Felix Gaeta (
mr_gaeta) wrote in
milliways_bar2012-09-24 10:34 pm
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The worst part of this, he thinks dully, is that he can't even get a frakking drink or ten and blind himself the way he knows half the crew's doing right now. Not unless he wants to wake up dead; despite it all, he still doesn't want to die.
So Gaeta settles for wringing a shot of morpha out of Cottle under the insistence that his new pain meds aren't doing frak-all, and retreats to Milliways, and sits with an untouched mug of coffee as he turns his face toward the lakeshore windows.
It's so green out there. It's such a frakking crock.
[ooc: not plotlocked, but please PM me before tagging! Gaeta is not in the best mental state right now.]
So Gaeta settles for wringing a shot of morpha out of Cottle under the insistence that his new pain meds aren't doing frak-all, and retreats to Milliways, and sits with an untouched mug of coffee as he turns his face toward the lakeshore windows.
It's so green out there. It's such a frakking crock.
[ooc: not plotlocked, but please PM me before tagging! Gaeta is not in the best mental state right now.]
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"You have anything on hand that won't kill me if I spike this?" he asks, lifting the coffee mug a few inches.
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"There's the nerve block." Quiet. "If you'd be all right with another stay in the infirmary."
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He's already starting to reach for his crutches.
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Anything to get the memories wiped out of his head for a few hours.
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Quietly: "I could just sedate you, if you'd rather."
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Gaeta doesn't notice the steadily creeping tinge of desperation: why are we still talking about this, please, do something.
"Either one, just -- "
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He struggles after Simon, his already uncoordinated movements a little more clumsy than usual.
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"This way," he tells Gaeta once they're inside, and shows him toward one of the side rooms.
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Dimly, he realizes he probably should have stopped at the bar to get the necessary bottle of ambrosia first. Frak it. He'll ask Simon or one of the rats once he's in bed.
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Knows that nothing he can do will help alleviate the source of this suffering.
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Even if he wasn't part of the recon team, it's too easy to translates Galactica's readings into what they found: ash, and rubble, and the incessant too-fast clicking of a radiation monitor. His imagination prints it among the ceiling dots like a photograph.
Black. Nothing but ash. Nothing left but empty space, and nowhere to go.
Curling up, he thinks absently, will make his leg hurt even worse than if he lies flat.
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Once both have been applied: "Can you feel anything?"
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His other leg's still there.
"No, I'm good," he mumbles.
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The hell with it.
"This isn't generally accepted medical practice," he says, quietly wry, "but if you let me know the kind of alcohol you prefer, I'll get you some."
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Strong enough to get the job done, too.
Then, Gaeta's hand stills as he remembers. "Frak. Wait."
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The misery comes crashing back over his face.
"That's not long enough for it to be out of my system, is it."
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"Do you know how many hours?"
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(And underneath it, the frustration that has so quickly become a fixture in his life: how frakking useless can I get.)
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"Let me get you that bottle in the meantime," he says slowly, "and check your blood levels when I get back. And ... if you want, I'll stay here and let you know as soon as it's safe."
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"Okay," he whispers, strengthless. "Thank you."
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He suppresses it. Barely.
The pain drifts higher to sting his eyes.
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