ph_logs | Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground (Mingle)

Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground (Mingle)

CHARACTERS: Hawkeye and the Veteran’s Poker Club
DATE: March
LOCATION: Hawkeye’s clinic
SITUATION: Poker game (for veterans)
WARNINGS: Presumably discussion of conflict and ptsd

You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands

A notice goes up on the board, and Hawkeye sets up the clinic for the occasion. Obviously he’s not moving all his medical supplies out- at the back of his mind is always the possibility that something could happen that demands he put his doctor hat on again. Not choppers, but something.

But he sets up a table and chairs in the middle of the main room, with a stack of cards and some ‘chips’ (acorns, he went out and gathered some acorns, which he’s painted different colours). There’s a flask of his homemade gin, some finger food from the Oak and Iron, and he got a box of cigars for the occasion. Feels just like the conferences from home, only without sandwiches that move and Frank. So, y’know, infinitely better.

Prior to starting, while Hawkeye’s setting up, he’ll engage in some small talk with anyone who shows up early- which, they’ll all be military, it will probably be all of them.
“Ever played poker?”

Or

“Can I get you a drink?”

Or

“Can you grab that tray of implements for me?”

At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer

When everyone who’s arriving arrives, Hawk sets himself at the table, one of his surgical lights over top of the table to set the mood.

“Alright- this is poker, it’s a little game we like to play back on earth, because we like losing money. I’m gonna teach you five card draw, just to get us started. I’m going to deal each of you five cards. What you’re looking for is to have the highest hand at the end of the round, then you take the pot. Easy. Hands are ranked by how hard they are to do- if you get numbered cards in order and they’re all the same suit, that’s a straight flush. Then we go four of a kind, which is just that- four of the same number. Full house is if you have three of the same number and a pair of a different numbers in the same hand. Flush is if you have all your cards in the same suit. Then straight, which is by number order but not the same suit, three of a kind, two pair, one pair, and then if you have absolutely nothing we score it by your highest card.”

Hawkeye clears his throat, takes a sip of gin.

“I'll deal to start with, we all bet based on our hands and how confident we are that we’ll have the highest ranking hand, then we discard any cards we want and redraw back up to five. Then we place our final bets, and reveal our hands. You get lost at any point, just ask. Questions?”

And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair

Shittalking, chewing the fat, commiseration, and general socializing with Hawkeye during games goes under this header. Tls for your characters welcome in the comments.

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He can't help but crack a smile at Hawkeye's easygoing patter. It's so different from Doc Cottle's gruff, no-nonsense demeanor; it's a little jarring, but not in a bad way. More like one more quiet reminder that wherever Gaeta might have wound up after his execution, he's as far away from Galactica as is possible to get.

"That sounds good. Better than good," he says with the smallest chuckle. He unpins the folded end of his pantsleg and starts to roll it up so the doctor can get a better look. "The one I had before was basically a peg leg anyway -- it didn't fit, the endcap went all the way up to here." He taps a spot a quarter of the way up his thigh. "I couldn't bend my knee at all."

And in examining the residual limb, it's easy to see that took its toll. The scar tissue is still pink, mostly healed, but not healed well; in a few places, it's even still pockmarked with scabs from where the poorly-fitted endcap of Gaeta's old prosthetic chafed at his skin. This was a situation with few medical supplies to be had, and an urgent need for all hands on deck no matter what physical toll it might take.

There's no wince at the scabs, if only because Hawkeye has seen worse. Always seen worse, really, he examines the site of amputation carefully and dispassionately.

"No wonder you still had pains- alright, the good news is this is simple enough to fix, bad news is, I don't want anything touching that leg until it's healed up properly. Not when we're already having a hard time sourcing antibiotics. The secondary good news is that you'll be waiting on Peter to carve the leg anyway, so there's no rush. You're going to want to keep your leg moisturized, keep it clean, and if it plays up or gets itchy, you're going to keep a hot compress on it. Just a rag soaked in warm water will be fine. Ask Sally what she has- if she has anything better than just sticking some petroleum jelly on it. Other than that, I'm not seeing any major issues. Any questions? Concerns? Comments on my stunning professionalism and medical acumen?"

Gaeta's expression falls upon hearing that analysis. He tries to tell himself: the old leg was so bad it didn't make it much easier to get around anyway, and he's right, it's probably better to give it time to heal now that you have the time. The rest of the advice sounds a lot like what Ishay would tell him whenever she tried to rush him out of sickbay, but, well... it also makes a lot more sense without an ill-fitting prosthesis thrown in the mix. Not like ointment can stay on long enough to be effective when an oversized endcap's scraping it off every three steps.

Still, he'd hoped --

It doesn't matter. Gaeta sighs, but keeps his voice light as he says, straight-faced, "I've never been more stunned by such professionalism and knowledge, sir."

A beat passes. He rewinds the conversation, and abruptly frowns. "Is there really -- how bad is the antibiotic shortage?"

Yeah, he can tell it wasn't the news Gaeta wanted to hear, and his fall in expression is mirrored on Hawkeye's face.

"Sorry, buddy. I do surgical miracles, but I can't magic you a new leg. Would that I could. Anyway- I won't lie, if I think about it too long I don't sleep at night. We're still trying to make penicillin from mould, so we're running on whatever Sally can figure out from plants, which isn't... good. I mean hell- I used to think my last outfit was bad, but there we had proper disinfectant and, y'know, plasma delivered to us when the army could remember we existed. Long story short, do me a personal favour and try not to get scraped up any more than you already have."

"Frak," he mutters, incredulous, and rubs a hand over his face. "Gods, I wish I'd talked to Cottle more about how we were synthesizing our antibiotic supply. We had med shortages all the time, but I think we only completely ran out of antibiotics once or twice. Or if I could remember half my chem classes," he adds, more wry, "but I'm pretty sure that ship's flown."

Because there has to be a solution, doesn't there? What's the point of Gaeta coming from a world light years ahead in its scientific advances if he can't even help find the most basic medicine?

Hawkeye pats his knee, "we're working on it," and stands back up, making his way back over to his notes, "last I heard Sally had someone on trying to isolate the right mould. This is how Pasteur and Paracelsus worked- don't get me wrong, I'm terrified of anyone here getting a papercut, much less a real injury, but no point getting too worked up. We have a really great chemist on it. And she's even looking lovely while she does it."

He notes a couple of things down, adding- "there's a reason I'm not trying to help. Me, my speciality is thoracic surgery. I can massage a heart back into rhythm, theoretically, but I got some girl who was crazy about me to write my chem papers in college. We all do what we can, yeah?"

"Yeah." The fleeting, crooked smile returns. "Just wish I could do more."

It really does feel like being back on New Caprica some days, struggling to keep a haphazard settlement alive while Baltar drank himself into a stupor and the entire Fleet was gods-knew-where. At least they're not under Cylon occupation, too. Small mercies.

Carefully, he starts to roll his pantsleg back down. As he does, he says -- more to his wounded leg than to Dr. Pierce -- "You know, you're, uh. The first person who said they were sorry I got left out there for fifteen hours. Except for my partner. I appreciate the care." A small, self-deprecating huff. "I'll do my best not to fuss too much about letting it heal."

Hawkeye blows out a breath that sounds frustrated.

"Yeah, I'm starting to think some doctors missed the memo about the 'compassion' part of our profession," he sheds the white coat when he finishes his notes, slotting it away and putting the coat up on an IV stand.

"Back on the actual reason you're here, where'd you serve?"

"Cottle's -- he wasn't that bad," Gaeta protests mildly, seized by the urge to defend Galactica's doctor -- and tripping up on whether to use the past or the present. Referring to Cottle in the past tense feels vaguely ghoulish, like he might jinx the lives of those still on Galactica by implying they're gone. But it isn't as if Gaeta will see him again, barring Cottle stepping off the ferry some random afternoon. "Just brusque. But... never mind."

Not the point. (And Dr. Pierce isn't wrong, besides.)

"I was stationed on the battlestar Galactica for about seven years. Lieutenant, Senior Officer of the Watch. What about you?"

"I'm sure he wasn't," Hawkeye agrees. Some people get into medicine for the wrong reasons, that's the same regardless of what world they come from.

"I was at the 4077 MASH unit just outside Uijeongbu, Korea. Captain, if we want to wave our insignias around, but that's just because I'm an M.D. What's a battlestar- is that like a ship? Like an aircraft carrier, or?"

As usual, Gaeta doesn't recognize the location. Probably someone else from Earth, he thinks, with a sourness that has nothing to do with Dr. Pierce himself; the man's next question confirms his suspicions. He pushes the feeling aside.

"A spacegoing ship," he says with a quirk of a smile. He finishes re-pinning his pantsleg in place. "Similar to a planetside aircraft carrier, though, from what I understand. I've never seen one of those outside of a history book. Even where I grew up, we hadn't had much use for a standing maritime force for a long time."

A quiet, humourless huff.

"You met Lt. Tayrey yet? It uh- it shouldn't, but it amazes me that people got to space on a few different occasions and yet we still have the damn military."

And they can't even make a better leg or give someone time to heal, he thinks but doesn't voice, not after Gaeta already defended his doctor.

He shakes his head, "I've gotta ask- do you get cabin fever out in space? I mean- I think about being on a regular ship and my skin starts itching."

Gaeta brightens. "I have," he says. "We ran into each other while she was sketching charts. It's good to know there's another space officer in town."

The smile doesn't last, though, dimming to the same rueful expression as before. "It was effectively a peacetime service by the time I joined. I was mostly there because they'd pay for my genetics degree afterward -- and because eight-year-old me would've kicked me in the shins, if I had a chance to serve on a battlestar and didn't take it. And then..." An awkward, one-shouldered shrug. "Nobody expected we'd see combat, let alone -- what happened."

He leans back in his chair with a tiny groan. "But a battlestar's pretty big, and we could go to another ship if we wanted some real R&R. One or two of the civilian ships had amenities almost as good as you'd get planetside. It did feel a little cramped at first. But you get used to it, especially if you don't have a choice." He smiles. "And if I started going really stir-crazy, going up to the observation deck helped. Hard to feel trapped when you can see the stars all around you."

"Ah, like the reserves," Hawkeye starts, but... Oh boy, that's a loaded sentence if ever he's heard one. His brow creases in a clear acknowledgement that 'what happened' sounds like the lead in to the sacking of Rome, Forbidden Planet edition. But Gaeta moves on, so Hawk does too- it can't have been pleasant by the simple evidence in front of him.

"One of the first times we visited a big city to see my Mother's family, the sun went down and I started freaking out because I thought the stars had all gone out. Back home on a clear night, we'd have to shut the blinds to keep the light out, there were so many of them."

He sounds wistful. But then, he always does these days, talking about home.

"So genetics, huh? You're a scientist?"

"It's incredible, when the conditions are right," he murmurs, in quiet acknowledgement of Dr. Pierce's tone. "Sounds like you got as close as you could get to seeing a ship's view, without leaving your planet. And without the claustrophobia too," he adds, in a weak stab at a joke. "The light pollution isn't bad here, but if the constellations aren't what you're used to..."

That makes it worse, sometimes. A spectacular view is still an alien view; all it does is drive the homesickness deeper.

Gaeta sighs. "I wanted to be. That was the plan: Fleet Academy, four years of service give or take, earn a free ride to the best university on Leonis, internship at Picon Laboratories afterward if I got lucky..." A small, bitter huff. He rubs a hand down his face. "I had it all charted out. Then, three years into my service, the attacks happened and -- "

He stops.

Starts again, more cautious, as if he were breaking bad news as gently as possible: "I don't know how many other people you've met that, ah. Come from a place that doesn't exist anymore. But I'm one of them. All twelve planets of my civilization were wiped out."

"I keep looking for Orion's belt and getting disappointed. Orion must be missing it," he trades back, but...

Hawkeye pulls up a chair to listen, fingers laced loosely together, nodding occasionally. He bobs his head considering Gaeta's sort-of question.

"Planets, no. But farms? Villages? Towns that don't exist anymore? More than I'd like, the military I got drafted into seemed to think the best way to save people was to make sure there wasn't anyone left to need saving. You uh-" his voice gets softer, mirroring that tone, "you still had family on them? Either way, I- I'm sorry. Not that it helps, but- hell, I don't know what would."

"I did." Not much louder. "We all did. The vast majority of the survivors only survived because we were in the air."

As for the rest of what Hawkeye says... well, isn't that all a planet is? A collection of towns, farms, villages? Burn enough of them, and soon there's nowhere left to go -- and no one left who can leave.

Gaeta's jaw sets. "I'm sorry, too," he says, still low, but very clear. "That your military decided that's how they'd use their authority. And that they drafted you, gods."

Even at their worst, the Fleet didn't start hauling unwilling people off the civilian ships and chucking them into Vipers.

"I don't know how much that helps, either. I don't think anything can."

"Wouldn't have been so- so rotten and so galling if they'd just been honest about it. You ask any of the boots on the ground, we're there for 'peacekeeping' or 'to stem the red tide so that impoverished people halfway across the world don't get into our backyards and steal our hot dogs right off the grill'. It's madness. The army keeps spitting in our face and telling us it's raining, and we're meant to keep saluting them while they do it. And for what? To make some weapons manufacturers rich off bombs and bullets?"

There's a core of real anger to his words, something caustic and liable to kick up if he keeps on like this. He folds both arms around his middle, shakes his head.

"You want a drink?"

And oh, Gaeta knows that anger well. He still tastes it more nights than not, even if he made his peace with the mutiny's end; even if he knows he'll never be under the Admiral's command again.

For seven years I have done my frakking job, and for what?

"Gods yes," he says, fervent. A humorless chuckle follows. "If I'm off morpha for the foreseeable future, at least that means I can drink again."

Hawkeye retrieves a couple of glasses, fills them both with his patented homemade gin.

"To your health," he hands Gaeta the glass, "to the little guys here there and everywhere, and to peace."

"To doing what's right," adds Gaeta. He clinks his glass against Hawkeye's. "So say we all."

Then he quirks the faintest mischievous smile.

"And to cleaning everybody out as soon as I get the hang of poker," he says before taking a placid sip of his drink.

Hawkeye laughs with all his teeth, that anger clearing out of him like smoke from a chimney as he takes his own sip.

"If you walk out of here with the deed to the clinic, you're hosting next time," he warns.

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Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground (Mingle)

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