Chapter One: Waiting Room

For the fifty-first time, Quatre counted his steps across the tiny, vacant emergency room lobby; it was thirty-four steps each way.

"Hey, Quatre, why don't you quit worrying? It's Trowa, for cryin' out loud!" Duo offered, trying to lift his fretting companion's spirits.

"You're probably right," the blonde finally conceded, plopping limply down in the nearest seat across from Heero and Duo, "He'll be fine. I need to quit dwelling on it."

Duo shot the blonde a warm smile, but Quatre's eyes were fixated on the tacky, floral pattern carpet at his feet. He aimlessly rubbed at the bloodstain on his right knee, which had already dried. There had been so much blood for him to simply overlook it; was he that captivated by the sight of the man he loved that he missed it? 'So much blood,' Quatre thought, 'too much to be normal.' Scrubbing his forehead with a sweaty, trembling palm, he tried his best to shake the thought from his mind. Duo was right: if he could live to tell the tale of saving Quatre from himself, then he needn't worry about a simple nosebleed. That's all it was, after all—just a nosebleed. A really bad nosebleed.

A tall, middle-aged man in a white lab coat entered the room, having a captive audience before he even batted an eye. In his arms, he carried a relatively empty-looking manila folder. Quatre held his breath. 'Tell me he's fine,' he silently urged, blue-green eyes wide and hopeful, 'tell me he's awake; tell me I'm just overreacting…'

"Which one of you was with the patient last?" The doctor asked. The blonde jumped to his feet without a second thought.

"I was," he started, but remembered that they wouldn't be there without Heero's strength and Duo's manic driving. "Well, we all were."

The doctor glanced at Quatre's stained trousers.

"I take it you're the one who found him," he continued. Quatre nodded. "Very well then; I need you to come with me."

"Can…can I see him?" The Arabian meekly inquired, voice as hopeful as his eyes.

"Not until you answer some questions."

"Sure. Whatever you need, Doctor."

Casting a fleeting glance to the two rapt brunettes, the pair exited.

"Now then," the physician began after they were safely out of earshot, "Was he responsive when you found him?"

"No," Quatre replied grimly.

"Was he breathing?"

The blonde nodded.

"How much blood had he lost?"

It was a tough question to hear; an even tougher one to answer.

"A significant amount," Quatre choked out, biting his lower lip. 'Please voice, don't start cracking now…'

Flipping open the manila folder he'd been toting, the doctor scrawled some brief notes before closing it again. "Did you want an update on his condition?" He offered.

The blonde peered upward, anxiously nodding and bracing for the worst.

"We were able to stop the bleeding," the physician began, "but his body temperature has risen to 103.7, and he's unresponsive to stimuli. Don't worry—he'll have the best round-the-clock care we have to offer."

'103.7? Comatose?' Quatre silently repeated to himself. 'Can I just start this day over? Can I wake up now? Please..?'

"You okay, son?" The doctor's hand gave Quatre's shoulder a squeeze.

"Yes sir. Thank you," the blonde answered, distant with disbelief. Turning on a heel, he began to head back to the lobby.

"We can allow you to see him, if you wish."

The doctor read Quatre's mind. The boy froze. 'Do I want to see him like this..?'

There was a small pause before he turned back to the physician, who instinctively began to lead the way.

Their walk was painfully long and silent. At the threshold to the room, the doctor mumbled something about visiting hours that Quatre completely blocked out when he laid sight on Trowa. To the untrained eye, there was no cause for concern; the slumbering brunette looked just as peaceful as he had before, except now his left hand was tethered to an IV that connected to both a banana bag* and some other foreign chemical. On the tip of his slender index finger was a Pulse-Ox* that displayed normal vital signs, according to the monitor. There was no respiration tube in place and no oxygen mask administered, which meant he was still breathing adequately on his own. Although that looked to be the extent of the good news, Quatre was willing to take it.

He found a chair in the corner of the room nearest the door and pulled it close to Trowa's unoccupied side, sliding down into it.

Reaching between the cold metal railings on the bed, Quatre gently lifted his companion's unencumbered hand and cradled it in both of his own. He fingered callouses riddling the pilot's palm and digits, gingerly lacing their fingers together for the first time; something he'd always wanted to do.

Despite the fact that his conscious mind couldn't process so much as the idea of forming a single sentence, the blonde suddenly found himself speaking.

"I need you in my life, Trowa. You can't…you can't leave me…" He chewed his lower lip at the thought and tried to ward off the tears that came with it, "My life won't be the same without you; I won't be able to go on… If you don't wake up, I'll never get the chance to correct my mistakes…to tell you all these things I feel whenever I see you face, or hear your voice…"

Quatre's voice began to deteriorate as he surrendered to the tears that had been held at bay for hours. "Don't do this," he whispered through stifled sobs, "don't just…slip away from me before we ever got a chance…"

A knock fell on the door.

"Visiting hours are over."

Begrudgingly, the blonde rose from his seat, placing a soft kiss to Trowa's limp hand before delicately returning it to the bed where he'd found it. "I'll be here when you wake. I promise," he whispered, and swiped at his eyes briefly before leaving the room.

Duo was asleep on Heero's shoulder when Quatre finally joined up with them again. A quick elbow to the ribs woke the Deathscythe pilot with a snort.

"How is he?" Heero's low voice pried. Quatre's eyes returned to that horrendous floral pattern carpet.

"Good God, Heero! You really lack that many people skills, after all this time?" Duo yelled at a hushed volume. "You can't tell by looking at him?" The American shook his head slowly, taking in the blonde's downtrodden countenance. Once again turning to the seat nearest to him, Quatre limply dropped down into it, head down, hands lifeless in his lap. The sight tugged at Duo's heartstrings. Leaving Heero to his own devices, the long-haired brunette claimed the chair next to his grieving companion, draping an arm over Quatre's sunken shoulders. "He'll be okay," Duo soothed, "He's stronger than you know. He'll come outta this just fine, you'll see." The Deathscythe pilot offered a wry smile which Quatre didn't reciprocate.

Duo paused for thought. "So, since visiting hours are over, whaddaya say we head back to the safehouse and get some sleep?"

"No," Quatre replied flatly, and then amended his curt response. "I just…want to be here. I know you understand."

Duo nodded.

Looking across the room to Heero, the American retrieved the keys to the car they'd had come in and tossed them to the Wing pilot. "Go if you want to, Heero. She's all yours. But I think I'm gonna camp out here with Quatre tonight, just for moral support."

The blonde smiled weakly at his companion's kind gesture. "Thanks, Duo, but you don't have to do that."

"Nah, I want to, Quatre. Honestly." Duo reassured, nodding slightly.

Keys in hand, Heero left the room. 'He's actually gonna do it, huh?' The American thought, just before his keen ears picked up on the sound of the Wing pilot's voice down the corridor.

"If anyone has any updates on Trowa Barton's condition, have them notify me immediately. We'll be in the waiting room."

Duo smiled.

The next eight hours were agonizing and restless. Around 1 am, the exhausted trio finally collapsed onto one another, making a sandwich of the loudly snoozing Duo, who had commandeered a coffee table for his feet. Under Duo's left arm, where he had been for hours, Quatre had curled in a tight ball in his chair and drifted off to the most unsound of slumbers. With his back slightly to the Deathscythe pilot, Heero had fallen asleep against his companion, arms folded and chin tucked to chest.

At 3 am, the night doctor tapped Heero, who awoke with a jolt he was surprised didn't stir the others.

"Sir, Mr. Barton has reached a 3.5 on the Glasgow Scale*, I'm afraid. I was instructed to inform you." The younger physician reported somberly.

"Any other changes?" Heero questioned.

"Not many. His respiration is slow but steady still, so we're going to continue letting him breathe independently unless something changes. Fever is holding steady at 103.5. That's about all."

With a nod, the young doctor scurried off.


Notes:

-"Banana Bag": The generic bag of goodies most every inpatient gets. Mainly just consists of the body's basic chemical needs.

-"Pulse-Ox": Short for "Pulse-Oximeter", this is the annoying little fingertip clip that they put on you in the hospital. As the name implies, it keeps track of pulse and oxygen saturation in the blood.

-"Glasgow Scale": The Glasgow Coma Scale tells exactly how deep into a coma a person is. During the fic, Trowa is listed as a 3.5, which is a very deep, unresponsive comatose state that takes a while to come back from.