ways_infirmary | (no subject)

(no subject)

"Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand..."

Simon finally hooked him up to a morpha -- morphine, whatever it's called here -- drip once the nerve block wore off and the supposedly unidentifiable opioid had left his system. Gaeta's half-drowsing, eyes closed in a vain attempt to sleep outright; the pain's still too great, though, and the exhaustion more prominent.

And if he sleeps, that means he can't do the only thing that's worked so far.

"The first that she be spared the pain
That comes from a dark and laughing rain..."

The words are a little roughened with hoarseness, a touch slurred by morpha -- but his voice still rings clear through the infirmary.

[ooc: for continuity's sake, all threads now take place before Boyd's and Simon's.]

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"I'm sorry."

Still smiling. (And looking at his face, not his legs.)

"Just jumping in like that ... it's a little presumptuous."

"No, it's..." Faintly. He swallows, throat bobbing. "It's fine, ma'am."

Gods. She's beautiful. The haze of morpha softens the harsh infirmary lights, blends the edges of her body, making it seem all the more like she's stepped out of a dream -- though it has been a godsdamn long time since he's dreamed about anyone but Louis. Women don't turn his head nearly as often as men do, but every now and then...

Yeah. This is all the nows; this is all the thens.

"That's sweet of you." Aphrodite takes a few steps nearer.

Her smile is still in place, small and secretive at the edges of her mouth; but she almost wants to sigh.

Mortals don't sing enough anymore, just to themselves. (That Gaeta's extenuating circumstances may be less than pleasant, and the song a means of coping rather than a refreshing diversion, only dimly occurs to her.)

"Very gentlemanly," she concludes.

The corners of his lips hitch up a little. It's as close as he can get to matching her smile -- to offering something in return for the vision she presents.

"Guess it's kind've a habit," he says.

She laughs.

Like her singing voice, it's low and sweet and intimate-- like she's sharing a secret.

"Gosh," she says.

"I wish more men had those sorts of habits."

Just for an instant, the faint smile grows into a grin.

(It aches a little, as all unused muscles do when you stretch them again.)

"What's your name, ma'am?" he asks.

It's one of those times around here.

She used to lie low, make them guess, make them earn it-- but the sun's out, and the spring's come, and sometimes you've really got to go where everybody knows your name.

"I'm Aphrodite," she says, therefore.

"What's yours?"

"Aphrodite," he repeats, dazed.

That, he thinks, would certainly explain it.

"You're not -- just named after her?"

"Not just, no."

She's trying to fight down a smile. It'd be a little too much coincidence to find another one so soon, wouldn't it?

... Oh, what is she saying. This is Milliways.

"I'm the genuine article, honey."

Oh, gods.

(Pun not really intended.)

In an instant, Gaeta's struggling to sit up straighter. "Lady," he tries, before pulling his focus away from speech and shoving it toward making himself presentable instead. Presentable, gods, how can he even try, he's in a frakking hospital bed with half his leg gone --

"Oh, no, stop that--"

He is one of them, isn't he.

Oh.

(Even as she starts forward, that smile is breaking out again.

She could just hug herself.)

"Don't-- worry about anything, okay sweetie?"

"But," he tries to explain, and fails again. If possible, his eyes have gone even bigger. "Lady, I'm sorry I'm not -- "

The smile she's giving him could light up the whole of space. Gods.

"You have no idea," she says, gaily enough but with an undercurrent of ... sorrow is too much, and anxiety is too much, to be quite what she feels.

Nostalgia, maybe.

"How often I don't meet people who believe in me."

A shake of her head.

"It's all right. Tell me your name and we'll call it even."

He swallows.

Small-voiced: "Lieutenant Felix Gaeta, sir."

If he can't sit up straight, the least he can do is use the proper honorific.

She almost bursts out laughing at the absurdity-- to her-- of sir, but a small matter seizes her attention.

(Lieutenant Gaeta, Felix Gaeta--)

You thought she was smiling before?

"Oh," she exclaims.

"You're Louis' Gaeta. Aren't you."

Gaeta draws in an audible breath, sudden hope breaking across his face.

Eyes bright, he asks, "You've seen him? Is he here?"

"Yeah," she grins.

"I met him here, a little while ago. He's a sweetheart."

Gaeta blinks, hard. "Yeah," he agrees, a little wobbly. "He is."

You'd have to be deaf to miss the undercurrent: I want him here with me.

"But...you haven't seen him any time recently?"

For a love goddess, it's a current that fills up the room, as if it were a spoken prayer.

She bites her lip.

"I'm sorry. Last time I saw him he was writing you a letter ... I haven't been in for a few weeks."

What she wouldn't give for a little deus ex machina right this second.

Oh.

The words sink in a little deeper, finally bypassing the morpha: oh.

"He wrote to me?" whispers Gaeta.

Oh, Louis.

Oh.

Sweetie.

Aphrodite's hand rises to her mouth, fingertips smoothing absently over her cheek.

"Yes," she admits.

"That looked like the shape of it."

Because he cares, he cares about you--

She doesn't doubt that Mr. Lieutenant Felix Gaeta sees that.

He is not going to cry in front of another one of the gods.

(Any more than he already has, anyway.)

Shakily, Gaeta nods. It hurts to move his head too much. Everything hurts.

"I was going to try to meet him here," he explains, pushing out the words through the constriction in his throat. "So we wouldn't be apart the whole two months."

Damn everything, she is not going to cry in front of a mortal.

They'd be tears of frustration, anyway. What a lousy way to treat the first real devotees she's met in ages-- she can't even answer their prayers.

What she assumes are both their prayers, anyway.

"--Oh," she realizes.

"Does he ... does he not know you're here?"

Any here will do, such as Milliways-here, but what 'Dite means specifically is hospital-bed, missing-some-leg-here.

Silently, Gaeta shakes his head.

"I just wanted some water," he manages at last. "I got Bound."

"Oh, no," she murmurs.

"Well-- didn't the ... doctors, or someone ... want to know who to tell? That you were here? Oh, never mind, you know--"

A slight pause.

"I could try to find him for you. Bring him here. If you'd like."