And the tears come streaming down you face

When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone and it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Marcus Fenix was a master at concealing his emotions. In rage, or bitter sadness, or even joy, the man barely ever broke his stone-cold expression of indifference. So it was a widely understood fact that, if the former sergeant of Delta Squad ever did give up his apathetic scowl in replacement for any other emotion at all, something must be terribly wrong.

In his apartment, at his kitchen table, Marcus was frowning. Something was terribly wrong, and that something was laying—had been laying for the past eighteen hours—comatose, on the couch in the living room.

"What am I going to do with him?" was the one and only thought that had been zipping through his head, ever since he and Dominic Santiago had found Baird in that bar, as close to dead as they've ever seen him, all those eighteen hours ago. There was actual trepidation in the sergeants icy eyes as he thought about it; just what would have happened to the blonde, had not the owner of the joint called up authorities, complaining about a ruckus that was getting too extreme, even for his side of town?

What would've happened if Marcus and Dom had just shrugged off the call as another typical bar scene? It wasn't like they hadn't come close enough as it was; he couldn't get the image of that small bathroom out of his head, with all the blood slicked across the floor and the fact that Baird wasn't even trying to put up a fight.

Well, would you be able to fight back, after a beating like that? That was rationality speaking, and more then anything, Marcus wanted to agree with it. But he knew it wasn't true. Up until two weeks ago, Damon Baird was the type of guy who'd go down fighting, as apposed to simply rolling over and giving up. But that's exactly what he'd done last night; both Marcus and Dom had seen the resignation in their barely conscious friend; it made the blue-eyed soldier sick with fear. And it hadn't been the first time they had found him in such a compromising situation.

Taking one last swig of his coffee, Marcus placed the empty mug in the sink before stepping quietly into the living room. It was a quarter-after one in the afternoon, and he had been checking on Baird every fifteen minutes since they had brought him home; suffice to say, he had gotten very little sleep.

When he caught sight of the other man on the couch, he slumped a little, like he had every other time he checked on him; it was all Dom and he could do to stop the bleeding last night, so they hadn't really bothered with administering ice to the larger of the bruises that covered Baird's face and bare upper-body. Looking at the blue and purple splotches now—dispersed indiscriminately and roughly the size of a fist—Marcus wished they had.

The blanket they had covered the blonde with had once again slipped down to the floor, (Baird had been restless all night; slurred, one-way conversations accompanied by jerky movements making evident the fact that he was suffering from nightmares,) so Marcus draped it over him again, and then gently pressed two fingers against his wrist. The pulse was still fainter then the older man would've liked, but it was normal, much more even then it had been last night.

Marcus sighed audibly, walking with loose shoulders over to the armchair in the corner of the room. He figured it would still be a few hours until Baird came around, and in that time, he closed his weary eyes.

"What am I going to do with him?"

It was, in fact, three and a half more hours before a weak cough roused the sergeant, and, once the sound registered, he opened his eyes as easily as if he hadn't just been sleeping.

"Baird," he grunted, pushing himself out of the old chair while trying to ignore the stiffness that came with sleeping upright. He walked over to the couch, and stiffened up a little when he realized that the younger man was in fact still asleep; he was whimpering though, and his eyes were roaming wildly behind closed lids. The blanket had fallen again, shoved off of Baird as he seized in his sleep.

Marcus squatted down next to him, keeping balanced with one hand gripped on the arm-rest. "Baird," he said again, and his voice was softer for the second attempt. He wasn't trying to wake him, but only hoped that in some way, he could ward off whatever it was that was causing the blonde so much discomfort.

He was met with no reply at first, but after a few more seconds of indiscernible mumbling, violent twitching, Marcus finally caught a word that he understood.

"No…" It was a broken, soft whimper to begin with, but when repeated, "N-no, don't…" Baird's voice grew louder, and choked with built-up sobs.

"Baird," Marcus, in turn, elevated his voice, but refrained from touching the blonde; he knew well enough not to interfere physically with a rem cycle, especially when dealing with a trained soldier; the after-effect usually ended up with someone getting hurt.

"No…s-stop…" Harsh, erratic breathing; he was crying in his sleep. Marcus hovered a hand over his shoulder, unsure.

"Baird."

"Stop it!" The blonde unconsciously backed himself further into the couch, hands weakly grabbing fistfuls of the loose fabric cover. Marcus clenched his jaw, and then gently but firmly grabbed Baird's shoulder with one hand, and used the other to keep his from striking out.

"Damon, easy." Gentleness wasn't a tone that was typical of Marcus Fenix, but it somehow suited his gruff voice; like mild ocean waves, it retained a certain force, but was soothing all the same. "Wake up; you're just dreaming."

He shook him, ever so lightly, and at that instant Baird's eyes opened. Even in wakefulness, his breathing was panicked, and he was looking everywhere except at Marcus, who was still knelt in front of him.

"Damon, look at me." He moved his hand from Baird's shoulder to the side of his head. At his gentle touch, Baird's bloodshot eyes found the sergeant's face, and immediately, some—but not all—of the fear left their blue green depths. It was replaced by pained knowing.

"Marcus." It wasn't a hazy question, but a dry, sick sounding acknowledgment of the other gear.

The dark haired man nodded at him, and stood back up, giving him one last pat on the arm. It's ok, it seemed to say.

Baird's attempt at sitting up wasn't so easily achieved, and when Marcus saw his struggling, he helped him into a sitting position, as gingerly as he could. A groan, broken through an obvious attempt at concealment, passed the blondes lips all the same.

With his bare feet on the floor, Baird breathed deeply, trying to find the best way to support his back. It was an impossible task, because every single part of his body was set with excruciating pain. He felt dizzy, and hot and cold at once. His head was pounding. He was pretty sure that in the next half hour or so, he was going to be puking his guts up.

Tears were still running down his bruised face, and when he lethargically realized so, he brought a hand up to wipe them away. The contact was agony, but he swiped at them anyway.

"You were dreaming," Marcus was the first to break the silence, and when he did, his sentence sounded more like an observation then fact. Those annoying mannerisms of his that never seemed to change.

Baird nodded back, sniffling. The images from the nightmare were still fresh in his mind, and they hurt more then the bruises that covered his body. Fresh tears filled his eyes at the recollection, and he tried to blink them away.

Marcus left the living room wordlessly, and was back two minutes later with a full glass of water. Baird had moved over to one side of the couch, so Marcus sat down next to him. He offered the water.

Baird was thirsty, but his throat was still so constricted and sore that he shook his head. "Marcus, I—"

"You're dehydrated, Baird." Technically, Marcus didn't tell him to do anything, but his even, low tone suggested otherwise. Baird took the glass, and sipped it.

A rattling sound next to him caused the blonde to turn, but he quickly regretted the action; Marcus had a small orange bottle in his hands, and he was looking at the contents disapprovingly.

"Where'd you get those?" Baird still didn't recognize his own voice for how harsh it was, but he was trying for something like indigence. The glass of water felt unsteady between his two sweat-licked hands.

"They were on you." Marcus looked up. Water, his eyes spoke for him, and Baird instinctively took another sip.

"You're not taking them," he added, tapping the pill bottle once before setting it down on the coffee table in front of both of them. It stared back at Baird, and he frowned. He cleared his throat. He changed the topic.

"Where's Dom?" He bent forward painfully, placing the water next to the pills. It's clear surface rippled.

Marcus squinted slightly, a look that read: What you're trying to do? It's not going to work. But I'll play along. "The office," he grunted after a pause, also leaning backward. He made the word office sound like it tasted bad, in that subtle way of his. "One of us had to explain why we never came back to work last night."

Awkward silence. Both men could literally hear the old clock ticking on the wall, and it was times like these that they missed the rattle of gunfire, or the deep, throaty rev of a chainsaw bayonet. Death and destruction was second nature. Respite was foreign.

"You, um…" Baird cleared his throat again. "You could've just taken me home." Stupid reply, really, but what else could he say? He gave Marcus an awkward look out of the corner of his eye. "I would've been ok."

"Sure Baird. Because you looked so ok when Dom and I found you, right?" A slight twinge of frustration creased the former sergeant's scarred face, synced with his low, husky voice. He looked over at Baird, gauged his reaction, and soon realized he had said the wrong thing. He took in a breath. Let it out.

"You might've had a concussion," he explained in a lower tone. More even and natural. "We didn't want to take that chance.

Baird swallowed thickly. Nodded. There were so many unasked questions that, in a way, they were already answerable. Marcus avoided the harder ones.

"You want to try to get up?" He gestured with a slight tilt of the head over to the bathroom. "Go get cleaned up?"

The last thing Baird wanted to do was try and stand; he knew from experience that, on days like these, standing led to puking, and everything else just went downhill from there. But he nodded anyway. He knew that the time was somewhere in the afternoon, and he had to get to the hospital before visiting hours closed. He just had to.