Hey wonderful, happy, sparkly people. Decided to post this up after my first story. It is intended as a one-shot. It was very emotionally draining and depressing for me to write, but it was surprisingly much easier than I thought it would be. This is a Nacy, first and foremost, more than anything else (I think). This is in no way related to She's Got Me High, and they are around 23 or 24 years of age here, maybe a year or a little less into their marriage (yes, are favorite couple is married here).

P.S. I'm no professional doctor, so I didn't really know what I was talking about here, and pretty much just winging it. Hope it's okay.

Enjoy, hope you appreciate it.

This isn't happening to me.

This shouldn't be happening to her.

We just wanted what every other young, married couple would want. Not this, never in a million years would we want this to happen.

I don't want to lose her, but I don't want to lose this baby either.

I don't know what to do.

I look over to her, sitting rigidly still on my left side, her mouth pursed together, her eyes looking downward with a melancholic glaze over it, and her hands clasped together tightly on her lap. I try to reach out and grasp on to one of them, but she doesn't budge and crosses her arms instead, rubbing them as if to warm herself up, even though she was wearing a purple cardigan over her white tank top. She turns her gaze away from me, and just stares at the poster on the wall showing the different stages of pregnancy. A normal pregnancy.

"Mr. Lucas?"

"Huh?," I snap out of it, my attention turning back to the obstetrician Kevin had recommended when we initially found out that we were expecting.

"I'm sorry, we're going to have to remove the embryo before this damages any of your wife's organs," she says solemnly, her hands resting on her desk as she reviews the results from the hCG test, as well as the ultrasound pictures we opted to have just to be sure. "It is possible that she may not need to undergo surgery, maybe laparoscopy might still be a potential choice, but we might need to go through a few more tests-"

"Laparoscopy?," I ask, my voice much more hoarse than usual.

"It's a much less invasive procedure, much unlike the surgery," she replies, pulling out a brochure from her desk drawer and handing it over to me, "we make small incisions in the lower abdomen, and then we remove the ectopic pregnancy through those incisions. It is much less likely to damage any of her organs-"

"What if I keep the baby?," she mumbles out of the blue, sounding as if she were about to cry, but still put together.

"I'm afraid that may endanger your life, Mrs. Lucas," she answers her sadly, shaking her head at what little hope she had. "If ever the fetus grows to a much larger size, it may burst the ovaries, therefore leading to severe internal bleeding or a hemorrhage-"

"So, I can die," she asks simply, despair written all over her face, her hands fingering the hem of her short, blue, floral tulip skirt (something I had gotten for her during my one-off concert in Paris) because she doesn't know what to do with them.

"I'm afraid so," she tells us, an apologetic look on her face, "but we can avoid that-"

"It's alright, I heard it the first time," she says, looking very dejected, but still with a smile on her face, and her fingers practically almost tearing the cyan colored fabric.

"Mace," I try to console her, finally grabbing hold of one of her hands and weaving my fingers through hers, holding them close to my chest as I move my chair a little nearer to hers, but she just wrenches her hand from my grip and faces away, even though I'm sure I saw a tear running down her cheek.

"I'm fine, Nick," she mumbles, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and I begin to hear sniffles.

"Don't be stubborn," I tell her, watching her massage her arm with one hand, while the other scratches her bare knee and the little skin exposed above that with her French tip-manicured nails, hard enough to leave red marks.

"Stop that," I whisper to her, taking hold of her wrist, but she just shakes her head even more vigorously, sending her long, soft waves almost flying. If the situation weren't so grave, I would probably just stare at her and the way her hair just bounces.

"Mr. Lucas," she clears her throat, catching my attention, "I aware that this is hard, but I'm going to have to know what your decision is. The sooner we know, the better, the less chances of having any damage."

"I'm sorry, if you could give us some time," I tell her, holding up my hand before going back to Macy, "Mace, are you okay?"

"We're not going to have a baby," she said, turning slightly to look at me; her eyes were downcast, a disheartened smile playing on her lips, her eyes threatening to let the tears fall, and her voice weak.

I can feel my heart breaking this very second.

"Mrs. Lucas?"

"Umm," she clears her throat, switching her view from me to her, "what would you suggest?"

"Well, I would like to show you this," she said, pulling out another pamphlet from her desk, "if I can suggest anything, surgery is not very desirable, but it is used as a last resort. Laparoscopy is more popular nowadays, but we might need to undergo a few other tests-"

"Wait, can we please talk about this-"

"There's no other choice for me, is there?," she tells me, pretending to read the brochure, but her eyes were fixed on one spot.

"Mace, please talk to me about this-"

"Laparoscopy," Macy says out of nowhere before I have time to say anything else, straightening up in her chair and putting on the bravest face she can muster, "I've never been one for major surgery anyway."

"I see," she replies understandably, but her gaze is fixed on me, "Mr. Lucas?"

I glance back up to her, the look on her face gentle but serious, and I look over to Macy, who, in turn, was peeking at me every now and then, and brushing her hair away from her face tucking it behind her ears, sniffing a little.

"Mace?"

"Nick, can we just get this over with?," she said, bringing one hand to her mouth, and nibbling at her nails, completely ignoring the nail polish painted on.

"Mr. Lucas?," she repeats, waiting patiently.

I look over to her one last time, and she was staring at the banner again, still biting her nails and quivering slightly, the tears finally falling freely from her eyes.

I feel like I'm drowning in misery.

"When can we schedule the procedure?," I ask quietly, hanging my head low. Believe me, I don't want to do this, but I don't want to risk her life.

If I'm not going to have this kid, then I'm not going to lose this girl either.

"Well, the sooner the better, but we'll have to plan the other tests first," she said, handing over another brochure, "Mrs. Lucas, when would you be available-"

"Huh?," she says, rather weakly, and I can see that she was still trembling slightly, "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

"When will you be available for testing?," she asks again, very patiently.

"Oh, uhh," she says, dipping her head a little lower, her mouth opening a tiny bit, but nothing comes out. She closes it again, and I catch a glimpse of another tear silently leaving a track on her cheek.

"I understand that this is very difficult for you," the obstetrician says, giving the both of us an understanding look, "but the sooner we can get these tests finished, the sooner we can get the embryo extracted from the ovaries, and the sooner we can hinder the chance of internal bleeding."

"I see," she replies, nodding a little, but she doesn't say anything else.

"Mace?," I murmur, watching her hold on to the edge of her seat.

She whips her head around to look at me, and I notice that even though her eyes are a little bloodshot, they still twinkle. She gives me a poignant smile, but it disappears the next second when she looks back down, mopping her nose with her hand. I completely take no notice the doctor (and, to an extent, complete stranger), and fold the hair behind her ears, and sweeping the bangs away from her face. She doesn't exactly push me away, but the air that she emits just feels somehow empty, a little hollow.

"Excuse me," she finally says, getting up abruptly from her seat, then darting quickly out of the office.

It takes me a full minute to apprehend what was happening.

"Macy," I immediately stand up, running out of the door, calling out to the doctor, "I'll talk business with your secretary later-"

"Will do," she says, waving a hand, before I sprint right out, looking for her.

We're not having a baby.

I'm not going to be a dad.

She's not going to be a mom.

My heart is literally split in two.

All I want to do is think about when we were actually thinking this was going to happen, beyond all this ectopic crap.

I remember how she first told me.

I was working on a new song, something that had been bothering me for the longest time. She told me she could come back another time, but I told her to just tell me, because it might have jogged my writer's block a little.

Hell, it worked.

I remember taking her into my arms, leaving my guitar forgotten, and just lifting her straight off the ground and spinning for a few minutes with me just screaming my heart out, and her just giggling along. I don't think I've ever been happier.

I remember her taking my face into her hands, calming down with a kiss that practically made my head explode, not necessarily making me any more composed, and we ended up landing on the bed again, our clothes lying forgotten on the floor.

I remember my family's reaction; Joe and Frankie, who were probably both drunk on Budweiser, laughed and sang "Like A Virgin" repeatedly, before passing out and sleeping on top of each other, Stella squealed for about three minutes straight before gushing about how she and Macy were going to have babies a few months apart, so they'd almost be like twins, Kevin gave me a long hug, whispering how he should be the godfather, mom and dad were pretty much just speechless, though I'm sure it had worn out after a while.

I remember going Home Depot-hopping, searching around for the perfect crib and whatnot, looking at paint options for the nursery, what cartoon character would be the most appropriate to paint on the walls for a rock star offspring.

I also remember arguing with Kevin, who kept on insisting that apple green was going to be a better color for the playroom, because it was 'bright, happy and fruity.' I told him he was an idiot, and green just meant envy, which is never a good virtue to teach a kid, and Tiffany blue was so much more stylish and sophisticated (mainly because that was Macy's favorite color). He reacted by asking what Tiffany blue was. I responded by slapping his face.

I recall Stella drawing on the pieces of tissue paper in the T.G.I. Friday's during Kevin's son's birthday party, sketching out little baby dresses and baby tuxes ("you never know! Maybe even twins will come out!").

A particular memory of Joe dragging me to watch a six-hour marathon of '16 and Pregnant', plus another four hours of 'Teen Mom' also comes up. Another memory of Joe making me swear not to tell a soul that he had cried nine hours of the ten also comes up, but I had broken that promise a long time ago (Frankie put it on his soon-to-be released autobiography, I haven't exactly broken the news yet).

I remember, in those short three months when we still didn't know anything was wrong, I would kneel in front of her every night, and I would whisper to her stomach (where we still thought the baby was growing) how much I wanted to meet her or him, and how much she or he was going to change our lives in the best way possible.

But then, I also remember the less sweet moments.

I remember how dizzy she would get, to the point that she couldn't even stand up on her own, but we somehow thought it was just something to do with her blood pressure, so we weren't all that worried.

Then again, the low blood pressure was already not normal to begin with, because mom had told me pregnant woman have three times the amount of blood running though their system.

I remember how she would complain of lower back pains, how when I would come home, she would be lying down, and I would think that wasn't so out of the ordinary because half of the day, Stella would be sleeping or resting at home, and she was ready to give birth in three months.

I remember how often her stomach pains would come, the ones we passed off as cramps, and sometimes, when we were sleeping, I would hear her cry because of the pain and all of the throbbing. All I could do was wrap my arms around her, let her head rest on my chest and allow the tears to drench my shirt, and wishing that she would just get better.

But I found out that it wouldn't be getting any better soon, because I knew for sure that when she fainted during Stella's baby shower, it wasn't normal.

But never, never did I think it was going to be something like this. Never.

I'm running down the hallway of the hospital, bumping into several other nurses, doctors, and fans, most of whom were asking for autographs, but all I want to see is her. All I want to do is envelop her in my arms, and tell her that it's going to be okay, that it's not the end of the world.

Even though it sure as hell feels as if it was.

All I feel like doing now is cry, who cares if there are people watching, and just release the tears I know are inside me somewhere.

I'm not going to be a dad.

I might lose the only person I have ever really loved.

I feel like my life is amounting up to nothing.

I stop running, leaning my back against the door of the men's bathroom, and catch whatever breath I have left, rubbing my chest. And, as if by some cruel twist of fate, a young couple walks by, the man smiling from ear to ear, holding the handles to the wheelchair and pushing it, while the woman sits relaxed, looking down and grinning at her newborn baby, who was fast asleep.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

"Miss! Miss, no running in the hallway!," some voice shrieks out from the other side, and I hear quick scurrying of footsteps, obviously not listening to the warning.

You can't run away from me now.

I dash towards the origin of the screams, coming across an apparently ill-tempered nurse, and I ask her, "excuse me, where did she-"

"Down the hallway, probably going down the staircase," she replies, clearly not in the best of moods, "hey! Sir, no running in the hallway-"

Too late.

"Mace!," I yell, racing down the hall once I see her unmistakable dark brown waves flying as she steps on down the stairs. "Macy, wait-"

"I can't," she answers back as she headed further down the steps, and just from her voice, I know she had been bawling for a while, "Nick, I can't"

"What can't you do?," I say, flinging myself down after her as fast as I could, but she, after all, is a former star, "Mace-"

"I can't give it up, Nick," she manages to say through the tears, her feet still hurrying down the steps, "I just can't-"

"Mace, you're going to die if you don't," I say, managing to jump ahead, stopping a few steps below her so that she was a head taller than me. I turn around to look up at her, and I go on to say, "Mace, don't do anything reckless, please-"

"Nick, I can't," she said, turning to go back up the stairs to escape me, but I stop her by grabbing on to her wrist.

"Please don't do this to me, Mace," I beg her, staring up into her chocolate brown eyes that have never failed to melt me, "Macy, I can't lose you either, please-"

"I want to die," she whispers, crying even more and shaking her head, yanking her hand from my grip. "I want to die-"

"Mace," I tell her, taking one step up to lessen the space between us, my left hand wrapping itself around her waist to pull her closer, and the right reaching up to wipe the tears from her face, touching her earlobe lightly. "Mace, I'm still here. You're not alone; I'm still here for you. Don't leave me, I can't live without you."

"But Nick-"

"I love you, Macy," I say simply, craning my neck a little higher to rest my forehead against hers, "you have no idea, Mace, you still have me."

She whimpers a little, before looking down into my eyes, and letting a tear fall on to my cheek as she wraps her arms around my shoulders as one hand wraps itself into my curls, saying, "I'm sorry, Nick, I'm so sorry, I didn't think-"

I shake my head, my grip around her tightening as she presses the right side of her face against my profile, her cheek dampening my forehead as well as the bridge of my nose, as the tip of my nose tickles her chin slightly. "You don't need to apologize for anything."

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you this baby," she said, the tears still running down her cheeks, and on to my face.

"It's not your fault," I reply, reaching up to plant a kiss on her jaw, just to let her know that I'm not angry, "it's not your fault…"

"I love you, Nick, so much," she trails off, the tears still flowing continuously, her embrace growing tighter.

"It's going to be okay, Mace, I promise."

A tear runs down my cheek, leaving a single wet track among the many other drops, but I'm sure that it wasn't coming from her.

Dang, that was depressing. I'm considering adding another chapter, because I already have an idea in mind for it, but I don't know if I should add it or not. Maybe tell me in review? :)) Hahaha...:))

Come on. Don't be afraid of it.