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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

[makesthings]

"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.

[mr_gaeta]

"Oh."

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

[makesthings]

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

"Thank you."

[mr_gaeta]

"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.

[makesthings]

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?"

[mr_gaeta]

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?"

[makesthings]

His look makes Sam blush and focus on his drink,

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

[mr_gaeta]

"...Felt it?" he echoes.

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

[makesthings]

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

[mr_gaeta]

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

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

[makesthings]

"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.

[mr_gaeta]

"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.)

[makesthings]

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

Gaeta's smile helps and Sameth relaxes.

[mr_gaeta]

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

[makesthings]

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

[mr_gaeta]

"Huh." He stubs out the cigarette. This is good: having something else he can put his attention on, rather than the drink or the smokes or the worst thoughts cycling through his head. "Has the necromancer thing not been going on for too long, then?"

Because one would have to assume that if it was, more than one family would have the trait.

[makesthings]

"We think since the beginning of the Old Kingdom or not long after, but a lot has been lost since the Interregnum."

[mr_gaeta]

He nods. A beat goes by.

"...I don't have any kind of reference for how long a span that is," he says at last.

[makesthings]

"The Interregnum was two hundred years and before that the Old Kingdom's been around a thousand years or maybe more."

[mr_gaeta]

"Got it."

He digs around in his pockets, searching for the cigarette pack.

"Yeah, that wouldn't be enough time for a trait to populate too far. Give it maybe ten or twenty thousand years. Or more."

[makesthings]

"No, but its got us in trouble at times due to the bloodlines. The Interregnum was only over about twenty years ago so we're doing a lot of rebuilding."

[mr_gaeta]

"What was it, exactly?"

A lot's been lost. The back of his neck is starting to prickle in a familiar, and very unwelcome, sort of way.

[makesthings]

"Two hundred years ago the royal family except for my father who's a bastard son were murdered. My father was turned into a figurehead until my mother freed him and they were able to begin restoring the Old Kingdom."

[mr_gaeta]

"Frak," he breathes.

That's...not as bad as Gaeta feared, but it's still pretty godsdamn bad. He compensates with another swallow of ambrosia.

"I'm sorry."

[makesthings]

"Things are getting better. My father's a good king and my sister's doing her well as his Heir."