The Notorious R(uth) B(arakat) G(rimaldi)

Chapter 17: Recovery and Comfort

"Rosebud?" Her father's voice was barely audible. "You awake? It's nearly two, thought you could use some lunch."

Ruthie stretched as she rolled over and blinked sleepily at him. She smiled when she saw what was in his hands.

"Pop, you didn't have to make me a tray," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "I'm perfectly capable of going down--" she stopped when she saw someone hovering behind him. "Who's that?" she asked. The person was much too thin to be her Dad. "Elliott?" she said in disbelief.

"Guilty," he said, following Phil into the room. He was rendered nearly speechless by the sight of Ruthie waking up, stretching, smiling at her father, and generally looking beautiful while she lay in bed in her flowered pajamas.

Ruthie's smile of welcome turned to a look of concern after she got a good look at his face. It was a technicolor sunset of reds, blues, and purples, with a bit of yellow thrown in here and there. His dark, curly hair was pulled back into a pony tail, only making the damage to his face more starkly visible.

"Oh god, El!" Ruthie sat up, wide awake.

"Ah, it's nothing," he answered with a laugh. "you should see my stomach."

Ruthie looked at him expectantly as her father placed the tray across her legs.

"What?" Elliott asked. "No, Ruthie, I was joking! I'm not going to show you my stomach!" He turned to her father for support. "You agree with me, don't you, sir? She's got no reason to see it!"

Phil held his hands up as he walked toward the door. "The sandwiches are mozzarella, basil and tomato from our garden. Other than that, leave me out of it, and give a holler if you need anything, okay?"

He gave a little wave as he pulled the door shut.

"Take off your shirt, Elliott Banks!" Ruthie demanded, trying to sit up more without jiggling the tray, which was really beautifully laid. Her Pop had outdone himself with the sandwiches, fresh fruit, bottles of water, and even cloth napkins, along with a couple of the cosmos from the entry, cut short and put in tiny, squat bottles that wouldn't be easily upset.

"God, you're demanding," Elliott grumbled as he lifted up his shirt. Ruthie also noticed that he was wearing sweat pants tied very loosely about his waist. It must really hurt.

"Don't get in a strop, okay?" Elliott begged, stopping with his Grateful Dead shirt lifted partway up. "Don't have a cow," he amended at Ruthie's look.

Ruthie just took a deep breath and waited.

Elliott lifted his shirt, and rolled his eyes when he heard the expected gasp, which Ruthie saw.

"Don't you dare roll your beautiful eyes at me, Elliott Banks, don't you fucking dare," she swore from where she sat, opal eyes flashing fire. "That looks awful! It must hurt so much."

There was a fist-sized purple circle on the right side of his belly that faded to magenta at the outer edges. The flesh looked swollen and tender.

"You full-name people more than anyone I've ever met, honest to god," Elliott declared as he lowered his shirt and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, wincing a little. "And it's not so terrible, because unlike some people, I didn't flush my pain pills down the toilet."

Ruthie looked at him. "When did you take one?"

"One? Try two and a half," he responded cheerfully. "Right before I came, so the walk wouldn't hurt so much."

He reached for a sandwich, but snatched his hand back like the tray was on fire when Ruthie asked, "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

Elliott looked carefully at Ruthie, at the gorgeous tray full of food, then back the beautiful girl sitting in the bed. "Eating?" he finally answered. "Am I not supposed to? I helped your dad prepare everything, and I thought an invitation to keep you company and eat with you was offered by him; however, if I inferred anything that wasn't implied, I'm sorry."