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[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]

Gaeta makes a noncommittal noise, following it with a shrug and a drag on the cigarette. He likes Dr. Tam a little too much to lie and say I'm fine; he doesn't like him quite enough to admit just how much time he's spent drinking in his room lately.

"You?"

[simon_doctor]

The not-quite-answer isn't lost on him.

"Fine, xiexie," he says, and ... isn't sure what to say next.

[mr_gaeta]

He nods.

And, after a moment, offers the bottle to Simon. "Want any?"

It's only polite.

[simon_doctor]

"... sure," he says after a moment, sounding slightly surprised, "thank you. -- May I?" Indicating the chair opposite Gaeta.

[mr_gaeta]

"Sure, yeah, of course," he says, gesturing loosely to the chair with the bottle. Once Simon's seated, he thunks the bottle in front of him with a lopsided smile.

[simon_doctor]

Simon casts about briefly for a cup, but only briefly; Gaeta's clearly been drinking directly from the bottle. Oh well.

He's not sure whether this is a drink meant to be savored or swallowed quickly, and compromises with a tentative sip.

[mr_gaeta]

The liquor's sweet, and smooth; the predominant taste is something faintly like honeysuckle. It's not until after you've swallowed that the burn kicks in.

Partly why it's so good with a chaser.

"I'm not sick or anything," says Gaeta, misreading the hesitation. He holds up a hand, as if swearing an oath on the Scrolls. "Promise."

[simon_doctor]

"That's good to hear," he says with a swift smile. "... this is really good. What's it called?"

[mr_gaeta]

"Ambrosia," he says; his own smile isn't quite present enough to mirror Simon's, but he makes a decent attempt. "Might've been out of production for over four years, but Bar's got a neverending supply."

Thank frak.

[simon_doctor]

... ah. Something from Gaeta's home civilization, then; better not to bring that up.

He takes another small sip and passes the bottle back. "Do you know what it's made from?"

[mr_gaeta]

He accepts the bottle, taking a much larger swig than Simon. "I have no idea," he admits after a moment, with considerable chagrin. "I should know that."

Even if he's not alive to carry on knowledge of the Colonies, the knowledge is still pretty godsdamn important.

[simon_doctor]

Simon has to suppress a wince, having steered directly into the loss he was trying to avoid.

"I wonder if Bar could give you a reference book," he offers, "or even a how-to guide."

[mr_gaeta]

(It's not really Simon's fault. At the moment, Gaeta's viewing most everything through a lens of loss.)

He blinks. "What, to distill it myself?"

[simon_doctor]

"Or just to find out how it was made. More generally. I mean -- I could tell you more or less how sake is made, even though I've never tried to do it."

[mr_gaeta]

"Huh."

He burns a little more of the cigarette, drains a little more of the bottle.

"What is sake, anyway?"

[simon_doctor]

"Rice wine. That is -- they call it a wine, but it's made more like beer. It's ... very easy to get drunk on."

A faint rueful tilt to his mouth suggests he may be speaking from experience.

[mr_gaeta]

He chuckles a little before finishing off the cigarette; the butt joins the other three crowding the ashtray. "Maybe I oughta switch to that," he says, and flips open the cigarette pack to pull out another one. "Or rotate it in. I don't know."

[simon_doctor]

Simon's gaze flicks up toward him at that, in something like alarm.

He opens his mouth, and closes it.

[mr_gaeta]

A beat passes before Gaeta notices the look. Midway through patting down his pockets in search of his lighter, he frowns.

"What?"

[simon_doctor]

He shakes his head quickly. "Nothing."

[mr_gaeta]

"No, really, what?"

Ah, there's the lighter! Gaeta pulls it out and strikes the flint.

[simon_doctor]

"It's just ..."

Quiet, and apologetic: "That sounded like a lot of drinking, that's all."

[mr_gaeta]

He considers that, as he takes a pull on the new cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke. (Politely: away from Simon.)

"Maybe a little more than usual," he allows, but without seeming too concerned by it.

[simon_doctor]

He lets out a soundless breath of relief: apparently that didn't come off as too judgmental.

No louder: "Is it helping?"

[mr_gaeta]

"Yeah. I mean -- "

An aimless gesture with the cigarette.

"Pretty much the only option I've got nowadays, right?"