Eli warns Charlie that he keeps an eye on PT reports...
Related Scenes: None
Scene Number: 937
When you're a surgeon, you can't risk the punching bag. At least, not when you're potentially sailing in to battle. So instead, Eli is practicing the less badass art of cardio. He's been on the treadmill awhile judging by the sweat across his shoulders, damp hair and soaked tank top. His stride still seems fairly strong.
A couple Raptors jumped in to meet with the Galactica today and drop off more of the crew. Since it shipped out to Tauron airspace while still at roughly half capacity. One of those brought in was Charlotte Wagner. Corporal. And recently discharged from some hospital ship or another to be folded into the unified forces and attached to Task Force Phoenix. Specifically, the marines aboard the battlestar that served as the flagship. She's been aboard just a handful of hours: long enough for a quick tour, to report in to her squadron's officer, and to find her bunk. Now, the young woman has been left to her own devices without being marked as on duty until the next day.
Like any good marine, she's found the gym. In sweats bearing Picot's colors, she hovers in the door. Someone hasn't been given her Galactica-issue yet. Or has opted not to wear them. Hands shoved into pockets of the hoodie, she finally enters further and starts her way towards another of the treadmills.
Eli's pace continues neatly, with the swish-swish of the treadmill keeping up with him. After a minute or two longer of this steady pace, the machine starts to angry beep. He looks at it accusingly. It stops. Then, after a breath or two, starts beeping again, then whines, then stops short. He has to reach out to grab hold of the handle to keep from planting face forward into the control panel. "Sonuva bitch!" He smacks it and steps off, then notices Charlie. "Don't go on that one." Beat, "Obviously." He leans over and takes long breaths. So much for a cool-down.
The dark-skinned young woman is removing her jacket to reveal the dual-tanks beneath. That, at least, is standard-issue in the colonial fleet. So she's not wholly out of uniform. There's a glance over as Eli speaks to her and she blinks a few times, looking from him, to the treadmill she's about to step up on. "Wasn't planning on it." Coastal Picon accent, that. "This one right here looks good enough to me." The jacket is tossed over one side of the machine as she steps up. Her arms, bared, show signs of relatively recent trauma. Shrapnel wounds, at least, but at least one looks to be the result of a GSW. Or similar penetrative object. New enough to be from the uprising, but old enough to be healed and likely from nearer the start of the war.
Eli glances as her as he pats his neck and forehead down with a towel. "Toaster burns?" he asks, nodding towards her injuries. "Don't bother being coy about it. I'll get your file on my desk in the next day or so and be able to see for myself."
The woman glances up from the controls. Trying to figure them out, perhaps. Charlie lifts a hand to push hair back behind her ear. It refuses to stay put. "Uh. Yeah. Messy extraction." She does reach one hand across to rub at the scar on her right shoulder. "Released from the Jengu," a Picon hospital ship. "just... eh, last week? Guess they thought I'd do well here." So yeah, definitely her file will end up across the desk in sickbay. The marine looks forward again, scowling at the machine. "Different than the ones the Jengu had. How do you program this frakker?"
"Welcome to the ranks of the dubiously honoured. We are the 'do well here' crew, it seems. For all that's worth." Eli's tone is both wry and dry. He steps around to the side of the treadmill, glances at it, then raises an eyebrow. "You gotta start moving first. Then the panel will light up and you can program it. Power saving measure."
The young woman grunts faintly in acknowledgement. No embarrassment; more of a frustration than anything else. But not directed at Eli. Directed at the machine, likely. With one hand on the sidebar, she does start to move... and yes, the machine comes to life. "Had to program 'em first on the Jengu," she notes, absently. "If you're a doc, figure you'll see. I've got a PT routine still. And yes, I'm keeping to it." A finger jabbed in the treadmill panel's direction before she actually keys in a program of a certain length and difficulty. "Won't need you hassling me about it."
"I'm a doctor, not a babysitter. I don't hound people. What I do is make notes on files," says Eli with a bit of a sly roll to his words. "I watch. I observe. Even when you think I'm not keeping track. And then you're pulled from duty," he snaps his fingers. "And you've got a mark on your file, and suddenly you've got plenty of time to keep up your treadmill." He rocks back and claps softly. "It's a big ship, and I'm a busy man. I prefer passive harassment."
The woman settles into the routine without much difficulty. It's a slow ramp up. An easy jog that steadily increases over a handful of minutes. "Pssh." It comes out in a rush of air, but there's a laugh on the tail of it. "Coulda used some like you while I was convalescing," the word is shaped weird; like she's heard it just recently, but barely used it. "Instead of nurses and the like hovering at seeming all hours. Poking, prodding. Frak me, I just wanted to sleep."
"See, that's the difference between nurses and doctors. Nurses are there to prod you and monitor you and make sure you're doing everything you can to get better. Me, I just stand back and issue orders from on high." Eli lifts a hand and lets it drop. "If you don't follow my advice, you're only hurting yourself. Quite literally in this case."
Charlie is quiet for a time as she runs. Lifting a hand to push hair back from her brow as sweat begins to bead, there is a slight snort. Not derisive... probably, at least. Maybe it's amused? Who knows! Still, she doesn't look over to Eli. Eyes forward mean less likelihood of doing something embarrassing. Like faceplanting on the treadmill. "Gotta get out there so I can dismantle these frakkers. Not gonna be skippin' out on PT much."
"That's what I like to hear," says Eli. He smacks the side of the equipment. Then, a pause, a consideration, "Not likely a pilot would get that chewed up and still be alive. So I'm guessing you're a ground pounder." Then, "If you want, I can look over your PT plan. See if I can help you cut any corners. Hospitals, even military ones, always go for an optimal plan to help you recover, not always what'll get you back in the game."
The woman is quiet again for a time before Eli makes his offer. She hits the pause button at that. There is a slightly stumbled step before her hand grabs one of the bars she she balances. There's a deep breath, hand coming up to brush back hair again. "Aye, sir. One of the grunts. Corporal Wagner." She doesn't offer a hand. She's sweaty. "And if you could do that?" Her eyebrows rise. "Well, I might be a bit more ken to taking myself to the sickbay when need be."
"Eli Cadmus. Lieutenant, if you want the rank, but I'd give you a funny look if you called me that instead of Doctor." He's sweaty too, though he's starting to get that cold sweaty instead of the fresh sweaty. The kind of sweaty that's best avoided by hitting the shower promptly. "No promises, but I'm an efficient doctor. And I've got different training. Call it a second opinion."
"Second opinion's fine by me, Doc." Charlie turns to start up the program again. It takes her to the full jog sooner than initially. At least her heart rate didn't slow too much to make it difficult to get back into things. "Might be Picon docs were worried I might not have a surfing career. As if I give a frak about that anymore."
"Hey, maybe when the Cylons enslave us all in payback, they'll turn out to be surfing fans," says Eli. He wanders over to check the machine. It's...sparking a bit. He balks and pulls a face. Not his surgical department. He apparently gives up on the idea of more jogging, because he tosses his towel over his shoulder. "Have fun settling in, and enjoy the total lack of privacy or personal space. You know where to find me if you want a consultation."
Dark eyes do slide to cast a look towards the sparks, but Charlie seems to decide it's no threat to her workout. She continues at her run. "Haven't known privacy in a while, doc," she calls breathlessly over her shoulder. "But I have been missing blue skies and the ocean. That's where this posting can go stuff itself."
"I'm gonna choke on a bit of patriotism here, and if you get to know me, you'll know this isn't normal," Eli chuckles and scratches his temple, "But the reason we're here is to save those blue skies. And I say this as someone who doesn't give a godsdamn whether he sees his home planet again. That doesn't mean I want to see it as a pile of rubble."
This earns a brief, barked bit of laughter from the marine. Charlie doesn't halt her running, but she does need a hand on the bar. "Don't hear much like that these days, doc," she offers finally. "I went from wondering when my next hot meal would be to talking to guys who lost limbs. Hard to think about blue skies much at all."
"Yeah, well, I may be a cynic, but there's a certain value to the ra ra stuff. That's why it's kind of baked in to the military. If we can get over ourselves and all the Colonial shit, we might actually come out on top." Eli rocks back a step. "Happy jogging. If the handles start to get warm, I suggest you get a bit of distance."
"Just so long as you don't start giving up rallying cries of 'hoo-ah' and all that bullcrap, sir." Charlie does flash a smirk over her shoulder towards the lieutenant. "Yeah, well, some of us are hoping it works out. Lotta people losing their homes and more on the way." She lifts a hand to brush back hair, muttering something about a wrap. "Warm handle? Will do!"
"Oh, gods. You have my express permission to break my nose if I ever make that particular grunting noise," drawls Eli. He rocks back and lifts a hand. "Make sure you don't skimp on your time on that thing. I've hacked it so it sends the results direct to me." Clearly a bluff. Or is it?! "Unless, you know, it explodes. Extenuating circumstances." He heads for the door.