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“Here’s Mr. Robertson’s room. Visiting hours are until 8 p.m., though if you wanted to stay overnight I’m sure no one would stop you. Not that you would want to stay overnight—it’s unlikely Mr. Robertson will be waking up anytime soon. Call button is the big red one on his right. Please only press it if you notice something wrong with Mr. Robertson or he starts to wake up.”
Chase nods absentmindedly at the nurse’s instructions. The hospital lights wash out Robert’s skin, highlighting how his freckles have faded. Lack of sunlight, he thinks. The kid spends too much time in that fucking suit. There’s barely enough room for Chase to pull up a chair, the hospital bed and machines taking up the majority of the space. There’s no window, no anything to try and make the recovery room feel like anything other than a death sentence.
The nurse leaves. Regret settles heavily on Chase’s shoulders as he finally reaches out to grab Robert’s hand. “Fuck, kid, what the hell did you get yourself into?”
It’s a stupid question. He’s seen the news stories, knows that Mecha Man was blown out of the sky. He’d clutched onto his couch’s seat, desperate to keep himself from running after Robert. His powers thrummed under his skin, urging him to chase after his boy, but he bit his tongue instead. Robert would never forgive himself if Chase got himself killed in an attempt to save him. He loved the boy too much to put that kind of grief on him.
His bones ache as he sits in the plastic hospital chair. “You’re a real piece of shit, Robert,” he says, “I can’t believe it took you almost fucking dying to finally slow down enough to let me catch up. You were supposed to be the one keeping up with me, fuckhead.”
He expects a snotty retort. Robert had always been a shithead of a kid, the kind that would throw insults back at Chase as easily as he cried. Chase knew a lot of it was just armor hiding the soft inner center of goodness that Robert held. The part of him that shined so brightly and smiled up at Chase like he was the coolest fucking person in the entire goddamned world. Chase had basked in that light, greedily soaked up whatever adoration Robert was willing to give him. The silence unsettles Chase.
He sighs as he looks back at Robert. His skin is more bruise than not. Bandages cover him from the neck down, the hospital blanket too thin to really hide anything. It’s strange, to see the man that Robert’s grown into. Chase looks at the ridge of his nose, his floppy brown hair, and all he can remember is big brown eyes begging him to buy him a twinkie with the money Robbie left him. Tears burn, and it’s far too easy to let them fall. He sucks in a shaky breath as he squeezes Robert’s hand.
“You need to wake up, kiddo,” he finds himself begging. “I can’t—don’t make me watch you die. I already had to watch your dad die, don’t make me watch you die too.”
No response. Fuck. Fuck. What if he never hears his voice again? Never gets that stupid fucking smirk or that wide eyed stare when Chase pulls off something particularly impressive. 15 years weighs heavily on Chase’s shoulders, a reminder that it’s been far too long and he wasn’t fast enough.
A sob tears through his throat. It isn’t fair. Nothing about this is fair. Robert’s cheeks are sunken, like he hasn’t been eating well. Bags shadow his eyes. Even asleep, exhaustion pulls his face into a frown. He’s supposed to look peaceful in his sleep. Chase wonders if Robert still has nightmares. He’d get such bad ones as a kid, the kind that would leave him shaking and screaming and Chase wondering what the hell Robbie was doing while his kid was having night terrors.
“Fuck, kid, I never wanted this for you. None of us wanted this for you.” He scoots closer to Robert’s bed, taking in what he can of the kid. “You—fuck, I missed you, you little shit. I missed the fuck out of you. You fucking bitch ass punk, I can’t believe it took you being put in a fucking coma before you’d let me come see you—and you don’t even know I’m here! What absolute bullshit.”
He hates how he’s talking to air. It feels closer to talking to a grave than talking to Robert himself, and Chase nearly wails at the thought. Robert’s strong, he tries to convince himself. He survived the mech exploding—this is just a set back. A minor detour on the road to recovery. Even as he tries to cling to the thought, he knows it’s nothing more than delusion. Robert’s chest rises and falls, but there’s tubes helping him breathe and another Chase is sure is a feeding tube, and IVs and too many machines trying to keep him alive.
Recovery’s going to be hell. Chase can’t even imagine the kind of pain Robert will be in, the kind of pain that will follow him after an accident like this. He shivers as he knows his own joints ache on even his best days. Accelerated aging hurts like hell, and Chase never wants Robert to know unnecessary pain.
Dragging in a breath, Chase squeezes Robert’s hand. “I’m here now, kiddo. You can stop running.” His voice cracks on the last word, and Chase knows he can’t stop himself from weeping over Robert’s body. He stays with him even past visiting hours, spending the first of many nights by Robert’s hospital bed.
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
“I meant what I said,” Chase says, a month into visiting Robert.
He leans back in his chair, a cushion he brought from home placed right on the seat. Robert’s still got too many machines attached to him, looks too pale and too exhausted and slowly growing too skinny, but his chest keeps rising and falling. It’s a brittle sort of comfort.
Still, he can’t take his eyes off of Robert. “I made sure I got a two bedroom. Keep the guest room all nice and tidy for when you finally figure out that it’s there for you. Fuck, I even got myself a yard and a shed so you can still work on your shitty suit.”
The house is a tiny thing, the kind of house that seems out of place in the hustle and bustle of Southern California. Chase remembers his realtor frowning at him when he mentioned wanting something small. “Don’t you want room for your grandkids?” He’d asked. It nearly made Chase laugh. As if he could ever have kids let alone grandkids. It’s a sick reminder that his powers have fucked him over, that even if he was once smooth and cool and powerful, time still catches up to him in the end.
It'd been easier to lie. “Just have the one,” he’d said, smiling as he took in the little fixer-upper. He shapes the peeling wallpaper and shitty appliances into something worthy of a home. Something he can settle down in, even if there’s still an urge in his bones to keep moving. He updates the guest bedroom first, knows that even if on paper it’s a guest, it’s never really that in his brain. He tries to remember Robert’s favorite colors, how he prefers the bed to be tucked into the corner and far away from the door. When it’s finished, he lays the folder on the middle of the bed. A surprise, he hopes, something to show that he means business.
It sits there for years. Chase can’t bring himself to move it. He remembers the giddiness of the court documents, the fear of if he was going to be able to do right by Robert or if Robert would even want Chase to take on such an important role. The anxiety still sits at the back of his tongue, looking at unconscious Robert. Sweet, good, Robert.
“Your dad didn’t name anyone for who he wanted as your legal guardian when he died. I don’t know if it was negligence or if he just didn’t think he’d die before you were 18.” Chase shrugs as he thinks about it, lets himself slump a little more into the shitty hospital chair. “It was a big fucking thing. A lot of people didn’t know what to do with you—who was going to take care of you, if we should just let the foster system take you in until we could figure something out. Absolute bullshit.”
Chase closes his eyes. 25 years old and grieving, it’d taken him too long to realize that nobody was going to check on Robert. That nobody thought about Mecha Man’s sole child, the one person in the entirety of this tragedy that needed support. It already stung, realizing he was too slow to keep Robbie from dying. Reaching the house only to find Robert gone had left such a bitter taste in Chase’s mouth that he vowed to push himself harder, become faster.
His muscles ache at the thought. He can’t find it in himself to regret a single time he used his powers. He hopes Robert will feel the same, when he wakes up.
“I was supposed to be your guardian,” he confesses. It’s strange, to admit this secret he’s been holding onto for the past 14, almost 15 years. He thinks he should be feeling lighter, but all he can taste is regret. “I was gonna take care of you. Send you to school, make your lunches, all that shit. I put in the petition as soon as we realized you didn’t have someone. I was gonna surprise you with the court documents when you finally came home.”
Grief hangs onto his every limb. He can feel the tears start to gather again, but he swallows them down. “I’m sorry, Bertie. I’m so fucking sorry.”
The apologies do nothing. Chase’s sorrow and guilt still wind around his throat, threatening to choke him. Robert still sleeps on, his chest rising and falling and rising and falling and never really getting any closer to waking up. He was in a major accident, Chase reminds himself. It’s a miracle he made it out alive in the first place. It’s to be expected that it’ll take some time to heal.
Patience has never been Chase’s virtue, and he finds himself once more grabbing onto Robert’s hand, tears stinging down his face. “I never should have let you fucking run away from me. I should’ve been faster, should have caught up before you could fuck off to do your next Mecha Man job. Maybe I could have fucking prevented this shit. Kept you home, kept you safe. Kept you from feeling like you had to kill yourself.”
The memory forces a crack into Chase’s voice. It’s been so long, far too long, but he can still feel the rough rope in his fingers. Robert was so young, too tiny to be thinking about ending it all like that. He thinks back, thinks that he should have never left Robert alone after finding the noose. Never should have trusted Robbie when he promised he would get the kid help, that he would make sure Robert knew that he was there for him—that Chase was there for him.
He takes a ragged breath. Seems like most of his visits have been ending with him crying. He wonders when he’ll stop being such a bitch baby around Robert’s sleeping body. Maybe when it stops looking so much like a corpse, he thinks. He wants Robert to get back out in the sun, for his freckles to start popping back up and for him to smile all wide and bright and innocent like Chase had given him the world just for buying him a damn box of twinkies.
“If this was a suicide attempt,” Chase says, “I’m going to beat your ass until you get it into your stupid thick skull that I love you, you fucking idiot. I’ve been here for you, and I’m still gonna be here for you no matter how much your self-sacrificial suicidal ass thinks you need to do shit alone.”
Nothing. Not a twitch nor a change in his breathing. The bite leaves Chase as he pulls Robert’s hand up to his forehead. He closes his eyes, focusing on just the little heat of Robert’s hand against his own. “Just wake up already, dipshit. Your unc misses you.”
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
The nurse perks up as Chase walks in through the hospital doors. “You here to see your son again, Mr. Moore?”
“Yep.” Chase smiles as they start pulling out a visitor’s badge for him. “Little shit still not waking up?”
There’s a pity that fills the nurse’s face as they hand Chase his badge. “Still no change. We promise we’ll let you know as soon as we get more information.”
“I appreciate it.” Chase clips the visitor’s badge to his cardigan. “Though knowing Robert, the kid’s going to stay asleep longer just to avoid me. Little shit knows I won’t let him get away with reckless recovery shit.”
The nurse smiles as they lean back in their seat. “We appreciate that he has such a caring father. You know the way to his room?”
“I do, though I appreciate you offering to show me the way.” It’s hard not to memorize the route to Robert’s room after nearly 3 months of visiting him. He drops his cushion on his chair as he lets himself fall into it. Sighing, he turns to Robert’s unconscious body and ignores the how his kid’s deteriorating before his very eyes.
“I swear to Christ, the fucks at my job are determined to give me a fucking heart attack.” He pulls his readers off, running a hand over his face. “It’s such bullshit, Bertie. Absolute fucking bullshit.”
He imagines Robert raising an eyebrow. He’d probably say something snarky back like how Chase looks like he’d get a heart attack just from jerking it a little too hard. The silence rubs against him, but he’s gotten good at ignoring the discomfort.
“Did I ever tell you I got a job?” Chase tilts his head. “Shit, I don’t think I did. I mean, I couldn’t keep being Track Star. Not with how my shitty powers were aging me, but we still live in a hellhole that requires money to survive. So, I found this company. SDN they call themselves. Fuckers are some sort of superhero subscription service.
“They hire a lot of retired superheroes as dispatchers. That’s what I am. Got a regular team of heroes that I send out based on the calls that come in. It’s kind of like a 911 call center, but a fuck ton more… super. I don’t fucking know. I just know that if they try to have me cover those Phoenix Program fucks one more time I’m going to lose my motherfucking shit.”
He sighs as he remembers the little shits. “You’d probably like them—you always were the kind of kid to attract the scrappy weird people in your life. See, SDN’s got this fucking program that’s there to help rehabilitate former villains into heroes. It’s a pretty robust program. They’ve rehabbed a shitton of villains—some major, most more minor. We’re on the 9th iteration of the Phoenix Program, I think? Or some shit like that. This latest bunch though… There’s a lot of shitbags on the team—some I think you busted here and there.”
He’s sure Mecha Man has caught at least one of the Phoenix Program shitbags. When he was active, Robert was everywhere. Constantly flying from place to place around Los Angeles. Chase wonders how many enemies Robert accrued during his tenure as Mecha Man. Surely enough that it was a statistical improbability that there wasn’t a single Phoenix Program candidate that hadn’t interacted with Mecha Man in some way.
“Phoenix Program isn’t my core team. I’ve been put in charge of a regular team of heroes that actually know how to mother fucking listen and do their damn jobs. However, Phoenix Program can’t keep a dispatcher for the motherfucking life of them. Every time we’ve tried, they get scared off. Longest one has lasted 3 days, I think?” Chase lets his head flop onto the back of his chair, groaning as he thinks about the fucking paperwork and constant hiring mess they’ve been put in because of the fuckers in the Phoenix Program.
“So, whenever there’s a gap in dispatchers, I get put in charge of the little shits.” Chase huffs. “It’s the fucking worst. They don’t listen. They’re ungrateful. Shit, they keep trying to make bad fucking jokes as if that’ll let them keep control of their shitty little lives. They all piss me the fuck off, but Invisibitch is probably the worst offender of them all.”
Invisibitch—or Invisigal as Blonde Blazer insists she be called—had to have been created in a lab just to piss Chase off. Constantly skulking around, acting as if her bullshit was unique when the entire world has gone through some kind of bullshit. Everything about her grates on him, her lone wolf attitude along with her assumptions that she’s the only one in the world to have suffered. It speaks to a self-centeredness that no hero should ever possess.
He glances over at Robert. “She’s the exact opposite of you,” he admits, “where she’s this black fucking hole of a person, you’re just… good. You’re so fucking good, Robert. Almost too fucking good, since it landed you in this fucking shit hole.”
He leans forward, brushes a bit of Robert’s hair out of his face. It’s greasy—clearly hasn’t been washed in a while. He knows the nurses give the kid sponge baths with some regularity, but he’s not sure if they’re able to really wash Robert’s hair with all the wires and machines attached. He wonders if they might let him help—give him a chance to actually do something for the kid instead of just sitting next to his bedside and yammering away.
Life weighs on Chase, but he doesn’t let it drag him down. “You never knew when to stop, did you? You just… kept rushing in. Kept trying to help people. Even when it nearly got you killed.”
Robert doesn’t frown in his sleep anymore. It’s strange, to see how relaxed he’s become over the months. Even if he’s losing muscle mass in front of Chase’s very eyes. He bites his lip, tries not to think of the long term effects of Robert’s coma. He’ll be with him every step of the recovery, he knows this, but he still finds himself worrying in the back of his head. He closes his eyes and banishes the worries. They’ll figure it out when Robert wakes up. Until then, all he can do is stay by Robert’s side.
He chuckles as a thought comes to him. “You know, if there was anyone who could whip those bastards into shape, it’d probably be you. You were always good at those motivational speeches, you little shit.” He smiles as he remembers seeing Robert’s Mecha Man on tv, watching Robert learn in real time how to handle the press, exactly what he needs to say in order to motivate other heroes into action. Pride wells up in Chase, even if it’s tampered by the reality before him.
He hums. “Maybe I’ll get you set up with an interview. Only after you’ve recovered, because you’re not lifting a fucking finger until I deem you ready to do so, you asshat.”
Robert keeps sleeping. Chase pretends he’s gotten an eyerolling confirmation. He nods to himself as he settles himself back in his seat. “Oh, I need to tell you about the shit Prism pulled on shift today—she’s one of them Phoenix Program fucks. Some fucking pop star or youtuber or some shit. See, I sent her on to handle a call with a couple that was going at it…”
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
Grief is a strange emotion.
It’s most associated with the death of a loved one. The yawning abyss of loss that Chase knows will never truly close. He’s been building bridges to get across the different parts of himself. It acts as makeshift sutures, something he can pretend keeps things closed when he doesn’t think too hard on it. In some ways, grief over a dead person feels easier than whatever type of grief he feels staring down at Robert Robertson.
His heart pounds. Energy runs through his limbs, leaves his hands shaking. He sits himself straight in his chair, watching the rise and fall of Robert’s chest. Up and down, still breathing even if it’s not unassisted. Chase’s teeth grind. He feels heat well up in his chest, tension squeezing his ribs tighter around his lungs. His mouth’s moving before he can stop it.
“Why didn’t you call me?” The accusation drips like molten lava out of his mouth. He knows anger won’t fix this, will just leave him feeling raw and volatile, but 6 months of a coma drag on him. “I told you if you needed anything to fucking call me, so why the fuck did you not call me?”
Robert doesn’t answer. Can’t answer because he’s been asleep for 6 months and the bastard never responded to a single call in 15 years. Tears burn, but Chase swallows them back. He wants to shake Robert, to force him to open his eyes so he can finally realize just how much Chase needs him.
“I kept waiting for you, asshat. I made sure every motherfucking place I lived in had at least something for you to fucking sleep on, some place for you to come home. I called you! I called you nearly every goddamn motherfucking day, because I worried about you! I worried about you, and your stupid suicidal tendencies and your throwing yourself at every fucking problem as if you had to be the one to fix it. As if you just couldn’t fucking help yourself.
“But the minute I show up to try and talk to you—not even fucking do anything else! Just fucking talk, you vanish. Do you know how fucking humiliating that is? How fucking shitty I felt knowing I was one of the fastest things alive in all of the world, but I can’t even fucking catch up to my shitty little brother? How fucked do I have to be that I can’t even get one stupid fucking white boy to stay still long enough for me to tell him I want him to come home.”
There’s supposed to be stages to grief. A specific order in which one passes through the mourning until they can finally arrive at Acceptance. Chase thinks Anger is supposed to be an earlier stage, supposed to come before the bargaining or the depression. It’s unfair that it slithers in now, that it boils him alive from the inside out.
He can’t stop. “Was I really that fucking terrible? Did I do such a shitty job babysitting you that you felt the need to run away? Do you fucking hate me that much?”
BEEEEEEEEEEEP.
Fear douses his anger. Chase curses as he starts mashing the call button, staring at the heart monitor stationed to Robert’s right. The drone of the heart monitor spurs him into action. He can’t think of anything else as he starts compressions. He’s counting under his breath, pausing only to feel for breath. Nothing. He curses and goes back to the compressions.
He doesn’t get far as nurses barge into the room. Chase finds himself shoved out of the way, one of the nurses taking over compressions. Another is preparing the defibrillators. Hands check vitals as voices shout orders over the drone of Robert flatlining. Someone grabs Chase’s shoulders, leading him back out of the room. They don’t stop until he’s sitting in a waiting room.
“We’ll let you know as soon as your son is stable, Mr. Moore. For now, please just wait here.” Then the nurse runs back to Robert’s side.
Terror leaves Chase immobile. The hum of the lights above harmonizes with the flatlining of Robert’s heart. He sees other family sitting around him. Some bounce their legs, gnawing on their lips. Others sob into shoulders. Still others scroll on their phones, waiting on normal procedures. They don’t think their loved one is dying, unlike the rest of the poor fucks stuck with Chase.
He shouldn’t have yelled. Regret fills his lungs, an anchor keeping him in his seat. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. Chase buries his face in his hands, unsure what else to do.
It takes twenty minutes for someone to finally come get him. They pant as they jog up to Chase, looking as bewildered as they are exhausted. “Mr. Robertson’s stable, if you’d like to—”
Chase doesn’t need another word. He stands up and powerwalks all the way back to Robert’s room. The steady beep… beep… beep… of the heart monitor a symphony Chase never wants to stop hearing. He collapses into his chair, scooting it closer so he can grab Robert’s hand. His doctor stands on his other side, giving Chase enough time to settle before she speaks.
“Mr. Robertson’s quite lucky. We thought he had passed for a solid few minutes there before we got his heart going again.” She flips through his clipboard, taking notes. “We’re going to monitor him extra carefully for the next few days, but it seems clear to me that this coma is taking a toll on his body. If he doesn’t wake up soon, there may be permanent consequences or even more incidents like today.”
Chase nods, though he can’t figure out what he’s supposed to say. He can’t do anything about the coma. If he could, Robert’s bitch ass would have been up and walking months ago. He glances up at the doctor, raising an eyebrow to try and signal that she should just come out and fucking say what she means instead of trying to dance around it.
Thankfully, she gets his hint. Sighing, she slides Robert’s clipboard back onto its wall pocket and turns to face Chase fully. “I just want you to be aware of all of the possibilities, Mr. Moore. We’re going to do our best for Mr. Robertson, but the longer he stays in this coma, the higher the possibility that his heart might just give out like it did today.”
He sucks in a breath. Letting it out slowly, he nods once more at the doctor. “Thank you for letting me know.”
She nods, and then leaves Chase alone with Robert once more. Chase waits for the door the fully close before he turns his full attention back on Robert. He clutches tightly onto his hand, moves to settle his ring and middle finger on Robert’s pulse. It thrums beneath his fingers, weak and a little thready, but still there. An extra reassurance to the consistent beeping of the machines.
Chase closes his eyes as tears slip out. “You bitch ass motherfucker, I told you not to make me watch you die.” He wants to scoop Robert up, to hold him in his arms and hide him from the world that’s left him so broken. His lips wobble as he finally breaks.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Bertie, just please wake up.”
Robert never responds.
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
“Alright you bitch ass motherfuckers, that’s the last call. Shift’s fucking over.” Chase watches the Z-Team’s (as the Phoenix Program has so eloquently taken to calling themselves) icons light up as groans and exclamations of relief fill his headset. He speaks over the chatter. “You bitches better be fucking honored that I agreed to come in on my birthday to help dispatch you shits. If I hadn’t stepped in, you all would have been shit outta luck.”
“Whoa, it’s your birthday? How old are you now, Grandpa, 89?” Invisibitch drawls, earning the snickers of some of the other members.
“No way, dude’s gotta be like… a hundred,” Golem says.
Punch-up pipes up, “well who gives a shite about how old the man is! A birthday calls for drinks! Ye comin’ with us to the bar after this?”
“I’m not going anywhere you freaks are going.” Chase scrunches his nose as he begins his end of day routine. “Besides, I have plans.”
Prism groans. “Motherfucker, you always have plans! Bae says he sees you hobbling out of the SDN building as soon as your shift is over.”
“It’s true. I don’t know what has someone so old limping so fast, but it’s pitiful to watch.” Chase hears the flip of the man’s ponytail as he speaks.
Coupé hums. “Is our interim dispatcher keeping a secret?”
“Maybe I’m just eager to get away from you fucks after being forced to babysit your shitty asses instead of dispatching my regular team of idiots.” Chase scribbles through his paperwork, setting it into the done pile.
Sonar says, “I don’t think the old man’s keeping a secret—though if he is, I could probably figure it out. See, back at Harvard—”
“Oh shut the fuck up about Harvard,” Chase groans.
Malevola’s icon lights up. “You sure you don’t want to celebrate your birthday with us, old man? We’ll even buy you a drink to celebrate.”
Chase rolls his eyes. “Like I said, I have plans. If you fucks really want to celebrate my birthday, then don’t scare off your next dispatcher for at least a fucking week.”
That earns him a round of groans, but Chase doesn’t listen any further. He exits out of the dispatching program, pulling off his headset and sighing. 39 years old and yet he feels like a 90 year old. It’s a terrible existence, he thinks, but one he’ll put up with. He might not be able to run like he used to, but at the very least he still has an idiot kid to look after.
The trip to the hospital is a welcome routine. He hums to himself as he parks his car, grabbing a bag filled with his goodies. He slings the tote over his shoulder as he starts walking to Robert’s room. Most of the medical staff give him a quick hello or a smile as he walks along. He smiles back, nodding as he keeps his bag high on his shoulder.
Reaching Robert’s room, Chase smiles. “Afternoon, Bertie.” He lowers himself carefully into his seat, groaning as he sinks perfectly into the cushion. “God, it’s been a long fucking day. They put me back with the Phoenix Program fucks—and on my birthday. Fucking sadists, SDN. Forget what I said about working there, you should never set foot in that hell hole ever.”
Robert’s still breathing steady, but otherwise he doesn’t react. That’s fine enough by Chase. He opens his tote bag, pulling out a flask and a plastic tupper ware container full of chocolate chip cookies. He sets the container of cookies on the bedside table, along with a note for Robert’s nurses thanking them for taking care of his idiot. Unscrewing the top of the flask, Chase holds it out over Robert. “Cheers. To another shitty year on this shitty earth.”
He downs a swig of whiskey—the good shit, the kind that goes down smooth and only burns in the pleasant way. He recaps his flask after that, sliding it back into his bag. “You know, I’ve been doing some research—crazy, I know, fucker like me? Doing research? Not in a million years. However, I saw something about how reading to coma patients is good for them and shit. Something about activating the brain or some shit. Well, I figured since we’re already 7 months into this. I might as well try it out.”
He pulls the small book out of his bag with a flourish. Earthsea the title declares in a rolling font with gold foil. The subtitle underneath reads A Wizard of Earthsea. Chase smiles as he flips open the book. “Figured we’d read it together, since your little bitch ass kept trying to beg me to read it when you were younger. Of course I wasn’t going to read your nerd books back then, but since it’s my birthday, I figure we could pull it out. Special occasion or whatever.”
He flips past the map onto the first page, raising a brow at the singular passage on the page. “Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk’s flight on the empty sky. The Creation of Éa… Already starting off with motherfucking contradictions.”
He flips twice more to finally reach the first page of the book. Clearing his throat, Chase begins to read, “Chapter 1: Warriors in the Mist. The island of Gont, a single mountain that lifts its peak a mile above the storm-racked Northeast Sea, is a land famous for wizards. From the towns in its high valleys and the ports on its dark narrow bays many a Gontishman has gone forth to serve the Lords of the Archipelago…”
The time passes easily. Chase lets himself stumble over some of the fantasy words, pausing from time to time to give his commentary. Robert keeps on slumbering, but at times Chase pretends he sees a twitch or the beginnings of a smile. It’s false hope, he thinks, but it’s better than nothing.
As he reads, he finds himself reminded of past days. Those earlier, easier times when Robert was small and Chase could fix all of his problems with a kiss on the forehead and a snack. The sleepovers when Robbie was out way past Robert’s bed time, and Chase would beg his dad to be the one to help put Robert to bed. How Robert would cuddle up into his side as Chase dramatically read aloud, all warm and tired and there. It didn’t matter what kiddie book Robert slid in his hands, Chase took the challenge to heart as he weaved worlds for Robert with just his voice and the words on the page.
A familiar warmth blooms in his chest as he finishes for the day. He pulls the blankets a little up over Robert, pretending he’s just tucking the man in for the night. Hesitance grips him as he looks down at Robert, at the kid that should have been his to take care of. Deciding fuck it, he kisses Robert’s forehead, just as he did all those years ago.
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” he says, “I’ll be here when you wake up. I promise.”
┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈
He gets the call on a Sunday.
It’s early, far earlier than Chase usually wakes, and he groans as eh forces himself into a sitting position. He grabs his phone as he clicks the answer button. “Hello?” He asks, sleep making his voice rough.
“Mr. Moore? This is Doctor Ward at the Torrence Hospital. Mr. Robertson has woken up.”
Electricity bolts through his spine. Chase leaps out of bed, running straight for his closet. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
The temptation to use his powers burns along his tongue. Chase swallows it back down as he throws some clothes on, brushes his teeth as he pulls on his shoes. He snags his keys and his wallet, his phone already shoved into his back pocket. He tries not to speed down the highway as the news rebounds in his head.
He’s awake. He’s awake. He’s awake. Robert’s awake.
Everything’s taking too long. Going too slow. The people around Chase don’t realize why he needs to rush, why this little old man is sprinting through hallways and desperately trying to get to the damn hospital room. He makes it to the reception, about to ignore the typical procedures for visitors, when the nurse stationed at the desk calls out, “Mr. Moore!”
Chase pauses, turning around. “I’m so sorry, but they told me Robert woke up—”
“Mr. Robertson isn’t here.”
Chase’s veins turn to ice. He can’t breathe. “What?”
The nurse’s face crumples into pity as they move to catch up to Chase. “Mr. Robertson isn’t at the hospital anymore. He discharged himself just a few minutes ago.”
That can’t be right. “He was in a coma for 7 months,” Chase hears himself saying.
“That’s right, but we can’t hold anyone against their will. He signed an AMA—”
“He was in a coma for 7 months.” Chase’s head swims. He wonders if this is a nightmare. “How the fuck is he walking himself out of the hospital after that?”
“Trust me, sir, we tried to get him to stay, but he was quite insistent.”
“So you just let him leave?” He can’t breathe. Panic clouds Chase’s mind, leaves his body tingling from how numb he’s gone. He’d finally gotten Robert to be still, Robert is awake, and yet Chase is still too damn slow.
The nurse smiles, something rueful and resigned. “There isn’t much else we could do.”
Bullshit, Chase wants to scream. This is utter bullshit. They’re a hospital. They’re supposed to keep their patients safe, keep them alive. How dare they allow a man who was clearly suicidal just walk out. Chase tries to take a deep breath. Screaming at the nurse won’t do him any favors, even if he wants nothing more than to tear their head off. “Can you at least tell me where he went?”
They shake their head. “I have to assume back home, but unfortunately I can’t tell you where exactly he was going.”
Back to square one. Chase vaguely hears himself thanking the nurse before turning on his heel. He marches through the hospital, fear and anger leaving his limbs shaking. The fucking dipshit just had to have the fucking audacity to discharge himself. When he finds Robert, he’s going to wring the idiot’s fucking neck before locking him in a room and never letting him out again. Fuck, why couldn’t the kid stop running for five fucking minutes. Chase tries to think where Robert could have landed, what sort of home he’s settled for himself, when he stops.
The idea comes to him in a whisper. He pulls out his phone, opening his contacts before scrolling. Blonde Blazer ends up near the top, a virtue of her name starting with B. He presses the contact, holding his phone to his ear. It rings three times before she picks up.
“Chase? Is something wrong?”
Chase takes a deep breath. If Robert wants to run from him, fine. Chase can let him run for a little while longer. Just means he has to change tactics.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I wanted to talk to you about the Z Team’s current lack of dispatcher. I think I’ve got just the guy for the job…”