| Avalanche |
| Summary: | Being around Trask is like needing to anticipate an avalanche. Sawyer manages to survive; DeMaratus arrives just in time for the aftermath. |
| Date: | 26 Mar 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | Ill Communication and License to Ill (Bootstrap is sick) Referenced: A Not So Happy Birthday (Sawyer's not so happy birthday); Red Flags (Bootstrap is bitchy about booze); & Penny's Prerogative (Trask's bedside vigil for a comatose Penelope) |
| Players: |
   |
| Recovery Room - Deck 10 - Sickbay - Battlestar Cerberus |
|---|
| Post-Holocaust Day: #393 |
| A much more quiet area of Medical, this elongated room is also lined with beds. Each is similarly outfitted with privacy curtains as necessary and even the paint on the walls has been lightened in an attempt to help lift spirits. Chairs are readily available all over the place so that visitors can pull one up to talk to the patients during their recovery. Near the entrance, visiting hours are posted with a very conspicuous 'No Smoking' sign. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Sawyer's been here a while. It's hard to say how long really, if you're a man who's likely slipping in and out of a drug and sickness induced haze. It's hard to identify her only because she's in a plastic banana peel, required as she is to wear the HAZMAT suit in order to even be in the vicinity of Trask, but it's her. Currently, she's sitting sideways in a plastic chair, legs thrown over the arm of it and her head awkwardly pillowed on the crook of one arm while she tries to get some rest in the uncomfortable hood; the plastic face shield is making it impossible to really lay her head down properly. Worry etches her features and she can't even fidget successfully with these damnable rubber gloves.
Really, from all anyone can currently determine, it seems like little more than a mild case of the flu that's been exacerbated by good ol' Black Country stubbornness. If he had simply eased-up like a sane person would have, he'd be in far better shape. Alas, that resilience of his can be a bane as much as a boon, and this is clearly a case of Trask pushing himself past a point he should not has passed, and then still trundling forward. So much so that he's been given some low-grade sedatives to ensure that he actually rests like he should because, evidently, simple exhaustion isn't enough to keep him compliant when it comes to staying put. Nor is a high-grade fever. Even knocked-out, he's working overtime to kick the ass of what is kicking his ass. Every so often, he shakes from the chills but has, overall, been blissfully quiet and well-behaved for the past few hours, much to the relief of the medical staff, and largely in thanks to a little special something that's been slipped into his IV drip.
There's a wince on the blonde's features from behind that plasti-shield, which is rather like a sneeze guard on a buffet when it comes down to it. The wince is the result of her trying to straighten out the crick in her neck. There is a groan of yellow material as she slides her legs off the chair and tries to maneuver around to see if the other side is more comfortable. Midway through the transition, Sawyer pauses and takes a moment to look at the supine form of Kal, eyes tracing over the knotted sheets, the IV line jutting out of his wrist and the peppering of sweat on troubled brow. A sigh has a little cloud of condensation forming on the face shield, the fog slowly clearing as she finishes her turn and slings her legs over the other arm of the chair. Nope, no better.
Although he's resting in an actual bed, it's debatable that Bootstrap is any more comfortable than the crick-necked blonde in the yellow, plastic suit. After all, /she's/ not suffering from nausea, joint pain, and overall physical weakness. There is a visible twitching of his arms resulting from another tremor of his upper-body caused by another bout of chills, and then what might be the faint fluttering of lashes that heralds someone in the process of rousing from slumber. With scarcely opened eyes, the man slowly blinks a few times, lets out an annoyed sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan, and shifts atop the mattress and between the sheets. Being sick sucks. Being awake when sick sucks even more, and he's none too eager to be reminded of that fact. So, stubbornly, he attempts to fall back asleep, but the faintly sour twist of his mouth and the knit of his brows suggest that he's not succeeding.
Sawyer isn't suffering the way Kal is, and the medical team hopes to keep it that way, hence the fancy duds. "You make a terrible patient." The words are clear despite the subtle muffle of being trapped in plastic. She's not sure if he heard her or not, but the sound of her voice is comforting, even if it only comforts herself. No one is at ease in a sickbay, unless they're the ones with the needles.
Well, duh. This is Kal Trask, after all. "I haven't had a tantrum, yet," he murmurs in his quasi-defense, tacking on about three seconds later, "Today." Still groggy, his head lolls in an unintentionally comedic manner, bleary eyes managing to glimpse all that yellow. "You make a better monkey than banana," he counter-quips.
"It's the opposable tail. Don't be jealous." Now that he's a little more lucid (term used loosely), Sawyer looks sorely tempted to get to her feet and come to his bedside. In fact, she even poises a hand on the arm of the chair and looks ready to push off, but thinks better of it and stays firmly rooted in the chair. "I'd ask you how your feeling, but I'd rather not have you throw-up on my shoes. Or booties. Or whatever these things are."
"Pretty sure that requires food in my stomach," is the again murmured reply, "which there hasn't been for the past two or so days." Slowly getting more of his wits about him, Trask faintly smirks, "It may not be opposable or prehensile, but I've no doubt that my penis beats a tail any day." Already heavy lids close further, followed by an annoyed grimace and groan when the chills hit him one more. "How's that for a soundbite?" She did, after all, once accuse him of giving comments that were little good for publication.
"It would never work." Sawyer leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and falling back into some old familiar pattern with Kal after almost a month of the pair not speaking at all. "You see, if I'm going to publish something, I'd have to substantiate the facts, and well…" The sentence drifts off as a tired smile forms on her lips.
Funny how being mildly doped-up and ill enough to be quarantined musses with one's memory, for it seems that Kal has temporarily forgotten that he's pissed off at Sawyer for saying the wrong thing (anything other than 'sorry, it won't ever happen again, I swear') at the wrong time (which is pretty much any time when booze is somehow involved). Instead, he matches her intimation and raises the stakes by noting, "You can always remove those gloves and stick your hands up my gown." Never mind that he's well tucked-in and that Medical would evict the blonde if she even attempted removing a single piece of the HAZMAT suit.
Sawyer hasn't forgotten. She still remembers her crappy birthday, ala Kal. She still remembers being alluded as being - if not outright called - a slut, incompetent at her job, insincere about her feelings, and varying combinations thereof. She still remembers. And yet, for some reason, she's here. "I'll leave that for the nurses when it comes time to give you a sponge bath. You'll need something to look forward to." There's also a reason she's keeping her distance from Trask, and it has nothing to do with a possible contagion.
"The military's medical plan doesn't cover happy endings," is wryly remarked, those oh so expressive brown eyes of his remaining closed. For a moment, it appears that he might have dozed off, but then words form in the soft tone of flu-induced fatigue, "So, if you're not here on that particular fact-finding mission, whaddya want? S'not like the docs can't answer your quarantine-related questions. They've assured me it's not anthrax, so you should be in the clear." An allusion to the envelope she left for him a few days ago.
Well, the easy answer is that she loves him. The hard fact, however, is that he's thrown that back in Sawyer's face enough times that it's dubious as to whether or not she'll ever want to utter those words again. In the end, the answer he gets is no less heart-felt. "Because no one should wake up alone in a hospital." But now that he's awake, that's where things get awkward.
The answer seems to satisfy him. "You been here long?" he simply asks, shifting a little to try to get more comfortable. Alas, the aching does not abate.
"I got off the shuttle from the Elpis around midnight. So maybe fifteen, sixteen hours. You've been out of it a while," Sawyer explains, "You were found unresponsive and then when you finally got lucid sometime early this morning, you were just shy of punching an orderly so they had to sedate you."
"Liar," is the quiet assertion, although there's no way of knowing if he refers to how long Sawyer's been here or to the reason he was doped-up. It's likely the latter with the way he frowns with vexation, fully aware that he's really in no condition to physically fight anyone in his current state. That sense of vulnerability and the associated anxiety and edginess that come with it are enough to prompt him to start moving, working through the aches and fatigue to will his body upright. Clearly, he is determined to get out of bed and on his feet, even if it's going far less quickly than he'd like. The fact remains that he /has/ to assure himself that he is not entirely helpless. The need is downright pathological. "They had to sedate me 'cuz I kept trying to get back to work." Which defeats the purpose of bed rest and being quarantined.
"Which they'll happily do again, should you so much as swing one leg off that bed. And I'd be carefully how much you jostle yourself around. When they sedate you, they also put a catheter in." And was Sawyer here for that, too? Probably, or more likely she was asked to step outside the bay for that particular procedure. "I should tell them you're awake."
He does, indeed, swing one leg over, and then the other. "You do that," is the flat remark about informing an orderly. As for the catheter, he's pretty certain he'd know if one had been inserted, but he does a quick check with his hands and peers down there just to be certain. Again, it's an unintentionally comedic scene. "You are /such/ a liar," Kal decrees, although he doesn't sound angry. More that he's calling her on her crap with an undercurrent of calling her a stinky poo-poo head. One arm then stretches upward, followed by the other, and held for a fair amount of time before dropped into a series of shoulder and neck rolls.
"Box of cigars says that you pass out before you hit the stairwell." Sawyer turns her head away as he sits up, because those silly hospital gowns don't leave much to the imagination, and he's insisting on checking stuff out with pats and what not. She's never been one to take a gratuitous peek. Besides the shower, but that doesn't count. "Of course, if you try to leave, there's also the chance that you'll infect someone else just by breathing in a non-quarantined area. Anyone ever tell you how fatal the flu is to an infant, much less a newborn? Worse, they're not even sure it's just the flu because of the rash. But nah, you wouldn't care about that. Only, wait, didn't you just become an uncle? Huh. You wouldn't risk all that just so you can go back to your desk or the Deck and faceplant again."
Sawyer does not play fair, but then again, she learned that tactic from Kal, didn't she? He seems to be out of the woods, which is as far as her obligation goes when it comes to sticking around. The banana suit she's in squeaks in protest as she gets to her feet to vacate, "Nurse!" Not only will Sawyer require help out of the HAZMAT gear, but it's also in warning that the patient looks like he might want to make a break for it.
GAWDS. That pretty much sums up the way he rolls his eyes. "You are SUCH a drama queen," is the glib retort. As if /he's/ one to talk. Pot. Kettle. Yeah. "How the frak'd you ever land a gig, anyway?" Trask asks in that needling way of his that is part cheekiness and part incisive observation. "Maybe I'm just naive," although his tone says otherwise, "but I thought an investigative journalist would be aware that being quarantined is not the same as being bedridden." And now he is standing. "I'm actually /allowed/ to walk around the confines of these plastic sheets. It's even encouraged. Good for circulation and crap like that." Brown gaze then alights on the blonde in the yellow suit. Beat. Two. Three. "Shit. You really kinda /do/ look like a banana," is the simple observation.
"Don't you know? I frakked my way into the position. I also screwed Tillman to get my clearances, blew Abbot to go down to Leonis, and gave Kepner a reach-around to get the tour of Areion. Matter of fact, I don't know how to get anything done without spreading me legs." You know what Sawyer could use right about now? That nurse to show up. She can't leave without one, and the subsequent shower. It's a lot of work just to sit by someone's bedside until they wake up, and then immediately beat feet. "Sorry, did I beat you to the punch line?"
He honestly wasn't implying that, but now that Sawyer's brought it up, he can either apologize or make it worse. The easier path isn't always the best one. "Nah," is the quick enough reply when asked about the punchline. "Just was waiting to hear what your girlfriend on the Elpis gave you and how much he charged. So…" Now, Trask is testy. "What? Some of his frou-frou parfum," butchered to sound like 'par-FOOM'. "A silk scarf, perhaps? Nice smelling shampoo, or maybe just some of his hair care secrets?"
Sawyer was trying to be good natured about it all, make light of the worst to pass the time waiting for her extraction, but she should know by now that it always snowballs. Being around Trask is like needing to anticipate an avalanche. It's a good thing her skin is thick this time, having had plenty of practice to make it so. "You know, I've forgotten by now. It was so long ago, and I've got just /so/ many trinkets. I really should have them start writing their names on the bottom to keep them all straight. When you get better, you should come by and tag the hammock. Just so I don't, you know, forget."
"I guess that's why you've had a string of military men, huh? They give better gifts?" By now, he's definitely baiting, but he's also visibly hurt and decidedly insecure. Things he could better conceal and even better control were he not sick and, by this point, in the early stages nicotine withdrawal. After all, it's been nearly twenty-four (24) since his last cigarette. Perhaps some of his shakes are not chill-induced. "Sorry that I don't have any high-grade clearances or a hubris-inducing, overcompensating phallus to offer you."
"Funny how the only thing I ever wanted from you is the hardest thing for you to give. At least I didn't get left empty handed, though. I learned a lesson out of all of this. Loving you? And you letting me love you? Two completely different things." In a perfect world, they would go hand in hand. "And I don't have control over either." Maybe that's why Sawyer chose the time during his unconscious state to spend her visiting hours. "Take care of yourself." Beat. "Nurse!"
As if on cue, the nurse arrives, opening up a flap of the plastic sheeting. "Oh, Miss Averies, he's awake!" Pause. "And you're… leaving?" The confusion knits the brow of the young woman standing aside so the Journalist can slip out. With a little shrug of her overbearing suit, the nurse ambles in to go about checking Trask's vitals. "Woman didn't sleep, refused breakfast. Heck, I don't even think she got up to pee! Guess she really had to go, huh?"
Kal has no parting words for the departing blonde. He merely stands there in the somewhat flimsy gown, brooding so much over what just transpired that it takes him a moment to register the nurse's words. And although he already was feeling kinda crap physically, and more than kinda crap emotionally, now he feels well and truly sick on both fronts. Having sat vigils beside Penelope's bedside when she had been in a coma for a week, it's not as though he is oblivious to what Sawyer had just done or why. In the end, all the man can do in ruefully murmur with a small frown, "Yeah. She really needed to go." Full well recalling how it had been so much easier to love an unconscious person, and how he himself always sought quick egress when lucidity surfaced in the snipe who's been deceased for just over seven (7) months now.
"Alright," DeMaratus says as he enters the recovery room from the sickbay outside, going with a surgical mask over the lower half of his face rather than full biohazard wear. Blissfully unaware of whatever it is that has just happened, he points a finger at Trask as he steps through the plastic curtain, "You need to sit down, Captain. I've got a few tests I need to run and the sooner I get them done, the sooner we can get you out of here."
It takes a moment more for the newly arrived doctor's words seep through the brooding thoughts of Bootstrap. Comprehension prompts a faint nod and compliance. "The sooner I get outta here, the better." The sedative he had been given certainly helped him get some much needed sleep, for, despite his exhaustion, an over-active mind and sheer stubbornness had been preventing any actual rest. "This shit's startin' to itch again, Doc," he relays, rubbing the back of his left hand across the underside of his rash-reddened jaw.
"I'm gonna give you a hydrocortisone shot," DeMaratus answers, picking up a syringe as well as a small vial and filling one from the other, "That ought to help with the itching again. After that, I'm gonna need an arterial blood sample. Hope you don't have an issue with needles, Boots." For a doctor who has only been aboard a couple days, he falls into using nicknames pretty easily.
"Depends where you stick 'em, Dee," Kal quips back, trading nickname for nickname. "Or do you prefer Mary?" From the 'Mara' part of DeMaratus. And, well, because he has no problem being addressed as 'Bootstrap' but does take a little issue with just anyone calling him 'Boots'. That is, in its own way, far more personal than a mere callsign. And, of this present date and time, the doctor hasn't earned the right to be so familiar.
"Well, I am from Leonis and we do wear dresses. I guess you could call me Mary, if you liked," DeMaratus answers, not in the least bit bothered with any nickname he receives. Insult seems to roll off him like water off a particularly oily duck, "And I'm gonna stick it in your arm. Unless you cause me trouble, then I'm gonna use the extra-big needle and go straight for the ass." He reaches out to take the ECO's wrist so he can make the injection.
"Better make sure it's industrial grade, Mary," Trask tells DeMaratus, "'cuz I'm a hardass in addition to being a smartass." At the very least, the injection and extraction garners little more than a small crinkling of the Taurian's nose.