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[mr_gaeta]

The worst part of this, he thinks dully, is that he can't even get a frakking drink or ten and blind himself the way he knows half the crew's doing right now. Not unless he wants to wake up dead; despite it all, he still doesn't want to die.

So Gaeta settles for wringing a shot of morpha out of Cottle under the insistence that his new pain meds aren't doing frak-all, and retreats to Milliways, and sits with an untouched mug of coffee as he turns his face toward the lakeshore windows.

It's so green out there. It's such a frakking crock.




[ooc: not plotlocked, but please PM me before tagging! Gaeta is not in the best mental state right now.]

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[simon_doctor]

"Well," judiciously, "your other options are a saline IV or a very bad hangover in the morning."

[mr_gaeta]

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"'M not in the mood for more needles," he decides, no less resigned, and accepts the refilled glass.

[simon_doctor]

He's quiet; suppressing the urge to ask how are you feeling?, recognizing the question for what it really is: are you any better? Is this helping?

It's been a long time since he's badly needed to get drunk, but he remembers well enough that it doesn't actually make anything better.

[mr_gaeta]

It's not helping as much as he'd like. If you asked him, Gaeta could probably still recite most of the reports from memory.

But it's like the morpha shot from earlier today: it makes him care a whole frak of a lot less. That's all he needs right now: to stop caring that he will never have a home, that the last three years have been for nothing, that he can't even say he lost his leg in service of a good cause.

He's spent too many frakking hours of his life caring. Just this once, he thinks it's fine if he stops.