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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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 -- "

"Don't worry about it." Gently. "All right -- thank you," he says to Cordelia, "very much. There's a red toggle switch on the arm that puts the brake on, could you --?"

Now, of course, comes the question of how to maneuver Gaeta into the chair without causing him any more pain.

(Any more than necessary, he reluctantly admits to himself. It's going to hurt regardless.)

Gaeta exhales another curse under his breath, lifting one shaky hand to scrub fitfully at his face. When he realizes Simon's addressing someone else, he lets his hand fall as he finally looks up.

The chair may as well be twenty feet off the ground.

He presses his lips together, hard, as his vision blurs.

Cordelia doesn't miss that reaction at all.

"It might be easier," she says quietly, "if we could bring this down to floor level. Can it do that?"

The doctor looks up. "Possibly. I'll take a look --"

Just as impossible to miss: the relief that breaks over Gaeta's face when he hears that.

He sways a little as he tries to brace himself against the floor, sucking in a quick breath. Unsteadily, he rubs his face again in another attempt to clear his vision.

It takes a few minutes to figure it out. Simon pauses as soon as he realizes it isn't going to be a matter of seconds, and sends a waitrat to bring a bowl of ice chips and a blanket for Gaeta.

He has a brief staring contest with the waitrat when it returns, until the animal nudges the ice chips a few inches closer and pointedly chitters at him.

Oh, he thinks, and mumbles, "Thank you."

Staying upright abruptly doesn't seem like a good idea anymore. Gaeta lowers himself back to the floor as he waits, his throat bobbing again; after a moment he thinks to take a few of the ice chips.

The cold hurts his mouth. It's another small, welcome distraction.

The waitrat gives another chitter, this one faintly concerned, and moves to start tugging the blanket over him.

"Felix? We're going to help you into the chair now." Simon's voice is close by, and calm. "It's right behind you."

One step at a time. (Metaphorically speaking, he thinks bleakly.) Opening his eyes: he can do that. Looking up at Simon: he can do that, too.

Sitting up...he did that once before; he can do it again. He'll have to.

With their help, he presses against the floor, looks behind himself to gauge the distance to the chair, starts to move toward it. His depth perception's a little off; it takes a few tries.

Once he's in the chair, Cordelia picks up the blanket and tucks it around him as Simon moves around to shift the chair back up.

"Do you want the ice?" she asks him quietly.

"Yes, please," he whispers, hoarsely. "Thank you."

He leans against the back of the chair, utterly exhausted.

She tucks an extra fold of the blanket over his lap, and carefully settles the bowl into it -- both for support and for another layer of shielding from the cold.

"Steady now." Brisk, but still quiet. "The chair's about to move."

He nods, but gasps as the tiny jolt shudders through the chair all the same. Gaeta digs his fingers into the blanket as he waits for it to pass.

"How far?" he asks when he's able to speak again.

"Not far," she reassures him. "From the front door to the bar, and then maybe a quarter of that again. We'll be there in no time."

"Okay." He swallows. "Okay. Good."

One hand settles near the bowl of ice. Suddenly remembering, he turns his head to try and focus on Simon.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't mean that. Not, um -- "

"It's all right." Simon gives him a small smile. "You've got other things on your mind right now."

They're edging past the bar now, and into the corridor.

"Speaking of which: can you tell me if you've been given any medication in the past day?"