Eliot supposed the good news was he was getting some control of his body back. He was still weak as a kitten (and he hated the fact he had to admit that about himself) but he could move without having to make use of torture survival techniques.
Of course the bad news was with the slow decrease of pain and the increase of mobility had come pounding migrains, hyper sensative senses, and, oh joy of joys, heart palpitations which, around noon right as he was happily noticing his heart problems of the past week had gone away, turned into a full out heart attack.
You know there is something wrong with the way you live your life when you've gone into cardiac arrest five times before the age of thirty and a magical-transformation induced heart attack is the first time it was due to some reason other than what boils down to some guy trying to kill you.
Hell they had barely gotten his heart going again before his lungs fucking just collapsed.
You know there is something wrong with the way you live your life when you actually recognize the feeling of a collapsed lung.
They had been about to try to do something about that him (and yeah, for once he wasn't arguing about the whole tube being shoved down his throat deal) when they started working again. Sort of.
There had been that whole brief near hyperventilation issue when he was breathing normal.
Eliot fucking hated magic.
And now here he was. Sleep deprived (because yeah, the night had not been very restful), shaky, a nurse who was at least somewhat attractive (hey, he was a guy) *helping* him hold up the cup of water to drink, probably looking like hell warmed over.
When Buffy came in looking like she'd been told he'd died.
Well, if you wanted to get technical...
"Afternoon B." He said, voice a bit raspier than usual.