There were very few things that set Jackson O’Dyer off in any capacity. The anger that once instilled itself within his every action as a teenager, in the wake of his brothers death, while survivors guilt sought to bury him alive long buried beneath the steady hand of a man far more willing to channel it elsewhere. However, that disappeared in it’s entirety, when the people he, in so many ways, felt responsible for put in harms way, through fault of another person? It boiled blood to the point that the twenty years that’d passed since he’d felt the sting of such pertinent anger might as well have never happened. Despite the fact that he could hardly be accounted for in any sense of fault for what happened within the hostage situation at the hardware store, letting go of such a protective nature would never be an easy feat.
Which brought him here, standing just beyond the triage desk, arguing with a nurse who insisted that he couldn’t go in and see Weston because of the lacking family connection. Under different circumstances, he might have allowed her to pander to the bullshit rule set in place for very good reason, but right now -- with the several hellish days settling heavy on shoulders, all Jackson had was the knowledge that his team made it through. “----So call them, I’d could use a security escort back to my truck.” Cut sharply as he swung open the door to Weston’s hospital room. Her insistence, dying as Jackson stopped, unashamed of whatever scene might have been caused, “She’s sorry she didn’t let me in sooner,” His forward speaking on the nurses behalf filled with amusement, “Too busy worrying over whether I’m your brother or not to care about the family brawl about to start out in the waiting room.”
