Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Warnings: Very minor adult theme mentioned.

Author's Notes: Gratuitous Makepeace whumping.


Infirmary Blues
by
Besterette

Besterette@aol.com

 

Makepeace was bored.

Having two broken legs would do that to you.

He'd exited the gate like a cannonball, and had lost serious points on the dismount. He really wished Carter and Shore and the other physics-geeks could figure out why sometimes you walked out of the gate like stepping over the threshhold of a door, and sometimes the ancient mystical interstellar transit system acted like it was manufactored by ACME and you were Wile E. Coyote.

It didn't help that a new guy was offworld with his team, SG-3, while he was down for the count. Well, most of his team. Johnson was on leave... had gone home to Cascade, Washington, for a family thing, his nephew graduating from the police academy. Still... SG-3 was his team. He didn't know this new guy, Castleman. And he didn't have his 2inC there to keep an eye on things. They were offworld, under the command of an untried officer. And he was here.

The SGC Infirmary. Jokingly called Jackson Memorial after how often the civvie analyst for SG-1 got wounded in the line.

He counted the irregular holes in the ceiling tiles. Bricks of cement in the walls. Watched nurses walk by. Tried to convince Doc Fraiser that one of those TV/VCR carts from media services wouldn't be in the way, and in fact were a necessary part of his recovery. Counted the number of fractures in his X-rays and wondered if he'd won the monthly pool.

Ooooh. Pain medication. Niiiiiiiiice...

Lunch was dried-out broiled chicken, steamed-to-rubber veggies, and tapioca pudding. He daydreamed about ribs. Big racks of barbecued ribs dripping with sauce. Potato salad. And cold beer.

Devorah Randall from Logistics brought him paperwork, three sports magazines, and a portable radio. He apologized that the casts prevented him from getting down on one knee, and asked her to marry him. She laughed, and went back to her office. He did his paperwork. Read his magazines. Listened to the noise on the radio for a while, but couldn't find a good blues station.

More pain medication, which led to an unsettling dream about gator-headed hyena things chasing him through his junior high school.

He decided not to listen to any more of Jackson's cultural briefings, recognizing the monster from a "book of the dead" that the Egypto-geek had suggested might be an alien animal the Goa'uld used as hunting dogs.

He was bored.

He was embarrassed when he had a reaction when one of the nurses... a cute brunette gal... gave him a sponge bath. The new regs for a PC co-ed service were pretty confusing, even when you weren't doped up, but he was pretty sure one of them had just committed sexual harrassment. He just wasn't sure if it was him.

He worried about SG-3. They should be back now. Shouldn't they? Felt like days. No clock in here. Next time Fraiser breezed through he'd have to ask for a clock.

He slept for a while.

~ End ~


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Page last updated 8/15/03.