| Slings and Gags |
| Summary: | Pallas gets caught by Glory for not wearing his sling; Lunair wanders in, confused. |
| Date: | 20 Mar 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Sickbay - Deck 10 - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post Holocaust Day: #22 |
| 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 |
Sickbay is quiet this evening, for once. Most of the staff have been shooed off, leaving the CMO to see patients for this evening. Glory's in her labcoat, standing by a counter working on one of the charts.
Cigarette ever-present between his lips, Pallas pokes into sickbay. He's been seen in sickbay every day, even after he was let go with his left arm in a sling - Ensign Abilon, his wingman, is still in the recovery room and he's been checking up on the boy every day. Catching sight of the CMO, he plucks the cigrette from his lips and hides it behind his hand, trying to slide by into the recovery room without being seen. Except that he bumps into one of those tray-cart-things and ruins his sneak-past.
Glory glances to the side, a brow going up, as she hears the noise. "If I'm not mistaken, Lieutenant," she says in a quiet, semi-amused voice. "You're out of uniform. And I'd suggest pinching that out before I find somewhere to put it out." It's delicately, sweetly spoken.
"Cap'n," comes the easy reply as the cigarette's put out. Onto sterilized equipment on the tray. He lets the butt sit there, smoldering, instead of pitching it elsewhere. "They said you had eyes in the back of your head. Didn't quite believe 'em, though." He gives her a sidelong glance from where he stands. His left arm should still be in a sling, but it's not. "Twenty cubits says Burnout's still out cold." Burnout being his wingman Abilon, of course.
"Burnout's still in a coma, yes," the Captain says as she turns to face Pallas, a warm smile on her face. "Which is very fortuitous. It gives me a few minutes to take a look at your arm and get another sling ready. Have a seat, Lieutenant." The way she says it is warm and inviting, and clearly not a suggestion. Her head tilts ever so slightly to one side, as if she expects him to challenge her. "How're you doing?"
"Fortuitous?" Pallas asks, narrowing his eyes a bit. "I'd call it 'shitty', Captain, but to each his - or her - own." But he knows better than to argue with the CMO, so he takes a seat as ordered and rests his left arm in his lap. "How'm I doing? Well." He wags a finger. "I've been waiting for someone to ask me that all day today. Because I'd really love nothing more than to be raging frakkin' pissed off, but I'm having a really hard time just giving a shit about anything." His shoulders deflate a bit, and he sits back in the chair. "But no retirement for me, that's official. As shitty a pilot as I am, they're keeping me around."
"Feel free to have a raging bitch fit at me, Lieutenant," Glory says quietly, moving to stand in front of him, holding her hands out, palm up, for his arm. "I'm a big girl, I can take it. You've had a pretty shitty month and I dare say you're entitled. So, if you'd like to be pissed off, have at it. If not, tell me about your relationship with your mother, hmm?" It would appear she's teasing slightly. Her body language is relaxed, for the most part, expression professional. "The Major wouldn't keep you around if you were that bad. But why do you call yourself a shitty pilot? I don't know that I've ever heard those words come out of a pilot's mouth self-directed."
"You take all the fun out of bitchin' and whinin'," Pallas bitches and whines at Glory. "And my mother was a whore." Quite literally. That's probably in his file somewhere. He complacently plops his arm into her waiting hand. "CAG's strapped for personnel. What with all the worlds being nuked and all." He shrugs his right shoulder, glancing remorsefully to his recently-killed cigarette. "She told me my release has been denied after watching a miserable performance from yours truly in the simulation room. Turns out that I can frak over my wingman even in a virtual fight." Hence, shitty pilot.
The doctor's touch is light and clinical. Typical doctor. She manipulates the arm slowly and carefully, eyes moving from her work to his face, as if gauging his reaction. "Mmmm," she murmurs after a bit. "How do you feel about getting back to the flight line?"
"At forty-three?" Pallas snorts. "I've gotta be setting some kind of record for Viper pilot age." He winces as the doctor moves his arm about. Seems like lateral movement is mostly fine, but rotational movement on the shoulder strains him, especially forward-backward movement. "Not like there's much else to do now," he answers flatly. "But I wouldn't be surprised if I'm a wingman again instead of being a section leader, much less a squadron leader." The words are frank, not bitter.
Sensing the discomfort, one hand slides to his shoulder to steady it as she continues the rotation. "I'd like you to seriously considering wearing the sling for a couple more weeks. The more strain you put on this, the more it's going to hurt. And yes, you're rather ancient for a Viper. I don't see the Major putting you out to pasture, though, any time soon. I dare say she's going to send you for a psych eval if your performance behind the stick keeps up, just to make sure you're not subconsciously sabatoging yourself out of a misguided sense of fear or responsibility." She glances to his face, pausing for a moment. "You're not, are you?"
Pallas is silent for a long while as Glory works his shoulder. "No," he answers simply. He refrains from speaking or wincing until she's done testing out the shoulder out of sheer stubbornness. But it's clear that the shoulder's still giving him pain, and he can't take much normal pressure on it, much less the G-forces of Viper piloting. "The sling makes me feel useless," he admits. "I don't want peoples' pity. Or their bullshit pretend obligatory pity."
"Well, you've got two choices," she says quietly, moving back to lean against a nearby counter. "You can either wear the sling and get it over with. I think another two to three weeks until you can spend more time out of it. Or you can not wear the sling, do more damage to it, and end up being forced to wear the sling. Neither of us will be comfortable with that option, I dare say. And I'd rather not lose a couple nurses to tears when you growl at them." Arms cross over her chest loosely. It's not a defensive posture, merely somewhat relaxed and matter of fact. Now that she's standing still, a little of the recent ravages can be seen on her face. "How are you sleeping?"
Pallas grins that wicked, antagonizing, mischievous grin - the only sort of smile that alights his face on a regular basis. "You leave me with the choice, Captain, and you know what I'm gonna do." The more prolonged, painful, and frustration-causing option, of course. He may not have been on the Cerberus long before Warday hit, but he's established himself well as a total pain-in-the-ass already. "Just make it an order so I have something else to grumble about under the thumb of authority."
"Sleep's fine," he adds after a beat. "Not like I'm on regular CAP rotation again yet. Not sleepin' as well as Burnout is, but…"
Glory's lips quirk at one corner. "Alright, let's put it this way, Lieutenant - either you wear the sling or I superglue it to your skin in the proper position and rip it off when your time's up." She's clearly kidding. Mostly. "I can order it if you want me to, but the longer you stay out of it, the more you get to hear bitches about you malingering and deliberately not doing what you're supposed to in order to stay off the flight line. You don't strike me as the type who would take kindly to a young pup chewing your ankles about being too old to fly." A shoulder lifts slightly. "Yes, the choice is yours. I'd prefer not to use reverse psychology on you, mainly because I'm too damned tired. And sleep is good."
Pallas scowls. "Frakkin' junior officers shootin' off their lips thinkin' they're Cylon-scrappin' hotshot cockmongling bastards," he spits. "I've been in the frakkin' service longer'n some of 'em've been alive." Not really, since he's been in for eighteen years - not counting Fleet Academy - but he likes to say it nonetheless. And for all the time he's spent in the Colonial Fleet, he's still a junior officer himself. "I might not be the best pilot around, but I've served the Fleet almost my whole Gods-be-damned life. I dare any one of those frakkin' cowards to say that to my face. I'll strap 'em in to the launch tube and cycle 'em through until their brains are leakin' out their frakkin' nostrils."
"You'd have to catch them, first," Glory points out delicately. "And with your shoulder in the condition it's in, well, at this point, I dare say one of my nurses, with her arm tied behind her back, could take you down without much of a fight. So how about we heal that shoulder up to levels where you -can- manage to catch one of the little bastards, hmmm?"
Pallas narrows his eyes at the Chief Medical Officer. "If one of your nurses takes me down without a fight, it's 'cause it's only 'cause it's one of the ones that look good out of scrubs," he growls. "I might be gettin' old and obsolete, Captain, but if recent events have shown anything, it's that old and obsolete shit keeps you alive." Referring to, of course, the old birds that kept flying when the newer systems went completely dead. "I should be a strategic or at least tactical commander by now, all things considered, but I ain't. And I've still got a thing or two to teach those frakkin' pilots." The anger and contempt aren't concealed on his face at all - they twist his visage in unflattering ways. "I want my shoulder back. And I don't want to wear that frakkin' sling anymore."
Glory quirks a brow slightly. "Tough shit," she replies with a small smile. "You can be as entitled as you damned well please, but you're not going to rewrite simple biology. You may not be old and obsolate, but neither is the technology you need to heal your arm. You can take it or leave it. You leave it, you'll be back in my sickbay within six weeks with an even worse injury and you'll be months behind in your plan for air wing domination. I get that you're pissy and that shit's happened to keep you from where you want to be, but that's not going to heal your arm. Be as pissy as you want, but direct that bitchiness toward getting better. The faster you're better, the faster you can whip the kids into shape."
Pallas sighs dramatically. "So it's the sling and more of this physio feel-goodery for two, three weeks?" he asks, the idea clearly unwelcome to him. He looks like he's about to spit or something. "Fantastic." He gives his arm a few rotations his own self with a grimace. "Y'know, if the Cylons had just waited three frakkin' weeks, I'd be glowing ashes with the best of 'em by now." Inappropriate? Pallas? No, say it isn't so.
"Looks like someone had other ideas for you," Glory replies, turning to open the cabinet she'd been leaning against. "About three more weeks of PT and keeping your arm in the sling, then you can feel free to flip me off at your last appointment, pain free. And it could be worse you know." She's quiet for a moment, turning with the sling in hand, heading over, fingers starting the adjustment process. "You could be under a psych hold."
"I think you might be the last person I'd wanna flip off on this ship," Pallas says with surprise in his voice, like he's just realizing that for himself as he says it. "Gods, I wish you were more like the doctor on my last ship," he mutters. "I tried to assault him with a morpha injector. Is that on my file?" Probably. "Did the psych ever have a field day with that one. I'm pretty sure the frakkin' Commander wanted to strap me to the underside of a Raptor for a month or so."
"Only a month," Glory asks, another hint of amusement in her voice. In she leans, strapping the sling on carefully. "See, I'd have handled it differently. You'd have been on bedpan duty for a little while as you shadowed the medical staff for a few weeks in your free time. You'd get to see exactly what it is doctors and med staff go through on the day to day and what it means to deal with…problem patients. Of course, I'm sure you had your reasons for attacking him." She's quiet for a moment. "And yes, it's in there. Along with a few choice tidbits." She's smiling as she says that.
"I hope my file at least gave you some amusement," Pallas says with a wink. It comes off more on the 'sleazy' side than the 'casual humor' side. "Bedpan duty. I gotta deal with enough shit as it is." But he submits to the sling. For his own good? Maybe, but not likely, since his file is fraught with incidents where he chose the longer, more painful route. "If you think shadowin' your people would make me repent of my contrary ways, you're wrong, Doctor," he notes casually. "I'd only learn how to get under their skin even more."
"Mmmm," says the Captain who is currently fitting Pallas with a sling. "Perhaps. But see, then you'd have to deal with me. I'm the one who wields the needles around here. Do you -really- want a note in your file making sure that you never have your temperature taken orally again?" It seems to have moved into lighthearted banter. Or what passes for that. "Like command has ways of making people talk, well, who do you think taught them what they know?"
Hmmm. Lunair enters the sickbay, peering around. She looks a bit sad. She bblinks, seeing Pallas and Captain. "That's not quite right," A worried look. She opens her blue jacket and consults what appears to be nearly a full lining of post-it notes along the lines of 'kick king's ass' 'don't get lost, go left in deck 5', 'get revenge' 'pick up dinner'. She … must forget a lot. Hmmm. Which one was it? "Ah, heck." Sadface. She just kind of peers at the two.
Pallas is sitting and being examined by Glory. Or, more correctly, is done being examined by Glory and is getting yet another sling put on him. And doesn't look all that happy about it - but then again, when does he look happy about anything? You don't want to know the answer to that. "I get enough shoved up my ass, too, Captain," he points out. But his bravado has broken ever so slightly. "Without lube, too." He's about to expand on the thought when he sees Lunair coming in. Far be it from the pilot to actually stop himself from offending someone - no, it's merely that another plan of attack opens up. "If it ain't the knitting marine," he calls out to her.
Glory glances at Pallas for a moment, then behind her, offering Lunair a smile. "I'll be right with you, Lieutenant," she calls. Then it's back to the pilot, a brow arching slightly. "Three words, Lieutenant," she murmurs. "Ice. Cold. Hands. Trust me on this. Unless you're a closet masochoist, there comes a point when the pain becomes "oh HELL no." And if she hits you? Well, depends on where. I may be facing the other direction."
Blink. She just kind of /eyes/ Pallas at the ass comment. "Between the drooly guy sniffing me and that, pilots are /weird/," Lunair just kind of peers at him. She just stays there. "That it is. I weave, sew and embroider." Nod. Crafts pride! But then, they can witness a poor short term memory in action. Lunair's purple eyes go blank. "Now what was I - where was -" what was she doing? Where was she going? It's almost kind of pitiful to witness the sad side effects of a bad short term memory. She blinks at Glory and nods politely. She's respectful, and seems to have a stately, refined demeanor even in light of her coat of postits and general confusion.
Pallas contemplates Glory's words for a while in silence. "Y'know, Captain," he says, "if it's that tiny blonde one, I don't think I'd mind so much." He glances about the sickbay to see if she's working at the moment. All clear. Or at least, so he thinks. "She's got no tits, but the rest of her makes up for it." Social filters? Who needs those? "I daresay the Junior's a bit confused," he stage-whispers to Glory, 'Junior' referring to the LT Junior Grade. "See what happens when the drinking ban gets lifted?"
The sling is adjusted in due course, the CMO remaining professional despite the likely rising desire to "adjust" Pallas' sling to hold up his adam's apple. "Oh, no, Lieutenant," she murmurs. "That one." She nods to a sweetly smiling male nurse across the way, one who wiggles his fingers and just -grins- at Pallas. Poor man is about 6'2 and built like a linebacker. Those aren't hands, those are paws. "Alright, three weeks. And be careful, the tiny blonde bites - and not in the fun way. "You're in the sickbay," she tells Lunair, straightening, back popping audibly as she does so. Oh, yeah. That hadda smart. "What can I help you with?"
Gaaaaaaaaasp! "You can't talk about a lady or her bits like that," Outrage! Lunair pouts. "… she's slender or petite," Nod. No bad manners! Gentleman officer! It's kind of hilarious. Does Lunair tilt at windmills somewhere? She just blinks. Whoa. That's a scary orderly. She blinks at Pallas. "I'm sober!" She protests softly. "I just … I…" She turns around. Ehn. "Shoot." Sadface. Lunair's great curse is to forever sip the waters from Lethe. "What was I doing?" She rubs her chin thoughtfully. She just can't remember. She checks the layer of postits in he rjacket again. "Me? No, I'm okay, sir. I was doing something and got lost. I drew a map earlier but I lost that too." Sadness. Surely this much confusion can't be healthy. "And I could totally knit a gag for him if you like." Helpful!
Pallas visibly recoils and gives the male nurse a look of horrified 'wtf srsly'. "Touche," he mumbles to Glory as the sling is adjusted. Just like the one he threw away yesterday! "Knit a gag, hm?" he asks, giving Lunair an over-the-top look. "And I'm sure you Marine-types already carry handcuffs. Didn't peg you for that type, Threads." He glances over to the Marine officer with a raised brow. "At least you don't suffer from the same problem that Little Blondie does."
"Only if you put a ball in the center of it," the Captain says, putting one hand at the small of her back. "Lieutenant Pallas, do that in my Sickbay and you'll find my boot shoved so far up your ass that you'll be spitting laces. Respect my officers, or I let them off their leashes." She dips her head to Lunair and reaches for a chart. "Well, if you figure it out, Lieutenant, please feel free to let me know. Lieutenant Pallas, I expect to see that sling on you whenever you're out of your bunk, please. Thank you."
"Wait what? Noooooo, I'm not a pervert, I never even-" Her eyes widen, blushing. "No, I don't get handcuffs," Lunair shakes her head. "I'm more with rifles. But I could totally loan some to the Captain." Beam. She is teasing a bit. She smiles. Then pauses. "She has a problem? I think I'd be kind of mad too if someone commented on my chest and spoke to me that way," She notes. "You should be a gentleman in here," Nod. "Well always. But." Shrug. "Will do, sir," She promises Glory. "I should get out of your hair then. It was nice to see you."
"Sir, yes sir, three bags full sir," comes Pallas' ready reply complete with salute and all. He lets his arm swing back and forth in the sling a little bit. "Well, when you get handcuffs, let me know," he says, getting back on his feet. The downward glare at the sling makes it clear he's not happy about having to wear the damned thing again, but when is he ever happy about anything? "Among the many things I've been called over my career, 'gentleman' isn't one of 'em." He makes his way toward the recovery room, presumably to spend some time at the side of his comatose wingman as he does every day.
Glory just shakes her head, sighing quietly. "Goodnight, Lieutenants," the exhausted woman calls. Then softly, under her breath, "I'm too old for this shit."
Poor Captain. Lunair just blushes at Pallas. "I - am not -" She curls her fingers a little. "I'm totally proper!" Yeah! And the last time she had a date, it was in a fruitbasket. She tilts her head, "That's kind of bad." Then she pauses. "Hey…" She seems concerned, "I - if you need help with your arm and all, just ask, okay?" She offers. She's not heartless and does seem to care about Pallas in that 'want to punch' one moment, want not to punch the next. "Be well, sir." Nodnod. She'll wander off too then, unless Pallas wishes company. Off to … remember what she was doing.