It's spring, as far as Gaeta can tell, but the days don't seem to be getting any warmer. The nights are worse: after he was released from the infirmary -- sans prosthesis still -- he attempted a half-hearted return to his PT routine with a walk around the lake, but barely made it a hundred yards before doing an about-face and hobbling back to the bar. No matter how many layers he puts on, it never seems to get any better.It never stops,
the voice still whispers, and with every repetition Gaeta feels himself curling tighter. Maybe if he's lucky, he'll curl up so small that he'll finally wink out of existence.
He can't leave. He won't do that to Louis again. But Louis still hasn't come back, despite the promise to return as soon as Gaeta was out of sickbay, and all he can do is hope to every god that something got frakked up between the passage of time here and on Galactica.
The other alternative...he can only bear so much.
Especially since the worst thoughts have deepened and darkened ever since their conversation
. Some days, he has to spend an hour or more before he convinces himself to get out of bed and get the frak downstairs. Once or twice, he gives up and doesn't move any more than necessary: just stares blindly at the wall and tries not to think of all the ways he could circumvent Simon's opiate ban. (In particular, the idea of hacking into the infirmary's medical files has settled in like a bad roommate, taking up space, stealing the mental energy he desperately frakking needs to direct elsewhere.)
Then one day, in a burst of need to do something,
he asks Bar for a bucket of baseballs.( Warning for some disturbing imagery. (But also cute animals, so...maybe it balances out?) )