A/N: Hi! Nothing else to say up here rather than - check out my new multi-chapter fic Handicamp on my page. It's basically my...I'm going to fix Artie and Tina because RIB is taking too long. Yeah. So enjoy and thanks for reading.

The next morning, Artie had his first physical therapy session at the crack of dawn, so I was able to take my time with waking up and getting ready to see him. I took a shower, put on a light coat of make-up, and loosely curled the ends of my hair before getting dressed. A great improvement from yesterday's ensemble, but Artie probably didn't notice, on account of the morphine, either way. I skipped breakfast with a plan of stopping at my favorite café to pick up a bag of peach muffins for Artie and me to share at the hospital, and a peppermint latte for myself. However, I still had time to spare, so I turned on our computer and started at the E-mail I told myself that I was going to write to our high school friends about Artie's miraculous recovery. I stared at the blank document; addressed to everyone I had contact information for, for about fifteen minutes before deciding that it was time to go. How do you tell people, some you've been in contact with – some not, that the paraplegic they grew up with could now wiggle his toes?

I continued to think about the E-mail as I drove over to Ohio State and sipped my latte. It'd be important to give context – tell them about the clinical trial and any other relevant information so I don't have to respond to five E-mails in one day describing now everything came to be. I also thought about waiting until we knew the complete prognosis of his abilities, but that was pessimistic thinking, and I was done thinking about that way on the subject. Maybe, after the drive back and glass of wine I'd be able to at least start, if not complete, the statement.

By the time I got to the hospital, I had finished my drink, but enough was left in the cup to seep into the treated cardboard and make our car smell vaguely of overly sweet peppermint. I also picked at one of the muffins to keep me focused on the road and not on my gurgling stomach, so as I exited the car, I cleared muffin bits off my lap. On account of not having Artie with me and not being in a rush, I parked in a normal spot, and walked a compromised distance from our car to the hospital. I then signed in as a visitor and took the elevator up to see Artie.

"Hey there," I cheerfully greeted as I let the door shut behind me.

"Hi."

"I brought you breakfast," I said, holding up the paper bag before setting it on his bedside table.

"Thanks."

"Hey, what's up?" I asked, furrowing my brow as I sat on the edge of the bed in the curve of his body.

Artie sighed and looked down before shifting his gaze back up to me, "It turns out…that I might never actually walk again."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Yes, yes, I heard you but who – how – why? Your legs work, I-I've seen them work."

"My legs aren't the problem. It's too soon to tell whether it's a signal reception issue or from my lack of muscle mass, but I have a hard time controlling my ankles," he said, looking down at his feet.

"Artie, I still don't understand."

"If one of my ankles gives out while I'm standing…I could fall, twist my back, and ruin the work done on my spine," he said, with glimmers of fear in his eyes.

"Oh."

I remembered Dr. Millar's warning that although the new tissue is identical to the rest, it's only half as strong – which is why Artie was in that big, bulky brace. The plan was to, once his body healed; feed the new cells steroids though a needle to make them less fragile, but even then Artie would have to be careful.

"But that's no reason to give up, Artie," I added after a moment of silence.

"I'd rather never walk again and keep the sensation," he admitted.

"Sweetie, it's only day two," I said, smoothing down his bed head. "You're going to get stronger."

"What if I don't?" Artie whimpered.

"We've spent the last year preparing for this Artie, don't give up on me now."

His shoulders shrugged with a short sigh before he looked up at me and nodded. I smiled and continued to run my fingers though his think hair until it looked kept. Then I took my arm back and slouched comfortably into the mattress. An idea ran though my head of a way to boost his confidence in the program, get him motivated, and possibly help with his strength. However, it would be going down a trail that once led to a dead end, and I didn't want his feelings of failure to resurface. I looked away from Artie and down at the white tile floor beneath us, wording what to say in my head, before picking my head up and wetting my lips.

"I'm going to teach you how to tap dance."

"Excuse me?" Artie questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. I'm going to give you tap lessons."

"Tina, I can't even stand up with a walker, how do you expect me to dance?" He asked, with a slight voice crack.

"I'll teach you the steps – you can do them off the edge of the bed. The metal in the shoes will help your muscles."

"Tee, I get enough of that stuff in therapy," he said.

"I won't push you, Artie. It'll be fun, I promise," I said almost pleadingly. "Just like old times."

"But I get to be your dance partner this time, right?"

"Artie, you were always my dance partner," I smiled.

He probably didn't know that I kept the tap shoes we bought together for him our freshman year of high school. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure why I kept them in the first place until that day - Artie was simply born to dance.