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For the first time, silence felt suffocating to Hook.
If the opportunity for a quiet evening had come to him a few nights ago, he might’ve welcomed it with open arms. Calm was a rare thing for him, with hours spent managing children in a principal’s office by day and four of his own - one of whom should’ve quieted down by now, given that he was nearing the age of eighteen in December - creating a ruckus during the evening. But, now, with his second eldest lying before him in a hospital bed, his daughter pressed to his side, and his youngest strapped to his chest, he would give anything for just one of those moments.
There wasn’t much time to think over the last several eighteen hours. The time between that phone call and now had been a blur of pleading for his mother’s much-needed assistance, discussions of funeral arrangements, and introductions to lawyers. By the time he had finally been able to see his surviving son, whose arm was now wrapped up tight in a cast and lying across a bed too large for a five-year-old boy, now there was room for it all to seep through.
He didn’t want to think of the fact that he was now a widower.
He didn’t want to dwell on being one child short.
So Hook turned to Jake, and concentrated on running his fingers through the spikes in the little boy’s hair.
The boy was able to sit up now, but Jake kept his eyes on the blank sheet of paper before him. A nurse had come by earlier and slipped some paper for the kids to draw on, and though Izzy had managed to draw a couple of butterflies on hers, the boxes of crayons and markers right beside Jake sat unopened.
“Well, popinjay,” Hook said, procuring a black marker. “I can’t stand the sight of this white cast any longer. So we’re going to fix that.”
He didn’t have much talent in the artistic department, that he knew, but still he managed to trace a skull and crossbones on its white surface. There was a shadow of a smile on Jake’s face.
“Pirates,” he whispered, running his thumb along the lopsided scribble. Hook thought he could’ve spent a little longer on the details, but if Jake was satisfied, then he supposed it was enough.
“I wanna sign, too!” Izzy said excitedly. Hook handed her the market, shifted ever-so-slightly, and observed as Izzy took over, drawing as many wings and castles as the cast would allow.
“See, it’s a bunch of butterflies,” she pointed at her work.
“I see,” Hook replied. “And I believe that one is a fairy?
“No,” the four-year-old giggled. “That’s a bird. But I still have to draw the unicorn.”
“Don’t do all of it! I want Peter and Mommy to draw some, too,” Jake said.
For a moment, Hook couldn’t speak. The words were curling in his mouth. He adjusted Cubby in the carrier, who was breathing soft sighs against him, and sat upright, trying to find his words again.
“Izzy? Jake?” He said at last. “Come here. There is something I need to tell both of you.”
Hook didn’t know how he formed the phrases to tell them how Peter and Jessica were never coming home. He could scarcely remember what was uttered, how the room looked, or what had followed just after.
But there were two things that lingered.
The ticking of the clock, and the faces of his children as they pressed closer to him.