Okay. Let it be known that I am still trying to wrap my head around the amount of review. Like. Damn. You guys rock. :D
Jay's P.O.V.
Voight is starting to annoy. Majorly. There was that whole thing with him dropping not-so-subtle hints around Lindsay and I in the bullpen that he knew. So we broke it off. But I guess that he didn't pick up on that because for our new case, I with atwater and Erin was with Voight or Antonio.
Why what is this new case you ask? Oh of course I'll gladly tell you.
It's not ours.
Surprised? No? Neither was I. It seems fifty percent of our cases now a days are from other units.
This one was from Arson. Well, actually this went from special crimes to Arson then they combined, and now we are taking the lead from Arson and all three units are supposed to be working on it. Intelligence was called in because its been two months and no progress has been made.
"So now we're the commander's clean up unit?!" I protest to Voight as he tells us.
"If the commander says we're on this, then we are on it. I don't care whether or not you like it." I exchange a glance with Erin. Really? She raises an eyebrow and shrugs. He probably already had this conversation with Fischer.*
Beyond annoyed, I grabbed my jacket and storm out of the bullpen. Atwater joins me.
"One of those days?" He asks. I grunt in response.
If only he knew.
O-/-O
We end up at an old address from Arson. The landlord had recently filed a complaint about one of his tenants, who happened to be a suspect in the case. It was a decent two story apartment building. Nobody lived down stairs so once Antonio, Ruzek and Olinski arrived we 'kindly' asked for access to the upstairs flat. He didn't really mind us, but it still took a promise from Voight (whom arrived with Lindsay not long after everyone else) that whatever we found wouldn't come back to get him in trouble.
Erin and Srg. went outside to talk to the neighbors, Atwater and I picked the first room closest to the stairs. The remainder of the team went down the hall to what looked like the kitchen. I step into a plain room. Dirty tile floor cluttered with junk and electrical components with white walls covered in penciled math equations.
"Hey Halstead. Come look at this." I move toward Atwater's gruff voice.
"What's up?" I ask, bending down to peer at the object in his hands.
"Does this...look like a bomb to you?" He holds up a plastic container with wires poking out of its white cap. We follow the electrical cords around the container, turning it over, only to find a small old fashioned stop watch.
"Why yes, Kevin, it does seem to look like a bomb. Except that a bomb needs some form of explosive on order to make it, you know, dangerous." The words come out a little more sarcastic than I wanted them to, but hey, a almost-bomb situation does that to you.
"Well, yeah, I understand that but-" Atwater stops mid-sentence, as Antonio's voice crosses the radio.
"Voight we got liquid explosives…" He continues but neither of us are stare at the bottle and my partner for the moment gives it an experimental shake. I try to identify the sound that emanated from inside. It's weird it sounded kinda like-
Like a slight little swish.
Almost like water….
"RUN!"
I scream the warning, already sprinting to the door, basically dragging Atwater with me. We've just reached the door when it goes off.
There's this huge whoosh of air that seems to lift up my body as though by magic. Instinctively I curl into a ball, and when I hit the wall, I can almost feel the indentation I make. My back hits first, which is unfortunate, because when my head snaps back, Its got nothing to hit but the studs behind the paint.
And that's about where my consciousness decided to quit.
I can feel with a painful awareness as my body sliding down the wall. I become content watching shards of wood fly around me. My veins are filled with a heavy tranquility, urging me to relax into the black tidal wave that grows behind my eyes. Heat washes over my face as I watch flames start to devour the room I was just forcibly ejected from.
Well….Shit.
The wall of blackness crashes down, and I know no more.
Antonio's P.O.V.
In the kitchen. (Rewind five minutes)
We move along the walls, checking drawers and cabinets. I open a door under the grimy sink, but instead of equally grimy pipes, I'm greeted by multiple rows of white gallon containers, the kind you might by bleach in. Pulling out my flashlight, I casually flick it on and shine it toward the tap label on one of them.
"Hey guys?" I call.
"Yeah?" Ruzek and Olinski answer at the same time. Shooting one another a look, Adam moves closer.
"What's up?"
"Why would someone need 20 gallons of Diethylene Glycol Dinitrate?" I hand him a jug. He gently shakes the bottle, making the clear liquid slosh around.
"Um...Al?" Ruzek asks keeping his eyes on the mysterious liquid.
"Yeah?"
"Isn't DGD an active explosive?"
A small period of silence fills the room as we look at each other in dread. I'm the first to move, grabbing my radio and notifying the team.
"Voight we got liquid explosives. The place could be rigged…" as I talk Ruzek slowly sets the carton on the floor and all three of us move toward the door. We've just reached it when a deafening 'PHOOM' rocks the building. I watch in horror as Jay and Atwater are thrown through the air, across the hall and slam into the wall. A wave of heat pushes us to the ground, where we instinctively cover our faces as pieces of wood and debris rain down. Coughing, I push myself onto all fours, checking for injuries.
"You good?!" I yell over the ringing my ears. There is another sound to. Crackling. Half acknowledging Al's response I to face the rest of the hallway. Smoke is filling the space, making the visibility level decrease dramatically.
Fire. Of course. You survive a bomb only to die in the f-ing fire.
At the end of the hall i can just make out a dark lump that is Jay Halstead. There is slight movement behind him, as Atwater stumbles to his feet. Taking Al's hand, I rise into a standing position and start moving toward my injured team mates. Voight is shouting over the radio, yelling at us to respond. My hand doesn't move an inch to the com. on my shoulder.
The flames have begun to engulf the room Jay and Atwater were in. If the flames reach the store of DGD in the back, we're all dead. Moving quickly to Jay, Al signals to Ruzek.
"Take him outside!" He yells over the now roaring fire. Adam doesn't object, just takes a dazed Kevin by the arm and leads him down the stairs. I turn my attention to Halstead. Its hard to tell his condition with all the smoke, but considering he hasn't moved an inch since hitting the wall, I'm gonna assume hes not doing too well.
Together, Olinski and I grab him under the shoulders, and in one smooth motion, pull the fallen detective upright. I put my arm around his waist, while simultaneously draping his arm around my shoulders. As Jay's head lolls limply against my shoulder, my hand registers a dampness seeping through his shirt. I don't need to look to know it's blood.
The fire has moved its way into the hall, threatening to block our escape route. The smoke has gotten so thick I can barely make out the stairs, and its doing nothing good for our lungs. I feel Halstead shudder as his body struggles to intake oxygen.
"Let's go!" I can't hear Al respond, but he moves with me as I pull toward the stairs. No sooner do we make it down the first step when another loud fireball erupts from behind. The force sends us flying down the stairs, slamming to a stop on the small landing. My arm is numb from where it thwacked into a railing and I'm pretty sure my head shouldn't be bleeding that much.
The second explosion did more than just catapult our part down a flight of stairs, it also dislodged a couple of major beams. Beams that fell right onto the next set of stairs. You know the ones leading down and out. And they're on fire, effectively destroying any chance of us maneuvering Jay around them. We sir, are well and truly screwed.
On my hands and knees for the second time today, I realize that Olinski is now also unconscious. I check his pulse and, after finding to be strong, chalk up his state to the bump on his forehead.
Crawling over to Halstead, my emotions, which have been surprisingly absent, threaten to overwhelm me. Panic takes over when I struggle to discern if he's breathing. Pressing an ear to his chest, I can hear his lungs struggling to intake the toxic air. His breath comes in weird intervals, three staggered intakes of air, a pause, then two or three exhales. And theres this persistent rattling noise from his left chest. Guessing a broken rib or two pressing on his lung, I unconsciously run a hand over my face, wondering how this could get any worse. Sitting back I quickly survey the rest of his body.
I had to ask.
Whatever relief I experienced when I confirmed he was alive instantly disappears at the sight of Jay's torso. The jagged piece of wood in his abdomen makes it hard to tell if the sudden nausea if from smoke inhalation or the realization that my friend probably won't make it to see tomorrow. Gingerly touching the wood, Halstead jerks underneath me. Immediately I'm back by his head, hopeful he is regaining consciousness. Nothing. No fluttering eyelids, no moan that might suggest him returning to reality. Infact, the only change in his condition is that his breathing has diminished to the point that he's really just taking tiny breathes here and there. No rhythm. Just his bodys last ditch effort to help itself.
I think I would have cried had I not been exhausted.
Sirens echo outside. At least I hope they're sirens. One look upward shows the entire second floor taken by the inferno. It won't be long until-
The air pressure seems to drop before a sound like an atomic bomb rips through the house, seemingly tearing the building apart. Some merciful god allows the shock wave to be concussive.
At least I won't have to feel myself being burned alive….My last thought echos in my head as a wall of fire speeds toward me. Then all is quiet.
Antonio's P.O.V.
When you work with someone long enough, once you go past civil respect and becomes friends, you kind of become in sync with them. Now I'm not saying I know Jay as well as Erin, but I've been around him long enough to know when he's really agitated or not quite with reality. (Yes, I mean ptsd. Shut up I'm telling a story.)
I have also had the pleasure of finding out certain things he hates. Black coffee. The Islanders. Sitting still. Seriously, have you ever seen the kid stay in the same spot for more than five minutes?
But I have found that the thing he hates above almost everything else is hospitals. Even if he's not forced to stay in one, even if it's just walking in one for a case, he HATES them. Whenever he IS in one, he's always jittery, has a very sassy attitude, and his hands develop a tremor. Yah. Just imagine what it was like working with him during the terrorist attack on Chicago med. That long in a closed room with a bomb threat over his head. I thought he was gonna explode. To Halstead, hospitals equal hell.
And right now, I couldn't agree more.
They said I was lucky. We all were. Said that if the fire trucks hadn't come when they did, we'd be dead. Looking at the figure in front of me, I almost wish we were. It'd be easier. So much easier than trying to look at my battered face in a mirror or trying to look Lindsay and Will in the eye.
She had to tell him. While I was recovering from surgery, I guess Will had heard from the grapeline of nurses that multiple cops had been brought in from an explosion. He had called Halsteads phone, and, upon not receiving an answer, had called Lindsay.
I didn't know it was possible to feel any guiltier, until Olinski told me of the encounter. How Will and Lindsay had cried together. How he had told her he couldn't lose someone else.
Multiple burns, most first degree, a fractured Ulna, concussion, and many a stitched laceration from debris. Al was even better off.
They said we were lucky. But looking down at Jay's unconscious form, I found it hard to believe them. The many doctors and nurses had explained it to Intelligence, always updating us on his current condition, the next step they were taking, the next surgery. Nobody really understood until Will explained. Put it in stupid human terms.
Multiple broken ribs, a couple of which had pressed on, then punctured his left lung. Probably from our flying leap down the stairs. Second degree burns travel down his right arm below the elbow, ending at his hand. Nerve damage is out, and there should be no scar, but he won't be able to hold a gun for almost three weeks. And that's just his right arm. His left wrist was shattered, shoulder dislocated, broken collar bone. His doctor said we have to wait till when he wakes up to see if he can even feel his left arm at all. It took a five hour surgery to fix his lungs, ribs, shoulder, and wrist. Plus a severe concussion, nobody can do anything about.
Oh yes. I almost forgot the cherry on top. They found a fracture in one of the vertebrates in his spine. So IF he wakes up, and every nurse we ever talked to made it clear it is an IF, he may not be able to move his legs.
I was discharged 6 hours ago, and came straight to his room. I have yet to wrap my mind around the fact Jay Halstead might never walk again. Never skip his way to a cup of liquid caffeine, or chase down a suspect. Never be able goof off with me on a basketball court. Never wear a badge again.
He should be dead. I should be staring at Jay Halstead's body in the morgue, not a clean hospital room. But he isn't and I'm not so now I have to deal with how shitty life is. Which is stupid. Because for the last five and a half hours, (I did change and eat food before Voight let me see him) I have alternated between hating myself for daring to think I have a shit filled life and hating myself for not doing anything.
He has it so much worse than you.
Yeah, and whose fault is that? You should've done something. You could've done something. You chose to ignore-
Ignore what? There was nothing I could do, I couldn't stop the bomb from going off.
You could have moved faster. If you had warned him sooner, he wouldn't be in this mess. None of you would. You could've had a slight case of smoke inhalation at worst. Instead you and Ruzek and Al stared at each other like rookie beat cops.
This isn't their fault.
No. It's yours. You brought him into this unit, remember? Now he's gonna die for you.
The last thought makes me gasp. I pull my hands from each respective pocket, pressing them to my burning eyes. I pull them away, surprised to find them wet. I look back to Jay.
His face is almost as white as the pillow it lies on, and he has one of those little plastic tubes under his nose, giving him fresh oxygen. Will said they were gonna intubate him to help his lung heal, but were equally afraid that if Jay woke up to a tube down his throat and freaked, it would only damage his broken body more. I was glad. It gave the false illusion that he was gonna be ok.
I grab the edge of my chair and pull it closer to the edge of the occupied bed. For the lack of anything productive to do, I find myself studying his hand. It's weird, but I never noticed how many scars he has. I'm sure all of Intelligence assumed he had some from the war, but just looking, and I mean really looking, at his hand proves Jay has a lot of physical ones we've never seen. There's a long diagonal slice that twists around his palm, across the back of his hand, and reconnects with itself back on his pinkie knuckle.
It's the exact place one would wrap a rope around their hand if they needed a better grip. Kind of like what someone would do To keep themselves from falling. No. To keep someone else from falling.
My jaw clenches in anger. Halstead went through so much shit overseas, only to come home and face the same shit as a cop. I know Afghanistan is on a whole different level than Chicago but still. He doesn't need it.
It occurs to me that nobody has come into the room since I arrived, not even a nurse. Maybe Voight told them to leave us alone. I couldn't care less, but all the same, I'm grateful for the peace.
The silence filling the room suddenly becomes oppressive, I am desperate for noise besides the beeping of machines. Reaching out a trembling hand, I gently enclose his in mine. And I talk.
I tell him the whole story of our rescue. Tell him how the beam that trapped us also saved us when the building collapsed. How the collapse also extinguished the most of the fire. How one of his many cuts is from when Severide pulled him out of the window about the landing. I don't skip details. I don't cut out how Erin sobbed and begged him to live. I don't skip over where Voight actually looked scared.
I've just reached the end, when I see I've been talking for over an hour and it's 8:05. A girl comes in and tells me visiting hours are over while fiddling with Jays I.V.
I nod, and am about to stand when the hand, the limp, scarred hand of his returns my grip. My gaze instantly snaps to Halstead's face. Two clear blue eyes connect with mine.
"Damn" he says in a rusty voice.
"You were just getting to the good part."
Yes.
That's the end.
Please don't kill me! C is gonna be the follow up so its okay.
*I think that's the new commander's name but I am probs wrong so don't freak out if it is.
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