"Listen sister, that ain't gonna cut it." The conversation in the next partitioned part of the room catches my attention and draws me out of my self destructive thoughts. After sitting in this bed or ones like it for the last two weeks, TV has lost all interest for me and they wouldn't let me connect to the internet at all. The distraction has caused me to realize I'm about to lose the battle of wills against my bladder and I reach for the wheelchair sitting next to my bed. It took a while, but I did finally manage to convince somebody that I was now healthy enough to make it to the bathroom on my own instead of having to put up with the humiliatingly cold bedpan. I was, however, not the expert I had thought myself to be with the wheelchair, which I now proved as I slowly and painfully levered my weight firmly into the chair and then made quickly for the john.

The pain, effort, and sheer time consuming nature of the trip it took for me to complete this necessary bodily function made me want to put it off as long as possible, thereby making the trip as few times as possible. I still couldn't stand up at the toilet, so I had yet another near Olympian level physical ordeal to finally position my body appropriately. Pleasure finally hit me as the pressure was released and a sense of normalcy, or as close as I come to it these days, returned to me. Getting my body back into the chair and then rolling over to the sink to wash up took more time and made me reflect once again on the idiocy of whoever had designed this system; having to get back into the wheelchair after utilizing the facilities and cleaning up yourself before being able to wash your hands. At least this sink and mirror were low enough I could use them seated.

I turned the water off and stared at my reflection for a long moment before I caught myself participating in a staring contest with my self. I still marveled at the new scar puckering my flesh from my forehead down through my eyebrow and across my eyelid itself before starting afresh in my cheek. A shallow cut, to be sure, but an annoying facial blemish I'd wished I could do without even if I did get it in a most enjoyable fashion. I took back that silent wish a half second later as I thought of the other marks that war and not love had put on my body.

I stared down at my hands in wonder and at the virtual plethora of scars there. I watched as each scar told a part of both my story and the story of others fighting with me, either alongside or against. If one knew where to look, they could see love and the building up of life along with rage that was born of hate on the same fingers. The knuckles of my right hand told of many a jaw they'd come across and the ones on my left still echoed the plate glass window I'd lashed out on in a blind fury. I recalled not feeling any pain when it happened, but instead the steady wet warm drip on my foot had caught my attention. I could still remember the curiosity tinged with mild awe at what I had done as I pulled out a long sliver of glass that had imbedded itself in my hand.

Here was where I'd been desperately bitten by a man in a hold he could not undo. Over here was the sword cut accidentally given to me by my old friend when we used to train together back in the Dojo. I skipped over much of the same on both hands: knife cuts, broken glass, even a small chunk of myself gone forever; as my inspection moved down to my wrists. I carefully played with my roughened flesh there as I wondered how many times I'd pulled against a rope tied around them, how long I'd been chained to a wall. I looked further up one forearm in the mirror to examine the long scar that'd laid my flesh open to the bone, and I remembered the laughing face of the girl that gave it to me as I traced its design. My elbows bore teeth marks and my right shoulder the tattoo of my Dojo.

In the Army, on your uniform, the patch for the unit you've seen combat with is worn on the right shoulder, even if you go to a different unit. Even if you retire, you can still wear that patch and say 'I was there with this group'. I looked at that tattoo and realized how true it was, and how alike I was to it. I felt at the still healing bullet wound in my upper left chest with my hand and then I pulled up my flimsy hospital gown to reveal longer and, sometimes, deeper cut marks across my stomach and the start of older bullet marks walking their way upwards in the same direction of the new one. And then finally I pulled it up to see the deepest cut of them all; a straight line, more or less, about two inches long to the left side of my chest above my stomach. That's what I'd see if the bandage didn't disguise it, anyway; that and the answering one on my back.

A flash of pain as I touched the red spot on the wrapping reminded me of the fight I'd got it in and the fear in her voice as she'd called out for help for me; somebody, anybody. I'd call myself, if I thought I needed it is what I'd told myself at the time but of course I didn't realize my lung was collapsing until I found myself short of breath and unable to move. With first feeling dizzy then seeing sparks in front of my eyes to finally the world growing even dimmer than it already was, I lay there in her arms and willed it all away to smile at her the last smile I thought she'd ever see on my face.

Here is how the world ends, at least for me, it thought. Not with a growl or a roar, but with a whimper and a smile at the words she'd given as unknowing gifts.

They'd even saved most of the lung, they'd told me, quite proud of themselves of course; but we'd still have to see about that. I stretched slightly and felt the pull of the stitches remind me to stop before I started bleeding again. I was still having problems standing upright and tended to slouch over when I sat down, but I was pushing it everyday I could until I couldn't stand the pain or the blood spot started spreading. Then I would slouch back down or curl into a ball on my side and wait to compose myself before calling the nurse to check for bleeding. I'd lost count of the times I'd been scolded for aggravating the injury or heard the threats of being stuck here for extra days.

I physically shrugged as I pushed those meaningless words aside. Looking at my face again reminded me of who I was. I wasn't the invalid, I was just the injured. I would heal, I would stand, and run, and fight and I would get the job done again. They couldn't stop me, they can only slow me down and only I would be the one to decide by how much. As long as she was still out there and as long as I wasn't dead yet, then there was still work I needed to do; and I'll be damned if I'd let someone else do it for me when I could do it myself.

Speak of the devil, I heard her unmistakable voice from the other room and pulled myself quickly out of my reverie to flush the toilet again and run some water to splash my face with before drying off. I wrestled with the door and won as it let me out to see that wonderful smiling face. I wheeled myself over to the bed where she moved in effortlessly to assist me into my bed by picking me up as though I were a feather and gently putting me down before sitting on the edge of the bed herself.

At the worry in her eyes, as she sat close to me with her hand in mine, I forgot all about the internal battle I'd just waged with myself. The smile I was never surprised to feel when she was around sprung onto my face as a reflex and her refreshed answering smile was like a sunrise that, as it reached her eyes, sent all the clouds running and brightened up my day perfectly. We sat there quietly, both still smiling at each other, until her slightly parting lips gave me the perfect opportunity to prove to her my returning vitality. Her comment was going to have to wait until I really, truly believed as she did... that I would be back in the fight.

A/N: That's the end of this story. Let me know what you think. Also, keep your eyes out for the next installment of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Jake the...