PHD #049: Jailbreak
Log Title
Summary: Evandreus provides moral support while Tisiphone has her cast removed
Date: 2041.04.16
Related Logs: None.
Evandreus Hawke Tisiphone 

<OOC: This scene happened in a TP Room. Please make believe that it's the Sickbay.>

Hawke is sitting at his desk, doing the mountain of paperwork that has accumulated in the chaos since the Cylons got on board. He is tired, visibly so, but the mug of coffee on his desk has gone untouched since a nurse placed it there a few hours ago. He doesn't want to be on the stims, not yet. Not in case he is needed while still on duty.

The memo said this afternoon. Tisiphone double- and triple-checked it and then — before anyone could tell her otherwise — went in search of Evandreus to call in his promise of moral support for the Xray and (all fingers and toes crossed) cast-removal. It's with a pale face and determined clearing of her throat that she crosses over the Sickbay's threshhold and heads to the clerk's desk, saying, "Uh. Ensign Apostolos. I'm here for my appointment."

Evandreus has made good on his promise, Tisiphone having happened to have caught him at an off-shift. And so he ambles in with her, arm tossed casually over her shoulder, hand on her further upper arm to jostle her a little on their way in, playfully, trying to get a smile out of her with a brotherly tousling— or at least lighten the mood just a little.

The clerk looks up at her, then checks the appointments. "Apostolos… Apostolos… for frak's sake, why AREN'T these in alphabetical… oh, there you are. Yes, yes, yes… I think we actually have a minute to see you now. Please, take a seat and relax, Doctor Hawke will be with you in a moment." Taking the chart she has been reading, she heads back to get the good doctor.

Take a seat. Yeah, /right/. Tisiphone watches the clerk head back into the belly of the beast until she's out of sight, then looks up at Evan. "You're not a sympathetic barfer, right? I mean. I'm gonna try not to, but- I don't know what to expect. What's under here." She clears her throat again, then hides behind Evan- that is, leans into Evan a little.

Evandreus flashes a heartfelt smile to the clerk, knowing well how overworked everyone here is. "Thanks, dude," he tells her, then, taking the Tisiphone tucking herself into his armpit, he herds her on over to the waiting area, even if she doesn't want to sit. "I've been known to chainbarf. But I will endeavor to control myself. Oh, hon. I don't know what's going to be under ther, either. But you're going to have the use of it, after you're done in physical therapy. And you're going to be back in the air. Isn't that the important thing, for now?"

"The nutter is here to have her cast off," The clerk says, and Hawke looks up in some confusion. "What?" It isn't until he actually reads the chart that has been placed on his desk that he shakes his head. "She's not crazy, just… interestingly educated. Thank you, I'll be out to see her." Turning around, he grabs his stuff that makes him look "doctorly," the lab coat and stethescope around his neck. Sure, it would likely put her on guard, but it had to be more professional looking than just his scrubs. Walking out to the waiting area, he leans against the doorframe for a moment. "I hate to break the news to you, Ensign, but after having your arm in that cast for so long, your tan is going to be totally out of whack."

"Yeah. Yeah," murmurs Tisiphone to Evan, nodding a few more times to his words than is strictly necessary. She's rattled, obviously; just as obviously, she's working on Calming The Frak Down. Deep breaths. Squared shoulders. When Hawke speaks, she looks up with a light startle, eyes a little wider than they need to be. "Hard vaccuum isn't the best for suntanning, Medicator," she replies. It's carefully polite. The 'Medicator' could be treated like a 'Sir', maybe. Maybe. "I'm- is it okay if Bu- um. If the Lieutenant comes along?" There's a hopeful twinge to her question that she's not quite able to conceal.

Evandreus hehs. "I haven't had a tan in four years," he points out, "You won't miss a thing, Cubits." To the Doctorly sort, a mildly wary look hides below the affectation of a cheeky grin. "Can I come? I'll be good," he promises, giving the Doc-man the ol' Doe eyes.

Hawke grins a bit, then looks Evandreus up and down, cataloguing. "Ok, but stay out of the way. We always need new organ donors." With that, he stands up straight. "Back this way. Now tell me, Ensign, about your arm. And please tell the truth. Is it in pain, does it itch a lot, anything out of the ordinary over the last, oh, three days?"

Evandreus lets Tisiphone loose from underneath his arm, raising both hands palms-forward in a show of harmlessness as he follows along at a distance. He sure doesn't want to end up on the cutting table again. At all.

Tisiphone leans a little further into Evan for a moment, clearing her throat again, before straightening and moving to follow after Hawke. "Nothing out of the ordinary, Medicator. Gods' truth. It's- felt the same- I mean, this past week, it's felt fairly…stable." 'Stable'. That's a medical term, right? "I've been good. All the vitamins you told me to chew, no getting it wet, no scratching under the cast with anything sharp."

Evandreus doesn't interrupt the medical interrogation, either. He's very well-behaved. But Hawke probably knows that by now. Evan's been in here a lot, in recent days, though in volunteers' scrubs, bustling about with the rest of the extant staff. Drudge work, most of it, but industriously drudged.

"I'd ask for you definition of the word sharp, but I am afraid you would be all too willing to show me." Hawke's voice remains dry as they walk into the diagnostics room. "Ok, put your arm on this table, and no worries… it's just an imager, won't DO anything to you. I just need to see how the bones have set. You can stand with her, eltee, just don't get near the top of the table." Hawke starts looking over the apparatus. "Out of curiosity, Ensign, what precisely is your religious problem with Medication? I have encountered it on a few occasions, but no one who practiced it has ever explained it to me. I might be better able to respect your beliefs if I knew them."

There's another soft throat-clearing as Tisiphone hesitates in front of the imaging table. "If you're getting this thing off me today, Medicator, I might even find a smile for you," she mutters, before stepping forward and stretching her arm out as indicated. "With all due respect-" Which is actually said with some politeness, let it be so noted. "-I think it's impossible for you to understand. So much of- all of this-" A little toss of her head, suggesting the Sickbay as a whole. "-is designed to tamper and, and /sully/ what the Lords and Ladies have given us." She looks up at Hawke, clearing her throat yet again. "What you do is wrong. What you've done to my arm is wrong. Yet it's going to let me get back into the cockpit. Can we- just agree it's one frak of a dilemma?"

Evandreus steps up closer at the Medi— err… Doctorman's behest, reaching out a hand to blindly fumble for Tisiphone's cast-free one while she gets into position. Hand to squeeze. "After the war's done and we've found someplace nice and safe to live," he begins— a strange thing to hear from the guy wh habitually asserts that this will NEVER happen— but then, going on, "We can take a saw to it," he finishes up, giving Tisiphone a smile altogehter too fond for someone who just suggested cutting her arm off. "Just a temporary thing."

Hawke nods, and seems to be listening, even as the imager starts bouncing back images. "I'd gathered that much. To sully the work of the Lords and Ladies would, of course, be wrong. I just never understood how precisely healing was sullying. I certainly never saw anything like it in the scrolls, but admittedly I have never been the greatest religous scholar." He steps back, and looks at the image that appears on the screen. "As you can see, your bones have mostly knit. There are the plates." The bits of titanium are plainly visible. "As far as I can tell, your arm should be fully knit." Turning, he looks at her. "Ready to get the damned plaster off?"

"They didn't make me with titanium in my arm, Medicator," Tisiphone points out, very quietly, her voice a little thin as she looks up at the imager's display. She studies it for two, maybe three seconds before she swallows hard and looks away, pointedly, to Evan. Just… stares at him for a few seconds, good fingers squee-ee-eezing around his. At least she doesn't barf. "I want to keep the cast," she says suddenly, looking back to Hawke. "If it's possible to- remove it without destroying it."

"They didn't make you with clothes on, either. Or with bracelets, for that matter," Evan points out, gentle-voiced, trying to be supportive rather than confrontational. "We made those for ourselves, right? And the Lords certainly don't mind that, do they? He lets her squeeze the hell out of his fingers, even if there are little squirms of pain at the side of his mouth.

Hawke gestures that they should leave the diagnostics room, and then does so himself. "Understand, Ensign, I do not wish, -in any way-, to impugn your beliefs. You have been willing to let me do my job, which is to let you do yours, which is all I can really ask. I just hate to have you think of yourself as less because of it all. The eltee makes a fine point, though i would say a better one is that the Lords and Ladies put no food in your belly… and yet without it, you could not do what they made you to do." He waves it off. 'Idle speculation, and I am not a theologian. I will trouble you no more on the issue. And you may certainly keep the cast." They are now in the surgery. "Place your arm on the operating table, please. With your permission, I would like the eltee to hold your arm still, as I suspect you would be more comfortable with him than with one of my nurses."

Evan's mouth does his little OW YOU ARE CRUSHING MY FINGERS, WOMAN grimace, and Tisiphone's squeeze abruptly loosens… slightly. "They're tools, Bunny," she says, determinedly patient. "They want me not to freeze in the winter, they give me clothes. They want me to be a pilot, they give me a Viper. None of this sullies me." Stubborn and more than a little ritualized, the words, as if she's had this debate before, and perhaps used these exact words. She'll follow along after Hawke, worrying at a spot on her bottom lip as she steps into Surgery. "It's- yeah, of course he- he can." Forward she goes, to the operating table, where she slowly settles her casted arm into place.

Evandreus was trying his best not to be obvious about it, but the Bunny has a very low tolerance where pain is concerned. It's a blessing he hasn't gotten shot, yet, or he'd probably not have gotten over it, yet. And so, when the grip loosens, even as mildly as it does, he looks relieved, and shuffles in closer. "Well, then, don't let this one sully you, either," he murmurs. Surprisingly non-flippant, considering the words. A vote of confidence in Tisiphone's personal will to decide what happens to her soul, with a meeting of eyebeams to eyebeams to match. Moving about to lean against her back, holding her free hand near her hip, he moves his other arm to gently pin the other arm still, cupping her upper arm to keep it there. "Is this okay?"

"Perfect. Though if the laser starts to burn you, just let it finish." Hawke pulls over the laser cutter, positioning it above the cast. "Ok, cast depth at 2.1 centimeters thick… hard plaster… drawing main line now…" Carefully he guides a red dot from one edge of the cast to the other, not straight, but moving to preserve all the sketches. "All right. No movement starting now. And… cutting." The laser activates, and there is a smell of burning plaster in the air as the laser quickly and efficently cuts through. Tis might feel a bit of heat, but that is it.

Casted fingers twitch, curl into a ball, then seem to decide against that position and relax again. "No movement," Tisiphone echoes Hawke and takes a deep breath, letting it out very, very slowly. Her good fingers are frozen — thankfully, not crushingly-tight — in Evandreus's, growing clammy as the laser works its way down the cast.

Evandreus' heartrate is up a little bit, even as he tries to give a little laugh at Hawke's… joke? it sounds a little too close to a few very vivid nightmares he's had since his first run-in with the doctor to exactly put him at ease. But even with that bit of tension threaded taut through his frame he moves his thumb against the back of Tisiphone's clutching fist, going his job in soothing her, "Just a little bit more," he murmurs. "Almost there…" into her ear, "You're fine." And other sorts of little comforting nothings.

The laser goes all the way to the edge of the cast, and then there is a little red dot on Tisi's skin. No worries, however… it is just a light. Hawke gestures Evandreus away as he moves in and slowly starts prying the cast apart, carefully, so as to preserve as much art as possible. When the arm is finally exposed, it is is smaller than its counterpart, clearly in need of some PT to get up to flying snuff. The skin, however, is perfect. Not even a trace of a scar.

Not even a trace of a scar? This perplexes Tisiphone, quite obviously; she tries to pull her arm free of the split-apart cast, and the limb reacts like… well, like it hasn't been used in four weeks and change. It sort of weakly floptwitches out, the back of her hand bouncing lightly on the table as if it weighed too much to hold up. "Where's- there's no scar." She actually leans forward, like her eyes might be playing tricks on her, to examine her forearm. "Sweet mother of the gods, Bunny, look at it, it's not an arm, it's a toothpick." It might sound horrified, if her expression didn't look perilously close to a dumbfounded grin. She has two arms again.

"Well, won't that come in useful on gristleloaf night in the mess?" Evan asks back to Tisiphone's observation, smiling back at her, then, grinning up toward Doctorman, who so kindly left all of his fingers intact, "She was looking forward to the crazy sexy scar," he explains her shock all kinds of facetiously. "It'll get stronger, Cubits. You'll have me in a headlock again before you know it."

Hawke chuckles. "It's all your own skin, ensign. If you want a scar, I can recommend any of the previously named sharp objects you can think of… just don't get yourself landed in here again for it." He smiles. "Two weeks PT, and then I suspect you will be back on the flight rosters again. Best of luck to you, Ensign. And here's to hoping you never have to see me in a professional milieu again."

Busted. "Hey. He-e-ey," Tisiphone says slowly to Evan, trying — and failing — to sound wounded. "Maybe I- okay, I had ideas for tatau already. Guilty as charged." She bumps her shoulder into the Raptor pilot as if it's some sort of punishment. Crazy sexy scar. Harumf. Her eyes flick back to Hawke, then, as he details the next steps in her back-to-work regiment, nodding quickly to all of it. Yes. Yes. Get to the part about her getting to fly again- excellent. "Thanks-" she begins, with just a hitch of a pause. "-Sir. Here's hoping, yeah?" She even salutes him, kinda-sorta — she has to give her arm a bit of a shoulder-roll to get it high enough that she can touch fingers to her temple. And with that, she'll be scooping up her laser-split chrysalis and making a hasty retreat.

Evandreus backs off a little as he's shoulderchecked, chuckling as he does, looking behind to make sure he's not going to knock into anything fragile or sharp or injured, hands up again, all innocent. "Thanks, Doc," he tells Hawke with a bright smile, loitering just the moment it takes to share the sentiment with words and a glance before he's off after the Cubits and her newly freed toothpick.

Hawke smiles as they leave. "Thank you for the talk, as well. And for being better. I much prefer getting people back up to duty status than fighting to keep someone alive. Now you be good. Both of you."

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