| PHD #131: In the Gloaming |
| Summary: | Hovering between life and death, Evandreus gets another visitor. |
| Date: | 7 July 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Sickbay - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| 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: #131 |
Evandreus is still in the main bay. After last night's scare, there's no way he's seeing the recovery area anytime soon. Under intensive care and observation, he wakes out of a slumber that verges on coma, disoriented, eyelids peeling open and eyebeams flitting here and there across the room in a look of fear and confusion.
"Heyheyhey… Hey, there…" The greeting is delivered on a quick, soft breath — equal parts gentle reassurance and concern. Psyche places a cool hand on Evan's forehead, smoothing back his hair. "You're okay, babydoll. You're just fine." She's perched on a chair beside the bed, one leg folded up beneath her. There's a tattered paperback novel on the bedstand, set down abruptly moments earlier — apparently she's been here a little while.
Evandreus' forehead is fighting between fever and chill, settling for a cool clamminess, skin moist with not-quite-dried sweat— never enough to bead, but enough to give his sallow cheeks a faint glow in the bright sickbay lights. His eyes finally find Bubbles', and, as if it takes him a moment to recognize her, he tries to mumble out some jumble of syllables that all end up tripping over one another, trapped in the plastic mask that covers his nose and mouth.
Psyche tilts her head, looking at the convalescent with tender sorrow. She strokes the back of her fingers against his cheek, simply for the sake of touching him, before smoothing back his hair again. "What was that, Bunnyheart?" she asks, leaning close.
Evan's startle is soothed away to an extent by the comforting motion of fingers up his remarkably bare cheek and through his recently clipped curls, which hand eases his eyes closed a further moment, as if for a very protracted blink, before they open again, fixed more surely on Psyche. "Nin th' pr'st come?" he murmurs out semi-intelligibly.
Psyche blinks, looking stricken by the question. She swallows and takes Evan's hand, still stroking his hair with her free one. "Did… did the priest come?" she echoes, to make sure she heard right.
Evandreus moves his hand, just a little, when touched, fingers slowly but competently finding Psyche's and getting themselves situated half-around them. "Mm," comes a faint note of assent on the back of a short breath.
Psyche shakes her head a little, helplessly. "I don't know, babydoll. I'm sure she's been by…" She searches Evan's face, her heart visibly constricted. "Do you want me to send someone to get her?
"Hmmm." Longer, this time. Not so positively oriented. The Bunny's head wavers in time with his neck in what ought to be a shake of his head. He holds onto Psyche's hand and lets his eyes close again, thumb ambling mindlessly along the top of Psyche's forefinger, from knuckle to knuckle and back again.
"Just let me know what you need," Psyche whispers — and a whisper is all she can manage, throat closed tight. "Anything at all." She rests her head on Evan's shoulder, her forehead against his cheek. If she could climb into bed beside him, she probably would. "Oh, Bunny," she sighs. "I wish…" There's a soft sniffle. "If only telling you how loved you are could make you better. But saying any of that sounds too frakking much like 'goodbye'…"
Evandreus yields to the light pressure of forehead on cheek, clammy cheek drawn down closer to the pillows, bringing his face about in a cool sort of nuzzle down on Psyche's, the plastic of his mask resting along her nose. His eyes don't open, but a soft, rhythmically repeating pressure of hand on hand serves for acknowledgement that he at least heard her, a faint echo of a tender hand-patting. There, there. There, there, Bubbles.
Psyche draws a soft, hitching breath. "Please don't die?" The plea is rendered in the tiniest of child voices, struggling out from the most child-like and innocent corner of her heart. The part that would believe such a promise if it were rendered, ultimately to be disappointed — if not today, or tomorrow, then someday. She doesn't wait for an answer, though… it's likely she doesn't expect one for what is, in the end, a wholly selfish request. "Rest, sweetie. I'll stay until you're sleeping."
Of course, no such promise is forthcoming. No answer of any sort, point in fact. Even the tender squeezing of fingers inside fingers subsides as the Bunny drifts back into unresponsiveness.
~fin