Disclaimer: Still no
A/N: I wasn't planning on there being more, to be honest. But he just wouldn't die. *w*
Roger was slumped in one of the chairs in the semi-secluded waiting room. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, or if it was even the same day. People came and wait, life flowed around him, but all he could bring himself to do was sit and stare. Watching numbly as the world passed by.
At some point, Maureen and Joanne had shown up. Frowning slightly, he pushed himself forward, glancing around. The jackets tossed on the chair beside him made it clear that they hadn't left yet, and he slumped back against the wall. Against his will, his eyes began to slide shut.
"Has there been any word?"
Maureen's voice brought him back to consciousness, and Roger shook his head slowly. Keeping his eyes closed against his irritation. 'It figures that anyone else would realize that if I'd heard anything, I wouldn't be sleeping. What kind of asshole does she think I am, anyway?'
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and forced them open. As soon as he looked up at the woman, he felt a small stab of guilt. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Hands laced tightly together, knuckles white. He realized that she likely hadn't thought before she'd spoken, and relented. "No, I haven't heard anything."
Slumping into the chair at his side, Maureen stared down at her feet for a long moment before asking in an almost whisper, "What did he do?"
Startled, Roger turned to study her. Her lower lip trembled, and she didn't look up until the silence had gone on for several minutes. "What do you mean?"
"He's been acting strange for weeks. Then he wouldn't return our calls, wouldn't talk to any of us, he just... Shut off." Turning damp eyes to meet his, she asked in a small voice, "Did he... I mean, did he try..." Unable to finish the sentence, she trailed off, clutching Joanne's hand convulsively.
"He didn't try to kill himself." Even to himself, his voice seemed cold. "Not that I know of."
Roger debated with himself. He wasn't sure that this was his story to tell. Glancing at the frozen clock on the wall, though, he reminded himself that he may be the only one who ever could tell it. 'No, that's not true. He'll be all right, everything's fine. Mark's a survivor, remember? He's the one of us to survive.'
"Roger?"
Joanne's calm voice brought him back to himself, and he shivered. "I found him. Outside the door. He went running off yesterday morning, and I couldn't find him." When he finally looked at them, his face looked young and hurt, nothing like the Roger they knew. "I did look, I looked everywhere. But he just disappeared."
Pushing his hands through his hair, he leaned back against the wall again. "When I went out to try again, he was outside the door. Someone beat him up and stole his shirt, his shoes. I thought..." Clearing his throat, he stared at the white wall before him and started again. "I thought he was dead."
He could hear Maureen, turning to Joanne with a sob, but continued. They'd asked, they wanted to know. "He was out of it, unconscious, until the ambulance finally came. But when they tried to start some kind of IV, he just freaked out as soon as the needle touched him. I don't know, I didn't know he was scared of needles."
Shaking his head, he sighed. "I tried to get to him, and finally they were too busy to stop me. By the time I got next to his head, they'd tied him down and given him some kind of muscle relaxant." Eyes blazing, he turned to the others and growled softly, "They killed him. They knew that his heart wasn't working properly, they knew his body couldn't take it, but he just shot him full of that shit and sat back, congradulating themselves that he wouldn't be making a problem again."
Roger pushed himself out of his chair, pacing around the small room. Too angry to sit still in one place any longer. "And he died. Right in front of me. Opened his eyes and looked up at me and... And was just gone..."
Joanne looked up from comforting her distraught girlfriend at the sound of Roger's voice breaking. He'd stopped pacing, and stood, facing away from them, shoulders tight. "He's going to be all right, Roger."
"How do you know?" The question was whispered, childlike. Not quite trusting.
"Because I know him." She replied calmly, ignoring the tears on her own cheeks. A motion at the door caught her eyes, and she stared at the doctor looking in at them.
"Roger Davis?"
"Right here. Is he okay? Is he *alive*? Can we go see him?" Roger turned and advanced on the doctor, who stood in silence until the small outburst was over.
"He's alive." Holding up a hand as Roger started forward, the man warned, "Alive, but not awake yet. I have reservations about letting anyone in to see him just yet, but..." Clearing his throat, he glanced at Joanne, who simply raised a brow. "But I will make an exception, in this case. Just don't expect a reaction." Having said his piece, the doctor turned and started down the hall.
Glancing back once, Roger turned and followed without a word. Echoing in his head, the only words that mattered. 'He's alive.'
A/N: I wasn't planning on there being more, to be honest. But he just wouldn't die. *w*
Roger was slumped in one of the chairs in the semi-secluded waiting room. He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, or if it was even the same day. People came and wait, life flowed around him, but all he could bring himself to do was sit and stare. Watching numbly as the world passed by.
At some point, Maureen and Joanne had shown up. Frowning slightly, he pushed himself forward, glancing around. The jackets tossed on the chair beside him made it clear that they hadn't left yet, and he slumped back against the wall. Against his will, his eyes began to slide shut.
"Has there been any word?"
Maureen's voice brought him back to consciousness, and Roger shook his head slowly. Keeping his eyes closed against his irritation. 'It figures that anyone else would realize that if I'd heard anything, I wouldn't be sleeping. What kind of asshole does she think I am, anyway?'
Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and forced them open. As soon as he looked up at the woman, he felt a small stab of guilt. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Hands laced tightly together, knuckles white. He realized that she likely hadn't thought before she'd spoken, and relented. "No, I haven't heard anything."
Slumping into the chair at his side, Maureen stared down at her feet for a long moment before asking in an almost whisper, "What did he do?"
Startled, Roger turned to study her. Her lower lip trembled, and she didn't look up until the silence had gone on for several minutes. "What do you mean?"
"He's been acting strange for weeks. Then he wouldn't return our calls, wouldn't talk to any of us, he just... Shut off." Turning damp eyes to meet his, she asked in a small voice, "Did he... I mean, did he try..." Unable to finish the sentence, she trailed off, clutching Joanne's hand convulsively.
"He didn't try to kill himself." Even to himself, his voice seemed cold. "Not that I know of."
Roger debated with himself. He wasn't sure that this was his story to tell. Glancing at the frozen clock on the wall, though, he reminded himself that he may be the only one who ever could tell it. 'No, that's not true. He'll be all right, everything's fine. Mark's a survivor, remember? He's the one of us to survive.'
"Roger?"
Joanne's calm voice brought him back to himself, and he shivered. "I found him. Outside the door. He went running off yesterday morning, and I couldn't find him." When he finally looked at them, his face looked young and hurt, nothing like the Roger they knew. "I did look, I looked everywhere. But he just disappeared."
Pushing his hands through his hair, he leaned back against the wall again. "When I went out to try again, he was outside the door. Someone beat him up and stole his shirt, his shoes. I thought..." Clearing his throat, he stared at the white wall before him and started again. "I thought he was dead."
He could hear Maureen, turning to Joanne with a sob, but continued. They'd asked, they wanted to know. "He was out of it, unconscious, until the ambulance finally came. But when they tried to start some kind of IV, he just freaked out as soon as the needle touched him. I don't know, I didn't know he was scared of needles."
Shaking his head, he sighed. "I tried to get to him, and finally they were too busy to stop me. By the time I got next to his head, they'd tied him down and given him some kind of muscle relaxant." Eyes blazing, he turned to the others and growled softly, "They killed him. They knew that his heart wasn't working properly, they knew his body couldn't take it, but he just shot him full of that shit and sat back, congradulating themselves that he wouldn't be making a problem again."
Roger pushed himself out of his chair, pacing around the small room. Too angry to sit still in one place any longer. "And he died. Right in front of me. Opened his eyes and looked up at me and... And was just gone..."
Joanne looked up from comforting her distraught girlfriend at the sound of Roger's voice breaking. He'd stopped pacing, and stood, facing away from them, shoulders tight. "He's going to be all right, Roger."
"How do you know?" The question was whispered, childlike. Not quite trusting.
"Because I know him." She replied calmly, ignoring the tears on her own cheeks. A motion at the door caught her eyes, and she stared at the doctor looking in at them.
"Roger Davis?"
"Right here. Is he okay? Is he *alive*? Can we go see him?" Roger turned and advanced on the doctor, who stood in silence until the small outburst was over.
"He's alive." Holding up a hand as Roger started forward, the man warned, "Alive, but not awake yet. I have reservations about letting anyone in to see him just yet, but..." Clearing his throat, he glanced at Joanne, who simply raised a brow. "But I will make an exception, in this case. Just don't expect a reaction." Having said his piece, the doctor turned and started down the hall.
Glancing back once, Roger turned and followed without a word. Echoing in his head, the only words that mattered. 'He's alive.'