mr_gaeta | [Milliways]

[Milliways]

It's been barely over a day since Gaeta tumbled through the Milliways door for the last time, and somehow -- despite being dead -- he's already coming down with something.

He can't tell what; it's just a general malaise, a chill that made him ask for a blanket along with his dinner when he went to the bar. Everything just seems...too bright, he guesses. Too loud. And he's starting to ache in a way that means he might've spoke too soon about the pain being gone for good.

Maybe he'll go to the infirmary later. For now, he's going to enjoy his soup.

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"What if you don't?"

Very quiet, and very level.

(Not we, either. You.)

"I think it's very unlikely," he says after a pause, "but if we can't find any other medication that's effective, we may need to look into some long-term application of the nerve block. Or that would be my suggestion. It's not ideal, though, and I'd want to consult with my colleagues here and at home for other alternatives."

Another short pause.

"I would ... advise in the strongest possible terms against resuming use of morpha, or any variation of it."

"But you're okay with basically paralyzing me from the waist down."

And that's much, much flatter, as the look he's given Simon begins to sharpen.

"Of course I'm not." That's much quieter.

"But in the unlikely event --" the slightest stress on the word unlikely -- "that there's no other means of managing the pain until your leg heals ... then yes, it's what I would recommend. As the least bad of several bad alternatives."

Gaeta's jaw tightens. He looks down at his hands, visibly struggling to reign himself in.

Low: "Can't you just give me enough to alleviate the withdrawal symptoms?"

"I could." Slowly. "But it would be a bad way to do it, both in terms of effectiveness in alleviating the symptoms and in terms of the dependency that's causing them. Treating them with morphine would ... well, it'd be counterproductive in the long run."

If the conversation were less charged with tension, he might try saying something like have you ever tried drinking more to cure a hangover? As it is ... lightness doesn't seem appropriate.

He can't bring himself to give in and say fine, okay. Instead, he shuts his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

Tiny and clear, in the back of his mind, he thinks, it was supposed to be over by now. This isn't fair.

But Gaeta's gotten rather used to unfairness lately; it's just one more frak-you from the universe to drag himself through.

Some part of him wants to apologize.

Instead he says, quietly and a touch awkwardly: "You understand, you're under no requirement to take my advice. There are other medical personnel here, and we don't always agree on the best method of treatment. If you want to seek a second opinion ...."

Gaeta shakes his head mutely, still not looking up.

It's a little beyond his ability to articulate right now. The closest he can come to is obligation: Simon's spent so much time taking care of him in the past, and taking good care of him besides. To turn that down seems unnecessarily rude.

Especially when his own qualms just boil down to everything was supposed to be okay now, godsdammit.

(Maybe there's a better word he's looking for, and unable to find because of the horrors of the last few weeks: trust.)

Edited 2013-04-05 03:33 (UTC)

"All right." No louder. "Let me get you something mild for the pain first, and then we'll get you a room?"

"Okay." Dully.

He gives his forehead another scrub, moves to rub at his left arm again. Gaeta can feel the shivering begin anew, and tries in vain to suppress it; maybe if he squashes it down hard enough, Simon will change his mind and just give him some frakking morpha.

(Because he hasn't spent enough time in denial lately. Right.)

One hypospray and one short halting walk later, Simon is carefully helping Gaeta settle into the patient bed in one of the private rooms. The extra blanket in the closet has come out, laid half-folded at the foot of the bed for relatively easy reach.

"I'm going to get you some water," he says, "and ... is there anyone you'd like me to tell that you're here?"

"Louis," he says quietly, after a long hesitation. "I guess."

If Louis made sure the letters got here, the very least Gaeta can do is let him know he made it here, too.

He doesn't even last fifteen seconds before reaching to drag the blanket closer.

I guess, he says.

Simon Tam has never been in the military, but it's safe to say that he has some internal referent for the concept of mutiny. And some of its inevitable consequences.

"All right," he says quietly. "I'll leave a letter for him with Bar."

Beat.

"Is there anything else you'd like?"

A humorless smile ghosts across his face.

"The only thing I really want is something you just said you won't give me, so..."

The tiniest shake of his head. "I'm sorry."

Yeah. Well, he doesn't say. (It may come across in his expression anyway.)

Gaeta bundles the blanket around himself, easing back to lie on the bed. "How long is this going to take?"

"Probably not more than a few days. I'm afraid there's no way to speed it up."

Of course there isn't.

Gaeta nods, tiredly, and leans his head on the thin pillow. His skin's starting to feel weird: damp and clammy and like it's too tight for his bones.

"But there's, um. Ways to make it easier?"

He seems to remember Simon saying as much.