Day 40: Greenhouse [Fourth Shift]

[toxicspiderman]

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!]

Comments

[notachick.livejournal.com]

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?"

[scarabspeak.livejournal.com]

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?"

[notachick.livejournal.com]

"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."