The next time Dr. Harris came to check on Aramis, he surprised them all by saying that he wanted him out of bed.
"But what if he falls?" Porthos asked.
"Would you let him fall?" the doctor replied.
"Never!" said Porthos.
"Then what are you worried about?" the doctor asked as he pulled the oxygen tubing from behind the bed to lengthen it before removing the pulse monitor from his patient's finger. "If I cut him loose tomorrow, I need to ensure that he's mobile. Plus the risk of a blood clot increases the longer he stays in bed, especially when a lung is involved. Up you go, Aramis." He reached out to take both of Aramis' hands and pulled. "This is how you need to get him up, to put less pressure on his ribs. When he's in bed, have him recline as far upright as he can stand, to lessen the strain." He studied Aramis as he sat on the side of the bed. "Dizzy?"
"Yes," Aramis answered, repeatedly blinking. A sudden chill passed through his body, surprising him.
"Take it slow," said the doctor.
Everyone nervously watched him, and Aramis was surprised when a familiar blue robe was suddenly placed over his shoulders.
"I figured you'd need it," said Treville. "I grabbed it from your apartment."
It was one of Aramis' favorite articles of clothing; made of thick fleece material. "Thank you," he said, with gratitude.
Treville helped him get his arms into the sleeves, with the doctor temporarily disconnecting the IV tube from the port in Aramis' hand. Treville then produced Aramis' slippers and helped him with those too.
"You thought of everything," Porthos observed.
Treville nodded somberly. "I've had plenty of time for thinking."
The doctor took Aramis on his injured side and had Porthos take him on the other, and they gently eased him to stand, holding on tightly when Aramis' knees didn't lock.
"Weakness is normal," Harris said. "Take your time."
Aramis was already breathing heavier, but eventually did manage to lock his knees. He was hunched over in their grip though, as the pain in his ribs shot down the bruised area all the way down to his knee and his head throbbed in time with his heart. He couldn't prevent a little moan from escaping, and he closed his eyes.
"Sit him down," said Harris. "He's not ready."
"No," Aramis protested, reopening his eyes. "I can do it."
"Move Porthos' chair six feet from the bed," Harris told Athos. "Can you make it to that chair?" he then asked Aramis.
Aramis nodded slightly.
Athos obeyed and Treville grabbed one of the blankets off the bed, draping it over the chair to make it more comfortable. Both men couldn't prevent themselves from hovering as Harris and Porthos helped Aramis shuffle over to it. They were all relieved once their injured friend was safely sitting again.
Aramis was breathing heavily, paler and wincing as he blinked against the lightheadedness that was floating through his head. His left hand gripped his knee and his right arm was wrapped around his ribs. He felt Porthos and Athos both squeeze his shoulders, and realized that they were making sure he wasn't going to slip off the chair.
"Are you all right?" Harris asked, using a stethoscope to listen to his lungs.
"Considering," Aramis said, still wincing. He'd been surprised at how much it hurt his left leg to try walking, and he realized that he had yet to see the bruising down the side of his body. He let go of his knee and moved the robe and hospital gown aside to see his leg, and was surprised at the depth of color that went up from the side of his knee and disappeared under the material. "Does it look like this all the way up?" he asked.
"Up to your ribs, yes," said the doctor. "You doing okay in the chair for now?"
"Yes," Aramis said, sitting back slightly and watching as Treville grabbed his own chair and brought it over before gently lifting Aramis' legs onto it.
The doctor nodded, "Good." He slung the stethoscope around his neck before saying, "Your lung sounds a little congested...not too much, but you need to cough when you feel the urge. I might even make it a condition of letting you leave tomorrow."
Treville immediately grabbed the pillow and sat it on Aramis' lap.
Aramis made a face. "That's cruel."
Everyone chuckled, elated to see their injured friend make a joke.
Dr. Harris smiled. "Hey, it's my job. If your lung is clearer later, I'll try removing the oxygen too." He went over to the machine and lowered the percentage. "If you have any trouble breathing, tell someone. I'll be back." With that, he left the room.
Aramis looked at everyone, to find them all staring at him. "What?"
"You ain't coughin'," said Porthos.
Aramis made a face. "Not yet."
They all realized that his trip to the chair had increased the pain, so they couldn't blame him for waiting for it to die down.
Aramis spent a lot of time in the chair and eventually obeyed his instructions, coughing in an effort to clear his recovering lung. Dr. Harris kept his word of removing the oxygen and Aramis seemed to do fine without it.
Everyone slept in Aramis' room that night, though at least one of them was always awake watching him. Once morning came, Aramis' first words were "When can I leave?"
"The doctor checked on you an hour ago but didn't say," Athos told him. "He told us to find out how your breathing feels without the oxygen."
Aramis said nothing for a minute and they watched every inhalation. He suddenly lifted his hand to look at the tiny plastic monitor on his finger, which displayed 90%. He took a deeper breath with a wince, and saw the number change to 91.
Everyone wondered what he was doing, as they couldn't read what he was seeing.
"Aramis?" said Treville.
Aramis held out his finger so they could see.
"Your oxygen level," Athos deduced.
"Should it be a hundred percent?" Porthos asked.
"As close as possible," Aramis answered.
"Any chance it could be defective?" Porthos asked. He pulled it off his friend's finger and put it onto his own, and they watched as it shot up to 100% on his next inhale.
"Not defective," said Athos.
"Not with lungs like mine!" said Porthos. He slipped it off and grabbed Athos' hand, sticking it into his finger instead. The 100 stayed.
"You broke it," Aramis said with a smile.
Porthos shot him a mock-glare before pulling it off Athos' finger and holding it out towards Captain Treville, who stuck it onto his own finger. It changed to 99 before going back to 100.
"Not broken," said Porthos. "But captain, I think you're getting old."
Everyone chuckled.
Porthos took it and stuck it back on Aramis' finger, where they watched the number drop to 90 again. "Darn it," he commented.
"You need to inhale deeper," Treville told Aramis. "You're breathing too shallowly."
Aramis obeyed, but winced again.
"The doc probably won't let you leave if that number doesn't go up," Porthos said.
"I wanna go home," Aramis impatiently whined. "Is this day four?"
"Yes," said Athos.
Aramis sighed, before wincing and starting to cough.
Athos pushed the pillow against Aramis' side, holding it there until Aramis stopped. He suddenly noticed that Treville had hold of Aramis' wrist and was watching the monitor on his finger.
"It went down to 85 when you coughed, Aramis," the captain said.
Aramis said nothing, catching his breath.
"Looks like you still need the oxygen," said Porthos.
Aramis shook his head, which wasn't throbbing as badly, he was relieved to see. "Wanna go home," he repeated.
"Then breathe deeper," said Treville.
Dr. Harris came in soon after and confirmed what Treville had said, that Aramis needed to breathe more deeply. He had them get Aramis out of bed again and make him walk around a little with their help…which lowered his oxygen level even further. Harris showed him some breathing exercises and told Aramis that his oxygen level had to be at a consistent 95% before he could leave.
The command depressed Aramis, who'd thought that he would be out of there by noon. He did what he was told, but it was only at 92 by then.
"I'm gonna be stuck here forever!" he complained.
Dr. Harris tweaked his pain medication, weaning Aramis further off the straight morphine and giving him pills instead. They seemed to help more than the decreased morphine doses had, and Aramis was able to breathe a little deeper.
When the oxygen percentage finally reached 95, Aramis could've jumped for joy…especially considering that it was nearly suppertime by then. "Can I go now?" he asked.
Dr. Harris chuckled. "I'll get the paperwork started…it could take an hour, though."
Aramis frowned, knowing that it was a stall tactic. "You forget that I'm a detective."
"You forget that I'm a doctor," said Harris. "I want that to stay at 95." He tapped the monitor.
"Paperwork!" Aramis demanded, rolling his eyes.
Harris chuckled and left.
"Why don't you just stay the night and leave in the morning?" Porthos asked. He was disturbed by Aramis' weakness and concerned that his oxygen level could drop again.
"This isn't a hotel," Aramis replied.
"I'm sure he would let you stay one more night if you asked," Athos said. "Your injuries are serious."
"I want to go," Aramis answered.
"But Athos is right," Treville said. "Be practical."
"The doctor wouldn't be letting me leave if it was unsafe," Aramis told them. "We all know him; he's no quack." He suddenly smiled. "But he doesn't have to know that."
Everyone chuckled.
When the hour was up—and Harris made him wait the entire sixty minutes—Aramis' oxygen level was still 95%.
"Looks like you're a free man," the doctor said. He headed over to remove Aramis' IV. "You have a follow-up appointment here the day after tomorrow at 10am, and I faxed prescriptions to your pharmacy." He then looked at the others. "Only baths for him, not showers. He doesn't need to slip and make those ribs worse. Any questions?"
Aramis thought for a minute. "No." He stuck out his right hand. "Thanks, for everything."
Harris smiled and shook his hand. "I'll get a wheelchair up here while your friends get you dressed."
Aramis nodded and didn't protest their help. They had to do everything for him, dressing him as if he were a child. The cracked ribs made it impossible to move his left arm much or bend over, the terrible bruising down his leg made him unable to lift it, and the exertion increased his headache and breathing. He simply sat there and let them manhandle him. When he was finally able to see all the nasty bruising on his body, he was surprised at the sight. The stitches in his skin where the chest tube had been inserted looked ghastly in the middle of it, like something out of a horror movie.
When he was dressed, he gave Treville a slight smile. "Stylish outfit."
Treville smiled back. He'd brought a pair of Aramis' sweatpants and his favorite Star Wars sweatshirt. "I didn't think jeans would be comfortable with your ribs."
Aramis nodded his agreement.
When the wheelchair arrived, they carefully helped him sit in it and the orderly wheeled it through the halls. By the time they got to the door, Aramis was thoroughly dizzy. He said nothing though, and was surprised when hands were suddenly on him, zipping up his jacket.
"It's raining," Treville said, apologetically, as if there was something he could've done about the weather.
The wheelchair was suddenly moving again, and Aramis was finally outside in the fresh air, protected under the awning as the rain lightly fell. It felt wonderful—if a little chilly—and then hands were suddenly on him again.
"Aramis?"
He blinked his vision into focus, finding everyone staring.
"You all right?" Porthos asked.
"Fine," Aramis answered.
Everyone knew that he was weak and hurting, so they figured his behavior was normal and they carefully pulled him out of the chair and sat him in the backseat of Athos' Cadillac.
Aramis sucked in his breath at the pain, and when a body was suddenly sitting beside him, he leaned against it.
Porthos gently wrapped his arm around Aramis' back, holding him steady when Athos drove away a moment later. The ride was occasionally bumpy, and Athos cringed each time he accidently hit a pothole.
Treville was in the front seat, and he was turned around the whole time watching. The only thing that had stopped him from sitting on Aramis' other side was not wanting to risk bumping into his cracked ribs.
Aramis suddenly moaned when they hit one of the potholes.
"I'm so sorry, Aramis," Athos said.
"Not your fault," Aramis replied.
It was a tense ride to their injured friend's apartment, a ride that took too long for all of them. When they finally arrived, Athos pulled up to the door and they carefully got him out. Porthos pulled Aramis' arm around his shoulders in support, and slowly helped him walk inside.
Athos quickly parked his car and ran to catch up as Porthos and Treville got their friend to the elevator. Aramis lived on the second floor, and when the elevator stopped, Aramis' knees suddenly buckled.
"Whoa, whoa!" Porthos exclaimed, as they tightened their grips on him.
"Oh, wow," Aramis mumbled as his head spun. "That was a roller coaster."
The others held him steady until he could move again, and the walk to Aramis' door was very slow. Treville produced his key and opened it, holding it open as Athos and Porthos helped Aramis inside.
"Home sweet home," Aramis commented with relief.
They brought him to his bedroom and put him straight to bed, conveniently not having to change him out of his jogging suit—another reason why Treville had chosen that outfit.
"I'll pick up your prescriptions and buy some food," said Treville. "Is there anything you want or need?"
Aramis took a few seconds to answer, catching his breath. "I'm…not sure," he answered honestly.
"Think about it," Treville told him. "Text me if you come up with anything."
Aramis closed his eyes with a slight nod, and Treville left.
TBC
