You Need a Pilot
Join Date: Aug 1999
“Ow!” Beryl and Conn both uttered as they collided with each other.
Conn staggered back, a ringing pain starting to throb in his forehead. He clutched at his temple, then looked to see who he'd inadvertently headbutted. "Beryl?" he said, taking a few steps towards her.
“Sorry, sir,” she said automatically, without really looking at him. “Wasn’t concentrating.” She sucked on her fingertip, again starting to bleed from the cut. “Just came to get a bacta patch. Oh, and dinner’s almost ready.”
It took Conn a few moments to remember that Beryl was cooking up dinner for the crew. "Oh, of course," he said, retreating back into the medbay. "Hang on, I'll grab one for you."
As Conn went to retrieve the patch, Beryl noted that various medical supplies were splayed out over the countertops. Obviously, Conn was reorganising the place to his liking. “Doing some spring cleaning?” she asked, as her eyes darted around the room, trying to figure out in which storage cabinet he was planning to put the tranqs.
"Yeah," Conn responded as he removed supplies from an overhead cabinet. "Your previous medic was certainly an eccentric one. Had some really odd instruments here that I didn't know could be used in medical applications."
“Yeah, Ollie was more of a ‘do-it-yourself’ medic,” Beryl commented, as she looked around the bay. “And a home-brewer,” she added as she passed her eyes over a heap of metal tubing. “He was great at doing stitches though,” she recalled. She looked down at her forearm, recalling a particularly nasty cut she had suffered when helping Cloud in engineering one day. “Can’t even see the scar.” She turned to look at Conn. “I won’t need stitches for this though.” She held up her finger. “Just a bacta patch.”
"All righty," Conn said, picking out a finger patch and bringing it over to her. As he approached, he felt an odd, jittery feeling emanating from the blonde Corellian pilot. Probably still feeling the withdrawal effects from those Imperial drug cocktails, Conn thought to himself. He exterted a little bit of his Zeltron abilities, in an attempt to soothe her frayed nerves.
Beryl thanked him as she took the patch. She was feeling a bit calmer now, although she attributed that to the slug of Cassandran brandy rather than anything Conn was doing, but her hands were still shaking a bit. “I feel a bit silly asking this, sir, but can you…?” She met Conn’s eyes, and held out the patch and injured finger.
"'Course," he said, taking the patch and ripping it out of its wrapping. He took her hand in his own and carefully applied the patch to her injured finger, then gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, hoping his emotional projection eased a bit of her shakiness.
Beryl stared at him for a moment, then kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you, s—.” She paused. “Conn.” She shifted uncomfortably. “So, you coming to dinner?”
"Wouldn't miss it for anything," Conn replied, a little surprised at her kiss, then at her look of slight discomfort. There was something else... and as he ran his tongue over his lip, he figured out what it was. "Beryl, what have you been drinking?" he asked.
“Cassandran brandy,” she said truthfully. “That’s why I cut myself. I was shaking. Not from drinking the brandy,” she clarified. “I did that after the cut. But...” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sir, can’t you give me something that lasts longer? Please? I feel like I’ve got bugs crawling behind my eyeballs.”
"Oh Beryl," Conn sighed. "Tranqs aren't going to make things better. You're going to need to pull through this without them. More drugs aren't going to cure you." At her crestfallen look, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "Let's wait until after dinner, all right? If it'll help, I try and use my abilities to ease the jitters."
She nodded. “I’d better check on Sam. I left her stirring our supper.” She held out her hand. “C’mon.”