A/N: Song: I Miss You, by Avril Lavigne

The day you slipped away

Was the day I found it won't be the same.

How are you supposed to react when you realize that the best news of you life is also the worst news of your life? Are you meant to grin and bear it, and just hope everything will work itself out in the end? Or are you allowed to lose it, and burst into tears and scream and cry because you have absolutely no frigging idea of what to do.

As Baird drove through the torrential downpour on his way home, he didn't know what to think; he didn't have a clue. What Dom had said in the hospital lobby was stuck in his aching head like a bad song; grating on his nerves but impossible to forget all the same.

That's great.

Optimistically speaking, his son—his little baby boy—might just have a chance at coming home soon. At growing up and living a life. It was great. More then that, it was beautiful, and amazing and—

Baird caught himself, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white, before his thoughts roamed over the word perfect. Because no. None of this was perfect. What it was was horrible and nightmare-ish and unthinkable.

It was terrifying.

How was he possibly going to do this on his own? How the fuck was he going to raise a child when nowadays, he could barely keep track of himself. It was enough to make anyone's head spin.

Sam and he hadn't been planning for a baby. Samantha had always loved the idea of kids, and Baird found it frightening beyond belief, but neither of them gave it much thought because—or so they thought—pregnancy was out of the question to begin with.

The signs were there that she had wanted one; she was a women, to begin with, and nine times out of ten, maternal instincts just seem to take over after one settles down. Vividly, Baird remembered the somber glances she would always try to hide whenever they passed a couple with a newborn, or randomly bring up the prospect of adoption even, when they would lay in bed together at night.

Baird would hold her when she cried over the fact that she would never be a mother, and he would laugh with her whenever she joked about it. But as much as it hurt him to see his Samantha upset, Damon Baird never really did mind the realization that he probably would never have a child.

Not that he didn't like children, per se. No, his reasons had to due with a long list of other things, which consisted mostly of parental issues that he himself had had to endure as a child; A violent father. An alcoholic mother. Things that he had never really gotten over or resolved, and found lurking in the back of his head whenever the prospect of children of his own was brought up. Would he become abusive, like his father, or not give a shit, like his mom? Vaguely, he was aware of the answers to these questions—a man decided who he would become, after all—but even so, he could never find it in himself to want to be a dad.

But…that didn't matter for a whole lot right now, did it?

Baird nearly missed the turnoff for his home for how lost in thought he was, and he cursed under his breath fifteen minutes later when it came into rain-soaked view a few seconds too late. He cut the wheel violently, and just barely managed to make it onto the appropriate stretch of road. As the car lurched, the small bottle of pills clattered to the floor, but Baird didn't think twice about retrieving them. What was their point, anyway?

They had only been administered by some crazy head doctor just because the blonde had made a mistake at work. A violent, drastic, uncharacteristic mistake that Baird didn't care very much to recall.

He let one of his hands drop from the steering wheel, and sat back into his seat after the car had found its way onto a remote dirt road. It was surrounded on either side by old pine trees and thick shrubs and plant growth which almost succeeded in blocking out the rain. Almost.

Up the road, Baird knew his house would be coming into view any second, but found no comfort in the fact; for the past two weeks, the small cabin where he now lived by himself was acting more like hell, rather then home.

"Goddamnit," Baird spat through clenched teeth as he stumbled through the door, his booted feet tangling up into themselves as rain began soaking the mat on the floor. Using the small table situated next to him for leverage, the mechanic slipped his muddied boots off, and then shut the thick oak-wood door behind him. As the spatter of rain died behind it, he had to remind himself not to call out to Sam.

As per the usual, everything was quiet, and dark, and Baird had to stumble over to the large blue couch in front of him before he managed to flick a lamp on, which was enough to light most of the visible rooms.

He gave a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen, to the left, and then the messy bookshelf to the right. Everything was in place, untouched, but he wished it hadn't been; some sort of sign of life, even that of a stranger's, would've been more natural and comforting then the abnormal stillness that seemed to grip his house like death. It was like an abstract painting or picture; visually pleasing, but obviously not somewhere an actual human was meant to live.

Baird wasn't sure what time it was, but it was dark outside (whether from the storm or the actual time of day, he didn't know) and his bruised body felt more then ready for sleep. Sleep most likely wouldn't come, he already knew from experience, but lying down seemed as good a thing to do as any. He gave one quick glance at the closed bedroom door, down the hall, and then settled down on the couch.

He waited, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, and counting them. He shifted on his back, trying and failing to find a comfortable position that wouldn't aggravate his sore muscles. He emptied the contents of his cargo pants pockets onto the coffee table situated between him and the cold fireplace, listening to the keys jingling as they made contact.

He thought about losing her, over and over again; he thought about the hurt of the past, and the terrifying uncertainty of the future.

After a few hours passed like this, Baird finally convinced himself to take the sleeping pills he had hidden away in the bathroom closet a week and a half ago. Padding silently through the hall, he resignedly popped two in his mouth, and washed them down with a swig of water from the bathroom sink.

The dizziness that followed only a few minutes afterward was both unexpected and welcome. Baird felt his breathing calm as he curled back up on the couch, and watched numbly as the corners of his vision succumbed to a hazy black fog. He closed his eyes, and then lost consciousness.

He woke up two hours later, his shivering body coated in a thin sheen of sweat and a scream dying in his throat.

Jolting into an upright position, clutching the armrest of the couch with a vise-like grip, Baird could feel his heart racing, pounding in his chest as if he had run all of ten miles in a single go. The images from his nightmare were only then just starting to fade, and he found himself staring into his lap, or closing his eyes entirely, willing the awful memories to dissipate at least a little.

Thunder rumbled outside, and trees swayed in the powerful wind. Icy rain pelted the windows as if each droplet of water were attempting to break into the house.

It didn't seem like the storm would ever end.

After he caught his breath and steadied his hands, Baird hoisted himself off the couch, and found himself wandering the four walls of his house. (He'd already convinced himself of the fact that going back to sleep wouldn't be in his best interest.)

He opened the refrigerator idly, vaguely aware of the fact that he had no appetite, despite being unable to remember when he had eaten last. The light from inside lit up the kitchen, with its dandelion walls and wooden countertops. Pale blue plates sat motionless in the cabinet above the stove, and a pitcher of fake lilies had been arranged on the small breakfast table in the corner.

Baird let the fridge door swing shut on its hinges and listened as it locked itself with a damp sounding swish.

The hallway had a long gray carpet following it length-wise, and its wood walls were adorned with pictures; some of them were images of picturesque scenery that Sam had drawn and Baird had framed, while a few others were actual photos. The blonde glanced at them, but never long enough to distinguish which from which.

He stopped suddenly when he reached the last door at the end of the hall; it was open a crack, and Baird hesitated, but then pushed it the rest of the way open. Inside was a half-finished nursery.

His footsteps were soundless as he wandered inside, but still Baird crossed his arms over his chest uncomfortably, as if he felt he might be intruding. He stopped in the middle of the small room, and then did a slow three-sixty turn, examining the smallest details of its furnishings; a light-wood crib in the corner, and a mobile with birds hanging above it. The top half of the walls were painted a sunny yellow, while the bottom, separated by thick molding, was a clean white. There was a changing table adjacent the window, and a small chest of drawers, and a toy box that was empty.

Baird approached the crib, and then hesitantly placed a hand on the top bar.

A question was spinning through his tired mind, and even though he was desperately trying to shove it away, it persisted, begging to be asked out loud.

It made the man sick with guilt and betrayal, and he found his eyes welling with tears as he lowered himself to the floor and buried his face in his hands. There was an obvious answer to that awful, awful question, and that night, he cried miserably over it.

Would he trade his son, if it meant having Samantha back?

Yes.