"I can't believe it's raining," Violet said. "I wanted to get the view from Will's balcony. And before you say I can, I don't want to get a cold from standing in the rain. Doctor Brown would get so pissed."
"That's a myth," Don said. "You can't get sick from rain."
"False!" She pointed a finger at him. "If you stay cold long enough after being in the rain, your body's immunity drops, thus making you more susceptible to germs."
"But that doesn't make you sick."
"Yes it does."
"Being in the rain does not directly give you a cold."
"Well, what with my luck, I'd rather not chance it." She sniffed her champagne. "I probably shouldn't be drinking."
"Probably not," Don said. He took the flute from her and poured the contents into his beer, then handed it back. "Champagne's probably harmless, though."
"Not mixed with beer," Violet said, staring in horror at his glass. "Please tell me that's not something you do on a regular basis. Or ever."
"I didn't think that through at all," Don agreed. "It seemed like a cool thing to do."
"Taking a hapless woman's drink," Violet said. "Always. Bravo."
"You're not hapless."
"I got stabbed in the lung with my own rib."
"You're still standing here." He fought back the usual rush of fright that accompanied anyone mentioning her injury. "Besides, what about that time you obliterated that idiot from Men's Rights Activism?"
She grinned with savage delight. "That was fun."
"Where did you even get all those stats?"
"I memorized them."
"Seriously?"
"Light bedtime reading."
He shook his head. "I shouldn't be surprised."
She smiled again, softer. Then said, "But seriously, I'm gonna go get a different drink, and you probably should too."
He took a sip of his makeshift mix and nearly spat it out. "Yeah, I'm right behind you."
Laughing a little, she led the way through Will's apartment, weaving around furniture and people. Will was hosting a party 'for morale,' which meant it was actually Mack's idea and that Will was coerced into offering up his apartment. If Don had to guess, the party was actually a celebration of Violet being released from the hospital. A bit (a lot) late, but it was the thought that counted.
It had been a little over two months since the day she'd started coughing up blood, and while she wasn't back to normal health quite yet, she was getting there fast. She hadn't said anything about how strong or weak she felt except for one time, two weeks after the incident, when Don was visiting and she said, "It hurts to breathe." And then had changed the subject and refused to elaborate. Which frustrated him beyond belief, because the way she'd said it had been sad and pitiful and broken, and he was in the market for never hearing her like that again.
He could tell when something pained her, though. Using her right arm hurt, which made it fortunate she was left-handed. They'd cut through her right side to get to her lung, and she was still building the muscle there back up. She insisted on getting the door and lifting things with her right hand, and every time, he noticed her jaw clench, or if she was talking at the same time, a strain in her voice. Sure enough, she was carrying her champagne flute in her right hand, and he watched her switch it to her left in order use her right to push open the chef's door to Will's kitchen. She held it open for him. He crossed to the sink and dumped out his glass, then rinsed it. She flicked on the light over the sink, lighting up the otherwise dark kitchen, and exchanged his beer glass for her champagne flute. "What can I get you?"
