This is speculative based on the promo for 2x19 "Medicate and Isolate". This story contains subjects (suicide and death) that may be sensitive to some individuals.
His place is haunted, Clay realizes. It's silent, like a tomb. Dusk has fallen, the last vestiges of sunlight barely breaking through the blinds, casting the room in gray shadows. Every where he looks he can see ghosts of all those that had come into his life then disappeared. Brian, Stella, Bravo, ... Swanny. As he stands in the doorway of his own apartment, he has to repress the desire to turn tail and run. There's nothing here that feels normal anymore. It doesn't feel like a home or a place of refuge; it's a crypt. He's not sure what to do or where to go from here.
He lied to Swanny when he said he didn't keep pictures of old girlfriends around. Well, it wasn't a complete lie; he only kept one. There was one picture of Stella, taken the night of her party, that he kept in a frame, tucked away in his nightstand drawer. He tells himself its because Brian's in it too, that it's the last picture ever taken of him, just hours before he died, but that's a lie. Brian's not the focus, he's in the background, semi-visible. No, he kept that picture because that was the Stella he loved, so light and happy, unburdened by his life.
Even if that picture wasn't around though, he can still feel her here. He can see her sitting on the couch, feet tucked up under her as she reads. He can hear her laughing in the kitchen as she tries and fails to make pancakes yet again. She's everywhere. Curled up on the bed, head resting on his chest as they drift to sleep; sitting at the counter with her laptop in front of her, a small wrinkle on her forehead as she grades papers; standing by the window with a cup of coffee in her hands as the morning light streams through the window. All of her stuff may be gone, her scent washed out of his sheets a dozen times over, but their past still lives here, taking up space, replaying over and over again.
Brian's ghost haunts these halls too. How could he not when Clay's got all of his stuff. It's not like he had a lot to begin with. He'd told Clay all his stuff was in storage at his mom's place. It wasn't until Clay went with Adam to make the notification that he realized Brian had no family, no storage locker with all his worldly possessions locked up safe until he passed Green Team. Brian had a duffle bag with a few dog-eared paperbacks, a handful of clothes, and one picture so creased and worn the image is barely visible anymore. Anything that meant anything to his best friend was now stuffed in the back of his closet, a visual reminder every day of how quickly life could slip through your fingers.
The last vestiges of his life on the teams still hangs around, haunting him too. He tried to tuck it all away, burying it in a bag in the back of his closest with Brian's things. Hoped that by not staring at it every day, he wouldn't have their ghosts here as well. Distance has helped only a little, not having them constantly around and in his space as a constant reminder of what he might lose. It doesn't matter how far back he shoves it all, though, he can never escape the reality that he may never be an operator again. He's greeted by that fact every morning when he goes to get out of bed and sees the still healing scars on his legs. The Bravo team flag is the only item to remain, still hanging over his bed because Swanny insisted it stay.
Fucking Swanny.
Clay leans back against the wall as everything crashes over him. Fucking Swanny. His legs tremble and that's the only warning he gets before his knees buckle. He slides to the floor, cursing his weak body. He tries to hold on tight to the anger because it's easier to deal with than anything deeper. The bastard, how could he? Clay's hands tremble as the unbidden thought breaks through. He shakes his head, can't deal with all that now.
He tries to take a deep breath, but it freezes in his chest, lungs refusing to expand. This can't be happening, Clay thinks, pressing his forehead to his knees. This can't be real. Any moment now, Swanny is going to come out of the bathroom spouting some crazy story about his time on the teams to bolster Clay's resolve.
Only ... he never does.
He won't, ever again.
Clay feels his eyes start to burn, chest constricting with the emotions he doesn't want to name, doesn't want to feel. He can't do this right now. If he names it, if he acknowledges it, it's game over. His life has already been flipped upside down enough, he's not sure he can deal with anymore.
Fucking Swanny.
He should have known better, Clay thinks to himself. He should have seen the signs, should have stayed his ass home and canceled PT for the day. Then he would've been here, he could have done something ... done anything to change the outcome. After Swanny's outburst at the hospital, he should have known this was coming. He never did though and ended up blindsided.
Clay nudges the door closed behind him, stopping for a moment to lean his head back and let his body rest. He probably should've taken the elevator after therapy, but he'd wanted to push himself, to prove that he could do it. Now he's regretting that bullheaded choice as his legs quiver with exhaustion. Pushing himself up from wall, he's surprised by how quiet it is. It's almost too quiet. The calm before a storm, the stillness that settles over a forest before danger approaches, the quiet breath before a scream. Clay's skin prickles with anticipation, awareness heightened as he glances around the apartment.
Nothing is out of place. It all looks exactly as it should ... except for the bright orange sticky note on the counter. The breakfast dishes are washed and sitting in the drying rack, today's newspaper and mail stacked neatly on the counter. Everything appears fine, except Clay can feel that it isn't. Where is Swanny? Usually, the minute Clay's key is in the lock the man seems to appear, eager to help and ask a dozen different questions. How did therapy go? Does he want a drink? Is he in pain? Does he need his pain meds? Does he want a sandwich? Any thoughts on dinner? What exercises did he do today? Any improvements? Setbacks? That's the normal now, except Swanny isn't here badgering him.
Trying to shake off the uneasy feeling, Clay tells himself he's overthinking it. Swanny does have his own life that doesn't revolve around Clay, even though it seemed that way most of the time. Maybe he had an interview, Clay thinks to himself. He had been talking about a new paramedic gig a few days ago. Or maybe he went for a walk or finally run to the store like he said he was going to do every day for the last week. Except Swanny's keys and wallet are sitting innocently on the kitchen counter next to his cell phone. Swanny wouldn't go anywhere without them.
His eyes once again drift to the note in the middle of the counter. Swanny had torn down his colorful masterpiece when Clay came home from the hospital and he hasn't seen any sight of them again ... until right now. He reaches for it and sees two simple words scribbled there in Swanny's chicken-scratch.
I'm sorry.
It feels like the world falls out from under him, the note falling from his fingers. He grabs on to the edge of the counter to hold himself upright as his knees suddenly go weak. This time it has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the sudden anxiety gripping him. His mind is spinning in a thousand different directions, but one thought is clear above all else. Find Swanny.
Where could he be? Clay's eyes land on the keys laying on the counter and know that Swanny couldn't have gone too far. Clay unclenches his fingers from around the counter and stumbles away. He's sliding his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone as he rounds the corner, the sight before him making him freeze in his tracks.
Ahead of him, poking out of the bathroom doorway, is a pair of well-worn boots.
"Swanny?!"
Clay staggers forward. He latches on to the doorway to hold himself upright, the sight before him making his knees quake. Swanny is facedown on the bathroom floor in a pool of vomit. There are pill bottles scattered everywhere, most of them empty.
"Fuck, Swanny," Clay gasps out, reaching for his cell phone as he drops to his knees next to the man. He doesn't remember much of his call to 911 beyond stumbling through the basic information. Male, late 50s, overdose, and rattling off his address. He's not sure what else they might have asked him or what they told him, Clay was too focused on Swanny.
He reaches out and feels for a pulse. Finding none, Clay uses every ounce of strength he has and rolls the man over. It's not an easy feat, Clay being weakened from injury and trying to move them both in such a tight space. He does it though, ignoring the way his knees slide in the pool of sick. He leans over, trying to hear if Swanny is breathing. He's so pale he's almost translucent, nose and mouth covered in vomit.
Clay uses the edge of his shirt and clears out Swanny's airways and positions the man's head, hoping it'll be enough to get him breathing again. Nothing happens.
"You don't get to give up," Clay growls out as he starts compressions. Each one requires a full body effort and after only a few, Clay's breaking out in a sweat, losing his breath. He doesn't give up though, doesn't stop the chest compressions even when he hears someone coming into the apartment. He only moves his hands when a paramedic is guiding him out of the way.
"What did he take?" they ask.
"I don't know," Clay tells them dumbly, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom to catch his breath as they get to work.
"How long ago?"
"I don't know," his breath hitches in his chest.
Clay watches as they get Swanny on the gurney, still trying to start his heart. He was still warm to the touch so it gives Clay some hope that they can turn this around, that they can pull Swanny back. As they take him out of the apartment, Clay snaps back to himself. He drags his body up and he gathers up every pill bottle he can find in the bathroom. Swanny had been serious about it, Clay realizes as he picks up the seventh bottle. He'd taken all of his meds, ones Clay knows for sure were just filled a week ago. He'd torn in to Clay's meds too, he realizes with a jolt seeing his name on the bottle. Muscle relaxers, pain meds, anti-anxiety meds, sleeping pills ... everything Clay had come home from the hospital with and refused to use.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room is surreal. He watches everything happening around him and feels so disconnected. He tries to call Jason, desperate to have someone, anyone, in this with him because he feels like he's drowning. Jason doesn't answer though, probably can't Clay realizes with a sharp pang of loneliness. Clay doesn't try anyone else, just sits in silence, hands clenched between his knees, and waits.
"I'm sorry," the doctor tells him quietly. "He didn't make it. We were unable to resuscitate him. I'm very sorry for your loss."
Clay hears the words, but is having trouble comprehending them. He blinks at the doctor, the urge to ask him to repeat it on the tip of his tongue, when it finally sinks in. Swanny is dead. Swanny killed himself. Swanny waited until Clay left, swallowed all the pills in the bathroom cabinet, and died in Clay's bathroom, leaving only a post-it note behind.
His breath catches in his chest and for one terrifying instant, Clay's potential future becomes crystal clear; a world of pain and anger, living in the past because there is nothing for him in the present. He shakes his head to dispel the image. The doctor is still talking to him in soft tones, saying things like next of kin and release the body, but Clay can't follow what the man is saying at this point.
"What?" Clay finally forces out, cutting the doctor off.
The man gives Clay a sympathetic smile, lays a hand on his arm gently. "Do you have any contact information for Mr. Swann's next of kin? We need to make notification and get permission to release the body for burial."
It's a simple enough question, but it has Clay freezing in place. He has no idea. In fact, he knows very little about Swanny. Doesn't know his birthday or his middle name or where he grew up. The only things Clay knows about the man are contained in stories from his time in the field, that he was a hard-core operator, he was a problem solver, a true pipe-hitter, a rock solid teammate. A brother. None of those things are going to help him now though.
He racks his tired brain, trying desperately to think of any nugget of information that would prove helpful. Maybe someone from the team would know, but Clay can't get a hold of them now. The image of Swanny's cellphone sitting on the counter provides Clay a spark of hope. Maybe something or someone in there can be of help.
"I have his wallet and phone in my car," Clay finally tells the doctor.
He's glad he had the foresight to snag them off the counter before he'd dashed out of the apartment. As he opens the car door, his eyes land on the bag of empty pill bottles on the front seat. Bile rises in the back of his throat. He presses his hands to the top of the car, closing his eyes against the sight, and takes a few deep breaths. This is not the time or the place, he tells himself. Just keep it together. Reaching blindly for the glovebox, Clay grabs the phone and wallet and makes his way back inside.
Clay can feel eyes glancing in his direction then skirting away as he weaves through the hallways. He must look awful, he realizes. He'd come in from therapy a sweaty mess and now he's covered in dried vomit and limping his exhausted body along. He keeps his head down until he reaches the nurse's station once again, the doctor waiting for him.
The doctor gives him a sympathetic smile as he slides paperwork in front of Clay. He fills them out the best he can, copying down the information from Swanny's license and leaving the rest blank. He scrolls through the man's contacts, unsure of who might be the best person to call. Finally, he settles for opening his text messages and finds the last person Swanny had text. Ruby. The message was sent today, a quick I'm sorry for everything that hits Clay like a punch to the gut. He briefly remembers Swanny mentioning his "old lady" kicking him out and, scrolling through the rest of the messages, realizes this must be who he was talking about. Swanny only made two goodbyes; to her and to Clay.
His hand shakes as he scribbles down her name and number on the contact form and hands it off. The doctor is signing a form when Clay steps up to him. His eyes catch on the top of the paper. A Death Certificate. Clay's blows out a breath as his eyes skim over the information. Manner of Death: Suicide.
There it is, laid out in black and white. No minced words, not sugarcoating it. Suicide. Swanny just became another statistic. A number people will state and shake their heads in sympathy, never truly understanding why.
Clay feels his legs go weak at the sight of those words. Swanny committed suicide. He grips the edge of the counter hard to keep himself upright. The doctor is back, voice nothing but white-noise filling up his head. Everything else is a blur.
