*** Two Months Later ***

"Roy, are you ready?"

He sat in his wheelchair unphased. Roy stared ahead, unattentive to Nurse Beckie who had called his name more than once. He felt different. He was different. He looked different. His skin was pale, having not felt the California sun in months. His grey eyes were weary and dead, the spark in them having been lost. His legs were still useless, atrophied from all those days in bed. In truth, therapy hadn't helped at all. Not even a little. His back still ached.

Jeffrey had been discharged long before Roy. The cancer had been a misdiagnosis, his tumor benine. In return, Roy was faced with the dooming reality that his mistake was irreversable. Of course, as days went on, the hospital staff trusted him enough for more privileges like getting in that dreaded wheelchair by himself. He felt like a fool while doing it, then again, he felt more foolish putting on real pants.

They never gave him any more morphine. Not even after the third surgery. Dr. Sharpe said the second would be the last. Roy bit his tongue at the thought. He couldn't get up to get it himself. And Jeffrey refused to panhandle drugs. Instead he offered Roy his bible, and Roy laughed at the prospects of him ever becoming Catholic again.

"Roy. I will wheel you away..."

He rolled his eyes. He hated when people tried to push him.

"Yeah." He coughed and cleared his throat. He developed quite the smoking habit. "I'm coming."

Roy turned around, meeting eyes with Nurse Beckie. Her smile was ear to ear when he wheeled over to her, eyes on the floor when she embraced him. She patted him on the head. Roy wanted to scream.

"I'm proud of how far you've come," Beckie exclaimed. "I could just cry. I really could. Here, I'll walk you to the cab."

Walk to the cab.

"Come on!" She smiled, awkwardly standing half in the door and out.

Face to ass. Face to ass. Face to fat ass.

Roy nearly ran into her heels. He debated on doing it purposefully.

"It is paid for, you know." Beckie opened the door to the cab, the driver was an older Eastern European gentleman with greying red hair. "Here."

"No. Stop. I'm fine." He swore god he wouldn't fuck up and fall between the wheelchair and car.

"Fine. Okay." Beckie said sharply. She proceeded to but the wheelchair in after him. "You can't forget this!" A smile.

Roy sighed. The cab driver made eye contact with him in the mirror.

"Now, you can get home okay, right?"

"Yes," Roy insisted.

"Well then," she cleared her throat and awkwardly attempted to lean into the car over the wheelchair to kiss Roy's hand. She could barely reach him, but just had to get that kiss in. "I will wish you the best of luck."

"Pleasure."

Beckie shut the door, never taking her eyes off Roy until the cab was out of her view. He felt sincerely blessed that whale was out of his life. But he wanted to say goodbye to MacKenzie, even though they barely spoke.

"1515 Gerard Way, right?" the driver asked,

"You got it," Roy said.

"Not to worry," he remarked in a thick Slovakian accent,"I take patient home many time. We be here shortly."

"Glad to know I'm in good hands," Roy raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I take a lot of the trips."

Roy wondered if he would be dependant on rides for the rest of his life. Luigi had originally brought Roy's car back to his apartment, and Dr. Sharpe insisted he take advantage of the cab ride, something for unprivileged patients.

"We make it now here." The car slammed to a stop, nearly sending Roy to the front seat. "Here, I come." He jumped out and ran around the back, quickly opening the door.

"I got it," Roy insisted, failing at an attempt to put the wheelchair onto the sidewalk. The cab driver stood watching, narrowing his eyes, wondering whether to ignore Roy or help anyway. "I said, I'm fine."

"Yes. Yes, okay."

Roy felt accomplished, and remembered to put on the brakes, something MacKenzie had originally taught him.

Shit...fuck. Okay. God, don't watch you old creep. Wait, do the legs go out first?

He wated to tell the driver to stop watching and get back in the car at his miserable job. Instead he transfered without a word, accidentally slamming the door behind him. It probably made him look like an asshole.

"Good luck, good day."

"Thanks," Roy said.

The car sped away faster than Roy could say: "Fuck. How do I get in my house?"

He closed his eyes, rubbed his face, and groaned. Roy forgot. There were only two steps leading to the appartment, but they were still steps. His place was on the first floor, the first door on the left. Sure, the first floor. But there were still stairs.

He wanted to pray. To pray for something. A bombing on America. Fully-functional aliens. Morphine. How could two steps cause a fucking panic attack?

No. He was not going to drag himself up two steps, drag the wheelchair up two steps, get back in the wheelchair, and then get in the appartment. It was the middle of daylight. People would watch.

Should he get the neighbors? No. No one was going to carry him. Maybe ask the neighbors to use the telephone. Call Nurse Beckie. "Hey, yeah it's Roy. I can't get in my house. Send me a gun so I can shoot myself." NO.

Roy looked down at the pathetic excuse for a staircase. He felt his legs, squeezing his knees. Maybe the nerves were just sleeping. Maybe they just needed to be woken up. He squeezed his knees, his calfs, and thighs, praying, just wishing that if he could just get in his apartment once, he would go to church. If he could get inside, he could call Luigi or Barnes, tell them to make a ramp or something, and this would never happen again.

This is my mistake.

"Work, dammit!" Roy groaned as he slapped his thigh. "Is that too much to fucking ask?" He grabbed a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, taking a long drag before making a spontaneous decision to extinguish it on his knee. "Is this enough. Is this enough for you...Jesus, I'm talking to my legs..." Roy could see from the corner of  his eye an elderly woman about to hobble around him, a pondering expression on her wrinkled, old face.

She shook her head and he straightened up. "You are far too young. And far too handsome."

"Oh yeah?" Roy grumbled. "Regarding what?"

"Well, you know. The way you are. It is a pity."

"I don't want your pity."

She didn't hear him. Or if she did,  she ignored him, nonchalantly pushing his wheelchair so she could get by.

I'm not dead yet.