We have to hope for a full recovery. We have to have faith that they'll pull through. They're gonna be fine, Jackson.
These were the things that he'd been told, repeatedly and over and over again.
The words have almost lost all meaning, and he's not too convinced that her idea, that their idea, of faith is the same as his.
He imagines that she'll wake up, that she'll just open her eyes one day and come back to him. He hopes that science will prevail, that medicine will fight her demons. He hopes that it's the pills and the machines and everything helping her, helping them, that will bring them back to him.
He doesn't believe in God or miracles, no matter how many times he goes to church with her or smiles when he catches her mid-prayer on her side of the bed. He puts up with it, lives with it, because he has to, wants to. She is that way, she is her, and he can't judge her for wanting to believe in something that she deems more powerful than their own existence.
He doesn't judge her, or her beliefs, but he still finds it hard to understand when she talks about God and her love for Sunday Mass, no matter how many waffles she shoves down his throat in return for his presence.
He can't believe in those things. He can't believe that a miracle will occur, that He will lend a hand and offer help to someone who lacks her same faith. But he needs it. He needs her faith, needs her, because he's not sure that science will be enough this time.
"Hey,"
He sits by her bedside, hands grasping her limp one and fingers curling around her wrist.
He's done this everyday for a week. He sits in a usual silence, sometimes talks to her, to them, but generally only lets himself sigh and breathe and hope.
Sometimes he's joined by Meredith or Alex. She stands behind Jackson, hand on his shoulder and comforting eyes sparkling. She'll say something reassuring or she'll just smile at him when she thinks he needs it. She doesn't overdo it. Alex tends to speak more. He stands in the doorway for a good five minutes before he moves, sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. He leans back, looks back and forth between the man and wife for a moment before he talks, usually something along the lines of "She's gonna be fine, man" or "Dude, it's Kepner. She can't go ten minutes without talking, she'll wake up soon."
And he's grateful for that too, for Karev's light jokes and words of comfort. He needs them, needs advice, though he refuses to admit it, refuses to ask for help.
But he's thankful that they aren't here right now. That it's just him, and her, and the unborn baby in her stomach.
"So, Shepherd still thinks you're gonna make a full recovery and I guess-" He pauses, blinking a couple of times with a slight frown, "I guess he's right. I hope he's right."
He licks his dry lips, hands tightening around her own smaller one as he sighs.
"Your sister called. Kimmie? She said that she was sending a fruit basket or something but I'm not sure why." He shrugs to himself, glancing around the room in an awkward silence.
He needs her to speak up, to reply, to laugh with him, at him for talking to a comatose woman. She's call him crazy. And he's grin, and agree, and blame it on her. Only for her would be crazy.
As a teenager, he'd decided that he'd never let a woman into his heart, not fully. He wanted to live freely, like a bachelor, like someone with no priorities, someone who didn't have to take responsibility for another person's life.
He never pictured that he'd want this. He never imagined that he'd be married, to her, to an amazing and gorgeous woman. He never could have imagined that he'd become a father, that he'd have to take care and love and father a child, a whole other person. He never imagined that the two most important people in life would be his girls; the wife and the daughter he had to come to love.
He hadn't expected it, or maybe even wanted it at some point in his past, but now he was so glad that he had what he did.
He wanted her, and this, and his baby. He needed it, needed them.
But he never imagined on his wedding day, when he finally gave into the idea that he wanted a new life for himself that he'd be spending his days and nights by his wife's hospital bed because she was unresponsive, comatose, practically gone.
"I, uh-" He runs a hand over the back of his neck, leaving it on his neck as he talks, down to her, at her, "I picked out a name for her." He softly smiles as though she can see it, as though she'll do the same, "You wanted Elizabeth, right? I like it. I thought it through and I like it now. Well, I actually liked it when you suggested it but I wasn't gonna tell you that because you refused the name Jordan."
He wishes she'd laugh with him, all dimples and pink cheeks and bright eyes.
"So, when you get out of this, I'm just gonna agree, alright? We can call her Elizabeth. Or, Eliza, whatever you prefer. Okay?"
There's a tightening in his stomach and he closes his eyes for a second, letting his head drop by the side of her hand, his fingertips tracing her knuckles tenderly.
It's too much to think about. Eight days ago, they'd been perfect, and in love, and happy.
He remembers their last morning. It was Tuesday, their day off.
He had woken up before her, creeped out into the kitchen and made her breakfast. A meal that usually consisted of her favourite scrambled eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice.
She had surprised him though, waking up earlier than he'd planned to surprise her and joining him in the kitchen. She'd worn his shirt well, legs peeking out underneath and red hair tussled from sleep. She was gorgeous and the smile she'd sent him when he'd called her out on her beauty lifted his soul.
She was his, and he was hers, and he got all of her. He got to see her like this, exposed and raw, and only him.
But the last memory he has of her active smile, of her voice, is the way she groaned after they'd had a good fumble around in their kitchen, after he'd gotten paged into the hospital for a board meeting. The last time he remembers seeing her well and talkative and smiling.
"April," His voice almost breaks, a little lost in his trance as he chews on his bottom lip again.
What was he supposed to do without her? She was everything, his everything, and he wasn't sure where he'd be without her.
He had almost lost her before, and he never wanted to again. He needed her.
"I need you to wake up." It's simple, but he's asking for a lot and he knows it. "I need you to wake up, because I love you, and I need you. Okay? So, just, please- Just wake up for me?"
It's almost a question, almost a plea, and he softly chuckles to himself when he realises that he's practically begging her.
"I don't know... I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do." He speaks honestly, running a hand over his face, eyes focusing down at her hand, at the ring on her finger and the sign of his promise to be by her side, forever and always. "You've always kind of been the one to help me when I need something but right now you can't, and I've gotta figure this out by myself. And I know, I'm a grown man and I own a freaking hospital and I've got a job but I- I'm not sure what to do. And I need you to tell me what to do."
He's like a child asking for help. And he's not normally someone who asks for help.
"I'm not sure what to do because my wife is in coma and she has my baby with her. You're both just here, and at the same time you're not, but I really need you to be. I need you, okay? I want you here, and talking, and shouting at me for leaving bowls in the sink. And I want you to smile. I need you to smile." He does so himself, licking his lips again and staring down at her adoringly, hand tracing over her red locks and lingering against her chin, "I love your smile. It's kind of... shy yet sexy and I really need to see it again. Because if I do, then I'll know that you're okay, that you're alright and I can imagine that this never happened."
There are tears waiting to fall from behind his clear eyes. He's not a man who cries. Never has been.
"I wanna wake up in bed next to you, and kiss you. And I wanna make love to you before we go to work, before you tell me that you look terrible in the morning. Because you don't. You look beautiful, and you always do, and I hate that you keep doubting that. I hate it. I hate it, but I love you. And I need you, and I need our baby. Good things never really happen for me, April, but you did. You happened, and that's the greatest thing I ever could have asked for. But I'm asking now. And I'm asking you, and your God or whoever else is apparently up there and listening and seeing this. I'm asking for you, and for... Eliza, and for me. And I don't ask for much, but I am now. Okay? I don't want my money, or name, or a freaking house with a dog and picket fence. I just- I want you, and I need you, and I'm begging, just- Please?"
He's never been a man that cries, never been one to show his emotions so openly and carelessly, but he's ignorant to the world outside of this room, of their life.
"I can't do this alone, April. So, I need you to come back and help me. I need you to be here. Because you made me love you, and you made me better, and you made me want things that I never thought I could have. I love being married, and I love going to sleep knowing that I'm gonna be a father soon, and you made me love that. You made me want that. And I wanna tell you that, and tell you how much I love you, and how badly I wanna grow old with you and hang out on... a porch swing on the farm. I don't know." He smiles sadly, letting his eyes drift over her face, eye to lips and back again, "Come back please? Because I kind of need my best friend right now."