What If?

[samsonydelilah]

She nods, and even that seems to take it out of her. So she'll need a minute before she gets up to go get them crackers and lunch meat. The breakfast of champions! Eventually, she manages, it unsteady the whole way there and back.

John will try to get her to sit down, drink some water or orange juice or something. Since they are both, currently, rather out of it. He's assuming they are likely to be dehydrated, anyway. "How are you feeling?"

She drinks a little bit of water and shrugs a bit. "I don't know. It's hard to concentrate. Everything hurts. And I'm tired."

John sighs, nodding. "Yeah, me too." Ugh. This is, however, marginally better than the time between when Sarah sent Allison away and when she found him again. "We'll get better." They have to. The idea that they will be like this indefinitely is not a good one.

It is better than that, yes. A little bit better than that. At least they have each other. Though, the fact that they're both sick as dogs and as unsafe as houses on a faultline makes this a little worse too. "We'll get better. Yes. We have to get better. I can't protect you like this. I'm sorry."

She keeps saying that. She knows she keeps saying that. But it's true. And she doesn't know what to do.

"Shh, it's okay. We can protect each other, it doesn't have to all fall on you, you know." It is okay, as far as he's concerned. "You don't always have to protect me. We'll be okay."

Oh, John. Why do you say things like that? It just makes her tense up. "I have to. I do have to protect you."

Because...they're true? Oh, wait. "Shhh. You can, I'm not going to stop you." He would just rather she wants to as opposed to have to but that is not a fight he wants to start right now. Because it will be a fight, without a doubt.

She relaxes, thankfully. So no fight. Not yet. "What did she give us? Do you know?"

John shakes his head. "No, I don't." There wasn't any safe way for him to find out, really. And he didn't want to take the risk of Sarah realizing that he knew they were being drugged.

"It probably won't kill you," she logics. Her, she's not so sure about. "She wouldn't kill you." Hopefully not, no.

"I'm more worried about you, right now." Yes. It's good logic, which is terrifying. "I think she gave us the same things, because it would be easier to do that. But she probably gave you more of it."

"Worried about me?" As if she has no idea why. As if she couldn't even fathom it. "More of it. Why?"

"Yes, worried about you." If she can't fathom it he has no idea how to break it to her that she's worth worrying about. "Because I was with her for years and years. We were only separated for a year or so. Everything that happened to you, happened in four years. Shorter than that."

She closes her eyes. He shouldn't worry about her, she thinks. It's obvious that she thinks that. "I'll be okay. I promise. I'll be okay."

He'll just hold her tighter. "Let me worry, if I want to. I want to worry." He won't say that she can't promise to be okay, because niether can he. But that hasn't stopped him yet.

Does not compute, John. "Why would you want to worry?" She shivers. Shudders. Shakes.

"Because you're important to me." Oh, the shaking. That makes this whole thing so much more difficult. He's tempted to drop it, just so that it will stop, but that feels like lying. "Because I care about you. I can. That's okay, isn't it?"

It might not stop. It might not even be about that. Withdrawl isn't fun, getting drugs out of you isn't fun, discovering the things she's discovered makes it worse. "I don't know. I think so? Yes? It's okay. Yes."

Well he'll hold her either way. No matter what. "Good, okay." He has to stop himself from apologizing again, because God knows he wants to. Wants to make it better, make it all go away.

"It's okay if I care about you. Right? Yes? Okay?"

"Yes. Yes, of course it is." More hugging. John doesn't want to think too hard about any time when his answer to that question would've been different.

She may be clinging a bit. She feels like she's falling. "Are we falling?"

"Falling?" The fact that he has to open his eyes and look around is not a good sign. At all. "No. We're not falling. We're okay."

No, probably not a good sign. "Feel like I'm falling." That's probably not a good sign either. "We're okay?"

"We're okay. I promise. We're on a bed, and it's not going anywhere." It really isn't. New Jersey isn't known for it's earthquakes.

She squeezes her eyes shut, because everything certainly looks like they're falling. "Okay. Okay."

"Shh. It's fine. We'll be fine. I'm not going anywhere, I won't let go, you're not falling. We'll be okay."

"Okay. We'll be okay." And, out she goes again.

God, that's fun, isn't it? Only not so much. John slips into that half-awake state where he can hear damn near everything in the building. It's only about a half a step better from pretending to sleep.

And isn't that fun too? Not so much, no. It's not a loud building, but it's not exactly quiet. Especially not the neighbors.

Eventually, she'll wake up again. Her fever might even be back, so that theory about her getting more? Certainly a possibility. She gets out of bed and makes her way, unsteadily, to the bathroom. Because nothing helps a fever more than a fully clothed shower. Right?

Right.

Wrong. Although John's a little too out of it to realize where she's gone for all of five seconds (the time it takes his mind to label what that sound is) and then he goes into the bathroom to make sure she's okay.

She is so not okay. "Allison?"

No. She really is not okay. Shaking, and it's not because the water is cold. She's not cold. Her skin is heated, warm, burning. She's resting her forhead against her knees. This isn't helping. Not really.

Well. This sparks something of an internal debate. Get her out of the shower or just out of her clothes? For some reason, using the shower to bring down her temperature doesn't seem like the worst idea ever so John takes off his own shirt before he tries to get her to at least sit up and look at him. "Hey, Allison. We should get you out of these clothes okay?"

She shakes her head, staring at him blearily. But starts pulling at her own shirt, anyway. Boots. Everything except underwear and a tank. Apparently girls who think they're robots have a tad bit of modesty. That's...interesting.

That's fine. It's not like John apparently has any problem with standing in his jeans anyway and it helps him to not feel like the most disgusting man ever. Which isn't the most important chain of thought going through his mind, but it is, nonetheless. The rest of the clothes get tossed in some corner of the bathroom and John takes Allison's hands. "Stand up for me?"

Her hands are twitching, her legs are shaky. But she tries. She does try. And to an extent, she does make it, wobbly and off balance. Once she's up, you can see, really see the fading bruises and healing cuts on her legs and arms.

She gets in fights.

She does. He can see this. John doesn't like it, but he doesn't know what he can do about it now. Other than his level best to keep her out of fights from now on. He adjusts the water, makes it a bit cooler. Tries to get her more or less as much into the water as he can without letting her go. "Better?" He can't really tell.

"Better." It could be better, or she could be repeating. Parroting. "Are you better?" She grips his hands tightly, trying to stay upright. Eventually, she may just sit down. It doesn't hurt. It might help. Less chance of a slip and fall that way.

John will sit with her, then, and it won't occur to him out outright bizarre it is. The two of them at the bottom of a motel shower, half-clothed. Instead he smooths her hair out of her face, still looking worried. "A little, yeah." He doesn't think he's worse, so by his logic he must be better. Right?

If he sits with her, she will lean on him. And that helps too. Later, it'll occur to her how weird and strange this is. Much later. A lot later. Right now, she closes her eyes to keep the water out of them and shakes."Because she didn't give you as much?"

Leaning is fine. "Something like that, yeah." Though she gave them both a whole lot right before she tried to 'lose' Allison. Which is likely why this is so damned difficult. "Because you're here, that helps. That makes it better."

Well, she'll just keep right on leaning them. "Why? Why does that make it better?" Bets on whether or not Sarah was hoping she'd given Allison enough to kill her? Yeah.

She stares at her hand under the water. It's getting harder to see the metal.

"Because you're important to me." John won't think of that tonight, thank God, or he'd be breaking things. It's probably a minor miracle that he hasn't yet, as it is. He's too busy rubbing her shoulders to notice her staring at her hands. "Things are better when you're here."

"Things are better. Good. Good." She closes her eyes, leaning forward a bit. "I need to get better faster."

"Why?" John frowns, makes sure she leans into him instead of falling over. "If it takes a while, that's fine. It'll be fine."

"Things are better when I'm here. If I get worse, things won't be better." Logic that out, John.

"That doesn't matter." Is that a challenge? Because he's out of it enough to attempt it. "If you're here, whether or not you're better or worse, that's good. That's better. Just being here. Above and beyond anything else."

Maybe it is a challenge. Indeed. "How can it be good if I'm worse?"

"Because you're here. That doesn't change." This? Is not logic. It's pure emotional output. "No matter what."

"I don't understand." She does. Really, she doesn't. She might have once. Four years ago.

"I'm sorry. I don't know how better to explain it." Really, he doesn't.

"Okay. It's okay." Is it okay? We'll go with that. "What do we do, when we're better? Where do we go?"

We will. "I don't know. It's up to you, where we go." It is.

"Why is it up to me?"

"Because I want you to be able to choose, for once." In the last four years. "Is that okay?"

"I don't know." She doesn't know. Is that bad? She's not sure.

"That's okay." It...kind of is okay. John doesn't expect her to suddenly start talking about all her hopes and dreams. Even when she was glitching she didn't do that, even when it was really bad. It'll take time, he thinks. "I want to give you the choice, that's all."

"What if I want to stay here?" She doesn't want to go to Palmdale. Home. She doesn't know where she wants to go. "Will we stay here?"

"Yes, if that's what you want." He doesn't think going to Palmdale would be a good idea, either way.

"We should stay here. We can hide here. Get lost here." Palmdale would be a bust, and they'd probably get busted.

They probably would, yes. "Okay. If that's what you think, if that's what you want, we'll stay here." Can he turn off the water now?

He can, in fact, turn off the water now. She may even be starting to shiver. "That's what I think. That's what I want."

"All right. Then that's what we're doing." Does that mean her fever is broken? It's easier to raise body temperature than to lower it, or so life has taught John. He'll turn off the water and grab the largest towel and wrap it around her. "You should probably change your clothes, okay?"

She nods, slowly. "I will. Okay. I will." She pulls the towel tighter around herself for now, looks at her free hand. Again. "I can't see it. Right now. I can't see it."

John grabs the next towel and starts drying her hair, tilting his head at her hand. "What can't you see?" He's more worried about keeping her from catching a cold than the metal he was hallucinating earlier, so his mind's not on track with that.

That's something her mom used to do, John, and it worries her for some reason that she's starting to remember things like that. She doesn't understand why. "The metal. I don't see it. Do you see it?" Here, John. Have her hand right in your face.

Here, Allison. Have a John who is blinking at your hand. "No. I don't see it." He doesn't mean to remind you of your mom, really, but he doubts that either of you have the best immune systems ever at the moment.

However this doesn't seem to have translated to telling himself to get out of sopping wet denim. Oh, John. But he'll hold the hand you're sticking in his face, either way.

She squeezes his hand, lightly, for a moment. "I must be wrong, then." Maybe. "I don't know."

"It's okay if you don't know." It really, really is. "It'll get better, I promise." Up? Up is good. Up means he can try to get more of you dry.

Up is good. She can get up if she leans on the wall. "Okay. I believe you." It's a concession. Or maybe she is really starting to believe him.

She can, that's true. John will just look at her for a moment, as if trying to figure out if she does, really, or if she just wants him to shut up about it already. He can't really tell. "Okay. You want to walk or you want me to carry you?" John's not dizzy. At the moment.

"Walk. I can walk. If you help me." Taking the chance on him carrying her, and getting dizzy? Probably not going to happen.

Which is probably for the best. "Sure, I'll help." He does, letting her put all the weight and momentum on him. That's easy enough, and they make it to the bed okay. Though he won't sit down because now the fact that his jeans have enough water in them to drown a small child occurs to him. Fortuately there is another pair in the backpack.

And while he is changing into those, she will take a few moments to change into new clothes as well. Dry clothes will help everyone, she thinks. The act of getting new clothes on is apparently very tiring, and she ends up lying on the bed again when she's done, the large bath towel underneath her. "Thank you."

Dry clothes are very helpful, yes, though John's brought up short by the thank you. Which...really shouldn't be such a surprising thing, should it? And yet... "You're welcome." Can he take the towel? It's fairly damp, too.

She's thanked him before. For little things. For odd things. Never for helping her, though. "You should eat." He can, in fact, take the towel. If he can get her to move off of it.

"When you feel better, we'll get something to eat. Cheese and crackers are just not where it's at." If he can't get her to move off it, then he'll just...more or less pick her up and shove it aside before he puts her back down. What? He's not moving, he isn't going to get dizzy.

Well, that's a bit startling. Isn't it? So don't mind her if she grabs onto you and doesn't let go when you set her down. Okay? "You should eat so you get better." They can't BOTH be sick. Can they?

That leaves John just kind of hovering and awkward. Nothing new about that. "When you feel better, we'll go eat." Possibly. Maybe. But he's not leaving this hotel room until she's up for going outside.

"You need to eat." Oh, good. She's found something to be stubborn about.

"And I will." He can't go anywhere if you don't let him go, Allison. Not that he's planning on it either. "When you do."

So, she'll let go of him. For now. "I'll eat. I will." Really.

"I know." Not enough, obviously or so his tone indicates. Into the pile of incredibly damp clothes current living in the bathroom, the towel goes.

At least her fever is broken. Again. And she appears to be more awake than she was. That's something. "I will."

"I didn't say you wouldn't." Good. He'll just sit next to her then, since they're going to pretend to not argue about what Allison does and doesn't eat.

"I know you didn't." Sure she does. "Drink some juice, at least?" So she can pretend she's still protecting you.

"Okay." And look! He does drink juice. "Better?" Oh, John.

"No. Not better." Oh, Allison.

John closes his eyes, sighing. "Why isn't it better?"

"It isn't better. It's not." Sound logic there. How can you argue with that?

"Allison, I asked why..." The amount of fail!logic in the room could possibly kill a few graduate students.

"You won't get better. That'll be my fault." Graduate students, choke. It's very sad.

"No, Allison." Kudos to John for not saying 'what the hell?!' at the top of his lungs. "First of all, I am going to get better and secondly it's not your fault, why do you think that?!" Well. He's not shouting yet?

Why do you think she thinks that, John? Hint: It starts with S ends with H and is cucko for robot apocolypse. "Because you won't eat until I can leave."

Oh, the sighing. "Let me be stubborn." No, John, she won't and you know better. "It's not like I haven't gone without food for a few days before." That's true, at least.

"How long has it been right now?" Sitting up, just a little bit. So no. No stubbornity.

"I don't know, I'm not sure how long we've been in here."

"You need to eat." Now who's stubborn. "I don't know how long it's been."

"When we're both feeling better, I will eat. You can't exactly make me, Allison, and I really don't want to fight with you about this."

Your logic, John, makes very little sense to her. She doesn't see how you'll feel better if you don't eat. And she's not sure she couldn't at least try to make you eat. "I could."

There we go.

There's a pause. It stretches out for a while. While John stares at Allison before he throws his hands up - what are you John, a victorian housewife? - and sighs. "Fine. Go for it." Oh, John, no. No no no.

Really, John? Really? So, how shocked are you when a sick, overheated and poisoned up girl reaches up and makes an attempt to flip you onto the bed with her knee on your chest? Surprised enough that it works? Well?

Almost. It's possible that John realized the fallacy in his statement right about the time you started moving. It's much more likely that living with a crazy woman for over two decades means you move in reaction to things your brain doesn't always pay attention to. Which is why it doesn't quite work, but John doesn't exactly pin Allison either.

"Can we stop being idiots now?"

Two decades does, in fact, trump four years. So now she just looks annoyed and slightly ticked off. "I'm not being an idiot!" That's...probably not the right reaction, Allison.

No, but it's more emotion than he's seen her put into a statement in a very long time. "Okay." He's so not going to argue that point. "I'm not going to eat right this second, you're not happy with that. Understandable. Forcing me to eat will get us both hurt, so let's not do that, okay?"

More emotion is good. To a certain point. "Fine. Yes. Okay." She's clearly really not happy about it. And not looking at him.

Well feeling like an ass, John is fairly certain, goes hand in hand with anyone having any emotional output around him. Because he's fairly certain he is an ass when it's all said and done. So he'll let go and put a pillow over his face and mentally bemoan the fact that NO ONE ELSE has conversations like these. Ever. Anywhere.

There must be someone. Somewhere. Maybe in Arkham.

While he's doing that, she's going to close her eyes and pretend to sleep. Pretending, obviously, because she's slept most of the past how many days? She couldn't possibly have any more sleep left in her.

Funny how pretending might turn into actual sleeping, isn't it? Either way, John tries to clean up after a while. Get up, brush his teeth, wring most of the water out of their clothes. Pick up whatever scattered garbage is around. Eventually he'll just sit on the floor on the opposite side of the bed and...stare.

She's not a messy girl, fake robot or not. Real robot or not. She's not messy.

"What're you doing?" She asks this, looking more than a little offkilter and sounding more than a little over-tired when she wakes up. Yeah. Funny how pretending can turn into actual sleep.

No but he wants to feel useful, shhh.

"Thinking." No, John, you're moping. "I don't know."

"Yes you do." She's sure you do. When don't you?

"Not always." So. Right now? "Are you feeling better?" John really doesn't want to talk about his pessimistic outlook on life, the universe and everything at this moment.

"Yeah. I'm feeling better." Is she? Probably not. Somewhere along the line, she's slipped right back into Protect John mode. At this point, that seems to mean 'get him to eat, then you can be sick again'.

Wooden responses aren't fooling John, you know. The boy on the floor sighs. "How about we order something, then?" Does anything deliver to this part of town?

What, she wasn't convincing with her not opening her eyes or moving at all?

It's Gotham. Of course they deliver. "Okay. Order something. Sure."

No. Not really at all. All motels either have yellow pages or deliver fliers; this one has the former, or at least that's what John tursts more than the greasy fliers he threw into the garbage. "Pizza, chinese or burgers?" You get to pick, Allison.

John might be hitting himself and wondering why he didn't just opt to do this earlier.

She thinks about it, about what might be healthier. About what's faster and what's not as greasy and possibly conducive to getting ill all over the place. She appears to come to a decision. "Burgers."

He's going to be very distressed if you end up ill, you know that right? "Burgers it is. Do you want anything to drink?" Ordering food isn't that difficult, really.

She will do her very best not to. And will probably succeed. "Coke." Oh yes. That's healthy.

Since John wasn't privy to the whole 'what's healthiest' debate, he's not particularly worried about all that. "Okay." Order, placed! You've got about a half hour, kids, whatever are you going to do with yourselves?

Well John should probably stop sitting on the floor, for starters, but he doesn't seem to have thought of that.

Well, Allison has. Look: "Why are you on the floor?"

"Because there aren't any chairs and you were sleeping." And the whole shower thing finally set into his mind.

Perhaps they should talk about that shower thing. "There's a bed."

"You were sleeping on it." Probably! "I already impinged on your personal space enough in the last 24 hours."

Okay, now she'll open her eyes. "What're you talking about?" Personal space? You two have personal space?

He's not exactly looking at Allison at this moment. The rug is interesting, right? "When you were in the shower." Nevermind he can't really think of what would've been a better idea.

The rug is blue. Of course it's interesting. "I was sick. You weren't doing anything." She sounds confused now. More so. Way more so.

"...Still. I feel like I should...I don't know, try not to let things like that happen." Is the rug blue? Has John noticed? Probably not.

Because it would've been better if she'd fainted and drowned in the bath? "What're you talking about?" She doesn't mean to be repetitive, but.

John. You are not a wind-powered energy plant, stop sighing so damned much. "I don't know how to explain it." He really doesn't. "I feel weird and outright creepy. It happens. I'll get over it." All that? Is actually true.

"You're not weird and creepy." This conversation feels familiar to her. THAT is a little weird, maybe a little creepy. "Helping me isn't creepy."

Possibly because they've had it before, in different variations, over the last four years. "Helping you while you're in your underwear is creepy. Well it makes me feel like a creep, anyway."

This is possibly true. Here comes the part where she rolls her eyes at him. Hooray for emotions! "Well, remember that the next time one of us gets hypothermia." Sure, Allison. You're not sarcastic.

Ok, now John looks at you. "I'll be sure to do that." This conversation is going wonderfully, isn't it?

So wonderfully. "Good!" Oh, you two. What is wrong with you.

"Why are you mad at me?!" They have problems. Lots of them.

"I'm not mad at you!" Really, Allison? Are you sure?

John sighs some more. "Then why the hell are we yelling at each other?"

Maybe because you're coming off drugs. Just a thought. "I don't know." But it's clearly upsetting.

Maybe. Also maybe because the person responsible for all this isn't here. John finally hauls himself off the floor and onto the bed. And just looks at Allison, unsure of what to say.

What would they even say if she was? Or do? It certainly wouldn't be like this. Would that be good or bad? "It isn't your fault." Oh, Allison.

That would be bad. There is never a time where it wouldn't be bad.

John laughs. If he ever wondered whether or not he was predictable, there's no doubt now. "I'm still sorry."

She just watches him. Staring, staring, staring. Is that unnerving? Maybe a little. "It's still not your fault." Are they going to argue about that now?

): No. John's a bit done with the arguing at the moment. "What is my fault, then?" Or, not.

Oh, John. "Nothing's your fault." Really, Allison? Not anything? That seems unlikely.

John looks skeptical at that. "I'm not perfect. So I don't really think that's possible."

She shrugs. "You haven't done anything wrong."

"Never?" Allison, really? "I still don't think that is even remotely possible. Just so you know."

"Lately Today. Since I found you." Which doesn't really mean not ever. Does it?

"Not everything I apologize for happened since you found me." In fact, most of it didn't.

"What she did isn't your fault either." Is it. She doesn't think so.

John makes an odd face. "She's not the only one who hurt you, though." Whether he likes it or not.

Well. That gets her attention. "No.I guess not." Though, she clearly isn't sure exactly what that means.

Oh, the frowning. "I have done things that no one in their right mind would ever do to somone they cared about." Things involving defibrilators, for starters.

Maybe she gets it now. Maybe. "You needed to do those things. I was broken, I wasn't working." Oh. Maybe not.

"No. Allison. People don't break, People don't stop working." Don't they? "None of that helped."

"Yes, they do." She thinks they do. People have breakdowns, people go crazy. Isn't that breaking? "It felt like it helped." At the time.

"Helping would have been getting you out." John's rather stubborn about that.

Now it's her turn to sigh. Maybe between the two of them, they could power a wind-turbine. "If you say so."

"Why don't you think so?" Or a circus act.

"How would you have gotten me out?"

"I don't know." Herein lies the problem of John's blaming himself. "I just...I should've done more."

"Like what?" She's certainly demanding of his logic skills, isn't she? "What could you have done that you didn't do?"

"Asked you for help when I realized that I probably wasn't going to be able to do that alone." ...That's actually true.

"Would I have helped you?" She doesn't know? Maybe she doesn't know.

"Maybe." Maybe not. If she hadn't that would have been a problem. A very large one.

"You don't know?" Look, Allison. You don't even know.

"Do you? No, I don't know." Admitting that is very obviously not fun for John.

She makes a face. "I don't know. No. Maybe. To protect you."

"Well it's not something I would've wanted you to agree to in order to protect me."

"That's probably the only way I would've agreed." And isn't that a little sad? And a bit sick.

"Then it wouldn't have worked." Because there's a snowball's chance in hell John would have suggested it was for him and not for Allison.

"Then, it wasn't your fault." This is some sort of crazy circular logic.

"You want to back up and explain that to me?!" Obviously the crazy logic limit has been reached by the only male in the room.

"I don't know. Do I?" Closes her eyes, opens her eyes, closes them again.

"If you could, I'd like you to."

"If I won't do something, that doesn't make it your fault."

"All right." Again, with the hand throwing. "I give up."

"You give up?" Welcome, John, to the land of confusion.

"I'm not going to argue anymore what is or isn't my fault. I'm sorry. That won't change. Anymore than I'm suddenly going to become a foot taller." ...John you make the strangest comparisons.

And she falls deeper into the land of confusion. "...I don't understand." At least she's being honest?

"Okay. How likely is it that I am to suddenly become a foot taller?"

"I don't know. You'd probably need some sort of surgery." ...what.

"Right, okay. Barring surgery, it's not very damned likely. Neither is me suddenly stopping being sorry. Get it?"

"Barring surgery, you will not stop being sorry." Again, Allison. What. What

Oh, there is so much staring from the peanut gallery. SO MUCH. "...What the hell kind of surgery would that be, a lobotomy?"

She thinks for a moment, taking the question seriously. "Frontal lobe surgery, maybe."

John has officially given up. On this conversation. For the record. So he's going to lay down until food gets here and not say a WORD.

And she will look more and more confused until the food gets here, maybe doze off a little bit.

Food! Food is good. Food is...doing something, John supposes, even though he's not all that hungry now. Must be the fact that he's vaguely annoyed and distressed. But he will eat some of it, anyway, and watch to make sure that Allison does to. Since she's bound to be watching him.

Oh, she is. Watching him, and slowly eating. She sure has a picky way of eating a burger, neatly cutting it into sections.

John gets through about half of his burger before he has to stop. So now the starting contest starts, right?

Oh yes. In earnest. "Eat your burger." Look, if she can force herself to eat it, so can you.

"I'm not that hungry." He isn't. And right at this moment, he might throw up if he forces himself to eat it. So. There?

"Neither am I." She does, however, recognise the need for protein and not starving. Even if you get sick later.

John shrugs. "I don't want to eat so much that I get sick, so I'm stopping now." Pause. "Is that okay?"

She thinks about this for a moment, and nods. "Yes." She'll keep eating. She's not going to get sick. "You'll eat more later?"

"I will, yeah." Promise! For now he's going to sip his soda and look at Allison out of the corner of his eye. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." She may not even be lying about that. "How are you feeling?" Parroting! Yay.

"Out of it, still. Tired. Worn out." Mentally and physically. "Better, though, too."

"Maybe you should sleep now." It's a good suggestion! She's slept enough. Maybe it's his turn.

"Yeah." Shrug. He'll try, anyway. "What are you going to do while I'm asleep?"

"Read. Eat. Watch you sleep." At least that's fairly honest.

True. "Okay." He's not going to argue any of those.

"Okay." Eating! Yum.