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After receiving Simon's wave, Gabriel had immediately arranged with Mark to not only reschedule the previously-planned dinner engagement but also to clear the last meeting of the day from his calendar.

As a result, he's able to arrive at Milliways early.

(He's not worried. Not exactly. Still, requests like this from Simon are rare enough to make him wonder.)

Gabriel takes a seat in the armchair by the fireplace and requests a cup of coffee while he waits.

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"Close to half a month. And I'm all right now, yes."

A beat.

"It turns out that the damp-lung is children's pneumonic bronchiolitis. Which I caught despite having been vaccinated as a child."

Gabriel sits back in his chair and studies him.

"I wasn't aware vaccinations wore off."

His color is slowly returning, as the shock of hearing about his son's illness fades.

"It's more that it wasn't a very effective vaccination to begin with. The strain's subtly different, but the vaccine hasn't been updated in years because nobody in the Core's caught it. And there are illnesses out on the Rim that no one's ever developed a vaccine for in the first place, a thousand little local variations...."

A breath.

"Dad, do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Silence, for one beat; two.

He meets Simon's gaze with a steady one of his own.

"Go ahead and say it," Gabriel says, quietly. "Let's have it clear."

Simon doesn't look away.

"I'm half your age and in very good physical condition, and I could have died." Quiet, and blunt. "Your own doctor's told you just how high the risk to your life is. He isn't exaggerating."

Once again silence descends, this time stretching between them like rope that grows tauter with every passing moment.

Eventually, however, Gabriel's the one to break it.

"I know," he says, quietly.

"I've known for some time that since recovering from the attack, I've been at increased risk of ... certain complications."

Such as death.

"You know."

Simon looks profoundly unreassured.

"Vincent was very clear." Gabriel sighs. "I don't want to worry him, or Regan, or you, Simon; I truly don't."

"But it's been two years, and frankly," he adds, looking slightly exasperated, "I think by now I'm aware of my own limits. I'll try not to push them too much, but what I'm planning is important."

A beat.

"It's very important, Simon. I want -- I need you to understand that."

"More important than your life?"

He's trying to tell himself that he's prepared for the answer to be yes.

His half-smile is sudden and more than a little wry.

"Depends on who you ask, doesn't it?"

Simon isn't smiling at all.

"I'm asking you, Ba."

Slowly, all signs of humor fade.

"I know."

A pause. Gabriel takes a slow breath, then says,

"I don't want to die, Simon. I'm going to try very hard not to."

He holds his son's gaze as he adds, very quietly,

"But I will never, ever again fail someone who depends on me by turning away when it's in my power to do otherwise, no matter what the risk to myself may be."

Simon opens his mouth. Closes it.

Swallows hard.

(In his head, very distantly: So that would be a yes, then.)

Gabriel nods.

"I'll talk with Vincent. Maybe there are some other precautions I can take. I'll do everything I can; I promise you that."

"Just ... listen to him, Ba. Please. Don't try to tell yourself that it isn't really that serious."

His voice is very low, and pleading.

"I will."

A wry half-smile appears.

"Don't worry about me, Simon."

"You do realize how futile it is to tell me that?" It's wry too, but at least somewhat serious.

"About as futile as it would be to tell me not to worry about you," he says.

"So yes, I suppose I do."

"I've been trying not to do anything dangerous lately," he says mildly.

"And I'm certainly glad to hear it," Gabriel returns, without missing a beat.

He lets out a breath, and looks up with a sober expression.

"If I can trust you to take care of yourself," he says. "And to take this seriously."

He raises his eyebrows, clearly waiting for Simon to finish his thought.

There's a short, awkward silence. Simon's not really sure how to finish that sentence.

"...Can I?" he asks finally.

(It would take someone who knows him very well to spot the note of pleading this time.)

Silence descends between them with an almost tangible beat for each second that passes.

One moment. Two.

Finally, still holding Simon's gaze, Gabriel nods.

"I give you my word."

The tension slowly goes out of him, hands visibly relaxing, shoulders loosening.

Quiet, and heartfelt: "Xiexie ni, Dad."

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gabriel_tam - 2009-10-15 03:43 (UTC) - Expand

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