Taylor

The smell of antiseptics and cleaning supplies burned Taylor's nose. He slowly opened his eyes and tried to adjust to the dimly lit room around him. An IV drip was hooked into his right hand while an oximeter was clipped to his finger. His left arm was heavy from a recent cast, but the pain had finally subsided to a manageable level.

He groped for the bed's armrest until he found the right button to raise him into a sitting position. His entire body was sore as if he'd run a marathon before stretching and little sleep crusties obscured his vision. The room was mostly dark and blurry, either because he'd slept too long or the pain killers were affecting his cognitive perception.

Machines beside him beeped cheerfully as if to remind him he was alive and that for once, life was reasonably normal here. Now if only he could eat and shower off whatever this smell was, he'd be set.

Taylor groaned. Someone shifted beside him and he turned, coming unexpectedly face to face with a man he thought he'd never see again.

John Whittaker was different and the same from the last time they'd seen each other. The night he'd thrown Taylor out, John had been as skinny as a rail, sported nearly black hair, and maintained the same youthful appearance his son had been blessed with. Now, while still thin, stubble lined his jaw, his hair was salted in gray lines, especially around his sideburns, and new wrinkles creased his forehead and skin around his shadowed eyes.

John's hand quickly found Taylor's and his voice was thick with emotion. "Hello, son."

Taylor's throat tightened. He wanted nothing more than to snatch his hand away and tell John to leave him alone, but the man had just saved his life. That, and his deep blue eyes were so damned hopeful.

He swallowed back the lump in his throat and took a shaking breath. "Hi, Dad."

His voice sounded weak and tinny, as well as gravelly from disuse and not enough water. He probably also looked as bad as he sounded.

John cleared his throat and squeezed his hand. "Taylor, I...I've really missed you. I'm sorry for how things turned out between us."

It wouldn't have happened if you'd just heard me out, Taylor thought to himself. He didn't know how to respond without unleashing an entire decade of resentment and suppressed anger. Instead, he remained silent and averted his gaze, unwilling to glare at the man he owed his life to.

John reached out to hug him and Taylor flinched. He grimaced, sucking in a sharp breath, saying, "Please don't. I'm not ready. You...you rejected me."

His eyes burned at the memory that had been forever seared into his memory. John had looked at him with so much hate and disgust-all because Taylor was with another man at the time. His father had forced him to choose between family and his boyfriend, and he'd chased after the latter, only to lose him too.

"I was alone," he choked out. "If it hadn't been for my trust fund, I'd have been on the streets somewhere. I probably would have been killed for being who I am. You have no idea what it's like to want your parents to understand, only to tell you that you're wrong and...hate you for how you were born."

"Taylor, I don't hate you."

"THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE FOR ME!"

The equipment beeped in short, sharp bursts, syncing with his accelerated heart rate. A man in scrubs rushed inside, checking his vitals and studying the equipment. Taylor tried to sway him and John away, only to be deterred by his sluggish movements and the doctor's reproachful gaze. "Mr Whittaker, please. I know this is a lot to digest but belligerence and stress won't help your healing process."

Forgetting about John entirely, Taylor glared at the man who couldn't be older than his late twenties. "Are you for real? I've seen expired food older than you. Anything John and I have to speak about is none of your damn business. If I want to be angry with a men pretending to give a shit, then I'm going to do as I please without you telling me how I should feel. Now go watch Barney or Teletubbies on some laptop and get the fuck out!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed before turning to the doctor with an exasperated expression. "Can you...give us a moment? My son has been through quite the ordeal, and I think he needs some time to adjust."

"I don't need a moment," Taylor ground out through his teeth. "I need you all to leave me alone."

The doctor hugged his laptop to his chest and swiveled his head between father and son for a moment before deciding to address John. "I think I'll have one of the nurses bring some food. I'll come back later."

He rushed outside, leaving Taylor alone with his dad again, who watched him with that 'dad' look that said his son was about to be sent to bed with no supper. "Honestly, Taylor, was that necessary? If you wish to be angry with me, so be it, but there is no excuse for your childish behaviour toward everyone else. You wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for Doctor Amari, so you could at least show him some respect and gratitude."

"Maybe I would if you weren't hovering over me like you actually gave a shit."

John snatched his hand away and curled it into a trembling fist on his lap. His face had become the color of an apple and his posture was rigid. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't have sent those helicopters for you."

"Oh please," Taylor said with a derisive laugh. "It might be the end of the world, but the great John Whittaker would never abandon his only son. That would look bad, wouldn't it? No, you want people to sympathize with you. It's the same reason you never publically disowned me. It would have made you and Mom look bad."

"Taylor, stop. You know that's not true. I was raised in a completely different generation and didn't know how to handle the news that you're gay."

Taylor inhaled for a count of four, counted to eight, then released his breath for a count of eight. If his arm wasn't broken and needles weren't connected to his good arm, he'd be brawling with his dad on the floor. Right now, he only had his words at his disposal. "You're a piece of work, John. I'm not gay, I'm pansexual. You're an educated man-go find yourself a dictionary.

'And before you decide it's a choice or a lifestyle, I'll tell you now that orientation is an identity everyone is born with. Whether I'm with a man, woman, or transgender doesn't matter as long as I'm happy. Even if you didn't agree or like it, all I ever wanted was your support, and you took that away from me.

'While I'm grateful for what you've done despite whatever your motives are, I'm not ready for this. My trust is something you're going to have to earn back in my own time. You don't get to come to me after ten years and pretend like everything is okay."

With all of that said, it was probably not a good idea to mention Diego just yet. Taylor had craved John's attention for years, begging the universe for his acceptance. He seemed sincere, like he was really trying, but now that they were in the same room together, he couldn't stand the sight of the man.

Speaking of a certain sexy Latino man he'd spent the night with, Taylor changed the subject, softening his voice considerably. "Where are my friends?"

Immediately grasping the opportunity to talk about anything else, John's color returned to pale white and he said, "The survivors are currently being quarantined. Once their lab results come back, they'll be released and integrated into society. I assure you, they're all being well-taken care of."

"What about Jeannie? Little blonde woman with a missing arm. Is she okay?"

More than anything, he worried about her and what people would do if they found out the truth. She'd never survive on her own, and it wouldn't be fair to kill her in cold blood just because of something the government suspected.

A cloud passed across John's eyes, and he sighed. "I was hoping to have this conversation with you later, but she died yesterday from complications. She lost too much blood and by the time she went into surgery, it was too late. I'm sorry, son."

Time slowed to a full stop as the news hit Taylor with the force of a piano dropping from a ten-story building. He knew there was a possibility she wouldn't survive, but he didn't want to believe it. Tears blurred his vision and splashed onto his cheeks. "Are...you sure?"

John answered him with a nod, placing a gentle hand on Taylor's shoulder. "I heard what she did for you, and there's nothing I can ever do to repay her for the debt. The doctor assured me that she didn't suffer."

More and more hot moisture covered his face as his nose swelled and his throat constricted his airways. He couldn't speak-not without crying and screaming at the universe, demanding to know why they'd dealt such a shitty hand to her. She didn't deserve any of it, not after everything she'd gone through.

When John wrapped his arms around Taylor's shoulders, he fell apart in his father's arms, clinging to him with his good arm as he sobbed. "She saved me...she...didn't deserve...this..."

"I know, son," he said, patting Taylor on the back. "I can't say it's okay, but I know how you feel. We've all lost people we love. It made me realize how much perspective I lost the night we stopped speaking. I was an arse and I can't pretend to understand even now, but I'm trying. I don't want to lose you too. I love you, no matter what."

This was too much to wake up to, just like the night at the unit, whenever that had been. He did love his dad despite their broken relationship, but it was too soon to confront his feelings. Too soon to accept Eric and Jeannie's losses. "It's not fair," he said in a broken voice, muffled by his dad's cotton shirt.

"No, it's not. I promise I'll be here this time though. You don't have to go through this alone."

Struggle was nothing new to Taylor. He'd been alone before-he could do it again. Love would only break his heart, especially when everyone realized that sooner or later, yet were better off without him.

He didn't say anything though. It was better to let John have his moment, better for his friends to move on without Taylor burdening them with his helpless nature. It was his fault Jeannie was dead. If he hadn't run out on them, help would have come sooner. He couldn't possibly face them now without knowing he was responsible for killing their best friend.

Even his dad didn't understand him. They might be together again, but Taylor had never been so alone in his life.