gabriel_tam | (no subject)

(no subject)

The room is fairly nice, all things considered. There are several chairs, a porta-cot set up discreetly against one wall for visitors that for one reason or another are reluctant to leave, and it's clear that whoever designed this particular private room in the first place intended to make it seem as warm and welcoming as possible.

Of course, given that it's a hospital, there's really only so much that can be done.

Currently, the hospital bed is tilted upwards at an angle, with the evident intention of making the patient comfortable. It seems to be working, at least a little, because Gabriel Tam is asleep.

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He takes the glass carefully, and sips, just as carefully, then hands it back.

"Xiexie."

Gabriel smiles up at her, one side of his mouth quirking wryly.

"I'm sorry, Regan. This can't be at all easy for you."

"It's hardly your fault."

Regan sets the glass on the table, carefully, and smiles back with the same fond wryness.

"You just concentrate on getting well, ài rén."

"Oh, believe me, I've no intention of doing otherwise."

Just as wry as his smile, and hers.

"I've no particular fondness for hospitals when I'm the patient."

Regan strokes back his hair again, her smile crooked.

"You never have any fondness for being sick."

"Not especially, no."

A shadow crosses his face as he adds,

"And I'll admit this certainly hasn't helped."

With almost a laugh, "I wouldn't think so."

Almost.

She looks at her husband, swathed in bandages and laced together with stitches, and she remembers him torn open. It will be a while before she really laughs again.

He sees that look, and immediately reaches up and catches her hand in his own.

"Regan. Don't."

Regan's brow furrows -- and then relaxes into ruefulness.

"I'm trying not to," she says instead of her initial impulse of don't what?, and leans over to kiss his forehead softly with his hand in both of hers.

"Everybody's -- you're fine, and that's what counts."

"I'm fine," Gabriel agrees, but he hasn't missed that quick change in her choice of words.

Thirty years of marriage. They know each other well, in so many ways.

"Ai rén." Quietly. "What is it?"

"You should rest," she says softly, and brushes back his hair. "It'll keep."

He insists, of course; she never really expected otherwise. And she might kick herself for that slip, but she's a little relieved too. At least now it will be out, and they can grieve together.

(They were going to be grandparents.)

She tells him simply, because there's no kinder way. It's a shock; it's a horrible, tragic thing, and it hurts to even contemplate, and it hurts more that there's only so much they can do to help. There's only so much they could do no matter what, and with Kaylee's attitude towards them...

Helplessness hurts.

No matter how familiar it's become.

But they're together, and that's something.

(When Regan falls asleep, hours later, it's not in the armchair; it's in the spare cot, pulled up closer to her husband's bed, and her hand rests in his.)

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