12 - Double Vision, Gojyo and Cho Interim, PG
Title: Double Vision
Author: grimbitter
Warnings: Totally worksafe. Spoilers for how Gojyo and Cho Gonou Hakkai Interim met
Pairing(s): None
Notes: #12 - Sight. 14 minutes (plus about 20 to edit and go quote-hunting)
Even were his injury considerate enough to permit him to sit up for more than a few minutes at a time, it would be a futile effort. The man had no books, and those few magazines he kept scattered about the room promised little in the way of an enjoyable read. The television's functionality was questionable, and again, were it functional, the only options for viewing were videos that sported cumbersomely endowed women in various stages of undress. The window overlooking the bed hadn't been washed in so long that the trees outside appeared mere sketches of themselves, and the man - Gojyo, his name was Gojyo - seemed less than inclined to remedy that situation.
So, necessity being what it was, he watched Gojyo.
He watched Gojyo, and thought about his child.
Not his child, technically. Her child, hers and that monster's, but he liked to think that he would have raised it as his own. His child, their child, intelligent and loved, taught to read and write, taught to cook and clean and the value of words, of ideas. The value of life, hypocrite though that would make him. The value of family.
Not like this man, this Gojyo. The scars on his face were old, evidence of a lifetime of brawling and blasphemy, no doubt. Not like this Gojyo, who paced about the room, smoking a constant stream of foul-smelling cigarettes, regardless of either the invalid lying mere feet away or the warning clearly printed on the packet, which certainly even he could read. Not like this Gojyo, who wore the same socks four days running and often forgot to bathe for nearly as long, who sat in the corner of an evening, the single lamp's shade angled downward as he read his magazines, lips moving slowly over each and every word. Not ignorant like this man. Not slovenly. Blood-red, yes, but not bathed in blood.
But only too often, that blood was his, and he wondered. Would his child have been so quick to act the good Samaritan? Would a child who never wanted reach out to a perfect stranger, take him into his own bed, feed him and wash him even as he neglected to feed and wash himself? Would a child taught the value of pride of property, the benefit of comfort, so easily give it up?
He had to wonder. And, with little else to do, he had to watch, as Gojyo drunkenly fumbled over the pile of discarded bandages and clothing, as Gojyo carefully, delicately spooned out broth and tea and, later, carried him to and from the facilities, as Gojyo slept sprawled out in the center of the room, as Gojyo...
"Hey," Gojyo interrupted, waving a hand through his line of vision. "You okay? You’ve been starin' at me so long you forgot t'blink. Did ya need anythin'?"
Was it love or rape, he wanted to ask, and immediately banished the thought. No, perhaps he didn't deserve a child. "No, thank you."
But perhaps he had one to care for anyway.
His child. Yes. Yes, he could see that. "Well," he amended, "perhaps some company?"
Gojyo ducked his head shyly and grinned. "Lemme get the cards." His child would never have been this starved for affection, for attention. His child would never have been this beautiful when it was freely given.
The doctor had given him a month. One could do a great deal, in a month. Perhaps he would see what he could do.
There was nothing on television, anyway.
Author: grimbitter
Warnings: Totally worksafe. Spoilers for how Gojyo and Cho Gonou Hakkai Interim met
Pairing(s): None
Notes: #12 - Sight. 14 minutes (plus about 20 to edit and go quote-hunting)
Even were his injury considerate enough to permit him to sit up for more than a few minutes at a time, it would be a futile effort. The man had no books, and those few magazines he kept scattered about the room promised little in the way of an enjoyable read. The television's functionality was questionable, and again, were it functional, the only options for viewing were videos that sported cumbersomely endowed women in various stages of undress. The window overlooking the bed hadn't been washed in so long that the trees outside appeared mere sketches of themselves, and the man - Gojyo, his name was Gojyo - seemed less than inclined to remedy that situation.
So, necessity being what it was, he watched Gojyo.
He watched Gojyo, and thought about his child.
Not his child, technically. Her child, hers and that monster's, but he liked to think that he would have raised it as his own. His child, their child, intelligent and loved, taught to read and write, taught to cook and clean and the value of words, of ideas. The value of life, hypocrite though that would make him. The value of family.
Not like this man, this Gojyo. The scars on his face were old, evidence of a lifetime of brawling and blasphemy, no doubt. Not like this Gojyo, who paced about the room, smoking a constant stream of foul-smelling cigarettes, regardless of either the invalid lying mere feet away or the warning clearly printed on the packet, which certainly even he could read. Not like this Gojyo, who wore the same socks four days running and often forgot to bathe for nearly as long, who sat in the corner of an evening, the single lamp's shade angled downward as he read his magazines, lips moving slowly over each and every word. Not ignorant like this man. Not slovenly. Blood-red, yes, but not bathed in blood.
But only too often, that blood was his, and he wondered. Would his child have been so quick to act the good Samaritan? Would a child who never wanted reach out to a perfect stranger, take him into his own bed, feed him and wash him even as he neglected to feed and wash himself? Would a child taught the value of pride of property, the benefit of comfort, so easily give it up?
He had to wonder. And, with little else to do, he had to watch, as Gojyo drunkenly fumbled over the pile of discarded bandages and clothing, as Gojyo carefully, delicately spooned out broth and tea and, later, carried him to and from the facilities, as Gojyo slept sprawled out in the center of the room, as Gojyo...
"Hey," Gojyo interrupted, waving a hand through his line of vision. "You okay? You’ve been starin' at me so long you forgot t'blink. Did ya need anythin'?"
Was it love or rape, he wanted to ask, and immediately banished the thought. No, perhaps he didn't deserve a child. "No, thank you."
But perhaps he had one to care for anyway.
His child. Yes. Yes, he could see that. "Well," he amended, "perhaps some company?"
Gojyo ducked his head shyly and grinned. "Lemme get the cards." His child would never have been this starved for affection, for attention. His child would never have been this beautiful when it was freely given.
The doctor had given him a month. One could do a great deal, in a month. Perhaps he would see what he could do.
There was nothing on television, anyway.