Although three floors separate David from the misery below, he's still fully aware it's there. He used to help, or at least visit the lower wards when walking wasn't synonymous with agony. He's slowly making his peace with the fact that he can't help directly -- not when his hands are nearly solid stone and his feet aren't far behind.
At his request, the nurses remove the wheelchair after he's comfortably situated on one of the couches. He's painfully aware of his own increasing weakness both from the syndrome, and being confined to the indoors. No jogging. No exercise. No fresh air. Just another step in the petrification.
He'll just have to find peace elsewhere.
David glances across the lounge at the elevator from time to time. She should be here soon.
She makes a point of visiting him everyday. Calling beforehand when she gets the time to, or calling and having lengthy conversations on the phone if she, for some reason, can't make it in person. Although those times are few and far between. There's little that can keep her from David these days.
The elevator ride always seems to take longer each time. And sometimes, it really does. The cables and gears whir and chug, dragging the metal box to the uppermost floor. This building was in disrepair, understaffed and underfunded. And some of the other facilities she's had to go to in order to collect data and samples are nothing short of gulags or leper colonies. This is one of the nice ones. Jenna sighs and leans against the wall of the elevator for a moment, holding her head in one hand as she's suddenly struck by the weariness that usually follows going through those hallways
( ... )
David knows what she has to walk past to get here, and that her smile is mostly for his benefit. He still smiles back -- always smiles back -- taking a moment to see Jenna as Jenna, removed from context.
As always, he reflexively thinks of those gestures he'd make if he were able -- stand to meet her, grasp her hands, a kiss. All he can do is sit forward, elbows on his knees, lock her eyes, and wait for her to cross the distance.
"Hey, you," he says softly through his smile when she's within distance. Compared to the floors below, it's quiet here but for the occasional squeaky wheel of a gurney or the click of hard-soled shoes on the linoleum floor. Most of the patients in this ward are too doped up -- can afford to spend the rest of their days as such -- to make much of a fuss about their situation.
Sometimes the patients in this ward bother her more than the nightmares just a few floors lower. The silence, it's like waiting for something horrible, and being too out of it to care. It's stagnating is what it is. Its the sound of something awful coming slowly, inevitably, towards those in here, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Just going quietly into the night was never anything that sat well with Jenna. Dignity, yes; indifferent, no
( ... )
"Yes, later," he confirms after enjoying that kiss. He continues in a mock-stern tone, "I can wait for books, but you on the other hand . . . I'd like you to stay put, Miss Angel."
Having her here, his mind briefly wanders to those people who don't have regular visitors -- both on the lower and upper floors. Fear keeps the friends and families away, not just of the disease, but the very act of immersing themselves in the experience of slow suffering
( ... )
Jenna gets upset when she hears of people avoiding visiting the afflicted for fear of catching the disease themselves, but she can understand those that don't want to see these people and their suffering. The first time she came to this facility after David was taken away, she was pounced upon by a middle-aged man who's arms and legs were both gone, sans rounded, stone pegs above where his elbows and knees had been. He had to crawl around like a dog on all fours. There are sights in these places that really are not for the faint of heart
( ... )
David leans his head against hers; the familiar scent of her shampoo is a subtle comfort amid the bland mix of hospital smells. It's so nice being close to someone after all of the nurses treat them like lepers.
"Radiation. Hm. An existing source, or something new? Generally speaking, what's changed in the past while that would either cause a malignant reaction to existing radiation, or generate a fresh one? Could it be man-made, or natural?" He pushes his glasses up with his free hand, the metal frames making a tink noise against his solid index finger.
"A lot of new factors to consider either way. Maybe if you approach the existing data from more of an environmental angle?"
"...Perhaps." Her other hand, the one that's not wrapped around his arm, fiddles with his sleeve, smoothing out wrinkles, watching them come back as he moves, then smoothing them out again
( ... )
He watches her hand rest on his, his own heart wrenched by the fact that he can't feel her touch. Can't feel anything from that hand but the throbbing, aching ring where his wrist connects to stone.
"Interesting thought -- linking both the miscarriages and this new disorder. If we look at the statistics, many of those mothers are probably in perfect health. Lots of women have been extra careful, too, monitoring themselves during pregnancy." He's reminded of his own mother, who was desperate to have children even years ago. "If they're not putting anything into their bodies -- excluding unwittingly, as would be the case with contaminated water -- your radiation hypothesis would be relevant. And again, mimicking the distribution of the disease, the birth rate has dropped worldwide, right? Developed and third world nations alike."
He sighs sharply at the conundrum. "Maybe pollution itself isn't the cause, but . . . what about the cumulative effects on the earth? Global warming? Holes in the ozone layer?"
"Mmhmm. If some sort of contamination that was carried by radiation is the blame, it'd have to be something evenly distributed to the entire planet. And this is all still a hypothesis. If this isn't even close to being right, then we're practically worse off then where we started."
Her hand travels away from his now, resting it on his cheek instead, somewhere where David can feel her contact.
"But then again, I'm just more eager to find a cure than I am the cause. Granted, finding what started this all would help both endevors, of course, but..." She can't say anymore. She can't say about how she refuses to lose him to this. How she wouldn't be able to go on without him. How she can't stand to see him dying slowly and painfully and not being able to do anything to help him.
David's cheek is just the slightest bit stubbly. Not like he gets the cleanest shave every day; he can't exactly do it himself, and the nurses are busy enough as it is. Hell, all of the daily rituals and autonomy that David took for granted have each in turn become a monumental struggle. He's adapting, though, maybe not fast enough to keep pace with his increasing paralysis, but he's fighting.
He leans his head into her palm, and he's quiet for a while, thinking. "If we want to stay ahead of the disease and cure it for the long term, we'll need to know. You can't work backwards." The daylight pouring in from the windows flickers across the inner curve of his lenses as he turns his head to kiss her palm. "Take a deep breath, Jenna. You'll find the answer. You always do."
Jenna has to blink and squint for a moment when he turns his head like that. Ack, that sunlight glaring off of his glasses got her RIGHT in the eyes. Why does it always-...
But then she thinks, blinking away the momentary blotches on her vision from the sudden light. Frowns thoughtfully.
And then she's smiling again, taking that suggested, deep breath, and holding his face in both hands now.
"You're right. Panicking and getting frustrated helps no one. Nor does working from the wrong end, I suppose. I'll think of something. In the meantime, though, enough about this. How have you been? Are they treating you well?" Because if they WEREN'T, oh, the hell Ms. Angel would raise.
"I'm getting a little sick of hospital food, but otherwise, I've been fine, Jenna." All things considered. "And I've been treated just fine, too. Everyone here is working as hard as they can." With more infected flooding in each day. No one was ready for an epidemic of this magnitude.
David gently slips his arms loosely around her waist and crosses his wrists carefully at her lower back. "How about you? Are you treating yourself well? Eight hours of sleep? Three meals a day?" If she isn't, David will have words.
She laughs, although it's kind of nervously, and is accompanied by a darting glance away from his eyes. "I...remember to sleep? Sometimes?" Eheheheh. "And eat. I think I do that occasionally too. Every now and again?"
Still laughing, she looks back at David now, reaching up to fiddle with a lock of his hair. She misses these casual, loving touches so much. And for a moment, she feels guilty that she realizes she misses the feel of his hands on her as well, and almost said so. He doesn't need to hear that. Someday. She'll get him well again, feel his fingers on her skin once more.
"I wind up so distracted, I'll admit it. You know how I get about work. And now that I don't have you hovering over me, reminding me to come up for air once or twice..."
Jenna's smile fades and her eyes are cast downward.
"...I wish you could be back home with me, David. I miss you so much. It's too empty back there without you."
"Just remember that you're human. Food, water, sleep in the prescribed amounts. Promise me." For emphasis, he tilts his head to meet her eyes over his glasses. The gesture has the air of an irate librarian more than anything else.
David enjoys her laughter while it lasts, and bends his elbows to pull her closer when it fades. He tucks his head next to hers to whisper in her ear. "I wish I was home, too. I miss waking up next to you."
He rubs one of his forearms against her back. "But I need to stay here. I can't take care of myself like I used to, and you have enough to worry about . . . enough work."
"You're not work!" She says it louder than she intended to and looks around self-consciously at the other, sedated patients and the few nurses. While none of them paid either of them any heed, her continued words are a quiet whisper.
"You're not a burden, David. You never will be. I just want you close. I just want you. I could still work, and you can still help me. With research and other things. I can't sleep without you next to me either."
Jenna's arms move to wrap around him as well, hugging him closer. Wanting to feel all of him so long as she's here, burying her face against her shoulder, breathing in the smell of him.
At his request, the nurses remove the wheelchair after he's comfortably situated on one of the couches. He's painfully aware of his own increasing weakness both from the syndrome, and being confined to the indoors. No jogging. No exercise. No fresh air. Just another step in the petrification.
He'll just have to find peace elsewhere.
David glances across the lounge at the elevator from time to time. She should be here soon.
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The elevator ride always seems to take longer each time. And sometimes, it really does. The cables and gears whir and chug, dragging the metal box to the uppermost floor. This building was in disrepair, understaffed and underfunded. And some of the other facilities she's had to go to in order to collect data and samples are nothing short of gulags or leper colonies. This is one of the nice ones. Jenna sighs and leans against the wall of the elevator for a moment, holding her head in one hand as she's suddenly struck by the weariness that usually follows going through those hallways ( ... )
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As always, he reflexively thinks of those gestures he'd make if he were able -- stand to meet her, grasp her hands, a kiss. All he can do is sit forward, elbows on his knees, lock her eyes, and wait for her to cross the distance.
"Hey, you," he says softly through his smile when she's within distance. Compared to the floors below, it's quiet here but for the occasional squeaky wheel of a gurney or the click of hard-soled shoes on the linoleum floor. Most of the patients in this ward are too doped up -- can afford to spend the rest of their days as such -- to make much of a fuss about their situation.
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Having her here, his mind briefly wanders to those people who don't have regular visitors -- both on the lower and upper floors. Fear keeps the friends and families away, not just of the disease, but the very act of immersing themselves in the experience of slow suffering ( ... )
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"Radiation. Hm. An existing source, or something new? Generally speaking, what's changed in the past while that would either cause a malignant reaction to existing radiation, or generate a fresh one? Could it be man-made, or natural?" He pushes his glasses up with his free hand, the metal frames making a tink noise against his solid index finger.
"A lot of new factors to consider either way. Maybe if you approach the existing data from more of an environmental angle?"
Reply
Reply
"Interesting thought -- linking both the miscarriages and this new disorder. If we look at the statistics, many of those mothers are probably in perfect health. Lots of women have been extra careful, too, monitoring themselves during pregnancy." He's reminded of his own mother, who was desperate to have children even years ago. "If they're not putting anything into their bodies -- excluding unwittingly, as would be the case with contaminated water -- your radiation hypothesis would be relevant. And again, mimicking the distribution of the disease, the birth rate has dropped worldwide, right? Developed and third world nations alike."
He sighs sharply at the conundrum. "Maybe pollution itself isn't the cause, but . . . what about the cumulative effects on the earth? Global warming? Holes in the ozone layer?"
Reply
Her hand travels away from his now, resting it on his cheek instead, somewhere where David can feel her contact.
"But then again, I'm just more eager to find a cure than I am the cause. Granted, finding what started this all would help both endevors, of course, but..." She can't say anymore. She can't say about how she refuses to lose him to this. How she wouldn't be able to go on without him. How she can't stand to see him dying slowly and painfully and not being able to do anything to help him.
Reply
He leans his head into her palm, and he's quiet for a while, thinking. "If we want to stay ahead of the disease and cure it for the long term, we'll need to know. You can't work backwards." The daylight pouring in from the windows flickers across the inner curve of his lenses as he turns his head to kiss her palm. "Take a deep breath, Jenna. You'll find the answer. You always do."
Reply
But then she thinks, blinking away the momentary blotches on her vision from the sudden light. Frowns thoughtfully.
And then she's smiling again, taking that suggested, deep breath, and holding his face in both hands now.
"You're right. Panicking and getting frustrated helps no one. Nor does working from the wrong end, I suppose. I'll think of something. In the meantime, though, enough about this. How have you been? Are they treating you well?" Because if they WEREN'T, oh, the hell Ms. Angel would raise.
Reply
David gently slips his arms loosely around her waist and crosses his wrists carefully at her lower back. "How about you? Are you treating yourself well? Eight hours of sleep? Three meals a day?" If she isn't, David will have words.
Reply
Still laughing, she looks back at David now, reaching up to fiddle with a lock of his hair. She misses these casual, loving touches so much. And for a moment, she feels guilty that she realizes she misses the feel of his hands on her as well, and almost said so. He doesn't need to hear that. Someday. She'll get him well again, feel his fingers on her skin once more.
"I wind up so distracted, I'll admit it. You know how I get about work. And now that I don't have you hovering over me, reminding me to come up for air once or twice..."
Jenna's smile fades and her eyes are cast downward.
"...I wish you could be back home with me, David. I miss you so much. It's too empty back there without you."
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David enjoys her laughter while it lasts, and bends his elbows to pull her closer when it fades. He tucks his head next to hers to whisper in her ear. "I wish I was home, too. I miss waking up next to you."
He rubs one of his forearms against her back. "But I need to stay here. I can't take care of myself like I used to, and you have enough to worry about . . . enough work."
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"You're not a burden, David. You never will be. I just want you close. I just want you. I could still work, and you can still help me. With research and other things. I can't sleep without you next to me either."
Jenna's arms move to wrap around him as well, hugging him closer. Wanting to feel all of him so long as she's here, burying her face against her shoulder, breathing in the smell of him.
"I can't do this without you."
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