Another chapter, so soon after the last one, owing to the fact that I can't seem to make progress on my other fics. We're heading into a slightly darker arc for the next few chapters, I hope you enjoy this too.
Before he even gets out of bed, John knows it's going to be a bad day. He's spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe through the pain. His legs started spasming randomly sometime in the early hours of the morning, and by the time he normally gets up, he's spent.
He gives up on any semblance of normalcy and dry swallows his pain pills, hurting too much to bother with getting up for water. They don't do much more than take the edge off, though. Despite staying as still as possible, John feels the spasms getting worse, not better.
He eyes his alarm clock when there is a knock on his door. He should have been up over an hour ago and it's almost time for Lorna and Marcos to head down to the café.
"John? You up?" Marcos asks through the door.
John sighs, trying to sit up without triggering his back.
"Come in," he says.
The room is dark, the blinds still down. John looks away from the door when Marcos opens it and light floods in, waiting until his eyes start to adjust to look at his friend.
"John, what's wrong?" Marcos asks, coming closer.
"Just a bad day," John says, looking down. "Legs have been seizing up all night. I overdid it in PT yesterday."
He's grateful Marcos doesn't try to scold him−he doesn't need to be told he should be more careful. Instead, his friend stays on the practical side of things.
"What do you need?"
John sighs. He doubts he can walk at all right now, but he does need the bathroom. "Can you get my chair closer?"
"Sure," Marcos says.
He goes to open the blinds first to see where he's going, then he gets the wheelchair from it's spot by the desk. It's hasn't been long since John stopped keeping it close enough to the bed to reach it, and right now he doesn't know whether to curse himself for thinking he didn't need it anymore, or be proud of the progress.
"Thanks," John says, still not looking at him. He shouldn't be this ashamed of something he can't control, not after nearly ten months, but the more he recovers, the worse he feels about needing any kind of help.
"You sure you want to get up?" Marcos asks.
"No. But I really need to pee, so I don't have much of a choice."
"Alright," Marcos nods. "You need any help with that?"
"No thanks," John says dryly, finally looking up. It's less of a joke between them than it should be, because Marcos was the one who helped him with that kind of things when John first moved in, but it still makes Marcos smile a little.
In one smooth move, John transfers from the bed to the wheelchair, but he nearly groans out loud at the pain. He's only wearing boxers and a tee-shirt, his braces discarded to the floor beside his shoes. With a grimace of distaste, he uses his hands to maneuver his legs into the chair, something that he hasn't had to do in a while.
"Is it just your legs?" Marcos asks, frowning at how carefully John bends down.
"Back's not great either," John admits. "I'll be okay, I think, just need to take it slow."
"That's more than just taking it slow, John. You think you need to see your neurologist?"
"No," John shakes his head. "I'll call Sharon later to see what she thinks, but I'm pretty sure I just overdid it. It's not exactly the first time."
"If you're sure," Marcos says, still doubtful. They're getting used to John being better. In the first couple of months after his injury, this would have been a good day.
At a look from John, Marcos backs out of the room to give him some privacy. John extends his perception just enough to see that Lorna is still waiting in the kitchen, though they should have been down to the café ten minutes ago.
"Is he okay?" she asks in a low voice. John shakes his head as he wheels himself backwards into the bathroom. They should know by now that he can hear them from here−it occasionally gets embarrassing.
"Bad day, apparently," Marcos answers.
Lorna sounds just as worried. "Do you think he needs one of us to stay today?"
"I doubt he'll accept if we offer."
"I know."
"We'll just be downstairs anyway, maybe we can run up every few hours to check on him."
"Okay," Lorna says.
They still wait until John wheels out of his room, dressed in sweat pants and a fresh tee-shirt, though he hasn't found the strength to shower.
"Hey," Lorna greets him.
"Hey," John answers, not meeting her eyes. "Shouldn't you guys be downstairs already?"
"Heading there," Marcos says. "You need anything before we go?"
"Just take Zingo out? I'm good," John says. "Seriously, don't worry about me, okay?"
"John−" Lorna starts.
"Lorna, please don't."
"Okay," Lorna says sadly. "Just...get some rest, alright?"
John nods. "I promise."
Once Lorna and Marcos are both out of the apartment, John releases his tight control to let himself slump in the chair a bit. He hasn't been in this much pain in a while.
He needs to take the rest of his pills beside the painkillers, including muscle relaxants that should help with the spasms. He really shouldn't take them on an empty stomach, which is the only reason he's not already back in bed. Just sitting upright is taking most of his energy right now.
Most of the kitchen is still arranged so he can get at the important things−food and utensils−from his chair. John thanks the heavens for that, because he doesn't think he could stand up if he tried. His left leg is spasming like crazy, and his back is on fire.
He manages to find some bread, but he rethinks his original intent to toast it when he sees that the toaster is just out of his reach. Marcos and Lorna were very careful, back when he was still using his wheelchair full time, to keep everything where he could reach it, but they haven't needed to keep it up in months. John puts a couple of dry bread slices and a glass of water on his lap instead and heads back to his room.
Once back on the bed, he arranges a couple of pillows behind his back and eats a slice, almost choking it down because the pain makes him too nauseous to appreciate the food. He shakes pills out of the too numerous bottles in his nightstand drawer and swallows them.
It's one of those days where he can't find a comfortable position to be in. His aching spine, and specifically the piece of metal digging into his vertebra, makes it hard to lie on his back, but his legs are spasming too much for anything else. John sighs and resolves himself to a painful morning. He loosens up a little as the muscle relaxants kick in, but they don't do much more than make his head fuzzy.
He must have spaced out, because he startles at his phone buzzing on the nightstand. The clock tells him it's been half-an-hour since Marcos and Lorna left. It also means that Clarice's shift started ten minutes ago, and a quick check tells him she's the one texting him.
Are you okay? I was surprised not to see you this morning.
John sighs. He's been there for the start of every Wednesday morning shifts so far, so it's not surprising that she would be expecting him.
Not feeling well, he answers after a moment's reflection. Stayed upstairs.
Even admitting this much is hard, but it's not like he can lie. Or wants to.
Marcos said. It's quiet without you down here.
It's breakfast time at the café, so John doubts it's actually quiet, but she's finding the time to text him anyway.
Miss you too, he answers.
Ten minutes later, he gets another text. I hope it's okay to ask, but do you think I could come up to see you on my lunch break?
It takes John like a punch in the gut. He's not entirely sure if it's because she already cares enough to ask something like this−and worry how he might take it−or if it's his own insecurities talking. Can he really let her see him like this? She hasn't seen him during a bad day yet, and this is his worst in weeks.
John agonizes over it for a while. He hates admitting any kind of weakness, let alone showing it. Yet if his relationship with Clarice is going to continue, he'll have to let her in at some point. And he could really use something to take his mind off the pain.
Sure, he answers. Just a warning, I'm not good company today.
I can deal with that, Clarice sends back. John hopes she understands what she's getting herself into.
For the rest of the morning, John alternates between fretting over Clarice's visit and slipping into a painkiller-induced doze. He doesn't take another dose of muscle relaxants though, he wants to be clear-headed and at least able to move a little when Clarice comes up.
Marcos runs up quickly around ten under the excuse that Zingo is bored down in the café and would be better up here, but John sees right through it. Marcos and Lorna are both worried for him. And John hates it. He hates worrying his friends, and he hates seeing the sorrow in their eyes. There's been far too much of this in the last ten months.
It prompts him to phone his physical therapist, as he promised. Shannon tells him to take it easy and take a a few days off, no more than he expected. John likes her no-nonsense persona, because she's the only person in his life currently who doesn't treat him like he's fragile.
Well, along with Clarice. Which brings him back to the problem at hand. Clarice reacted well to everything he's told her so far, about his injuries and even his PTSD, but she hasn't actually seen most of it. It's one thing to hear about someone's issues, but John can't help waiting for her to run away the moment she sees what he's really dealing with. What he's become.
He's already made the decision, so he hopes for the best and steels himself for the worst. Zingo hasn't left his side since Marcos brought her back up, lying on the bed beside him, so he buries one hand in her fur, trying to take his mind off his apprehension.
When the muscle relaxant starts wearing off, the pain rears its ugly head again, in the form of renewed cramps in his left leg. John gives up on his idea of going over to the couch to welcome Clarice and stays in bed. It makes him feel even more vulnerable, but it's the better choice right now.
"Come in!" he shouts when Clarice knocks at the front door, fairly sure that Marcos left it unlocked.
"John?" Clarice calls.
"In here." John sits up straighter against the pillows, wincing when it pulls at his back.
Clarice comes in carrying a tray. "Hey," she says. "I brought some lunch."
"Hey," John answers. "Sorry I couldn't come to the door."
"Don't be. Can I put this here?" Clarice asks, waving her chin toward the end of the bed. When John nods, she puts down the tray and sits carefully on the empty space, beside Zingo who has fallen asleep.
John is glad she doesn't lean in for a kiss, because he doesn't think his back could have handled the move. She puts a hand on his arm instead. "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay," John says. "Just…" he looks down. His still spasming left leg is hidden under the covers. "Legs aren't obeying too well today. I probably overdid it."
Clarice nods. "I see. Anything I can do?"
"Not much to do but wait it out," John says. "It's nice to have some company though."
"I brought some food. I took something plain, because I thought you might be sick or something. So it's chicken sandwiches."
"Thanks," John says. He still hasn't managed to eat his second slice of bread from this morning, but it's nice of her. "I think I'll wait a bit. But go ahead and eat."
"You sure?" Clarice asks, frowning. "Is there something wrong? Beside−"
John sighs. "Just nauseous. It'll pass."
"Are you actually sick?"
Clarice looks so worried that John doesn't have the heart to lie, or even evade any longer. He still doesn't look at her when he answers. "No. My leg keeps spasming and the pain makes me nauseous."
"Oh," Clarice says, her face falling a bit. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," John says−it's become his go-to answer to all the people who express pity the last few months. He'd just hoped not to get it from Clarice too.
"No, I meant I shouldn't be pressing you for answers. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
So she's picked up on his hesitation. John nods, relenting. She's good at this.
"It's fine," he says. "It's just been...hard. To admit all the things I can't do anymore."
"I get it. You don't want to need help, to depend on someone else. But it's okay, you know. I'm not going to slip through your fingers."
John lets out a laugh. "I sure hope not," he says, trying to sound more confident than he really is.
Clarice smiles and picks up her sandwich, but she hesitates before biting into it.
"Go on," John tells her. "Your break isn't long, and you need to eat before you go back to work."
"You'll eat later?" she asks.
"Yeah," John nods, although he's not at all sure it's a promise he can keep.
Seeing the look of worry on Clarice's face, he starts to regret letting her come up at all.
"Clarice, I'll be alright," he says, wishing he could be more assertive. It's hard to focus through the pain, and he knows he must sound tired and weak.
Clarice hangs her head. "I'm sorry," she says. "It's just...I don't like seeing you in pain?"
John bites his lip. He has no right to be annoyed at her for that. "I know," he says as a peace offering.
"Does this happen often?" Clarice asks. Her eyes stray toward his wheelchair, still close to the bed. John realizes this is the first time that she's seen it.
"Not so much anymore," he says. "Thankfully."
He doesn't want to remember when this much pain was his baseline, and he didn't know if he would have to live with it for the rest of his life. Days like this may highlight what he can't do anymore, but they also remind him how far he's come.
"Is it because we did too much this weekend, or−" Clarice starts fearfully.
"No," John laughs. "I did walk a bit more than I should have, but it wasn't that."
"The stairs at my place?"
"No, PT has been...intense, the last couple of weeks. I pushed myself too far. And it's just something that happens, you know. I could stay off my feet and still have a bad day."
"Okay," Clarice nods. She's trying and failing to keep the worry off her face, but John appreciates the effort.
"Come here," he says, gesturing to the space at his side, when she puts down her half-eaten sandwich.
"You sure?"
"Yes. Come on."
Clarice squats over until she's sitting beside him, careful not to touch him. John rolls his eyes and puts an arm around her shoulders. He gently starts playing with her hair while Clarice keeps looking at him uncertainly, until she groans in frustration and kisses him to get him to stop.
John doesn't let the agony in his back stop the kiss from deepening. He's careful not to move, or wince enough that Clarice will feel it, but he breathes through the pain and enjoys the moment as much as he can.
"See," he says when they part. "I'll be just fine."
We've got a deeper insight into John's chronic pain and the consequences of his injuries... And Clarice being sweet and caring.
Tell me if you've enjoyed this chapter, I love hearing your opinion!