A/N: This may require some explanation. This has been floating around in my head for a while now, since I saw Jon's notes for "Right Brain" in my pretty big black RENT book. The lines "Hospital/She was too young/Bathroom/Locked door" brought an image to my mind that wouldn't go away. More of my weird incorporating NYTW with regular RENT.
Disclaimer: Roger is most certainly not mine. Neither are Mark or April... Even April's last name isn't mine... I stole it from my friend's April. Oh well...
Roger felt sick. Not that that was at all unusual; it happened, when he hadn't had a hit for too long, but this was different. His stomach churned with pure fear.
"Let me see her!" he all but screamed at the white-coated doctor who stood in front of him, blocking his way into the room where they'd taken her. He was tempted to shove the man aside any minute now if he didn't step out of the way. At his side, Mark lightly touched his arm, a silent plea for calm.
Calm? He couldn't be calm now? How could Mark not be this agitated too? Oh, he was pale-faced and looking slightly nauseous, his blue eyes wide and fearful beneath the veneer of forced composure, but it certainly didn't approach the violent, dangerous energy that had seized Roger. Damn it, Mark had been there in the loft when it happened, seen him have to batter open the door, seen him run to April... How could he ask him to act anything even approaching calm?
"Mr. Davis," the doctor began, "we can't let you in. Mrs. Wells has lost a lot of blood and–"
"I know that!" God, he knew it. He still had her blood on his hands, his arms, shirt, pants, face... Thick where it had dried on his palms, where he had clasped his hands around her wrists to try to stop the bleeding as he screamed at Mark to call an ambulance, and then turned back to her to whisper to hold on, please hold on, he couldn't lose her... Roger shuddered at the memory of the look in her eyes when she'd murmured something that sounded like an apology before fading out of consciousness.
"I have to see her," he choked out, and shouldered past the doctor into the hospital room. The doctor began to stop him, pull him back, but stopped when one of the scrub-clad doctors around the bed gave him a look that plainly said not to bother. That look chilled Roger somehow.
He forced his way to the bedside, and there was April, surrounded by doctors, her skin frighteningly pale, eyes closed. The raw, red gashes on each forearm looked as if they had been quickly sutured, but were still painfully visible, and a steady drip of blood ran into her arm through an IV. Enough to replace the blood she had lost? Roger reached out a hand to her, and his fingers lightly brushed the back of her hand. He was almost afraid to make any more contact in case he somehow hurt something. His fingers left bloody smears on the white skin of her hand.
Roger sensed, more than saw or heard, someone almost directly behind him, and growled hoarsely, "Get out of here, Mark. Just– just go." Mark left silently, and Roger didn't look up to see him go.
Gingerly, he took April's hand, ignoring the tacky blood half-dried on his own hand, and leaned towards her, whispering in a choked voice, "Open your eyes, baby, look at me, please, just..." His voice failed him, and he had to take a moment to swallow back the lump that kept him from speaking. "You can't leave me. You can't do this. Say something..."
He stood there holding her hand until it felt cold in his, a machine beeped a warning, and the doctors made him leave. He stumbled out into the hallway and slumped against the nearest wall, staring into nothing. She could come back. In a week, a month, she would come out of this hospital just fine. She had to.