A/N: For everything that goes up, must come down. A little more personalities developing here. I'm not a nurse, I try not to get too technical with the medical stuff, but enough so it's convincing. It's supposed to help set the state of mind when you go from being a BAMF to taking painkillers like their candy and PTSD.

Ch5: Leftovers

I think both Elle and I are equally startled when she enters my room when it's still dark out.

"Was someone up burning the midnight oil?" she asks, already wearing a smile.

"What are you doing here?" I snap. I feel a little annoyed, probably because I'm under the full effects of withdrawal and it's a home run hit. Part of me wants to sleep but I'm too wired, my mind's racing over nonsense.

Elle must see the look of confusion on my face.

"It's seven o'clock John." She blinks as me, letting the information sink in. "In the morning."

I'm finally figuring out why my schedule is all messed up. I had thought Elle was antagonizing me with the pre-dawn poking and prodding, but in fact, the sun didn't really rise until almost 1130hrs. When the realization shows up on my face, Elle smiles again and takes my hand. I'm aware of just how small her hands actually are.

"I'm all fucked up." I admit with a mumble. More like completely FUBAR.

Elle gives a squeeze before she lets go, and gets about to her work.

"How are you feeling today John?"

"Absolute shit."

Elle's checking one of the monitors and jots down information on my chart. She feels my forehead with the back of her hand, scrutinizing every inch of my face. She looks concerned, but not overly alarmed.

"Your temp's a little up." It sounds more like she's talking to herself.

"You feel up for a light session today?"

"Honestly?" I grumble.

"Honestly." Elle croons, running her hand through my hair. It feels good when someone else does it for you.

I'm feeling torn between annoyance and self loathing, and restless anxiety. I want to be left alone, but I don't want to be alone.

"It'll be short and relatively easy. Think of it as a stretch day."

Elle keeps stroking my hair for the next few minutes. It distracts from the pounding in my head. When she stops, I realize she's still awaiting a response.

"Sure."

"That's the answer I like to hear." She's holding back a chipper smile, containing her enthusiasm so she doesn't blow me out of the water.

We go through the morning routine like any other, testing different reflexes and drawing up blood samples. Elle gives me a bump on the morphine going into the session. Today Jakob accompanies her to provide the brunt work, allowing for deeper stretches. Elle says part of it is conditioning, and gets me up on a stationary bike. Light work, but easy work as the muscle memory comes back. The hardest part was committing to the first revolution, gauging the pain. While Elle and Jakob are putting me through my paces, I finally see another lost soul like myself utilizing the PT room with a nurse I haven't met yet. He's built like a brick shit house but there's a massive adhesive bandage covering the top area of his right knee. When he notices me he gives a friendly nod in my direction, and I acknowledge him back. I wonder what his story is.

By the end of it all, I'm feeling beat, but good. Like I've accomplished a lot. I notice Elle's been keeping a particularly close watch on me today as well. Frowning a lot more than usual. The hot shower afterward feels amazing. And I'm feeling maybe a little bit like my "old self." Something about a good stint of cardio and deep tissue stretch awakens my reflexes. My irritability is more palatable for a friendly spar. I feel confident.

Back at my room Elle gets me set up in my chair with my book and has lunch on the way. She wheels over the tall metal stand and sets up a ringer into the PICC line in my bicep. Before I ask she shoves a thermometer in my mouth.

"Keep it under your tongue." She orders.

"So serious." I mock back under my breath, feeling an icy stare fall on me. Maybe Elle thrives off of my suffering and my newfound enthusiasm is draining her.

"It might get serious here." She's measuring something out in a syringe before injecting it into the IV hanging above. I've had relatively good manners today up to this point, so I doubt its diazepam she's giving me.

I decide to wait in silence, toying with the thermometer in my mouth while I turn on the television and flip through the channels. After a minute, Elle goes to pull it out, but I bite down on and hold fast. We exchange wayward looks before I concede.

"What's with the attitude?" I snort.

"I'm not mad, I'm –frustrated. Just when I think we're in the clear with you…" she trails off, recapping everything and tossing the proper items in the sharps container.

"I got your blood work back. We're still fighting off that infection it seems."

No matter how clean the hospital, they were cesspools for disease. And apparently I was harboring one. You can only do so much sanitizing. Scrub so many surfaces. Autoclave so many tools. Wash your hands and change your clothes over and over.

"What's it from?" Not that it mattered much, but I was curious to know more about my physical state so I could gauge my own progress.

"Since your incident, there was a lot of trauma…a lot of hemorrhaging to your major organs. You were rushed to us after being holed up in someone's basement for a couple days. We still don't know how you survived." Elle puts her hands on her hips, her shoulders slumping.

"You were directly transferred to our ICU for a few of weeks while we attempted to stabilize your condition. It was during that time we were first detected the infection. We opted to use less harsh antibiotics while you were on the mend, but it's only been effective enough to keep it at bay."

I let the information sink in. It's really the first time Elle's talked about my injuries beyond what I knew about my existing nerve damage. I want to know more about the incident she's speaking about, what put me here in the first place but I can tell from the way she's talking that it's not up for discussion. Not yet at least.

"Well, it it's anything. I'm feeling great today." It was the truth too. Maybe it was the kick of morphine, maybe it was the good session, or maybe because I was able to get my jumbled thoughts down on paper pulling an all-nighter, I had a second wind. It seems to bring a small comfort to her, enough to give a half frown, half smirk. A 180˚smile.

"I appreciate your cooperation today John. You ready for some lunch?"

For once, the thought of food sounds exciting. It's only day 2 on the food, but today's work routine has me fired up.

"Bring it on."

It's the same bit of soup, water with lemon, but with a bonus handful of crackers. I invite Elle to stay, and start my own interrogation regarding my future recovery. It's a safe topic to tread on without asking too many questions about my past. Part way through, Elle excuses herself to grab her own lunch to join me. I'm grateful for her company, and it allows her to monitor the drip line. When she returns with her lunch, the smell hits me right where it counts, and my stomach is a mix of withdrawal nausea and absolute hunger. I can practically taste the smell.

"What is that?" I'm peering over her shoulder to get a better look inside the pyrex dish.

"It's leftovers." Elle says through a mouthful, shielding her cheek with the back of her hand. How modest.

"When can I have some of that?" Not that I doubt the hospital food was good here, but if my memory served me right, in these places it was often bland.

"Maybe in a week or so." She teases, piling up another fork.

"You make it yourself?" Dumb question, but for all I know it could have been a frozen dinner. And frankly, I wouldn't have cared.

"I did. But it's Mom's recipe for potato patties and goose."

Potatoes. I'd fucking kill for some potatoes. And red meat. There was a fire burning inside and it was going to start needing a higher octane fuel than what was being provided.

"Can I get a rain check then?" Elle's got a mouthful again but smiles coyly, holding a finger out to pause.

"Of course John. Anything for you."

I'll hold her to it. We continue our conversation on the mundane, but I hang onto every word she has to say. Continue to collect the information and paint the bigger picture with each passing day. I'll have to jot the important stuff in my journal when we're done. Elle sits with me and shows me a few simple exercises I can work on in my free if I choose until the IV finishes out. Before she leaves she asks if I want to get a fresh shave in for tomorrow morning. Amazing how fast it can grow in 24hrs. I tell her I'll have to think on it. I kick back and browse through the channels until I land on one of those American shows with subtitles underneath. Other than Elle, and a few other staff members, it's the closest I've heard to the English language, and it sounds good to my ears. The shows not half bad either – called The Wire, or something like that. When that ends I begin to surf again until I stumble onto a sports channel.

Thank god for football. Real football.

Thank.

Fucking.

God.

The longer I sit in the chair, the more I start to get uncomfortable. Feedback from pushing it this morning when I should have taking it easy. And possibly from that infection Elle was mentioning too. It's that achy flu kind of feeling, but I can't be sure if it's from the morphine running out or the fever.

By sunset, I'm a zombie. Elle comes back later with a nice drug cocktail and dinner. We sit same as last time, though I know I'm not much for conversation. It doesn't seem to bother her though, she sits with me as the next IV drains. Gets me in bed at some point. Pulls a chair close and talks to me about dogs. I can't follow the conversation, but I love the way she's running her hand through my hair. I could care about anything less.

I get decent sleep that night.