PHD #130: Comfort is Lipgloss
PHD #130: Comfort is Lipgloss
Summary: Davis comforts Evandreus with lipgloss and a story.
Date: 6 Jul 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Davis Evandreus 
Sickbay - Medical Deck - Battlestar Cerberus
Being able to accommodate combat casualties requires room, and the Sickbay has it. Beds line each side of the room with privacy curtains strung up and readily available. Large vaulted lockers hold access to the supplies at the far end of the area. Nearer the front, a Petty Officer sits ready to dispense simple items like ibuprofen and aspirin. Further to the rear is an area prepped twenty-four hours a day for emergency surgery. To the side are a set of double doors that lead to the Recovery Ward where patients can recuperate.
Post-Holocaust Day: #130

Evandreus is only intermittantly responsive, at this point. After a few efforts toward getting him into Recovery led only to his having to be moved back into the main bay, he's been pretty well parked in a bed toward the back of the bay, curtains drawn around him and the barrage of machinery to which he's been hooked up. There's a chair by him, but visiting hours are strictly limited, the rest of his time spent under the attendance of the sickbay staff, who keep close track of his vitals and draw blood and other fluids for periodic testing. Dark, sunken eyes with yellowed whites stare blankly up toward the ceiling, shallow breathing underlining the sounds of the mechanical equipment with a faintly musical wheezing.

Visiting hours may be quite limited but they aren't nonexistent, and at first opportunity comes a visitor. Maybe a few minutes early (you don't spend 3 months in a place without making a few connections with people). Davis takes a seat, looking the patient over. "Hi," she says softly, raising a hand to wave to him. "Not um, not sure if you can hear this or anything," the redhead continues, speaking quietly, "but they said you've been through a lot and could use as much company as you can get."

Evandreus looks like most of his energy is going into the business of keeping his lungs sucking in short breaths of air at intervals, chest moving slightly upward to herald each faint wheezing noise. But at least his body's been cushioned with pillows, knees propped slightly upward, lower back supported— he's as comfortable as he can be without being on morpha. Since the goal's to keep him awake rather than knock him the rest of the way out. The red hair eventually draws his dull, sickly eyes to the side, and the Raptorbunny's adam's apple moves some, dried lips coming together to close around the swallow, then peeling apart again. He doesn't make much noise, but it's a start. An acknowledgement.

Davis is looking him over in silence when the anomalous movement catches her eye. "Well there's a good sign, hmm?" she coos, leaning to get herself into his field of view better. The chair squeaks as she slides it across the floor, bringing her up to head level. "I guess I'm lucky. I got hurt in the head, and most of the way through getting better I went into like…" The young lady shrugs, splaying her fingers and scrunching her face. "Remiss or something. Anyway, that was about a month ago. I don't remember it, but I sorta wrote about it in my diary." She laughs nervously, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, I know, what am I, twelve? But they said it's good to help remember stuff. Problem is… I don't think I wanna remember it all. I mean, you look like hell, I don't wanna remember however you're feeling!"

Evandreus takes a few more shallow breaths, silently listening to Spuds' recollections. Then, after a slightly more substantial piece of air gets trapped in his lungs, his vocal chords clamp down around it and let it out as a vague, "Unngnng -." His brows knit weakly together over the noise. Yeah. Yeah, it sucks.

Actions speak louder than words, and sometimes better too; Davis reaches out for Evandreus' forehead to lightly rest her fingers there. "You're hurting real bad, but you look tough." Those fingers glide down the side of his face, careful of any medical equipment connected to him. "Not, you know, 'Ooorah Marine rawr fightin' round the Colonies' tough." Fingernails graze down the side of his neck to linger on his collarbone, and then her hand lands on his chest like a bird on a rock. "I mean in here. There's something about you that I don't have. I can see it, and feel it. It's like…" The Petrel Pilot tilts her head, biting her lip for a moment. "Like when you're little, and you've been out in the snow too long, and everything is cold. You can feel the warmth of even a candle from a mile away."

Evandreus seems soothed by the fingers on his forehead, the knots in his brow untangling into a youthfully smooth surface, if one that's cold and clammy with a sweat dried off and seeped out time and time again. His eyes close with the relief brought by the touch down along his cheek, kept close-shaven by the sickbay staff. When his eyes open again, they're slightly damp, tears clinging in droplets to his clumped-together lashes and making his eyes look just a little more bright, more alive, even if more wracked with misery.

The young lady's hand caresses his chest briefly, then comes away. "You can do this," Davis coos, her fingers finding Sextus' own. "You're going to make it just fine," she repeats, gently covering his hand with hers. The heat of her face is next to his, her breath blowing over her ear like a warm autumn breeze. "I've got some lip gloss. Would you like some?" she asks. "Your lips are looking awfully chapped."

Evandreus draws those dried lips together again, the faults in between the great tectonic plates of shelly pink drawing tight as the once-pliant skin shifts. His eyebeams drift off, one tear creeping down to a cheekbone there to perch in silence. Finally, "Mmhm," he humms weakly out.

Davis beams at him, petting his hand instead of squeezing. "See? You can talk already, you're doing marvelous." She lets go and leans back in her seat but stays close by way of humming a soft lullabye, interspersed with some clicking and clacking. Moments later the warmth of her body is near again, and fingers are splayed before his face. The index finger of the girl's right hand is coloured sparkly and translucent pink covering. "I don't think they'll let me take this off, so we'll have to do it this way." Davis gently takes the breathing mask in her left hand and lifts, just enough to get that lipstick-soiled fingertip underneath. "Can you pucker up for me?" she asks while running her finger over his cracked lips.

Evandreus' intestines try their best to tie themselves into a knot, cheeks flushing red and them paling again as the aches cramp up his muscles and draws out a long groan of pain, his eyes rolling upward and then closing as he's shaken by the pains. His lower lip tremors under the first touch of gooey finger, and as he comes out of the fit he does his best to comply, shifting his lip down against her finger.

"That's it, you're doing great," she murmurs encouragingly, removing her finger from the mask to re-wet it. This time she comes in from the other end, making sure to give Evan a good covering. "Almost done," Davis coos, leaning in to idly tap her lips against his temple. A second coat of glittery lip balm is spread over his smackers, for good measure, even going so far as to slip some over the inner and outer edges. "There, don't you look lovely now!"

Evandreus opens his eyes again, greens tocked aside toward Spuds in an almost humorous 'yeah, right' glance. But his lips rub themselves together, working in the sparkly gloss and then letting his lips slack to the full extent of their fullness. He takes a deep breath, and, "Thanks," he lets out on the back of the breath as he lets it go, a whispered breath echoing inside the plastic mask.

While he's spreading the thick gel where it needs to go, Davis is running her fingers through his hair (or just scalp, as the case may be) and idly humming, bars of song broken briefly by breaths. It is in one of these pauses that Evan's efforts come to fruition, the word muffled by his mask but still heard. The specific sounds are not; all her ears hear is a rough grunt of noise. It's the way his body and breath have settled, if infinitesimally, and the intangible feel of it all. "Welcome," she murmurs back, drinking in the contentment of a good deed completed.

Evandreus is still be-haired, though he's been clipped since he's been in here, curls constrained to a short wave and parting greasily for the fingers moving through them. The soft touches along his scalp leech any remnants of tension from his form, and his eyelids flutter shut, lashes resting down over the darkened undersides of his eyes once more.

"You wanna sleep?" she asks quietly, Davis sliding her hand over Evan's forehead. "Or… well, I can't keep you up on the rumormill, I just got out of here." There's a pause, a harumph, and then a chirpy little "Ah-hah!" The unmistakable rustling of a lady's handbag reaches him, and a moment later she's holding a paperback novel with very rounded edges and some tears taped over in front of his face. "I could read you this!" she enthuses, trying to hold the book steady.
And then flipping it over when she realizes the cover was facing the wrong way. The title is unimportant: The artwork screams 'bodice-ripper.'

Evandreus' eyelid muscles struggle against the lethargic lids themselves, one of them opening just enough to spy the ripped cover of the book, then close again, breathing going slow and shallow again. That's about all the enthusiasm he can pluck up for the soft-core porn.

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