When Michael woke up the second time, it was to almost complete silence. The only noises were a faint whirring and a quiet, steady beeping. He wasn't certain of what caused him to wake up, though it definitely wasn't pain--rather, he had a lack of feeling in his body. Particularly, to his dismay, in his legs.

He shoved himself into a sitting position, hardly aware of the tubes and whatnot sticking out of one arm. Frantically, he whipped his head around to take in his surroundings with an urgent sort of horror on his face. His eyes scanned over the sterile walls and equipment of a hospital room, and the sight made his blood run cold. It was only when a warm hand placed itself on his shoulder that he began to relax. He spared the hand's owner a brief glance, and he wasn't surprised to recognize his father, sleep deprived as ever, looking down at him grimly.

"How are you feeling?"

Michael almost winced at how guarded the man's tone was, the beginnings of what felt like guilt seeping into him. He knew why the man spoke like he was a stranger to his son: Michael had put no effort into forming a relationship between them. The shame was catching up to him--Michael knew; he knew how hard his father tried to form some sort of bond with him, and yet Michael had swept aside his efforts without a second thought. He was a horrible son, and he had to will his eyes not to water at the fact that his dad was here, in spite of how awful Michael had been to him, asking if he was okay.

And yet, regardless of how much he wanted to apologize, his mouth acted before his brain could stop it and he responded in the only fashion he knew how: with a deadpan expression and a frigid tone. "How do you think?"

From the corner of his eye he watched his father grimace. "You're right; stupid question. Listen, do you... Do you remember what happened?"

"I--no. I don't, not really." He took his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head for emphasis. His father's tone and ominous question paired with the total lack of feeling in is legs very nearly made him ask the man not to tell him. The thin blanket covering his lower half could do nothing to block out the sudden chill that ran through him. "Why can't I...?" He couldn't even bring himself to complete the sentence, knowing he sounded much more distressed than he cared to admit. The bed dipped by his feet as his father sat down. He couldn't feel it.

"You fell. You fell through the entire apartment building."

"How?" Michael cut in, despite not wanting to hear the answer. He could tell that his father knew how he felt, but the man answered him nonetheless. Michael was grateful for the lack of pity, but it still didn't diminish his disinclination to hear the response.

"I did a bit of digging earlier. The building you live in was abandoned more than forty years before the gang started using it, because of a fire. It had been condemned, but clearly your mother either didn't know or didn't care," he said, his expression souring upon having to mention the gang leader. "It wasn't structurally sound, obviously, because you..." Here, his father cleared his throat. "Well, I don't think I really have to repeat it."

Michael looked down at his legs, still covered in the thin white sheet. "But--but what happened to me?" One of his hands was settled in his lap, but even when he pressed his knuckles into his thigh he felt nothing. It terrified him.

He was met with a deep frown when he looked back up at his father. "Aside from the ridiculous amount of splinters they had to pull from your back--" The man seemed to realize how insensitive he sounded, and his cheeks flushed immediately. His expression became more solemn as he collected himself, but it only succeeded in further agitating his son. "The fall severely damaged your spinal cord, Michael. It was almost completely severed."

He took a deep breath. "Dad. I can still walk, can't I?" He was certain he already knew the answer, and yet that didn't stop the desperation from seeping into his tone. He wanted his father to tell him he was wrong. He needed him to. He had to be able to walk; if he couldn't walk, then he couldn't fight--and if he couldn't fight, he had nothing.

"No."

Michael had to stop the sob that threatened to tear itself from his lips.

"Michael. Michael, I'm sorry, I really am. I..."

He slumped back onto the mattress, arms fatigued from keeping himself upright. The last vestiges of hope drained from his body, and he was suddenly both mentally and physically exhausted. "It's fine," he found himself murmuring. His hands were curled into loose fists, and he stared down at them, watching the slight tremor in them with a detached curiosity. "You didn't drop me through that building, did you?"

The man didn't respond, at least not to his question--it was obviously rhetorical, anyway. "Look, let me--"

Michael cut him off. "No. I just need some time to process this, all right? Please, can you just...?" He nodded in the direction of the door. His father didn't look happy, but complied nonetheless. However, Michael hadn't intended to ask him to leave. In fact, he was half tempted to call out for him to stay instead--he didn't want to be left alone--but he couldn't find the right words to do so. Apparently Justice had been right in saying may of the things she had, and he found himself regretfully repeating her words to himself.

'You don't want anyone in your life that actually cares about you, do you? You push everyone, everyone away, and I hate it.'

He hated it too. This time, he didn't stop the tears from running down his face.