range, Harkness smelled good: clean, manly, warm... "I... really should be going," Simon added and made a somewhat hasty retreat to his cabin, feeling his hip brush Harkness's hand.
He would have to have a word with Captain Reynolds. But he had an odd feeling that this would not have much effect on the pest in question. Clearly the term 'harassment' did not seem to have a frame of reference in the nuisance's brain.
