(no subject)

[mr_gaeta]

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.]

Comments

[mr_gaeta]

"Absinthe?" he repeats, a touch blankly, then -- "Oh. Ah, no, it's ambrosia."

Gaeta holds out the bottle.

"Want any?"

[street_sparrow]

"Why not", he says with a grin, and beckons a rat for a second glass. (Tom might not like it, but if he doesn't come home staggering drunk, of which he has no intention, he reasons Tom will never know.) "It's a drink from your world?"

[mr_gaeta]

"Mm-hm," says Gaeta. Once the glass arrives, he splashes a generous amount into it before passing it over to Gavroche. "Tastes better with a chaser, but I wasn't in the mood."

It's a sweet liquor that smells faintly like nectar; as much as it might look like absinthe, it doesn't have any sort of anise bite to it. (And, fortunately, it isn't quite as strong -- though not by much.)

[street_sparrow]

"Mm. I like this better than absinthe, it doesn't burn as much." He cocks an eyebrow at Gaeta. "Didn't want to water it down?"

[mr_gaeta]

He shakes his head. "No point," he says, and takes another pull from the bottle. "Maybe if I was trying to make it last longer, but..."

Not like he has to ration the good booze anymore, lest he end up drinking engine-distilled hooch.

(Brief and flickering, he wonders what Chief's up to, and dismisses the thought as quickly as it arrived.)

[street_sparrow]

"But when that bottle's empty, you can get another one", Gavroche finishes the thought. "Unless Bar cuts you off, of course."

[mr_gaeta]

A beat, as Gaeta's brow furrows.

"She'll do that?"

[street_sparrow]

"If she thinks you've had enough and it's not good for you, yeah, she will. Like any good bartender would."

[mr_gaeta]

In some respects, that's kind of reassuring. Gaeta has to assume she would have stopped him by now if she didn't approve of the ambrosia bottles he's been shuttling upstairs.

"Huh." He swallows down another mouthful of booze. "I always thought it was kind of mandated that she had to serve everyone everything they wanted. Almost everything," he amends.

[street_sparrow]

"Usually, she does. But she doesn't have to. I guess she wouldn't give people something they were obviously going to use to hurt themselves or somebody else."

[mr_gaeta]

"Yeah. That's right, yeah, I remember..." He waves a hand, as if trying to catch the words. "You can't get weapons. Or certain meds."

[street_sparrow]

"Exactly. And not, like, cyanide or poison either - but they probably count as weapons."

[mr_gaeta]

"Probably, yeah."

He takes another swallow of ambrosia.

Thoughtful: "I wonder what else would count. Theoretically you could turn a lot of innocuous things into a weapon if you tried."

[street_sparrow]

"Just about anything", Gavroche agrees. "I guess it would depend on what she thought the intent was. I know she gives out training swords, the kind with the blunt blades, but you could still do damage with them if you really wanted to."

[mr_gaeta]

"And there's that target range out back," he says, tipping his head toward the lake door. "Seen a couple people use it back when I could go running."

[street_sparrow]

"I don't think that was always here, some patron or other set it up, but yeah. She probably gives people blanks for that if they can't get them outside. Not guns, though."

[mr_gaeta]

"Makes sense." Quieter.

A beat.

"There are a frakload more restrictions set up than I expected," he finally sighs, pulling the bottle closer.

[street_sparrow]

"Only for the patrons' own good, though", Gavroche says fairly, taking another sip of his ambrosia. "Even the dead can suffer here."

[mr_gaeta]

At that, Gaeta's mouth twists again.

"No frakking kidding," he mutters, mostly under his breath.

[street_sparrow]

"Ah. You found that one out for yourself, then?"

[mr_gaeta]

He taps his thumb against the neck of the bottle.

And, after a reluctant moment -- even such a simple gesture feels like a full-on confession -- nods.

[street_sparrow]

"I'm sorry", the younger man says quietly and sincerely.

[mr_gaeta]

He nods again, acknowledging the sympathy.




"I always thought everything would just...end," he says, very softly. "I was completely ready for it to. And even the, the first couple of weeks I was here, it seemed like everything would still be okay."

[street_sparrow]

"And then... things turned out not to be?"

It's as much of a prompt as Gaeta wants it to be.

[mr_gaeta]

"Exactly."

He tips the bottle up, taking a longer swallow this time.