| Nothing Serious |
| Summary: | Sitka overdoes it on the bench press, and visits Sickbay. |
| Date: | 19 Feb 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank) |
| Players: |
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[ Sickbay ]------[ Deck 10 - 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.
-=[ Condition Level: 3 - All Clear ]=---------
The mad rush that was Sickbay pre-launch has quieted to a reasonable trickle of people in and out to get their last minute checkups or ice for bruises. Stavrian is at the duty nurse station, arms on the counter as he fills in the back section of someone's chart. The duty nurse himself, a tall Ensign with blond hair, is staring distractedly at his computer screen and trying to look like he's not chewing gum on duty.
And the revolving door of sickbay revolves again, admitting a dark-haired officer dressed in his blues, and moving a bit stiffly. It takes him a moment to get his bearings once he's inside, and then he's angling for the nurse's station once he's singled it out in the bustle of crew to and fro. The blonde Ensign is addressed with a low-murmured, "Excuse me."
Kostis - as the nurse's tags claim his name to be - swallows that gum in a flash. A pair of brown eyes look up over the top edge of the computer monitor and the man sits up a hair straighter. "What can we do for you, sir?" Nearby in earshot, Stavrian glances up at the newcomer from under his brows and then back down, pen scratching his signature in two spots on the triplicate form he's filling out.
There's a slight twinge of amusement on the part of the Captain. Or is that pain? Could be pain. But he probably saw the kid swallow his gum. "Pulled my shoulder doing some bench presses. I was hoping you might keep some ice packs around here, somewhere." The wings above his left breast pocket indicate that he's a pilot. Which probably accounts for the prompt seeking of medical attention, for anything that might affect his flying. Stavrian gets a slantwise flick of blue eyes that lingers for a second, though no actual acknowledgement for the time being.
"Yes, sir. You'll want to get that checked out though, just in case. Just one second, Captain." Kostis sits up a little more, most of his nose visible now, and then rolls his chair backwards towards the file cabinet. Sitka's name is easily spotted in the row of 'S'.
Stavrian's already stopped writing, the pen paused on the paper and eyes still down. The sixth sense suspicion is confirmed when Sitka's chart is slid right under his nose. He picks it up, handing the other paperwork over for Kostis to babysit, and his own blue eyes meet the pilot's. "Sir. Just a few minutes of your time."
Sitka had opened his mouth to say something, perhaps a spelling out of his last name, in case the nurse had difficulty with it. Might be a common occurrence for him, with a name like that. What's mentioned instead, over the sound of the chair rolling across the deck, "It's just a little sore. Some ice'll be fine." Which, well. Looks like he's not getting any choice in the matter. Stavrian gets a mild sort of smile that's just shy of warm, and he finally pushes off the counter where he'd been leaning with a resigned murmur of, "Sure, el-tee."
There's no smile back. Stavrian's voice, though, is hardly unkind. "Routine, Captain. Five minutes." He motions Sitka towards one of the curtained areas, where a gurney sits covered in paper for the next butt to be plopped on it. "If we don't check it, then the CAG gets on us. And no offense, sir, but she's way scarier."
"No offense taken," the Captain answers, lifting his hand in supplication on his way by to the curtained alcove. For a jock, he seems pretty dismissive about the whole thing, and ducks inside shortly after. There's a crackle of the paper and a soft hiss as he hoists himself up on the far end of the gurney.
Stavrian reaches up and pulls the curtain shut, metal rings snicking over the curved rod at the top. He opens Sitka's chart and pulls a pen from his pocket, setting both on the counter. "Jacket off, please." His hands settle on his hips as he waits for compliance to that. "How much weight were you lifting at the time?"
"One seventy-five," is the pilot's unhesitating answer, mumbled though it is. It's a respectable weight, certainly nothing a man of his size should have to worry about. Though proper form's another matter. His jacket's unbuttoned and shrugged out of obediently, and he's wearing a tee shirt rather than the standard-issue tank tops underneath. There's some sort of faded logo on the left breast. An airplane, maybe? Certainly not a viper. His left arm's scrawled with ink, pushing regs with the fact that it covers much of his hand as well. Not too atypical of a Sagittarian.
The royal blue scrub top brings out the blue in Stavrian's eyes. They're a startling occurence in otherwise dark features, brought out by the black hair and eyelashes. The PA's arms are covered by a long sleeved T-shirt; if he's got ink himself it's not visible. The soma braid on his right wrist, though, is. "Pretty good. You'll be lifting whole Vipers in no time." His lips twitch and he walks around the back of the air wing Captain's gurney. "Lift the arm that's hurting you, sir. Up and behind your head, and try to touch the opposite shoulder blade behind you. Stop at any point if it hurts."
The hyperbole's not commented upon, smiled upon, or otherwise acknowledged, though the soma braid does get an odd, lingering little glance. Sitka does not wear one, himself. "Got some scalpels you want me to juggle next?" he asks blithely, cocking his left arm, and reaching his fingertips behind his right shoulder. Hiss. "Shit." It's pulled back a few inches.
"Blood drive's not until next month, sir." The voice is deadpan behind Sitka. Stavrian's attention is on the way the captain moves, and the bulge of the shoulder muscles. "Going to touch your hand." Warning given behind his warm fingers take Sitka's wrist, helping ease it back up. "Same thing, sir, under this time." His hand guides Sitka's where it's meant to go, taken down to the waist and then up across his back and then let go. "Like you're trying to scratch an itch. Again, stop when it hurts."
Deadpan begets deadpan, begets a soft sound in the Captain's nose that might be a chuckle. With the doctor around behind him, it's hard to tell. There's a noticeable twitch when his wrist's guided up behind his back, though it seems to be the contact itself rather than any discomfort at the source. His shoulder, of course, has clearly been injured before: the joint is slightly out of whack, and old (and not terribly well done) surgical scars stitch across the skin. "Seems fine," he explains, a moment later. There's a slight turn of his head to try to spot the man behind him. Maybe just an old paranoia.
Perhaps it's a Sagittarian thing. Stavrian doesn't quite get -all- the way behind Sitka, staying where at least a glimpse of his arms can easily be seen. "Alright, relax. Going to touch your back, here. Let me know if it feels tender anywhere." His hands settle on Sitka's hurt shoulder, fingers carefully palpating the joint on the top and the back side. "Former injury been giving you any trouble?"
"Got a pretty good bedside manner, for a military doctor," the pilot ventures after a few more seconds, and a slight shift against the paper-lined gurney that inevitably rips the fragile sheet. His head's still half-turned, blue eyes on what he can see of the Lieutenant. He doesn't tense when his shoulder's touched, so maybe it's just a wrist thing. "Nope. Hasn't bothered me in years." His file doesn't refute that claim, though it does note a repeated prescription for painkillers back from his active duty days— maybe five or six years ago. When Stavrian's thumb presses into the deltoid, there's a slight wince.
"And you're not an ass, sir. For a pilot." Stavrian might have smiled a little. Hard to tell. "I'm a physician assistant, not a doctor." He pauses at the sign of pain, noting it and moving his hands again. The palpation's finished in a few more seconds and he steps back around the table. In front of Sitka now, he holds out his hands palms down. "Put your wrists up under my hands, please? Turn you palms to the walls so your thumbs point down. I'm going to push down. Resist me."
Sitka's eyes come up when Stavrian mentions 'physician assistant', and there's a small nod. Whether he understands the distinction, who knows, but after a moment's delay he complies with the next instruction; his hands come up in the requested fashion, muscle already tensing along his arms as he anticipates what's about to happen. The return serve on his glib remark gets a small smile in turn that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "First assignment?" The fumbling attempt at conversation comes after an equally awkward pause.
Stavrian starts putting pressure on Sitka's wrists, pushing downwards. Smooth and gradual, watching for the point where the Captain either shows pain or can't keep his arm up anymore. His eyes flicker up, looking straight at Sitka's. "Fourth, sir. But thanks, now I feel young." Pressure keeps increasing, even as he talks. "I'd return that favor, but I have to get my kicks somehow." Pressure. "Served on a battlestar before?"
Sitka doesn't make eye contact, and seems distracted for a bit before Stavrian begins speaking, to boot. Another hiss, and he drops his hands after just a few seconds of pressure. They're shaken out, and he gives a soft chuckle. "Sorry. You looked.." He reaches for his jacket, whether that may be premature or not. "You looked younger than that. No." As to serving on a battlestar, presumably. "She's pretty amazing. Especially the galley. You ever see caesar salad on a frakking military ship before, doctor?" Yeah, yeah, physician assistant.
Stavrian lets Sitka go for his jacket, apparently done with torturing the man. He backs up a step or two to the counter, finally picking up his pen and flipping through Sitka's chart to the fresh page that Kostis stuck in there for his eval. "Nope. Last assignment, if we complained about fiber they told us to eat cardboard." His scribbling is quick but neat. Left handed, he keeps his wrist at a funny angle to avoid running the blade of his hand through the ink. "Muscle strain, nothing serious. I'm taking you off-duty until tomorrow afternoon. Rest it, ice it for no more than fifteen minutes at a time, and tomorrow morning go ahead and stretch it out. You might notice some bruising, that's normal. If the pain hasn't lessened, or it's swelling badly by tommorrow morning, come back."
The cardboard remark earns another slight twitch of amusement from the older man, though he's mostly occupied in sliding his jacket back over his arms and shoulders, then coming down off the gurney so he can button it up. His motions are a little fumbling in places, lacking the spitshine precision of many of the lifetime military personnel here. "Roger that," he murmurs, lifting his chin to close the top flap and fasten the last button. "Thanks again, doc." No mention of rank. Not once. "I assume someone at the front desk'll give me some, without my firstborn child in ransom?"
"You're going to get me lynched if you call me doc in front of the docs." Stavrian's still writing, a last scribble and signature. He tears the sheet at the bottom, folding it and handing it over to the Captain. "Save an ego or two. Junior Lieutenant Jesse Stavrian. Any combination of those is fine." His head tips towards the duty desk, or at least in that direction past the curtain. "Kostis will get you set up."
Sitka gives his uniform jacket a final brush of fingers to smooth out the creases, then reaches for the slip of paper with his right hand. It's caught between two fingers, and turned toward him briefly so he can read the writing. "Stavrian. Sure. Whatever floats your boat." The paper's appropriated as a means of bidding the other officer good night in a half wave, half salute that doesn't really commit itself to either. Ibrahim wanders back out without so much as a traditional 'bedrood'.
Stavrian is back to note taking by the time Sitka's on his way out. Copy for said doctors out there, and Sitka's duty restriction report for Cidra. He lifts the pen and ticks it against his temple, about the most 'salute' anyone can hope to get out of busy Sickbay staff. "Take care." A nurse is already lurking by the curtain, waiting to drag the PA off to another injury. They never quite end.