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Sometimes a Great Notion
At some point in the dull haze of the next morning, Doc Cottle calls him into sickbay. "I know this might be a cold comfort now, son," he says, sounding as weary as everyone else in the Fleet, "but we found you a prosthesis."
Gaeta blinks, not comprehending for a second. "You did?"
The false leg is ungraceful and clunky, looking nothing like a real leg at all: just a metal pole with a hook-like foot at the bottom, easy to fit into the right boot Gaeta hasn't yet had the heart to throw away. If only it fit onto his stump that well. Whoever previously owned the leg was either much taller, or had lost much more of their limb; the endcap is so large it covers his knee entirely. He can't bend it, can barely get the prosthesis to stay on without padding his stump with three layers of socks -- but it does mean he can stand on two legs for the first time in months, albeit with substantial help from his crutches.
Cottle's right, though. It is a pretty frakking cold comfort.
"Walk it down to your rack and back a couple times," says Cottle. "The more you practice with it, the easier it'll get."
Wonder if that applies to anything else around here, thinks Gaeta, too tired to even muster up real rancor.
After losing his leg, Gaeta moved into one the lower racks so he didn't have to climb a ladder anymore. The laps around Galactica exhaust him; after an automatic check that he doesn't have to be on duty for a bit longer yet (though gods know everyone's schedule has been shot to hell in the past day), he doffs the prosthesis with a wince and stretches out for a nap.
He's in the middle of getting his uniform back on when Dee walks in. She's swaying a little, smiling, humming to herself as she drifts over to her locker. Instead of duty blues, she wears a small black dress and carefully-done makeup. The chain of her tags glints under the light.
Right. Gaeta remembers hearing something about her having a date tonight. Still, his mouth's hanging open a little as she opens her locker, not quite understanding the contentment radiating off of her in waves. It's not just slightly drunk contentment, either. She seems...genuinely happy.
What the frak.
Dee's eyes flick to the mirror hanging in her locker, catching Gaeta's look. She's still smiling as she asks, "What?"
"You're glowing," says Gaeta, more than a little skeptical.
"Am I?" Dreamily, she combs through the ends of her hair, head tipped to the side.
Must have been a hell of a date, he thinks; he can't imagine anything that could get him looking like that right now, not even if Louis were involved. Checking to make sure his new leg is secure, Gaeta wraps a hand around the rim of the upper bunk and hefts himself up with a loud groan. Not all of the strain is gone from his voice when he says, "All I can think about is that waste of a planet."
She sighs. "Felix, please," she says, and like always -- even drunk -- she's able to catch every implication and every word he doesn't say. "I just want to hang onto this feeling as long as I can."
Vaguely, Gaeta can remember lying curled up next to Louis, both of them in tears, and realizing just why Louis continued to insist everything would be okay. He swallows; softly, he says, "Okay," and limps to her side. Every step hurts like a motherfrakker. Maybe he ought to go back to Cottle before his shift for another morpha shot.
An officer's locker can be just as private as their rack. As close as they've become over the years, he's never had a reason to look in Dee's -- and so this is the first time he's seen the picture she keeps tucked into one corner of her mirror. It's not a family member: it's her, no more than six or seven, seated on a tricycle and beaming up at the camera.
"Hm," he murmurs. Dee's attention rises to the photo, her smile still lingering, and to his surprise, Gaeta's own mouth curves to match it. "Look at that. Little Ana's got her smile back."
Dee almost laughs. "Sometimes I don't even remember that's me," she confesses. One hand curves lightly to touch her own shoulder; she continues to sway, like dancing with an invisible partner. "It's so long ago. She has no frakking idea what's ahead of her."
Just like that, Gaeta's smile fades. He can't keep up the charade any longer. It's probably for the best that he's going on duty soon; Dee doesn't need him weighing her down right now.
Somebody on this frakking ship ought to be happy.
"Yeah, none of us do," he can't stop himself from mumbling. Dee doesn't reprimand him, doesn't even react; she just keeps looking at the picture with that dreamy, distant smile. Gaeta studies her for another beat, then heaves his crutches around and turns to go. She's still humming as he leaves.
Gaeta barely makes it fifty feet down the hall before he hears the gunshot.
Any hope of it being an accident, or another officer he didn't notice hiding in the racks, vanishes the instant he sees Seelix weeping over Dee's body. There's so much blood, and worse than blood, splashed across the floor and tables and her locker. No, he doesn't realize he's saying. Maybe he isn't. Maybe Seelix is the one keening it over and over like a litany.
Panicked, he drops his crutches and tries to kneel down, his prosthesis splayed out awkwardly to the side. "It's gonna be okay," he pleads, touching Dee's head, touching the pool of her blood, pushing it along the floor like he can push it back into her skull.
"We need a medic," Seelix tries through her tears.
"It's -- " Oh gods. No. "She's gonna be okay -- "
No more charade. No more hope.
"We need a medic in here!" he yells. "We need a medic -- "
His voice cracks. He can't breathe.
"MEDIC!"
Gaeta blinks, not comprehending for a second. "You did?"
The false leg is ungraceful and clunky, looking nothing like a real leg at all: just a metal pole with a hook-like foot at the bottom, easy to fit into the right boot Gaeta hasn't yet had the heart to throw away. If only it fit onto his stump that well. Whoever previously owned the leg was either much taller, or had lost much more of their limb; the endcap is so large it covers his knee entirely. He can't bend it, can barely get the prosthesis to stay on without padding his stump with three layers of socks -- but it does mean he can stand on two legs for the first time in months, albeit with substantial help from his crutches.
Cottle's right, though. It is a pretty frakking cold comfort.
"Walk it down to your rack and back a couple times," says Cottle. "The more you practice with it, the easier it'll get."
Wonder if that applies to anything else around here, thinks Gaeta, too tired to even muster up real rancor.
After losing his leg, Gaeta moved into one the lower racks so he didn't have to climb a ladder anymore. The laps around Galactica exhaust him; after an automatic check that he doesn't have to be on duty for a bit longer yet (though gods know everyone's schedule has been shot to hell in the past day), he doffs the prosthesis with a wince and stretches out for a nap.
He's in the middle of getting his uniform back on when Dee walks in. She's swaying a little, smiling, humming to herself as she drifts over to her locker. Instead of duty blues, she wears a small black dress and carefully-done makeup. The chain of her tags glints under the light.
Right. Gaeta remembers hearing something about her having a date tonight. Still, his mouth's hanging open a little as she opens her locker, not quite understanding the contentment radiating off of her in waves. It's not just slightly drunk contentment, either. She seems...genuinely happy.
What the frak.
Dee's eyes flick to the mirror hanging in her locker, catching Gaeta's look. She's still smiling as she asks, "What?"
"You're glowing," says Gaeta, more than a little skeptical.
"Am I?" Dreamily, she combs through the ends of her hair, head tipped to the side.
Must have been a hell of a date, he thinks; he can't imagine anything that could get him looking like that right now, not even if Louis were involved. Checking to make sure his new leg is secure, Gaeta wraps a hand around the rim of the upper bunk and hefts himself up with a loud groan. Not all of the strain is gone from his voice when he says, "All I can think about is that waste of a planet."
She sighs. "Felix, please," she says, and like always -- even drunk -- she's able to catch every implication and every word he doesn't say. "I just want to hang onto this feeling as long as I can."
Vaguely, Gaeta can remember lying curled up next to Louis, both of them in tears, and realizing just why Louis continued to insist everything would be okay. He swallows; softly, he says, "Okay," and limps to her side. Every step hurts like a motherfrakker. Maybe he ought to go back to Cottle before his shift for another morpha shot.
An officer's locker can be just as private as their rack. As close as they've become over the years, he's never had a reason to look in Dee's -- and so this is the first time he's seen the picture she keeps tucked into one corner of her mirror. It's not a family member: it's her, no more than six or seven, seated on a tricycle and beaming up at the camera.
"Hm," he murmurs. Dee's attention rises to the photo, her smile still lingering, and to his surprise, Gaeta's own mouth curves to match it. "Look at that. Little Ana's got her smile back."
Dee almost laughs. "Sometimes I don't even remember that's me," she confesses. One hand curves lightly to touch her own shoulder; she continues to sway, like dancing with an invisible partner. "It's so long ago. She has no frakking idea what's ahead of her."
Just like that, Gaeta's smile fades. He can't keep up the charade any longer. It's probably for the best that he's going on duty soon; Dee doesn't need him weighing her down right now.
Somebody on this frakking ship ought to be happy.
"Yeah, none of us do," he can't stop himself from mumbling. Dee doesn't reprimand him, doesn't even react; she just keeps looking at the picture with that dreamy, distant smile. Gaeta studies her for another beat, then heaves his crutches around and turns to go. She's still humming as he leaves.
Gaeta barely makes it fifty feet down the hall before he hears the gunshot.
Any hope of it being an accident, or another officer he didn't notice hiding in the racks, vanishes the instant he sees Seelix weeping over Dee's body. There's so much blood, and worse than blood, splashed across the floor and tables and her locker. No, he doesn't realize he's saying. Maybe he isn't. Maybe Seelix is the one keening it over and over like a litany.
Panicked, he drops his crutches and tries to kneel down, his prosthesis splayed out awkwardly to the side. "It's gonna be okay," he pleads, touching Dee's head, touching the pool of her blood, pushing it along the floor like he can push it back into her skull.
"We need a medic," Seelix tries through her tears.
"It's -- " Oh gods. No. "She's gonna be okay -- "
No more charade. No more hope.
"We need a medic in here!" he yells. "We need a medic -- "
His voice cracks. He can't breathe.
"MEDIC!"