"Are you okay?"

You paused, your hand almost to the doorknob. Your eyes were glued to a spot just above your hand; it curled into a softly held fist, as if you were hesitating.

"Yes, Mark, I'm fine," you said, though you didn't really hear yourself. Your voice seemed dim to your ears while his cut clear through your conscience.

"I'll wait out here then," he replied gruffly, seating himself in an unused wheelchair that had been placed there to cover a suspicious looking wet spot on the floor and stop anyone from stepping in it.

"Okay." You placed your hand on the nob, your eyes on your second knuckle to the right.

Why didn't he ask further? You knew you weren't veiling your pain and confusion very well; you couldn't help it.

You turned the knob.

He cared, right? He was Mark! Of course he cared! Didn't he? He seemed different in here... Despondent.

The door clicked open.

Did he loose a loved one at a hospital? Did he have a subtle fear of them or needles or doctors?

You shook your head softly to clear it. You had other, more pressing things to focus on right now.

"(Y/N)?"

The voice made you wince. It was raspy, painful, and rattled forth as if the vocal cords had been ripped out, sent through a pencil sharpener, and shoved back in. You looked up.

"Yes, Michael, it's me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"Why?"

"Because they called me."

Silence.

As a whole, he didn't look that bad. His face had a bruise on it that covered most of his cheek and was a dark purple; he had a cut that was closed by stitches just above his eye. As far as you could tell, he looked perfectly fine.

The lady on the phone wouldn't tell you what was wrong no matter how many times you pleaded with her to divulge even the tiniest morsel of information. Her telling you anything was about as slim as a hungry mutt walking into a New York restaurant and ordering the main platter.

"Why are you here?" he asked again, and the sound of his mangled voice broke your heart. Was there further damage than what you could see?

"To see you," you said, repeating yourself from earlier.

"Why?"

"I told you, because they-"

He shook his head slowly.

"Why are you here?"

"Why else would I be here, Michael? To see you!"

"Why?"

You sighed. He must have been hit in the head, for he'd never been this cryptic before. You decided to add to your answer this time.

"Because they called me about you and I was worried."

"Why worried?

"Because even though you're a major idiot, I still care about you."

He closed his eyes slowly instead of responding. Was that his immobilized version of a flinch, or was it him calming his anger for once since he couldn't unleash it you?

Finally, they opened again. Wet, vulnerable brown eyes.

"Thank you." Every breath sounded like a slight wheeze. Was that why his voice caught in his throat?

The door opened and a nurse came in to check his vitals.

"So you're the girlfriend?" she asked, not looking up from her clipboard unless it was to look at the machines lined up behind his bed.

"Ex," you corrected. Is that what he told them?

"Same difference, anyway, he was in a car crash. Hydroplaned and flew outta the driver's window when he hit a tree. He's fine 'cept for his voice, but that's cause of trauma and shock. He should be fine. Are you here to sign him out?"

"No," you said quickly. You had nowhere to take him besides your apartment and you did not want him there. "He's okay, right? Surely he can take care of himself."

A groan sounded from the bed as he shifted his weight and panic started to set into your heart. You would not be burdened by him again. Once he got in, he would make it just impossible to get him out. He was like a deep set Thorn that way.

"Does he sound okay to you, ma'am?" The nurse remarked, glancing up at you from under her bent forehead.

"He has a mother! She lives in Corpus Cristi down in Texas with his father!" You knew he hated how the woman babied and clung to him, but you didn't care anymore. You risked a look at him. In his eyes you saw shock, bitterness, and above all else, anger. That same, familiar anger you'd dealt with for three whole years was directed at you once more, but he couldn't do anything. You had the power in this situation and it was intoxicating.

"He didn't tell us he had any relatives," the nurse said, seemingly grateful she didn't have to deal with the paperwork of signing off a patient to an ex significant other. "Do you know their numbers?"

"Yes," you said, and it felt like an insult to him and also like closure. It felt like your own special way of finally sticking it to him and showing him that you weren't the scared little girl you once were when you were under his sway. Now, you were different. Now, you were finally the woman you'd set out to be. With that one word, you severed all hatred and bitterness towards him. Now he was just a man. You felt sorry for him, pity, though you hated to admit it. He'd lost so much, just because of his attitude. You hoped nothing like that would happen to you. "Would you like for me to write it down?"

The nurse nodded, handing you a pad of paper. "Please."