Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

He’s scared.

He’d woken up to screaming and shouting, red and blue lights flashing through his window.

Had crawled under his bed with Tito clutched in his arms, burying his face in the dog’s fur.

His door had creaked open some time later and then there’d been boots next to the bed.

A face had appeared, a flashlight next to it and Wes had reeled away.

It had taken three police officers over an hour to coax him out from under the bed.

He’d sat on the bumper of an ambulance, wrapped in a bright yellow blanket while the paramedics had checked him for injuries.

A woman with sharp features and dark hair had stood in front of him, asking a lot of questions about his parents that he knew better than to answer.

But in the end, it hadn’t really mattered.

Dean had gotten into a fight at the bar tonight; leaving another man unconscious on the floor as he’d stumbled home.

The police had caught up with him there, just far enough behind for him to get in a fight with Wes’s mom before they arrived.

Wes’s mom who had been high.

Wes won’t be staying here tonight.

The lady, Miss Edwin, is talking about foster care and emergency placements.

And he’s scared.

He just wants to stay here where at least he knows what to expect.

But maybe he’ll get a dad that will play catch with him in the yard or a nice mom who will read him stories before bed.

So he follows Miss Edwin to her car and buckles himself into the backseat.

 

Mervin Goodreau and his wife aren’t very nice.

They kind of fake it until Miss Edwin leaves but not very well because even Wes could tell you that she doesn’t actually care.

It’s two am and she just wants to get him dropped off so she can go home and go to bed herself.

They show him to a small bedroom with an old bed draped with threadbare sheets and a thin blanket.

He crawls onto the bed and winces as something sharp scrapes along his arm.

It doesn’t take much to find where a spring from the mattress has poked through the cushioning and sheets.

And it isn’t just the one.

There’s at least four or five that he can find easily and its hard to find a comfortable spot where at least one of them isn’t digging into his skin.

He wants to go home even if it means Dean yelling at him; blaming him for getting him arrested.

Means his mom slurring her words and glaring at him for being too loud.

He just wants to go home.

 

2.

He doesn’t stay with the Goodreaus long.

It only takes a little over a week for Miss Edwin to confirm that he’s staying in the system – at least until his mom completes court ordered rehab – and finds a permenant placement for him.

But it’s two days too long.

Tito falls casualty before he gets to leave – lost to impatience, an unwillingness to listen, and a sharp pair of scissors.

And suddenly Wes is all alone in the world.

Dean is in prison and never cared about him anyway.

His mom is in rehab and hates him because Dean is an asshole.

Miss Edwin just wants him out of her hair.

To say that she did her job and made sure that he was taken care of without actually having to do her job.

Susan Walters seems nice enough and her daughter, Trina, comes bouncing up to Wes as Miss Edwin talks to her mother, grabbing his hand and leading him down the hallway.

His first thought is that her room is so pink.

The wall has pink stripes painted, complete with little unicorns on them, the bedding is pink, and there’s a canopy over it that’s white with twinkling pink lights threaded through it.

There’s a mountain of teddy bears and stuffed animals on the bed and he feels a pang in his chest.

He’d only ever had Tito.

Tito is gone.

Trina is babbling excitedly and he can’t quite focus on what she’s saying but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She finishes showing him around her room and then drags him on down the hall to another room.

The furnishings are more muted in this room – more neutral and solid colors and nothing quite so loud as Trina’s room.

There’s a little brown teddy bear propped up against the pillow.

Trina sees him staring at it.

“Mommy buys one for all the kids who stay with us.” she says cheerfully.

Wes swallows hard.

He doesn’t want some nameless bear.

He wants Tito.

“Showing the new kid around, Tri-Tri?”

The gruff voice startles him and he jumps, turning around.

“I’m Mr. Walters.” the man behind him says. “But I spose you could call me Tobias if you wanted.”

Wes doesn’t want to call him anything.

He looks nice enough – hair and mustache neatly trimmed and combed – and his clothes are clean, unrumpled and nothing smells of alcohol.

But something doesn’t feel right.

“Why don’t we let Wes get settled in before bed?” Mr. Walters asks his daughter.

Trina hesitates, glancing back at Wes but finally nods.

“Okay daddy.” she says slowly.

 

3.

Mr. Gregor is terrifying.

Dean and his friends had watched the Poltergeist movies a couple of times – insisting that a terrified Wes bring drinks and snacks from the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to get up.

He’d had nightmares a couple of times about being chased by the reverand from the second movie.

Mr. Gregor looks just like him.

Tall and thin, with gangly limbs and sharp, gaunt features.

His mouth is twisted in a scowl that kind of seems permenant to Wes though he’s been standing here for only about three minutes while the man talks to Miss Edwin.

If there’s one thing he’s learned in the last nine years, it’s that life is better when people don’t notice you.

He stands back quietly while they talk, clutching his trash bag of belongings and avoiding any chance of eye contact.

Mr. Gregor finally motions them in and leads the way down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom.

Miss Edwin looks it over, making a few marks on her clipboard and then nods.

“I’ll see you for spot checks.” she says and then she’s gone.

He sets his bag onto the bed, running a hand over the mattress searching for any springs that might be sticking out.

“Not where you’ll be sleeping.” Mr. Gregor growls as he returns from seeing Miss Edwin out. “Come on.”

Eyebrows furrowing, Wes picks up his bag of things and follows the man back down the hall and down a flight of stairs.

The basement is threadbare; just a stone floor and unfinished walls.

In one corner is what looks like the dog bed that his baby sitter had when he was little.

In another, a dog cage identical to the one that Barkley had been put in when he misbehaved.

Along the entire wall at the other end is a shelving unit and a stack of buckets.

Rope lines hang across the room.

In the middle of the room is a laundry basket full of clothes.

“Drop your crap.” Mr. Gregor growls. “And then you can get to work.”

 

4.

Miss Edwin doesn’t even come in the house when she drops him off this time.

Melissa Osterman signs the paperwork and offers him a tired but forced smile.

Her question about checks as she hands the clipboard back makes it clear exactly why he’s here.

The Ostermans see a chance to make a little extra money to hopefully ease the pressure on their finances.

He wishes he was disappointed but its not exactly the first placing he’s had that saw him as little more than a paycheck.

Miss Edwin disappears back down the front sidewalk and Mrs. Osterman ushers him into the house.

He sees her husband, Craig, sitting at the kitchen table.

There’s a beer in his hand and Wes’s stomach drops.

He’d been sitting in the kitchen watching his mom toss back beers just last night but apparenlty a spot check this afternoon had caught her drinking – or possibly high – because it had been Miss Edwin who had picked him up from school.

And yet she’d dropped him off right into the same exact situation without bothering to check.

She could have at least taken him back to the Marlows – the first people to show him any real concern in his entire life – but when he’d asked why he wasn’t she’d angrily told him they didn’t have room for him right now.

So apparently he’s inconveniencing her again.

Whatever.

He’d seen a park a few blocks away where he can hide out to avoid the man when he’s under the influence.

A park bench that’s probably about the best place to sleep around here anyway.

He’s better off on his own.

 

5.

It’s not a hard and fast rule by any means but in his experience his status as a temporary placement means that the foster parents that he gets are of the poorer variety.

Truly wealthy people typically search out a baby that they can adopt and raise as their own.

Moderately well to do ones are looking for a kid they can bring in as a long term placement if not have adoption as a possibility.

They often can’t stomach the idea of a revolving door of foster kids coming in for a few days, weeks, maybe months at best that comes with the kids for whom reunification is considered likely.

Generally – though again not always - the families that pick up those kids are the ones who are just looking to collect a check.

They have no intention of getting attached so it doesn’t bother them to have the kids leave after only a short time.

He can tell from the second they turn onto the street that this time won’t be one of those.

The houses are much fancier than he’s used to.

As Miss Edwin pulls up to the curb and parks, he frowns at the neatly trimmed lawn and hedges.

The shiny, nicely painted front door and flower boxes in the windows.

His mom is dead now.

Dean won’t be getting out of prison for at least four more years.

He guesses that means he’s eligible for more long term placements now.

The door opens as he’s getting out of the backseat and a woman steps onto the porch.

She’s wearing a neat skirt, a patterned button down shirt – a blouse? – and her hair and makeup are neatly done.

Some part of him is immediately reminded of Tobias Walters.

A man who’d turned out to be molesting his five year old daughter and had subsequently beat the shit out of Wes for getting in his way.

“Hello Wes.” she says, studying him with a critical eye. “I’m Thelma Louise Thompson. You can call me Mrs. Thompson or ma’am.”

He swallows hard, nodding.

“Use your words.” she scolds.

“Yes ma’am.” he bites out.

“We’ll work on it.” she says. “Come in. We’ll introduce you to the boys.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

+1.

Barely being able to move as he limps up the front steps into another new house isn’t anything new for him.

He’s been hospitalized by plenty of his foster parents over the years.

Come ‘home’ from the hospital to a strange new place that was completely foreign.

To brand new parents that he knew nothing about.

Detective Mitchell is the first on that list that he can say he actually feels safe with.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to trust the man yet but he at least believes that he won’t hurt him.

Because he’s the star witness in what he’s heard is the biggest case the man has ever closed.

Because something about him makes Wes feel like he can trust him to keep him safe.

Miss Edwin stands back, her usual waves of judgement and contempt rolling forth as she watches Detective Mitchell help down the hall and into his newest bedroom.

The first thing he notices is that he’s been given a Queen size bed.

He’s never had bigger than a twin.

The sheets and comforter are already turned back, waiting for him to slide in.

There’s a tv mounted on the wall across from it with a playstation sitting on a dresser beneath it.

He’s spent time at Axel’s over the years playing video games but never had a console he could call his own.

A vague memory swims to the surface of sitting in Detective Mitchell’s truck, clinging to consciousness.

The man had tried to keep him awake, tried to keep him talking, by asking what video games he liked.

Wes had named Legend of Zelda.

Had he remembered?

Detective Mitchell helps him lower himself onto the bed, lifting his legs up for him and then helping him shuffle over and under the covers.

Tucks him in and then steps back, moving a glass of juice and the remote closer on the side table.

“Get some rest, kid.” he encourages. “Watch some tv if you’d like. I just have to square things with the social worker.”

Wes glances past him to Miss Edwin, anxiety twisting in his gut.

She has the ability to take him away from here, even before Detective Mitchell gets tired of him.

Would she do it just to deny him somewhere that he feels safe?

She hates him after all.

He shrugs, glancing away and doing his best to look indifferent.

Detective Mitchell squeezes his shoulder and then steps into the hallway.

Maybe he’ll be okay here.

For a little while.

Chapter Text

They get a tip from a CI about a possible explosives theft from a chemical testing facility.

Voight and Jay roll out to investigate and are greeted by an operations manager and a quality control supervisor.

“We perform weekly audits.” The supervisor says. “We would know if something was missing and everything has checked out.”

“Patrick.” the operations manager, Tim according to his name tag, says. “Just show them the audit records. I can take one of you out into the plant and show you the storage area – walk you through our security protocols.”

“Why don’t you go with him, Jay?” Voight says. “I’ll take a look at that paperwork.”

Patrick sighs, grumbling under his breath, but turns to a computer.

“How far back do you want to look?” He asks.

Jay turns his attention to Tim, motioning for him to show the way.

Ten minutes later, the phone on Patrick’s desk rings.

“Meisner.” He answers.

His eyes narrow.

“It’s for you, Sergeant.” He says.

Voight frowns but takes the handset from him.

“Voight.”

“Sarge we need to initiate an evacuation and then get bomb squad out here.” Jay says, voice tense. “We’ll start clearing this area but the security phone down here is disabled. Tim tried calling the emergency number for them and it didn’t go through.”

“I’ll get them notified so we can clear the rest of the the building and get the techs out here.” Voight tells him.

Jay ends the call and Voight turns to Patrick, opening his mouth to ask him the best way to alert security.

The man is reaching for a red phone on the wall and at first he assumes it’s probably a direct line to security.

Until he reads the sign underneath it.

“WARNING: WILL TRIGGER PRODUCTION FLOOR LOCKDOWN”

By then it’s too late.

He dives forward, intent to stop him but the phone is already off the hook as he tackles Patrick to the floor.

The phone rings again as he locks the cuffs into place and he scrambles for it with a clipped out order for Patrick to stay down.

“Voight.”

“What the hell is going on?” Jay demands. “Someone triggered a lockdown down here.”

“It was the QC Supervisor.” Voight growls. “Grabbed a panic phone before I realized it wasn’t a security line. I think we know how those explosives walked out the door.”

“I’ve got at least a dozen people, maybe more, trapped in this area.” Jay growls, unimpressed by his humor.

“Do you know how long we have on that bomb?” Voight asks.

“Fourteen minutes.” Jay says. “Bomb squad is already going to be cutting it tight without heavy duty security doors in the way.”

“I’ll get them on the way and then head down to the security office.” Voight says. “We’ll figure out what needs to happen to lift that lockdown.”

“Copy.” Jay says, ending the call.

Voight turns to Patrick.

“Where’s the security office?” He growls as he dials the number for a friend who runs a bomb disposal team.

 

Jay sighs, crouching down in front of the device they’d found.

When the lockdown had triggered, he’d ordered Tim to continue rounding up anyone in the production area and get them as far from this point as he could.

Hopefully, Tim isn’t also involved in whatever his QC supervisor was doing but he can’t worry about that now.

Unless response time is sped up by a unit being staged somewhere in the city, he doesn’t think they’re going to make it before this goes off.

Even if Voight can clear the lockdown, there’s a good chance it will only allow them to evacuate.

If he can’t….

He’d worked plenty of assignments involving secured areas with a lockdown that triggered with the press of a button or the lifting of a handset.

It usually involves some high up executive or even a military liaison that’s not on site to lift it.

Sometimes they can do it remotely but often it has to be done on location.

And they usually want more proof that it was triggered erroneously than the word of a single police sergeant.

Long story short, he can’t afford to rely on Voight to get them out of here in time.

He unclips his multi-tool from his belt, flicking out the screwdriver and carefully starting to unscrew the casing.

He’d never formally been trained in EOD but when you serve in Afghanistan you find yourself spending a lot of time at the very least holding a flashlight while one of them work a bomb.

He’d also had a good friend from Ranger School that he’d stayed close to through most of their deployments who had gone through advanced EOD training and he’d learned a lot that way.

He’s pretty much fucked.

There are significant countermeasures in place to keep him from disarming this.

At least not with a multi-tool.

But he does have one small chance.

The device itself is small, relying on being able to set off the explosive material stored in this cabinet rather than actually causing any real damage itself.

It won’t be as simple as picking it up and moving it but he’s pretty sure he can circumvent the countermeasure in place for that.

“Miller.” He calls out as he switches to the wire cutter.

The man comes around a corner a moment later.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a low power charge that’s going to go off.” He tells him. “I don’t have the equipment to stop it and bomb squad won’t get here in time. I need to get it away from the rest of the explosives before it does. Where is the safest place in here for it to go off?”

“The vault I’ve gathered everyone in.” Tim says quickly. “Thick walls, most distance from explosive storage I can give you.”

“Get them ready to move.” Jay orders, clipping a wire.

Tim nods.

Five minutes and then he’s disconnecting the last wire, trying not to look too closely at the timer as he does his best to keep it level and slowly advances down the hall.

As he rounds the corner, Tim ushers everyone out of the room he’s targeting and into an alcove.

Once he passes them, he can hear them running down the hall and holds his breath.

Its not the most volatile device he’s made the mistake of putting himself in the position of carrying but he doesn’t dare drop it.

He steps into the room, sets it on a table at the far end and then glances down.

0:05

Shit.

He lunges for the door, ramming his shoulder into it to force it closed as he brings his arms up to cover his head.

The world explodes behind him and a wave of heat washes over him.

The shock wave slams him into the door and everything goes black.

 

The building is clear - or at last as clear as they can get it- and everyone is pushed back to a wide perimeter.

Bomb squad is sitting with their thumbs up their asses for them to clear the lockdown and get access to the device.

The security supervisor has just gotten ahold of the man with the clearances to unlock the doors when they hear it.

It’s not what he’d been afraid of.

Doesn’t shake the ground for a mile in either direction.

Jay must have gotten the device away from the explosive storage.

He just wishes he knew if the kid had gotten it away from himself.

The front desk officer dials a number.

It doesn’t connect.

The supervisor glances his way and he shakes his head.

“Our line is down.” He tells the executive on the other end. “There’s some degree of damage. Hard to say how much. Am I authorized to let the fire department force their way in?”

Within seconds, Fire is entering the building, escorted by bomb squad.

They’ll move slowly to avoid causing secondary explosions by disturbing explosive material in damaged canisters.

Voight doesn’t have time for them to move slowly.

His kid is in there.

He paces back and forth, Captain Boden stopping him every time he moves toward the building.

“They’ll get in there as quick as they can, Hank.” he says after the third time. “You know he’s in good hands.”

“I should have seen the sign sooner.” he grumbles. “That bastard never should have been able to trigger the lockdown.”

“Hindsight is 20/20.” Boden says. “Just focus on making him pay for what he’s done and let us take care of getting Halstead out of there.”

He walks away, leaving Hank standing by the barricade.

Patrick Meisner had been taken back to the district by a pair of patrol officers and the team have started interrogating him.

They need to figure out how much explosive material he’s stolen, where it is and if he was working alone or if there’s someone else involved.

And it would certainly help if they could get into that secure area to inventory the contents of the storage vaults.

As it is, the most tangible proof they have are the records that he’d falsified to cover up his thefts.

And a Chicago Police Detective that he’d blown up when he thought someone was closing in.

Damn it, Jay.

It’s only another ten minutes before the doors swing open again and Harold Capp is leading a group of people out.

Voight approaches, slowing down as Boden waves him back but standing close enough to see that Jay isn’t part of the group.

To hear as Tim Fransen, the operations manager who’d led Jay into the plant, explains that Jay had removed the bomb from the cabinet where they’d found it and relocated it to a sensitive documents vault where the explosion would hopefully be contained.

Less than thirty seconds after he’d passed the doorframe, the bomb had detonated.

Everyone else who’d remained trapped in the building had been at a safe distance with only a few minor injuries sustained.

But there had been structural damage compromising access to the vault and nobody had been able to get to Jay after the explosion.

“The lieutenant’s working on it.” Capp assures him.

“Has he spoken to him at all?” Voight asks.

“Not before I left, sergeant.”

He clenches his jaw.

Jay had been within twenty feet of an explosion and nobody has seen or heard from him since.

Is there any chance that he’s still alive?

“We’re working on it, Hank.” Boden reminds him quietly and he nods.

Time seems to stand still as he stands there, staring at the door and willing it to open.

Willing his detective to walk through under his own power.

When the door does finally open, Severide and Tony Ferraris are carrying a stokes basket between them.

The paramedics swarm toward them as Boden finally lets him approach.

Jay looks like hell.

His face and clothes are singed and torn, covered in soot and blood.

Most of the blood seems to be coming from a sizeable gash on his forehead but there are a few smaller lacerations.

Gabby Dawson gets started on an IV while Sylvie Brett collects a set of vitals.

The kid’s heart is beating.

He’s still alive.

The rest of it is manageable, just as long as he stays that way.

Chapter Text

He gets distracted.

Wes doesn’t get distracted.

Not when it matters.

Not when he’s got the slim jim slid into the window frame of a Bentley Continental.

Axel had pulled him aside before he’d left, telling him this wasn’t the car to get caught trying to steal.

The owner won’t call the cops, won’t get him sent to juvie.

He’ll kill him.

And Wes was doing just fine.

He knows what he’s doing.

Knows how to pick his window and how to get in and get away fast.

But he’d gotten distracted.

Because from his spot at the driver’s side door he has a perfect view in through a bedroom window of the house next door.

He’s seen plenty of things that would have completely derailed some of the other guys.

He can usually tune it out on a high stakes grab like this one.

But this one has found his Achilles and went straight for the jugular.

A little boy, six or seven years old, is tucked into his bed.

Neatly covered with a Spider-Man comforter and wearing Batman pajamas.

A fuzzy black dog is tucked under his arm and he’s staring happily at his mom as she perches on the side of the bed, an open book in her hands.

His dad is sitting on the other side, listening to the story that his wife is reading and occasionally reaching out to ruffle his son’s hair.

All three of them laugh at something as he watches and his chest clenches.

Nobody has ever read to him like that.

Mrs. Marlow used to gather all of the kids; her own and those that she was fostering, in the living room before bed.

They’d sit on the fuzzy green rug in front of her armchair in their pajamas while she read to them.

Then they’d be tucked into bed.

And it was nice.

He’d tried so hard not to get used to it, knowing that he’d probably be sent away before long, but he’d loved it.

He glares at the stupid kid in the bed – the kid who has no idea how lucky he is.

How lucky to have two parents giving him their full attention – tonight and probably on every other night of his short life.

Wes had only gotten it for a few short months spread out over almost a year.

And as wonderful and kind as the Marlows had been, they’d had four children of their own before working things out to make room for up to four foster children.

Times when he had the full attention of even one of them had been limited and he can’t remember ever having it from both of them.

Even when he’d first been dropped off, Mr. Marlow had given him a quick tour while his wife had been busy wrangling the other children.

While he knows many kids have that – that any kid with siblings rarely gets absolute attention from both parents – he can’t help but think he should have had it.

He’d been an only child like this boy is.

Could easily have had nights like this when Dean wasn’t working but had instead been given nights huddled under his bed with Tito while his parents screamed at each other downstairs.

The soft click pulls him from his thoughts and he glances down, pulling carefully on the door handle and grinning when it opens.

But that stupid kid can’t break into a car in his sleep.

A hand closes around the back of his neck.

Shit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a man hisses into his ear, breath hot and foul smelling.

“I..I was…” he stammers.

What the heck is he supposed to say?

He’s thrown backward, crashing against a fence and collapsing to the ground.

“You thought you could steal my car?” a man with scraggly, unkempt hair spits out as he looms over him.

“‘m sorry.” he whimpers, glancing around.

He won’t call the cops. He’ll kill you

Axel’s words echo through his mind.

He has to get out of here.

Why? – a traitorous voice whispers – No one will miss you. What do you have to get back to, to look forward to? Stealing cars?

A foot slams into his stomach and he gasps, curling up and blinking back the tears that fill his eyes.

Both hands dig into the dirt at his side, collecting handfuls of dirt, rocks and leaves.

The foot lashes out again and he shifts his knee up, redirecting the blow and knocking the man off balance.

Throws the handfuls of dirt into his eyes as he crashes to the ground and then runs.

But never let it be said that he doesn’t have a death wish.

Instead of running down the street like he probably should, he dives into the driver’s seat of the still open car, slamming the door closed and throwing the locks.

He hears the angry yank on the door handle as he pulls his tools from his back pocket, ignoring the blood on the screwdriver.

Hopefully he can count on the man’s love for his car to at least make him hesitate a little to break the window.

Out of the corner of his eye as he’s fitting the screwdriver into place and jimmying it to start the ignition, he sees the man moving away.

If he’s still here when the man comes back, he’s dead.

The engine roars to life and he shifts the car into gear.

Chances one last glance at that bedroom window.

Sees the mom lean down to kiss her son on the forehead.

That’s not for you, Wes – he scolds himself, twisting in the seat and backing out of the driveway.

He doesn’t get tucked into bed and kissed goodnight.

He steals cars and – if he’s lucky – Axel might have someone help him bandage his back where the screwdriver had cut into him when he’d been thrown against the fence.

He hears a shout and slams the car into drive, speeding off into the night.

Chapter Text

He sits in the waiting room for almost eight hours.

The team nails down their case against Patrick Meisner, recovers some of the stolen explosives from his home with an assist from bomb squad and passes on his records on who he’s sold to to the ATF.

They join him in the waiting room at that point, pacing back and forth as they wait for news.

The waiting room also fills with countless other officers and senior leadership from the Chicago Police Department.

Hank doesn’t speak to any of them, warding away even a few of his bosses with a general aura of tense anxiety.

He hasn’t gotten a lot of updates but he’d sat next to Jay during the rushed ambulance ride to the hospital, holding his hand and listening while Gabby managed his condition the best she could and forwarded updates to the waiting doctors.

His lungs and rib cage are compromised, the damage keeping him from getting enough oxygen.

His blood pressure strongly suggests internal bleeding though Gabby couldn’t positively identify where.

There’s something very wrong with his right knee but other than stabilizing it to avoid further damage being caused Gabby hadn’t seemed to considerate it a priority.

Nor had she been altogether concerned about the gash to his forehead beyond tapping gauze over it to stop the bleeding.

Though that might be less because it isn’t a priority and more because there isn’t much she can do about a concussion – or possibly worse – in the back of an ambulance.

Altogether, they’re looking at some very serious injuries and its not surprising that the surgeons are spending a significant amount of time with him in the OR.

But it’s starting to feel like Hank’s entire day has been spent waiting, holding his breath and trying to believe that the kid will be okay.

Will Halstead steps through the double doors at eight hours and thirteen minutes – yes he’s counting – with his red hair worked into a wild mane, no doubt by running his hand through it.

“They were able to repair and re-inflate the lung that had collapsed.” the doctor says. “A couple of plates have been put in to stabilize ribs to where they won’t put undo pressure on it. They’re working on his abdomen right now, trying to stem the bleeding but everything’s a mess and its making it harder to find the bleeders.”

Voight frowns.

The kid was too damn close to an explosion, the shock wave could have caused who knows what kind of damage.

And he hadn’t gotten a clear perspective on whether he’d been caught in any kind of structural collapse though it couldn’t have been too bad given how quickly he’d been extracted.

“I know it looks bad.” Will says softly. “But he’s tough. And he’s done this before.”

 

twenty years prior

Will had been terrified when his brother first enlisted.

Between his own fears that going into combat could result in his little brother’s death and his dad’s bitter comments that if Jay wanted to die there were better ways to do it, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the possibility that he would lose his little brother.

But over time the fear had faded.

He was still scared, still worried, but it didn’t consume every waking moment – and most of the sleeping ones too – the way it had those first few months.

And then he’d had officers in dress uniforms on his doorstep.

After their mom had died, Jay had made Will his emergency contact – not wanting their dad to be the one to get this visit.

Whether because he hadn’t thought the man would care after their fight at the funeral or as a way to punish the man Will isn’t exactly sure but when he’d opened the door to two men in dress greens, he’d kind of wished he hadn’t.

“William Halstead?” the taller of the two men had said.

“Y-y-yes.” he stammers. “Is he… please …”

The man’s face softens.

“He’s alive.” he tells him. “I’m Colonel Robert Hansen. May we come in?”

He’s alive.

Will steps back, ushering them into his small apartment.

He’s alive.

The words keep cycling through his mind as they explain that his brother had been caught in an explosion.

An IED hitting the convoy that he was riding with.

He’d survived the initial surgery at Kandahar and is being transported to a hospital in Germany where he’ll likely undergo an additional surgery and spend several weeks before he’s deemed to be ready for a cross-Atlantic flight back to the States.

The United States Army will fly Will to Germany and put him up in their accommodations if he would like to be there.

He’s alive.

He calls the university and arranges to take at least two weeks.

He’ll have work to make up and a few exams to retake but it’s worth it.

He’s alive.

Jay has already made it through that second surgery and is settled in a room by the time Will makes it.

He’s still on a ventilator, a machine forcing air into his stitched and patched lungs, and has a number of drains running from beneath the blankets.

The doctor had done her best to explain his brother’s injuries to him and normally he would have told her off, pointing out that he was a med student and didn’t need the explanation dumbed down that much.

But it’s all so overwhelming and despite his knowledge, he’s struggling to process it all.

His brother was hurt so badly.

Is anticipated to recover, a full recovery eventually though it will be a long hard road before he gets there.

And Will just can’t be there for him as much he wishes he could.

 

present day

It’s an all to familiar image when Will gets shown to his little brother’s room.

Voight is walking behind him as they cross the threshold but Will can’t pay him any attention.

His little brother is on that dreaded ventilator again with drains running from his abdomen.

His knee is braced and resting atop several pillows.

Once his internal injuries have had a chance to settle and stabilize, they’ll get the in depth scans of that and his shoulder so that ortho can decide what they need to do.

Will doesn’t need an MRI to know that it’s going to be a lengthy recovery.

The shoulder will be okay. Physical therapy guaranteed but a surgery possibly avoidable.

The knee will be worse.

Just based on what he’s seen so far on the x-ray they’d snapped while getting films of his ribs, he can tell you that it’s going to require at least one surgery and quite possibly two.

And it’s the same knee that had been injured during the infamous IED incident.

But Will isn’t worried.

The first orthopedic specialist that had examined Jay’s knee back then had told him that running would be out of the question and walking should be limited as much as possible.

Jay hadn’t accepted that.

He’d pushed until another doctor was assigned and with their help – and some great physical therapists – he may as well be as good as new.

Will knows of course that his brother’s knee still pains him from time to time, especially when a storm is blowing in, but nobody who didn’t know about the injury would ever guess that he’d hurt his knee from watching him run.

And run he does.

Whatever the damage is this time, he has no doubt his brother will overcome it with the same stubborn tenacity.

 

nineteen years prior

He hates physical therapy with a burning passion.

The first few months he’d been able to ignore that, relieved enough by being told that with a newer surgery he would make a near full recovery.

But that silver lining has faded significantly.

It’s been a year since he was injured.

He’d spent months in various hospitals while the more life threatening damage to his chest and abdomen had healed before finally being released to go home to Chicago.

Shortly after that, the paperwork for his medical discharge had come through and he’d officially been unemployed and adrift without a plan for his future.

He’d also been transferred from the active duty medical system to the VA.

At first it had been fine but as time has gone on, more and more of his appointments are being canceled and scheduling availability has decreased.

Physical therapy is already not what anyone would call fun.

It’s calculated but you push yourself trying to find improvement and it hurts.

It’s worse when you get only about a third of the appointments that you should be.

His therapist is tired and frustrated because she’s working overtime, every day longer and harder than it needs to be, but still feels like she’s letting her patients down.

He’s at least getting to the point where he can continue doing the exercises that she wants on his own when he can’t get appointments.

Is thinking about discontinuing even the limited time that he’s getting to open it up to guys who need her time more.

He’s going to need a drink after today’s session.

Maybe several.

 

present day

She hates watching her partner suffer.

She and Will are trading off getting him to his physical therapy appointments.

The whole team had volunteered but it hadn’t taken much for she and his brother to realize that Jay didn’t really want the rest of them to see him like this.

She’s tried to remind him that he’s doing so much better.

That he’s improving all the time.

Getting off the ventilator, healing enough to be allowed to sit up for a few hours each day, being allowed to get in a wheelchair and leave the hospital room, finally getting released the go home, getting the all clear to start using his arm again…

There have been so many victories along the way but she knows that he hates that he’s essentially learning to walk again.

He’d ended up having two separate surgeries on his knee, had been left with a warning by his doctor that another injury like this would guarantee that he’d never walk without substantial pain again.

Will had quietly revealed during one of his first sessions that he was often in pain even before the injury and she’s been kicking herself for not noticing.

For being unaware that he’d even had a knee injury in his past, let alone one with lingering pain.

Will has told her some of the subtle clues that he’s hurting to watch for and she’s resolved to never let her partner suffer without realizing it again.

She drops her melancholy, turning her attention to watching him work.

He’s working on a knee press machine, his therapist standing close to watch the way his knee is responding to the pressure and offering pointers about adjusting the angle of his feet.

When the early updates from the building had come in, she’d really thought she was about to lose her partner, her best friend.

The fact he’d survived, let alone reached a place where he’s expecting to get cleared for light duty at his appointment tomorrow, is incredible.

Is a testament to his stubborness and resilience.

To how lucky she is to have him as her partner.

His therapist pulls him off the machine, offering a last little pep talk before slapping him on the back and heading off.

He limps slowly over to her, steady on his feet but clearly hurting.

Normally, seeing someone walk like that, her initial instinct would be to immediately get them off their feet.

To offer pain meds.

But this is Jay.

“Coffee before I drop you off?” she offers as she turns, walking shoulder to shoulder toward the parking lot. “Or maybe something stronger.”

“Don’t you need to get back to work?” he asks.

“Voight told me to take the rest of the day.” she tells him. “And I know you’ve got some good whiskey stashed.”

He grins.

“I don’t share that with just anyone.” he teases.

“I know.” she says. “But I’m not just anyone, am I?”

He stops, eyes softening as he looks at her.

“No.” he agrees, shaking his head. “You’re my partner.”