Author's Note: This was written around March 2010, courtesy of a plot bunny that had been floating in my head [hat tip, my friend Net]. It is un-beta-ed, and I take full responsibility for any errors. Implied pairing is Danny/Lindsay, post-"Greater Good" of Season 5. The poem referenced is "The Hollow Men" by T.S. Eliot.
It's one of those days where everything starts out as planned, but something goes ridiculously wrong, leaving his world spinning out of control. He's got to stand tall and strong, be a man, as his father would say, when all he wants to do is be that little five-year-old boy again, skinning his knee playing ball and running home to his mother for warm pizzelles and a kiss. Louie had been at school, his father at work, and there was safety in those moments when he was his mother's little boy again, her little Daniel. He's thirty-three; there's no running home to Mama anymore.
He's at work, running through possible scenarios with Hawkes, trying to find a trail of crumbs in what looks like a dead-end case. His phone buzzes; it's a number he doesn't recognize. He ignores it. She's got the day off, and his mother had offered to take Lucy to give her a break, a rare day to herself. Taking Lucy and leaving a paper box of homemade cannoli for the bambino; dunno who gets the better deal there, he'd thought with a smile, seeing the box in her hands and resisting the urge to take one for the road. He certainly wasn't one to argue with tradition, especially if he wanted to sleep in their bed when he came home from work. The pull-out bed wasn't nearly as comfortable as it looked.
His phone buzzes again, skittering from the table. Hawkes glances at him pointedly. Aren't you gonna get that? With a sigh, he does, leaning with a hand on the table for support and scooping the phone in his hands.
It's the hospital, and it's her doctor, and she tells him gently to sit down, that he needs to sit down and focus for a minute. He can't, because he's already beginning to get scared, the obvious worry showing on his face; Hawkes picks up on it and heads toward the door, hovering for a moment before stepping outside and allowing Danny what little privacy he can have with walls of glass. Doctors don't call unless there's a problem, and there has to be a problem, because she's calling, and there's got to be some kind of problem because his wife isn't the one calling him. And there's something involving her feeling strange and going in for an emergency appointment, and a Doppler check but no heartbeat, an emergency ultrasound but still, no heartbeat. That there hasn't been one for awhile, and there's nothing but an empty shell inside of her now, and that empty shell needs to get out, and that's why she's in the hospital and will be inpatient for a few days. She's loaded up on antibiotics and medication that's going to make that happen, and he sinks heavily into the chair, burying his head in his crossed arms, phone pressed to his ear. He needs to get there as soon as he can, for support, because he's in this and he needs to be strong. His mother needs to keep Lucy overnight; there's enough pumped milk in their freezer, even though Lucy is slowly weaning. He doesn't have a choice right now; he's the least important person in this equation.
It takes him five minutes to process everything. He wants to get up and go immediately, to find her, to be with her, but he allows himself five minutes to pull it together for her. So she won't see him completely break apart at the hospital, so he can calmly call his mother and explain the situation. So he can explain it to Mac without suddenly sobbing about why he needs to leave and why he needs to take a week, vacation, sick time, FMLA, paternity, whatever Mac wants to put it down as, so he can handle this.
He can't even say what it is. He can't say the words, not to Hawkes, not to Mac, not to himself. Even when death is something you deal with daily, it hits you when it's one of your own, like a hard right hook to the stomach that leaves you doubled over and gasping, completely convinced that your lungs have seceded from your body. His stomach feels traitorous and he's worried for all of them, wondering how she's doing, wondering what they'll do now, wondering if she could be at all happy or relieved in some ways and thinking that maybe, maybe, that this is for the best. Mac nods his understanding, telling him in his quiet way to take as much of his long-accumulated paid time as he needs, to tell her to not worry about it, and convey how truly sorry he is at their loss. That he'd adjust the schedule; Mac is the very definition of discretion. That's one thing that won't be a problem, and leaving work at work frees part of his burden. He heads home to pack a large bag, take out pajamas and a diaper for Lucy and place them in her crib, and scribble milk-thawing instructions on a paper left taped to the refrigerator.
By the time he gets there, the antibiotic is working its way through her system. She isn't monitored; there's no joy in their room, no eager anticipation, just quiet and unspoken sorrow. She sleeps peacefully. The antibiotic induces nausea, the medicine and its purpose brings pain. She'd had THE DRUGS! for Lucy, and he strokes her hair gently, kissing her forehead, and thanks whatever god is up there that she's asleep right now, asleep for this. She doesn't need to be awake. He'll keep vigil over her, gingerly taking her fragile hand in his larger one, stroking it softly.
The anticipation in the room is muted when it's finally time. A poem runs through his head, something about the world ending with a whimper instead of a bang. The small part of his mind that's drifting somewhere above all of this feels that the description is accurate.
There's no immediate cry, nothing but quiet voices and gentle words; he hears nothing, all of it fizzling into the background, static in the white hospital room, with its tiled floor, its hospital-safety-gear. The care they show is to a certain extent a courtesy; This is considered a late miscarriage, her doctor had explained over the phone. Not a premature birth. Twenty-two weeks is when it changes. I'm so sorry. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing anybody could have done. He distractedly signs the paper to allow for testing, worrying that they may have dodged a bullet with Lucy, fearing for any children they may have later. He'd rather know in advance if this could occur again. He's left with the isolette and the small wrapped blanket, folded tiny, a little square. He bites his lip so hard that it bleeds, his sharpest tooth sinking into the pliable skin. He spends a few minutes in silence, watching. Confirming what he'd thought about the gender. Memorizing the face, the closed eyelids and tiny feet; there's Lucy's nose, he thinks, and the fine hands that certainly weren't his.
After they take the isolette away - allowing him to gently print the tiny footprints, something that makes him cry, because that's all he'll have left after this - he goes to her, sitting half on the bed, wrapping his arms around her body with his face buried in the curve of her neck. He can't do anything else; he is truly powerless in this situation, to fix what is broken or bring back what has been lost.
He asks softly for a sleeping pill when the nurse knocks softly, entering to check her vitals.