2237-09-11 - Green Jello Sucks

Alain gets word that Aubrey is awake, and he goes to see her. He's still really bad at making bets.

Date: 2237-09-11

Location: Military Hospital - Caprica

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 1390

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It's after training hours when a message is delivered to one Lieutenant Alain Tomlinson. The message is in an envelope bearing the header of the Naval Hospital Aubrey was moved to after her crash. The one that he's been lurking at now and then to check on her condition. Inside is a notice that one Lieutenant JG Aubrey Naxos has come out of her coma, and per permission of her father, Alain is permitted to come visit her.

When he arrives at the hospital, he is met by her surgeon, Doctor Taylor. The man shakes his hand and looks over a chart while he leads Alain towards the room Aubrey is being kept in. "You can only go in for a little bit. She is on a lot of medications, and she's will be groggy. Don't excite her too much. She still has a lot of healing to do, and will be here with us for at least a month or two longer. You should be prepared," he warns. "Her head is bandaged, and her left arm is immobilized to allow her collarbone, wrist, and ribs to heal. She may not recognize you immediately, give her a few moments and bring up something shared, and it'll click faster through the medication haze. Any questions?"

Having just showered and changed into off duty uniform, it's perhaps good timing when the message arrives. Thanking the message bearer, it doesn't take long for Alain to call a cab, finding his way off base and to the naval hospital. His greeting of the doctor is genial, if cautious -- listening closely. "A month or two?" he exhales, sharply, before he shakes his head at the latter question. "I understand, doctor. Thank you. No, questions." He brushes a hand over his shirt, smoothing it down, habitually, before he steps into the room.

"Part of that will be for physical therapy. She's well on her way to healing up." The doctor raps softly on the door to the room and calls out, "You have a visitor, Lieutenant!" He opens it, and gestures Alain inside. "I'll be nearby if you need anything. I'll come fetch you when your time is up."

The room is pretty standard for a military hospital. Clean, antiseptic smelling, and spartan in its furnishings. It is dim, however, due to the medications making the woman in the only bed sensitive to light. Aubrey looks small, thin, and pale in that bed. The two weeks of being fed through her veins and not moving about has taken a toll on the pilot.

Her eyes are half-lidded and glazed-looking, thanks to pain killers, but she is awake, which is a very good sign. Her head is wrapped in bandages, and her left arm is in a binder that keeps it held tight to her side, with her cast-bearing forearm held with a strap to her waist. There is ugly bruising still around her collarbone. Looks like when she crashed, she smashed pretty hard into the canopy on the left side, and that area and her head took the brunt of it.

Her dark eyes flit towards the door and she squints in the gloom, trying to make out who is there. "Visitor?" she asks, hoarsely, her voice still rattling around in her throat before it finds its way out into the world.

There's the briefest of grimaces as the doctor reiterates that their time is limited. Alain's expression eases however, as his gaze flickers around the room, taking in the contents as he approaches the bed. He stands at the foot for a moment or two, exhaling as he takes in her demeanor, his expression mostly shadowed as he mentally catalogs her injuries. When she speaks, he finally moves, jerking towards one of the chairs and bringing it alongside the bed. "Always got your back, Banshee," he says, with a familiar grin, as he settles into the seat. There's something tight in his expression, worry for her condition, though maybe she won't notice with all the drugs she's on.

There is a long moment where Aubrey's eyes show zero recognition of Alain. It's clear the wheels are turning inside her mind, trying to place the face. It's the voice that triggers the link to memory. "Jigger," she says softly, her lips moving into a small, relieved smile. "How did you get here?" She had no idea the Wolves are still on Caprica. "They said I was out for a couple weeks."

Her words are slow, lazy sounding, as her thoughts have to swim through the drugs before they can blossom into something verbal. She tries to focus on his face, but it's hard to sometimes. Instead she slowly moves her right hand towards him across the sheets that are drawn up to her chest. She's in pajamas that someone must have gotten to the hospital for her, at least.

The tightness becomes a brief close of eyes at that momentary lack of recognition. "Shit, Banshee," Jigger says, unable to hide the strain in his voice. "Wasn't going to leave without making sure you're all right." He reaches for her hand, squeezing gently. "The Wolves retook Delphi. We're staying at Argyros, training with some of the locals for a bit. Not sure how much longer we'll be here."

Her hand has the air-conditioned chill that seems to seep into every pore and settle into one's bones when you're in a hospital for too long. She looks well-tended too, however. They've been doing right by her. There are a lot of things hooked up to her, visible at the edge of her PJs top, and monitors beep softly in one corner. Thankfully, the tubes taking care of business otherwise are hidden under her blankets. She's able to eat on her own again, at least. That's one less tube in her.

"Sounds like it's going to be a while before I can get back on your wing," she says with a small frown. "That worries me. Who is going to keep you on your toes with bets you never win?"

Despite his obvious worry, that makes Alain laugh. "Guess you've just got to work on getting better so you can resume watching my ass, Banshee," he counters. The laughter fades, though there's a hint of amusement still as he leans forward, murmuring: "Should we make a bet about how long before you're out of here?"

"I need you to stay safe out there, Alain," Aubrey whispers, clinging to his hand like she's afraid to let go. "I need you to still be there when I'm back on my feet and back in a Viper." She seems one-hundred percent certain that will happen eventually. The talk of a bet makes her rasp out a small laugh, which makes her wince as pain ripples through her left side. "Ow. Sure. I'm gonna say I'm back to the wolves in," she ponders, pursing her lips, "8 weeks."

"Could say the same of you," Alain's tone is lighter now, though the worry hasn't completely disappeared from the furrow of his brow. "Don't worry, I'm the stalwart here. There at the start, there at the end," he promises -- no matter that it's not really one he has express influence over. It's what she needs to hear right now. "Eight? I say twelve," he counters, with a smile. Clearly he's hoping to lose this bet, like most of their others.

"What are the stakes this time around?" Aubrey asks, a little smile lilting on her lips as she rubs her thumb across his hand, like she might be able to remember how it feels after he's gone and she's alone except for the medical staff again. Her father hasn't been able to get off Picon. Stupid war.

He doesn't seem to mind the gesture, his gaze remaining on hers. "I still need that surfboard," Alain says, with a grin. "And someone to keep teaching me. You... hm. What do you want, Banshee?"

Her eyes focus for a moment on his, and then she lowers them again. He knows what she wants, but it's not something one can ask for. "Surfboard, ok, I can do that. I want," ugh, what does she want, "For you to let me take some nice photos of you, on leave somewhere. So I can plaster them all over the ship when you roll over aces again."

"Wait, you want blackmail material? Banshee," Alain sounds appropriately shocked (with, admittedly, some amusement, too.) He clucks his tongue, and then shakes his head. "Fine, fine. You can pick the place, but you don't get to dress me," he says, with a wiggle of warning finger from his free hand.

"Unless you want me to undress you, in which case I can totally change my side of the stakes," Aubrey murmurs with a goofy smile. "Did I say that outloud?" Oops.

"No," Alain says, pretty quickly, though he's laughing as he does so, all the same. Perhaps as a distraction from that little slip, he says, "Your father wrote me. He's been pretty worried. Promised I'd write him once I got to see you. Anything you want me to pass on?"

"Tell him I'll be fine. My wingman is still looking out for me, and I'm being taken good care of, even if I'm getting really sick of green jello," Aubrey quips with a tired look.

There is a rap at the door and it opens once more to the doctor. "Sorry Lieutenant Tomlinson, but my patient has some things she needs to get checked, and she needs her rest."

Aubrey frowns. "I just slept for two weeks, how much more rest do I need?" she mutters to Jigger. She gives his hand a final squeeze though. "Fly right, Jigs. I'll be back soon. I promise."

"I'll let him know," Alain promises, squeezing her hand again. The doctor's interruption earns an exhale of a not-quite sigh, putting on a smile nonetheless. "I'll try and visit again, if they'll let me," he glances toward the doctor at that, with a brief smile. "You'd better. You belong with the wolves, Banshee," he adds, as he stands. He leans over and presses a kiss to Aubrey's forehead before he dutifully follows the doctor out.


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