[A/N] Written for the Writers Anonymous forum challenge (No Dialogue/All Dialogue), I present to you this one-shot inspired by and following the format of the five stages of grief. The title is reference to Coldplay's song of the same title

"Who cares if one more light goes out in the sky of a million stars?"
~Linkin Park

Denial

Hospitals weren't ideal to spend the night. Only the patients received beds, their healthy loved ones opting for the only other option: uncomfortable chairs of metal frames and plastic cushions. Harrison Wells sat in one of these, using the small light on the side table to distract himself with the meaningless words of a magazine. His daughter occupied the chair to his right, her eyelids shut, her head against his shoulder, and long, rhythmic waves emanating from her lungs. The usual glaring lights that accompanied these stark white walls were off, rendering his small light and the streetlamps out the window the only sources of illumination. Because of it, deep shadows cast about the room, vague yet distorted.

If Harrison kept his eyes on the ridiculous articles in his hand, he managed quite well. Anyone might think, with his poise and masked expression, that he was simply waiting for the doctor on a routine visit. If he lifted his head just a fraction and regarded the monitors and IV lines and other blinking tech clustered around his wife's bed, the wild look in his eyes returned, his fingers clenched, and the page of the magazine bent in response. His mind would flicker to worry, remembering the eighty percent death rate. What were the odds of survival? The math stacked up against the odds. A one-to-four ratio; one chance she would survive, four chances that she would not.

There was still a chance. Even if the math didn't favour it, it did show a margin where she could live, and Harry fixated on that chance. Giving up meant betraying her, and his love ran too deep to allow that to happen. He wanted her– he needed her here by his side, so therefore she would be. Never had she abandoned him, especially never in a time of crisis. From the final exams of grad school, the city-swap from Keystone to Central, the frustration and markers flung at the walls, the construction of S.T.A.R. Labs. Jesse; most importantly, their genius daughter. While he went into fatherhood blind, she was there to help with a reassuring hand on his and a lesson on the tip of her tongue. How he'd continue her brilliant work, he possessed little idea. Jesse wasn't young anymore – she was old enough to know independence – yet she was still too young to walk to school by herself. The thought of taking up the task of raising her alone put an unmoving worry on his mind.

Tess had to survive! And she was going to. He had to believe she would, and he could convince himself of that, twenty percent survival rate or not. Tess Chambers never did like being the majority.

-x-

Anger

They asked him to leave. Him! It was his wife on the bed, and they were demanding that he leave the room? Leave her side? Never in a billion years would he consider it. He hassled, he bickered with the nurse, he spilled out as many arguments as there were stars in the sky. The nurse stood his ground (albeit a little frightened. Who wouldn't be?). Harrison glared at the man who believed he was so dignified standing about in pink scrubs. Another figure entered the room, switching on the lights halfway, keeping the coolness of the room but dispelling any peace from the atmosphere. The intensity was enough to wake Jesse from her slumber. Her eyelids peeled groggily, and her tiny fists made for her eyes in order to wipe away the haze. Her blue eyes peered anxiously at the men standing around the room, darting from her father to the nurses with a blank expression. Harry's anger couldn't persist when he glanced back, catching her helplessness.

In this moment of vulnerability, the nurses won out against the scientist's sheer stubbornness. With promises to call should her condition change in the next hours (promises he discarded as empty in his building frustration), he took Jesse by the hand and lead her to the car. Exhausted, he ensured she was buckled before clambering into the driver's seat... and staring, straight out the window.

Palms flat, fingers spread out, he slammed with as much weight as he could his hands on the wheel. The keys weren't even in the ignition. They sat idly on the passenger seat, lying discarded like its owner held no care for it.

The thing about smacking the wheel, it felt good in the moment but as soon as the stinging in his hands subsided, his reality came swooping down upon him. Even worse than before, it seemed, as along with it came a painful awareness that this reality could not be driven away. Honestly, he could have shouted on the top of his lungs and he could have screamed until his voice became hoarse, and it would not make a single difference. She'd be in the hospital, he'd be driving home.

Oh, how Harrison hated feeling helpless.

His palms met the rough surface of the wheel again, sounding a satisfying thwack! In a split second, his eyes flared at the windshield with the sheer will to see it shatter. And then his head dipped down and a hand found its way to massage his forehead. The anger was still there, boiling away underneath the surface, but he couldn't let it go free for the hope things would turn out okay.

A little margin of hope.

A teeny voice piped up from the backseat, breaking the heavy silence resting on his shoulders. Blue eyes peered into the mirror, at her meek frame, nervous hands intwined together, feet fidgeting as they dangled from the seat. When she called out for him, asking to go, was she... nervous?

He tried to keep his voice light and strong when replying. Of course he would take her home, to safety and security, for the night. And the next day the hospital will call, Tess will be awake, and things will start to rebuild back to how they were supposed to. Harrison lifted his head for his eyes to catch Jesse in the rearview mirror, the promising smile of an almost-broken man flitting across his face. He was not, by any means, a typically optimistic person, but hope came easily when there was a beacon of it in the backseat.

He settled a lid over his anger – hiding it, not dispelling it, – yanked the keys from his jacket, and pulled out of the parking lot, starting on the long trip home.

-x-

Bargaining

When did the situation get so dire? The minute they stepped through the threshold, Harry sent Jesse up to her room to get ready for bed. She couldn't stop daily routine even for this; if she did, he feared she might never get out of the chasm opening up before them. Perhaps because he had the same fear for himself – one slip-up and he'd fall. Straight down.

He collapsed on the couch, back pressed up against the cushions and head tilted over the edge. His hands rubbed away the exhaustion on his face, offsetting his glasses from the tops of his ears. Shutting his eyes and hoping to just forget it all, he allowed a shaky breath to pass his lips. Without an impressionable audience anymore, his defenses were slowly crumbling.

Until the phone rang.

It rang. His eyes snapped alert. His mind launched into overdrive. Out of mere surprise, he allowed the first ring to go by. After the second ring, he had to wonder if Tess was awake. He worried, thinking he should have been there in case the lack of familiar faces would confuse and scare her. Then passed the third ring... He remembered, they said they'd call if her condition changes. They didn't specify what the change would be. ...Four rings... And if she doesn't wake up? And if they call to deliver the worst? ...Five rings... What if he never picked up? Sure, Harrison would never know, but also he'd never know. This state of worry and uncertainty, wasn't it better than being absolutely certain she was gone? Never informing him of the favourable news, but never informing him of anything worse. If she was gone, he could wait in this moment forever, prolonging the seconds before his world came crashing down.

But he has to know. Fingers clenched around the phone's form, he brought it to his ear in a display of false-courage... only for it to falter and crack with the next words uttered on the other end of the line.

In the first second after, Harry closed his eyes. In two seconds, he readjusted his grip on the phone. In three, rage reignited in his veins. For all his hope, all his denial, all his rage, he had been stupid. Only a downright idiot would blindly hope against strict facts. He flung the phone onto the base, slamming it with such force he would not be surprised later if he actually broke it. He hoped he broke it as he ran his hands over his face.

-x-

Depression

Tears did not fall. Neither did they pool in his eyes, unmoving. Where he was headed, there was nothing but a void, a vacuum, a tunnel of emptiness which stretched on until infinity. He had briefly wondered how he'd manage to carry on after a tragedy like this, previously when he had been in the hospital, but he never wished to actually answer the question. Forget calculus, forget quantum physics, the hardest question to answer lay right here in his very own living room: how would he ever continue with the most vital piece of his heart... gone.

Harrison stood, starting for the stairs, but a newly-emerged, pyjama-clad Jesse blocked his path. She had seen it – the phone call, the rush of anger, the wave of despair. The attempt at a smile melted off her features with one look towards her father. Without any words exchanged, she knew. The red-hot inside him froze in time for his eyes to catch her frightened form charging for his legs. Picking her up, Wells pulled her close. Her face pressed up against his shirt, and he felt the fabric grow moist already. The challenge to stay strong and upright became harder with each second until, finally, nothing kept him from joining her. The tears fell.

He rolled over in the bed, disturbing the sheets for the umpteenth time that night. It was nearly five as seen from big, red figures glaring at him from his alarm clock. Coming from where the shade didn't cover the window all the way, a little sliver of silver light was already creeping along the ceiling. It could have been a streetlight, if he thought hard enough. He could have been back in the hospital, waiting for his wife's conscious form to sit up in her bed, if he tried envisioning it. If he rolled over, facing away from the bed's centre, he could almost imagine she was laying opposite him, calming herself down after a pointless fight. He'd take a fight with her any day if it meant her presence beside his; at least then she'd be alive, and her hair would spread over the pillows, her brown eyes gleaming in the dim silver. They'd drift off to sleep, perhaps still angry but together.

Now as he rolled over to view the other wall, nothing stopped his line of sight. Not her wide smile which could chase away any bad thought on his mind.

-x-

Acceptance

Maybe he was thinking about it the wrong way.

Getting over her death didn't have to mean he was betraying her. Letting her go didn't have to mean he would forget everything they shared, like the wintry walks along campus during their first few months together or the hours staying up late trying to incorporate their S.T.A.R. Labs dream into reality.

Getting over her death meant, perhaps, that he could look back fondly on his time with the beautiful Tess Chambers without a sharp pang in his heart. Finally, remembering every ghostly smile and glimmer in her eyes might be as harmless as a dream.

Maybe it was a good thing Jesse pushed him to talk. Ten years is a long time to harbour the sorrow.