G feels like he's been hit by a truck. And yes, he has been hit by a truck before, thank you very much, so he's allowed to use that analogy.
His entire body hurts. It hurts to breathe. Hell, it hurts to blink. It feels like there's an elephant kneeling on his chest, so he has to fight for every wheezing breath he takes. His body temperature fluctuates between fever-hot and freezing cold, sometimes managing both at the same time. Meanwhile, his brain is so mushy it's like a bowl of oatmeal (cold), and he's exhausted but can't sleep a wink.
At least he managed to bitch his way out of sick bay, so he could crawl into his own bunk and be miserable there, which feels marginally safer. If he had the strength, he'd haul himself into his lifeboat hiding place like a rat in a hole. But Sam already put the kibosh on that.
"You can stay here," he says when he finds G in the cabin, "but if you pull one of your disappearing acts, I will find you, drag your ass back to sick bay, and tie you to your bed. Do I make myself clear?"
G mutters something profane in reply, but he's secretly glad. It's dark and safe in his hiding place, but it's lonely, too.
Not to mention, his pathetic schoolgirl crush on Sam has increased tenfold since the guy saved G's life — again. So being in the cabin gives G the excuse he needs to be close to Sam without revealing his pathetic schoolgirl feelings.
He protests, of course.
"I don't need a nurse," he growls.
"I know that," Sam replies with that maddening calm of his.
"Then why are you here?" G snarls.
Sam turns the page in his book. "Because it's raining outside, and it's dry in here."
"Oh."
G pulls the blanket over his head, but it doesn't help. He can still sense Sam's soothing presence. G is already anticipating what it's going to be like in a few weeks when that presence is gone from his life for good. He doesn't like the way it feels.
To add to his misery, he's overtaken by a coughing fit, wincing at the pain in his chest and throat.
"Do you need more tea?" Sam asks.
"No."
The truth is, G is dying for a cup of tea, but he'd rather throw himself overboard (again) than admit it.
He hears shuffling, then the door open and close. A few minutes later, Sam returns.
"Sit up," he orders.
G obeys, throwing off the blanket. Sam hands him the cup, steadying his (stupid) hands when they shake.
"Got it?" he asks.
G nods, forcing himself to pull away from that strong-but-gentle touch.
The tea, laced with honey, feels like heaven on G's sore throat. He sips slowly, trying to make it last. Trying to make the moment last. He can hear the steady patter of the rain on the deck and feel the rhythmic rolling of the ship in the waves. It's cold out there but warm and dry in the cabin. G feels like crap, but he's safe in his nest of blankets with his cup of tea, and best of all, Sam is here.
But soon he'll be gone.
G is horrified when tears start in his eyes. He sets aside the tea so fast it slops on his fingers, burning them. Fortunately, there's a box of Kleenex on the bed, so he's able to grab a handful of tissues and then dive under the blanket. There, the tears come faster.
G coughs, desperately trying to cover his sobs, then blows his nose loudly.
"You good?" Sam asks.
G takes refuge in rudeness.
"Of course not," he growls. "I feel like shit and I'm going to lose my job."
There's a pause. "Why?"
"Because," G snaps, "Vance is gonna declare me unfit."
Another pause. "Okay, why?"
G finally has himself under control, so he sits up, throwing off the blankets.
"I'm not stupid," he snarls. "The motherfucker put me on this godforsaken ship so I could get my shit together before L.A. Now he's got the perfect excuse to say I won't be able to handle the job, and I need the job. Motherfucker knows that, knows I'm no good at anything else, which is why he's going to fucking enjoy telling me I can't have it, just like he's always wanted. He told Gibbs to fire me plenty of times, and now the motherfucker finally has the perfect excuse."
Sam is staring at him. "Because you have pneumonia?"
"Yes," G practically shouts. "Because he thinks I'm fucked in the head and now he's got proof, thanks to you. What the hell am I supposed to do without the job, huh? Who the hell is gonna hire me like this? Some freaking mercs? I'll die first."
Sam has gone very still. "For the last time, I'm not informing on you to Vance."
G knows Sam isn't, but he's finally found the perfect way to push Sam away, and he figures he better do it fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Otherwise the pain will kill him.
"Yeah, right," he sneers.
Sam's eyes narrow, but he doesn't get up from his chair. "Even if I was, your being sick is no excuse for NCIS to fire you."
"Sure it is. They'll take any excuse. You don't know them," G insists. "They'd sell their grandmother to the Gypsies to get what they want. They've been wanting to burn me for years, and with Gibbs gone, nobody's got my back. Vance has been waiting for this. I'll lose my clearance. You don't get it." G raises his voice as Sam starts to speak. "Loyalty only goes one way with these people."
Sam shakes his head. "I don't believe that."
"Why not? You're proof, aren't you? You gave your entire life to the Navy, and what happens? You get hurt in the line of duty, and they kick you to the curb. You gave up your family for them, and they drum you out. Your loyalty, your service, your sacrifice mean nothing."
G knows he's scored a direct hit. He can see it in Sam's eyes. He hates himself for it, but forces himself to keep going. Anything to beat back the panic he feels at the thought of Sam leaving. He leans forward, spitting out the words.
"If you're not a SEAL, what are you, huh? You take off that uniform, and you're nothing. They might as well issue you a gun and a bullet, because that would be kinder—"
"That's enough." Sam rises, and his book falls to the floor with a thump.
G braces himself. Here it comes. He hopes Sam will punch him hard because it will hurt less than this.
Instead, Sam takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he speaks, he bites off the words one by one.
"You saved my life—"
"Great." G leans back, folding his arm. "Now we're even. So you can just—"
"Shut. Up." Sam raises one finger, and G falls silent.
Sam takes another breath and opens his mouth to speak. G holds his breath.
Then, instead, Sam shakes his head, laughing. "You know what? Forget it. It's not worth it."
You're not worth it.
Still shaking his head, Sam opens the door. The cold, damp wind rushes in, making the pages of Sam's book, forgotten on the floor, rustle and flip. Making G shiver.
"I should have left your ass in the ocean," Sam says flatly.
Then he's out the door, and gone.
I win, G thinks numbly as the door closes behind him.
I win.
And then: You see? He left, just like they all do.
Because you're pathetic. And stupid. And fucked-up.
Just like always.
With the nasty, familiar voices muttering in his ear, G curls into a ball in the small cave of the bunk, wrapping the blanket around him and pulling the pillow over his head. It's dark, and he's alone, which is how it needs to be. Anything else just isn't worth the risk.
And now his chest really hurts.
But not his lungs this time.
Just his (stupid, pathetic, fucked-up) heart.
