ways_infirmary | (no subject)

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"Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand..."

Simon finally hooked him up to a morpha -- morphine, whatever it's called here -- drip once the nerve block wore off and the supposedly unidentifiable opioid had left his system. Gaeta's half-drowsing, eyes closed in a vain attempt to sleep outright; the pain's still too great, though, and the exhaustion more prominent.

And if he sleeps, that means he can't do the only thing that's worked so far.

"The first that she be spared the pain
That comes from a dark and laughing rain..."

The words are a little roughened with hoarseness, a touch slurred by morpha -- but his voice still rings clear through the infirmary.

[ooc: for continuity's sake, all threads now take place before Boyd's and Simon's.]

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"Okay." He grins. "Yeah, that's a good idea. 'S important to double-check everybody's work."

He smiles back, and shifts to get to his feet. "If you'll excuse me for just one moment? There's something I need to fix here."

"All right." Genial, as his gaze wanders back up to the ceiling. "I'll be here."

He said the same thing to the man who gave him the cigarette, and remembers being crushed by the weight of his own words. Now, the statement has all the casualness of Gaeta sitting on a couch, waiting for Simon to come back from getting a glass of water.

...Hey. Water. He could use a little more of that.

Simon retrieves the battery from the bedside table, and takes a few moments to replace it in the smoke detector. Whoever removed it left the detector itself dangling from the wire, very clearly empty; either he wasn't interested in covering his tracks, or he wanted to make very sure that the lack of a battery would be noticed.

He sighs silently as he replaces the detector on the wall.

When Simon returns, Gaeta offers him another smile, and a tiny wave to go with it.

Hopeful, if a little hesitant: "Is it okay if I smoke the other half of that later? Since it didn't do anything bad?"

Pause.

Carefully: "I think it would probably be better for you to take it in a more refined form. Smoke does spread, you know, and we wouldn't want to accidentally affect any other patients."

"Oh," he murmurs. The good humor fades to disappointment as Gaeta casts a faintly longing look at the cigarette. Resigned: "Yeah, you're right. Okay. I didn't think about that, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he says gently. "And if you take it as a pill or an injection, it should still have the same effect."

That's a huge relief to hear. Gaeta relaxes, the disappointment vanishing in an instant.

"Good," he says. "It's...really been helping. It's nice."

"I'm glad to hear that."

A beat.

"Do you need anything else, as long as I'm here? Are you feeling hungry at all? Thirsty?"

"Thirsty," he says immediately, then pauses to take stock of the rest of himself. It's a little difficult; the sound of the heart monitor feels like it's rippling all the way down his body again, distracting him from...well, quite a lot. "A little hungry? Not too much, though."

(Still, that small slice of appetite is more than he's had in days.)

At the first word, he's turned away to get a plastic cup and a straw, and is filling the cup at the sink by the time Gaeta's finished speaking.

"I'll see if I can get you something small," he offers.

Simon, you are the greatest doctor in the world.

Gaeta beams as he accepts the water; his hands barely shake at all now. "Thank you," he says. "I really appreciate it. I appreciate everything you're doing."

He appreciates you, Dr. Tam. As a person. As a human being.

"I'm glad to be of help," he says, returning the smile.

(And while it's of very minor importance ... a part of him is hoping quietly that Gaeta won't say anything that he'll feel compelled to apologize for later.)

Fortunately, as low as Gaeta's brain-to-mouth filter might be right now, his thoughts seem to have steered away from anything truly embarrassing since the last time he and Simon spoke.

He takes a long sip of water. Absently, with his other hand, he starts to knead his right thigh.

Simon notes it, but doesn't comment.

He really needs to speak to this man's primary physician. Maybe he'll ask Gaeta about whether that could be arranged. Somehow.

Words teeter on the tip of her tongue for a second. Maybe she was wrong about how effective the morpha is.

"Uh, it's been weeks."

Since her last shore leave, in fact.

Wary, she pinches the bridge of her nose, but then stubbornly forges ahead. "When'd you lose your leg?"

"Uh," he says, doing his damndest to mimic her tone (though not too successfully), "it's probably been weeks, but frak if I..."

Know, is how he intends to end that -- to say time has gone lopsided on him is a massive understatement -- but before he even reaches the end of that sentence, he's trailing off, his heart not into the sarcasm.

Clumsily, Gaeta lifts a hand to press it to his mouth. More hoarsely: "How long since the attacks?"

Eyes intent on his face, she feels her spine straighten. Her fingers crave tangible proof, itching to reach out and touch either his hair or his half-missing leg, but she resolutely holds her hands at her sides.

"Two weeks."

And it's barely been a week since she was on Galactica, and he had hair that never dreamed of curls. He had two legs. He sure as frak never sang.

Don't ask, she tells herself. Do not flip the godsdamn question around.

She bites the inside of her cheek, but it's not enough. "How long for you?"

"Three years. Three and a half."

If possible, he's gone even more pale. Next to his bed, the heart monitor beeps a little faster.

"Gods -- "

She flicks her eyes to the monitor, raising both hands.

"Okay, let's--"

laugh because that's a good one

make sure there's no booze in that IV

not be stupid here

"--pretend this is possible."

She tilts her head back, eyes on the ceiling for a moment. "Three years?"

"Yes, sir."

Most of the sarcasm has fled from the title. (Most of it.)

Gaeta presses both hands over his face, groaning out a considerably more muffled -- if considerably more emphatic as well -- "Gods."

Let this be a dream. Let the morpha have finally put him to sleep, or some twilight state where he's hallucinating.

She shakes her head.

He's on drugs, she tells herself.

Maybe she's on drugs. Maybe she's gonna wake up in sick bay on Galactica with too-bright lights shining in her face and Lee standing over her, too close to be CAG, and saying he's glad she's okay and, oh by the way, he's really frakking sorry he ratted her out to his dad, who'll probably never be able to look at her the same way.

She doesn't know if it's Gaeta's groan or the way seeing him floods her brain with thoughts of home or that seeing him like this pains her in a way she wouldn't have expected, but her eyes want to sting and she has to close them and rub her index finger and thumb over her eyelids. "Just--"

Her mouth snaps shut, twisting.

"Just tell me one thing, and I promise I'll go."

He coughs out a harsh noise. It might be laughter.

Maybe.

"Sure," he says, without lifting his hand from his face; his voice cracks halfway through the word. "Whatever the frak you want."

It makes her feel like wincing.

"Did we make it to Earth?"

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