A/N: Warning, suicidal thoughts towards the end.

3. Hank

The sirens are loud. He hears them over the ringing of his ears. His eyes are heavy — feel like lead — and it takes every ounce of strength he has in his body to open them. The sky is spinning.

Why is the sky spinning?

He can barely process what's going on around him — people speaking but making no sense, their jumbled words resembling nonsensical babbles more than real words.

His ears are ringing.

The sky is spinning.

Maybe if he closes his eyes for a little while, he'll feel better.

But just for a little while.


A steady beeping wakes him up. It sounds familiar, but he can't quite place it. His jumbled mind scrambles for a reference, something that will tell him how he knows it, and what it represents.

He comes up with nothing.

His eyes are heavier than they were before he closed them.

So is the rest of his body. He doesn't recall how it felt before his nap, but now it feels like a weight that keeps going down down down down…

And he lets it pull him down.


The beeping is still there when he regains consciousness. This time, he's more aware, his mind is less jumbled, though still somewhat messy. But now he remembers: it's the steady beeping of hospital machines.

Is he in a hospital? Or did he fall asleep in the couch again, and Cole has put on some medical drama?

His body is still heavy. His eyes refuse to open.

Let Cole keep watching his medical dramas. He'll have a short nap instead.


His eyes snap open at the third beep. A brilliant white fills his vision — nearly blinding him. For a moment, the ceiling spins, and his stomach squirms, but everything regains balance after a few seconds. He blinks, trying to take it all in.

He's in a hospital.

How did he get here?

The last thing he remembers is…

Driving.

The truck.

Cole.

He smashes the button to call the nurse.

She's inside his room in less than two minutes.

"Good, you're awake. I'm going to get the doctor."

"Where's Cole?"

"Where's…?"

"My son. Cole."

Her face changes. He hates the look on her face.

"Maybe you should wait until—"

"Where is my son?!"

That pity right there — he hates it. He can't bear to look at her.

"Out with it!"

"I'm sorry, sir."

No.

"Your son… He didn't make it."

No.

No, it can't be true.

"The surgery was unsuccessful."

Shut up. Don't fucking say another fucking word.

"I am very, very sorry."

"Out!"

She leaves.

He closes his eyes, trying to shield himself against the white of the room — it mocks him, a reminder that he is very much alive, unlike his son. Unlike Cole. The lighting's artificial — as unnatural as his situation.

A father should never outlive his child.

But he has.

He's failed.

He wishes darkness would take him this time, far away, to another place where he won't have to live with this reminder.

A place where he won't have to live — period.

But he doesn't get his wish.

The light is there, and the beeping's steady.