3

Before leaving her shuttle that afternoon, she takes down the curtains. She allows some to remain, but the colourful layers of fabric that line the walls and bedposts are now removed.

It's a last minute decision. There is something about the bright sheen of the purple and scarlet that mocks her with its cheerfulness. These bright colours do not fit anymore, not today. When she returns she wants nothing else but the simple browns and the greys staring back at her; it is perhaps her own brief way of mourning.

She makes her way through Serenity's still corridors. It takes a bit of adjustment, recognizing the unusual quiet and solitude. But the doctor is there, and that's all she's interested in at the moment. Simon listens to her request without judgement, begins explaining what it will involve.

"It's a simple procedure. Very brief, I have the proper—"

"You don't need to go into detail, Simon," she interrupts him gently. "I'm familiar with how it works."

He nods. "I see. Of course."

Silence lingers then in the infirmary, and even under the bright lights Inara feels cold. She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and swallows.

"I've never done this before," she adds, as if in further explanation. "It's just something Companions are made ready for." Part of the job, you might say, is what she doesn't add. She's watched women before her go through this, and as brief as the procedure has become it's not something that any one of them has felt or understood in the same way.

"I thought you had made appointments on this world. The captain mentioned it when he asked me to stay with Serenity." He's offering sympathy even in his naive confusion. "That is, unless you were not…"

"I require some discretion. I'm sure you can understand that, given the position I am in."

He nods again, perhaps half in admonishment as well as embarrassment. He becomes more tentative again. "Of course. Forgive me, I shouldn't have assumed…"

She's already shaking her head. "You have no need to apologize. You're already doing more than enough. I just...The last thing I need is for people to come into my shuttle inquiring after me."

Simon acknowledges this, and begins again. "Since you mention discretion, I must admit I do wonder a little that you came to me for this."

Her brow furrows slightly. "I don't understand."

"Well, I...I know that there are…" He exhales briefly. "I know there are other ways to bring about a termination. Tonics, injections...They carry certain risks, of course, but I would have thought Companions would be able to avail themselves of these things." His voice is gentle, and she can't fault him for the observation.

In truth, she has to think for a moment before considering her answer. She hasn't actually weighed any of those other options – at least not for very long. Instead she waited for days for the right set of circumstances to present themselves, allowing her to approach Simon at an opportune time.

"Yes, that's true." She clasps and unclasps her hands in front of her. "I suppose I...I suppose those hadn't occurred to me. I trust you, Simon. I know what a capable physician you are. And I think..." She pauses, understanding this just now for herself. "I think also that I don't want to do this alone."

Her voice trembles just slightly at this admission. She swallows, brushes away a stray lock of hair from her face and composes herself again.

Simon shifts, leaning against the edge of the cabinets and standing next to her. He lays a hand on her arm, and she doesn't move away. Though it is a small gesture, she cannot help but appreciate it. She wonders briefly if Simon has ever done anything that wasn't gracious or kind. She's not convinced she's done anything to deserve this kindness from him.

She allows herself to clasp her hand with his for a moment longer, before they begin.

What seems like an impossibly short time later, she's returning to her shuttle again, already bending before she reaches the bed. She lights no candles, nor does she even move to turn on the lamps. The near-darkness is just what she needs, she decides, and she has no desire to convince herself otherwise.

Simon has apprised her exactly of how her recovery will feel over the next couple of days. She already aches, though the physical sensations and emotional whirlwind are even now blurring together. She hasn't cried, nor will she. To do so would be too close to mourning, to wishing she had chosen differently or been given another option.

Women before her have done exactly that, she knows. She has sat by their sides, supported them as they recovered. She has heard them cry, with wishing and regret, or even with the deepest relief and gratitude. These feelings are all luxuries she does not have.

She cannot pretend that any choice exists for her. The life she inhabits does not afford her this. She sinks back in her bed, curls and somehow feels too small, for this room that has nearly started to feel like home.

The dark curtains that divide her sanctuary from the Universe hang open, and dim light flickers in from outside the cockpit. If she listens, she can hear the sounds of the docking harbour, like a distant and steady hum. In another day she'll visit the market for new curtains. She won't hang the others again.