Anger burns through him. How dare they suggest that?! He can't even think that words. He is disgusted by all of them. Doctors are supposed to fucking save people not suggest… that.

He storms out even before they have finished talking. He won't listen to that, and he certainly wants no part in even considering it.

He finds himself running through hospital corridors, he just needs to get out. Get away. To release the tension. He wants to watch the world burn. His already is.

He finds a side door and ignores the signs that say no exit. He is vaguely aware of an alarm sounding and the sound of his agents behind him. He sees nothing but flames.

The bin is his first target, kicking it over doesn't bring any satisfaction and he lashes out again. He swears as he makes contact, toes first. Now, this he can work with. He deserves pain for listening to that. If she is in pain, then why shouldn't he be? He limps slightly towards a tree and punches it. Pain erupts up his arm and he screams, feeling the adrenaline drain from his limbs. He slides down the trunk and lands in a heap at the bottom. His brain feels like it is short-circuiting, he doesn't even have the words for the emotions that surge through him. He focuses on the anger, that he recognizes, that he can work with, that has a purpose.

He gingerly examines his fist; the knuckles are split and he sees splinters wedged in amongst the blood and skin. Great. His Dad is going to flip when he sees it. He closes his eyes at the thought of his Dad, all he can see are dead eyes staring back at him. It's noisy out here, traffic and some incessant bird screeching. He screams just because he can.

Eventually, he wanders back inside, the pain in his hand giving him no other choice. He finds a bathroom and puts his hand under the running water. The pain makes his eyes water, he refuses to acknowledge there are tears mixed up in that. He bites his lip, but they keep coming. He finds himself sitting on the closed toilet lid, sobbing like the world has ended and in many ways it has. Or very soon could. He's not stupid, he understood why the Doctors wanted to talk about that, but the very idea makes him shiver and turns his blood cold.

The swelling in his hand is getting worse and he sighs, he is going to have to get it examined.

#####

The nurse doesn't say anything as she cleans up his hand and adds stitches to a particularly damaged part. He is thankful for the silence, for the lack of judgement, for the care. He refuses to make eye contact though; he doesn't want to see another set of sympathetic pitying eyes.

"You will need an x-ray to check nothing is broken."

"Yeah, I figured."

"I will take you up myself, just give me a couple of minutes."

"Thank you."

He feels a burden, a waste of resources. Surely her time would be better spent with other deserving patients. This is….

#####

The cast is soft and pliable, fortunately, he can hide it with his sweater. The pain is manageable, and he refused any strong painkillers. The pain makes him clear-headed. It drives the anger and everything else away. As much as he would like to dwell in that firestorm, he knows it won't help her. Or him.

He watches her through the glass, in many ways it looks like she is sleeping except… his breath catches and that is the problem. She isn't. This is so much worse, and he doesn't know how to reconcile that.

DNR.

She can't die. He's not ready. None of them are.