Disclaimer: Now here's a surprise… I don't own NCIS: LA or any of its characters. If I did Callen would get hurt more often and would wear a thigh holster in every episode.
A/N: Sorry if it's a little short but I promise the next one will be longer than this one.
Chapter 4
Nobody said the road to recovery was going to be an easy one. He wasn't expecting to run a marathon in a matter of days, but he had expected more progress than he was making. As soon as his dosage of pain meds decreased, they adjusted the bed so he could spend more time in a sitting position. Then little by little the tubes disappeared until only an IV was attached to his arm.
Right about that time, the food was becoming somewhat solid. It was still as terrible as ever, but now at least it was edible. It was a blessing he didn't have much of an appetite. Whenever Sam visited he would bring him tea and something to eat, so he didn't starve. Gradually, he was taken off of medication after medication, until the only thing left was for the pain and anxiety.
In the beginning, he was only allowed to walk very short distances, like to a chair or to and from the bathroom. He thought it was such a simple task, it wasn't worth doing. He wanted to walk to the garden, or at least do a few laps around the floor, but the doctor's orders were pretty clear. Apparently they've dealt with enough cops to know they need to keep a close eye in case they decide to do something stupid. Not that he could at the moment.
He was frustrated. His heart wanted to burst out of his chest and his lungs felt like they were on fire with each breath, each involuntary move of his chest a painful one. His legs wanted to buckle from underneath him, and that was just after a quick walk to the bathroom. Initially, his fatigue was a severe one, even if he tried his best to down play the symptoms.
The first time he got out of bed was easy to cover because the purpose was only to sit in a chair for an hour. The movement pulled the skin around the incisions and if he hadn't had an audience, he would've cursed loud and extensively enough to make a gang banger proud.
He had had stitches before and he always hated the pull whenever he moved. The problem now was the places and the quantity. They weren't there anymore, but the skin was still tight and it made standing up and sitting down a challenge. Physical therapy was all the more painful and slow. At least the doctor was pleased with his progress, even if for him it was more of a slow development.
The first time he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he didn't approve of the man staring back at him. Sunken eyes, pronounced cheek bones, pale skin. He showed very little resemblance to the fit man that charmed people for a living. He knew that what made him so good at his job was his ability to become someone else without much trouble, but right in that moment he felt like someone else entirely, someone who was vulnerable and weak. He didn't like that feeling. He didn't like it at all. Whoever wanted him dead, they had tried and failed to take his life, but they had robbed him of a piece of himself, and he was fighting like hell to get it back.
One day after one of his daily therapy sessions, the doctor informed him he could be released as long as he had someone that could provide him with assistance until he was able to walk around without much effort. At that moment he would say anything if it would get him out of there. He had had enough of the hospital, of the bed rest, the food, the constant in and out of doctors and nurses. Nearly two months was more than his patience would allow. It wasn't until later he realized he didn't have a place to go.
Before he was shot he had been telling Sam how it was time to move again, now he had a valid reason to. That didn't exactly leave him with a get out of jail free card though; he had no place to stay and too much pride to ask for someone's help. Even despite this, he was telling himself that it wasn't really pride, more like self reliance. He had been in the system since he was five years old, if he learned anything from that experience; it was not to depend on others. Sometimes it was hard to forget there were good people out there that he could count on, but he rather not risk it. So after much thought, he decided the best course of action was to talk to Hetty directly about his relocation.
He had to endure Hetty's slap on the wrist, but she came through for him. She worked her magic and found him a suitable place to live in the short amount of time he had given her. That was two weeks ago, and he didn't feel all that comfortable in the new apartment. It had nothing to do with Hetty's pick; it was a great place, very spacious for a single person and accessible for someone in his condition. He just felt slightly unsettled.
However, he planned on staying as long as he was on medical leave. He would find another place once he got back on duty. Maybe before then…
TBC
Ps. Next chapter will be the conclusion.
Have a nice week!
