[Near doesn't bother to hide the blinking and rolling of his eyes, or just how irritated the demand makes him feel. For all his promises to take Mello's pain away, Mello is determined to go right back to feeling it. There's no point in telling him that it will hurt like a son of a bitch as soon as this latest round of morphine wears off. Nearly 30% of Mello's body suffered grievous burns, not to mention the broken ribs, the concussion, the bruises, and the one badly sprained ankle. Near sighs to himself. With effort, he plants both of his feet on the ground and then pushes himself upright. He shuffles with an awkward gait over to the stand for the IV bag--specifically, the rectangular device the tubes are fed through, which regulates the amount of morphine in the mix. Mello is the strongest person he's ever known, the most strong-willed and startling, but even his diamantine mind is going to have trouble with the fresh agony of debridement.
Yet Near quietly pokes at a few buttons, turning off the morphine pump. He doesn't want to think about how this is the closest they've been to each other in five years, and how all those tubes and tape really wouldn't stop Mello from enacting and exacting any revenge he's thinking of.] If you change your mind, [he says, glancing over at Mello,] just go ahead and let me know. [As if that will happen. Mello clearly wants to be a martyr to his cause, for whatever-the-fuck crusade he thinks he's on right now--but Near gets distracted when the heart monitor starts beeping. He looks from Mello to the monitor, then back to Mello, his mouth pursing tight and tighter still. The sudden increase in heart rate doesn't last for too long, thankfully. Could have been some belated realization. Reality finally setting in. Near knew that Mello was going to hate being here, but he didn't think it would inspire a ten-second panic attack.
Instead of retreating back to his chair, Near sits down on the edge of the bed. His back is turned to Mello, with his thin shoulders lifted and his head bowed. It's so much easier when he doesn't have to look at Mello's disgusted grimace. He can tell himself that he's doing the right thing, and he has no reason or room for self-doubt.]
And how would that have worked, exactly? [he asks of Mello's fantasy, even though he doesn't want to know. Even though he shouldn't say anything at all. His throat feels like it's tightening around a lump of something, all jagged and bloody.] You were going to, what, let me think... just going to hop in a car and take a road trip across America to come here and visit me? Pulling over at Walgreens for some over-the-counter medicine when your wounds started to fester? Third-degree burns, no problem. Just put some fucking Neosporin on it. No, Mello, I quite believe you are capable of doing that to yourself, and that is why I refused to let you do it.
[Three dead, and four more wounded. Five more with minor injuries, not requiring hospital admission. Almost two hours in surgery. A private flight across the country done in the utmost secrecy. And Near can't even get a single thank you.]
I'm not asking you to stay here for more than a week. I'm not asking for anything else.
no subject
Yet Near quietly pokes at a few buttons, turning off the morphine pump. He doesn't want to think about how this is the closest they've been to each other in five years, and how all those tubes and tape really wouldn't stop Mello from enacting and exacting any revenge he's thinking of.] If you change your mind, [he says, glancing over at Mello,] just go ahead and let me know. [As if that will happen. Mello clearly wants to be a martyr to his cause, for whatever-the-fuck crusade he thinks he's on right now--but Near gets distracted when the heart monitor starts beeping. He looks from Mello to the monitor, then back to Mello, his mouth pursing tight and tighter still. The sudden increase in heart rate doesn't last for too long, thankfully. Could have been some belated realization. Reality finally setting in. Near knew that Mello was going to hate being here, but he didn't think it would inspire a ten-second panic attack.
Instead of retreating back to his chair, Near sits down on the edge of the bed. His back is turned to Mello, with his thin shoulders lifted and his head bowed. It's so much easier when he doesn't have to look at Mello's disgusted grimace. He can tell himself that he's doing the right thing, and he has no reason or room for self-doubt.]
And how would that have worked, exactly? [he asks of Mello's fantasy, even though he doesn't want to know. Even though he shouldn't say anything at all. His throat feels like it's tightening around a lump of something, all jagged and bloody.] You were going to, what, let me think... just going to hop in a car and take a road trip across America to come here and visit me? Pulling over at Walgreens for some over-the-counter medicine when your wounds started to fester? Third-degree burns, no problem. Just put some fucking Neosporin on it. No, Mello, I quite believe you are capable of doing that to yourself, and that is why I refused to let you do it.
[Three dead, and four more wounded. Five more with minor injuries, not requiring hospital admission. Almost two hours in surgery. A private flight across the country done in the utmost secrecy. And Near can't even get a single thank you.]
I'm not asking you to stay here for more than a week. I'm not asking for anything else.