This is a story that I had no intentions of writing, but writing isn't always a choice. I hate what the last couple of regimes have done to Billy and Victoria, and if I'm completely honest, I'm still not over Billy Miller as Billy. That doesn't mean I'm unwilling to accept another or chastise those who like the current and former portrayer. I Do channel Mr. Miller's voice and mannerisms, his take on Billy when I write. You don't have to picture him if you choose to take this journey, but I did.

The story begins in February 2015. The month of catastrophes is not included in my story.

Balm

Chapter One

She was still his next of kin. She was still his fucking next of kin.

Of course she was. Why should that surprise her? It had only been six months, six whole months since they'd signed divorce papers, even longer since he'd spent a night under their roof, in their bed. And yet, every month, like clockwork, a parade of magazines with "William Abbott" plastered across the labels showed up in her mail box, like lost puppies begging to be let in, regular reminders of the life they'd shared, the one that had shattered in a single moment. Of course she was still his next of kin. He couldn't even handle a simple change of address.

The elevator dinged and came to a halt. The woman with gray hair and a steaming cup of coffee despite the late hour exited the paralyzing confines they had shared with all the familiarity and habit of returning home after a long day. The third floor. Oncology. Instantly, Victoria knew every detail of her life.

No one took the woman's place, and when the doors closed on her solitude, Victoria released her frustration onto the cold metal. The sting to the palm of her hand distracted her from the pounding in her head and the uneasiness in her gut, for a brief moment anyway. Out of the corner of her eye, the illuminated number 8 taunted her, reminded her, and her assaulting hand attacked it next, pressing the button over and over again, willing the elevator to move faster while willing her brain to forget the words the curt nurse in the emergency room had said after "Eighth Floor." And that sudden sympathetic look on her face as she'd said them.

She almost hadn't come. When the call came, ringing her out of the new normal she had somehow created for herself and for her children, she decided right away she wouldn't come. She'd done her duty, though, called Jack instead, turned him over to his real next of kin. Jack would call Ashley and Traci, Jill, whoever he wanted. They would go to the hospital. They would take care of him. Because Billy wasn't her responsibility anymore. He wasn't her headache, and he wasn't her husband. She'd forced herself to remember that, and failed at explaining it to the voice on the other end of the line, the one that kept repeating, "There's been an accident."

Yet here she was, and not because of the graveness in the voice on the phone, or the strange agitation in Jack's. Or that she hadn't heard from him since Delia's birthday, and her instinct had been telling her something was wrong ever since. It was Johnny, instead, who convinced her to go. He had charmed his way into a midnight snack after she'd finally gotten Katie down for the night, and was busy biting the head off of an animal cracker when the call came. Though she spoke in hushed tones, his little ears perked up when she called Uncle Jack and repeated his father's name followed by "hospital" over and over again.

"Daddy sick?" her blue-eyed boy asked as he crawled closer to her on the couch. He was so smart and intuitive and at almost three knew what "hospital" meant all too well. Victoria smoothed his hair down and smiled reassuringly at him as she finished the call to Jack. Despite everything that had happened, everything they had been through, he was still the father of her children. He was still Billy. And she had to make sure he was okay.

A promise to Johnny and a phone call to Hannah later, she found herself racing through the emergency room doors. It felt like October all over again, and she half-expected to see him there, slumped over in a chair, his head buried in his hands, a shell of the man she loved fossilized in the moment that would always seem like the beginning of the end. But he wasn't there. No one she recognized was.

"Billy Abbott," she had demanded to the nurse behind the desk.

"One minute." The petit blonde nurse spoke with no urgency, and her eyes remained glued to her computer.

"Billy Abbott," Victoria shouted this time. "Where is he?"

The nurse looked up then, blankly, and then back to her computer. "He's already been moved. Eighth floor." That was when her face changed, and although Victoria was already sprinting towards the elevators, she heard the words that followed. "Intensive care."

The elevator dinged a second time, and those two words punched her in the gut again as she catapulted through half-open doors, this time in black and white, glaring in fluorescent light. She saw Jack first, before anyone else, before he saw her. He was standing a few feet from her, paused as if mid-pace, or as if he was waiting for someone, for her even though she had been adamant she wasn't coming. One hand was at his hip, displacing a portion of the navy jacket that perfectly matched his pants, the other hand on his face, his fingers shielding his eyes like Delia used to do during the scary parts of a movie. Seeing him that way made her want to run back onto the elevator, pound the buttons until she reached the ground floor, rush past the nurse who had given her directions, back home to cuddle with Johnny on the couch. But Jack saw her before she could make her escape, his eyes locking her in place. They were red, his eyes, and his face was wet and showing age it usually didn't. He was in front of her before she knew it, taking her by the shoulders, pulling her to him, holding on for dear life. She held back, and for a minute they were each responsible for holding the other up. Over his shoulder she saw Ashley and Traci, both teary-eyed and frantic. Jill was there, too, leaning against the nurse's station, Colin behind her rubbing her shoulders.

"How bad is it, Jack?" she choked into his shoulder.

"We don't know. They won't tell us anything." She felt him swallow against her and press his lips against her temple before pulling away. "Just that there was a car accident, and he's critical. The doctor…he, um, he's supposed to be on his way."

The tears she had been forcing back with anger couldn't be stopped now. A few rolled down her face, hot and wet, and Jack pulled her to him again. The others saw her then, and any fear she had of not being welcome vanished as they approached and took turns hugging her. They seemed relieved that she was there. She was still family, and they were still bound by their love for Billy.

"Oh honey," Jill cried as she grabbed her. She was the last in line, and the hug she pulled her into was fierce and loving, like a mother's. Victoria returned the embrace just as fiercely, out of her own need and because she recognized that Jill, despite her complicated relationship with her son, was once again the parent of a child in distress.

"Mr. Abbott?"

Jill let go at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, but kept a firm hold around Victoria's waist as they all turned to watch the stranger in the white coat approach. They stood shoulder to shoulder, she, Jill Ashley, Traci and Jack, a grownup version of red rover, challenging the tall doctor to break through their solidarity. Colin trailed behind, within reach of Jill, but not interfering.

"I'm Jack Abbott."

The stranger shifted the clipboard he carried from his right hand to his left, and the two men shook hands. He introduced himself as Dr. Watkins or Walters or something. Victoria's head was still pounding, and all she wanted to hear from him was that Billy was going to be okay. That's all he needed to say. Then she could leave, and the world would go back to the way it was.

"How is he?" Jill blurted and pressed her fingers tighter into Victoria's flesh. Colin moved forward then and took hold of his wife's free hand, ready to steady her if the answer wasn't what she was looking for. "How's my son?"

"Your son is still critical, Mrs…"

"Atkinson. Jill. Call me Jill. And what does that mean, critical?"

"Perhaps we should step into the waiting room," the doctor said.

"No," Jill said quickly. "Just tell me how he is."

"Here is fine," Jack added, calmer, though Victoria still sensed he was more afraid than he was letting on.

The doctor nodded, conceding to the group, and his face grew deadly serious. "Your son was brought in unconscious around 9:00 p.m. He was involved in a single car crash. It appears the vehicle he was driving went over a guardrail. A passerby was able to pull him from the car just before it exploded. He sustained numerous injuries, the least of which is a broken arm. He has multiple lacerations and contusions to his face and extremities, a few 1st degree burns. He suffered a blow to the head and three cracked ribs which has impacted his breathing. We had to place him on a ventilator."

"A ventilator? Is that really necessary, doctor?" Traci cried more than asked.

"Yes," he replied simply. "He is unable to breathe on his own at this time."

"But he's going to make it, right? Our brother's going to be okay?"

The doctor looked at Ashley, who had asked the question and then cleared his throat. He wasn't an old man, but not a green physician either. Still, Victoria could tell these were the questions he had never quite gotten used to, the tear-stained pleas for a lie.

"It's too early to tell," came his practiced response. "Billy has yet to regain consciousness, and we won't know the full extent of his head injury until some of the swelling goes down."

"Please, doctor," Jill begged. "What are his chances? No medical jargon. Just tell me straight if my son is going to pull through."

"I'm sorry. It…doesn't look good."

Victoria heard a strangled cry escape from her former mother-in-law's throat, and then she was abandoned. Jill was in Colin's arms now, fully, just as Ashley and Traci were in each other's, all of them crying. Jack looked as though he were going to be sick. Victoria stiffened her spine and wrapped herself in her own embrace. She was dizzy with words like "ventilator" and "unconscious," but numb to their meaning. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

"Was he drinking?" Her voice surprised her almost as much as her words surprised everyone else. But their shock didn't faze her. Deep down, they all had to be wrestling with the possibility.

"I-I'm sorry," the doctor stammered. "You are…?"

"She's his wife," Jill answered between sniffles.

"His EX-wife," Victoria corrected coldly and met the stranger's gaze full on. "We have two children, and I need to know what to tell them. Was he drinking?"

"No," the doctor responded as if she had accused him of driving drunk. "The toxicology report came back clean. No trace of alcohol. Or any other substance."

A collective sigh of relief engulfed her, and though she, too, was relieved, her breath refused to exhale. That was the last bit of anger she had to hold onto, and without it, she feared falling apart.

"But that does bring up another matter," said Doctor Walker, which she clearly read on his nametag when he raised an arm to summon a pair of uniformed police officers to them. It was the first time Victoria noticed them, but now she realized they must have been there, on the other side of the nurse's station, when she first stepped off the elevator.

"I thought you said he wasn't drinking."

"This is standard procedure, ma'am," the shorter of the two officers answered Jill.

"He wasn't," Doctor Walker reiterated. "There was no alcohol in his system, but his clothes were drenched in scotch. And the officers here found an open container near the accident."

"So it broke and spilled in the crash," Jack rationalized. Their relief was on the verge of being confiscated.

"Maybe," the taller officer said, though it was clear he wasn't convinced. "But the bottle wasn't broken. If it was in fact involved in the crash, it survived intact."

"What does that mean? "If" it was involved? What are you not telling us?"

"There are a lot of things not adding up about the crash, and we're hoping you can help us with some of the answers. For instance, does Mr. Abbott make it a habit of driving without his ID?"

"Of course not," Jack answered the officer. "Are you saying he didn't have his ID on him?"

"Billy was brought in as a John Doe," Doctor Walker interjected. Jack was growing more agitated with each question, and Victoria sensed the doctor stepped in to diffuse the situation. "That's why it took so long for us to contact you. He had no ID, no wallet, no cell phone. Nothing. It was luck, actually, that we figured out who he was as soon as we did."

"That doesn't make any sense," Traci said. "Our brother can be a bit irresponsible, but he wouldn't go off without his phone or wallet. He has kids."

"Do you think there was a robbery or something?" Ashley asked as she comforted her sister.

"We can't rule anything out," the shorter officer piped in. "That's why we'd like to speak with each of you, get a feel for Mr. Abbott's recent whereabouts and frame of mind."

"Of course," they all seemed to answer in unison, but the officer wasn't finished speaking.

"Because if there was anyone else involved in the crash and Mr. Abbott doesn't make it, we're looking at some serious charges here."

"Don't say that," Victoria snapped. She had been quiet for a while, drowning in facts and denial, but those words, the words the officer dared to say, sent her fuming towards him, her smaller body invading his space, her blue eyes glaring at him. "Don't you say that. Don't. Billy's going to make it. He always makes it."

Jill's arms were around her again, pulling her back into the fold as the offending officer hung his head. The other man in uniform, the taller one, stepped forward and tipped his hat in respect. "I'm sorry," he said for his partner and then produced a folded piece of paper form his coat pocket. "Mr. Abbott…he did regain consciousness for a few minutes in the ambulance. He had this in his hand. Said to give it to "her."

"Her?" Jill repeated, and all eyes turned to Victoria, waiting for her to grab the paper. But for the first time since the call came in, she realized someone was missing from picture, someone else who, like it or not, could very well be "her." After all, he wasn't hers anymore. It seemed that everyone else remembered Chelsea at the same time she did, and all the eyes that had turned to her so quickly, quickly turned away. All but Jack's. He seemed unwavering in his belief, but she wasn't, and so Jack reached out and accepted the note, unfolding it and folding it back in a matter of seconds.

"It's for you," he said, the hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

It felt like nothing when Jack dropped the square of paper in her hands, airy nothing. Yet Victoria unfolded it with all the care and reverence saved for holy sacrament and newborn babies. The edges were yellow, the paper clearly old and repurposed, but the handwriting, the loops and lines, was Billy's. She wiped the blurriness of tears away with the back of her hand and read the first line to herself.

Dear Vick,

Do I even still get to call you that? I'll be dead by the time you read this, so I guess it doesn't matter.

The pain was like a knife twisting in her stomach. She folded the letter back roughly, without care or reverence, without finishing it. She felt so many pairs of eyes on her, and turned away from the group, only to be assaulted by that damn sign with those two words that were still taunting her. Intensive Care.

"What is it?" Jill asked, placing a cautious hand on her former daughter-in-law's shoulder. "What does it say?"

"Goodbye," Victoria whispered just loud enough for the others to hear her. "He's saying goodbye."

She felt them coming, the tears that would make her a puddle. They couldn't come, not now. She bit her lip hard and spun around, startling Jill, alarming the others, but she paid no mind to any of them. There was only one thing on her mind now. "I need to see him?" she demanded to Dr. Walker. "I need to see him now. Can I please see him?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, unnerved. "It's only immediate family right now. And since..."

"She is family." Jack's voice boomed over her shoulder, and she shot him a look of gratitude. His lip was quivering and his eyes were newly red. "She's the closest family he has. That he's ever had. She gets to see him."

"Room 817," the stranger in the white coat said, a new touch of gentleness in his voice despite the cloud of confusion that covered his face. "Through those doors. Just press the button."

The button was larger than her hand, and when she pressed it, the heavy double doors swung open, inviting her inside. It was late, well after midnight now, and the ICU was quiet except for the handful of nurses still busy caring for those who were battling death. Victoria suddenly regretted how rude she had been to the nurse in the E.R. It had to be a thankless job. Hopeless on some days.

Her heels clicked loud on the tile floor. The sound echoed down the hall, marking her progress to room 817. It seemed too loud, jarring, so she slowed her pace and pulled her coat tighter around her as she repeated in her head all the things Dr. Walker had said: contusions, lacerations, broken arm, broken ribs, ventilator, critical. She had to be prepared.

The rooms she passed seemed to be all glass, their inhabitants on display with their tubes and machines that were keeping them alive. In most there was someone, a spouse, a parent, someone who cared, either curled up in a makeshift bed or sitting vigil in the dark. This was their new normal, a new normal Victoria remembered all too well. It seemed like so long ago when her father had his transplant. When Colleen died. When she and Billy were virtual strangers who hated each other because that's what Newmans and Abbotts did. It seemed like so long ago, and yet, it felt just like yesterday.

She paused at Room 815 and took a deep breath. Only then did she realize she was shaking, the now crumpled paper rattling in her grasp. In theory this shouldn't be that hard. He had been in car accidents before, been in the hospital before. But this wasn't like last year, the crash with Adam. This wasn't like the summer they lost Lucy and he lost custody of Delia. There were so many more scars and complications between them no. And he was on life support. No matter how many times she repeated it to herself, there was no way to prepare for it.

As she stood there like a coward, the door to what had to be Billy's room swung open, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. As impossible as it was, she had hoped it was him, playing a joke or being a miracle. She would have taken either. But it wasn't him. It was a nurse, his nurse, and she jumped too at the sight of Victoria.

"I'm – I'm sorry," Victoria rasped.

The nurse in aqua scrubs smiled as she caught her breath. Though Victoria had scared her, she didn't seem surprised to find someone there, hiding in plain sight. She seemed to know every thought, every concern, every fear. She also seemed to know how much Victoria needed to be in that room. "You can go in," she said quietly and held the door until, head down and fast like a Band-Aid, she crossed the threshold.

The door clicked behind her, but minutes passed before she tore her eyes from her feet and faced her new normal. It was awful and overwhelming, nothing she could have prepared for. Shock caught in her throat, and she covered her mouth as sounds that weren't human tried to escape, and tears that were all too human did. There was very little of the man she had spent five years loving and needing lying in front of her. But it was him. It was Billy. Lifeless and unrecognizable.

He was shirtless, covered only to the waist. There was a cast on his right arm, to his elbow, and his torso was bandaged just like the last time he injured his ribs. Wires were taped to his chest, their other ends connected to the line of machines that surrounded him, and from his mouth rose the tube that was keeping him alive. His face was shiny and swollen, his right eye almost completely hidden. There were cuts to his forehead and upper lip stitched together with thick, black thread and other, smaller cuts that hadn't required such attention.

There was a stool by the bed, and she sat on it as quietly as she could as if trying not to wake him. She stared at him until she was used to it, until she accepted that what was in front of her was Billy. She wanted to touch him, but feared that every inch of him was in pain. There was a spot on his left wrist where no cuts or burns had discolored his skin, where no cast hid it. That was where she gingerly placed one and then two fingers with her free hand.

There had always been something broken about Billy Abbott. She had seen it first that New Year's Eve she pulled him from a gutter. Maybe she had sensed it before, but that snowy night she saw it, that dangerous, sad, cracked part of him that made him all the more beautiful, all the more desirable. He had always been broken, and his jagged edges had always cut the ones closest to him. But this time, this time he seemed truly unfixable.

When her pulse finally slowed, she removed broke contact with his skin and for the second time unfolded the letter and started from the beginning. If he was going to say goodbye, he was damn well going to be there when he did.

Dear Vick,

Do I even still get to call you that? I'll be dead by the time you read this, so I guess it doesn't matter.

Sorry. That wasn't supposed to be funny.

Bu, I am dying, Vick. I'm dying and I know it. I've accepted it, and I've accepted it's probably for the best.

They're all liars you know, those people who say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. It's more like a slow reel of all your regrets, your mistakes, the chances you won't get to make things right. All mine have to do with you. My regrets. My mistakes. The chances I won't get to make it right.

It's not all sad, though. There's this incredible beauty to death, this moment of clarity when you finally see what was real, what you made up to replace what you couldn't have and you realize how you should have done things, how much more beautiful your life could have been if you had just done better. Been better. Loved better. Maybe in the next life, huh?

I'm sorry, Victoria. I'm sorry for everything. And I'm sorry I won't get to make it up to you and that I won't get to see our children turn out just like you. I want you to tell them everything about me. Don't sugarcoat me. Don't make me a hero for them. Tell them how I screwed up. And then please tell them how much I loved them and their mother.

Your face will be the last thing I see. Yours and Johnny's. And Katie's.

And Reed's. And DeeDee's.

Love,

Billy

P.S. Adam

A tear hit the crisp white sheet that lay under his hand, then another and another. She picked up his hand, not caring if it hurt him. She needed to feel his skin, to know that it was still warm, that for now he was wrong and still with her. How was this the man she had pulled from the gutter? How was this the man she had loved so hard? How was this the way he would end? How could there be no more time?

His ring finger called to her. The bit of skin where his tattoo had been stood out like skin that hadn't seen the sun in years, no longer black like hers but white. A ghost of a ring. She examined it as a part of him she didn't know, would likely never know. Between his fingers, something caught her eye. It was small and hidden, ink that wouldn't wipe away, a perfect piece of the tattoo that hadn't been removed.

"It's still there," she whispered and looked at him, at his lacerations and contusions, his broken bones, and all his jagged edges that were still cutting her. "It's still there."

The white flag was thrown, and she wept, for all that they were and all that they lost and all they would never be again.