(no subject)
[About a month after this.]
In a bed near the very end of the rows of cubicles, Gaeta's curled on his side, watching the wall. He's tucked one arm near his head, encircling the pillow; the other arm -- which has an IV line trailing from it, stuck to a vein already traced in angry reds and purples -- wraps tight around his abdomen like a shield.
He's pale, eyes and nose watering both, and shivering a little despite the film of sweat on his face.
This is easily as bad as he's looked since he lost his leg.
In a bed near the very end of the rows of cubicles, Gaeta's curled on his side, watching the wall. He's tucked one arm near his head, encircling the pillow; the other arm -- which has an IV line trailing from it, stuck to a vein already traced in angry reds and purples -- wraps tight around his abdomen like a shield.
He's pale, eyes and nose watering both, and shivering a little despite the film of sweat on his face.
This is easily as bad as he's looked since he lost his leg.