The room smelled of expo markers and an overabundance of Clorox wipes, as if the ridiculously intrusive scent was meant to distract from the fact that one was in a room that housed living corpses. Marshall's own sweat did its part in countering the original aroma, but it wasn't a pleasant smell either.
Fiona was already there, of course, sitting alongside the hospital bed that took up the majority of the room on its own. (Not to say the bed was very large, but that the hospital room's walls wound so tightly around it that it was a miracle anyone could breathe.) Seeing Lee, she looked up, brushing some of her thick blonde hair out of her face. Marshall searched her eyes for any trace of hope that all would be alright, but found nothing but grief. Which is definitely the sort of reaction you want to see while your alcoholic mother is hooked up to cords and machines in some disgusting hospital, just hanging on to life.
"What happened to you?" Fi asked, both angry and disappointed that it had taken her friend this long to visit his ailing mother and he had not even managed so much as a comb through his hair.
The question sunk its accusingly venomous teeth into Marshall's flesh, and the previous night flashed before his eyes, a blur of emotion and flesh on flesh.
Guilt.
His gut twisted and tumbled upon itself.
Go ahead, dipshit. Tell her you couldn't bother answering her calls because you were busy hooking up with assholes.
"You really think now is the time for interrogation?"
She glared in response. "I did all my worrying the night of the incident, so yes, it might as well be. You on the other hand, look like you just ran all the way here. I could have picked you up, you know."
Fiona looked like she hadn't slept, probably because she hadn't. And however hungry he was, he knew that she must be ten times as much. Without even asking he felt certain that in these past hours she had done nothing for herself, not even so much as a bathroom break. She wouldn't, couldn't leave his mother alone. Simone deserved someone like that. Someone better than her son.
Someone with dark eyes and tear stained clothes and an empty stomach, all in her name.
If you measure caring through suffering, this meant Marshall's greatest concern in life was getting laid.
Marshall knew there weren't any words he could say, nothing to mend their current state of affairs. When Fiona got scared, she got angry. When she got sad, likewise. He didn't blame her for lashing out like this, given he'd been the one in the wrong in the first place.
Still, he wished he had something to pass the time, something other than watching the body of his mother shrivel up. His iPod would have been a nice touch. And more importantly, it would have given him an excuse not to verbally justify himself.
Because there was no justification. And all he could do to make things right was sit here in silence until his mother was okay again.
If she had ever been okay in the first place.