damned_institute | Day 40: Greenhouse [Fourth Shift]

Most days, fish and chips (and a cold beer or three) was pretty goddamned high on S.T.'s list of perfect expense-account lunches. Today, the idea of picking at greasy hunks of unidentified bottom-feeder odds-and-ends (politely known as scrod, to the delight of teenagers all across the Northeast) didn't appeal.

He begged off and collapsed into his bed, after using his damp shirt as an excuse to surreptiously check the contents of his closet. Bingo. His nurse watched his little show, unimpressed but (more importantly) unsuspicious. Not that his hairy chest was much of a catch today, pale and sweating from fever. At least she didn't tuck him in.

The intercom woke up up right on schedule, and pulling the sheets back over his head almost won. But a handful of unanswered missives and a vague sense of duty dragged him out to the bulletin, and from there it was easier to stagger over to the greenhouse.

It was warm inside -- a deep, humid warmth that actually penetrated to the aches in more joints and muscles than he could remember the names of. Like a sauna, without the hassle of finding someplace to look that wasn't a mound of pasty middle-management cellulite. Or a sweat lodge, without the opposite hassle of being conscious that he was the only white guy in the room. In fact, besides the nurses in holding patterns, he was the only person in the room.

He located a tray of tomato seedlings going rootbound in their tiny six-packs, and a potting bench whose location was a quick-and-dirty approximation of equidistantly far from anything blooming. He assured his nurse he knew what he was doing, and after a couple of successful repottings, gently sliding the little seedlings out and loosening the tangled roots, she seemed to agree and backed off. It was, by far, the most fucking theraputic thing he'd found in this hellhole so far, and he let himself sink into the rhythm of the task.

[Free!]

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He felt sick to his stomach. Not only had he been forced to reveal what the experiments did to him, but he had done it to a man he barely knew, let alone trusted. He had no guarantee that Jaime wouldn't go asking about it on the bulletin board, or telling other people about it. He was someone who asked questions and those sorts of people were great at gathering information, sometimes not so great at keeping it secret.

Okita glanced down at his hand, noting that the bleeding was stopping, if slowly. He must have hurt himself worse than he'd thought. His attention had been elsewhere, so his mind hadn't registered the pain as clearly as it should have. Okita pressed two fingers against the palm of his hand, watching as the blood welled up. He then wiped his hand off on his pants again, not caring that it left dark spots behind.

The sickness gave way to tiredness and Okita sighed, rolling his shoulders to release the tension. He hated getting angry during the day. There were too many eyes to see the happy mask slip, and too many people he had to protect from seeing that side of himself. "I don't blame you for getting worried, but I do expect that next time, you'll think before you let that sense of justice of yours endanger a person's life." Reaching forward, Okita started picking the dead leaves off the plant by hand. "I don't like repeating myself, but I do ask you to remain absolutely silent on my condition, Jaime-san. I don't want people to mourn me before I die - if you know what I mean."

Jaime watched as Okita forced more blood out of his injury but wasn't sure what, if anything, to say. He didn't need to wonder that much about what was bothering the other man. The safe bet was on the stranger that knew all about his illness. The situation was making Jaime feel more than a little uneasy. He didn't like the idea of having such a huge advantage over anyone like this, but there wasn't much he could actually do to level the playing field.

"Okay," he agreed eventually. "I'll keep it to myself. It's the least I can do." He knew a little too well what it was like to have people mourning when you weren't dead. Or more accurately in his case, coming back to find people had thought you were dead and having to deal with their reactions to you not only being alive after all, but also being different from what they remembered. It wasn't exactly the same, but both were difficult to deal with.

His smile returned and Okita added the dead leaves to the pile of weeds and other trimmings he'd been making. So long as Jaime never mentioned the sickness again, he was certain they wouldn't have many more problems. Or so he hoped. The last thing Okita wanted to do was to harm a young boy. He'd done enough of that in the war; killing countless roshi who had only been fighting for what they believed in. "Thank you," he said, the sincerity in his voice evident for once.

It had been bad enough watching Hijikata put on a brave face as the medicines and teas he prepared did nothing to stop the pain. Okita didn't want to see Homura do the same thing. He not only didn't know how to cure the disease, but despite being half-mortal, he had probably never seen someone die of sickness. It would be traumatic, for him and for Okita's other friends, and the swordsman wanted to spare them the realization of that horror as long as possible.

But it never did any good to dwell and Okita wasn't particularly fond of doing it. Resting his chin in his uninjured hand, Okita smiled pleasantly at Jaime and asked, "So... Did you have any other questions about the History Club?"

Jaime relaxed now that it seemed the worse of the situation was over and went back to pulling out weeds, the activity providing something of a distraction while he thought. The conversation so far had given him a lot to think about, both in regards to Okita and the club he was a part of, but he needed some time to work through all the information he had gathered today before going any further. He already had the beginnings of a few different plans though, which was definitely a good start.

"No," he said eventually. "You've given me a lot of help already, even if some of it you would have preferred not to. So... thanks." He smiled, perfectly sincere in what he said. They both knew Okita had been forced to share a lot more than he would have normally, and Jaime wanted to avoid making the situation worse if possible.

"But if I think of anything else, can I contact you or someone else from you club to talk about it?"

"Let's not mention that last part, hm?" Okita pulled the last dead leaf off his plant and sat back to examine his handiwork. It looked healthy enough and it was flowering despite the weather turning colder outside. Okita figured he was finished and leaned forward, resting his chin in one hand while the other tapped the yellow flowers. "I'm glad I was able to answer your questions though."

Smiling in childish amusement as the flowers bobbed under the weight of his finger, the swordsman nodded along with them. "If you need anything else, contact Kaneyoshi on the bulletin board. I'll be sure to answer it. You're welcome to speak to the other members of the club, however, if you so wish."

Day 40: Greenhouse [Fourth Shift]

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