Al’s sleep schedule was all over the place for a while after getting his body back. Some nights he would wake up almost every hour. Sometimes he could sleep for days. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the middle of the day. Sometimes he went days without being able to sleep at all. Somedays he would just be wandering around all day completely drowsy no matter how much sleep he got the night before. Eventually his body and mind adjusted together but for several months it was frustrating to say the least, and at times scary as Ed often worried if Al was going to slip into a coma.
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The babies were delivered, with no complications. They were small only about 4 pounds each. Mila Elizabeth Boedell was delivered first, and her brother, Michael Elias Boedell was delivered 4.5 minutes after.
However, Laurel’s blood pressure continued to rise and unfortunately after doctors trying for sometime to bring it back to normal levels, some of Laurels organs began to shut down, and she slipped into a coma....
Tori lifted up her head from the table and smiled wanly. “I don’t know. Yesterday? The day before?..Wait, no, I think I managed to sleep for a couple of hours yesterday, so don’t worry,”she smiled tiredly in a reassuring tone.
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I usually spend my Friday nights getting drunk, but tonight I’m spending it by the phone waiting for any information I can. Q will be okay though, she has to be.
Frustration slammed into him almost as hard as he slammed his tray against the opposite wall with a crash. Food and drink splattered down the wall, but he couldn't have cared less. A day after awakening from his coma, not being able to use his cutlery had thrown him off the deep end.
--
Stiles ducked dramatically as he came into the room, eyebrows raised at Elijah. "So, not a fan of the pasta then?" he asked, grabbing up the tray and the cutlery and setting it down a safe distance from the obviously frustrated patient. "I'm sure they've told you and I'm sure you don't want to hear it again, but, you know, this kind of stuff might give you trouble."
--
His eyes were flared wide, breathing in high gear. “I wouldn’t know,” he snapped with force, words loose and slurred as though he were drunk. Did he enjoy pasta? Had he been able to use his fork or remember, he’d have known. That just riled him up more. He looked at the man, recognising him from the day before though their time together was more than just a little fuzzy. His name and job was unknown to him, though he supposed by the scrubs he wore he was probably an intern or first year resident.
--
Stiles wished he could offer more help. Had he known Elijah before he would have at least had some answers. He cleaned his hands quickly and crossed his arms over his chest. "You want me to get you a sandwich instead? Might be easier," he offered. Maybe he could sneak a note onto his chart, avoid utensils for now. "I'm Stiles, by the way. I'm an intern here, I hung out with you while you were out."
--
"I'm not hungry." He sighed heavily, blinking once. So that's why he looked familiar. Stiles. He did his best to remember. "Where did you go to medical school?" He asked, something that wouldn't frustrate him more he hoped. Without knowing why he felt himself drawn to medicine.
--
Stiles hesitated a moment and then grabbed Elijah's chart before sitting down in his usual chair. He had time before rounds and he usually would have spent it in here with Elijah anyways. It was kind of weird to see him awake, good obviously, but weird. The question surprised him. "I went to John Hopkins. And then I came here for the surgical program," he answered finally. At least everything in Elijah's charts looked normal.
--
"Good school." He almost didn't know how he knew, but everyone knew that, right? Elijah reached out a hand to grip his plastic cup of water, hand more than a little unsteady. He slowly managed to bring it to his lips, after two failed attempts. "When am I going to get my coordination back?"
--
He huffed a laugh. "Yeah, it's a pretty good one." Stiles wanted to offer to help but he knew Elijah was better off practicing on his own. So he averted his eyes a little to give him time to get his fingers around the cup. At his question though he raised his eyes to meet Elijah's. "We, uh, it's hard to tell. Could be a couple of weeks, could be longer. You were in a coma for six months, it takes time to get these things back." He almost pointed out that Elijah should know this before remembering that he didn't remember who he'd been.
--
Elijah looked away after managing to place the cup back without spilling it - an accomplishment. He almost laughed. “Six months. It takes patients two to three times longer to recover from their TBA,” he recited with confidence despite his slight slurring of words. “Great.” A knit upon his brows, then. “Why do I know that? And why do I know what each of my machines do and the drugs… “ he trailed off.
--
Stiles' eyes widened the more he spoke. He knew memories and knowledge would be sporadic, but that was still impressive. He sat up, grinning, running his hand through his hair and bouncing a little in his seat. "You're a doctor, a surgeon," he answered. "A really talented one actually. You'll remember that, it's awesome actually that you're remembering things now."
--
He watched the young man, silently, a curious expression on his face - a far cry from the angry one he’d worn earlier. “A surgeon?” he asked. That made his mood fall suddenly. What good would he be now? A surgeon who couldn’t even use eating utensils. His jaw clenched, eyes closing.
--
Stiles frowned, reaching out without thinking to pat Elijah's leg. "You'll get it back. We'll do PT, whatever it takes, people recover from comas, you know?" He had no doubt that Elijah Mikaelson of all people could come back from this. "You're like a cardio God, you're going to get it all back."
--
The hand to his leg couldn’t be felt. In fact, his entire leg felt numb, as did the other and one half of his left arm. Logically what the intern was saying would have made complete sense to the hardcore surgeon. Had he not been overwhelmed with emotion, that is. All he could see was a big black hole. When his eyes opened, the touch registered. A brow rose.
--
He didn't even realize he was touching him until he saw that brow raise and then he lifted his hand like he was proving he was unarmed. "Sorry, sorry, I just, you and I, I mean, me, you're like an old friend! Ha, you don't know me though, so, sorry about that." He wished there was more he could do, comfort he could actually give. "Seriously, dude, you're gonna get it back."
--
“Mhm,” he muttered grumpily. No, he didn’t know him… so who did he know? Before the accident or whatever had caused his predicament. “Did we know one another before… did I work here?”
--
"No, no, you didn't. We didn't. You had just started here when you had the accident. I mean, we met briefly, you made a speech, I would have had my rotation with you." God, he'd been looking forward to that. He wasn't planning on doing cardio but you didn't takenfor granted the ability to learn from someone like Elijah Mikaelson.
--
He sighed, would have nodded if the pain in his head wasn’t such a nuisance. Instead he stared off like some broken toy. “Has anyone… called for me?” he had noticed visitors coming and going in and out of the ward. None ever came to his room. None that he remembered, anyway. “Do I have any…”
--
Somehow it was sadder to see Elijah looking like this than it had been when he was still in his coma. When Stiles reached out this time it was on purpose and it was where he knew the doctor could feel him, patting the hand he'd picked up his water with. "No," he murmured. "Um, your chart says you don't really have family, no wife or, uh, or husband. You're pretty well known for being really invested in your work, so..."
--
That disappointed him a little. So it was just him. He was… all alone. He didn’t know how to feel about that - it had been his choice, hadn’t it? He must have preferred it that way. “Wallet?” Perhaps if he could see some of his personal items, it’d jog back a few memories. “What else am I known for?”
--
Stiles stood and went over to the little closet where Elijah's personal effects should be. He found them, and his wallet. "Well, most of what I know, it's, you know, job related. You weren't really so chatty the last six months. But, um, you've won awards, you have two methods named after you. Pretty much any intern would kill to work under you. I know I would. Will, hell, when you get your hands back." He sat back down and handed the wallet to Elijah. "You're a cardio God, there's no one better than you. You've operated on hearts no one would even think about touching."
--
The man’s words made his stomach churn. If he never got back to that? He didn’t know if he could deal with it all… it was a little too much. His hands shook as he grasped the wallet, hands unsteady as they attempted to open it. His chest tightened. Why was it so difficult? In the end he slammed it down and took a deep breath. “I, I should rest…” he didn’t want to rest. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to be alone, was what he wanted. He wanted to scream and wreck things and try and try again until he could use utensils or open his damn wallet.
--
Stiles winced. He probably should have toned that down. Shit. He was bad at this. He probably shouldn't have come. Sitting with him while he was in a coma was a lot different then helping him after and it wasn't like they were friends. "Okay, yeah, no. You should rest, sorry. I, uh, someone will come check on you." He started for the door, stopping just outside of it to turn back. "You're really going to be okay, Doctor Mikaelson."
--
He was relieved when the man decided to take his leave, but the last words he heard had a profound effect. Suddenly he felt reassured. He was going to be okay. Like the intern had said, it’ll take some time. That’s all it was. Although he made no eye contact or voiced any thanks, he laid there grateful, and tried to again reach out for this wallet.
Coma Meme: Itisha's hands trembled when she stood beside him. Hands carefully brushing his hair from his face. That high pitched boop being the only assurance that he was alive without her laying on his head. "Wake up. Please." She whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Please don't leave me, Clint. I am begging." Voice so soft that only he could hear if he had been awake. "I have lost so many... I want you to be around forever. Close where your heart beats beside mine. I am- Please."
Humans were fragile.
Fragile enough to get really badly hurt in an accident, especially when the other driver had been drunk and speeding. Clint had survived, but his body had decided to shut down far enough to end up in a coma, a seemingly endless sleep in which Clint saw himself stuck. He heard a soft voice, but it was muffled, not loud enough for him to hear, not clear enough for Clint to make out the words. Everything seemed dark and scary, really, and he knew that he had to go back. But where? Why did he have to go back?
