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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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?"

"Um." He wrenches his thoughts onto this new track, with visible effort. "Yeah, they -- they've got me on a morpha drip. I think that's all it is, I know they were giving me that before I got back to Galactica."

He blinks muzzily at the change in scenery.

"Morpha," he repeats. "Is that an opiate, do you know?"

"I don't know."

Small, and miserable.

"Maybe? I..."

"It's all right." Quick, and reassuring again. "I don't think we have morpha in stock, but I can give you something else that won't react badly with it. I'll just need to run a very quick test first."

They've reached the infirmary by now. Cordelia's taken a few quick steps ahead to open the door; he gives her a nod of thanks as he steers the hoverchair in.

Gaeta chokes out another noise that's trying to be laughter and doesn't come anywhere close.

"Morpha's not working too well anyway," he says. "They can't give me a lot of it."

"We'll try and find something that works better, then. All right?"

With a little careful adjustment, the chair lifts to the height of the nearest patient bed.

It'd be easy just to let them take care of it: to go limp, and let himself be carried across the narrow gap to the bed.

He can't do that to them.

"Okay," he mumbles again, and struggles to move himself over to the bed.

"Hold on --" Simon puts a hand on his shoulder, presses him back. "Don't try to move. We'll take care of it."

A swift glance up at Cordelia; she nods back.

"But -- "

His haphazard attention flicks back and forth between them.

"You heard the man, Lieutenant."

Cordelia holds his gaze; her voice hasn't risen, but it's gone very firm.

(Any member of her family, were they here, would recognize her Survey Captain Voice.)

"Let him do his job."

Gaeta's mouth closes; the focus...doesn't return in full, but struggles into a slightly firmer foothold.

"Yes, sir."

She breathes out, and doesn't let the ache in her heart show on her face.

"If you can get his shoulders," she says to the doctor, low.

He tries to keep himself steady; the least Gaeta can do is not turn into a dead weight in their hands.

The notion becomes a lot more difficult when they lift him up. He knows they're doing their best, but he bites back a yell all the same as the pain in his leg -- what's left of his leg -- flares tenfold.

Quick and efficient, they settle him into the bed. As soon as they do, Gaeta buries his fingers in the sheets, reminding himself where he is, keeping himself from falling somewhere worse.