SGA Fic - Defiant One Tag: Bedside Manner
Title: Bedside Manner
Rating: PG for language.
Characters: John, Carson
Summary: A little whumpy tag to the Defiant One with a dash of comfort tossed in. For nebbyjen. I know I'm posting early, but I have a lot of projects going and didn't want this one ending up so buried that I forgot about it.
Defiant One Tag: Bedside Manner
John had been in two car wrecks and three chopper crashes in his life, and walked away from them all. The price was muscles so stiff the following day he honestly couldn't move. Add to that broken bones and, in a fit of self-pity, he lamented having walked away in the first place. Then he would come to his senses and narrow the lament down to being conscious.
John awoke to wishing he hadn't walked away. His shoulder burned hot and sharp, his ribs stabbed, his skull throbbed and the three butted heads for his attention. His stomach, unhappy with the situation, rebelled and the next thing John knew he was leaning over the side of the bench, pucking and adding to his agony.
Warm hands held him while he retched. “Easy, son, easy. I've got you.”
Carson. Despite the chaos, John's brain still registered that brogue as Carson's. That meant they were home, and it also meant that John had slept the entire fifteen hours.
Which had been a very bad idea, because now he could barely move without some part of his anatomy screaming at him. He'd needed to wake up, move around, keep his muscles warm and lax. Now he was paying for it. He was also pretty sure he had a concussion.
When the puking stopped, John felt himself manhandled from the bench to the softer padding of a gurney. Happy as his body was to be cushioned, his skull protested - very loudly - and he was back over the side coughing up dry heaves.
The warm hands returned, supporting him.
The dry heaves pissed off his ribs more than any other part of his body. The muscles cramped, locking his lungs, keeping out much needed air. John was rolled back onto his back so an oxygen mask could be strapped to his face. When the oxygen brushed over his tongue, it was like a wake up call to his lungs. The first breath, however, made his chest seize.
“Easy, lad. Slow and careful. Test your limit.”
The second inhale hurt a fraction less, the pain lost in the bliss of satisfied lungs.
John was vaguely aware of being undressed: his vest removed and his shirt split open. He flinched when a needle slid into the skin of his hand.
Then came sweet, sweet numb riding cool through his veins. Someone pressed his ribs gently but all he felt was a dull ache. The only sensation in his shoulder was a periodic pinch and slight pressure. John grinned, flying high. He angled his head enough to observe the process and arched an eyebrow at one hell of a bruise taking up most of the area of his chest, so dark not even his chest hair could hide it.
“D-aaaammn,” he croaked. “Wr'tthh... kicked m'ass good...” his stomach flipped. “C-raaaaap!” He was back over the side, back to puking. At least it didn't hurt this time. The warm hands had returned to support him, joined by others. Someone was rubbing between his shoulder blades, someone else his neck loosening the rock-solid muscles and easing a little of the throbbing in his skull.
Despite the lack of pain, John's stomach was hell-bent on expelling something and kept trying for a cruel amount of minutes. When it finally gave up, John was sweaty, shivering and spent. He needed all the help he could get to roll onto his back, that innocuous little motion making his head spin and his stomach threaten more. He gulped in air denied him by the pointless puking.
A hand touching lightly on his chest reminded him to slow it down.
“I gave you something that should help with the puking, son.” Something else was stuck into his ear. “Aye, and looks like a fever too boot. No surprise, this wound is pretty inflamed. Marie, get him started on antibiotics...”
John drifted between numb, dizzy and only moderately nauseas. Cool cloths wiped the grime from his face and chest and he leaned into them gratefully. Fingers danced around the wound at his shoulder until finally covering it up with a bandage and gauze. A sheet was pulled over him, then his pants removed - Carson was a good guy like that: letting his patients keep what dignity they could. His muscles were so locked he had to be helped into scrubs, and if it hadn't been for whatever Carson had given him to stop the puking, he'd be back to leaning over the side.
Once dressed, he was covered to his neck by a sheet. Chills wracking his body with shivers made him beg for more. Carson complied with a single thin, knit blanket but nothing else.
“”We need to make sure your temperature doesn't get any higher. I've given you something for the muscle aches I know you're feeling, something that should also help you sleep.” Carson grinned. “Since it's bloody obvious you won't be up for any food, we'll set that aside for now.” He then patted John's lower arm. “You get some rest, lad. I won't be far if you need anything.”
John gave him a wavering thumbs up. Carson chuckled softly. “All right then. Sleep. You're home, safe. We'll take care of you.”
John didn't doubt it and so easily complied.
The End
Rating: PG for language.
Characters: John, Carson
Summary: A little whumpy tag to the Defiant One with a dash of comfort tossed in. For nebbyjen. I know I'm posting early, but I have a lot of projects going and didn't want this one ending up so buried that I forgot about it.
Defiant One Tag: Bedside Manner
John had been in two car wrecks and three chopper crashes in his life, and walked away from them all. The price was muscles so stiff the following day he honestly couldn't move. Add to that broken bones and, in a fit of self-pity, he lamented having walked away in the first place. Then he would come to his senses and narrow the lament down to being conscious.
John awoke to wishing he hadn't walked away. His shoulder burned hot and sharp, his ribs stabbed, his skull throbbed and the three butted heads for his attention. His stomach, unhappy with the situation, rebelled and the next thing John knew he was leaning over the side of the bench, pucking and adding to his agony.
Warm hands held him while he retched. “Easy, son, easy. I've got you.”
Carson. Despite the chaos, John's brain still registered that brogue as Carson's. That meant they were home, and it also meant that John had slept the entire fifteen hours.
Which had been a very bad idea, because now he could barely move without some part of his anatomy screaming at him. He'd needed to wake up, move around, keep his muscles warm and lax. Now he was paying for it. He was also pretty sure he had a concussion.
When the puking stopped, John felt himself manhandled from the bench to the softer padding of a gurney. Happy as his body was to be cushioned, his skull protested - very loudly - and he was back over the side coughing up dry heaves.
The warm hands returned, supporting him.
The dry heaves pissed off his ribs more than any other part of his body. The muscles cramped, locking his lungs, keeping out much needed air. John was rolled back onto his back so an oxygen mask could be strapped to his face. When the oxygen brushed over his tongue, it was like a wake up call to his lungs. The first breath, however, made his chest seize.
“Easy, lad. Slow and careful. Test your limit.”
The second inhale hurt a fraction less, the pain lost in the bliss of satisfied lungs.
John was vaguely aware of being undressed: his vest removed and his shirt split open. He flinched when a needle slid into the skin of his hand.
Then came sweet, sweet numb riding cool through his veins. Someone pressed his ribs gently but all he felt was a dull ache. The only sensation in his shoulder was a periodic pinch and slight pressure. John grinned, flying high. He angled his head enough to observe the process and arched an eyebrow at one hell of a bruise taking up most of the area of his chest, so dark not even his chest hair could hide it.
“D-aaaammn,” he croaked. “Wr'tthh... kicked m'ass good...” his stomach flipped. “C-raaaaap!” He was back over the side, back to puking. At least it didn't hurt this time. The warm hands had returned to support him, joined by others. Someone was rubbing between his shoulder blades, someone else his neck loosening the rock-solid muscles and easing a little of the throbbing in his skull.
Despite the lack of pain, John's stomach was hell-bent on expelling something and kept trying for a cruel amount of minutes. When it finally gave up, John was sweaty, shivering and spent. He needed all the help he could get to roll onto his back, that innocuous little motion making his head spin and his stomach threaten more. He gulped in air denied him by the pointless puking.
A hand touching lightly on his chest reminded him to slow it down.
“I gave you something that should help with the puking, son.” Something else was stuck into his ear. “Aye, and looks like a fever too boot. No surprise, this wound is pretty inflamed. Marie, get him started on antibiotics...”
John drifted between numb, dizzy and only moderately nauseas. Cool cloths wiped the grime from his face and chest and he leaned into them gratefully. Fingers danced around the wound at his shoulder until finally covering it up with a bandage and gauze. A sheet was pulled over him, then his pants removed - Carson was a good guy like that: letting his patients keep what dignity they could. His muscles were so locked he had to be helped into scrubs, and if it hadn't been for whatever Carson had given him to stop the puking, he'd be back to leaning over the side.
Once dressed, he was covered to his neck by a sheet. Chills wracking his body with shivers made him beg for more. Carson complied with a single thin, knit blanket but nothing else.
“”We need to make sure your temperature doesn't get any higher. I've given you something for the muscle aches I know you're feeling, something that should also help you sleep.” Carson grinned. “Since it's bloody obvious you won't be up for any food, we'll set that aside for now.” He then patted John's lower arm. “You get some rest, lad. I won't be far if you need anything.”
John gave him a wavering thumbs up. Carson chuckled softly. “All right then. Sleep. You're home, safe. We'll take care of you.”
John didn't doubt it and so easily complied.
The End