How or when they’d figured it out, nobody but the people in question knew. All that Moira did know was that a massive crowd of paparazzi had been camping outside the hospital for the past week or so. Apparently, an unknown source had tipped them, saying Harraël Stones had been in a coma for nearly a month.

And as expected, the world was going insane.

Lizzy kept trying to appease her friend. ‘Harraël will deal with the media when he wakes up’ or ‘Once Harraël wakes up, all the assholes will be gone within no time’. But that was the problem. He wasn’t awake, so he couldn’t deal with it. And who knew when he would wake up. In a day? A week? A month? A year?

As if she didn’t have enough on her plate of problems already, now she had to deal with a bunch of pushy paps too!

Day in day out, Moira tried to keep herself from snapping, from blurting out something she might regret later on. Until one morning, after another sleepless night, when she tried making her way into the hospital with Ollie in her arms. And they kept blocking her way, their flashes blinding her eyes and their long stream of obnoxious questions making her feel sick.

She couldn’t handle the pressure. Or at least not as easily as Harry could –who had gotten used to the cons of fame. But, she managed.

That one morning, however, was different from the others. Because this time, their screaming had gotten so loud and chaotic, that they made her baby’s face twist in distress and eventually, burst out crying.

She was done.

Arranging a meeting with Bones’ press agent was toilless, perhaps even a little too toilless. As Moira walked into the Italian restaurant they had agreed to meet –dressed in her finest, slick obsidian skirt suit– it came as no surprise why the woman had done her job so poorly. She was an easy target.

Making her wonder how the woman planned to protect her clients from harm when she could hardly protect herself from Moira’s scrutinizing gaze.

She outstretched her hand, and had the strong urge to laugh when ‘Janet’ cowered slightly. “Moira King. You must be the press agent?”

“Uhh yes. Janet Oswald, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Harraël always talks to fondly of you.” She accepted her hand with a weak squeeze.

“Wish I could say the same.”

First things first, Moira decided to politely tell her how much of a lousy job she’d done at protecting Bones, and especially Harry, from the media’s ruthless slaughter. After the waiter had taken their orders, she opened her mouth to speak. “You have done an extremely lousy job.”

Janet’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not supposed to act on behalf of your clients on all matters involving public relations?” she asked in a clipped, oddly high-pitched voice, crossing her arms as she scowled at her.

“Yes, that’s right.” Janet nodded stiffly.

“Then why the hell didn’t you!?”

The press agent seemed at loss for words, looking uncomfortably tense as she focused on her glass of water –avoiding Moira’s fiery eyes at all costs.

“There has been a hoard of bloodsuckers at the hospital for the past week,” she continued. “And you did nothing to keep them away, or if you did, your attempts were fruitless.”

The arrival of their food caused the conversation to be on hold for a few minutes.

Right after Moira swallowed her first mouthful of spinach ricotta ravioli, she let a deep crease form between her eyebrows. “Well? How do you plan on solving this?”

“To be frank, I generally only take care of problems to do with the band’s image. Not their private lives, they do that themselves. It would be too much of a hassle to do both.”

“Too bad Harraël’s in a coma, now you have to take care of his private life too.” She uttered, casually inspecting her nails before taking another bite.

“No, I-“

Moira heaved a dramatic sigh. “15k a month isn’t too bad of a salary for a 36-year-old divorced woman with no kids, now is it? Especially If she’s a recovering alcoholic. Surely, some more work wouldn’t be that big of a deal?”

She blinked at her glass of water once, twice, then blinked at her –her entire face going completely pale. Her finger nervously twisted a strand of her coarse hair around it, tugging on the split ends, too. Seeing how sickly she looked made Moira’s throat tighten with guilt. But she reminded herself why she was doing this, and more importantly; for who.

“I don’t like playing dirty,” she confessed truthfully. “but you leave me no choice. Take care of this, or I will.”

“Understood, boss.” Janet laughed bitterly at her, and the sound made her stomach churn. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Threaten them, sue them, I don’t care. They took pictures of my son. And obviously, without my consent. Work something out. Consult a lawyer if you must.”

Janet nodded in understanding, finishing her plate of food.

“And just so it’s clear, I am not your enemy. The media is. As long as you don’t do anything to anger me, I will help you with whatever.” Moira said, before adding, “You name it, I’ll take care of it.”

Taking a long gulp of her water, Janet nodded again. This time a little more hesistant.

“I might have done my research on you, but that does not mean I will misuse your private information. It will stay between the two of us. You have my word.” Moira’s eyes found hers and she tried to convey a message to her through them. “And if everything works out, I’ll be sure to transfer a bonus into your back account.”

Finally, she saw a ghost of a smile flash across the press agent’s face. “I’d appreciate that.”

“And I appreciate your help. So thank you.”

Moira paid the bill, thanked her once again and they said their goodbyes, agreeing to stay in close contact throughout the next couple of days –just in case things didn’t go as planned.

------------------------------

As it turned out, the plan worked.

It had taken Janet mere days to solve their pest problem. One moment the papparazzi were there, and then the next, they fled the scene like a guilty gang of criminals. A few rebels dared to stay around, though their time to shine was only short lived –as Janet had even taken care of improving hospital security. Which wasn’t in her job description, but Moira was thankful for her help nonetheless.

She wasn’t such a lousy press agent, after all.

With that being said, she collected her jumbled thoughts and pulled herself back to reality.

Cassie had offered to take her grandson for the night so Moira could stay with Harry. But she being as tired as she’d been, had accidentally fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed. If her stubborn mind had just opted for the wise option to go to bed early for once, she could’ve been sleeping in the bed that the nurses had kindly set up for her. Instead she felt first class uncomfortable and was paying the ultimate price her stupidity.

Soreness.

Tentatively, she moved up in her chair. Her joints creaked and popped with each slow movement, from disuse. Wincing from the sound, she gently brought herself into sitting position and faced the rest of the room.

It must have been the middle of the night. Or that is what it usually meant when there was a lack of light and the moon was at its highest in the sky.

Inspecting her surroundings, she noticed certainties she hadn’t noticed before. Like how the air smelled of flowers instead of disinfectant, and how unfair it was that private rooms were so much more comfortable than regular hospital rooms. Also made a lot of sense considering the patient or their family paid a hefty sum for it, yet still. Unfair.

Besides the monotonous sound of the electrocardiogram –or heartbeat monitor– everything seemed eerie—too quiet for comfort. Might have been thanks to the night’s dark influence or her own paranoia, but Moira felt pathetically frightened all of a sudden.

In attempt to reassure herself and offer her fearfulness some moral support, she laced her and Harry’s hand together –like she’d done so many times before, desperately hoping for a reaction. According to Dr Janssen, touch was almost always beneficial. It’s comforting and breaks the sense of isolation of the one in altered consciousness.

“I’m scared, Harry.” She squeezed his hand, wanting him to soak up all her body warmth, even if it only helped a teeny tiny bit in taking away the coldness from his skin.

But then, she felt the slight pressure of something.

The pressure of his hand moving in her grasp.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, staring at their locked hands in a frozen state, momentarily feeling like she was hallucinating or simply imagining things. But then his fingers moved, very slowly. “…oh my fucking god.”

Faster than she’d ever moved before, she shot up and practically slammed the nurse call button. Within seconds, the nightshift doctor stormed inside, closely followed by a nurse who appeared just as shocked as he was by Moira’s alerting.

“He moved his hand,” She rushed out, the adrenaline commandeering her voice, her cheeks reddening from excitement. “I swear to god he moved. First his hand and then his fingers.”

Without a word, the doctor began inspecting him, the same way Dr Janssen would when performing the daily physical exam. He then continued to check the rest of the machines located around the bed. A few, tense minutes later, he turned to Moira.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. False alarm.”

“What?” She exclaimed. “Bu-but I saw him move! I felt him move!”

“Movement is definitely a good sign, it may indicate Mr Stones will emerge from his coma soon. This does not mean however, that he’ll be awakening now. Everything looked normal so I suspect it was merely a short lasting moment of altered consciousness. We’ll be keeping a close eye on him throughout the next days.”

Her face turned in disappointment as she hung her head, not wanting to look at neither the doctor or nurse. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Can I help you with anything else?” the doctor asked, with compassion and sympathy into his tone.

“Uhh, no. But thank you for all your help.”

“Of course, ma’am. Good night.”

“Goodnight.” She murmured, choking back her tears.

When the door closed behind them, Moira allowed herself to cry. Looking like the image of ultimate defeat, she stumbled to her bed and dropped on top of the covers. Curling up into a ball, she hid her face in the pillow to muffle the noise as she cried herself to sleep.

------------------------------

Not wanting to get their hopes up, she hadn’t told anyone beside the nightshift doctor and nurse about Harry moving. A decision she didn’t have the right to make, maybe. But she would not stand by and watch Cassie and Lizzy crumble like she’d done that night. The short-lived hope lost within an instance. When given the choice, she would rather not have her loved ones in pain. Like any other sane person.

It was day one of month two.

Cassie was reading a book in her rocking chair while Moira entertained her son on his playmat.

Lizzy could no longer afford taking days off, so she had gone back to work, promising to call whenever.

Since his last visit, Finn had come by several times. He regularly updated Moira on everything Bones-related, as she did the same when it came to Harry’s progress –or rather the lack of it.

And lastly Emelia. She was still going strong, taking care of them like a true mother hen.

Ollie’s attention drifted and got taken elsewhere as he crawled from his playmat and towards his dad’s bed. He pulled himself up to a stand while holding onto the bedframe and tried to climb the bed –to no avail. Moira could only admire his determination; even when he dropped on his little butt more than once, he kept trying. Of course like every other mother, she sat within catching distance, just in case he toppled the wrong way.

“Let me help you, baby.” She giggled, lifting him into the air.

Cries of protest left Ollie’s lips. That was, until he discovered his mother was in fact, helping him by putting him on the bed. A brief flash of victory seemed to cross his tiny face as he let himself fall back into the covers. His mission obviously accomplished.

With a look of complete satisfaction, he sat there. Happily babbling to himself, giggling as he did. The sight was heart-warming. And the notion of this 10-month-old cutie, wanting to be as close to his dad as possible, only added to that feeling.

“Ollie,” she called his name, causing him to look up almost instantly. She pecked the top of Harry’s hand and held it up for Ollie. “Give daddy a kiss.”

Breaking out into a bright smile, his four little teeth came into full view. He leaned forward, pressed a sloppy kiss against his dad’s hand and clumsily clapped his own hands when looking back up at his mom.

“Good job, baby!” she giggled again, amused by his enthusiasm.

And out of the blue, it happened again.

His hand moved.

“Oh god, Cassie!”

At her panicky tone of voice, Cassie dropped her book and rose from the rocking chair. “What’s wrong?”

Not taking any chances, she pushed the nurse call button before answering, “He moved, his hand moved!”

Cassie’s mouth opened, closed and opened again. The expression gracing her face the definition of gobsmacked. It remained like that, even when Dr Janssen rushed into the room with a nurse trailing closely behind.

The sudden commotion caused Ollie to watch his mother with wide eyes. Moira picked him up and protectively cuddled him to her chest. “He moved his hand.” She told the doctor.

But unlike the nightshift doctor, Dr Janssen did not start performing a physical exam first. Instead, he pushed the call button again and turned to them with a serious face.

“I need to ask you to step outside the room please.”

The tension was tangible and Moira frowned, “Why?”

Right then, she gazed past him and saw why.

Harry.

With his eyes open, staring blankly ahead.

“Harraël?” Cassie seemed to have caught on as well as she half laughed, half cried –happy tears rolling down her cheeks.

She was expecting him to meet his mother’s eye—to acknowledge her presence. But no, oddly enough, he just stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes. No facial expression. His shoulders hunched over, sagging. Panic swept through Moira as she held her breath. The world wasn’t tipping, revolving or spinning precariously; everything seemed frozen in place, even the people, even her heart. And her brain struggled trying to put two-and-two together.

He was awake. And yet, there was this nagging feeling at the pit of her stomach.

At that point, another nurse entered and opted for a more physical alternative. Subtly, she ushered them to the door and out of the room, softly pushing at their backs. In her state of shock, Moira let her, and dragged Harraël’s puzzled mother along.

Almost numbly they directed themselves towards two plastic chairs, each of them slumping down in a seat. Even Ollie had fallen quiet, with his face pressed against his mother’s breast as he suckled his thumb.

For far too long, nothing happened. The silence was deafening and slowly closing in on them, putting them on edge. Only soft murmurs could be heard from Harry’s room, not revealing any clue of what was going on inside whatsoever.

After what seemed like hours, Dr Janssen finally exited the room and approached them with guarded eyes, his hands clasped together. A sense of foreboding fell over her.

“Mr Stones is awake,” he announced, but in the way he said it, it sounded like bad news. “Unfortunately, some complications have occurred."

Moira’s heart stopped beating. “What do you mean?”

“Well..” he cut himself off and grew silent.

She didn’t know what did it, really –maybe it was the anticipation of not knowing, or the endless possibilities. Whatever it was, though, made Moira snap.

With one swift movement, she handed Ollie over to Cassie, making sure she had a safe hold on him before standing up without warning, her plastic chair flung sideways and clattered to the floor. She closed the distance between them and launched herself towards the doctor, her whole form trembling with anger as she wrapped her hands around the collar of his scrubs.

“What. Do. You. Mean?” she hissed, gripping him tight and yanking him close. Dr Janssen’s shocked expression melted back into that trademark, professional face. He cleared his throat, wordlessly asking her to drop her hold on him. But she didn’t. Instead she only tightened it and shook him roughly. “Goddammit! Tell me what you mea—”

She cried out in pain as she was ripped away, her fingers being tugged too fast away from him. There was an arm around her middle, holding her up and lifting her off of the doctor; two other arms grabbed at her legs when she tried to fight her captors off.

“Calm yourself, ma’am!” one of the captors --or security guards-- commanded sternly, making her realise what she’d just done. Her entire body stilled all movement, and within seconds, the arms disappeared as she was lead back to her chair.

Feeling beyond ashamed, Moira had the urge to throw up. She hid her face behind her hands. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” She sniffed. “I don’t know what came over me, I’m so s-sorry.”

In reply, Dr Janssen laid a forgiving hand on her shaking shoulder and petted it briefly.

And then, all hell broke loose on the other side of the door. The previous inaudible mumbles, turned into clearly audible shouts.

“Where is my wife?” Harry roared, the menacing sound of him surely chilling everyone to the very bone. “Don’t touch me! Where is my fucking wife!?”