For islandandstars and the prompt: 'I Can't Give Up On You. So Please Do Not Give Up On Yourself' with Scott and Jeff.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Jeff listens as the monitor is the only way of knowing his son is alive.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
It's been three weeks. Three weeks of hell on earth for the father of five, and he's hanging on to his eldest's hand so tightly, as if he can anchor him here – in the real world – and stop him escaping to there, where he knows his mother waits.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
But he won't let him go, can't let him go. A tear falls, and Jeff brushes it angrily away. Damn the Air Force and their secret missions, their lack of intel, their secrecy. It had taken them merely 48 hours to notify Jeff that his son was missing, but nearly two weeks before they informed him that he'd been found.
Two weeks in a medically induced coma after multiple surgeries.
And still they won't tell Jeff what happened in the six months Scott was missing.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
No matter. Jeff is a patient man. He is a powerful man, and he is not afraid to use that power to protect his children, his son. God help the USAF when he gets through with them.
But he needs Scott to wake up first. They've eventually weaned him off them medication keeping him under, now it's up to Scott.
It's been four days and still Scott is unconscious. The hospital staff are saying that he'll wake up when he's ready, but seeing the state of his son, Jeff is not so sure.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
So he keeps this bedside vigil, keeps his son grounded.
Raising Scott's hand to his face, he bestows a tender kiss before cradling it against his check. 'I can't give up on you, son. I won't. Please don't give up on yourself, Scotty.' Jeff takes a deep breath and kisses his son's hand again.
'Please, Scott. We need you. I need you. Come back to us son.'
So intent is he on speaking, on bringing Scott back, that Jeff doesn't register the change.
Beep – beep.
Beep – beep.
Beep – beep.
Placing Scott's hand back on the bed, Jeff again furiously wipes his face, only to bury it in his hands.
The voice is quiet, hoarse through misuse and dryness, but it sounds like thunder to the waiting man.
'Dad?'