Felix Gaeta (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mr_gaeta) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ways_infirmary2012-03-30 10:20 pm
mr_gaeta) wrote in ways_infirmary2012-03-30 10:20 pm
(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.]
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.]
no subject
"Did we make it to Earth?"
no subject
(In it, heard by nobody but Gaeta himself: you never frakking knew the way at all, did you.)
"No," he says, very low. "We're not there yet."
no subject
Three and a half years, and they haven't made it to Earth.
She swallows hard, remembers to breathe, then nods. "Okay," she acknowledges him, voice tight.
A promise is a promise: she takes a step back, her gaze falling to his leg and then drifting away just as quickly. Before she disappears through the curtain she hesitates, head half-turned. "I'm stuck here."
She's not his Captain, but she is his crewmate. The way she sees it, it's them against the frakking universe.
"If you need something--"
The words feel strange on her tongue, and she leaves it at that as she turns away.
no subject
Finally lifts his hand away from his face, just in time to see Starbuck vanish through the curtain. It's just as well, he thinks bleakly; it's not as if there's any more to say to her.
(Three years. Three and a half years.)
Within moments, the song begins to drift down the infirmary corridor again.