milliways_bar | (no subject)

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

"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."

"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.

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

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.

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

"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."

"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."

"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.

"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."

"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."

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

"Good." Quiet. "I'm glad to hear that."

At least something's going right for someone, somewhere.

"Yes, its tiring work, today was full of meetings."

"Were they useful?"

Gods know Gaeta has sat through his share of terrible meetings.

"Some of them were. Its always hard to tell at first."

He nods. "Yeah. True."

And, eyeing the level of alcohol in the bottle, sighs and pushes it away. "I'm probably not gonna be able to walk if I finish that."

All the more reason to keep the drinking upstairs.

"Oh, do you need any help?" He hopes that not rude but his work does make him strong.

Automatically: "No, I'm good. Thank you, though."

The last, at least, is sincere enough.

"I appreciate it."

Sam nods and takes another sip of the ambrosia which is good and strong.

"Want the rest?" he asks, indicating the bottle.

"Thanks but I don't think so. I have some ideas I want to try and write down before I sleep. I'd like to work on them but I forgot to sleep as much as I should have last night. My sister kept having to kick me so I won't sleep during court."

"All right," he says, with another faint flicker of a smile. "Yeah, probably a good idea not to polish it off, then."

And trying to carry it upstairs will be next to impossible with his crutches. Frak. He really, really doesn't want to waste it.

Gaeta reaches for his crutches; carefully, using the table for extra balance, he pushes himself to standing. "If somebody else comes by who wants it, could you give it to them?"

"I could put it with Bar for you or just bring it up. Its not trouble and I have a room here. I might sleep here before I head home,"

He knows its not a comfortable offer but its something he can do for Gaeta. Also he wants to ask about why he doesn't have a prosthetic but has no idea how to start off. Kait would know.

He hesitates.

"Could you put it with Bar?" he asks at last, sounding apologetic. "I just, um...I don't want anyone to waste it."

Five months since he died, and arrived in an endless abundance of food and drink, and Gaeta still can't let himself squander any of it.

(no subject)

makesthings - 2013-09-15 03:26 (UTC) - Expand

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