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Daisuke must admit, he was afraid.
He hasn't seen the captain since before the crash. Well, technically, he did after, but he was mostly covered up by Jimmy's arms, shoving Daisuke aside by Jimmy's shoulder roughly colliding with his as he was being rushed into the medbay.
When Jimmy came out, he looked shell-shocked as a soldier, his uniform and pants blooming with red as the pungent smell of burned flesh coated him like a heavy blanket.
Since then, he... hasn't been able to see him. Not that he wasn't allowed to, but he was afraid. Afraid of what he has heard, fearful of what he will see— he remembers how near haunted Jimmy looked, how Anya always looked like she was on the verge of emptying her stomach of the bare amount of food she had in her system for the first few days after the crash.
If they reacted like that, how would he fare?
Half of him wishes Swansea would also go in with him for moral support. Out of all of them, he seemed like the only person who didn't react too harshly to whatever happened to their captain— he notably just became more silent when he came out of the medbay, and that furrow between his brows became impossibly deeper for the rest of the day as he slinked down to the utility room to do god knows what.
But Swansea refused when he asked, quite crassly and defiantly so, and honestly, fair. He was the one who wanted to go, and he shouldn't drag other people if he doesn't need to. He rubs the back of his neck, his other free hand twitching back and forth at the door, not sure if he wants to back out or not.
Eventually, the door opened for him, sliding with a slight groan as it did, and the visual before him frankly hit the unprepared him like a ton of bricks falling off a palate board, making his heart seize from where it beat and blood freeze until he could only move his bones futilely.
Curly, their captain, completely unrecognizable. A large eye, strikingly staring right into him with its azure color, and his maw completely exposed, perpetually baring his teeth. Off-white bandages cover him outside of the hospital gown, both becoming a similar color with how the dried blood turns it a sickening brown.
He gulps and lets out a staggering breath before he musters up a smile— just think about game night, think about the beach, think about everything good— as he walks up to Curly, not sure what to do with his hands, before just letting it press itself against the edge of the medical rack.
"Hey there, Cap— Curly? Sorry, 'm still getting used to calling Jimmy Captain." He sighs, "... He says it's your fault, that the ship— well, the heavy stuff, you know... but I feel like you wouldn't do that, right? A mistake that big, I mean..."
Curly doesn't respond, his chest rising up and descending down as he looks up at him. It's mildly off-putting now, instead of straight up being terrifying, but it's easy if he just superimposes Curly's face onto the mass of red muscle and sinew. Daisuke rubs his neck again, his nails scratching dead skin, his smile faltering as an unsettling, nearly awkward air fills the room. It's toxic and heavy enough that he isn't sure if he should breathe or not.
"Uhm. Oh! You know what we could do, maybe brighten this place up a bit! Add some color, you know? Never liked hospitals too much, way too— what's that word? Sterile? Yeah, that's the word." Daisuke offers, hands moving all over the place, as if Curly could respond. He does shuffle a bit, which makes Daisuke think he's trying to agree. "Wait here, I know just the thing!"
He scampers off, running into the lounge room. He goes to the kitchen island, climbs onto the counter by throwing one leg over the edge, and pulls himself off, keeping in mind the hardened foam at the side and the synthesizer in front of him.
He glides his hand around the wall, trying to find a specific part of the wall where he could feel a certain edge. When he does finally find it, he uses both hands to pull off the panel as surreptitiously as he can, to reveal where a bunch of hibiscus flowers laid hidden in a particular container— it's not like they'll be drinking margaritas anytime soon, so they might as well put them to good use!
He grabs a bunch full into his arms after straining his back towards the wall, before jumping down from the counter and slightly jogging back, reminding himself to put the panel back up before Jimmy or Swansea sees a significant part of the wall missing.
For a brief moment, he catches Anya's eyes from where she sits at the lower part of the lounge, reading something, when making him stop within the hall that leads to the med bay.
She looks ... wistful almost, as she calmly smiles at him, unreadable in its emotion with a page still pressed between her fingers, midway into turning it. She always smiles like that lately, like she is in a different place entirely.
Oops. He always loses attention so easily; he's already back in the medbay before he can even really realize or think about it. He presents the flowers to Curly, leaning forward so he can have a better view. "I'm back! Look at these, huh? I know these aren't real, but they look pretty real, even from up close, huh? With these, you can kinda imagine you're at a beach, right?"
Knowing Curly won't respond, he throws the pile of flowers onto the counter before grabbing them one by one and placing them all around the medbay. He hums a song that he doesn't remember where he heard it from, internally thinking where a certain part of the room needs that pink color— on top of the shelves, on the counter corners, the metal pole the curtains hang from around Curly's bed, on the top of the emergency medical kit compartment that isn't completely covered by foam.
He can feel Curly's eye follow him as he hops off wall to wall, straining his arm to reach the top high places and crouching down with a groan when he wants to place some on a nonintrusive place upon the ground.
When he is done, he makes a show of it, wiping his forehead comically as if he has done something laborious and lets out a huff— Curly was the only one who would probably find humor in such an antic, so he hopes even now he finds it mildly amusing.
"There we go! Doesn't that look just a bit nicer? Really makes the room pop!" Daisuke said with a satisfied nod, standing in the middle of the room so that he could make a full rotation of the room just by turning.
He wouldn't exactly pride himself as an interior decorator, but he thinks he did a pretty good job considering what limited resources he had— the flowers were everywhere you looked no matter where you turned, and the bright pink certainly gave the room a certain glow that removes it's too constricting nature, if by barely.
"Oh, we have a final one," Daisuke remarks after landing on the table, noticing two in the middle of the surface. He grabbed one of them, twirling it from the minuscule stem between his fingers, seeing how the color slightly shifted as he moved it against the light hanging above him.
Eventually, he turned and chose to put it next to Curly's head, right on the blood-stained pillow, watching how his head soundlessly moved immediately yet slowly towards the flower, the side of his head slightly pressing on one of the petals. "Something nice you can look at, yeah?" Daisuke says, uncharacteristically soft. His hand lands on the edge of the medical bed once more, his fingers pulling along the blue wax paper beneath him.
He isn't as dumb as he looks; well, he is, but he isn't that dumb to not recognize the groans and choking sounds muffled from the closed door of the medical room. He knows it must be... torture just living like this, depending on painkillers just to feel normal— the roughness of the situation is hitting everyone, even him.
He can't do much, he's just a no-good intern who can't even differentiate between different screwheads after all, but he could do this— give him just the smallest bit of comfort, a trickle of normalcy, even if from a dumb decorative flower that holds no smell other than plastic and cheap, dyed fabric, that distracts him from his condition.
That's the least of what he deserves, he thinks, what anyone deserves. He thinks he sees Curly rub his head against the petals, and if he could close his eyes, he thinks he would, as he turns to go leave. He hears a ragged sound just as he is halfway at the door, and Daisuke turns around immediately, sweat forming on the back of his neck— is he in pain? did he do something wrong again? what can he do?
But he doesn't ... seem like he's in pain— he isn't exactly writhing violently like he would be or groan that increases in volume for too long— he just keeps rubbing his bandaged cheek against the artificial petals, his noise quiet and subdued. He looks straight at Daisuke, but it isn't as off-putting or striking as before.
He's probably going crazy, with how long he has been on the ship, bathed in a red, morbid light, but he swears his eyes look warm, and the groans almost sound like...
Daisuke smiles, actually smiles— not something he has to muster up for the sake of morality, for the sake of courage— and he nods his head, "You're welcome."