Numb.

Clara imagined if she had to surmise what she was feeling in that moment – if she had to pick one perfect word for the state she was in – that would be it. Numb. Though perhaps it wasn't that, exactly. She hated that she couldn't pinpoint it. There were too many emotions and too many thoughts and too many questions rattling through her body and mind to classify it as such, except that they rolled together through her, like a never-ending wave of static noise, leaving her feeling exactly that.

Numb.

Take a long breath, she could hear Amy instructing.

She smiled weakly, eyes focusing out on the twinkling lights in the city before her, blanketed in darkness. Somehow she imagined she'd get used to that view. For the longest time she could see it when she closed her eyes and sometimes she had nightmares of it caving in on her, crashing in through the hospital window to envelope her and suffocate her. But now it seemed as new as it had been just over a year ago, when she'd first seen it out of a hallway window a few steps from her daughter's room.

Her ears began to register the muted sounds of traffic – the honks of horns and the rush of speeding cars in an orchestra of breaths down the freeway, the distant winds picking up to signal winter's proper arrival with an early sprinkle of flurries that danced across the sky in front of her before melting on the pavement below. She wished it could make her feel anything more than the stillness she was stuck in. Clara heard her friend's words once more in her mind, clear as when she'd said them that morning, and she let her lips part to take in air until it burned.

Behind her a monitor beeped softly, letting her know his heart was still thudding away, and she heard his sniff just before that beeping quickened slightly – the sure sign that he'd finally woken – but she didn't turn. Clara kept her eyes trained on a plane, slowly making its way somewhere far off, wishing she could afford the luxury of that escape. What would she even say when she turned to look at him?

Part of her wanted to be angry. To lash out and cut him down and slap him roughly before storming out of the building without a second thought, because she justified he deserved that for lying to her. But part of her knew that wasn't why she'd been at his side for the better part of the last two hours instead of one floor up, sitting beside her daughter. Part of her reminded her of every second of the worry that had consumed her as she'd gone back home from the Institute and dressed for work with several calls to the hospital to try and assess his condition.

She wasn't family, they explained, they couldn't divulge the information.

"He doesn't have family," she'd pleaded.

He had a single contact, one who'd been informed and was already at his side, and she tried to console herself with that fact as she got herself through the first half of the day, through a lunch spent with Amy in a teacher's lavatory explaining what had happened as her friend emptied the contents of her stomach, and then through the second half of the day during which her students had finally begun to notice something amiss and sat silently as she looked out a window.

Until Trevor lifted his hand slowly to ask, "Miss, is Maddie alright?"

Their eyes had been trained on her, some reddened and watered at the prospect that something had gone wrong, because everyone knew about her and her daughter. Clara had managed a smile and a shake of her head before offering, "A friend of mine is very sick; I'm worried about him is all."

Which was the truth.

Her worry overrode her anger, for a time.

And the boys agreed to behave while the girls suggested reading aloud. The last few hours were spent in that muted alliance as she sat in her chair and laughed at their silly voices and funny faces and dramatic gestures as they rounded the room, each taking a turn to read a few paragraphs from their English books. The muscles in her shoulders had eased their grip on her spine and she'd sunk into her seat, palms on her cheeks as she'd watched them file out at the end of the day.

For just a little while, everything seemed normal again. Before she left the school to make her way to the hospital, managing to get his room number where she found herself facing a handsome man with bloodshot eyes who stood at the entranceway, blocking her view, and giving her a sad smile. Giving her a knowing smile that twisted ever fiber in her body understanding he knew her and he knew her story because John had told him. Because this was Jack, his friend. Clara wanted to ask him why he hadn't stopped John from playing the game he had, but she could see the relief washing over him as he looked to her.

"I wondered if you'd show up," he'd offered lightly.

Clara had merely nodded, watching the tired smile that spread upon his lips. His eyes closed for just a moment and all she could think was, he must be exhausted. An overnight shift and waking to find his friend had been wheeled away… she knew Jack had spent the day beside his friend. And now he'd inevitably have to head off to work again, to try and stave off his own dreams in order to help others with theirs.

"Is he alright?" She'd questioned quietly, arms crossing over her chest.

Huffing a laugh, he'd responded, "He's a strong old man, but – looks aside – there's a reason we retire young in this profession." Then he'd tilted his head to ask, "What did you do?"

Hand coming up to press into her chest, Clara had gasped, "What did I do?"

And Jack's composure cracked, his head shaking as he'd whispered, "I'm sorry, that didn't come out how I meant it," before he'd taken a long breath to rephrase his question so lowly she almost hadn't heard him, "What were you doing, in the dream?"

She'd shrugged, involuntarily smiling as she told him, "We were in a park, my daughter and I, and he joined us – that's all." She'd looked up at him and croaked, "We were going to spend the day in the park, just the three of us." Then she'd questioned, "What happened?"

Listening to the bed creak behind her with John's slight movements, Clara closed her eyes to the view outside of that window, just waiting to hear what his first words would be. Maybe that's why she'd stayed after Jack had explained. Maybe that's why she couldn't categorize what she was feeling, because she needed to know what John would say to gauge how she should react to it all. She had every right to be angry – Amy had said as much as she'd dried her lips while Clara had leaned into the sink beside her.

"Son of a bitch," she'd grunted. "And you knew and I told you you were wrong. I am so sorry I did that, Clara, he tricked you..."

"No," Clara had replied, "I tricked myself."

"Don't you do that, Clara; don't let him win."

She'd managed a small laugh, "He didn't win, Amy, he's in the hospital right now. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he's probably an elevator ride away from Maddie and whatever he's thinking right now – he knows that I know. Nothing about this is a win."

"Then why blame yourself."

"Because," she'd sighed, holding tightly to the door handle, "This is a loss, one I invited in, and it hurts. And worse, it's going to hurt Maddie."

Clara took a long breath just before she turned. She squeezed her eyes shut and then leaned into the ledge along the window to keep herself steady as she looked to him, lying in the hospital bed, staring back at her. His mouth was set in a thin line of self-doubt; his eyes were wet with the beginning of tears she knew he would try his best to deny himself. And he took a small breath, letting it go slowly and offering her the smallest of nods – his request that she berate him, that she tear into him, that she shout and hit and leave.

Instead, she simply asked, "Why?"

John swallowed roughly, and he opened his mouth to speak, a simple, "I was afraid," not quite making it past his dry throat as he began to cough.

Clara didn't move. She watched him search out a cup of water and ignored the twitch in her fingers to rush and help him. She watched him swallow with effort, but she refused to budge until she got the answers she needed. Arms crossing over her chest, she listened to him cough a few more times, and then she repeated blankly with a small nod of her head, "You were afraid."

She could see in his eyes, John was terrified, and she knew it wasn't of her, but of his answer. It was an answer he already knew, probably had known all along, she considered, and the thought tinted her skin red as she watched him speak hoarsely, "I was afraid I was right."

"Right," she spat, brow dropping with her chin as she continued to level a scowl at him.

He smiled then, a tight smile that sat atop clenched teeth. John told her, "You should go."

Pushing off the edge of the window, Clara shook her head as she moved to stand just a foot away, barking roughly, "No, John, I won't go."

"Clara," he began, one hand lifting.

"No," she repeated, chest thudding. "No, I won't go until you tell me why. Why create this illusion? Why do this to yourself? Jack told me people move to desk jobs, or they retire young, go onto other fields, they get normal jobs that don't put strains on their heart like this." She shook her head and gripped her hands together tightly, "Why put either of us through this? I didn't need some handsome young face to make me feel safe; I would have been fine with you checking on us. Just as you are, John! I would have been thrilled. I would have trusted you just as much as..." She took a painful breath, looking away a moment to compose herself before shooting, "Why put my daughter through this? John, you owe me the answer to that because I'll have to explain it to her. She was afraid for you. We disconnected with her still in fear – over you – and I know that fear will still be there the next time I see her. The last thing she asked was what she'd done wrong; she thought she'd upset you, John. And I have to be the one to tell her that no, no, you just couldn't take your own lies anymore..." her throat constricted on her and she swallowed roughly, her fingers twisted so tightly together she slipped them away from each other to avoid the pinch of skin and the pull of bone.

John bowed his head and she watched the tears drop.

"Just please," she whimpered, "Give me more than you were afraid because that's not enough. That's not ever going to be enough of an explanation for what you did."

For a moment she held her breath, watching him nod his head slowly, thinking of what he could tell her, and she listened to the beeping of his heart in that moment, how much it had sped up. In spite of her anger, she felt guilty. He should be resting; he should be calm – instead he was pulsing at a rate of a hundred and twelve beats per minute and she imagined a nurse would be in soon to check on him. Clara could see his hands gripping into the pale bed sheets on either side of him and then he looked to the ceiling and sighed.

"There's no reason good enough," he began, "No apology worth your time..."

"I want something," she demanded. "I am owed something."

He laughed. It was a pained chuckle that made him cough before his head tilted towards her. "I've never been a particularly handsome man, Clara, and when I started this job, so many years ago, I was afraid that this face would be rejected. So much had gone wrong; I wanted something to be right, which is no excuse, it's merely the grounds for this trickery." With a point of a slender finger in her direction he offered, "You don't realize how vain people can be about what others look like. We all judge based on a cursory examination upon meeting; age and skin tone, the color of our eyes or the level of curl to our hair and that's just the start. We make presumptions every day on appearances and it takes so long to break through the walls those presumptions build."

John stopped and looked back to his feet, his hands lazily falling back against his stomach.

"Clara, I never expected that it could hurt anyone, creating a persona that could be loved enough..."

"I loved you," she interrupted strongly. "I didn't think it was right to say, knowing each other for so little time, but I did – I loved both of you, not for what you looked like or what you wore or any of that nonsense... if you'd known me better you would have learned I care little for appearances and only for what you carry in your heart." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat, "I told you that, as him."

His eyes turned to her again as he reminded, "When I offered to show you who I was."

"I didn't think you were him," she hissed. "I thought you were going to tell me a truth about vanity you thought important that I didn't; I didn't think you were about to reveal your lie. You should have told me."

Nodding, he allowed firmly, "I should have."

"I don't understand why you didn't."

He smiled weakly up at her, "You told me not to."

Lifting a palm and letting it drop heavily against her thigh, Clara began, "John..."

"Would you have forgiven me then?" He prompted with a nod. "If I'd told you then – if I'd shown you then who I was – would you have forgiven me? Or would you have walked away?"

Clara took a breath and she considered it before shaking her head and telling him honestly, "I'm not sure what I would have done then," then she grunted, "But I certainly wouldn't have slept with you."

She expected him to smile, just a little, but instead his eyes closed and his mouth opened to release a small breath of sadness that hit her unexpectedly like a weight in the center of her chest. John shook his head and lowered his chin, and when he spoke, it was with an air of defeat as he said, "You'll never understand how truly sorry I am, Clara; there aren't words enough in any language to explain it." He looked to her and nodded sadly, his lips parting to simply tell her, "Go."

Shaking her head, she breathed, "You keep telling me to go, but I'm not finished here. I'll go when I'm good and ready..."

And he barked, "What more do you want from me?" Looking away, John took a ragged breath and argued, "I'm a terrible man; I was terrible when you met me and moreso now. I don't expect forgiveness for what's happened, Clara, because I know I've wronged both you and your daughter and I understand your confusion. Your anger. I would understand the wrath should you unleash it, but there's nothing more I could give you." He turned back to her, "I wanted to help you; I wanted to help Maddie. And I chose the worst way to go about doing that." He nodded shortly, "You want to lodge a complaint? My career is as good as dead now anyways. You want to file charges with authorities? I'll rot in a jail cell as penance if it could atone just a tiny bit for your pain. But there is nothing I could say..."

"Would you do it different," Clara asked softly. "Knowing what you know now?"

"Of course," he shot. "Had I known it wouldn't have made a difference which face you saw – had I known this face could be enough – of course I would have gone about this differently."

Something on the monitor began beeping loudly and John closed his eyes, raising a hand as she moved closer to him out of genuine concern. His heart rate had climbed to a hundred and thirty-nine beats per minute and Clara glanced up just as Rory entered, their eyes meeting momentarily before they both looked to John, Rory nodding once with understanding – because she knew Amy had told him.

John grimaced and he breathed quietly, "Just go."

She hesitated, and in that quick split second, he looked to her with a sad shake of his head and she turned away, snatching up her purse and moving towards Rory, who caught her by the arm. She looked to the floor as she told him quietly, "Please, take care of him," before she tugged herself free and rushed from the room.