Work Text:
No more painkillers, I told myself, I want want want to work, badly. Repeating a word means extreme emphasis, Rocky and I had agreed early on. It's exactly what I said to him when I decided to stop cold turkey for the sake of working.
I don't just want to, I need to work. Yes, that's how it is. I mumble to myself, trying to fortify my resolve. It's been almost 24 hours since I should have had another dose and needless to say I didn't sleep well that first night, just because of how my arm hurt more, but at least I did sleep.
Rocky has been watching me more closely than ever all day. I get that, I want to be around him more too, on account of both of us nearly dying. While he can see through walls and anywhere in the ship, I need my reassurance more tanglible. As a result, though, he had a front row view of me crumbling away to pieces all day.
I woke up tired, but it's only an hour ago that he suggested—meaning insisted, at last—that I get more sleep. Primarily it's supposed to further reduce my chances of acting and being stupid, but also, after I'd reluctantly explained it to him, to make my little painkiller hangover easier on myself.
...'Little' is a lacking description, to say the least, and instead of sleeping I've been tossing and turning. I feel restless, anxious. My stomach cramps, which sort of distracts me from the pain of my burns, but only so. I kept asking the computer for the toilet, but nothing ever happened anyway, and now I don't want to uncurl and get out of my bunk. I hug my arms around myself.
Rocky is in his compartment in the dormitory, working. He's also still slow on account of having gotten hurt in my atmosphere, but God, I wish that were me as I lie here uselessly. Same spot he usually watches me sleep from, though, so I know he still intends for me to settle down despite my squirming. And while I say 'work' but maybe 'pretending to work' is more accurate. He puts his arms and his project down too readily to talk to me, knowing I'm still woefully awake. "Maybe not good to do this now," he says.
There'll come a time when I explain 'impatience' to him.
"I'm fine." Through gritted teeth I know I don't sound very convincing, but I just need to power through this so I can work.
He taps a claw against the Xenonite, thinking. "You no move good, no sleep good. Is result of pain, question?"
I clench my jaw, silent for a moment as I look at him. I'm annoyed, feeling snappish that he points this out to me. "Yeah."
"Then take medicine," he suggests, simply... As if! "Wait to have less pain. Try again." There'll come a time when I explain 'impatience' to him. "I can't. You won't let me work if I take it," I grumble.
He doesn't relent, and he taps again. "Do bad work when you feel wrong. You no think is dangerous, question?" Although it's a relatively quiet sound, and Rocky does it because he hesitates to even let his worries be known, the tapping annoys me so much right now.
I finally bolt upright in my bunk—huge mistake, as every inch of my being protests—and I snap at him. "Rocky–" Ugh! My back hurts, my stomach hurts, my head hurts because I haven't slept enough. And the burns on my entire arm hurt worst of all!
But I can't actually use that pain to propel myself any direction. I curl in on myself again, tuck my knees up against my stomach and my right arm over them. The left I let sort of hang off the side of the bed.
I feel bad, seeing him shrink away from the tunnel wall when I raise my voice. If being in pain makes me sensitive to sound, I can only imagine what it's like for Rocky. I put my head on my knees. My voice is muffled but, frustrated, probably still too loud for him. "–Nothing's wrong, and stop asking me questions!"
Following my outburst, we're both silent. Rocky says something but his tones are so quiet that I don't understand, and I don't want to ask him to repeat himself.
"Sorry," I just say instead. Quietly, carefully. "Yeah, I feel not good and I..." I sniff and wipe my eyes and nose with my hand. I sulk. "But I won't take any medicine. You can't make me."
Eventually, I lie back down and Rocky picks up his project again. I still can't sleep so I watch him tinker. When I try to apologize again, this time not just through feeling sorry for myself, he basically tells me that it's water under the bridge. "Grumpy, stupid," he says, when I tell him that I have a hard time believing that.
When Rocky scoots closer to the tunnel wall again he nevertheless asserts, "You sleep." But, I don't know, nicely, so I'll at least try again.