mm_j (mm_j) wrote in morningstar_mnr, @ 2010-06-05 14:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | au, callan, declan, sterrin |
AU Declan, Callan, and Sterrin; Declan's apartment somewhere in the City; Saturday
Tired. He was so fucking tired anymore, and he knew it wasn't a good sign.
A look in the mirror beside his bed showed a man with missing hair. Sunken cheeks. Sallow skin and shadowed eyes. His bones looked sharp enough to break out of his skin with an especially sharp breath. He looked like death, and that was fitting.
One thing Declan McNamara knew for sure was this: He was dying.
"You haven't eaten," Sterrin said from the doorway to his bedroom he turned to look at his sister, shifting the sheets of the hospital bed around him. There was a colostomy bag strapped to the side of the thing and he would've been embarassed by his appearance a year ago. Now, it was just life. If you could call this living.
He looked at her for a long moment. She was still so pretty. So healthy looking. Whatever she was doing to pay for the meds to keep him comfortable hadn't killed what was inside of her yet, but it would soon. He hated that. This cancer, this fucking disease that had spread all over his body, was working its magic his sister's soul too.
"I'm not hungry."
"Dec... You have to eat," she said and walked toward him. "What do you think I left all the money for? What am I paying Callan for? Is he not feeding you?"
"I make that ungrateful fooker three meals a day with fuckin' snacks in between an' I'm a badass chef," Callan said and managed to make it sound like teasing, walking up behind Sterrin in clean blue hospital scrubs. He was gruff and he talked like a sailor, but one thing he seemed to do well was take care of Declan when he wouldn't let anyone else.
"Fuck you, tastes like shit," Declan said, managing a grin that made him look eerily like a skeleton to the people looking at him. It also set him to coughing, an act that he had to smother with a handkerchief in case it produced blood or caused him to vomit, or both. This time it was the latter and his sister was there with a trash can when he lay over the side of the bed and heaved an empty stomach. Bile and blood filled the trash can and his eyes started to water.
That was all that was left for him now.
"Go get him some crackers and water," Sterrin said to Callan and suddenly there was a cold wash cloth on his forehead and another wiping his mouth. When he could finally manage a look up at his sister, there were tears in her eyes though her jaw was firm.
"Hey," he said softly, making her look at him. "It's going to be okay."
It wouldn't, of course. He had a few months, if that. She was just so worried about him, he could see it in her eyes, and it was vastly - humbling. He'd come to terms with his imminent death after the fourth surgery hadn't worked, but Sterrin still wored. She still tried to take care of him. Of all the things he'd expected of her, it hadn't been this. The big brother inside of him still wanted to protect her, even if it meant lying.
Callan returned with his crackers on a tray like it was a fucking slab of prime rib and he shook his head. "Don't want any crackers."
"Why, ya too goddamn nancy to muscle down a few crackers?" Callan said and helped him sit up more, then propped up some pillows behind him. "Eat. Yer worryin' yer sister's pretty head."
Declan put a cracker in his mouth and although it made his stomach churn, he chewed and swallowed before moving on to the next one. For his sister. For Callan, who seemed to get more gruff the more upset he got.
"It ain't a funeral yet," he said after he'd eaten the crackers Callan had brought and drank some water. He smiled too, just for the heck of it.
"Fuck no, it ain't," Callan said as he picked up the tray. "An' if you'd get yer nancy ass outta that bed, I'd take you out and find you a pretty lady to show you a good time."
"Yeah," Declan said, though the idea didn't appeal to him as much as it should. "Maybe tomorrow."
"You bet yer ass."
Sterrin watched Callan walk out of the room and shook her head. "He's obscene."
"Then fire him," he said with an arched brow.
Sterrin sighed. "No, it just doesn't feel right."
None of this did to him. But when did death ever feel right? Probably never.