Handoff done, Elodie goes back to her kitchenette and starts making an actual meal. Fairly quick but actually filling, not going to conflict too hard with PB&J... shrimp Pad Thai works. Into the pan goes the noodles and slivered veggies, and she talks as she goes. "So you know, you've been running on adrenaline for, I dunno, two weeks? Three? You just hit someplace you probably are going to think of as safe, so you don't need that adrenaline anymore. For expectations, think of it in terms of a two week manic bender ending overnight." 

Second pan starts getting the shrimp cooking in some spare canola oil. Anybody who's snooty enough to tell you to de-vein your shrimp yourself "for the flavor" has never had to cook for themselves after a double. "After you sleep for, I dunno, 14 hours, you're going to have to get used to a brain that isn't high on adrenaline and fight or flight reflexes. You're going to get depressed, badly. Have you ever had self-harm urges?" On the floor, the tentacles not holding her up curl and writhe in angry twitches. Babysitting a depressed lump for suicide watch sucks. She's done it before, she'll do it again, but unlike before this fucker just dumped it on her because... not the point.

Peanut sauce time, and she takes a moment to close her eyes and inhale the smell. She'd learned this recipe with Priya, back when she still had legs, at Dhyana. Let it out as a deliberate, slow breath, and visualize the anger flowing with it. Another of Priya's lessons, which did not stick nearly as well. "After you adjust to the new normal, you'll probably have CPTSD. I recommend therapy. There's a sedative I can give you after you eat if you want to start this faster, but in all likelihood you're going to be struggling not to faceplant into the plate. I'll be figuring out what the [i]fuck[/i] to do about this while you're asleep."

She would, too. Just because she's mad that this got dropped in her lap doesn't mean she won't help. That's just the right thing to do.