Layne sped down the highway.  He didn't even bother to check his speedometer on his motorcycle.  He was determined to get to the clinic a good thirty minutes before visitation time.  He knew he'd have to call mike to persuade him to see him.

His mind wouldn't stop running.  Thoughts and memories kept leading into other thoughts and memories—some of them seeming to intertwine with one another.  His brain was racing like four trains in all opposite, crazy directions.  Twirling and encircling amongst one another, yet not seeming to get anywhere.

Phil's face kept popping up in his mind.  Images of his smiles, his frowns...his sudden fits of rage due to copious amounts of drug use.  Layne was determined to NEVER allow his child to witness something like that—at least not until they're old enough to understand it.  When they're on their own and learning how the real world works.

He fought the tears as the flashbacks kept hitting him like lightening bolts in a threatening vicious thunder storm.  When he was little, him and Liz sometimes would have to hide in their rooms.  All because Nancy and Phil were arguing.  They were too young to understand why.  Layne remembered how he would sometimes blame himself for their dysfunctional relationship.

"Mike better get a fucking grip," Layne growled between clenched teeth.

His heart dropped to his stomach as he pulled into the parking space of the psychiatric clinic.  He stood there for a moment, sucking on yet another cigarette.  He forgot how nicely kept the building was.  It was encased by trees, a few paths leading back to the garden where the PCAs there would allow the patients to go out to smoke and chat and participate in activities.

Nervous fingers flicked the cigarette across the parking lot, those long strong legs leading him inside of the building.  He was overwhelmed by the scent of sugar cookies and a smiling young man at the front desk.

"Hello," the man greeted him.  He fidgeted a bit with his thick rimmed glasses.  "Can I help you?"

Layne nodded his head.  "Yeah...uh," he curled his brow in question.  "Is it okay if I use the phone...?"

He shook his head.  "I can't do that, sir."  He pointedly looked over towards the right of him.  "But there's pay phones right over there."

Layne forced a smirk and thanked him.  Quickly and urgently, he dropped quarters into the pay phone and dialed the ward number.  When the PCA answered the phone, he didn't even bother to act cordial.

"I NEED to speak with Mike Starr," Layne grumbled into the phone.  "It's very URGENT."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"It's an EMERGENCY, ma'am," Layne interrupted.  He caught a look from the man at the desk.  He couldn't help but to anxiously smile at him again, his cheeks burning from embarrassment.

Layne was pleased when the PCA told him that they would get him on the phone.  He tapped his phone impatiently when they put him on hold.

"Who is this...?" Mike's weak, deep voice rung on the other end of the line.

"It's Layne," the blonde spat.  His tone was stern.

A loud sigh commenced.  "What the heck, Layne.  I thought this was an emergency.  I'm hanging up—"

"This IS an emergency!" Layne shouted.

"Okay..." mike slurred out awkwardly.  "What's the supposed emergency."

"Briana is pregnant."

"What?!" Mike snapped.  His voice suddenly seemed to have gained strength.  "You're joking, right?!"

Layne chewed on his lip for a moment.  His eyes slid down to the floor.  "Nope.  She's definitely pregnant.  Her gynecologist confirmed it today."  He paused for a moment, praying in his head that mike would be compliant with him.  "LISTEN to me.  We NEED to talk, Mike.  This is very very important to me.  And Briana.  And to all of our families."

"I'm guessing you want to see me during visitation..."

"I'm already here," Layne admitted.  He furrowed his eyebrows in despair.  "Please, Mike.  I know you're mad at me...  But this is very serious.  I need to talk to you.  IN PERSON."

"Alright..." mike moaned bitterly.  "But I'm warning you—I don't look too good right now..."

Layne rolled his eyes.  "I don't care, Mike.  That isn't relevant right now."

"Alright, alright, I'll let the head nurse know.  They'll bring you in in probably not even TWO minutes."  Mike groaned a bit.  "They've been nagging at me to do visitation, anyways..."

"Good," Layne grumbled.  "Then get off the fucking phone.  I'll be waiting for you."

When they hung up, it didn't take too long at all for a nurse to call him in through the door.  They walked down the hallways of the building.  They had over three different wards in here.  One for geriatrics, another for patients in need of critical care, and, of course, the ward mike was on.

He was shocked that the nurse led him right into the ward.  Most clinics had their own separate visitation rooms, either that or they did visitation in the cafeteria.  It depended on how large the clinic was.

Curious blue eyes wandered around the unit.  It was very clean, sterile...  Everything was white.  Even the furniture was white.  It made Layne a little queasy.  It brought back too many memories of the times he'd been inpatient.  Specifically the last time he was inpatient...when he had met Nicky...

Before his memories could torment him, though, a nurse walked mike over to the couch that Layne was sat on.  Concern filled the vocalist up when he took in his best friend's appearance.

He had dropped a lot of weight.  Which was shocking considering Mike had been here for close to three weeks now.  He'd figured the guitarist would look better.  But mike wasn't over exaggerating—he looked worse.

The brunette's pale, bony hand swiped thin and dull hair out of his face.  He ran his tongue along his cracked lips, his sunken in eyes glistening with shame when he took in Layne's shocked expression.

"I warned you..." mike muttered out meekly.

Layne's eyes widened even more.  His jaw dropped as he shook his head at him.  "What the hell, Mike?"

He scratched at his scalp for a moment.  A grimace stretched across his gaunt face.  "I don't know..." he grumbled out.  He forced a pained smile.  "They're at least keeping me from killing myself."

Layne's eyes softened.  "Don't talk like that..."

Mike peered down at his trembling hands.  He picked nervously at the dirt beneath his unkempt fingernails.  "How far along is she?" He asked, changing the subject.  He chewed on his lip.

"Eight weeks."

Mike gave him a look of shock.  "No wonder she's been so damn moody lately!"

Layne raised a brow.  "What do you mean...?"

"She hasn't been able to take the other patients' shit lately," he told him with honesty.  "She's been crying a lot this past week or so..."  He rubbed at the bony notch in his shoulder.  "Heck, she hasn't even been bothering to try to help me.  The first week in here she was constantly trying to talk me down when I'd have meltdowns.  Now she just keeps her distance..." his voice got weak again.  "I was beginning to think that she was giving up on me."

Layne shook his head at him.  He couldn't help but to feel sad for him.  He knew exactly how he felt, and the feelings he shared were even more intense simply due to the fact that the staff actually allowed him on the ward.  He gripped Mike's shoulder with support, concern filling him up when he felt just how thin the man had gotten.

"She'd never think of giving up on you," Layne finally said.  He tilted his head at him when those brown eyes met his.  "We both will never give up on you, man."

Mike shifted away from Layne, getting him to let go.  He didn't bother to say anything in response.  He felt like it was hopeless, anyways.  He was nothing compared to Layne...and he felt like he'd never measure up to anything.

"We need to make sure you're fully stable when you get discharged," Layne went on.  He couldn't help himself but to analyze the man.  His clothes were dirty.  They hung off of his frail body loosely.  He had gotten so pale...

"Have they discussed outpatient treatment with you yet?" Layne asked when he glanced back up to study his thin face.

Mike shook his head.  "I don't think they're planning to discharge me anytime soon."

"Well, I could see why," he blurted out.  He didn't even care that he was being blunt.

The bassist let out a loud sigh.  "I know I'm a mess," he spat out.  "I know I look like shit.  And I know I'm getting worse.  Doctor Lawrence is constantly calling me into his office to do check ups.  They want me on anti depressants."

"So, why aren't you taking them?" Layne asked.  He already knew mike was refusing.  It was obvious by the despair that was written all over the man.

Mike wetted his lips.  "I just don't really see the point.  Plus the other patients in there have been complaining about side effects of their medications.  It's like they want to drug us to death in here."

Layne couldn't help but to roll his eyes at him.  "They're sick, Mike," he reminded him.  "They probably don't even know what the heck they're talking about half of the time.  You can't listen to people like that.  You should be listening to the staff, not them."

"I guess you're right..."

A sad smile crept on the blonde's face.  "So, you'll try them?"

He just nodded his head.  His eyes slid back down to his hands to pick at them again.

"I talked to my dad earlier," Layne admitted.

Mike raised a brow of surprise.  "What compelled you to do that...?"

"Ever since I found out Briana got pregnant, I've been thinking a lot about him..."  he let out a quiet chuckle.  "I mean, I'm going to be a father, so it makes sense."

"Let me guess," Mike started, his tone bitter.  "He's still getting high.  It freaked you out.  Fuck, might have even triggered you."  He paused for a moment to shoot Layne a look of persecution.  "And you wanted to come down here to demand that I stay clean so I don't corrupt your kid."

"Well..."  Layne took a deep breath in.  He couldn't look at mike anymore.  He focused his eyes on the nurse station that was across from them.  "Yeah...  Yeah, that was my intention of coming here.  But now that I see you..." He paused.  Crystal blue eyes slanted back over to take in Mike's almost skeletal appearance.  "I can tell you're in dire straights."

"So, now instead of giving me the big ol tough love pep talk, you're gonna pity me?  Huh?"

Layne bit his lip.  "Not necessarily...  It's now more of I want to motivate you."  He watched as mike fidgeted in the cushion of the couch.  "You're going to be an uncle.  You're gonna be Uncle Mike."  Layne's eyes teared up when mike glanced up at him again.  "You have a kid coming that's going to look up to you.  That's going to love you regardless of your past.  They're going to want to learn from you, to spend as much time with you as possible."  Layne grabbed ahold of Mike's sweaty palm and squeezed.  He grinned at him.  "You have someone to live for, Uncle Mike.  You have someone who's counting on you to be there for them, instead of it being the other way around."  He shrugged his shoulders.  "We all need you around regardless.  But this baby...this kid...  He or she...they're really going to need you around.  And I for a fact want you to still be here so you can experience what it's really like to finally feel like you have a purpose in life."

Mike bit back tears.  Still, they fell anyways.  His scrawny body shook.  Shame, yet comfort, burnt within his sunken chest when he felt Layne's warm arms wrap around him.

"You really want me to be around your kid?" He whimpered out.

Layne gave him a look of reassurance.  "Of course I do.  I know it'll be good for the both of you."

"But I'm a fucking junkie..."

He shook his head.  "No you're not."

"I'm a fucking loser."

"Mike, you're not even close to being a loser," Layne told him.  He smiled brightly at him when his crying started to slow down.  "I still want you to record some tracks for my album.  Heck, I want you to be in my new band.  Whatever the heck I'm going to call it."

Mike couldn't help but to laugh.  "How in the ever living fuck is it going to be a band if it's just the two of us?"

"We'll find Sean and Jerry impersonators."

Mike laughed even harder as he wiped tears from his cheeks.  "Maybe we could switch it up and get an Elvis Presley impersonator to do vocals with you."

Layne snickered at that, remembering when he sang like Elvis one night in the recording studio back in the 90's.  The producer was so irritated with him AND Mike.  They literally fucked around the entire night they were there.  They didn't get anything accomplished.

"Please," Layne pleaded when Mike sat back up in the couch.  "Please, get better, man.  I miss you.  I've been missing you ever since we both relapsed together on H over a year ago.  I need my friend back."

Suddenly, Layne started crying.

Mike pulled him into a tight embrace.  He couldn't stop himself from crying all over again.

"I will..." mike whimpered.  "I promise..."