As the gurney disappeared around the corner, Hudson stood still, staring down the bleak hallway. He hadn't expected Vasquez to look back, to lock eyes with him, seeming so vulnerable as the nurse wheeled her away in the direction of the operating rooms.
Where he stood, people passed by him in a hurried blurr, yet he was acutely aware that he was officially alone. He turned to leave, a bit disoriented as he promptly walked into someone—an ambiguous shape in a medical uniform—he quickly apologized without eye contact.
He walked onward in a fog, struck by a sudden, overwhelming need to leave the hospital.
It was the lighting, the din of background noise, the smell of the place. The combination conjured up memories that he preferred to forget, images and sounds surging back with startling detail.
Against his will, he was being transported back to the very worst moment of his childhood, to a time when he was ten years old and his mother's body was lying motionless on a hospital bed.
He was there with her now.
His father wasn't. He had left the room and Hudson could hear him yelling at a doctor or a nurse, his outrage ringing down the hall.
John, Hudson's older brother, stood in the doorway crying. He called for Hudson, trying to coax him away from their mother's body, yet remaining in one place by the door, as if afraid to come any closer.
But Hudson knew to stay, aware that it was the last opportunity he would ever get to be near her. He pulled the limp shoulders firmly towards him, desperate for the rapid beat of his own heart to somehow revive hers. His father would be coming back soon and would surely drag him away, so for now, he would stay.
Her eyes were still slightly open. Her last breath echoed in his ears. There had been life within her minutes ago. Minutes. And just because there wasn't anymore, just because his father and brother were feeling angry and scared, was he supposed to recoil and dismiss her motionless form? She was still his mother.
He squeezed his eyes closed, tears falling, trying to shut out all of the yelling around him. He hugged the lifeless body, determined to do so until there was no longer warmth left in her skin.
.
Hudson moved about the rooms of the quarantine living quarters, his mind in a haze, his body on autopilot as he gathered the few belongings they had accumulated from living there: a few Weyland-Yutani-branded articles of clothing, medications and toiletries, the deck of cards, and a weathered paperback novel he had found wedged between the couch cushions the previous day as Vasquez napped against him. He placed the items into the bin that also contained the whiskey, cigarettes and dirty posters from the locker room.
And there, on the kitchen counter, was something he hadn't noticed earlier: a small stack of drawings that Newt had done in the same black permanent marker she had used on his cast. Hudson picked up the drawings, dark markings on the white pages, the light shadow of text visible through the repurposed paper of a procedural manual.
'To: Hudson, From: Newt', read the first one, along with a fairly detailed drawing of what was clearly him in his combat gear, complete with helmet and raised pulse rifle and even what looked like a skull and crossbones on the correct side of his armor. Next to him, Newt had drawn herself, and off to the side, a spider-like creature, putting the whole scene into context: Hudson protecting Newt from the facehugger.
Hudson smiled, feeling a pang of sadness, already missing Newt and her sweet, funny ways.
The second picture had been similarly addressed to Vasquez, a couple attempts at the spelling of her name crossed out above the final result and, 'Get well soon,' in her writing. Underneath that was an illustration of Newt and Vasquez sitting side by side, Vasquez's legs showing black and white stripes, which he assumed were bandages.
But when Hudson flipped to the third and final picture, he let out an immediate laugh and murmured, "Aw, Newt."
A drawing of Hudson and Vasquez holding hands. Both of their names written above so that there was no mistaking it. Nothing got past Newt.
Hudson carefully slipped the drawings into the storage bin, against one side where they wouldn't get creased. He wished they were still there with him, but he knew that Hicks and Ripley had been eager to distance themselves from their recent hardships, to protect Newt and return to Earth where things felt different. Hudson understood the feeling. He had wanted to leave Gateway the second he woke from cryo.
He imagined it might be a similar feeling to that of someone stuck at sea, craving the security of solid earth beneath their feet. It would be a while before that became a reality now.
He positioned the three duffel bags over his shoulders, spreading the weight across his back and he picked up the heavy bin. His body ached already, which was not a good sign; Residential Sector C was on the other side of the station. But he wasn't about to make two trips, so he forced himself to suck it up and moved towards the door with grim persistence.
Before he exited, Hudson took a moment to look back at the common room, remembering the quick kiss at the table that had escalated into a fit of passion, fervently making out with Vasquez as she straddled him on one of the dining chairs, then stumbling to her room together, twenty minutes of lust to satisfy long-awaited desires.
That, in contrast to the day and night that followed it: carrying a sick Vaz in his arms and tucking her into bed, holding her that evening when they slept. And in the middle of the night, the sound of her voice using words that were soft and comforting, sex that wasn't just sex, and gestures so sweet he could scarcely believe he was sharing them with her.
It had all felt suspiciously like love.
.
When he finally arrived at room C1038, Hudson nearly fell inside the door, duffels dropping to the polished tile floor. He set the storage bin of items on the table inside the door and collapsed into one of the two chairs that sat beneath it. It had been a mistake to try to manage it all in one trip. His ribs ached and his broken wrist throbbed and he worried that he had pulled some stitches.
With an elbow on the table and his head in his hand, Hudson caught his breath, finally looking around the room at the place they would be staying.
The room was small. Very small. Just like the rooms of the quarantine unit, this one was functional and utilitarian—a place to eat and sleep, a small washroom with a shower, utterly basic furnishings and kitchenware. Beige paneled walls. The budget room lacked windows and instead employed the use of ultraviolet light panels to simulate sunlight with customizable occupant controls. But even with the settings scheduled for 'afternoon sun', the space still felt dreary.
And the bed… his eyes went to the dorm-style sleeping nook, its mattress two-thirds the size of the ones they had on the Sulaco, barely large enough for Vasquez who would be recovering there, let alone the two of them.
The Company had rented the space for Vasquez under the assumption that she would be there on her own, but now that he was tagging along, he would be taking up space in the room alongside her. Or at least he would be for as long as she permitted him to be there, and part of him knew that Vasquez's patience with him would be short-lived if they were living on top of one another in such a small space.
But it was what it was. He recognized that they were lucky to have been provided a room at all. So, he stood up and began getting to work, unpacking their bags and putting clothes away, stowing the few non-clothing items they had within the integrated paneled storage spaces.
Since it wasn't his place to go through Drake's stuff, he left Drake's belongings packed within the duffel bag and tucked it into the small closet so Vasquez could sort through it on a day when she felt up for it.
Hudson recalled the pain of sorting through Dietrich's belongings earlier that day. As heavy as it was seeing and touching those items, it was somehow better than not getting to experience any remaining connection to her at all.
That had been a difficulty he experienced first-hand two years ago when he received the news that his fiancé, Louise, had died. Trapped on the Sulaco, he had been unable to go back to attend her funeral or comfort her family. So far removed from any piece of her, he had longed for a reminder—something more than just a picture on a screen—that he could touch and hold. For that t-shirt she slept in, to press it to his face and absorb the last scent of her skin before it faded away forever.
The thought lingered as he unpacked the storage bin and found a few things that had been in Drake's locker—the personalized USCM cap, a few pictures of the crew from a night out, the chicken-bone necklace. He decided to display them for Vasquez, arranging the items carefully on the shelf beside the bed. Then, when he located a roll of medical tape they had been given for redressing their injuries, Hudson used the tape to display Newt's artwork on the wall. And once he had finished that, it seemed only right to hang the assortment of racy locker posters, until the space around the bed had become a shrine to their friends, albeit an eclectic one.
The final item he pulled from the bin was the note that belonged to Vasquez. It was still folded, the soft paper still damp to the touch from the sterilization chemicals they used in decontamination. He held it in his hand as he considered what secrets it might hold and why it was so important to her. For the briefest of moments, he considered opening the note for the sole purpose of satisfying his curiosity, but ultimately he didn't, and instead he placed it on the bedside table with the other things, hoping that one day she might tell him about it.
With his interior decorating complete, Hudson stood back to assess his work. It felt a bit odd to see Newt's drawings next to Ferro's centerfold of the oiled-up construction worker, but he supposed that it was all art at the end of the day, and even if it brought the slightest smile to Vasquez's face, then it would be worth it.
He thought about Vasquez, wondering how she was doing. He worried about the state she would be in when he brought her back to the room. For some reason, he couldn't quite picture her recovering on the small bed, the same way he couldn't quite picture himself being her main caregiver, walking her to the bathroom, helping her to bathe and change the dressings on her leg, acting as her main source of encouragement when things inevitably got tough. But of course, that was what would need to happen.
Hudson changed his clothes and began mentally preparing himself to head back to the hospital.
.
He knew she wouldn't be out of surgery yet, but he made his way back to the medical wing of the station anyway, trepidation causing his stomach pains to act up again.
At the front desk of the recovery ward, Hudson waited, arms braced around his stomach.
"Uh, hi," he said when a nurse looked up from behind a computer screen. "Just checking if Jenette Vasquez is out of surgery yet?"
The nurse scanned the screen in front of him, his fingers navigating the interface. "Vasquez…no. Looks like they're still in the operating room."
"Do you know how she's doing?"
The young man behind the counter gave a little laugh. "No. They don't send me updates mid-surgery."
Hudson frowned. "Well, you can see her stats on that thing, right?" he asked impatiently, gesturing to the screen. It was something Dietrich had once told him, that every patient admitted to Gateway wore a bracelet that tracked their core temperature and heart rate, making it visible across the system; real-time patient analytics providing valuable alerts to staff if a patient in their vicinity was about to code. Even if Vasquez was still in surgery, her stats would be in the system.
The nurse stared at him for a moment, a begrudging look beginning to form on his face. "Just a second," he said.
Hudson rapped his fingers silently on the counter. If he wasn't able to see Vasquez, or get a description of how she was doing, then he wanted numbers. He wanted to know whether her fever was getting worse. At the very least, he wanted confirmation that her heart was still beating.
But instead of the validation he was hoping for, the nurse looked up at Hudson with a question, "Mark Drake?"
"What?" Hudson asked, staring back at him in surprise.
"Are you Mark Drake?" the young man asked again.
"No... William Hudson…" he replied, his voice trailing off a bit.
The nurse looked back at his screen. "Sorry," he said, "I can't give out information about patient stats to just anybody. It says here that Mark Drake is the emergency contact for Jenette."
"Drake's dead," Hudson replied bluntly.
The man nodded and seemed to be making a note, updating his records. "Second point of contact is a Colette Ferro?"
"She's dead too." Hudson shook his head, the pain of loss resurfacing, burning in his chest.
"Gunnery Sergeant Al Apo-"
"Dude! I'm the only one left, ok?" Hudson retorted, a tremor in his raised voice, his hands shaking in anger now. "And whoever else's name you got on there, you can just assume they're fuckin' dead too! So you can go on and put my name down instead."
The nurse looked uncomfortable with his brashness, but reluctantly began typing nonetheless. "William...?"
"Hudson."
"Okay, and your relationship to the patient?" The man looked up at him questioningly and Hudson stared back, his mind a mess of grief and agitation, cycling through a variety of possible responses to the question as he tried to categorize his relationship with Vasquez, no existing label seeming to fit. Instead of attempting a normal response, Hudson again felt his frustration get the better of him.
"Can't you just fuckin' update me on how she's doing, man?" Hudson snapped. "What else you need for your notes? My IQ? How many times we screwed? I'm the one here to look after her, make sure she's okay, so whatever you wanna call that."
Hudson stood, agitated, his hands still shaking as the young man just stared at him with a look of disbelief.
"So... guard dog," said the nurse defiantly. "I think that's what you call that."
He knew the nurse was testing him, maybe hoping Hudson would make a scene so he could alert security. Hudson's anger was still mounting but he breathed a laugh in defeat, "Yeah sure man, whatever, sounds good."
The nurse continued typing and Hudson tried to keep his cool, vaguely wondering what notes were being entered into the system. But then the young man gave a few taps on the screen and finally looked up.
"Her core temperature is 38.9 degrees Celsius… heart rate is 42 bpm."
Hudson felt his heart drop. "That's still a high fever, right?" he asked hesitantly. "And 42 bpm"—he shook his head—"that's too low." His frustration and anger had all but evaporated and the only thing he felt now was worry.
The nurse in front of him may have taken note of that because there was a hint of sympathy in his expression. "Look, I hate giving out stats because they're misleading," he said. "42 is normal if she's still under anesthesia. And when she gets out of surgery, we can give her something to try to reduce the fever."
Hudson gave a slight nod.
"Just have a seat over there and when she gets out of surgery, I'll let you know."
Hudson mumbled a 'thanks' and moved to one side of the room where he sat down in an uncomfortable chair, exhaled his stress and let his head rest against the wall behind him.
.
Minutes dragged on, eventually compounding into hours.
As time moved with agonizing slowness, he sat in discomfort and thought about hospitals.
He had seen his fair share of them as a kid, not just the night his mother had died, but a couple of times when she had overdosed prior to that. Then, after losing his mother, it had been a regular occurrence for him or his brother to quietly slip out of the house to seek treatment for broken fingers, or dislocated shoulders, or to get stitches for things that had been thrown at them. He later recalled those years as his father's 'angry phase'.
Hudson thought about Louise, his beautiful bride-to-be, who died in a Dallas hospital of an unforeseen heart condition, twelve days after he had left on deployment. For five entire days after that, he remained asleep in cryo, unaware of her diagnosis, completely oblivious to the fact he had lost her.
Given all the medical advancements they had made throughout history: the imaging and automation and computational surgeries, artificial intelligence and the vast quantities of powerful medications… how could it be that two people he loved so dearly could have died in such a place?
It was easy to say that he hated hospitals and mistrusted doctors. Dietrich, however, had been different. Before he even knew her well, she had noticed him struggling. Undeterred by his initial attempts to brush her off, the field medic did what she was best at: using her powers of stubbornness and empathy to help. And while she had essentially forced her way into his life, he had been thankful that she had; she became a friend to him at his darkest time, when his grief over losing Louise had been so intense that it nearly claimed his life. And then in the field, when one wrong move sent him to the ground in a barrage of bullets, Dietrich had saved his life for a second time, resuscitating him in the darkness as he bled out.
Dietrich had died on LV-426. She had been attacked and dragged away from the rest of the crew. He had found her cocooned in the creature's nest several hours later when he had been pulled down there himself, the alien parasite attached to her face. And while she had still technically been alive when he found her, he knew that, really, she was gone. Regardless, it was now his deepest regret that it was he who had ended her life, pressing the muzzle of her own pistol to her temple in an attempt to end her suffering. He hadn't even told Vasquez.
A now-familiar contortion of the stomach. The worry and sadness at the thought of her name. Poor Vaz, having to lose her leg. After everything she had been through in her life, she didn't deserve this. Over the past few days, it had become blatantly clear to him how much he cared about her. He could feel it now in the way his heart ached and the bottom of his stomach fell out when he thought about her, like the sudden, jarring descent of a dropship.
And the more time that passed, the more he worried that something bad had happened to her.
'Please, not again,' his mind begged, 'Not this time. Not her.'
"William?"
His head snapped up and immediately he rose to his feet as if by the crack of a whip.
"They're bringing her out now. Recovery room 270."