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CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE
death and all his friends.
season six, episode twenty-four.

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FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Denny had anticipated that Frank would no longer show up—and he had been right.

The family, save for the father, was in Ivory's room. The air was hot and thick with the veil of sickness and confinement, silence interrupted only by an old music channel playing on the TV that broadcasted the music video of Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. An oxygen tank had been perched to the side of the bed to feed the eldest woman's frail lungs with clean air through the nasal cannula she'd worn every day ever since she'd been discharged from the hospital, but even so, breathing in cost her a tremendous amount of effort, and her wheezes resounded in intervals in the small room where she lay in the middle of a queen-sized bed.

It was February fourteenth, Valentine's Day. Ivory was sad her husband had missed their favorite holiday, but her discomfort had been obscured by her sickness, as she'd gotten a slight fever and was barely able to speak.

Elizabeth, uncaring for contagion, lay by her side on the bed. Her mother's arm was wrapped around her shoulders where she lay on her chest, hearing her erratic heartbeat, her eyes bloodshot and filled with tears. 

Ian had brought up a chair from the living room and sat by his mother's bed in utter silence, barely breathing, barely blinking. Missing his father. Missing his family.

Suddenly, Ivory breathed in deep. Elizabeth was startled, so her head shot up to look at her mother—she'd been avoiding doing so, as seeing her weak lids falling over her eyes threateningly, her white lips devoid of their long gone rosy shade, her protruding bones in the face of malnutrition, was enough pain as it was. But something about that deep breath felt so... final.

"Where is..." she began, her voice a feeble whisper. "Where is Frank?"

As soon as she heard her voice, Denny immediately stood up and sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing at Ivory's hand, squeezing it tight. Ian straightened and shared a look with his uncle.

"He'll be here soon," Denny lied compassionately.

Ivory made an effort to turn her head towards her brother-in-law and dedicated him a sore smile. Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Don't lie to me, Duquette," she said. "Frank won't be coming, will he?"

Denny looked down at his lap and sighed deeply. "No, Ivy. He won't."

She looked back up at the ceiling. "That's a pity."

There was yet another silence amongst the LeBlanc family. A heavy, loaded silence in thick oxygen that was barely breathable. Elizabeth was refusing to move, to speak, but when her mother tugged at the sleeve of her t-shirt, she slowly sat up.

"My children," Ivory said, looking at her, then at Ian, "I want you to listen to me."

"Yes, mommy?" Elizabeth paid attention. Ian leant in.

"You'll grow up," she began, "and I won't be there. But that's okay. I never, ever want you to blame yourselves for anything. And don't blame your father, either. He's a good man."

Elizabeth sobbed. Her mother's hand was a susurration against her cheek and for the first time ever, she saw her brother cry.

"My sweetest child." Ivory shook her head. "If my love for you sufficed, I wouldn't be gone."

☆

Billie's right hand wouldn't stop trembling. She didn't feel any pain—barely even felt past the blinking of her eyes and the running of oxygen down her throat—but her wrist had began to twitch ever since she'd left the conference room and she felt as though the grinding of her bones was so loud it would attract Gary Clark's attraction right towards her. She was overall calmer, even though her hair was racked up into an unsteady bun and her knees felt like they'd give up, but that damn tremor...

She clasped at her right wrist with her opposite hand to somewhat stop herself from shaking so much. She wondered whether it had anything to do with the injury to her shoulder but bared it no mind, as she was stumbling about the hospital towards the blood bank in the search for the blood needed to save the life of the love of her life. 

She could barely walk in a straight line, drowsy and dizzy due to the anxiety racking her body sideways in a motion resembling that of the swaying sea. She thought of the beach as she took a sharp turn, nearly stumbling into a wall that had no right being there in the first place.

"Get to the blood bank, to the blood bank, get quickly," she muttered to herself, trying to hold on to her sanity. "Get quickly."

Wherever she looked, she saw dead bodies. Her normal self would've stopped and checked if they were alive, but in that moment, deranged though it was, she would've let a thousand people die just to save her person. It was all that mattered to her.

"Get to the blood bank," she told herself.

But suddenly, the sight of a man in front of her—an alive man, a well man—made her stop. She froze dead on her tracks, a sudden bristle ranging across the planes of her upper back, hugging coldly at the nape of her neck, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. A chill like a gust of winter air made her throat run cold and her stomach hollow out.

"Oh, M—Mr. Clark," she breathed out in sudden inner desperation when she realized she was going to die.

His empty eyes caught up to her and finally, slowly, seemed to recognize her face. She saw as his features were stained by pure rage.

"You," he said.

"Mr. Clark, I—"

"I thought I killed you." Gary frowned, across the hall from her. "You and... and the other man. I didn't intend to kill him too, but he... got on the way. But I thought I killed you. My God, you're covered in blood."

He spoke like it cost him tremendous effort to look at her. Billie began panting heavily, feeling herself lacking the necessary oxygen to function properly. Her eyebrows were set tightly, furrowed, her body tense in anticipation. She didn't know what to say.

Gary looked down. "I didn't plan to shoot all those people."

"N—No, I know. It's okay. You were— You were sad and... and grieving. You—" Billie swallowed and coughed—her throat was stone dry.

But he didn't seem to be listening to anything she said.

"I only planned to shoot Dr. Shepherd," he numbered quietly, "and Dr. Webber," he added, then looked up at her, "and you."

Billie's heart plummeted in her chest. She could no longer breathe.

Suddenly, Gary was pointing his gun, straight at her.

"You unplugged the machines," Gary said emptily. "You gave me hope and then your hands killed my Alison."

Billie simply closed her eyes and braced herself for the killing blow. She counted down.

Three...

Two...

One...

The sound of a gunshot ripped through the air. Billie's knees gave out beneath her, but she opened her eyes... and she was intact. Even though she was on the edge of collapse, she hadn't been shot.

Her head swerved towards Gary to find him on the floor, struggling through a gunshot wound to his shoulder, similar to her own. Billie immediately looked back over her shoulder to trace the source of the blow and spotted an officer of the SWAT team signaling at her to run, to move, to go somewhere else. To escape.

With a heaving chest and a racing heart, Billie immediately complied. She got up with a lot of effort, felt her shoulder pounding, protesting, her right hand shaking beneath her weight, but thought of nothing else other than running away, than getting as far away as possible from Gary Clark.

She turned right on a corner and ran as fast as she could, ran, ran, ran, until she wasn't sure which part of the hospital she was in. Then, even though she knew she was far enough, she kept running and wind up on the lobby.

Only then did Billie finally come to a halt. She was panting heavily, exhausted by the racing sprint and the pressure of the wound on her shoulder, and looking around did nothing to soothe her anxiety, as there were dead bodies and blood everywhere she looked. She began crying.

"Oh, God," she whispered to herself, feeling far too much.

Billie didn't mean to crumble down. She didn't want to, she had to get to the blood bank. But she did. Or almost.

Right as she was about to fall to her knees on the floor, fatigued and overcome by emotions, she heard a cry coming from slightly to her left. Her head shot in that direction and she saw a pair of legs peeking out from behind the nurses station.

When she recognized that pair of shabby, old running sneakers, she felt she'd died.

Immediately, her eyes open wide, she approached the station and caught sight of Ian, who was sat beneath the counter, clutching at a bullet wound on his lower stomach.

☆ 

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Frank showed up at the house the week after Ivory passed.

He was wearing the same clothes he wore when he'd left, all pieces crumpled and dirty like he hadn't bothered to take them off, or like he'd been laying on the side of the street for days on end. His hair was a mess of tousled strands on top of his head, his beard overgrown on the places where he hadn't bothered to shave, and he smelled strongly of liquor and dirt.

The house was silent.

Elizabeth was the only one on the kitchen making herself some breakfast. She'd cleaned everything in the span of a few days in the search for finding something that would distract her from the abrupt absence of her mother, as she hadn't been able to cry yet, and in the process of polishing the kitchen, she had gotten hungry enough to make herself a bowl of cereal with a carton of apple juice.

Ian had been locked in his room ever since Ivory's passing. Elizabeth hadn't seen of him for a week and the only presence in the house to soothe her had been that of Denny's, even though he hadn't been much around either, as he'd been dealing with matters related to Ivory's death.

And, anyway, he'd been crying too. Elizabeth felt she wasn't able to be around people who were so sad—even though she herself was the saddest—because she didn't want to suffer with someone else. She'd rather suffer alone. She didn't want her crying uncle to hold her as she sobbed. She thought the idea to be extremely discomforting. 

She was sad, of course. But she preferred being sad on her own.

When her father showed up that afternoon, however, she felt she needed a hug.

"Hi, sweetie," Frank said impossibly softly, peeking his head into the kitchen, where the ten-year-old girl sat at the counter, munching on her cereal within an empty home.

"Hi," she greeted, but paid him no mind. She'd waited for him—now, after everything, his presence stirred very little inside her.

"Where... Where is your brother?" Frank asked, and Elizabeth could tell he was ashamed. As he should.

"In his room," she replied curtly.

"And—And your mother? How's she?" he continued.

Elizabeth looked up at him. Then, she grabbed her bowl of cereal and walked past him, out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into her room.

The house was silent for a few second. Then, Elizabeth heard the front door opening—her uncle was back.

The next following minutes, she overheard the conversation between the two brothers, which soon became heated enough to involve screaming and trashing and breaking. The only thing Elizabeth could think about was the fact that her father was destroying the house she'd been effortfully cleaning for a week.

☆

"My God, Ian!" Billie whisper-yelled, falling to her knees beside him, looking down at his bleeding belly. "What—What happened?"

"You—You shouldn't... you shouldn't be out here, Billie. There is a..." Ian began, but he could barely keep his eyes open. "There is a shooter."

"I know, Ian. I—" She ran her hands across her hair, nervous, unable to think. "Fuck."

Her brother's eyes slowly fell upon her and he furrowed his eyebrows.

"You're... you're covered in blood," he said. "Are you okay? Are you injured?"

"No," Billie muttered quietly.

But she couldn't think properly, couldn't think past the blood seeping from the bullet wound on her brother's stomach. She couldn't carry him. Her brother was dying, and at the same time, in a conference room far, far away, her boyfriend was dying, too.

She felt she had to made an impossible choice.

"Can—Can you walk? Can you stand?" Billie asked desperately, her eyes welling with tears. "Please tell me you can, I have to get you out of here. I'm running out of time."

"I don't know."

She shook her head and ran her hands across her tousled hair yet again, effectively undoing the bun she'd carelessly knotted on top of her head. Frantically, she began looking around, searching for something, anything that could help her.

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath. 

Soon enough and much to her luck, she spotted a wheeling chair folded over a corner of the lobby. Immediately, she stood up and ran towards it, bringing it over to Ian.

"I—I need you to stand," she told him quickly. "I need to go."

"Go where— Fuck!" Ian grunted when Billie tugged forcefully at him. "Fuck, Billie!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry." She sobbed. "Please, I'm sorry. I don't have time left. Please."

He had a hard time standing up, especially because Billie wasn't strong enough with an injured arm and a trembling hand putting her at a disadvantage, but finally, amongst Ian's pained whimpers, she was able to get him to the wheeling chair and immediately ran off in the direction where she thought the conference room was.

☆

Finally, after a heated run across the hospital as her brother slowly died on the wheeling chair she carried, Billie burst into the conference room. Mark and Lexie's heads shot up towards her and both of them instantly frowned when they sighted Ian on the wheeling chair. She was soon closing the door behind her.

"I couldn't the blood, but I— I need— I need to save my brother." She was still crying, although she didn't know that.

"Woah, Billie, what happened?" Mark asked, his eyes wide.

"He was shot." She was panting heavily. "How is he? Is Alex okay?"

"He's... he's unconscious. His vitals are tanking and there's nothing more I can do for him."

Billie noted Lexie had began crying. She herself tugged at the roots of her hair and then made a sudden call to kneel by Alex's head and stroke his hair softly.

"Don't die. Alex, please don't die," she begged through her tears. "This was my fault. I unplugged his wife. I killed the man's wife. I'm so sorry, baby. This was my fault. I did this." She paused, trying to regain her breath. "I love you. Do you hear me? I love you. Please don't die on me. Please."

☆

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

Elizabeth went back down to the kitchen once she was sure the house was silent. Only an hour after she stopped hearing Frank and Denny did she finally felt able to leave her room, so slowly, in an attempt to avoid disrupting the peace within the house, Billie peeked out into the hallway and swiftly—though warily—made her way down the stairs.

The living room was empty—trashed. A few family pictures had been smashed, a chair from the dining room was knocked down and shards of broken glass littered the hardwood floors. She wondered what had gone down in the LeBlanc house while she'd been hidden away in her room.

Cautiously, Elizabeth then stepped into the kitchen. Her uncle was nowhere to be seen, but there, sat on a stool by the kitchen counter with his face propped into his palms, was her father.

She stared at him, stared him up and down. His shoulders shifted slightly every few seconds followed by soft sniffles and sobs—he was crying. Elizabeth took a moment before she finally cleared her throat softly, effectively grabbing at his attention.

When he heard her, Frank's head shot up and Elizabeth was able to see his bloodshot eyes, his pain-stricken face. He looked like he'd been tugging harshly at his hair, like he'd slapped his own self to awaken himself from a dream that wasn't a dream. He looked like he'd lost a part of himself. He looked guilty. Ashamed.

"Dad?" Elizabeth called shakily.

Frank turned and stood up. Only then did she finally catch sight of the empty liquor bottle on the kitchen counter, and her father's stumbling step was enough notice that he was drunk as he waded towards her effortfully. 

Elizabeth didn't dare say a word. Frank fetched the bottle from the countertop and then stood in front of his daughter, towering over her menacingly. His eyes were empty while he took a swig off of the liquor.

Then, for the first time ever, Frank struck his daughter across the face.

☆

Billie didn't quite know how to help her brother. She knew she'd said she would, but her mind was empty, as if all the medical knowledge she'd acquired over years and years of practice had simply... vanished. She was just a peasant now, unbeknownst, and she was watching her brother die right in front of her.

"I don't know what to do," she cried. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Ian smiled through heavy lids, unaware. "That's okay, Lizzie. They'll come and get us soon."

Billie ran her hands through her hair exasperatedly, wondering how come she still had tears left to cry. The silence in the conference room was deafening, as Mark and Lexie had stood aside once they'd finally realized there was nothing else they could do.

Alex whimpered weakly, the only sound in the room. As soon as she heard him, Billie shot to her feet and immediately fell beside him, stroking his head, scanning his face in the search for any signs of life.

"Baby?" she breathed out shakily.

Alex's eyes shone bright.

"Izzie?" he asked then.

Billie felt her heart plummeting. She looked at Mark over her shoulder, seeking support, but his mouth had fallen slightly open in shock.

"Al—Alex, it's me. It's Billie. I'm—... I'm Billie." She frowned.

"Iz?" he repeated, his eyes brimming with tears. His voice was as soft as it was pleading. "I'm sorry. Don't go. We got married, please don't go..."

Billie began crying, her heart cracked into little pieces inside her in the span of the few seconds that Alex had taken to say his ex-wife's name. She didn't blame him, he was delirious and he had no clue of what he was saying, but regardless, Billie's hand soon ceased to stroke his hair.

"O—Okay," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm not going anywhere."

Alex's eyes were now filled with hope, staring up at Billie, although she knew he wasn't looking at her. "You came back for me, Iz."

She shook her head. "I came back."

"Don't ever leave me," he begged. "Don't ever leave me again."

"I won't," she promised emptily. "I won't leave you. We're always gonna be together, okay? Always."

Alex smiled painfully. "Yeah."

Suddenly, the door burst open to let in a SWAT team officer with a rifle on his hand. Billie's heart, devoid and hurt, hadn't even had the necessary energy to jump in the face of the sudden interruption. She'd just stood there.

"This floor is clear. We're going to evacuate you now," the office said much to everyone's relief.

But she was far from relieved.

☆

They had finally made it out of the hospital.

Alex was unconscious on a gurney. He was being carried out from the hospital by Mark, Teddy and Lexie, followed closely behind in a frantic sprint by Billie, whose tears had dried down on her cheeks. She was alongside a paramedic who helped her wheel out Ian in his own gurney, who, on the contrary, was still awake—barely, but awake.

Billie hadn't been able to take her eyes off of her boyfriend long enough to realize how many policemen and ambulances surrounded the hospital. The paramedic beside her told her all kinds of things which she neither understood nor cared to listen, save for the only piece of information she'd picked up on that Ian would be taken to Seattle Presbyterian—aside from that, she might as well have gone deaf.

But as soon as Ian was loaded into an ambulance and Billie was left alone, she could only look at Alex, who was loaded onto another ambulance by Mark, Teddy and Lexie. The doors of the vehicle closed and the doctors immediately dispersed, leaving the resident behind on her own to wonder what the hell to do.

She took a hand to her head, heaving at the edge of collapse. Around her, everything was silent, despite the evident noise and hubbub.

Mark saw her. He approached her slowly as he took off his gloves, looking at her pitifully, noticing her eyes devoid of any emotion other than concern and inner turmoil.

"Billie," he said once he was close enough.

"He's— He's gonna be okay, right?" Billie asked absently. "They'll both be fine."

"Billie."

"What?"

There was a small silence.

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "What he said—"

"It's fine. I don't care," she interrupted him immediately, avoiding his eyes. "He was agonizing. There's no way he could've known what he was saying."

"Billie," he repeated.

"What!" she yelled, her eyes finally falling on his. "He didn't mean it! Okay? He'd lost too much blood, he was just... saying whatever. I don't care! Okay?"

Without anything left to say, Mark softly pulled her in for a hug. 

"What are you doing? Stop, I said I'm fine," Billie tried battling him off, but he didn't budge.

Tenderly, Mark pulled her in and once she finally accepted the hug, let her melt into his chest. He placed a hand on the back of her head to stroke her hair intimately, and without even knowing, Billie began crying. 

"I'm sorry," Mark said. "You do care."

He heard her little sobs, her fists clinging onto the back of his scrub top like she wasn't willing to let go. Then, she went silent.

"Even if he didn't know what he was saying, you have every right to be upset, okay?" he told her. Billie didn't reply. "Okay, Billie?"

Slowly, Mark pulled away from her, only to find her body had gone limp in his arms.

"Oh, my God. Billie!"