The Other Half ✓︎

S e v e n

"You look like you're in a good mood," Watson pointed out as I got into his truck.

"I am," I answered with a smile.

"I take it your plan is going well?"

"Better than I thought. One of my friends from school is here and already helping me. So is one who's still there."

"And this is still a path you want to go down?"

I looked at him. "It's the least I can do for him."

"How is he?" he asked carefully.

I sighed. "The same. I went to visit him after school yesterday. They're worried he won't be able to wake up the longer he's in that coma."

"I'm sorry, that sounds like a shitty situation."

I leaned back in my seat and blew out a breath. "It is. I wish he would wake up."

"Have you prepared yourself for the possibility that he might not?"

"Yeah," I mumbled. "We've all thought about it. I know that we'll have to make the decision to pull the plug sooner rather than later if he doesn't wake up."

"I got you, okay? Just remember that. No matter what."

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone's cool with me, but you go out of your way to talk to me and even spend time with me. Why?"

"Everyone needs a friend, McGarrett. Especially friendless teenagers."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes playfully. "Gee, thanks, Butterfingers."

He groaned, looking over at me at a stoplight. "I knew I shouldn't have told you that."

"Actually, it's a good thing you did. Because if you hadn't, I would've been calling you something else. My dad told me the story of how he met you."

He closed his eyes and shook his head in resignation.

I smirked, watching his features change. Messing with him gave me more pleasure than it should have. Maybe that was why I liked being around him.

"You won't call me that?" he asked.

"Not in public. I'm not a monster, you know."

"That's debatable."

I let out a laugh as I turned to look out the window again.

"What do you usually do on weekends?" I decided to ask him.

"Something like this. I'll get with my buddies and go for a hike, movies, stuff like that."

"Do you still struggle with adjusting sometimes?"

I saw his hand tighten on the steering wheel.

"You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," I added softly.

"It's not that. I do still struggle. I've been diagnosed with PTSD. Staying busy helps."

"I didn't know that."

He laughed wryly. "No man wants to admit he's broken, Cassandra."

I placed a hand on his arm, getting his attention after he parked.

He looked over at me, confused by my actions.