Title: Chapter 1 – Ian's waiting

A/N: Ian's POV.

There are benches. And trees. And there is a trash can. There are some cars in the parking lot nearby. The ground is plastered with red stones. The building made out of concrete and glass is towering over the whole scene. Big. Pompous. Arrogant.

There are small puddles everywhere. It has been raining a lot in Seattle lately. It still is. Drizzle rain. That's what it's called.

His hair is getting damp and is sticking to his forehead. He's sitting on one of the benches. People are passing him. Some of them are looking at him. Some of them have better things to do. Or more important things. Or are as fucked up as he is right now and don't give a shit about anyone else.

He had to step outside. Even if only for a few minutes. Despite the rain. Despite the darkness surrounding him. It's late, night has fallen. He feels kind of safe, though. Night has always been a good friend of his. He is more productive at night. There are no distractions. His brain is more active. He is able to work more. He is more focused. He has the best ideas. At night. His constant and only friend. At night nobody can see him. He is alone and he appreciates that. The loneliness.

He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. Deeply, slowly. The rain-filled air smells amazing. Fresh. Filling his void for a few seconds. He holds his breath. Enjoying the feeling of completeness. Feeling whole. For once. He breathes out all of the held-in-air in one sudden and swift exhale. An agonizing headache hits him almost instantly. This is not going to stop.

He is thinking about all the events that have led up to this point. Him sitting in front of the best hospital in the country. In Seattle. Hoping. Praying. Waiting.

Hope is easy. Hope is always there when you least expect it. Hoping for the sun to come out tomorrow. Hoping for no traffic on your way to work. Hoping for no hangover after a night out with his friends. Yes, hope comes almost naturally. Unintentionally. Hope is the easy part.

What do you do, however, when hope fails? When hoping isn't enough anymore? The sun doesn't come out the next morning, it's raining instead. The streets are packed with cars and you arrive late at work. And hoping for no hangover after an alcohol-filled party? That doesn't work at all. So what to do?

He has never been much of a believer. But when everything else seems useless and hope fails, then even he starts praying. Praying for the meds to work. Praying for a successful surgery. Praying is harder. It's not like you just wish for something and it comes true at once. No. Praying takes time. And commitment. And concentration. And desperation. Yes, you need to be very desperate to start praying.

Well, at least, he thinks so.

The waiting part is the worst part. Because if you reach this point you ran out of everything else to do. There is nothing left to do but wait. You feel useless and helpless. Waiting. That's the stage he has reached now. Waiting.

Hoping. Praying. Waiting.

He wishes he could to something. Anything. It doesn't matter what. He would be completely fine getting coffee for everyone. Or picking up the trash in the hallways, making sure the doctors and nurses don't trip. Or sorting files in the archive. Or just standing in the corner and being the punching bag for everyone. At least then people would talk to him. Or at least at him.

He checks the time on his phone. Ten minutes have passed already. He told Anthony he would be right back. He stands up and ruffles through his hair. Beads of water fly everywhere. It's no use. His hair is completely soaked. As are his jacket and jeans. The drizzle has turned into heavy-ass rain, pouring down on him. He hasn't even noticed it. He puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket, trying to warm them up. He doesn't want to touch Anthony with cold hands. Slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, he starts walking towards the entrance. He would very much like to stay here, outside of the building. Here it's safe. Out here there are no white scrubs, no wires, no heart monitors. He hates the stinging smell of sterile cleanliness.

He knows once he is inside it will start all over again.

Hoping. Praying. Waiting. For a miracle.