She'd been home for about two weeks now. The doctors at the hospital decided she was out of the woods when it came to her fight to stay alive, but another fight for her life was still underway: withdrawal from the drugs she'd relied on for the past few years.
Most of the time she stayed in bed, his bed. Roger stayed at her side, holding her through the tremors, and the chills, and at one point had the dignified job of holding her hair back while she vomited. The worse part was watching her suffer, feeling her body shake uncontrollably against his, listening to her whimper in her sleep, looking in those hopeless brown eyes and promising her it would all be worth it. Sometimes Roger wasn't sure himself if it was worth it; there were several instances the first week when he seriously considered going out and finding her a fix, to end her suffering and thus, his.
In the end, he could never bring himself to do it. He knew he needed to be there for her like he wasn't before, he wasn't going to give up on her, and he certainly wasn't going to let her give up on herself. He did what he could assuring her "everything's going to be okay," and "I'm here." Usually her best response was a disgruntled moan.
"This will all be worth it, Meems," he promised everyday.
He sat on the couch, staring miserably into his mug of coffee. Last night had consisted of a particularly bad round of tremors, followed by a few bouts of vomiting. Thankfully she was asleep now, and Roger didn't have to be strong the moment.
"Goddamnit," he muttered to himself.
"Rough night?" asked his roommate Mark, who Roger hadn't even noticed was in the kitchenette. "How's she doing?"
"She's bad. It's bad," Roger grumbled.
"How are you doing?" Mark took a seat beside his roommate, on the couch.
Roger winced in response.
Mark rested his hand on Roger's shoulder. "Just hang in there, man. "
Roger took a sip of coffee. "That's the plan."