Having been stuck in a clinic bed for a little under two weeks, Mace has reached a new level of boredom he wasn't sure he could experience. At least when spending sixteen months in space he had the entire Icarsu II to wander and an Earth room to spend time in, but all he has here is a clinic bed, that damn lab to stare at, some books Shari and Lexie have brought him, and occasional wheelchair rides around the compound.
When someone new comes in, looking worse off than Mace feels, he denies the way the excitement of the new guy perks him up. The guy -- Tunny, he's overheard -- is a sorry sight and Mace is acutely aware that he'd be in the same fucking boat missing the same half of his leg if he hadn't been lucky, if Icarus's mainframe had been just a few pounds heavier.
Tunny wakes with a cry that makes Mace wince, and he sets down A Tale of Two Cities. "It's fine. You didn't wake anyone."
Mace. He thinks the guy's name is Mace. Which, you know, he's not really the one who can talk about names and nicknames but Jesus. He wipes his face again before he turns his head, sick of weeping like he can't help it, like he's blown a valve or something.
He's a fucking wreck.
"Good," he says, because it's what he ought to say, but he's not sure he actually gives a shit.
Mace snorts. Tunny seems about as lively as Mace feels, which makes him like the kid a little more. He's not sure about all the crying, but then again, he's no the one missing half a leg, but the one still waiting to get a part of his thumb cut off. Big difference.
"Yeah," he says, his voice feeling tight in a raw, dry throat. He wonders how much screaming he's done while he was out of it. The front of his uniforms say 'Clarke', his dog tags say Joseph and Gemma always called him Joe but Tunny is who he's always felt like.
"And you're Mace. I..." He closes his eyes for a minute and tries not to think about what he'd see if he looked down the bed. "I haven't exactly been with it."
If it was one thing Hiccup knew, it was waking up and looking down and remembering oh yeah, I used to have a leg there. He was used to it now, because he could still fly and he still had Toothless, but there were days when he took a step forward and his weight wasn't where it should be and he ended up halfway to a sprawl.
"Don't worry about it," he said, looking up from bandages that he was changing for a burn on his arm. "You need anything?"
"Sure." He found a cup and filled it with the sink, a tiny bit pleased with himself that the faucet didn't cause him any surprise or consternation this time. "Here."
Part of him wanted to pull up a chair, commiserate, offer some kind of reassurance, but he had a feeling the words would have felt just as hollow to him as they would to the other man. "Do they have medicine for you?"
He can see fear on the guy's face and it doesn't compute, doesn't make sense, not when it echoes the fear in his own heart so cleanly. He settles for shoving himself up in the bed, ignoring the look on the guy's face.
"It doesn't hurt," he says, oddly calm (though still not looking down. "I think they've got me pumped full of novacaine or some shit."
It's a weakass joke but it's one that will and Johnny would have laughed at, maybe.
"Probably something stronger," says Tunny, his jaw tight, but he nods. "And, yeah, for the pain. And your English is fine. Better than my fucking Japanese."
Chase hadn't been there for the actual surgery, but news travelled slightly fast when you were on a small island and worked in the clinic where it happened. Besides, he was in the neighbourhood for his psych shift and just wanted to drop by and see how he was faring. Chase offered as kind a smile as he could when it looked like he'd wandered onto a private scene, debating whether he should leave or keep going.
In the end, he stayed. What was he trained for, if not this? (Whether the seminary, the med school, or both). "It's normal," he assured. "I think I'd be more worried if you were more put-together."
That kind of smile it just...he can't deal with that kind of smile. So he's a cripple now but that doesn't mean he has to put up with that bullshit sympathetic look for the rest of his life.
He scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand.
"Yeah," he says, shooting the guy a flat look (not one of the ones who operated - not Helen or Rollie or Remy so Tunny doesn't feel like he even owes him that). "Thanks,"
Chase took another step inside, offering a hand out to him. "I'm Rob Chase," he introduced himself, giving a sharp nod after as if that would help to ebb away the nerves. "I'm a doctor here, but I'm also the head of the psych department and I thought I'd drop by and at least talk to you. Not about seeing anyone, just...to talk. It's pretty slow here otherwise."
"No, that sounds about right," says Rollie, resting his hand on the edge of Tunny's bed and giving him a quick once over. He was on his way in here anyway; Tunny's little wake-up call just makes him move faster. "Not sure if you remember me. We weren't in much of a position to exchange pleasantries when we met."
"You don't need to thank me," he says, shaking his head at him. Not that they aren't nice, but he's years past expecting them and feels a little awkward accepting them these days. "Might've been better if you didn't remember too much about it, though. How are you doing?"
It's a lie and they both know it, but it's easier than explaining and, yeah, Rollie did a good thing for him, but Tunny's in pieces now, actual physical pieces, and maybe he doesn't have it in him to like a doctor yet.
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When someone new comes in, looking worse off than Mace feels, he denies the way the excitement of the new guy perks him up. The guy -- Tunny, he's overheard -- is a sorry sight and Mace is acutely aware that he'd be in the same fucking boat missing the same half of his leg if he hadn't been lucky, if Icarus's mainframe had been just a few pounds heavier.
Tunny wakes with a cry that makes Mace wince, and he sets down A Tale of Two Cities. "It's fine. You didn't wake anyone."
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He's a fucking wreck.
"Good," he says, because it's what he ought to say, but he's not sure he actually gives a shit.
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"Tunny, right?"
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"And you're Mace. I..." He closes his eyes for a minute and tries not to think about what he'd see if he looked down the bed. "I haven't exactly been with it."
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"Don't worry about it," he said, looking up from bandages that he was changing for a burn on his arm. "You need anything?"
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He clears his throat and shoves himself more upright in the bed.
"Water?"
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Part of him wanted to pull up a chair, commiserate, offer some kind of reassurance, but he had a feeling the words would have felt just as hollow to him as they would to the other man. "Do they have medicine for you?"
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He just wishes he felt better for it.
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"It doesn't hurt," he says, oddly calm (though still not looking down. "I think they've got me pumped full of novacaine or some shit."
It's a weakass joke but it's one that will and Johnny would have laughed at, maybe.
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In the end, he stayed. What was he trained for, if not this? (Whether the seminary, the med school, or both). "It's normal," he assured. "I think I'd be more worried if you were more put-together."
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He scrubs at his face with the heel of his hand.
"Yeah," he says, shooting the guy a flat look (not one of the ones who operated - not Helen or Rollie or Remy so Tunny doesn't feel like he even owes him that). "Thanks,"
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"What the fuck am I supposed to talk about?"
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"You..." he clears his throat. "Thanks."
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It's a lie and they both know it, but it's easier than explaining and, yeah, Rollie did a good thing for him, but Tunny's in pieces now, actual physical pieces, and maybe he doesn't have it in him to like a doctor yet.
"I'm okay."
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