Chapter 3: Rescue and Aftermath
The building smelled like wet carpet and old cigarettes. Hank took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing off concrete walls that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since the Reagan administration. The elevator was out—had been for months, according to the handwritten sign taped to the door—and by the time he hit the fourth floor, his knees were singing a familiar tune of protest.
He'd been a detective once. He knew how to read a scene before he stepped into it. The hallway told him plenty. Gavin's door was ajar, a sliver of yellow light bleeding through the crack. The muffled sound of music drifted out—something tinny and distant, playing from a phone speaker at low volume.
Hank pushed the door open with two fingers.
"Gavin? You in there?"
The apartment was a disaster zone. Clothes everywhere—on the floor, draped over furniture, hanging from lampshades like some kind of textile disaster. Takeout containers stacked on the coffee table in a game of Jenga that had already been lost. The kitchen was worse. Dishes piled in the sink, a frying pan on the stove with something in it that had long since petrified.
And there, on the cold tile floor, was Gavin.
He was sprawled on his side, one arm tucked under his body, the other flung out like he'd been reaching for something when the floor decided to swallow him whole. His face was pale—not the healthy kind of pale, the kind that came with winter, but something closer to gray. His lips had a bluish tinge that made Hank's stomach drop.
"Jesus Christ."
Hank crossed the room in three long strides, his knees cracking as he dropped down beside Gavin. The kid's breathing was shallow—too shallow, the kind of shallow that meant his body was fighting for every breath. His pulse was there, thank God, but it was thready, racing, the heartbeat of a small animal trapped in a snare."Gavin. Hey. Gavin, wake up."
Gavin's eyelids fluttered. His pupils were blown wide, the irises nearly swallowed by black. He looked up at Hank with an expression of vague confusion, like a man who'd woken up in a stranger's bed.
"Oh," he said, his voice thin and distant. "You're the sad bear."
"What?"
"Connor said. Sad bear. I said that." Gavin tried to laugh, but it came out as a wet cough. "It's a compliment. Bears are cool."
"Okay, kid. We're gonna get you up, alright?" Hank's eyes swept the room, cataloguing. There—on the counter, next to a bag of stale chips. A prescription bottle, orange, no label. Scattered pills nearby, some whole, some crushed, some half-dissolved in a puddle of something that might have been water or might have been spilled beer. "What did you take, Gavin? What was in the bottle?"
"Don't remember."
"Try."
"I was trying to sleep." Gavin's voice cracked. "Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about Niles. Kept thinking about... about the way he looked at me. Before he left."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know." The words came out broken, wet. "He said he needed space. Said he couldn't breathe. I told him to go. I told him to get the fuck out and not come back."
Gavin's face crumpled. The tears that followed were silent—just tracks of water cutting through the grime on his cheeks.
"He's not coming back, is he?"
Hank didn't answer. He was already pulling out his phone, dialing 911 with the kind of practiced efficiency that came from too many years of too many emergencies.
"What's your emergency?"
"This is Hank Anderson. I've got a male, mid-twenties, possible overdose. He's conscious but disoriented. Pulse is thready, respiration's shallow. I need an ambulance at 1428 Morrison Street, apartment 4B."
"Are you with the patient now?"
"Yeah, I'm with him."
"Can you keep him talking? Try to keep him awake?"
"I'm on it." Hank pocketed the phone, turned back to Gavin. "Hey. Kid. Look at me."
Gavin's eyes drifted, unfocused. "Everything's purple again."
"I know. I know it is. But you gotta stay with me, okay? You gotta keep your eyes open."
"I'm tired."
"I know you're tired. But you can't sleep right now. You gotta stay awake."
"Don't want to stay awake." Gavin's voice was slurring now, words running together like watercolors in rain. "Don't want to be here. Don't want to be...anywhere."
Hank's chest tightened. He'd heard those words before—different mouth, different time, but the same hollow echo. He reached down and grabbed Gavin's chin, tilting his face up, forcing eye contact.
"Listen to me. I know it hurts. I know it feels like the whole world is caving in and you just want it to stop. But you've got people who love you, you hear me? You've got Niles. You've got—"
"Niles left." The words came out in a sob. "He left. He always leaves. Everyone always... always leaves."
"He didn't leave. He just needed some air. He's coming back."
"You don't know that."
"Actually," Hank said, "I do."
He didn't. But he needed Gavin to keep breathing, and sometimes lies were the only medicine that worked.
There was a sound from the hallway—footsteps, rapid and heavy. Then the apartment door swung open and two paramedics in navy blue uniforms hurried inside, their equipment bags thumping against the floor.
Hank stood up, stepped back, let them work. He watched as they checked Gavin's vitals, as they started an IV, as they asked questions that Gavin couldn't answer.
"How long has he been like this?"
"I don't know. I got here fifteen minutes ago. He was already on the floor."
"Do you know what he took?"
"There's pills on the counter. No label, but they look like benzos. There's an empty bottle of whiskey in the sink."
The taller of the two paramedics—a woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense haircut—nodded. "We're gonna take him in. Are you family?"
"No. Friend of the family."
"Alright. You can follow the ambulance to the hospital. He's going to need someone to fill out paperwork."
Hank looked at Gavin—at the kid's pale face, his shaking hands, the tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes. Then he looked at his phone, at the text chain still open on the screen. Connor, checking in every few minutes. Any news? Any word from Niles? Hank please answer.
He thought about the hospital. About sitting in a plastic chair for hours, waiting for news. About calling Connor to tell him Gavin was alive but not okay.
And he thought about Niles. About the empty bedroom, the unanswered texts, the way his gut was screaming that something was wrong.
"I'll call his boyfriend," Hank said. "But I can't come to the hospital. I've got to find someone else."
The paramedic's expression flickered—something like judgment, quickly suppressed. "Sir, he's going to need—"
"I know what he needs." Hank's voice was harder than he intended. "But there's another kid missing, and I'm the only one looking for him. So you take Gavin to the hospital, you keep him alive, and I'll call his boyfriend and tell him where to go. That's the deal."
The paramedic held his gaze for a moment. Then she nodded, just once, and turned back to her patient.
Hank grabbed his phone and dialed Niles.
Straight to voicemail. Again.
He tried again. Same thing.
"Gavin." Hank crouched down beside the stretcher, ignoring the paramedic's pointed look. "Gavin, I need you to tell me something. Where would Niles go? When he needs space, where does he go?"
Gavin's eyes were half-closed, his breathing shallow. But his lips moved, forming words that Hank had to strain to hear.
"The bridge. The one by the river. Where we first... where we first met."
"Which bridge?"
"The old one. The steel one." A tear slid down Gavin's cheek. "He said it was the only place that felt like home."
Hank's blood ran cold.
He knew that bridge. Everyone in this city knew that bridge. It was where people went when they had nowhere else—and sometimes, it was where they went when they wanted to be found.
Or when they didn't.
"Hang in there, kid." Hank stood up, grabbed his keys from the counter. "Someone's gonna come be with you. Just keep breathing."
"Hank." Gavin's voice stopped him at the door. "If you find him... if you find Niles... tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I didn't mean it. Tell him I'll do better. Tell him I'll—"
"I'll tell him." Hank's throat was tight. "I'll tell him."
And then he was gone, running down the stairs, his phone already at his ear.
Connor answered on the first ring.
"Hank? What's happening? Is Gavin—"
"Gavin's alive. Paramedics took him in. He's gonna be okay." Hank pushed through the building's front door, into the cold night air. "But I need you to do something for me."
"What?"
"I need you to call the hospital. Get a room number. Get someone—I don't know, call one of Gavin's friends, call his work, find someone to sit with him. I can't—I can't be there."
"Why not?" Connor's voice was sharp now, edged with panic. "Hank, what's going on? What happened?"
"I think Niles is in trouble." Hank unlocked his car, slid into the driver's seat. "Gavin said something about a bridge. The old steel one down by the river. I think—I think Niles might be there."
Silence. A long, terrible silence."Connor. You still there?"
"I'm here." Connor's voice was very small. "Hank, that bridge—"
"I know."
"That's where people—"
"I know."
"You have to find him." Connor's voice cracked. "You have to find him. Hank, please. Please find my brother."
"I'm trying. I'm heading there now." Hank turned the key, pulled out into the empty street. "You call the hospital. You find someone to sit with Gavin. And you stay on the phone with me, you hear me? You stay with me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
The city flew past—streetlights, storefronts, the dark shapes of buildings that had seen better days. Hank drove faster than he should have, faster than was safe, but he didn't care. His mind was racing, calculating, the old detective coming back to life.
A bridge. A missing kid. A boyfriend on the floor of his apartment, half-dead from an overdose.
It was the kind of case he used to solve smoothly. The kind he used to take apart piece by piece, examining every angle, every detail, until the truth was laid bare.
But this wasn't a case. This was Niles—smart, troubled, fragile Niles, who had been through more in his short life than most people went through in decades. Niles, who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and never asked for help. Niles, who had been the one constant in Connor's life, the one person who had always been there.
If something happened to him—
Hank pressed the gas pedal harder.
"I'm almost there," he said into the phone. "Connor, I'm almost there."
"Please hurry."
"I am."
The bridge loomed ahead, its steel arches silhouetted against the dark sky. It was old—built in the 1920s, when the city still believed in permanence. Now it was rusted, weathered, held together by nothing more than habit and nostalgia.
Hank parked the car at the base of the bridge and got out. The wind was cold here, biting at his face, carrying the smell of river water and exhaust.
He looked up.
There—halfway across, silhouetted against the city lights—was a figure.Small. Still. Standing on the wrong side of the railing.
"Jesus Christ."
Hank started running.
His footsteps echoed against the pavement, loud in the empty night. His lungs burned, his knees ached, his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. But he kept running, kept moving, kept his eyes fixed on that small figure on the bridge.
"Niles!" His voice tore through the night, ragged and desperate. "Niles, don't!"
The figure didn't move.
Hank was close now—twenty feet, fifteen, ten. He could see the boy's face, pale in the dim light. Could see the way his hands were gripping the railing, knuckles white. Could see the tears on his cheeks.
He could also see the way Niles's eyes were fixed on the water below.
"I'm not here to stop you." Hank's voice was steady now, calm. The voice of a man who had done this before. "I'm just asking you to talk to me. That's all. Just talk."
Niles didn't look at him. "Why are you here?"
"Your brother's worried about you."
"Connor doesn't need me. He's got you."
"That's not how it works." Hank took a step closer. "You know that. You're his brother. You're the only family he's got."
"I'm not his family." Niles's voice cracked. "I'm just... I'm just the mess he got stuck with."
"That's not true."
"You don't know anything." Niles finally turned to look at him, and Hank saw the exhaustion in his eyes—the bone-deep weariness that came from years of fighting battles he was never going to win. "You don't know what it's like. To wake up every day and wonder why you're even here. To look at the people you love and know you're just... a burden."
"If you really believed that," Hank said carefully, "you wouldn't have called out for help."
Niles blinked.
"The text messages. The clues. The bridge where you first met Gavin." Hank took another step. "You wanted to be found. You just didn't know how to ask."
For a moment, something flickered in Niles's eyes. Something that might have been hope.
Then it was gone.
"I can't do this anymore." His voice was barely a whisper. "I can't keep fighting. I'm so tired, Hank. I'm so tired."
"I know." Hank was right behind him now, close enough to touch. "I know you are. But you don't have to fight alone. You've got me. You've got Connor. You've got Gavin—"
"Gavin hates me."
"Gavin's on his way to the hospital right now." Hank's voice was hard. "He tried to kill himself tonight. Because he thought you left him. He thought you weren't coming back."
Niles's face went white. "What?"
"He took pills. I found him on his kitchen floor. He was crying, Niles. He was crying and saying your name."
"No." Niles shook his head, the movement frantic, desperate. "No, no, no—"
"He's alive. He's gonna be okay. But he needs you. He needs you to come back."
Niles looked at the water below, then back at Hank. His hands were shaking now, the grip on the railing loosening.
"I can't—"
"You can." Hank reached out his hand. "Come on, kid. Just take my hand."
Niles stared at it for a long moment. The wind whipped around them, cold and biting, carrying the sounds of the city below.
Then, slowly, he reached out.
His fingers brushed Hank's. Hank grabbed them, pulled him gently, carefully, back over the railing. Niles stumbled, fell into Hank's arms, and started to cry.
It wasn't a quiet cry. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep, somewhere broken, somewhere that had been holding everything together by sheer force of will and was finally, finally giving out.
Hank held him. Didn't say anything. Just held him, there on the bridge, with the wind blowing around them and the city lights reflecting off the water below.
"It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay. I've got you."
"My phone." Niles's voice was muffled against Hank's shoulder. "My phone was in my pocket. I thought... if I called someone... they'd just try to stop me."
"They would have."
"I know." Niles pulled back, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "My phone. I threw it in the river."
Hank didn't ask why. He didn't need to.
"Come on." He pulled out his own phone, hit Connor's number. "Let's call your brother. He's been going out of his mind."
The call connected before the first ring even finished.
"Hank? Did you find him? Is he—"
"He's here." Hank looked at Niles, at the tear tracks on his cheeks, at the trembling in his hands. "He's alive. He's okay."
A sound on the other end of the line—half sob, half laugh. "Thank God. Thank God. Can I talk to him?"
Hank handed the phone to Niles.
"Connor?" Niles's voice cracked. "Connor, I'm so sorry—"
And then he was crying again, and the phone was clattering, and Hank was catching it before it could hit the pavement.
He put it on speaker. Let Connor's voice fill the empty air.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Just come home, Niles. Please come home."
"I'll come home." Niles wiped his face, took a shaky breath. "I'll come home."
Hank put an arm around his shoulders, steered him toward the car.
"Come on, kid. Let's get you out of this wind."
They walked together, slowly, carefully, past the light poles and the closed businesses and the dark shapes of buildings that had seen better days. The city was quiet now—the kind of quiet that came after midnight, when the bars closed and the streets emptied and the only sound was the distant hum of traffic.
"Connor?" Niles said into the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell Gavin. About... about tonight. Please. Not yet."
A pause. Then: "He's gonna find out eventually."
"I know. I just... I need to figure out how to tell him myself. He's going to be so mad."
"He's not going to be mad, Niles. He's going to be scared. There's a difference."
Niles closed his eyes. "I know."
They reached the car. Hank opened the passenger door, helped Niles inside, closed it gently. Then he walked around to the driver's side, got in, and sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel.
"Connor?"Yeah?"
"Gavin's at St. Mary's. Room 302. I called the hospital, got a friend of his to go sit with him. He's gonna be okay, but someone needs to be there for him."
"I'll go." Connor's voice was steady now, determined. "I'll go right now."
"Connor."
"What?"
"Take a cab. Don't drive."
"I wasn't going to."
"Promise me."
"I promise." A pause. "Hank?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For finding him. For... for everything."
Hank looked at Niles, slumped in the passenger seat, eyes closed, breathing even.
"Don't thank me yet," he said. "We've got a long way to go."
He hung up the phone, started the engine, and pulled out into the empty street.
The night stretched on ahead of them, dark and full of shadows. But somewhere in the distance, the first hints of dawn were starting to bleed through the black—gray at first, then pink, then gold.
They drove toward it together, silence filling the car like smoke.
And somewhere, in a hospital three miles away, Gavin Reed was fighting to stay alive.
And somewhere, in a cab that was speeding toward that same hospital, Connor Stern was doing the same thing.
And Hank Anderson, who had never been good at much except finding people and losing them and finding them again, pressed the gas pedal down and kept driving.
The car heater wheezed like a dying man, pushing lukewarm air through vents that smelled of dust and old French fries. Niles sat with his forehead pressed against the passenger window, breath fogging the glass in slow, rhythmic pulses. His hands were still shaking.
"You want the radio?" Hank asked.
"No."
"Music?"
"No."
"Alright." Hank kept his eyes on the road. "We're just gonna drive, then."
The city slid past in fragments. A neon sign flickering above a closed diner. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart loaded with aluminum cans. A stray dog trotting along the sidewalk with the kind of purpose that came from knowing exactly where it was going.
Niles watched all of it like a man watching a movie he'd already seen a hundred times. His voice, when it finally came, was barely audible over the engine's rumble.
"I threw my phone in the river."
"You mentioned that."
"It had all my contacts. All my photos. Everything." Niles turned his head, looked at Hank with hollow eyes. "I don't even remember doing it. I just remember standing there, and then it was gone, and I felt... lighter. For a second."
Hank's grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn't say anything. There was nothing to say that wouldn't sound like a lecture, and the kid had been lectured enough for one lifetime.
"The thing is," Niles continued, "I wasn't even sure I wanted to jump. I just wanted to stop. Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Stop being this... this weight that everyone has to carry."
"You're not a weight."
"Connor's been taking care of me since we were kids." Niles laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He's three years younger than me, and he's been taking care of me since we were kids. That's not... that's not how it's supposed to work."
"Life doesn't work the way it's supposed to."
"Yeah." Niles looked back out the window. "I noticed."
They drove in silence for a while. Hank turned onto the highway, heading toward the hospital. The sky was getting lighter now—not dawn exactly, but the promise of it. That gray-blue limbo between night and morning.
"Gavin's gonna be pissed," Niles said.
"Probably."
"He's gonna yell at me."
"Probably."
"He's gonna say I'm selfish. That I wasn't thinking about him. That I only think about myself."
Hank glanced at him. "Is that what you think?"
"I don't know what I think." Niles's voice cracked. "I don't know anything anymore. I just know that when I'm with him, everything feels... louder. Brighter. Like the whole world is turned up to eleven and I can't hear myself think."
"And when you're not with him?"
"Everything goes quiet." Niles closed his eyes. "Too quiet. Like I'm underwater. Like I'm drowning and no one can hear me screaming."
Hank pulled off the highway, took the exit toward St.Mary's. The hospital loomed ahead—a massive concrete structure that looked more like a prison than a place of healing. Fluorescent lights blazed in every window, defying the darkness.
"Do you love him?" Hank asked.
Niles opened his eyes. "What?"
"Gavin. Do you love him?"
"That's not... that's not the point."
"It's exactly the point." Hank pulled into the parking lot, found a spot near the emergency entrance. "You don't almost jump off a bridge because someone annoys you. You do it because you can't figure out how to live without them."
Niles stared at him.
"You're not as subtle as you think you are, kid." Hank killed the engine. "Now come on. Let's go see your boyfriend."
The emergency room was a study in controlled chaos. Nurses in scrubs hurried past with clipboards and IV bags. A child wailed somewhere in the distance, the sound cutting through the general murmur of voices and beeping machines. The smell of antiseptic hung in the air like a warning.
Hank walked up to the front desk, Niles trailing behind him like a shadow.
"Gavin Reed. He was brought in about an hour ago. Possible overdose."
The nurse—a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense expression—typed something into her computer. "Room 302. He's stable. His friend is with him."
"Friend?"
"Someone named Connor. Said he was family."
Hank felt something loosen in his chest. "Yeah. That's his brother."
He turned to Niles, who had gone very still.
"Connor's here?"
"He must've taken a cab." Hank put a hand on Niles's shoulder. "You ready?"
Niles didn't answer. He just started walking, his footsteps echoing down the long, white corridor.
Room 302 was at the end of the hall. The door was closed, but through the window Hank could see Connor sitting in a plastic chair beside the bed, his thin frame hunched forward, his hand wrapped around Gavin's.
Gavin was awake.
He looked like shit—pale, hollow-eyed, an IV drip attached to his arm—but he was awake. And he was looking at Connor with an expression that was equal parts gratitude and confusion.
"Hey." Hank pushed the door open. "We brought a visitor."
Connor's head snapped up. His eyes went wide when he saw Niles.
"Niles—"
But Niles wasn't looking at Connor. He was looking at Gavin.
And Gavin was looking at him.
The room went quiet. The beeping of the heart monitor seemed to get louder, filling the space between them like a countdown.
"You're here," Gavin said. His voice was raw, scraped clean by whatever he'd taken, by whatever he'd been feeling.
"I'm here." Niles took a step forward. Then another. "Gavin, I—"
"Don't." Gavin held up his free hand. "Just... don't. Not yet."
Niles stopped. His hands were shaking again.
"I thought you left." Gavin's voice cracked. "I thought you were gone. I thought I'd never see you again."
"I know."
"I took those pills because I couldn't—because I didn't want to—" Gavin's face crumpled. "I didn't want to feel it anymore. The not knowing. The waiting. The way you just... disappear sometimes. Like you're not even there."
Niles's eyes were wet. "I'm sorry."
"You're always sorry." Gavin laughed, but it was a broken sound. "You're always sorry, and I'm always forgiving you, and we just... we just keep doing this. Over and over. Like we're stuck."
"Maybe we are stuck."
"Then what do we do?" Gavin's voice was desperate now. "What do we do, Niles? Because I can't keep doing this. I can't keep waking up wondering if today's the day you finally leave for good."
Niles crossed the room. He knelt beside the bed, reached for Gavin's hand—the one without the IV. His fingers were trembling.
"I don't want to leave," he said. "I never wanted to leave. I just... I didn't know how to stay."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means I'm broken." Niles's voice was barely a whisper. "It means there's something wrong with me, something that makes me push people away even when I don't want to. Something that makes me think I'm not worth loving."
"Bullshit."
"It's not bullshit. It's the truth."
Gavin pulled his hand away. For a moment, Niles looked like he'd been slapped.
Then Gavin grabbed the front of Niles's shirt and yanked him forward.
"You listen to me," Gavin hissed, his face inches from Niles's. "I don't care what you think you are. I don't care what you think you deserve. I love you. I've loved you since the day we met, and I'm gonna love you until the day I die, and if you ever try to leave me again—if you ever try to kill yourself again—I will find you. I will find you and I will drag you back, kicking and screaming, and I will make you stay."
Niles stared at him.
"Do you understand me?" Gavin's voice was fierce, almost violent. "You're not allowed to leave. You're not allowed to give up. You're mine, and I'm not letting you go."
A tear slid down Niles's cheek. Then another. Then he was crying, really crying, the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep and broken and desperately, achingly human.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know."
"I'm so sorry."
"I know."
"I don't want to leave you."
"Then don't."
Gavin pulled him closer, ignoring the IV, ignoring the pain, ignoring everything except the boy in front of him. And Niles went—let himself be pulled, let himself be held, let himself be loved.
Connor watched from his chair, his eyes wet, his hands shaking in his lap. Hank watched from the doorway, his heart a heavy stone in his chest.
"My brother," Connor said softly. "My stupid, stubborn, beautiful brother."
"He's okay," Hank said. "They're both okay."
"For now."
"For now."
Gavin looked over Niles's shoulder, his eyes finding Connor's. "Hey. Cat boy."
Connor snorted. "Really? That's what we're going with?"
"You're skinny. Cats are skinny. It works."
"I'm not a cat."
"Prove it."
Connor laughed—a real laugh, surprising and bright in the sterile room. "You're an idiot, Gavin."
"Yeah." Gavin pressed a kiss to Niles's hair. "But I'm your idiot."
The room fell quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet. The kind that held weight, and warmth, and something that felt almost like peace.
Hank cleared his throat. "I'm gonna... give you guys a minute."
He stepped back, let the door close behind him, and leaned against the wall in the hallway. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere down the corridor, a baby was crying.
His phone buzzed.
CONNOR: Are you okay?
HANK: Yeah. You?
CONNOR: I'm tired. But I'm okay.
HANK: I'm right outside.
CONNOR: I know. That's the only reason I'm still standing.
Hank closed his eyes. He thought about the bridge, and the river, and the way Niles had reached for his hand. He thought about Connor, waiting at home for news. He thought about Gavin, lying on a kitchen floor with pills scattered around him like confetti.
He thought about how close they'd all come to losing everything.
The door to room 302 opened. Connor stepped out, followed by Niles, who looked exhausted but steady. Gavin was alone in the bed, his eyes closed, his breathing even.
"He's sleeping," Connor said. "The nurse said he needs rest."
"Good." Hank put a hand on Connor's shoulder, pulled him close. "You did good."
"I didn't do anything."
"You sat with him. You stayed." Hank pressed a kiss to his forehead. "That's not nothing."
Niles stood a few feet away, arms wrapped around himself, looking at the floor.
"I should stay," he said. "With Gavin. I should be here when he wakes up."
"You should," Hank agreed. "But first, you're gonna eat something. Both of you."
Connor opened his mouth to protest.
"No arguments." Hank's voice was firm. "There's a cafeteria downstairs. We're gonna go get food, and we're gonna sit down, and we're gonna eat. Then you can come back up and play nursemaid."
Connor looked at Niles. Niles looked at Connor.
"Fine," they said, in unison.
Hank smiled. It was a tired smile, a worn smile, but it was real.
"Good. Let's go."
They walked down the corridor together, three sets of footsteps echoing off the tile. The cafeteria was quiet—just a few night-shift workers nursing cups of coffee, a couple of bleary-eyed visitors staring at their phones.
Hank ordered three sandwiches, three waters, and a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt tar. He set them down on a table by the window, where they could watch the sky turn from gray to gold.
Connor picked at his sandwich. Niles did the same.
"Eat," Hank said.
"I'm not hungry."
"Don't care. Eat."
Connor took a bite. Then another. Niles watched him, then followed suit.
They ate in silence, watching the sun rise over the city. The light crept in through the window, warm and golden, painting the table in shades of amber.
"The thing about bridges," Niles said eventually, "is that they're always there. You can always go back."
Hank looked at him.
"But you don't have to," Niles continued. "You can just... keep walking. To the other side."
"And what's on the other side?"
Niles considered this. "I don't know. Something better, maybe."
"Maybe." Hank took a sip of his terrible coffee. "You gonna keep walking?"
Niles looked at Connor, who was watching him with tired eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "I think I am."
They sat there as the morning came, three broken people in a hospital cafeteria, drinking bad coffee and eating sandwiches they didn't want.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't fixed. But it was a start.
And sometimes, a start was enough.