Chloe woke with a start and a yelp. The air was sterile, and the slow, monotonous drip-drop in the clear plastic bag next to her told her everything. The tiny little staccato droplets melded in a beautifully dull melody with the soft pitter-patter on the roof above. Tear drops were streaming slowly down the window next to her. The buildings outside were painted in hues of blue and gray that seemed to mourn its way through the window and onto the white and gray patterned linoleum floor. Here she was again, her usual room, the usual bed. Metropolis Med had become like a second, much more dreary home in the past few months. As she glanced at her right hand, she began to know what she had only guessed. She'd had another nightmare, another "incident." Her nightgown was folded neatly on the gray chair next to her, and a familiar draft was dancing in her sheets, and over the paper gown that barely allowed her a shred of decency.
"I brought you a pair of jeans, and a hoodie. Dr. Isley said you should be out in no time."
The ring on his lip seemed to dance when he talked. At first, Chloe had found it odd, and amusing. Now, in a strange way, after watching it waltz for the past three months, it was almost charming. The way his eyebrows twitched just a bit when he was deep in thought. She'd always laugh at him, which made them jump a bit, and he'd give her a look, then it's hit him, and the eyebrows simultaneously. "Damned eyebrows…" he'd mutter before they both fell into fits of laughter that soon lead to other things.
Now, though, no one was laughing quite yet. "I'll leave… if you, you know, want to change?" "Please. Like there's anything you haven't already seen? She said with her familiar, knowing smirk. He was always so courteous and kind around her, like he was handling a bluebird with a broken wing or something. It was both charming, like his lip ring, and irritating. She loved it. For a punk, he was awfully sweet. For some reason, he still turned his back to her while she slipped off the paperthin sheet and gown.
"There. All done. No virtuosity will be further defiled." She said, trying to sound a horribly upper-class as possible. "Happy?"
"Always." He slid into the chair, clasping her good hand, leaning a little awkwardly into her shoulder. He knew just where it tickled her, and soon she was in fits of laughter, something she rarely enjoyed anymore.
"I have something for you."
"Really? What." Chloe allowed herself to be taken in by the mystery, however contrived.
"This!" and soon, he was up, bounding over to his messenger bag, where a small white box lay nearby. "You see, today is a momentous occasion, Chlo-" "Oh really?" The investigative reporter in her was stirring slowly. "Yup." He gingerly picked up the small box, as if it held some sort of treasure, or a hundred little glass figurines or something really fragile. Slowly, carefully, he came back to her bedside, and placed the box on her table. Gingerly, he opened it. Inside was a small dark brown cake, lopsided and uneven in form and impression. He opened the box fully, as a big smile, another luxury of hers, painted itself across her face, dimples and all. In messy, chicken-scratched cursive, It read..
"Happy One-Hundred, Chloe." He said, lip ring dancing more exaggeratedly than usual.
"One-Hundred what?" she asked, simple, matter-of factly.
"Of these…" and with that, he gingerly held her stitched hand, kissing each one of the thirteen she'd received. Had it really been that many?
He pulled a sparkler that was far too large for such a small, dilapidated cake, and, with a small match struck on the edge of the table, watched as the sparks reflected in her wide-eyed pupils.
"You made this, just because I've had one-hundred stitches…?"
"Well, yes…" he said, with an awkward pause, "and, no. Sorta." She laughed. "You know that really old lady down the hall?" "The nudist?" "No, the other one." "Oh, yeah. Her." "Well, it turns out she cooks a mean dark chocolate cake with raspberry filling." "There's raspberry filling in this? Here. Take this." she handed him the still-sparking sparkler, as he gingerly tried not burn the hospital down while still blowing it out.
"So, anyway, while you were in surgery. "Surgery?" she half-said, her mouth already stuffed with cake, raspberry filling ripping down her chin "Yeah, "officially speaking" don't worry, it's just the usual stitches." The free stitches "Ok." A chunk almost fell out.
"Anyways, they said that you'd be getting thirteen. And it hit me. That would have you at 107 stitches in three months. So, I would have brought it to you at stitch six, but they were kind of busy." She smirked at his attempt at humor. She would have given him a laugh, but precious raspberry and dark chocolate might have been lost.
Something didn't feel quite right, though. A few moments later, she was staring at the coarse, wiry grey hair she'd pulled out from between her teeth. "You're sure it wasn't the nudist?" "She did have clothes on Chloe…I'm pretty sure." "If you say so…" Another fork-full soon found itself victim to her open mouth.
A few hours later, as they exited the building arm-in arm to the streets below, with post-storm dew fresh on the median's grass, richer after the downpour, Jimmy began to wonder why he'd never seen a washer or dryer in that nice old lady's apartment.