But he was trying and you were trying and that was something, right? Plus, you liked to think that it was still a pretty reasonable accomplishment that you were wearing the wedding rings (that you distinctly remembered stealing) on the appropriate fingers… Funny thing was that that was all you remembered about that night. And sure, you’d found the marriage certificate again, just where Roxy had left it after finding it, crumpled up in the bottom of your purse, with bits of weed and dirt stuck on it. You had talked to Jack about seeing if maybe the chapel had video of the wedding, since places in Vegas often offered full service and tried to get you to upgrade after the fact, but you weren’t entirely sure you hadn’t just run out on the bill. Which of course made you wonder if maybe you had a warrant out for your arrest in Vegas for and you couldn’t help but laugh at how ridiculous the idea of that was.
It was late, probably pushing midnight. He had been on the couch while you sat on the floor with your head lulled back against the cushion, going back and forth between watching TV and trying to stave off sleep with everything you had, because goddamnit, you were going to make it through the Godzilla vs. Megalon episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 if it was the last thing you did.
You asked if he wanted anything from the kitchen as you stood, and returned just moments later with a pint of ice cream in one hand and a bag of Cheetos in the other. “Oh come on!” You can’t help laughing when you see that he’s passed out on the couch, when you’d been the one fighting it off for the past hour.
A sigh falls from your lips as you set the ice cream and the Cheetos down on the coffee table and you reach down to gently shake him. “Hey…” Your voice is barely a whisper. All you want to do is try and get him to adjust, to lie down so he won’t wake up with a wicked kink in his neck. You give it a moment, grabbing the red plaid blanket from the back of the couch and carefully covering him with it.
When he doesn’t wake up, doesn’t even stir, you roll your eyes and try again. You thought you slept like the dead, Jesus Christ. You press your hand to his shoulder and give him another shake. “C’mon, you’re gonna regret sleeping like this in the morning.” Nothing. “You’re a fucking log,” you groan, nudging him yet again. Again, no response.
Suddenly, your lungs feel heavy, like the air is trapped, like someone is sitting on your chest and you can’t seem to get enough air. Your heart sinks and you drop to your knees in front of him, pressing your hands to his legs, shaking him. “Come on, you jerk.” You laugh nervously, trying to keep it light, but when he still doesn’t budge aside from the force of your shake, and your voice turns stony and serious. “Stop fucking around and wake up, this isn’t funny…” Still nothing. You draw your hands back and let your arms go limp at your sides. “Drew?” You ask, your voice pathetic, pleading, as you try to choke back the panic.
There’s a split second where your brain is going fucking haywire, where you can’t quite process what’s going on because there’s too much going through your head all at once. The moment passes as quickly as it comes on, though and you shake your head, forcing it away before scooping up the spoon you’d been holding and carefully reaching out, place it upside down under his nose. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you watch the metal fog over and you suddenly exhale in relief. Maybe it’s selfish, but you’re pretty glad you didn’t somehow inadvertently kill your… spouse. thing. Not that the fact that he’s apparently in a freaking coma is any better.
You push yourself to your feet and start pacing, back and forth, hands shaking by your sides. Your brain is on overdrive again, overloading with questions, theories, wondering what to do, if you should call someone, should you take him to the hospital or call 911?
It takes a moment for you to talk yourself off the metaphorical ledge and when you do, you stop pacing and look at him. You gather your thoughts, you slow it all down and put it together because maybe your brain is a little broken these days, but you’re still goddamn smart. You weigh out the options, consider the possibilities surrounding what’s going on, because this is Boston, after all and weird shit happens here all the time. This had to have something to do with all of that, there wasn’t really any other explanation. What the hell else could it be? And more to the point, what were you supposed to do? There were about a dozen different reasons that taking him to the hospital was out of the question.
After several moments, you take a deep breath, check his vitals, his pulse, his breathing and make sure he’s stable. “Okay, come here, big guy,” you brace yourself and square your feet as you heave him over your shoulder in what would have been an impressive display of strength if anyone had actually been around to see it. You immediately curse, because holy shit, you’re out of shape, but you manage to shake it off quickly and start down the hall. “You’re heavier than you look,” you mumble, and to no one’s surprise, you don't get a response.
You’re careful as you set him down on the mattress, his head on the pillows, then cover him with a light blanket before settling down into the arm chair beside the bed. For a while, you just sit there and watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. You wonder idly if he’s going to wonder how the hell he got into the bedroom when he wakes up. (and goddamnit, you hope he’s going to wake up.)
Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours, but nothing happens. From time to time, you get up and putter around the room, trying to distract yourself, trying to think of anything else. You get the ice cream, you get a beer, you take a shower, you watch the sunrise through the window. Eventually, sometime after 8am, you fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.
When you wake up it's late in the afternoon. You wipe the sleep from your eyes and immediately look to him once you put the world back in focus. He’s still out cold. The corners of your lips weigh down in concern and you reach out and touch his cheek, your fingers running over the stubble that's grown in. “Please be okay…” You don't know if he can hear you and sigh softly as you pull your hand back and get up to find your phone. When you finally do, there’s a message from Roxy and you frown. She wants to know how you’re doing, which… isn’t surprising considering the way things had started out going into the weekend. Something’s wrong with Drew, you reply, then immediately follow up by explaining, He won’t wake up.
And then it’s back to passing time. You sit by his side, watching TV, letting the hours tick by, moving from the chair to the flood and back to the chair again, you talk to the cat and flip through channels, you paint your nails. You’re doing just about anything to keep yourself distracted, to keep yourself from actually counting the time that's passing.
It’s almost midnight and you're back to the floor, sitting beside the bed, beside him, with you head on the mattress, not unlike last night by the couch. You're trying to push back the fog of sleep that's looming over you when your phone buzzes to life. It’s Roxy again, checking in. You sigh as you begin to type. You tell her that everything is the same, that nothing has changed and you’re worried, but you’re keeping an eye on him.
... Or at least, that’s what you would have told her if you’d gotten the chance to hit the send button before whatever had taken him sinks it's claws into you, too.