Seven Stages
By: Corky
Warning: Character death, vulgar language, slash pairing (Murdock / Face)
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, just the story line.
Author's Note: Read with a box of tissue...I wrote the darn thing and I was crying by the time I finished it!
Stage One: Shock / Disbelief
August 21st, 1992
He couldn't breathe as he saw the man lying on the floor of the kitchen, the open gallon of milk just barely wrapped in his limp fingers, the white liquid covering the floor and drenching his clothes. He didn't know what had happened at the time as he dropped his keys and went running towards him. Had he just collapsed? He didn't have a history of fainting, so what had happened?
Dropping to his knees next to the man, he gently lifted his head, checking to make sure he hadn't cracked it on anything. The milk was still cold as it soaked through his designer blue jeans, but he didn't care; they'd wash. Cradling his head, he gently slapped the other's cheeks.
"Murdock! Murdock wake up, buddy. C'mon, wake up."
Something was wrong; something was very wrong. The man in his arms had been acting strangely the past few months and his already lean frame seemed to be getting leaner by the weeks. His jacket had become so loose on him that most days, he wouldn't even bother putting it on, and if he did, it was always zipped half-way up or more.
On top of that, there were the nights when he'd wake up and find him covered in sweat, even on chilly nights. He'd asked him what was wrong one of the nights he woke up to find the pilot kicking the blankets down to his feet, his thinning brown hair plastered to his forehead as if he'd just finished running a marathon.
"Nothin' Facey-baby…just…it's warm in here, ya know? It's always warm in here when I gotta sleep next to someone as hot as you." Though his voice was light and playful as he flashed a grin and winked, Face could tell he was lying. He was a horrible liar.
His heart racing, he gently shook the man's shoulders until those dark chocolate brown eyes began to flutter open and look around in confusion. It was then Face noticed how dull his eyes looked, and the dark bags under them. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks, when in reality, he often slept more than he was awake; and when he was awake, looked as if he could fall asleep at any moment.
Brushing his soft brown hair from his forehead, his hand gently landed at the side of his face, where jawbone met neck. That's when the Lieutenant felt it. A lump the size of a small olive. How had he never noticed that before? Had he really been wrapped up in his own troubles and worries not to notice something was happening to his best friend?
Then it hit him. He remembered back on all the nights in the past few months where he'd try to get close to the man, wanting to touch him and be with him as only lovers could be, only to have the pilot gently turn him away. He'd usually have a good reason; a reason that never made him think there was something suddenly wrong with their relationship. They'd been a couple for nearly five years, since a few months after the Lieutenant had gotten shot and nearly died, so at least Face didn't have to worry that the man had fallen out of love with him. He knew he hadn't, Murdock made it a point to tell him every morning, noon and night just how much he loved him.
The night sweats, extreme fatigue, weight loss, swollen glands, the days of him waking up with a stomachache or backache…they all seemed to stem from one night, months prior, when the pilot was suddenly stricken with fever. At the time, they had written it off to him catching a bad strain of the flu. Come to think of it, Face wasn't sure the fever had ever really broken. He'd often catch him shivering on the couch, a blanket tugged up around him as he'd rest his head on the arm of the long beige piece of furniture, his eyes watching the TV but not really seeing anything.
Gulping hard, Face turned his wide blue eyes to the shame-filled browns that stared back at him. He knew that the pilot knew. One of the requirements of being a good conman (which, the Lieutenant wasn't good, he was great), was being a quick study. He'd picked up a medical journal a few times, once-upon-a-time-ago when the pilot was still a patient at the VA Mental Hospital. He'd been looking for different things he could use in order to spring him for at least a little while. Thumbing through it, he'd landed on a page of terminal diseases. He knew he would never use one of those, but still, he read through the different ones, complete with symptoms.
Shaking his head in disbelief, his hands quickly moved to sit the man up. Murdock tried to protest and fight him as Face took hold of his wrist and forced him to raise his arm. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. Another lump under his arm. A lump of his own formed in his throat as tears glistened in his eyes.
"Murdock…you're…why didn't you…"
"I didn't want you to worry about me," His voice was soft and pain-filled as his eyes cast to the floor. The last thing he'd really remembered was getting a glass of milk, or at least, trying to. Judging by how much milk was pooled around them compared to what was in the jug, he was willing to bet he'd failed horribly.
"But you're…" dying. Face couldn't even bring himself to say the word. He was in too much shock at realizing the man had kept such a thing from him for so long.
Swallowing hard, Murdock's eyes fell to his lap, his voice not much more than a whisper, "Yeah…yeah I am, Muchacho."