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

"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.

"Of course," Its a small thing but one he can do.

"Thank you," he says, quiet. "I appreciate it. And, um -- " Another brief moment of hesitation. "Thanks for the company, too."

It was a small thing, but it did help a little bit.

"You're welcome and if I can every help out in another way let me know. I'm good at making things."

"I will. Thank you," he says again.

Making things. As Gaeta turns to go, his eyes fall on the remains of his right leg.

It's not an option he can think about right now, but -- it's good to know the option is there, for the day when he can think about it.