"It's not the worst thing."
"You were shot." Simon cringes as the boiling water splashes on his wrist, and grabs the tongs. Latex gloves are a scarecity out here, so sometimes he has to make do without. He fishes his utensils out of the pot.
Mal is studying his freshly washed hands gripping the barbeque tongs. Tongs, sanitized, then hands, then finally chopsticks. He winces when he sees the chopsticks. "Ain't you got a full Alliance med kit hidden up your sleeve?"
"It was confiscated." Careful with the tongs, he had to transfer the plastic sticks to the tray without dropping them.
Mal's only half-doped. This is going to hurt. "When?"
There. Now he needed the needle - thank god he still had a packaged one - and thread. "After you were shot, while you were captured, before you were released." Simon threads the needle, lays everything out, ready. "They thought it was stolen."
"Funny." Mal looks at him, doubtful. "You sure this is like to work, Doc? It's not that I'm questioning your trade or nothing, it's just, this is a bullet in my foot we're talking about."
"You'll be able to walk, Captain." Simon closes his eyes briefly, opens them, picks up the chopsticks in the delicate poise his parents taught him. He stares at his hand, and then adjusts his fingers so to grip them tighter, more secure. Not delicate at all. Simon hovers over Mal, and then says, "now hold still."