Sparks In Scrubs | Arizona Robbins X Reader

In Your Arms

**Y/N's Perspective**

It's been a month since I woke up after the surgery, and I've spent every single day in this hospital room, working through physical therapy. The days blend into each other, each one filled with exercises that test both my patience and my pain tolerance. Arizona tries to visit whenever she can, but most of the time, I'm alone with my thoughts and the endless routine of trying to get my body back to where it used to be.

The physical therapy sessions are gruelling, especially when it comes to my left arm. My right arm is making decent progress. I can squeeze things without much trouble now, and lifting lighter objects is getting easier every day. There's a sense of relief every time I manage to pick something up or move my arm without feeling that familiar sting of pain. It feels like a small victory in the middle of this long, exhausting battle.

But my left arm... It's like dragging dead weight. The nerve damage from the burns is severe, and every exercise feels like trying to move a boulder uphill. I can barely squeeze a stress ball, let alone lift anything with it. The therapists keep telling me it'll take time, that I have to be patient, but it's hard not to get frustrated when I look at my left hand and it won't do what I want it to do. I feel betrayed by my own body.

The water therapy sessions offer some relief. There's something about being in the pool, the way the water supports my movements, that makes it feel a bit easier. But even then, my left arm struggles to keep up. I try to focus on the small motions-lifting, rotating, extending-but it's clear that my left arm is on its own timetable, and it's moving slower than I'd like.

Arizona's been a constant support, but she's also been giving me space, probably sensing how frustrated I am. She's still Arizona, always with that reassuring smile, but I can tell it kills her to see me struggle like this. When she can't be here, I try to push myself even harder, not wanting her to see just how much I'm still struggling. I know she worries, and I don't want to add to that.

Today, I'm working on an exercise with Liza, my physical therapist. We're focusing on strength and grip. My right arm manages well enough; I can squeeze the small rubber ball in my hand without too much difficulty. But when it comes to my left hand... I take the ball, try to wrap my fingers around it, and squeeze. Nothing. My hand trembles, my fingers barely move, and after a few seconds, I have to stop. The ball falls from my hand, rolling away on the mat. I feel the familiar surge of frustration, the anger at my body for not cooperating, and I fight the urge to scream.

"Take a deep breath, Y/N," Liza says softly. "It's all about patience. You're making progress."

I nod, but it's hard to believe it when the progress is so slow. I look at my left hand, willing it to do something, anything, but it just lies there, lifeless and unresponsive.

"I know it's tough," Liza continues, her voice calm and steady, "but this is part of the process. Your right arm is getting stronger every day. Your left will catch up, but it's going to take time."

Time. That's all anyone ever talks about. But I don't have time. I need to get back to my life, back to the OR, back to being me. I can't stand the thought of being stuck like this, dependent on others for even the simplest tasks.

Arizona pops in later in the day, just after I've finished another round of water therapy. She smiles when she sees me, but there's concern in her eyes. "How's it going?" she asks, her voice as gentle as ever.

I shrug, trying to downplay the frustration I feel. "Same old, same old. My right arm's doing okay, but my left... It's like it's forgotten how to be an arm."

She steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "It's going to get better," she says, and I can tell she believes it, even if I'm having trouble convincing myself.