He had gotten the call when he was in a date with his girlfriend.
Hastily, he had apologized to her and sped to the hospital, his heart racing faster than Atom's punches.
He flew through the doors, his breaths growing faster and shallower, like he was up in a mountain with thin air.
He mildly remembers nurses calling out 'Sir!' and grabbing at his arms to halt him, but he shook them off and let his feet carry him.
Faster.
Faster.
Almost there.
Panicking voice screamed in his head to hurry, to make it in time.
He stopped in front of the door, his breath hitched in his throat and his fingers just ghosting on the handle which he had so many times opened with a well practiced smile; really, five years was enough practice to make it look authentic.
Max prayed his tears didn't show as he turned the knob.
"Hey, Charlie."
Dull eyes glanced at him, crinkling with a smile, "Hey, squirt, been a few days since I've seen yah."
Wasn't it so Charlie that he'd pretend nothing was happening? That he wasn't lying on his deathbed?
"Yeah." Max croaked and sniffed, hoping it sounded manly.
Charlie weakly gestured for him to get nearer, "Well, c'mere, there's a spare chair."
He obeyed his dad and sat in it, not bearing to look at the other people here.
There was some silence, no one really knowing what to say or leaving the two for some father/son time.
"So," Charlie started and let out some coughs, "This is it."
Max could only nod.
"Doesn't feel as bad as I thought," the man elaborated, "Sure, a little uncomfortable, but other than that I'm damn fine."
He couldn't bring himself to answer.
Charlie glanced at his son, "Aw, c'mon, don't be like that, we all knew this was gonna happen."
Max let his eyes trail to his dad, who was attempting to grin as he ignored the lessening beeps of the equipment. He took a shuddering breath and gathered something, anything to say, "Dad, I— . . .I want you to—no I need you to know—"
"Don't worry," Charlie grinned, "Your secret's safe with me."
I just thought it would be cool if someone else said that line . . .
