Pause (Inked cont.). Gino gets home.

cw descriptions of pain

All the good things belong to Monolithsoft, but not this skell refueling specialist with chronic leg pain.

"That you, Gino?" His roommate's voice floated down the hall. Gino had lunged from the front door toward the bedrooms, barely clipping the corner of the living room rug on the way. He'd convinced himself that Diego, his precious guitar cuddled in his lap, wouldn't notice.

He'd woken up an eternity ago, sprawled on a plastic bench. A stranger had been shaking his shoulder. "Buddy, your stop. Get off. Buddy." Gino had realized he was on the transport 'copter, and the pilot was trying to wake him. It had been awkward to stand up, needing three tries. The pilot was patient, clearly a man who had seen one too many intoxicated passengers in his career of flying the rectangle of New Los Angeles. Administrative, Residential, Industrial, Commercial. Cesar must have loaded him on in front of BLADE tower, and there he was, three stops later.

He didn't like the idea that she knew where he lived.

The pilot hadn't offered him a hand, which was fine by Gino. Gino was proud and didn't want help. He managed the problem with his legs on his own. If you needed help, you got left behind. He had a list of people that didn't make it through to launch, all left behind on Earth. All gone. Gino had gotten to his feet. Then the pain had hit him so hard he'd forgotten how to breathe.

Cesar had said she knew a trick for managing pain. He'd humored her because she was single and did that thing where she tilted her head when she smiled. None of his exes had done that, and he needed something different in his life. This pain was different, that was for sure.

Gino had clenched every muscle in his back, worked his hips to swing his legs forward, grabbing every handhold along the way, and pushed himself out of the transport. He couldn't manage the stairs, but who cared? The pilot probably had seen it before, and if someone made a NLA's Funniest Home Video out of it, let them laugh. He did not roll into a fetal position on the ground. No, he did not. He crouched, forced himself into a standing position in much the same way that a crowd raises a gallows, and took the first of 1049 steps to get home.

He wasn't clean by the time he got up the stairs to their apartment. In the alley across from the building he'd almost given up, falling on his face and landing in a pool of nastiness. Lying there, he promised himself the soft track pants, the good ones that made him feel like a eccentric tycoon, and the hoodie with the double fleece inside. He'd wipe off the ink and get changed and then he'd rest.

"Gino?" Diego's voice wasn't casual.

Gino shook his head. It was none of Diego's business. He'd made it to the door of his own room, fumbling with the lock. All he needed to do was fall through the doorway and he'd be in a space he could control. He paused.

"I need help," he said to the door frame. He was counting on the echo of the hallway to reach back to Diego.

a/n: Gino's legs explained in "From Bad to Worse."

Next up: Dear god in heaven, how am I going to cheese "pony"?