milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The thirst sneaks up on him, eeling and flickering between tiny gaps in the pain until it's wormed up to his throat: rough, papery, too difficult to ignore. His voice cracks, and at first he doesn't mind the discomfort. It's another distraction. He'll take it.

Soon, though, it escalates to where he can't think about much else but water. Just one glass of it and he'll be fine. Cottle wouldn't object; there's even a small pitcher close to his bedside that he can grab once he pushes himself up.

His IV line keeps getting in the way. Distracted, singleminded, Gaeta unhooks it so he can stretch his arm a little further. His fingers almost brush it -- nearly there --

When he overbalances and falls off his bed, tumbling through the surrounding curtains, he hits the wooden floor of Milliways instead of the metal plating of Galactica's sickbay. Gaeta cries out, half-strangled by pain; he tries to push himself up again, and can't.

[Plotlocked! There will be an open EP tomorrow.]

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"Sickbay," he rasps. "On Galactica."

His gaze wanders up to the ceiling.

"How'd I get here?"

"Did you get out of bed? You may have stepped through by accident."

Simon throws a look over his shoulder, but the door's already closed.

"Do you want me to help you get back?"

Wouldn't have stepped too far, he thinks, and a tiny hysterical noise bubbles up that can't decide whether to be laughter or sobs. Gaeta squashes it flat.

"Just wanted some water," he mumbles, and resumes the arduous task of trying to sit up.

He reaches to help support the other man's shoulders, more or less automatically.

Still calm: "Let's get you some, then."

Gaeta attempts a nod, winces hard, lets Simon guide him up to sitting without complaint.

When he opens his eyes, all he can do is stare dumbly for a minute. He twists around, trying to look over his shoulder, then swings back toward the front door.

"Where'd the door go?"

Simon throws a quick look at the door, then back to Gaeta.

"You don't see it?" From his tone, he might be asking about a symptom: does your head still hurt? can you count how many fingers I'm holding up?

"No."

He's begun to shake his head again, more vehement now. His chest heaves.

"No, no -- "

"It's all right," he says swiftly. "It's all right, this is normal. It's called being Bound. You haven't encountered it before?"

It could mean a number of things, but since it's not something anyone can do anything about, the crucial thing is to keep Gaeta from panicking about it.

He shuts his eyes, still breathing raggedly. Thin beads of sweat have begun to form on his brow from the exertion.

"Not personally," he says. "No. Gods -- "

"It's all right," he repeats, his voice steady. "All it means is that you need to stay here for a little while. I'll get you to the infirmary and you can rest."

His mind's already casting ahead. The hoverchair that Susannah Dean used to use, to get him there, and -- what medications has he been given? How recent was the surgery, what kind of reactions should they be watching for --

He needs to talk to this man's doctor.

And of course that's not going to be possible.

His throat works.

"Okay," he whispers at last, strengthlessly. His hands close on nothing like a spasm, fingers scratching the bare floor. "How -- ?"

"We'll need a little help."

He lifts his head to scan swiftly around for anyone he could ask to run and bring him the chair.

Cordelia's on her way out of the bar for the evening when she sees the little tableau by the front door.

Her gaze sharpens when the young doctor (Tam, she's pretty sure his name is; they've encountered each other before) raises his head and looks around, clearly either seeking assistance or looking for someone in particular.

Another few strides take her close enough to speak to him. "Do you need help?"

Gaeta looks up, blinking as he works to get his eyes focused. He remembers the voice; the face takes a moment longer to place.

"Please," he mumbles, not quite aware that she's addressing Simon, not him. "Yes."

"Yes," Simon repeats, "thank you. There's a large equipment closet in the rear of the infirmary, with a hoverchair inside, just to the right of the door. Would you be able to bring it here?"

Cordelia's eyes widen when she recognizes the young man in the hospital gown, but she shows no other outward reaction to his state.

My god. Poor kid --

"You bet," she says to Dr. Tam, with a brisk nod. "Anything else?"

When he shakes his head, she turns on her heel and starts for the infirmary.

Gaeta watches her go -- as if, now that he's finally managed to get his eyes to focus on her, he's afraid of losing it by looking away.

That lasts until another crush of pain tightens vise-like on his leg, and he gasps, trying to curl forward over himself as he grapples blindly at the bandages.

"Careful --" Simon reaches out to try to push Gaeta's hands away from his bandaged stump. He doesn't want to risk letting the other man hurt himself.

Gaeta's lips move, but no sound emerges. His hands have locked tight; it takes an enormous effort to loosen them, one he's not quite sure he can manage.

Please make it stop, he thinks, and I shouldn't have taken out my morpha line.

He's in a lot of pain, Simon thinks, and haven't they been giving him anything for it? The quickest blood test he can do, first thing once they're in the infirmary, to see if there's anything in his bloodstream that'll react badly with painkillers --

Through the crowd, he can see Cordelia hurring back with the chair.

The worst subsides. Gaeta's hands finally relax, and go where Simon directs them to go.

"Sorry." He doesn't open his eyes.

"It's all right." Steady. "You're going to be fine. The chair's almost here, and we'll get you to the infirmary. And I'll see if I can give you something for the pain."

Gaeta cracks a smile that's more grimace than grin.

"Least I have a hot doctor looking after me," he remarks.

... well, it's not the first time a patient has said something like that. Even when not halfway delirious.

Right now he's very firmly in professional mode. Later, when he thinks about it, it'll be slightly embarrassing.

"Try to relax," he says soothingly, as the woman with the hoverchair approaches.

"Yeah." The nod, this time, is marginally more successful. "Yeah, okay."

A beat, as he rewinds back through the conversation.

"Shit," he groans, and hunches further forward. "Frak me, I didn't mean -- "