milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It occurred to Gaeta some hours ago that -- if he wanted -- he could go to the infirmary right now and probably walk out with a new prosthesis. The original amputation was seven or eight months ago (gods, has it really been that long?), and by now he's spent at least five months walking on nothing but his crutches. The motherfrakker's probably as healed as it's going to get.

Who knows. Considering the other wounds that disappeared when he got dropped on his ass by the front door, maybe his stump's been fully healed the whole time.

If he goes, though, he's going to have to ask for something else, too. If he asks, he's going to be told no. Maybe if he found anybody but Dr. Tam, and if they didn't check the note in his records that surely says something like beware, godsdamn morpha addict, maybe he could get lucky. But Gaeta knows his numbers, and how excruciatingly poor they render the odds; he can't deal with another crushing disappointment right now.

So, for now, he's opted for other poisons: a bottle of ambrosia (just the bottle, no glass, thank you -- it's already a quarter empty), a pack of cigarettes (plus an ashtray with three stubbed-out smokes in its center), a table by the fireplace to keep warm. Idly, he examines the marks on the inside of his elbow. They're mostly gone by now -- you'd have to look closely to notice the scar tissue.

Gaeta's close enough to see it just fine.

[ooc: off to bed! post open until it scrolls; all tags will be picked up tomorrow.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(OOC: They haven't talked in a bit and Sam can do prostheses if needed.)

Sam enters Milliways with a sigh, people and politics are confusing and he always feels on the edge of saying the wrong words. Today though it seemed to work, the Southerlings are settling in and he's shown them that he will follow through with what he says.

When he enters, its in his surcoat with his sword at his side and he nods to Gaeta and then shakes his head. He didn't remember him being Dead but its been a while, "Hello."

Gaeta blinks up at him. There's a blankness to his look, in contrast to the recognition in Sameth's, that makes it clear he's wracking his brains to put a name to the face.

"Evening," he ventures at last.

"I'm Sameth, I think we talked a while ago,"

He runs a hand awkwardly through his hair as he wonders if maybe he should just move on.

"Oh." He hasn't reached full-on recognition yet, but the name and face have been nudged a little closer together. Genuinely contrite: "Sorry, I've, ah -- it's been a long couple of weeks."

(More than weeks, if he's being honest.)

He nods to the chair opposite. "Want to sit?"

"No, its fine. Time has a way of moving strangely here. Thank you,"

His feet do hurt since part of being prince means being on display and he sits down. He's not going to ask about when Gaeta died because that never goes over well just wonder for now.

His mouth twists a little at that. "Yeah."

While he and Louis have kept up an occasional back-and-forth over T-minus, it can't quite substitute for the weeks -- and months -- they've been going without seeing one another.

"How long's it been for you?"

"Not too long this time but I get deep into my work and don't realize how much time has passed here,"

Though he does know how many months its been since he saw Kait but he tries not to think about that.

Gaeta nods, taking another drag on the cigarette. "I've done that before," he says after he's exhaled. "Um. Not as much lately, but..."

At least, it's not because of work that the days have been blurring together for a while now.

Sam opens his mouth and closes it with a quick nod,

"Yes, I mean I know I probably shouldn't but no one waits up for me."

He blinks, not quite parsing that. "No one here, or back home?" he asks.

"Either really. My family's busy enough that they don't think about it and I've always worked late. There was someone but our worlds changed and now it doesn't make sense,"

He looks around to see if maybe he can catch a glimpse of Kait but looks back to his drink.

"Oh."

Softer now. Gaeta visibly hesitates, then -- after one last swig from the bottle -- pushes it over to Sameth.

When the bottle is pushed his way, he smiles, it makes him look young before taking a drink,

"Thank you."

"Not a problem," he says, no louder. His gaze drops to the small cluster of cigarette butts in the ashtray.

He has no frakking idea what to say. That's always been the problem lately: if he talks, he makes it worse for somebody. Could be the person he's talking to; just as often, it can be himself.

Sam looks over to Gaeta and then back to the table before saying quietly,

"Can I ask something that is awkward and you can tell me to leave if you'd like? But did you die since we last met?"

He blinks; squints, as if trying to bring Sameth into closer focus.

(He's not drunk enough for that to be a genuine problem yet, but he can't say it was a question he expected.)

"Yeah," he says. "I did. Why?"

His look makes Sam blush and focus on his drink,

"Nothing, um, just making sure I felt that right."

"...Felt it?" he echoes.

Of all the reasonings Sameth could've offered, that's even less expected than the initial question.

Sam puts his head in his hands, "I never told you about that."

Frak. He tries not to wince, and fails pretty miserably.

Weakly, he protest, "You might have. Maybe I, um, forgot that too?"

"No, its my fault. I try not to even ask that question because it can cause problems. There are necromancers in my world who raise the Dead so my family can sense the Dead. It keeps us safe at home but its odd here,"

Gaeta's taking it better than Sam had hoped but he knows that was awkward.

"Oh," he says, faintly. After studying Sameth for another beat, he tries for a smile: small, but hopefully enough to convey don't worry about it. "Interesting evolutionary defense mechanism there."

(He's a bit proud of himself for getting out that many multisyllabic words without tripping over them.)

"Yes, we're an odd family in one of the weirder worlds,"

Gaeta's smile helps and Sameth relaxes.

"Can everybody do that where you're from?" He circles a hand, trying to encompass the idea. "Sense if somebody's dead?"

"No, only those of the Abhorsen bloodline and not everyone is strong at it. My Death Sense is stronger than my sister's."