Title: Ice Forms Over
Disclaimer: Slash. Violence. Language. Angst.
Note: This will be similar to the current season in the beginning. But will change from there.
POV: Danny
Chapter One: Between the Cracks
"Martin?" I take the chance to shake his shoulder. He doesn't open his eyes. "Wake up, damn it!"
The screech of tires on the wet pavement and the blaring sirens signal the arriving ambulance. Don't let them be too late. With a trembling hand I reach for Martin's wrist. The pulse is so faint that I don't feel it at first. He's losing too much blood. I apply more pressure to the wound as the ambulance stops nearby. The paramedics rush out. More cars come flying around the bend in the road. I know they belong to the FBI. How is Jack going to react when he sees Martin lying on the ground?
The paramedics, with their bags, kneel on the pavement. "His pulse is faint. You can't let him die. Not here and not like this, you hear me?"
"Sir, you need to move so we can do our job," one of the guys says.
I'm afraid to remove my hand from the still bleeding wound. The medic closest to me gently moves my hand away. I watch as they rip open his shirt to check the wounds. There's still so much blood. I climb to my feet and back away. The black cars stop a distance away. I can hear the distinct sound of Jack's dress shoes on the pavement.
"Dan-"
"He's flat-lining," I hear a medic say.
"No," I whisper. I run back to his side. "You can't die on me, Martin. You hear me? There's too much left to do." I pull on his shirt; why, I'm not really sure.
A pair of strong arms wraps around my waist and pulls me to my feet. I fight to get back to Martin. "Danny," Jack yells in my ear. "Danny, you have to let them do their job."
I continue to fight against Jack. He gets mad as he drags me away from Martin. As a last ditch effort he throws me into his car. My back hits the solid metal object with a slight thump. Jack's hand rests on his gun, still in its holster. I put my hands up in defeat. Out of the corner of my eye I see the medics trying to resuscitate Martin. Jack purposely repositions himself, blocking the scene from my view.
"Are you okay, Danny?" He asks me softly.
"Martin…"
He takes a step closer to me. "Don't think about him. I need to know if you're okay. You're bleeding."
I look down at my shirt. It's stained with blood. My hands are covered in the sticky red liquid. "Martin's…"
Jack touches my shoulder. I hadn't noticed that he'd moved closer. "You're in shock, Danny. There's another ambulance on the way. I'm going to have them check you over. You may need to go to the hospital."
"No," I shake my head. I don't want to leave Martin.
"You have a head wound," he says touching the cut above my eye. The pain makes me flinch. "Never take a head wound lightly, Danny. Especially in our line of work, and especially when you've just been in a shoot out."
"I'll go," I tell him. He doesn't need to know that I'll make a pit-stop while I'm there. I can still see Martin. The doctors will have to give me the information I want. If they refuse, I'll just flash my badge. It works every time. People are willing to talk to the FBI to stay out of trouble.
The sound of the ambulance doors closing drags me back to the damp night. Standing straight I glance over Jack's shoulder. Martin is gone. The ambulance pulls away with its sirens screaming into the night. The lights slice through the dark. Left behind on the pavement are a few bloody towels. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Martin isn't going to make it. There's more blood on the pavement than there probably is in his body.
"Danny, I need you to answer a few questions for me. Do you think you can do that?"
The night gets foggy. Jack grabs me as I slump against the car. The world around me spins faster than my eyes can keep up with so I close them. Another pair of hands grabs my left arm. Jack says something but his voice is muffled. I try to put a hand to my head; unsuccessfully. For the next few seconds I'm half-dragged to my left. Someone helps me to sit on cold metal. Just as quickly as the dizzy spell hits me it leaves. When I open my eyes a medic shines a tiny flashlight into them. I brush his hand away.
"He's trying to help you," Jack says. "Let him do his job."
"I'm fine, nothing but a dizzy spell. My adrenaline rush wore off. Big deal," I comment. The medic continues to do his job even though I protest.
"Danny, I need you to answer a few questions. You know how important this can be."
"Go ask the other guy. Martin got shot because of him. We shouldn't have been transporting that criminal. The cops should've done it, or someone else."
Jack crosses his arms. "Asking him is going to be a little hard. He died instantly. Shot in the head."
"Good."
The medic chooses this time to interrupt us. "I'm going to have to take him to the hospital," he instructs Jack.
Jack nods. "Of course, but I want to talk to him first. How about five minutes?" The medic nods and disappears to who-knows-where. Jack turns his attention back to me. "Look, I know you're concerned about Martin, I am too. But I can't help him if I don't know what the hell happened."
"'I can't help him'? Don't you mean 'we'"? I ask.
"No, I meant what I said. You will be going to the hospital. Sam and Vivian can help me out. Now tell me what happened." He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. A gesture I had done so many times before. Never before had I been on the other side of the crime. I always did the interviewing. Not the answering.
"We were taking Adisa Teno to lock-up. Martin stopped at a red light behind a white van." I hesitate as the whole scene plays out in my mind. Every shot fired; all the blood. "The back doors to the van swung open and someone started shooting. Martin did his best to move our car. But I guess he got hit. I ducked. Everything else just happened so fast."
Jack looks up from his notebook. "Did you manage to shoot anyone in the van?"
"I tried. They were too fast. Martin…"
"How long was Martin unconscious before the paramedics got here?"
"Anywhere between one to five minutes. I wasn't keeping count. I was busy trying to stop the bleeding."
Jack returns the little notebook to his pocket as the medic returns. The two of them usher me into the ambulance. Before the doors close I see a large black Cadillac roll up to the scene. Out steps Martin's dad. For once I'm glad that I'm being ushered off to the hospital. Jack is in for a world of hell. Martin's father, the head of the FBI, will not be happy to find out that his son got shot.
I lay back on the stretcher as the ambulance makes its way to the hospital. The lights are on but not the sirens. The ride goes quietly and smoothly. At the hospital the doctor checks me over. Every five minutes I ask him about Martin. He ignores me. Finally he finishes his tests. I put my suit jacket back on.
"I would like you to spend the night for observation," the doctor says.
"And I'd like to be a millionaire. We can't all get what we want," I remark.
"I can't stop you from leaving. Since you want to go home make sure you get a friend to spend the night with you. They'll need to wake you up every hour," he explains.
"I'll do that," I mumble as I leave the room.
Have a friend spend the night? What friend could spend the night? Three of my friends are busy working a scene and the other one is fighting for his life. The sound of hasty footsteps behind me makes me turn around. The doctor who just examined me waves at me. There's a clipboard in his hands.
"What?" I ask.
"The friend you were asking about, I got his file," he says. I don't have the strength to ask the only question I want answered. The doctor understands. He sees this every day. "He's in surgery right now and in critical condition."
"Thank you," is all I say to him.
Martin is in critical condition. The words play over and over in my mind as I make my way to the bathroom. Once inside I lock the door behind me. I want to be alone. Probably not the best idea but who cares? My reflection glares back at me when I stand in front of the mirror. The cut above my eye is covered with a white bandage. My shirt is filthy and covered in with blood. As are my hands. I hold my hands in front of my face. The skin underneath is barely noticeable. My hands are covered in my best friend's blood. I turn the hot water on in the nearest sink. Hot water courses over my hands, cleaning away the blood. But not cleaning away the image of Martin, lying on the pavement, dying.