Fic: Therapy (1/1), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: Therapy
Author: dak
Word Count: 1750
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: angst
Pairings: none
Summary: Sam struggles with his physical therapy, though it's not like he deserves any therapy anyway. Set during the 2006 portion of 2.08.
A/N: For
space_oddity_75 who stumped me in a challenge and won a fic prompt. (I hope there's enough guilt and angst for you. :) )
“Alright Mr. Tyler. Just one more step. You can do it. Come on!”
Sam’s right knee buckled under his sleight weight. He gripped the parallel bars for support but his arms would not hold him and his sweat-slicked palms slipped off the stainless steel. All that prevented him from tumbling forwards was the light and lissom therapist in front of him. She easily slipped her arms under his just as he began to fall and helped him into the wheelchair behind him.
“Why don’t we take a break, yeah? Five minutes? Ten? And we’ll try it again, alright then?” Her bubbly smile made Sam’s stomach sink. “Now, I think Mrs. Marples wants a turn on the bars so why don’t I just push you over here...” She ducked under the bars and walked behind him and soon his chair was moving to a corner of the room. “She was a gymnast, you know, back in the day. Or so she says. Never can be too sure with Mrs. Marples, can you?”
Sam rested his elbow on the armrest and dropped his head in his hand. He couldn’t stand Mrs. Marples. It was bad enough her room was just across the hall from his and he had to listen to her shout morning and night about her wild escapades in the 1930s. It was another to be scheduled for PT at the same time as the ancient woman and watch as she strode the length of the bars in the time it took him to take two steps.
“This is how it’s done, sonny my boy!” She’d laugh merrily in her cigarette-damaged rattle and he would have to sit and smile because if he didn’t smile he wouldn’t placate her and he had to sit because it was all he could physically do.
“Watch this, sonny my boy!” She called across the room and Sam blithely lifted his head to see her shuffling through her steps, already further than Sam had walked all day. “That’s how it’s done, ain’t it?”
And Sam smiled then looked away, pretending to see something interesting outside the window when all he really wanted to do was roll himself out of the room and away from her voice because every time she said “sonny my boy” in that irritating whiskey cackle it inevitable turned to “sonny boy” which turned to “Sammy boy” which turned to one, long pained “Sam!” And then there he was back in that tunnel with Gene going down and Chris going down and Annie screaming and Sam really could not stand Mrs. Marples.
“Are you okay, Mr. Tyler? You’re shaking,” asked the other physical therapist, and Sam couldn’t remember his name and he didn’t care to try.
“It’s from the exercises,” he lied convincingly. “I think my body’s had enough for one day.”
“Do you want to go back to your room? I can have one of the orderlies...”
“I’ll be fine on my own. I’ve used one of these before,” he smiled convincingly and began to wheel himself away. Two pushes and his arms were spent but now Mrs. Marples was walking towards him like she was running the bloody London Marathon and Sam had to keep rolling forward.
“Where you off to me lad?” She called after him. “Can’t stay and chat?”
“’Fraid not, Mrs. Marples,” he shouted back, the effort winding him. “Have a visitor.”
“Ooo, lovely! I had a visitor just the other day, strapping lad, much like you should be, and he...”
Sam reached the open door and escaped into the corridor as his arms burned and his temper flared. He managed to get past the doorway before stopping and cradling his arms to his chest. He took even breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and waited for the pain to dissipate before returning his hands to the wheels.
“Afternoon, Sam.” It was the young lad who Sam sometimes sat next to on the upper body ergometer and had the service dog with the mismatched eyes that always stared at him like he was disappointed with him.
“Afternoon,” he replied and turned away from the disappointed dog and the oblivious boy and he rolled forward a few more feet before his hands slipped and the chair stopped and something in his back twinged and he was stuck, stranded in the hall much like they were stranded in the tunnel, dead and dying, calling for help he refused to give, laughing as he made his way towards the light.
A bedpan clattered to the floor and Sam refocused his attention. Hands placed back on the wheels, he inched forward again and again and again, now using the tips of his toes to help drag him forward. That wasn’t how it happened. He wasn’t laughing, he knew that. He knew everything because everything refused to fade and wasn’t that just his luck? Dreams were meant to be like pain. They were meant to dissipate after they passed, fade and fade and fade away until even the mere memory of them could stir no emotion.
He inched the heavy chair forward because really, it was only the chair that was heavy, seeing as his body weighed all of two stone. Fine, that was overstatement, he knew, but that’s what it felt like. Skin and bone with no muscle or fat to speak of. That was all that was left of Sam “I run at five in the morning every morning” Tyler. Bones and dust that was all that was left of his CID and no, he wasn’t going to think on that because it wasn’t helping, not at all.
He reached the lift and thankfully the hospital knew well enough to place the buttons at a cripple’s height and he jabbed a bony finger at the up button and waited. He took his deep breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and gathered his energy and cleared his mind. The lift to the left arrived first and Sam carefully maneuvered the chair then slowly inched forward. Slowly, slowly, and slowly, and the doors began to close when he was only halfway through and wasn’t that just brilliant?
He could hear the large, metal box laughing at him as he struggled. Laughing and teasing him as the brutish doors tried to slide close with a smooth clack like gum snapping. The doors hit the chair and slid back open and waited for Sam to inch, inch, inch his way inside. They closed as soon as he passed through and waited for his command and wasn’t that great because even in the great, wide, twenty-first century hospital lift, he couldn’t turn himself around to reach the buttons and select his floor and really, he had not thought this through.
He twisted his body to the side and threw his arm behind him, glancing then turning, glancing then turning, making sure his hand hit the correct button and realizing he hit three instead of four and lifting his arm up just that much higher to hit four and having his arm drop back as soon as the deed was done.
His left arm hung weakly at his side now, deciding that it had had enough exercise for the day and was going to sleep away the afternoon. No, Sam really had not thought this through, much like everything else in his life. Brilliant ideas, he had. Loads, didn’t he? And how did they all turn out? Miserably. People disappointed and people hurt and people dead and the doors opened on the third floor and he breathed and waited for them to close again.
The fourth floor arrived and Sam hoped different muscles would be needed to push the chair backwards because he’d used up everything else just getting to the bloody floor. Back, back, back, and the doors closed on him when he was only halfway out and Sam felt his blood boil and he would have punched a hole in the bastard lift if his arms weren’t so damn lazy. Instead, he let the anger turn inward and he pushed back, back, and back until he was out of the lift and not angry and the stupid, sorry thing, but angry at himself, the stupid, sorry excuse.
His room wasn’t far from the lifts and he used his toes to drag himself forward and his right arm to push himself along because the left was utterly pathetic and useless and such a waste of miserable space that he didn’t even know why he was bothering with it anymore. Why would anyone bother with it? The bastard thing had rebelled and now it lay in his lap twitching and trembling, no use to anyone, and well, that’s what it deserved for being a traitor, didn’t it?
“Mr. Tyler? Back from physical therapy are we? Would you like a hand to your room? Must be awfully tired, all that hard work you did today.” That nurse the one that shouldn’t remind him of a WPC - a WDC - that didn’t exist smiled at him and Sam decided that if quitting was for losers than yes, it was perfect for him.
“Yes, thank you,” he muttered, not wanting to look at her eyes that shouldn’t remind him of some imaginary woman, but damn it if they didn’t anyway.
Sam closed his eyes as the breeze blew past him at 80mph or at least that was what it felt like after minutes of excruciating slowness. Arriving at his, thankfully private but not that he deserved it room in record time, the nurse and an orderly picked him up and plopped him in the bed. They left him alone and Sam breathed - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and felt his muscles ache and scream, scream, scream, and he was so tired of the screaming.
On his bedside table were a glass of water and the remote for the telly. He ignored the water because he didn’t deserve a drink after being so foolish as to think he could make it back on his own and he picked up the remote instead. The remote was heavy in his hands, weighing his arm down like a brick or loaded gun and he pointed it at the TV and click. Click, click, click. Just like he should’ve done but couldn’t do and now it was too late, he was stuck watching ‘How Clean Is Your House.’
Author: dak
Word Count: 1750
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: angst
Pairings: none
Summary: Sam struggles with his physical therapy, though it's not like he deserves any therapy anyway. Set during the 2006 portion of 2.08.
A/N: For
space_oddity_75 who stumped me in a challenge and won a fic prompt. (I hope there's enough guilt and angst for you. :) )
“Alright Mr. Tyler. Just one more step. You can do it. Come on!”
Sam’s right knee buckled under his sleight weight. He gripped the parallel bars for support but his arms would not hold him and his sweat-slicked palms slipped off the stainless steel. All that prevented him from tumbling forwards was the light and lissom therapist in front of him. She easily slipped her arms under his just as he began to fall and helped him into the wheelchair behind him.
“Why don’t we take a break, yeah? Five minutes? Ten? And we’ll try it again, alright then?” Her bubbly smile made Sam’s stomach sink. “Now, I think Mrs. Marples wants a turn on the bars so why don’t I just push you over here...” She ducked under the bars and walked behind him and soon his chair was moving to a corner of the room. “She was a gymnast, you know, back in the day. Or so she says. Never can be too sure with Mrs. Marples, can you?”
Sam rested his elbow on the armrest and dropped his head in his hand. He couldn’t stand Mrs. Marples. It was bad enough her room was just across the hall from his and he had to listen to her shout morning and night about her wild escapades in the 1930s. It was another to be scheduled for PT at the same time as the ancient woman and watch as she strode the length of the bars in the time it took him to take two steps.
“This is how it’s done, sonny my boy!” She’d laugh merrily in her cigarette-damaged rattle and he would have to sit and smile because if he didn’t smile he wouldn’t placate her and he had to sit because it was all he could physically do.
“Watch this, sonny my boy!” She called across the room and Sam blithely lifted his head to see her shuffling through her steps, already further than Sam had walked all day. “That’s how it’s done, ain’t it?”
And Sam smiled then looked away, pretending to see something interesting outside the window when all he really wanted to do was roll himself out of the room and away from her voice because every time she said “sonny my boy” in that irritating whiskey cackle it inevitable turned to “sonny boy” which turned to “Sammy boy” which turned to one, long pained “Sam!” And then there he was back in that tunnel with Gene going down and Chris going down and Annie screaming and Sam really could not stand Mrs. Marples.
“Are you okay, Mr. Tyler? You’re shaking,” asked the other physical therapist, and Sam couldn’t remember his name and he didn’t care to try.
“It’s from the exercises,” he lied convincingly. “I think my body’s had enough for one day.”
“Do you want to go back to your room? I can have one of the orderlies...”
“I’ll be fine on my own. I’ve used one of these before,” he smiled convincingly and began to wheel himself away. Two pushes and his arms were spent but now Mrs. Marples was walking towards him like she was running the bloody London Marathon and Sam had to keep rolling forward.
“Where you off to me lad?” She called after him. “Can’t stay and chat?”
“’Fraid not, Mrs. Marples,” he shouted back, the effort winding him. “Have a visitor.”
“Ooo, lovely! I had a visitor just the other day, strapping lad, much like you should be, and he...”
Sam reached the open door and escaped into the corridor as his arms burned and his temper flared. He managed to get past the doorway before stopping and cradling his arms to his chest. He took even breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and waited for the pain to dissipate before returning his hands to the wheels.
“Afternoon, Sam.” It was the young lad who Sam sometimes sat next to on the upper body ergometer and had the service dog with the mismatched eyes that always stared at him like he was disappointed with him.
“Afternoon,” he replied and turned away from the disappointed dog and the oblivious boy and he rolled forward a few more feet before his hands slipped and the chair stopped and something in his back twinged and he was stuck, stranded in the hall much like they were stranded in the tunnel, dead and dying, calling for help he refused to give, laughing as he made his way towards the light.
A bedpan clattered to the floor and Sam refocused his attention. Hands placed back on the wheels, he inched forward again and again and again, now using the tips of his toes to help drag him forward. That wasn’t how it happened. He wasn’t laughing, he knew that. He knew everything because everything refused to fade and wasn’t that just his luck? Dreams were meant to be like pain. They were meant to dissipate after they passed, fade and fade and fade away until even the mere memory of them could stir no emotion.
He inched the heavy chair forward because really, it was only the chair that was heavy, seeing as his body weighed all of two stone. Fine, that was overstatement, he knew, but that’s what it felt like. Skin and bone with no muscle or fat to speak of. That was all that was left of Sam “I run at five in the morning every morning” Tyler. Bones and dust that was all that was left of his CID and no, he wasn’t going to think on that because it wasn’t helping, not at all.
He reached the lift and thankfully the hospital knew well enough to place the buttons at a cripple’s height and he jabbed a bony finger at the up button and waited. He took his deep breaths - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and gathered his energy and cleared his mind. The lift to the left arrived first and Sam carefully maneuvered the chair then slowly inched forward. Slowly, slowly, and slowly, and the doors began to close when he was only halfway through and wasn’t that just brilliant?
He could hear the large, metal box laughing at him as he struggled. Laughing and teasing him as the brutish doors tried to slide close with a smooth clack like gum snapping. The doors hit the chair and slid back open and waited for Sam to inch, inch, inch his way inside. They closed as soon as he passed through and waited for his command and wasn’t that great because even in the great, wide, twenty-first century hospital lift, he couldn’t turn himself around to reach the buttons and select his floor and really, he had not thought this through.
He twisted his body to the side and threw his arm behind him, glancing then turning, glancing then turning, making sure his hand hit the correct button and realizing he hit three instead of four and lifting his arm up just that much higher to hit four and having his arm drop back as soon as the deed was done.
His left arm hung weakly at his side now, deciding that it had had enough exercise for the day and was going to sleep away the afternoon. No, Sam really had not thought this through, much like everything else in his life. Brilliant ideas, he had. Loads, didn’t he? And how did they all turn out? Miserably. People disappointed and people hurt and people dead and the doors opened on the third floor and he breathed and waited for them to close again.
The fourth floor arrived and Sam hoped different muscles would be needed to push the chair backwards because he’d used up everything else just getting to the bloody floor. Back, back, back, and the doors closed on him when he was only halfway out and Sam felt his blood boil and he would have punched a hole in the bastard lift if his arms weren’t so damn lazy. Instead, he let the anger turn inward and he pushed back, back, and back until he was out of the lift and not angry and the stupid, sorry thing, but angry at himself, the stupid, sorry excuse.
His room wasn’t far from the lifts and he used his toes to drag himself forward and his right arm to push himself along because the left was utterly pathetic and useless and such a waste of miserable space that he didn’t even know why he was bothering with it anymore. Why would anyone bother with it? The bastard thing had rebelled and now it lay in his lap twitching and trembling, no use to anyone, and well, that’s what it deserved for being a traitor, didn’t it?
“Mr. Tyler? Back from physical therapy are we? Would you like a hand to your room? Must be awfully tired, all that hard work you did today.” That nurse the one that shouldn’t remind him of a WPC - a WDC - that didn’t exist smiled at him and Sam decided that if quitting was for losers than yes, it was perfect for him.
“Yes, thank you,” he muttered, not wanting to look at her eyes that shouldn’t remind him of some imaginary woman, but damn it if they didn’t anyway.
Sam closed his eyes as the breeze blew past him at 80mph or at least that was what it felt like after minutes of excruciating slowness. Arriving at his, thankfully private but not that he deserved it room in record time, the nurse and an orderly picked him up and plopped him in the bed. They left him alone and Sam breathed - in through the nose, out through the mouth - and felt his muscles ache and scream, scream, scream, and he was so tired of the screaming.
On his bedside table were a glass of water and the remote for the telly. He ignored the water because he didn’t deserve a drink after being so foolish as to think he could make it back on his own and he picked up the remote instead. The remote was heavy in his hands, weighing his arm down like a brick or loaded gun and he pointed it at the TV and click. Click, click, click. Just like he should’ve done but couldn’t do and now it was too late, he was stuck watching ‘How Clean Is Your House.’