Bobby Nash wakes up in a hospital bed with aching lungs and a strange sense of vertigo.

In front of him is an unfamiliar doctor with a clipboard in her hand. She's scribbling something, but when she notices his eyes are open she tucks the pen into her pocket.

"Hello, Mr. Nash. How are you feeling?"

Bobby clears his throat, wincing at the raw crackle that echoes into the room. "A little sore," he admits, raising a hand to his neck to feel if it's swollen. He pauses. "Sorry, but are you new here? My team and I see a lot of this hospital, and I don't think I recognize you."

The doctor tilts her head. "Nope, been on this floor for about two years now. It's you that's the new face, Mr. Nash."

Bobby frowns.

That doesn't seem right.

In fact, the hospital itself doesn't seem right. Now that he's really looking, he's noticing that he's not in either Cedars-Sinai or First Presbyterian. The furniture is different, the wallpaper a dull green where it's normally an eggshell blue. Through the open doorway he can spot a framed painting he's certainly never seen in his life. It's a watercolor ocean with a cheerful ferris wheel in the foreground. The strokes border on abstract, and it looks as if the ferris wheel is rising out of the sea.

He shivers.

Something is not right here.

"Er, excuse me, Doctor..."

"Richards."

"Dr. Richards. What happened to me?"

She checks his file. "There was a fire in a supermarket, I understand. You got a few people out, and as you were removing the last one your heart stopped. Cardiac arrest. Lots of smoke inhalation as well, but no burns! You should be set to go today." Dr. Richards consults her papers for a moment longer, then glances back up. "Your wife's out in the waiting room. Would you like me to bring her in?"

Bobby's not hearing her. Instead, he's hearing the roar of flames as they consume his house. He's seeing his life go up in smoke around him. He's yelling himself hoarse, panic flaying his vocal cords raw as he pleads for someone to wake up , to stay with him-

"Mr. Nash?"

Bobby blinks. "Sorry. Yes, please. I'd like that."

"I'll send her right in, and then I'll be back in a few with your discharge forms."

He nods, and Dr. Richards disappears into the hallway.

He sits there while he waits, the only familiar comfort the quiet beeping from various monitors.

It was strange- he could have sworn for a minute there that it had been his own house that burned down. He can almost feel Athena's unresponsive body weighing on his shoulder, urging him to stop, to maybe rest for a while in the warmth of the ashes.

She wouldn't have been there if it had been a call, though. He was probably mixing things up. Athena will be able to explain this all to him, he knows. Only she could clear the strange mist that's clouding his brain. Strong, capable Athena. He wonders briefly why she's not already sitting in one of the bedside chairs.

It doesn't matter. When she comes in, he'll-

Through the doorway walks Marcy.

Bobby thinks that if the cardiac arrest hadn't gotten him in the fire, it was surely going to kill him now.

He gapes at her blankly. Marcy. How could-?

Marcy?

He stares too long. Marcy squints at him, confused, and walks into the room. She's holding a full tote bag, and she turns to set the bag down. "Christ, Bobby, why are you looking at me like that? It's like you've seen a ghost."

"Marcy," he croaks, voice cracking with something infinitely old and painful. The buried wound has been opened, and the exposure burns him. She looks at him again, this time warily.

"What's wrong with you?" she asks, straightening. And, even if it's been years since he's heard her voice, he knows her tone. Knows it's the one she has when she's not sure if he's using. When she's scared he's using. He hears the concern behind the thick veil of apprehension, and still he reaches for her. He doesn't care. Not now.

She's here.

In front of him. Alive.

"Marcy," he says again, louder this time. Begging. "Come here. Please."

He needs to feel her to know she's here. To know he isn't imagining her, to know this isn't some sick joke.

Her expression is becoming rapidly more alarmed, but she hesitantly crosses the floor to stand at his side. With a trembling hand, he touches her arm.

Solid. Warm.

Real.

But she can't be.

He pulls back. There's no way Marcy's here. It's literally not possible.

"Bobby? You're scaring me."

"You're dead."

She withdraws sharply. " Excuse me? What the fuck does that mean?"

"You can't be here. You're dead. You died ."

It's surreal to watch her close herself off in real time, but Bobby's seen it often- that is, when he had been sober enough to clock it. She locks away anything soft enough to be hurt by the bite that is Bobby Nash. She adds another layer to the wall that keeps him out, where he belongs. Her voice is blandly impassive when she speaks.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, but I think I should get the doctor-"

"No, Marcy, listen to me. I don't know what's happening, but you died in an apartment fire. You and..."

Bobby trails off. If Marcy's here, then that means...

"Where... where are the kids?"

He waits, holding his breath. Pleading with God. Marcy still looks like she might leave at any moment.

"Brook is at a friend's and Robbie's at home," she finally tells him. "Bobby, you're really freaking me out."

Bobby barely hears her. He's too busy fighting tears.

His kids. They're alive . They're safe.

The tears come anyways.

Marcy, for whatever reason, stays where she is. She always had been too forgiving when it came to Bobby. He ducks his head, putting his face in his hands. She graciously allows him a moment to control himself. When he finally manages to meet her eye again, she's giving him a strange look. He knows then that he needs to get himself under control. He desperately scrubs a hand across his face, roughly wiping the agonizing relief.

"Sorry. I- I'm sorry. I must have had a nightmare. I'm okay now. Don't know what came over me." His voice is wobbly, unsure. Marcy doesn't look convinced, but she nods. He doesn't know why, but she lets him have it.

"It's okay. You've been out a couple days. It makes sense if you had some weird dreams, right?"

Dreams. Huh.

He knows someone who had a weird dream, once. His memories are strangely foggy, but he's this close to-

This close to reaching him, and it's pouring rain as Buck is being lowered into his arms, and dear God his body is so limp and he's not breathing and-

"Here are his discharge papers! Just sign here, and you two are free to go."

Neither Dr. Richards nor Marcy seem to notice the way Bobby is panting. He hides his shaking hands under the thin blanket, clutching the sheets firmly. He has to get a grip. The last thing he wants is to be placed in some kind of psychological evaluation. He doesn't say much when he's handed a pen, just signs where he's told to. He barely manages a thank you for Dr. Richards. Marcy returns her attention to him once they're alone again. She still looks on edge, though less so now that Bobby's calmed down.

"I have some of your clothes," she tells him, pointing at the bag she's brought. "Figured you'd rather have real pants over a hospital gown."

Bobby nods numbly. She eyes him. "I'm going to wait in the hallway, okay?"

"Marcy, why are you here?"

It's not what he wants to ask. Wants to know what she's doing in California. Wants to know if she can take him to see the kids. He wants to know why she's living . None of them exactly prove he's sound of mind, though, so he keeps it basic.

He almost wishes he had said nothing when he notices the flash of hurt cross her face. She stops in her tracks.

"Because, Bobby," she huffs, fixing him with a glare, "I'm still your medical proxy. When your team brought you here, they called me."

She hesitates.

"And... just because we're separated doesn't mean I don't care about you. You get that, right?"

He definitely should not have asked. Her answer invites more questions than anything else: They're married? They separated? What about Athena? If the team took him in, where are they now?

He can't deal with the confusion any longer, so he just nods again. "You're right, sorry. I'm just a little out of it, I think." He swings his legs out of bed and makes for the bag of clothes.

Jeans and a knitted long sleeved shirt? Thick socks and boots?

"Isn't it a little warm for this?" he asks, holding up a heavy jacket. Marcy narrows her eyes.

"Yeah, if you think forty above is warm," she says, shaking her head. "Get dressed so we can get out of here, all right?"

She leaves him staring at the door. Forty above? In LA? In June ?

He drops the coat on the bed and goes to the window. He sucks in a breath as he pulls back the blinds to look out.

It's snowing. The parking lot, visible from his room, is blanketed in white. The sky is a sleety grey, and tiny flakes pepper the glass. Each stands out in perfect clarity for mere seconds before melting.

He watches the snow fall for a full minute before turning away. He can only deal with so many mental crises at a time, and this is enough to push him over the edge if he lets it. He dresses on autopilot, trying to gather the facts. He's in a strange hospital. Marcy is here. It's snowing in LA. The pants he's putting on right now are not his; in fact, he's never seen them in his life.

It's a lot, even for him.

He concludes that he must be dreaming. He has to be- what other explanation is there? This is some twisted kind of nightmare, his past back to haunt him because he deserves nothing better.

He pinches himself. The sting at his wrist is not reassuring in the slightest.

Okay. A very realistic dream, then.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. He'll wake up soon, and everything will go back to normal.

Until then, he decides to go along with whatever is happening.

He opens the door, meets Marcy in the hallway. Hands her the bag. Drops off the discharge papers. Follows her to the car. Pretends not to notice it's the same model they owned when they were together. Pretends that being so close to her after so long isn't making him want to crawl out of his skin.

He catches sight of the hospital as she pulls away and exhales sharply. Its brick facade is not one that belongs in southern California, but rather in Minnesota. It's where Bobby Jr. was born.

He's in Minnesota?

It explains the snow, at least. He's a little perturbed; for a figment of his own imagination, this dream is set on dredging up as much pain as possible.

The drive is awkward and silent. Marcy doesn't seem to have much to say to him, and he's too lost in his own thoughts to care about small talk. The thing that's tugging at him is hard to ignore.

He needs to see his kids.

Brook. Robert. What do they look like, in this dream? Are they older? Younger? He surreptitiously glances at himself in the side mirror. He looks his age, and Marcy has a few more wrinkles than she did last time he saw her. Maybe older, then. They'd be eighteen and twenty, if time here ran like it did when he was awake.

He tears up again at the thought of his children so grown. It was something he'd only imagined on the darkest of nights, afraid someone might see in his face what he was thinking and call him on it.

He doesn't deserve to think of them.

His precious babies. His poor, perfect children. He loves them so much it makes his chest ache. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing. He doesn't want to alarm Marcy further.

"Can I see them?"

She glances at him, confused. "What? Can you see who?"

"Brook and Robbie. Can I see them?"

Marcy's brow furrows and she frowns. "That's up to you. They're old enough to make their own decisions, Bobby. We've gone over this. They don't like being around you when you're not sober."

Bobby chokes back the disappointment and shoots her a look. "What are you talking about? I've been sober for years, Marcy. Haven't touched a drop or taken a pill that's stronger than aspirin."

She scoffs. Now, instead of confused, she looks mad. "Jesus, Bobby. if you're going to lie to me, at least make it believable. I know you just finished the third bout of rehab. It's been what, maybe ten months?"

As she's talking, Bobby's shaking his head. What she's saying isn't true. Last time he went to rehab was years ago.

Oh. He's dreaming. Of course things are different here.

"I... right. You're right. Don't know what I was thinking."

Marcy flicks the turn signal. When she looks back, the anger has melted into something akin to concern. "I'm worried about you right now, Bobby. You aren't acting normally at all. Could you have hit your-"

- head is bleeding and there's a rod sticking right out of it but he's talking and we just have to keep him talking, keep him awake and pray that nothing important has been damaged because even if he is a smartass what would we do without him? It's Chim and he's, oh damn it he's so important to Bobby, they all are, and--

"-head on something?"

He presses his fingers into his temple. "Maybe. I don't know. I am feeling a little disoriented," he tells her, staring down at his lap. His vision swims.

"Well, we're here," she says. "Call me if you feel worse, got it?"

He looks up. They're outside of a small condo. Its siding is dingy, the porch is a bit lopsided, and there isn't a spark of personality to be seen anywhere. He's never been here, but by now he knows better than to say that. Instead, he turns back to Marcy.

"I don't have my keys."

"They're in the bag the hospital gave you," she replies, and suddenly he finds himself holding a small plastic package in his lap. It has a peeling label on the top with his name printed on, and it looks like it's whatever he was wearing when he was admitted.

When did he grab this? He doesn't remember even bringing it into the car.

He pulls out another unfamiliar pair of pants and fishes a keyring from the pocket. Steps out of the car.

"Well... thanks for coming to get me," he says, lamely. "I appreciate it."

"Of course," she tells him. She won't meet his eye. "Be safe."

"You too."

He doesn't move yet. This might be the last time he ever sees Marcy, and he feels like he should have more to say. It's his dream, after all. Who's to stop him?

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so, so sorry."

She blinks. "Um. It's okay?"

He almost laughs. She can't understand, but that's fine with him. She deserves a million times better than what he's giving her, but even the miniscule apology has lifted some of the guilt. An insignificant amount, to be sure, but some nonetheless.

She's alive, and that's all that matters. He shuts her door gently and, with a small wave, she's driving down the road.

Another shaky exhale and he's climbing the steps to his front door. The third key he tries is the right one, and he lets himself in without a clue of what he might find inside.

It's not what he expects. The place is entirely devoid of warmth. It's painted the same uninviting grey as the outside, and the furniture is sparse and harsh. He thinks the couch might be made of cardboard, or possibly plastic.

He sets down the bag and keys on a spindly side table and starts looking around.

The kitchen is in disarray. Whatever food was in the fridge is long since spoiled, and there are signs of mice in the pantry. He finds a hall closet with nothing in it but two empty hangers and a pair of boots that are identical to the one's he's wearing. Further search leads to a hallway with three closed doors.

Door number one leads to a bathroom. There isn't anything special about it.

Door number two leads to the most dismal, impersonal bedroom he has ever seen. There's nothing in it but a closet, a wardrobe, and a bed with one blanket and two pillows. The bedding is all grey. It makes him shiver.

Door number three is locked. He's stumped for a moment, but then remembers the keys. He finds, after retrieving and trying them in the handle, that the second key fits. He lets himself in.

This room is different. The only furniture is a couple of shelves, but unlike the rest of the house, it's packed with things. There are newspaper clippings all over the walls, framed and pinned. Pictures, plaques, medals. It's a shrine, and when Bobby looks closer he realizes it's for himself. His name is on every paper, every trophy. Headlines call out to him: Hero firefighter. Captain of station 35 saves a dozen. Minnesota fire captain praised for outstanding record. On and on it goes. It's eerie, seeing so many pictures of his own face staring at him from every angle.

Why is this room here?

He doesn't know. He doesn't care. He wants to be home. He wants his wife, his team. He needs to wake up.

Logically, it follows that he must go to sleep first.

He leaves his room of achievement, locking the door behind himself, and returns to the dim bedroom. A quick riffling in the wardrobe provides a worn pajama set, and he changes robotically.

He climbs into that cold grey bed and wraps the thin cover around himself.

He just wants to wake up.

Bobby Nash shuts his eyes and goes to sleep.