Work Text:
Dr. Moira O'Deorain is in pain.
This is not a complaint, nor a notification of her current state. It is merely a fact. An unchanging, static, unmodifiable observation.
When Gabriel complains; asks her about any possible medication for his pain, the answer she gives is no lie—perhaps merely an exaggeration. It is fuel for something, (if anything,) as well as a point of frustration. As a geneticist, a Minister of Genetics, shouldn't she be able to take care of some measly pain? Gabriel's condition, while being much more complex than hers, is but a reminder that, no—she can't do anything about it.
And it does, unfortunately, plague her. While growing accustomed to the inevitability of pain in science, she often thinks; this is not where my limitations should be.
She should not have limitations to begin with.
It’s when you enter the room—in your pajamas, relaxed and bright—that her thoughts break away from self-deprecation and discontent.
"I've brought tea." You sit next to her, the tray nestled in your hands. "It's lemongrass. I'd tell you it helps with pain but I'm sure you already know that."
"It is my cupboard, after all."
She pretends she isn't horribly soft for you as she chuckles when you tell her to shut up. You, in all your mundaneness, can help in a way she could never. She may be a geneticist, a minister and a scientist—she's human, still. You remind her of that.