A/N: Thanks for all the views so far! I'm definitely trying to keep this one going. Try to review if you read and/or fav, so that I'll know what kinds of changes to make in the future! Thanks!
And if you have to leave
I wish you would just leave
Your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone
Getting ready had been…interesting, to say the least. After the initial hangover symptoms had died down to a manageable level—i.e, being able to actually stand without throwing up—Baird had stumbled into the shower, nearly lost his balance twice, and then tried to maneuver his bruised body into some of Dom's clothes. Slowly. Painfully. The tee shirt was a tad too big, but it worked.
When afterward, Baird told Marcus that he wanted to go to the hospital, Marcus was skeptical; the blonde was barely able to walk on his own, and the sergeant felt he would accomplish more by staying home, and relaxing.
But Baird was insistent. "I'll drive myself," he had stated, gingerly pressing down a final bandage on the bridge of his nose. Marcus scowled, and grabbed the keys.
The drive there had been silent, and Marcus actually found himself missing the inane ramblings that used to spew from his friend's lips in seemingly uncontrollable bursts. There were no sarcastic remarks during the drive. No smart-assery. Just silence, only broken by the pitter-patter of rain, and the wet squeak of windshield wipers as they glided across the glass.
Marcus wondered what could be going through Baird's head at times like those. Pained silence, where the hurt and guilt in the mechanic's distant eyes was obvious.
What would I be thinking, if the same thing had happened to me two weeks ago?
That question, Marcus Fenix realized, was unanswerable, and he didn't think that he would ever truly be able to understand what Baird was going through, unless he experienced it himself.
God forbid.
New Jacinto Memorial Hospital was the picture of distress when Marcus and Baird arrived fifteen minutes later. The clamoring voices of dozens of people seemed to merge into one mumbled conversation, never simplified enough for you to be able to understand it, but as loud and obnoxious as ever.
Both men walked briskly into the lobby, already dampened by the persistent drizzle of rain that had yet to cease.
Wary glances were occasionally cast their way, although it was obvious that they were settling on Baird; but then…who wouldn't stare at injuries like those? The younger man had tried to ignore them when he was getting dressed; the harsh purple splotches and angry breaks in his skin. But no matter how much he tried to pretend that they weren't there, people were staring, and one thing was obvious.
He looked like absolute shit.
Baird shivered a little, ignoring the discreet looks being cast his way while wrapping himself tighter into his black hoodie. The coat had been in his car, which had been waiting for the blonde down in the apartment's parking lot. Marcus didn't say as much, but Dom must've driven it there last night.
He looked around nonchalantly, hands pocketed in the jacket. This place—the same walls and floors and faces—were becoming all too familiar for his liking, and he just wanted to move on with his life already; to be able to see a doctor or nurse without cringing, or actually walk into a hospital without feeling like he was going to be sick.
Two weeks ago, he had rushed into this building in a panic; confused and terrified and hopeful all at once. He had sat in one of the lobby's plastic blue chairs, and waited for hours on end. He had been brought into an office, and had his heart broken. Shattered. Crushed.
Taken out of his chest entirely.
Now, there was only one thing in this building that permitted these visits at all; one very small, barely there thing that was all he had left. He had been coming every day since those two weeks ago, desperately fighting for the one thing that was separating heartbreak from hope, and death from life.
"Baird." Marcus's voice was low, but somehow, the blonde still managed to catch it under the vast array of other people's chatter.
The sergeant was standing taller at his side, a skeptical look shadowing his icy blue eyes as he glanced at Baird. "You ok?" he asked, not for the first time that day. He was worried, and vaguely, Baird wondered if he looked as horrible as he felt.
"M'fine," the younger man lied. He wasn't fine. If it weren't for the one thing he was coming to see right now in the first place, he probably would have broken down already; shown everyone just how not fine he was.
Marcus eyed him warily. They walked down the hall together, but as they neared the elevator, he spoke up.
"Dom's going to meet us here, alright?" Again, with that appeasing, you can have whatever you want tone.
He didn't say as much, but Baird felt crazy, or unstable, when Fenix talked like that. He wrung his hands together irritably. Nodded.
He wasn't crazy. He wasn't.
"Ok." He wasn't looking at Marcus at all; he was looking at doctors, and nurses, and IV poles. Medication bottles that reminded him of his own. Crisp white floors that looked suitable enough to eat off of, and shiny white walls to match. So much white that it hurt.
"Damon." Marcus looked at the younger man as they waited for the elevator. He was somewhere far away, the blue-eyed sergeant could tell, and continuously losing whatever grip he had on the situation. His hands were wringing anxiously, and the purple bruises on his face looked even darker for how pale his skin was.
The elevator dinged, and after the initial deportees cleared out of the small box, Marcus stepped inside, and Baird followed, feeling irked at the placating way the other man was speaking to him.
He pressed a button; one with four little letters on it. It lit up, and then the car started moving, a lot more slowly then they used to before the war.
"Baird," Marcus tried again, but that time, the blonde looked at him. There was irritation in his pallid face, and he stared hard at Marcus.
"For god's sake, Fenix just stop, alright?" His voice was more raised then he would've liked, but at that moment, he couldn't help himself. He removed his hands from his pockets, and rested them on his hips, setting his jaw and angling his face towards the ceiling. Marcus blinked, slow and purposefully.
"I know what you're thinking, Marcus; I'm not stupid."
"No one said you're stupid." His voice was so hushed that Baird grimaced at it. Marcus was tip-towing again, making obvious what it was he was thinking about. Baird was thinking about the same thing.
"You think I'm going to loose it again, don't you?" There was silence after his low voice. Marcus stared. Baird laughed humorlessly. "You think that if there's bad news waiting for me up there, I'm going to do something…what? Violent? Crazy?"
Marcus remained silent, which was an answer in itself: Yes.
The elevator was spinning as it approached the pre-appointed floor. Baird heard his pulse pounding through his ears as he laced his hands behind his head. Felt shaky and unexplainably mad as he turned away from Marcus. Distantly, he remembered what had been written about him on a filing chart a week and a half ago, but was too upset to care.
Mood swings. Self-harmful tendencies. Insomnia. All categorized by Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Counteractive medication strongly advised.
At that moment, more then anything else, Baird wanted to slide down to the floor and cry until he couldn't cry anymore. To go to sleep for years and years and years and just forget the world. He wanted everything to stop mattering, or for it all to matter again. He was stuck somewhere helplessly in between wanting to care, and not giving a shit.
He wanted to die.
But he couldn't. Something kept him standing, back turned to Marcus, feet planted firmly. A little something that was waiting on the 23rd floor of the hospital.
Baird rubbed his face, and then left them covering his eyes when the friction on his bruised skin became too painful. A hand was on his shoulder, but with the sudden bout of anger already dissipating, the blonde didn't even have the energy to nudge it off. He sighed a little, and it came out sounding more like a despairing moan through his hands.
"I don't know what to do," he admitted a second later. His arms dropped to his sides. His voice was a hopeless whisper, any semblance of strength devoid from it. "What the hell am I going to do?"
"You're going to get through this," Marcus replied, gripping his friend's arm a little tighter.
Baird couldn't find any reason to believe him, but remained silent. His shoulders were slack with resignation. He was empty. Hollow.
"You're going to keep fighting, Baird, and things will get better."
Baird turned, angling his back into the corner of the elevator. He stared at Marcus, silently, but his eyes—dull and lifeless—seemed to be asking why. Why should he have to keep fighting a losing battle? Why should he have to keep trying so hard?
The blonde shrugged a little with half-lidded eyes, and at that moment, Delta's former sergeant realized just how exhausted he looked.
"Why should I, Marcus?" There was no sarcasm or malice in Baird's question; just plain and simple desperation. Give me an answer, it seemed to beg, because if I don't find one soon, I don't think I'll make it any farther.
"Because." Marcus chose his words carefully, but at the same time, spoke them with complete sincerity. "That's what Samantha would've wanted you to do—"
The elevator dinged again, and the doors slid open to reveal a pleasantly painted floor; bright colors—yellows, pinks, and blues—engulfed the walls and furniture. Above the front desk, a sign suspended by neon green rope read: Welcome to the NICU.
"—and that's what your son needs from you now."
A/N: Now we're getting somewhere! Yes, everything will be explained soon, but in the meantime, keep reading! (And for those of you who don't know, NICU stands for Neonatal Intensive Care Unit…:O)
