Chapter Text
Hospitals had an air of death and little hope that crawled about every hallway, every room. The lights were always overbearing. Doctors and Nurses wore ill-fitting facades to offer a modicum of understanding to patients and families, that majority of the time, treated them like shit in return. And private offices were no better. The same vibes minus the traffic of real people. A hodge podge group of medical professionals thrown together by Maxwell Lord's efforts to care for when his recruited metahumans got their asses beat.
He hated it, no matter the location, whether it was public or private, Guy couldn't stand it. Hospitals held an atmosphere that wormed its way under his skin, forcing him to face the fragile aspect of life, responsible for ripping away his bravado at the door. If it were anyone else, he would be sitting in the comfort of his apartment with a beautiful woman on his lap and bourbon in his hand, but Michael was his exception. A begrudging truth he had to come to terms with when he peeled his limp body—smelling of burned flesh and iron—from the ground where his blood smudged under the swipe of his guilty, calloused thumb.
Guy arrived with a card this time instead of flowers. Dressed in a wrinkled neon green tee that said 'brat,' at the center, and loose fitting washed jeans. He dragged the visitor's chair to the side of his hospital bed.
The room's smells were altered as soon as he swaggered in. A thing of his own doing. A subtle effort to rid the stench of antiseptic and bleach with the cup of coffee in his hand that wafted into the stagnant air. His breakfast, yet to be opened, patiently sat in a bag between his legs, filling his nostrils with the pleasant fragrance of an everything bagel. Further pushing back the fumes of cleaning products.
He settled in, practically vibrating with anticipation. A sensation that crept up without failure every time he stepped through the entrance downstairs. Pesky little remnants of hope that he blamed Superman for, an optimism rivaling his own beliefs.
But, Holt's eyes didn't open when he said, "Morning, Mike." No, the monitors droned on, and he drank his coffee quietly. Brooding. Flinching at the imagined glimpse of Michael's side eye, leg jumping whilst trying to listen for the exasperated sigh of annoyance reserved for him on their slowest days.
It drove him partially mad to wait for someone—who he couldn't quite tell if said someone in question liked him, or if he tolerated who he was—to finally wake up. Of course, Guy wouldn't have minded the latter. A troubling realization in and of itself.
He never thought like that before, never worried too much about what others perceived of his abrasive personality. But the company he was faced with, faint memories of humming and tech being tampered with in a lab too big for one person, could not be compared to what he had now. A hollow version of a quiet that no longer gave him a reaction. A small room, empty of gadgets beyond his comprehesion, vacant of the real man who actively occupied it.
The chair creaked as he tilted to the side, forearms creasing the edge of Michael's bed. He gazed at him, with his curious blue eyes, and absently considered how peaceful he looked. Aside from the bandages and fading bruises, there was a ghost of a smile that he could count on one hand how many times he had seen. And he sighed, utterly at a loss for words. No jokes or talk about his shit love life came to fruition. Locked behind his crooked lips and newfound need to be worthy, deserving. To be a better man than who he was a month prior to this very moment. For once, Guy was completely silent.
Mentally repeating his goals to himself for the next time he stopped in. Failing to stick to it the day before. Again and again. Head irrevocably messed up to the point that, remembering its cravings for an old version of who he once was, became near impossible. Vague ideas he chased after because maybe Michael might have talked to that Guy more. A version that maybe would have made him feel less alone when he burst into a room. Instead of hearing a groan of irritation or false cheering from fans who didn't really know him; it would be one of Michael's genuine smiles hidden behind a glass of his favorite wine.
He ran his hands down his face, puffing his chest out on a slow inhale. The pads of his thumbs scratched at the stubble trailing his jaw, and his fingers spread apart to stare at the clock in the corner of Michael's room.
Guy hated hospitals. A place that transformed even the most prideful, into the sappiest, weakest motherfuckers in the world.
The soughing of wind rustled kindly through naked trees that surrounded a glade on the outskirts of Metropolis. Sunlight beat sweetly down onto the open field, the light sway of grass tantalizing to any distracted onlookers. Like an impression of a dream, or a whisper of a memory that most would struggle to recall. The distance between the city and the miles of beautiful untouched land, just barely eked out a small symphony of the honking cars and the overall drone of the busy life inside those concrete and glass walls, to the two men standing at the edge of everything.
This place belonged to neither of the men, nor did it hold either of their homes, but rather existed as an objective. A goal that dragged them from their apartments and residence of employment, to the empty clearing cut down the middle by a rift that insisted on leaving the ground jagged. An imperfection that clearly haunted Guy's coworker, Mr. Terrific, who knelt to the ground a few feet ahead of him, coating his knee in crisp dirt, recalculating a multitude of potential solutions, and trying to tune him out for impeding on his personal space.
He savored his horribly obvious attempts to purposely inch away, because, despite the difference in positions—one standing and one crouching—he continued to chew loudly on a particularly pungent piece of mint gum, talking a mile a minute, and let it reverberate everytime he followed after him to lean over and speak into his ear.
"I bet you were up all night thinking about this shit."
"No. I can assure you I slept soundly."
"Mhm, sureee. Mr. Perfectionist definitely wasn't tossing and turning for the past week." He smirked, "Thinking about how Big Blue said it was a little...off."
"I am not a perfectionist and I was not up all week thinking about this damn rift!"
Guy guffawed, knocking his head back to announce in their private space, Michael's denial of his flawless obsessed mind, momentarily vaporized his encroaching boredom. A grating sound that he knew made the other man clench his teeth to the point of breaking, trying to stay focused on the task at hand.
"No need to get testy if it isn't true then, Mikey." The other man paid him and his snark no mind, stiffly jotting down info on a notepad resting atop his knee, and sharply tapping the floating red screen in front him. Neatly filing away every photo gathered by the crowd of devices the two scattered about three hours ago, in the patches of grass that had yet to regrow along the rift line.
There was no real reason for Guy to be there. Basically assigned to intrude on busy work that Michael could have handled alone, but Maxwell Lord said it was a team effort, and the boss' word was—most of the time—final. Although, that didn't mean Michael particularly fancied this decision, Guy wasn't blind. In fact, as soon as he noticed his clear disagreement, he took advantage of the opportunity. Used it as his way of getting back at the man for helping Big Blue and that reporter. He pushed the limits of his usual window of allowed antics Terrific sanctioned just for him, choosing to bother him tenfold, with his emerald tinted ego that took up any space he entered.
His added inability to gauge whenever someone was fed up with his presence, meant his incessant talking would persist for the next half hour that remained.
The Green Lantern, specifically Guy, was best enjoyed in small dosages. And he called it a simple, reoccuring coicincedence that he never administered Michael the proper amount. Satisfied by his somewhat quiet companion that endured his chaos longer than anyone else. Who let him stick by his side and, sometimes, seemed to have no real qualms when he loitered in his private spaces. Rare moments shared when he didn't pervade his privacy like the suffocating smell stuck in the air that he often was, instead hovering quietly in the background. As a body. A sense of company.
He saw him glance over his shoulder, the creaking of his uniform briefly canceling out the smacking of Guy's lips, with a question at the tip of his tongue. Only, when he looked up, Guy was in the middle of comparing his biceps to Terrific's and flashed him with his gold toothed grin.
"Could you at least focus for two seconds?" He said, eyes squinting to negate the harsh burn of light cutting past Guy's silhouette. "To stand around and do nothing while you nerd out? No thanks, bro." He unwrapped a second piece of gum, adding it to the growing green wad stored in his cheek, not unlike a chipmunk.
"The whole point of you being here, is to be on the lookout for any of the reported anomalies that attacked travelers."
"Ugh, you know that shit is like someone saying they saw Bigfoot. I highly doubt something crawled out of Luthor's gateway to hell."
"You weren't there." He spoke flat, voice indifferent but there was hesitance laced in it. A quiver that gave reason for Guy to fleetingly pause. "Nobody saw what Luthor was doing besides a few others and myself. Those anomalies are very real and extremely unpredictable." The Lantern motioned his hand as if it were a puppet, opening and closing his mouth to mock and tease.
His acts, or better yet, naturally developed obtuse response to everyone and everything around him, earned him another sigh breaking past those matte black painted lips—an action that made his laughter come to an abrupt halt, caused his eyes to linger too long and study his mouth too closely. If he was a woman, he would've said something worthy of being considered an HR violation. Could feel a back handed compliment build up in his mouth, but stopped himself.
Guy fell silent. Stuck standing awkwardly. Confused. Hands flexing into balled up fists, until the hairs on his neck started to raise. Every fiber of his being suddenly on edge. He reached for Mr. Terrific's shoulder with a stunned gaze, abrupt interest in their work, and a pair of pointless hand signals to keep their mouths closed and to look out to the empty sea of sun-dried grass and dead trees.
"For crying out loud, what?!" Michael snapped at Guy's repeated jostling.
"Do you hear that?" Whispered Green Lantern.
"....no, I don't hear a damn thing." He responded after reluctantly indulging in Guy's possible theatrics, blatantly irritated by the frequent interruptions.
"Exactly, it's quiet. Too fucking quiet." He said, cut off by a shift in the fall breeze.
What at first he believed to be possibly a bear or nosey civilian, became an underestimated response to his own caution. For when he blinked, the wind was suddenly knocked out of him. "Guy—!" Michael shouted, but it was too late. His back was slammed to the cold earth, his head cracked like a whip against the ground, and his shoulder grew numb with an undercurrent of searing pain. The sky above him spun and the gentle swishing of dead greenery morphed into a buzzing ring. And before he knew it, there was the weight of something pressed to his sternum, invisible to the naked eye but outlined by the dust and dirt caked up on what appeared to be a boot.
Everything blurred together, the throbbing in his skull delaying his ability to process the unfolding shit show. Taken out of the fray by a flash of red and black whizzing overhead and halting his whirlwind of thoughts. His passing grasp on reality, an after image, an unclear set of frames captured Terrific tackling whatever loomed over him, vanishing into the tall grass, and left him alone. Motionless.
The breeze went still, silent, the only motion being that of distant beeping from T-spheres hovering nearby. He lifted himself, the heel of his palms pressed flat to the soil, and he turned over on his side. Face scrunched by furrowed brows and a grimaced tilt to his lips.
Rivers of crimson escaped through the hole in his jacket. Material singed right where his shoulder and collarbone collided, grossly sticky fluids ebbed and flowed to his palm and stained everything beneath him. His chest grew tighter with every breath, desperately chasing after the oxygen he was robbed of, and each inhale increased the fire in his lungs.
He dragged himself upward with gritted teeth, to peer at the crater in his shoulder. The first hit had shaken him to his core, scanning a bit frantically with a budding concern at Michael's eerie silence. The type of silence that surpassed his well known emotionless front, a blaring reality he grew increasingly aware of, and one that crushed his confidence: because where the hell did Mr. Terrific go? Yes, he had a ring that could do anything he willed it to do and his teammate had tech that could mimic that and more, but that wasn't the problem. His problem laid beyond the outskirts, an unseen entity he wasn't prepared for.
His throat bobbed, and he dragged his hands in the dirt, shuffling to his feet until he balanced out with a stuttered gait, courtesy of being served a healthy heaping of a singular degrading hit that had him stumbling. Yet, he didn't plan on simply taking it. Didn't want to turn over and lay atop the earth until he bled out. Or worse, leaving Terrific to take all the credit. If they survived.
His uniform carried the smells of his past few weeks of hard work, unable to go home and wash out the fragrances he flaunted like medals of his restless labor. Countless hours divided between the corps and the Justice Gang. The mud on his pants and blood crusted on his jacket, were new additions to his growing collection of visible grime that he would rub in the bastards' faces who thought they could knock someone like Guy Gardner down. He deserved his flowers.
He swivelled his attention to the noises of thudded punches and heavy grunts. Drawn by the bright red glow of hard projected light firing off in the distance.
His dusty boots drifed up, looming over the glade in a renewed emerald hue trying to heal him, a burst of bloodlust clenched in his stained fist. His eyes sifted through the tall patches of frayed grass, eventually catching sight of Mr. Terrific being lifted into the air by their invisible threat. And it was as if, for a beat, time slowed.
Witness to the violent seizing, he watched Michael's face twist in anguish. His entire figure engulfed by a white light emanating from no visible source. And when the torment stopped, his body went slack, discarded as though he were a toy. Released to barrel back to the earth about ten feet below.
He blasted forward, sweat on his brow, and stretching his arms in front of him, reaching for Michael before he crashed through the nearest tree. The stench of death overwhelmed him, the smoke invading his nose reeked of charred skin. Michael's exposed muscles kissed his open palms, caused his stomach to roil amidst their shaky descent.
He laid him down at the edge of the clearing, creating a green replica of Terrific's tech to shield him until he could get help. Determined to stop the threat before it fell further from their range of control.
"Hey, T-face..."
"...You're...crushing me." He wheezed, breath uneven. A limp hand raised shakily to push him back.
"I'm holding you together, here! Can't go to that bar I was talking about if you, ya know..."
"Shut...up...," he screwed his eyes closed, wincing as he spoke. "Don't do that...emotional...shit." Guy shifted, wearing a nervous grin.
Their clothes rustled together. His chest was pressed too close, ribs pressed against ribs. Their exhausted breaths mingled in their proximity, Spearmint and cinnamon. "Go after t-that...thing. I'll call the...others." His eyes glazed over white, a T-sphere slipping through Guy's construct.
"Promise you won't die?"
"...Sure, Green."
His voice of baritone depths replayed over and over. A broken record he could hold onto that didn't slip through the ruptured wrinkles in his brain. Two words that woke him from his position slumped in the weathered seat, coffee cold and bagel partially eaten. A thin trail of drool had dried on his chin, and his hair was a mess.
He felt his skin prickle, an itch, coaxing him to look up. Not so much moved by the voice in his dreams, but by the feeling of being observed. And when he lifted his head, charcoal eyes met his own. A blank stare elevated by a refrained twitch on taut lips. Guy's face slowly morphed into that of childish excitement, golden tooth reflecting under the growing moonlight creeping through the hospital windows.
"Evening, Sweet T."
The man in bed with his hooded lids, managed to roll his eyes. Dropping his emotionless guise for a moment, to let the smallest smile spread across his lips.
"I must be dead."
"Nope, alive...and mostly well."
"Terrible." He blinked slow. "If I go back to sleep will you disappear?"
"Doc diagnosed you with a case of, 'Guy's teammate-itis.' So no, I'm afraid you're stuck with me. It's terminal."
Yeah, teammate-itis, wasn't one of his strongest jokes.