Michael smiled a little at Sasha. What was it about him? He was sweet. Could he call it that? Could he use that term? Perhaps, since it was in his own mind. Sasha couldn't read his mind, and Michael wouldn't go that far as to actually say it aloud. Maddie swept back her silvering brown hair and took the money that was offered, though with a little resignation. "That's just fine, love, I'll bring it right up!" She grasped Sasha's hand and pressed what was evidently the counted change from the total Sasha had given her. "Back in a moment!" She patted the young man and sped off, not necessarily running, but half-jogging back out to her cart and wheeling it down the hall. Michael's room was at the end of the hall, so she turned it around to head back off.

Michael's eyes were lingering in a half-dazed state as he fiddled with the top of the orange juice carton, opening it after finding the right side. He'd not had it in so long it still took a while to get used to the acidity of the juice, and it burned a little when he took a drink so that he grimaced. "Someday I'll readjust to everything..." He muttered, poking at the sliced peaches in their bowl. They were easy to eat---soft and smooth, gentle on the tongue. And sweet. Like Sasha. Michael grinned to himself at the thought.

Sasha's fingers closed around the money. Absentmindedly, he slipped the change into his pocket and turned to glance at the other man. What kind of life had Michael led for seven years that made everything in the world seem like such a huge mystery to him? Even peaches and orange juice, it seemed, were a novelty. "Michael ... what kind of food did you have, before?" He felt almost compelled to ask.

There was just this aura about the other man that aroused curiosity and instincts in the intern he hadn't expected. They kept flitting through his mind, the thoughts of how mistreated the blond haired man had been. Was that why he felt like he needed to make sure that every moment he spent with Michael was filled with at least some happiness?

He'd invited such questions. He knew he had, but Michael still felt hesitant to answer the question, a bit of a constriction closing up his throat and making it hard to swallow. "Er... I was given some kind of mix. Gray and... gelatinous. Kind of a mix of foods, like it was all put in a blender, and I ate it twice a day with water. They said it had all the vitamins and essential qualities I'd need from a complete diet, but in a single serving in the morning, and in the evening. It couldn't be chewed because it was so thin, and had... just a bland, milky taste to it... It's hard to chew things now because I was never able to for so long. And I'd only ever been given water to drink, sometimes laced with sedatives so they could break my legs without shocking me to death. So anything with a lot of acid burns on the way down."

He pursed his lips as another quick memory returned to him. The man with the long curly hair, dark stuff, and a scruffy-type beard. Something that hadn't been shaved in a few weeks. Michael was grimacing at the disgusting looking bowl that had been set on the floor in front of him, and nudged the spoon inside. He was starting to back away, but the man bent down and grabbed him by the scruff of his dirty shirt and thrust him forward. "Eat! I swear to God if it's not gone by the time we get back you're fucking dead!" The tone, the tempo, the rage behind the words made him grab the spoon and choke down every bite as quickly as he could, though it immediately made him sick afterward. He was forced to clean that up as well, and the towels were thrown at him while his captors laughed. Cruel beings. Perhaps to desensitize him. It hadn't worked.

It was torturous simply hearing what Michael had been put through. Sasha swallowed hard, trying not to show huow upset he was. That was absurd though, him feeling so down when he had never been put into such a situation before. What thoughts were running through Michael's mind now? Sasha reached out to lay a gentle hand upon the other man's arm. He squeezed slightly, and smiled. "Well worse comes to worse, I'll slip a word to Maddie and tell her to bring in more solid foods gradually."

Michael had lost so much, had missed so much. The sound of wheels rolling along signaled Maddie's return. Sasha turned to offer her a smile, and accepted his food with a few murmured words of thanks. She made him nervous now, because of that earlier comment about Michael seeming so much more eager then he had been before.

Michael waited until Maddie had left before looking to Sasha, moving his notebook and pen from the other side of the table and staring at the picture. Not bad, but... he just didn't like it. It wasn't good enough. "Thanks." He breathed. "They... I guess they get bothered that I can't eat well. Hard to bite through meat or hard vegetables. I do try... I just have to make sure my jaw gets strong again." It would soon enough... Talking, eating, drinking, it all had to do with his jaw. And he did talk a good amount. He always had. Now he had someone to really talk to. Sasha, who didn't mind. Who seemed to like being around him. A kind man. So rare.

He swallowed one more peach and shifted a little, growling at the shaft of pain that slid into his upper legs. "Er... I'm ready whenever you are, okay?" He glanced sideways, pushing his tray back and setting the notebook in front of it to tear the used page out and set it aside. "Just let me know..." Another sketch was quickly started. A dark one now. He wouldn't outline this in pen because he needed the layers of graphite. A dark little place, and a pale little figure. Sad. Dying. Why did he draw it? Perhaps to get his inner feelings out. Yes... That had to be it. He'd been told by a therapist that drawing one's inner demons helped to get them all out. Or at least, though one medium.

Sasha stood from the bed and turned to face Michael once more. His eyes flitted to the drawing he thought might be off him, the metal pins making bumps beneath the thin material covering the other man's legs ... He shuddered at the thought of the pain he was going to ask his friend to go through. It was necessary though. "I'm sure you'll be able to do it all, eat solid food and walk. " And he would help in every way he could.

Once he was certain Michael was ready, he glanced at him and moved to stand at the foot of the bed. "Alright, let's begin. Don't try lifting your feet yet. Even before doing that, in your case, you need to get used to moving your feet. You need to strengthen your ankles." To demonstrate, the young man lifted his leg, stretching the limb so his calf lay against the metal bed frame. He shifted his ankle back and forth, his toes moved up and down. "See what kind of thing you need to do?"

He wasn't looking forward to the exercises, but he had to do it. When Sasha was ready, he moved the table aside and sat up a little more, nodding as he was led into the first. Rolling the ankle, shifting it back and forth. Getting it to move. He had to. He had to and yet he really didn't want to, felt his arms go weak, like cooked pasta. Felt his heart begin to pound. He clenched his teeth weakly, looking to his left foot. He almost felt the metal shift within him, creak as if ungreased door hinges. His mind's eye actually brought that to life, seeing an actual door hinge in his ankle, bending and angrily protesting the movement. But then the prickling, stabbing pain set in as he bent his foot out straight, and he suddenly felt his unharmed muscles contract in a painful cramp. "Aah!" He leaned forward, growling and powering through it, bringing his foot back up to point at the ceiling. To the left, a little, and the right. Like fire, magma through his veins, filling every blood cell in his body, like electricity through his skull.

But it was for his own good. He copied the movement as his eyes watered, burned and he stifled light cries. No, he had to do it. Had to get the strength back in his legs. Had to force the bolts to work with him instead of against him. The same cramp took over his right leg, and a slight wave of cold nausea washed over him. Michael hadn't gotten physically sick from the pain for a long time, but sometimes it seemed like a close call. His arms were shaking. Why did such tiny movements have to hurt so much? Why did it have to feel as if someone were slicing again through his legs with a dull scalpel?

It was hard not to make him stop. Sasha had to force himself to hide his reaction, though worry flitted through his eyes and remained there no matter how he blinked. He winced, shifted so that his feet were planted firmly upon the ground. "Take a bit of a break, and now I want you to lift up each foot and hold them up for five seconds each." Then they could stop for the day. It was better to take things slow, then to force Michael into a situation which could harm him more then he'd already been through.

"Once that's done, it'll be time for you to take a bath." He had brought some of his own shampoo, his own soaps, because he wanted to share them with Michael. The hospital issued stock did what was necessary, but lent no help for lank locks like Michael's. What he wouldn't have given to see the other man in his prime ... Healthy and strong, without any signs of the abuse he'd been true. That was an impossible dream though. An odd one, to his mind.

Holding his legs in the air of their own accord? That would have to be extremely difficult... No, it certainly would be, and would put most of their weight on upper joints rather than spread it out. But it was necessary, he knew that much. It had to happen, or he'd never get used to it. Never be able to walk. And he wanted to walk again, wanted to walk so badly... He breathed in, gritting his teeth and balled his hands up so they wouldn't be tempted to help. It required bending at the knees just to get them in the air, and he heard himself whimper accidentally though his voice was pushed down in favor of careful breathing. It put great strain on the metal that had permeated his hips, and Michael could almost feel the joints roll to accommodate his movement. Five seconds... Four... It seemed to drag on forever, and when Michael's internal voice counted five, he almost let his legs drop the distance he'd raised them and inadvertently winced at the idea. But he set them down carefully, straightening out his legs and sighing.

Finally... It was over. But Michael was well aware of how necessary it was. Still, he had to wipe away a flood of tears, and calm himself down enough to understand what Sasha had said. Bath...? Was Sasha aware of the fact that Michael could, at the very least, handle himself as long as water was already in the basin? He would have to let the man know...

He kept wincing, making faces, seeing the way the other man hurt from such a small action. Oh that whimper nearly made him tell Michael to stop, but he didn't. This was needed to make the other man's dream come true. Sasha bit his lip to stop himself from echoing the sounds with his own.

"So, time for a nice warm bath. It should help ease the pain for a while and soothe the muscles you've been exercising." So saying, the young man made sure the wheelchair was by the bedside. "I'll go draw the water and set up the shampoo and soap for you."

Michael bit his tongue. He still wasn't used to someone simply waiting on him without hesitation. Usually it was the job of a variety of nurses or orderlies to help him, but now it all fell to one person. No doubt it had to be hard for him... It had to be difficult to handle it all... He shook his head, feeling rather guilty about it though he was fully aware that it wasn't necessarily his fault. Or was it...? He could get around well enough, but it was indeed difficult. Was it really necessary...? He shook his head, sighing. It was confusing. Bringing himself out of his mind, Michael glanced around. Sasha had already gone off, leaving Micheal alone. He reached over again, grasping the chair and making sure the brake was on again before using his hands. He'd have to get out of the habit of using his arms to move his legs, but maybe that was too big a leap. No, it certainly was... He didn't want to put even more strain on Sasha.

Bending his knees was difficult today, especially after he'd bent them and lifted his rather useless limbs just a few minutes ago. He growled his discomfort, though, instead of allowing it to have its own voice, and paused there. They hung on the edge of the bed limply, and he studied them. Maybe... He moved his legs a bit, back and forth. The feeling was akin to someone stabbing a blade between his kneecap and then twisting it, but they moved on their own, and he mopped his face free of tears and sniffed hard before grasping the chair and trading his seat on the bed for the seat between wheels, putting up his feet with his hands so they wouldn't drag.

Sasha returned to the room and silently moved to place himself behind the other man. Firmly, the young man placed his hands upon the wheelchair and pushed his charge along until they were both ensconced in the sterile bathroom. He was uncertain now, fiddling with the sleeves of his clothing, his mind racing all the while. "Now what?" Was he supposed to stay, to go? Should he sit outside by the door? Sasha bit his lower lip, eying to room. It had been made as safe as possible, and still he doubted that it was so. Just a slip, a simple mishap, and it would send the other man into a world of pain.

He was surprised when Sasha took control of the chair. Most of the time he was in control of his wheelchair, the proof in his strong upper arms and body in general, Once in the slowly warming bathroom, however, he was let go, and Michael turned to face Sasha. "You don't have to stay." He said with a small, reassuring nod. "The edge of everything in here has textured rubber on it... I'll be just fine. And if not, there's a cord there." He pointed to the wall just above the bathtub, where a red cord hung. "That'll set off an alarm if something happens." He hated seeing that worry in Sasha's eyes, the way he simply stood, held himself. "But nothing will. I... I'll be fine." He nodded a little, an offering of familiarity, of calmness and assurance.

He hesitated. "What if you can't reach it?" The words trembled in the air. Sasha wrapped his hands around each other, glancing at each surface once more. Shoulders curled into himself, slumping with worry. All he wanted to do was stay, so he could make sure nothing happened, that nothing went wrong. Michael didn't want that though. "But I suppose it should be alright ..." Michael had already taken baths before ... of course he had, and he was alright.

Michael nodded. "I can reach a second one by the door if all else fails." He nodded to the exit, where another obvious string was attached to another white box. Above it, a red light that started blinking when the cord was pulled. He maneuvered the right way, putting on the brake when he was alongside the basin. Sasha seemed so worried, it hurt to see. "I draw." He mentioned as he slipped his white shirt over his head and set it on the back of the wheelchair. "They're in a notebook in the left bedside table---the top drawer. I draw... people I see. Things I endured. The faces of the men that did what they did to me. The house on the day I was abducted, what I saw when I was young, my last... outside memory for seven years. And doctors. Trees and flowers. If you want to see those... Maybe you could tell me how I'm coming along in talent?"

Anything to distract Sasha for even a moment. Michael grabbed the side of the bath tub and levered himself around to sit on it, lifting one leg and slowly slipping the cloth over his painful skin and lowering it into the water, followed closely by his other leg, and a few moments of rest let him gather strength to place the rest of his body into the heated water with a sigh. "And... thanks." He glanced over to the man, and offered a pale smile.

"I'll go look," said Sasha quickly with a small smile. He backed out of the room and closed the door. He felt his heart breaking for the other man, and warmed all at the same time by the fact that Michael was letting him see something so personal. As if seeing Michael naked wasn't personal enough. Seeing everything of him, it had struck Sasha in a strange way. A wistfulness he couldn't understand lingered in his mind as he remembered the sight. Why was that?

Shaking his head, he moved to the bedside table and slipped the drawer open. With reverence, the young man pulled the dark book from within and flipped the cover open to reveal the first page. It was a story told in drawings, a soul laid bare and emotions put onto a white page. Leaning against the bed, Sasha didn't know he cried as he went from one page to the next.

Michael was alone in a moment, and free to do what he wanted for a time. What he wanted so far as his legs would allow. He used a plastic cup to soak his head and shoulders, and shudder at the heated water. It wasn't quite as hot as it normally was, but he had to chalk that up to Sasha's obviously kind nature not wanting to scald him. Such a kind soul. He worked shampoo through his hair, smelling a different scent in the air as he did so and breathing deeply. It was the least he could do, to show Sasha what he thought and felt through art, the way children did. He rinsed the soap from his hair and brought his hands through, working in conditioner and staring at the tile in front of him.

How many times had he thought about lying back in the hot water and taking as many deep breaths as he could? He had been so tempted at times, he would lean back against the back of the basin and lower himself down until the water played at his nose. But he had lingered too long those times. Now, though, he couldn't do that. Not if that would hurt Sasha. Someone that genuinely cared. Something rare. It didn't seem to be 'just a job' to Sasha.

He cleaned his skin, carefully so around his legs. He grimaced and gritted his teeth while his hands worked down the worthless appendages and around their exposed bolts. They didn't rust, at least. That would have killed him long ago, for certain.

He found a drawing of himself, holding a music note. The sight had him smiling a bit, though the tears still fell. What had he done to deserve such high regard, such trust, from Michael? He didn't think he had done anything too special. As time wore on, he ended up pulling the book up against his chest and hugging it tightly. It was a part of Michael he could hold close without fear of hurting him. He did fear that, more then he should have. Memories of last night's dream had him smiling a bit, and confused.

Sasha didn't dare think any of it had been real, though it had felt that way when he'd reached out to hug Michael. So fast ... Too fast.. It was easy to feel protective and attached to the other man. The emotions were so raw and hard to decipher.

For once his hair felt smooth, silky. He almost wanted to see it in a mirror. He ran his hands through it carefully, marveling at how it ran through his fingers effortlessly when the rinse was out of it. Maybe it shone like it was supposed to. Maybe if he went outside... He missed outside. Being in the hospital was akin to being held again, but this time by people that didn't force him to crawl about and tried to pump him full of so many medications that sometimes he didn't even know what year it was. Maybe Sasha would take him out into that beautiful courtyard he had seen.

Michael let the water out after a while, setting the plug aside and bringing himself up onto the edge of the bath tub. There was a towel nearby, and he got it effortlessly, drying his hair, his shoulders. He edged the dry side of the cloth along his legs, wincing, growling, biting his tongue until he tasted blood. He couldn't let Sasha know how much pain just rubbing a piece of cloth on his skin brought. Maybe if they used a type of numbing solution on his legs, Michael would be able to walk a little easier. But of course, that was simply out of the question. He growled again, more out of frustration, and started pulling his clothes back on.

There were sounds now that the water had stopped. Small, but very loud to Sasha's attentive ears. Carefully, he set the sketchbook aside and slipped into the bathroom. He knew he should have knocked, but he was too worried to have done so. "Michael? Is something wrong?" All that growling had him distraught. Swallowing hard, he averted his eyes to give the other man a modicum of privacy. Just two days ... What would this feeling of protectiveness be like in a week, a month?

Michael was drying his face now, free of the tears that had accumulated and fallen through the painful process, and when the door opened suddenly, he shrank back until his mind connected to who it was. "I'm fine." He said quickly, sniffing hard and grabbing his clothes, slowly pulling his pants up his legs with as little strain as possible, then transferring himself into his chair and slipping his shirt on again. "I'm fine." He repeated, looking up to Sasha as he folded the towel in half and draped it over the side of the bath tub. "My skin just gets really sensitive. Especially around the bolts. I don't know why they had to put them on the outside..." It made him look like half a Frankenstein, he knew that. Like an experiment doomed to failure. But he pushed that aside and offered a smile to Sasha, releasing the brake on his chair and moving it forward.

He nodded a little and moved away from the doorway. "I'm sorry for bursting in like that. I was ..." He had been terrified. Michael was far from the happiest person in the world. With his past, Sasha couldn't help but think the worst could happen if the other man were left alone. "I was worried something had happened ..." Shaking his head slightly, the young man stepped into Michael's room. All the while his eyes were upon the ground, or flitted to the other man quickly.

Michael smiled sadly. "Your concerns are justified..." He admitted, going to the side of the bed and putting the brake on, hefting himself up and testing his legs, barely putting weight on and hissing as electric pain crackled up until he brought them up with his hands, then tucked the sheet around them tightly. "I guess it's... stupid not to admit. When I'm alone, I do wonder if there are methods I could end my life easily. Being alone with a tub of water is just... something I can't stop considering. But I've always been too afraid to try it. I guess I'm just afraid that I'd be even more trouble afterward, if I failed, instead of less."

He looked down, ashamed of his admission. What had he done? He had probably made Sasha worry even more now. "I'm sorry." He muttered, looking sideways and grasping his sketchbook when he saw it, curling up against it. Sasha had seen his soul. His paper soul, defaced by graphite, telling his stories though imagery. An old house, the house he'd been held in. The basement he had had to live in and exist in for seven years. The X-rays of his bones after they had installed that painful rigging. The faces of the men that had captured him. His methods of suicide, were he able to get to those particular sharp objects or ropes. But he'd never been able to.

Hearing it made tears well in his eyes. Sasha knew he cared far too much. Two days .. Two days was all. It felt like more then that. Shaking his head, he moved to sit upon the bed with the gentle care he always did. The images he'd seen flashed through his mind in vivid detail. Horrific images, saddening ones, heartbreaking, they were all there and none of them seemed to hold any joy, save perhaps one. Reaching out, he placed a kind hand upon the other man's head. It was the only place he didn't think his touch would cause harm.

"After all you've survived, I'd think it was strange if you didn't contemplate it..." admitted Sasha lowly. "You wouldn't be more trouble, you know. Not to me. You aren't trouble at all."

Michael couldn't blink away the tears this time---not as if he could very often. He set his book down beside Sasha and grabbed the man's hand, clasping it tightly. "I suppose... But... I make people worry when I say that. They try to make me... feel differently, like they can talk the urge out of me. They think they know how I feel because they... 'felt sad' sometimes, or their puppy died when they were little. But..." He shook his head. "Nothing." He released Sasha's hand, picking up his book and flipping through. "I hope... well, you think I'm good." He indicated the sketches. He couldn't ask if Sasha liked them---they were all so dark. Who could like such disgusting pictures?