Weight Of The World

"Take Logan home." The hoarse request was the first time Clay had said a word since Marie had navigated the Jeep to Raleigh's main hospital in a frantic rush. With his mother off in search of coffee, the agonizing wait for news of Quinn's condition had robbed him of the ability to speak.

The eight-year-old, who had been dozing lightly with his head propped on Lil's lap, wriggled upright in instant protest; "No! Dad, why can't I stay?"

"Come here," Clay said softly, holding out his hand to the little boy. With Sam and Lil looking on sadly, Logan shifted from his spot between them on the lumpy waiting room couch to his father's lap. "You can't stay because a hospital waiting room is no place for little boys so close to bedtime." He tried to smile but only ended up squeezing his son harder than ever; "I love you, Wolverine, you know that?"

"I know," Logan said absently; "But Mom is still…"

"Mom is going to be fine," Clay interrupted firmly, but one look at Sam and Lil told him his calm exterior didn't have them the least bit fooled. "We couldn't even get you a tree, don't you want to go home and hang the angel up somewhere to welcome her back?"

"That's a great idea," Logan admitted thoughtfully. "Grandma always says Mommy watches over me; maybe she can make Mama Q better too."

"There's a thought," Clay nodded shakily and nudged Logan into his grandmother's waiting arms. "Goodnight kid, we'll see you soon, I promise."

Sam lingered with him as Lil guided Logan to the elevators; "I should have checked in sooner when she stayed in the bathroom so long," he said ruefully. "I'm sorry, son."

"It's not your fault," Clay sighed, shaking his head stiffly. He had stood up to hug Lil goodbye and now dropped back into the hard plastic waiting room chair, rather than the couch. "I just don't know if I can do this again." He looked straight up into the old man's blue eyes, shining with sympathy; "I don't know how you and Lil found the strength to bury both your children," he said honestly. "I don't think I ever told you how much respect I have for that courage, because…"

"Clay, stop!" Sam interrupted. "That's very sweet, but you're a lot tougher than you think. We weren't the only ones who let Sara go, you did too," he said slowly. "Quinn is going to be fine; she's always seemed like a fighter."

"You don't know that," Clay moaned, practically burning a hole in the floor with the intensity of his distraught gaze.

Before Sam could say another word, Marie's voice drifted down the hall towards them. "Don't know what, exactly? We all know Quinn is a fighter; you both are. As for her current condition, Sam may not have it on good authority, but I found someone who does." Clay's head jerked up to see his mother approaching with a paper coffee cup in each hand and a nurse trailing closely behind her. "I'll take it from here," she said softly, and Sam backed away with a nod and headed for the parking lot at last. "Drink up," she urged, shoving one of the coffees into Clay's hand. But he ignored his mother and slammed the cup down on top of a pile of old gossip magazines before leaping to his feet.

"Where's Quinn?" he asked urgently, staring at the plump little nurse's cropped blonde curls to avoid seeing the sympathy in her eyes. It was a look he had seen too often after Sara's death when even old friends ran out of ways to express their condolences. "How…how did this happen?"

Marie grimaced at the nurse and braced her hands firmly on Clay's shoulders; "Honey, look at me," she said forcefully. "Before she says a single word, I need you to just take a deep breath for me, okay?"

"I can't," he gasped, barely aware of anything except the burning sensation in his eyes from holding back tears for far too long. "Not till I know that Quinn's okay, I just…can't!"

"Okay, it's okay," she chanted, rubbing her hand soothingly up and down his back as Clay squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head against her shoulder. She didn't ask what exactly it was he couldn't do, because the answer was painfully obvious. Breathing itself had become as challenging as feeling anything except pure anguish when even just the thought of losing Quinn was tearing him further apart with every passing minute.

"I suppose the first question is as good a place as any to start," the nurse began at an insistent glance from Marie. Forcing a shaky breath, Clay turned to face the short blonde professional who held the fate of his heart and soul in her hands. "From what we could determine, your wife fell unconscious due to an iron deficiency," she explained. "Her pregnancy caused some symptoms associated with anemia, in this case, dizziness which caused her to pass out. It didn't seem like she was on iron supplements for the pregnancy, and she probably should have been."

"See?" Marie said encouragingly, squeezing Clay's fingers gently. "An iron deficiency is nothing that supplements and a more careful diet can't fix."

"There's more, Mrs. Evans," the nurse said apologetically, consulting the clipboard in her hand as Clay began to tremble once more with the hellish anticipation of it all. "The iron deficiency itself wasn't dangerously severe, but the fall was."

"Is Quinn going to be okay?" Clay pressed desperately. "Look, I know this is routine for you, but my first wife died completely uncontrollably a few years ago. I can't lose Quinn too!"

"I understand, Mr. Evans," the plump little woman assured him with that unbearably sympathetic grimace again. "She hit her head quite badly and might not remember the fall, but physically she'll recover soon enough." The nurse paused and hugged her clipboard close to her chest; "Emotional recovery might take longer, I'm truly sorry to say."

"What do you mean?" Marie asked impatiently, the utter desperation in Clay's eyes spoke volumes as he leaned into her comforting embrace once more.

"The way your wife fell caused a miscarriage," the blonde said softly. "I'm truly very sorry to tell you this, but she lost the baby."

The nurse's words had delivered the final, fatal emotional blow. Clay was barely even aware his knees had buckled until he made contact with the hard plastic waiting room chair his mother had quickly pulled up behind him. "No," he choked, barely coherent once his hands pressed shakily over his eyes.

"Can we see her?" Marie asked softly, dropping into the chair next to her son in despair. "He's probably going to start hyperventilating any minute without proof that Quinn will truly be alright," she pointed out grimly.

"Yes, of course," the nurse said quickly. "Follow me this way; we transferred your wife to one of the post-operative recovery rooms. There was a critical amount of blood loss by the time she arrived at the hospital."

Clay had no idea how he was even still able to move as the oblivious professional droned on, the dread and grief was so utterly paralyzing. Despite the rush of blood seeming to pound in his ears and muffling her words, he physically flinched at the ongoing diagnosis. His mother's hand stayed pressed firmly against his back, and Clay felt like the gentle pressure was the only reason he kept walking.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, a concerned frown deepening the wrinkles of many years spent worrying about him.

"You don't want to know," he whispered back as if speaking any louder would worsen Quinn's condition. "She…she promised she'd be waiting at home, safe. This situation doesn't feel real, and the last time I had this feeling…"

"She's not Sara," Marie cut in sharply, and his shuddering gasp told her she had hit a nerve. "She may not be safe at home right now, but she will be, I promise!" The nurse came to a halt in front of Quinn's room at that moment, and Clay stared through the transparent glass door at the bed where she lay motionless. "You're going to get through this, kid," his mother promised sincerely, running her hands across his cheeks as a few stray tears broke free. "But the only way to do that is together, understand? She needs you to be brave right now." She squeezed his shaking fingers tightly and pulled him through the sliding door towards Quinn's bed. "I know you can do that."

"What if I can't?" he murmured, the question muffled as his head bowed against Quinn's rising and falling chest in exhausted desperation. "I can't lose her too!"

From the other side of the bed, his mother leaned over and stroked his hair tenderly. "You're not listening to me," she said softly. "The only loss here is the baby. It's awful and tragic, but you'll get through it together, okay? And if you can't, then I'm here, always."

As darkness to match Clay's devastation fell over Raleigh's local hospital, Melissa and Bobby found themselves at a roadside motel half-way between Atlanta and Tree Hill. For over two hours, they had driven in silence, both depressed and out of words. Katie turning them away hadn't been part of the plan, Melissa thought miserably to herself as she clicked the creaking door to their assigned room shut behind her and leaned against it with her eyes closed for a moment. Across the room, a glass door led to a small balcony overlooking the highway, where traffic was still whizzing past noisily. Bobby let go of her hand for what felt like the first time in ages and crossed over to the double bed against the left wall. The worn bedsprings creaked when he flopped down on it and stared up at the mysteriously stained ceiling. "Now what?" her son mused, obviously not addressing anyone in particular. He sat up and bounced up and down slightly, testing the mattress. "This thing is way lumpy," he frowned as it sagged pathetically under his weight.

"It'll have to do," Melissa sighed absently, coming over to join him as her son kicked off his shoes. She bit her lip hard as she sat down beside Bobby, willing away the ache in her heart as she watched him. "I'm so sorry for how today went down, kiddo," she said softly. "I know how convinced you were that Aunt Katie would help us. I wish she had, too. Are you okay?"

"I'm probably more okay than you," he pointed out. Only when his hands swiped against Melissa's cheeks did she even notice the tears rolling down her face. "Don't cry, Mom," he begged. "It's like you said, right? Us against the world?"

"Always," she breathed as he pressed his head into her lap. "Your Aunt Katie was right about one thing, you know?"

"Oh yeah?" he said disbelievingly, forcing his drooping eyelids open again to stare up at her skeptically.

"Yeah," she said with a sad smile. "You are so much braver than she is." She bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead; "I'm so proud that you're my son."

"I wish Dad felt that way," Bobby sighed, and Melissa frowned as she adjusted the assortment of pillows behind her to try and get comfortable.

"Come here," she said firmly, giving up on the hopeless bedding as the little boy nuzzled against her. "It sucks that we don't have a choice except to go home, but I won't let him hurt you, understand? Not ever! I love you way too much, squirt. Don't you dare forget that, alright?"

"I won't," he promised. "Because I love you too." He crawled under the blanket and made a face; "Oh God, this thing is itchy."

Melissa almost laughed at the randomness of the complaint in the middle of their grim conversation. "It's just for one night," she said, tucking the offending blanket snugly around her son and pressing another kiss to his cheek. "We should really try and get some sleep now," she said softly, draping her arms around the eight-year-old and pulling him close again.

For a long moment, there was silence, but just when Melissa was sure that Bobby was asleep, he spoke again: "Hey, Mom?"

"What?" she asked wearily, trailing her fingers across his back as if he was a baby again.

"I won't let Dad hurt you either," he vowed fiercely, and her breath hitched in her throat at the grave tone. Melissa clung to her son in the darkness and fell asleep only much later. Katie's rejection had left her with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

A / N Thanks for reading everyone! xx