Rudolph Conners Masterlist
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Time slows within a secure medical room, where silence, machines, and unread pages coexist.
Content; angst, slow burn angst, melancholy, depression themes, mentions of serious injuries.
Pairing; Hero GN!Reader x Rudolph Conners
If the atmosphere could be distilled into a single word, that would be the one that clung most accurately to the sterile air of the room.
Nights, days, weeks had bled into one another since the battle. Since you had fought alongside Mark Grayson, Invincible, against his father, Omni-Man himself, brushing so close to death that the line between survival and oblivion had blurred beyond recognition. It was unfortunate that your healing factor, that faithful ally which had saved you countless times before, had failed to fully cloak you in its protection. The damage, this time, had already been done.
Your flesh had been scorched beyond repair, burned and ruined, accompanied by multiple catastrophic injuries along your know fractured spinal column. You were… in a coma. And if honesty prevailed, you were barely even that. You were present only in the most technical sense of the word.
Your body lay cocooned in layers upon layers of bandages, from the tips of your toes to the crown of your head. Your face, your scalp, everything was hidden beneath sterile white wrappings. The physicians, surgeons and every other type of medic available in The Pentagon waited. They hoped. Some prayed. All of them watched the monitors with restrained dread, silently asking whether your regenerative abilities would intervene once more. But no one could say for certain if this would be one of those times.
Nutrient fluids were fed into your system through tubes that pierced scorched flesh beneath thick dressings, sustaining a body that seemed unwilling, or unable, to respond.
And yet, there was one who did not relinquish hope.
In his humanized form, orange hair carefully combed behind his ears, green eyes perpetually alert, white skin framed by a formal black suit, he was the singular constant at your side. The only one who refused to accept that this was where your story ended. Faith, if such a term could be applied to him, anchored itself stubbornly in his chest: the conviction that, sooner or later, you would rise from this misery with the same fierce resolve you had always possessed.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into something quieter, heavier. And Rudolph, like a devoted caretaker, never strayed far.
He had developed a routine. A precise one.
He bought you books, volumes he calculated you would enjoy based on your past conversations, your preferences, the patterns of your curiosity. He read them aloud in the private high-security medical wing of the Pentagon where you were housed, his voice filling the otherwise hollow room.
Your heart continued to beat. Your brain still emitted electrical signals. But you did not move. You barely breathed.
And if he were honest, truly honest, it frightened him as well.
Rudolph’s voice resonated softly through the medical chamber, measured and controlled, his words wrapping the emptiness in a calm only he could manufacture. He sat beside your bed, posture straight but not rigid, holding the book open with deliberate care.
—“The Sea Song”, he read, turning a page with mechanical gentleness.
The faint rustle of paper accompanied his voice as he continued, though his mind wandered far from the narrative.
—“Chapter six,” he began, tone even, composed. “The wind blew with relentless force, dragging the waves toward the shore. Yet the sailors did not fear it. There was something in the ocean’s song that called to them, a promise of secrets buried beneath the depths.”
Beside him, you remained motionless, encased in bandages. The cardiac monitor emitted its steady, rhythmic beeping, registering your vitals without deviation. The sight unsettled him more than he allowed his expression to reveal.
For five long weeks, he had repeated this same ritual.
Sometimes, his voice seemed intended more for himself than for you, an anchor to keep his own resolve intact.
Every page he turned, every word he articulated, granted him a fragile sense of peace. As though continuing meant keeping you close. As though sound alone could bridge the distance between consciousness and silence. Not because you refused to answer, but because you could not.
Rudolph lowered the book slowly, green eyes studying the silhouette of your head beneath the wrappings. The bandages revealed nothing. No skin. No expression. No hint of the person he knew beneath.
Soft cold light traced the outline of your body, making you appear even more fragile than you were. And yet, he knew better. He had seen your strength firsthand, strength capable of defying inevitability.
Now, all he could do was wait.
He raised his right hand to his temple, pressing lightly, as though pressure alone might reorganize the thoughts spiraling beneath his skull.
Logic dictated restraint. His mind was not built to indulge human emotion, not to entertain the ache tightening his chest. And yet, there it was. Persistent. Invasive.
Perhaps this was humanity, quietly integrating itself into systems never designed to accommodate it.
His gaze returned to you. Your breathing was shallow, nearly imperceptible. There was no sign, no twitch, no response, to suggest you were anywhere near waking.
And still, something within him insisted on persistence.
—“I will continue,” he murmured quietly, not reading now, simply speaking. “Even if the probability remains statistically insignificant.”
He reopened the book, resting it carefully on his lap.
—“The sea has always guarded its secrets,” he read aloud once more, voice slower now, almost reverent. “And those who dare to listen will always find more than they seek.”
His cadence softened, as if speaking through water rather than air. Each word carried an unfamiliar weight, lingering between the machines and the silence.
Time seemed suspended within the room.
No urgency. No movement. Only the stillness of a moment stretched into something infinite.
Rudolph paused again, closing the book with meticulous care. His attention shifted instinctively to the heart monitor.
The rhythm was unchanged.
He brought his hand back to his temple, gaze lowering to the floor as calculations ran silently through his mind. Then—
At the edge of his vision.
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto the bed.
Just barely. A small, involuntary movement—but undeniable.
Rudolph stood instantly, chair sliding back with a restrained scrape. He moved closer, hands hovering, uncertain for the first time in weeks.
—“…That was not within projected parameters,” he said softly, voice betraying the faintest fracture.
—“Stay,” he added, quieter still. “Please… stay.”
