[for various, dated to August 1st] All of this has happened before.

[notaparker]

I'm not dead. That's... swell, because it would really suck if being dead hurt this much. But then the afterlife -- if it does indeed exist, and I suppose since I lived in a world with actual gods running around and recently spent a moderate amount of time fighting beside an actual angel, it's not something to write off -- would like an awful lot

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[lucked]

Ever since I was released from the clinic those few months ago, I've... been kind of awful about going back. It's weird. I didn't really mind being in the clinic, and I definitely didn't mind the injuries. I'm sure that there'll be a day when things like papercuts and bruises will seem totally normal and mundane to me, but that time hasn't arrived yet, so even a whole bunch of stitches in my side, that... was pretty awesome, everything considered. A break from the status quo. So I have absolutely nothing against the clinic, or the people there, who were definiteliy nothing if not helpful when I was stuck there as a result of my own stupidity

[notaparker]

That's probably going to be awkward. I hadn't considered it. Luckily, it's nothing of the sort, simply my own already building restlessness, which doesn't bode well considering I think I have a fun-filled adventure of a week and more in this bed to look forward to.

I used to heal faster than this. Not fast like Wolverine, but faster. ...okay, something on this scale would probably still have put me in a hospital bed, but I'd have some hope of being out in maybe half the time, and boy, even half the time would feel like too long.

"...I was just taking moving for a test drive," I say. Slowly. Breathing and using that breath for talking is something I'm working on and that, also, is an alarming state of affairs. I'm a talker. Without the talking, I'm a thinker, and boy howdy are there a lot of unpleasant things for me to think about. "Turns out the engine was filled with sawdust."

[lucked]

There's a thin quality to her voice, like she's just run several miles and needs to slow down, slow down in about every single way you can think of. But if there's something that I know about Jessica, it's the fact that she's definitely not the kind of girl who wants to slow down for anything. The words are practically spilling from her lips, like she's trying to compensate for all of the time that she's spent confined to her bed, and it's hard to keep my lips from turning up in wry amusement as I walk on over and try my best to help prop the pillows up in a way that'll let her breathe easier.

"Pretty sure that the doctors have probably warned you about all of the sawdust. But you just had to check for yourself, right?" I smile softly, fluffing up the pillow as well as I can without completely crawling over her or pulling said pillows out from under her. "I don't blame you, though. The clinic's great, but it's also about the most boring place on the whole island."

[notaparker]

"From this end," I say, looking up at the super interesting ceiling I am sure to get to know very well by the end of this experience. Hello, Mr Ceiling. I will tell you all about the complete mess I made of things down under the sea. You look like a good listener. Your advice is probably crap, though.

I shift somewhat gratefully onto the adjusted pillows. Somewhat gratefully, and a lot more gingerly, trying not to put pressure on the parts of my back that got burned by that whole proximity mine deal.

"Usually -- ech, ow -- love the lab."

[daretodo]

This is my fault. Or it feels like my fault, which is close enough to the same thing when you're me. If it's not one thing making me feel lousy, it's another, but how I feel can only pale in comparison to the pain Jessica's in right now. And I should know. I suffered a collapsed lung just last year, and I can tell you, with utmost certainty, that it's no picnic, a lesson she's apparently learning pretty darn quickly for herself.

A million thoughts are rushing through my head: that I should never have brought her down there, that I shouldn't have left her alone to fight off my own problems, that I should have been keeping an eye on her, that I overestimated her competence, that I should've helped her make better tech to compensate for her lack of powers... The common theme is obvious, I guess. I should have done something -- anything -- more to help her, but instead I assumed she could take care of herself, wiped my hands clean of the responsibility, and look where that got her: half-dead in my favorite clinic bed

[notaparker]

The idea that Peter has a memory that's similar to one of mine isn't exactly new, even if it's turned kind of on its head in this case. I don't know whether that means I'm letting the spider-side down by being here, or upholding a fine tradition.

Both ideas leave a bad taste in the mouth. (That might be the meds.) I'm not bound by any of his traditions, and I don't have anyone to live up to except me.

Not that I feel like I'm doing a fine job of even that.

"Oh, goodie," I say, "room service. I'll take -- ah -- a sundae."

Would have been snappier if I hadn't had that twinge in the middle, there. Not to mention the raspiness and feeling that I can't entirely catch my breath isn't helping my delivery.

[daretodo]

"Pretty sure you're on a strict Jell-O diet," I reply, walking further into the room. I haven't actually had much cause to be in here since Cap was released months ago. Can't say that I've missed it much. The Compound as a whole isn't my utmost favorite place, but the clinic in particular is its own special brand of depressing. No windows, cardboard beds, no privacy, bored doctors...

I don't actually look at her. Meeting her eyes is something I'd like to hold off on a little while longer.

"Also, I'm not a bellhop. Stick a please on the end, though, and I might be able to sneak you a few scoops."

[notaparker]

He's not looking at me. I can take a guess at what that's about. Rhymes with 'quilt,' which is kind of appropriate since it weighs down on us every night.

"At least we have," pause, breathe, "Jell-O." It's a vital component in my marshmallow recipe, actually. I would have much more trouble coming up with them without it. The one thing I've managed successfully.

Marshmallows and clocks. You're a star, Jessica Drew. You're a contributor.

"Don't want... to imagine what hospital food was like before it." I close my eyes a moment.

"Forget the sundae, could I get a," pause, breathe, "glass of water? Please."

[apoorupbringing]

"Well, well, well," Chase said slowly, voice a little tight, from where he was kicked back in a chair by her bedside.

"If little miss One Woman Wolf Pack isn't back from the unknown country. Have a nice trip?"

[notaparker]

I start, a little, because I hadn't realized I have company. I'm a little out of it, what with the surgery and the pain and the introspection and all. Which makes that little start turn into more of a wince as I turn my head -- and only my head, let's give up on the rest for the just now -- to face my guest.

"TSA was, a, nightmare," I manage.

I think that works, as a joke. Did I mention I'm a little out of it?

[apoorupbringing]

"Oh,funny!" Chase said with a brittle, overly bright tone.

"That's funny! You're fucking hilarious. Let's have a good laugh about it, you and me. Oh, wait, can you not? Because of all the broken ribs and the other things that are wrong with you like your psychotic loner syndrome? What the shit, Jessica?!"

[notaparker]

I did not expect that. Generally the scolding comes from the inside of my own head. There's a lot of that. Outside scolding... less so.

I just kind of stare at him at first. Should I tell him off for snapping at the injured girl? No. No, I don't think I will, because, one, I'm not looking for sympathy, and two...

Maybe I earned a scolding. Not for the reason he's snapping at me, but it's as close as I'll get, possibly. Parts of it are especially off, though. I think. Psychotic, at least, that is definitely off. Right?

"...I don't- what? Psychotic... what?"