Work Text:
In the early days of fugitive life, Simon couldn't get used to the dust. Serenity had taken them to settlements of sand and filth, rawness and poverty; after a lifetime of sleek cities with carefully managed parks, easily cleaned surfaces, and the pristine hospitals, the grit of life on the run had sometimes made him want to scream.
It had been even worse when he and River settled in this town. At least Serenity's air filtration system had made it possible to keep the infirmary clean and sterile. But here, dust is a part of life – sand from the ground, chaff from the wheat, soot from the fires of everyday life.
It had taken him years to learn to tolerate it, to stop actively resenting the extra work it added to his day, to stop wishing for a life of smooth surfaces that gleamed effortlessly.
Now, on days like today – sitting on his porch, book in hand – the sight of dust on the road, kicked up by hooves, lifts his heart. He smiles as Mal reaches the house, the grit from the road suspended behind him, golden in the evening sunlight.
"How was your day?" he asks, as Mal takes off his hat, rubs his hand across his dirt and sweat-stained face. Mal looks good these days, better than the drawn, exhausted, and regretful man he'd been ten months ago.
Mal swings down from his horse, patting her fondly before coming to stand at the base of the porch, looking up at Simon. "Hot as hell, but a good one – what about you?"
He leans over the railing and runs his hand through Mal's hair, which is heavy with grime, and says, "Busy – lots of minor injuries today. You're filthy, so go get her," he gestures at the horse, "settled in while I'm running you a bath."
"Yes, sir," Mal mutters, but he's grinning, and it's full of promise.