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And of course, when it’s over, it’s Eliot who comes to find him as if he doesn’t understand that going away from the loud bright liveliness of the mess means that he wants privacy – just a fleck, just enough to keep from falling into the Black that creeps and scurries in the recesses of his brain and make him so, so scared that maybe River’s madness isn’t all the Alliance’s fault – no, the hitchhiking gun-slinger slinks after him with his careful distance and careful, diamond eyes as if he’s waiting for something to happen, something mad and violent and bloody that he can push to the centre of and control.
It eases Simon’s mind, just a little, to know that if he does get mad and violent and bloody Eliot would be right there, ready to take control of the situation; he rubs his hands against his face, the dampness on his face making him feel sick and foul – he shouldn’t cry, shouldn’t be human enough to do that – he hears Eliot moving closer, his boots scraping the grill floor on purpose (Simon knows because no one but Jayne walks that loud and he’s never heard Eliot’s footsteps before) and calloused fingers with ragged nails glide over the nape of his neck before the heavy weight of a hand settles on his shoulder and grasps tight, his only anchor to keep him here and now.
“Your first kill,” Eliot murmurs, “It’s right that you did it to save a life – nine lives, all of us – it might not feel like it now but you did a good thing.”