Disclaimer: I don't own DP, this is just a fanfic.
Sam Manson hated hospitals. She hated the smell of disinfectant trying to drown out the smell of illness. She hated the strong warm spotted hands turned into bony claws, the incessant beep-beep of machines and the yards of clear plastic tubes where arms and nose and mouth should be. She hated the gray light that struggled through the blinds, and the chill that worked its way through the much-scorned puffy pink dress her parents had forced her into. She hated when the beep-beep turned into a long flat whine, and the doctors and the grown-ups in the funny green clothes wheeled her grandmother out into the hallway as she pleaded for one last chance to say goodbye. Most of all, she hated that the hospital had made her Grandma Ida cry. Sam Manson hated it when she cried.
Tucker Foley hated hospitals. He hated the heat and noise of confusion of many strangers crowded into too little space. He hated the walls that came close with every step and the doors and windows that never got closer at all. He hated the bright lights that made him crinkle his eyes and hide his face. He hated how his mother would tug on his hand and tell him to hurry, and he hated the doctors that lied and said it wouldn't hurt a bit. He was little, not stupid, and he knew it would hurt a lot. He hated how a nurse held him down while another stuck the hot-cold-painful sharp metal torture device they called a needle in his arm. He hated the childish Snoopy band-aids and too-sweet suckers. He hated not being able to do anything by himself, and that no one cared when he didn't want something. He hated how, even when he was a big boy, he was still too little to fix himself like he could fix his computer. Most of all, he hated that his life was quite literally in someone else's hands. Tucker Foley hated needing people.
Danny Fenton hated hospitals. He hated the bright lights that made the dark corners seem infinite. He hated the omnipresence of death, of the faint sense of green and cold that filled the air. He hated the thin floppy fabric that was the only thing these people had left to protect them from the world, and the cruel machines that anchored them to the spot as surely as any witch's curse. He hated the sickly-sweet lies to children and old men and women, again helpless as infants, as their lives drained out of them to places beyond human existence. He hated the interference of the loud orange and intense blue presences that kept the healers from their work and the dying from their rest. He hated the careless half-healers that were too stupid-cruel to take that necessary step to confine the sickness to the victims it already had. He hated when, without realizing, his steps would be drawn to a room or a bed or a chair in the hallway and he would see life in their eyes, and his ghost would welcome its flight. Most of all, he hated the pointlessness of it all. Danny Fenton hated not being able to stop their pain.