ways_infirmary | (no subject)

(no subject)

"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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"Maybe some water?"

His throat does feel pretty rough, once he has the presence of mind to pay attention to it.

"If, if there's any..." Gaeta turns over his hand in another vague gesture.

"Yeah." Swiftly, as he stands up. "I'll be right back."

There's a dispenser of disposable cups near one of the sinks, and a box of sterile-sealed drinking straws.

"Thanks."

Gaeta opens his eyes, but doesn't look anywhere but the ceiling. After a moment, his lips start to move again, soundlessly tracing the words of the song.

Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man --

He fills a cup, peels the plastic off a straw, brings them both back.

"Here."

"Thank you," he repeats -- though there's a vagueness to it, as if he's not entirely sure he said it the first time. Gaeta blinks at the glass for another second before stretching out a careful hand to accept it.

Please let my hands be steady enough, he thinks dimly. Please don't let me spill it everywhere like I'm a frakking --

He cuts that thought off before it goes any further. When he brings the straw close enough to take a sip, the shock of the cold water going down his throat makes him cough.

Andrew hovers next to the bed, uneasily.

Are you okay? he starts to ask, and bites it back.

Stupid question.

The coughing subsides fairly soon. Gaeta chances another sip, smaller this time; it goes down much easier.

"Have you seen Louis?" he asks once he's swallowed.

"Uh -- Louis who?" Beat. "What's he look like?"

How can he not know who Louis --

Oh. Maybe because he's never met him.

Gaeta sags a little, as if defeated. "Louis Hoshi," he says "Lieutenant Louis -- he's, um, he's a little taller than me, brown hair, brown eyes. He's probably gonna be wearing duty blues."

A beat.

Smaller, "I haven't seen him since I got back."

"Oh."

A friend? A close friend, by the sound of that.

"I'll look for him?" he offers.

He shapes a tiny, trembling smile. "Think a couple other people're looking for him, too," he says. "You don't have to. I just wondered if he..."

The smile falters, crumbles again.

(Louis hasn't come to see him since he got back.)

"Maybe he doesn't know you're here," he offers tentatively. "I could ... if I see anybody else from your crew, I could give them a message for him?"

"Yeah. Okay, yeah, that..."

Gaeta trails off, seeming to forget where he was going with that sentence.

More apologetic than anything: "I can't remember who else is here anymore."

"I'll ask around. Maybe put up a sign on the bulletin board?"

Gaeta's eyes widen a fraction. He shakes his head: not quite urgent, but making a go at it.

"Could be a security breach," he rasps. "Don't."

"O-okay," he says quickly. "I won't, then. But I can ask anyone in your uniform? Is that okay?"

He takes a laborious moment to breathe, trying to think that through.

"Yeah," he says at last. "Yeah, um. Anyone in duty blues should be okay. Or as long as they've got a..." He makes a vague gesture toward his upper arm. "A Fleet patch, there."

Andrew nods. "Got it."

"Thank you."

His attention drifts; Gaeta endures a small but intense fight to bring it back under control, swinging his gaze back up to Andrew, forcing himself to hold it there. The heart monitor stutters.

"How did you know?"

A beat.

"... know what?"

"That this was gonna happen. The other you," he thinks to add. "Um. Not Andrew Prime."

He swallows.

"He said he knew stuff."

"... uh."

He's resisting the urge to facepalm at himself.

"Did he say it like ... 'I'm Andrew Wells, I know stuff'?"

His forehead wrinkles as he tries to remember.

"I think so. Yeah."

Of course he did.

"I can explain it," he says slowly, "but ... it's kind of a lot to absorb."

"Please."

His voice has thickened with renewed tears.

"I want to know. Please just tell me."