Antonio's P.O.V.

It is becoming apparent that Intelligences strong suit is controlled chaos. I swear, we all operate best after the shit hits the fan. Which was…..like right now.

"STATUS, STATUS!" Voight is screaming at everybody once the van is past us. I am still shooting, but I hear the responses of everyone else. Everyone except Jay.

"DAWSON, HALSTEAD STATUS!"

"No harm." I reply quietly, my eyes watching as the van gets smaller and smaller, then finally drifts around a corner and disappears.

"HALSTEAD!"

I respond for him, while running to the his general area.

"Sarge, he was hit. I saw it." Immediately Voight is by my side, telling the team to rondevu with us.

"Find him, Dawson." I give him a grim nod, but it may not be that easy. The small eatery is now a battle field, people dead, people dying. Blood is everywhere, covering everything. No one is unharmed. No one but us. And even then, not all of us. We're supposed to be the finest cops in the city, and we can't even protect our own. Pathetic.

I find him next to a sobbing girl in a yellow sun dress, just a dark lump of clothing. He is literally curled in a ball, like he's trying to sleep and the sun is in his face.

Slowly, gently, I roll him over onto his back. Then immediately search for the nearest trash can, because the site of Jay's chest is making my lunch want to reappear. Two bullet holes, one through his left lung, the other dangerously close to his heart. And, Jesus Christ, the blood. Covering his shirt, soaking his jacket, staining the ground beneath him. With more seeping from the wounds. There is no way someone can lose that much blood and live.

Please, please, please. I do a silent chant in my head as I move to fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. C'mon Jay, don't do this to us. He must know Lindsay would taze his ass, because there is a pulse. Albeit extremely weak and thready, but its there.

I think I laugh out loud.

I plunge into action, applying pressure to the hole above his heart, and radioing the team.

"Bring the Escalade to the front of the coffee shop." I command Ruzek.

"What-"

"JUST DO IT!" I basically roar into the mic. Olinski is has found me. Without hesitation he kneels, then puts pressure on his other wound. We glance at each. It's an unspoken message of guilt and determination. We will do everything humanly possible to keep Halstead alive.

Pounding of boots and more screeching tires. Music to my ears. The SUV parks itself right next to us. Alvin, whom not only picked up on my plan, but is also much stronger than he looks, helps me. Together we cradle Jay's limp body and lift him. Voight grabs opens the trunk right as Lindsay arrives. Her face instantly drains of color upon the sight of her dying partner.

"O my god-" She whispers, rushing toward him, but knowing enough not to touch him. Instead she runs for the backdoor of the car, rips it open, then starts folding the seats down to make a big enough space that we can have him almost flat but still be able to keep pressure on his wounds. Smart.

As we slid Halstead into the back, Adam decides to ask a simple but deadly question.

"Why not just call a bus?"

Four pairs of eyes scream murder at him. Olinski is the only to answer and even then its like shooting daggers.

"Does it look like he has time to wait for an ambulance?!" Al hisses at his partner as I climb in the trunk, sitting so I can try and stop any more blood from flowing out of his body. Olinski gets in, Voight shuts the trunk, climbs in the drivers seat, then starts the car in record time. Ruzek must scramble to make it into the passengers seat before Hank peels away from the curve and toward Chicago med.

It is only now, while we're in the back of a speeding vehicle, (probably driving on the wrong side of the street knowing Voight) that I finally get a good look at Halstead. Face pale, eyes closed, lips blue. It's weird. He looks like a little kid when he's sleeping. Or unconscious. Whichever.

"His arm is bleeding." Erin says softly. Slowly, as though she's afraid she will hurt him more, she wraps her hands around a gash on his upper bicep, where more blood has flowed down his arm Good god, how much blood does this kid have?

I check his pulse again. For one terrifying second I can't find anything. Then I feel a steady thrum that has somehow managed to get weaker since the last time I checked.

"C'mon Voight he doesn't have much longer." I warn him.

"You think I'm not trying?! I didn't even know there were this many traffic laws TO break!"

Ruzek was being smart for the first time today, calling the ahead to the hospital, explaining everything. Lindsay is silently crying, while running a shaky hand through his hair. She glances down the rest of his body, then returns to his face.

"You're gonna be ok. You're gonna be ok." She repeats it, over and over, like if she says it enough times her words can heal him. But they can't. Nothing she does or says can help him and she knows it. So it breaks her.

We are close, I recognize some of the street names. If my teammate wasn't dying I might reflect on why I know the names of the streets surrounding chicago med, but he is. And there's my answer.

We pull into the little loading bay thingy that ambulances go. I look him over again. I don't think he's breathing.

There are doctors and nurses with a gurney and the moment the trunk is open they take him. Hands replace ours, applying pressure. Doctors give orders, an IV is inserted into his wrist, they push him through a set off double doors labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY and he's gone.

Just like that. Taken to surgery. I-We may never see him alive again. All because of a gang decided to get its hate on for cops.

These are the days I hate my job. And I hate the people that make our job necessary. But mostly, right now I hate myself for bringing the kid into the unit. If I hadn't maybe he'd be safe right now. Maybe he'd be healthy. Alive.

It's been over 5 hours since Jay Halstead was admitted to the OR of Chicago Medical. He had lost over 4 pints of blood and wasn't breathing. And that's all they know at this point. Nurse's exact words.

Damn it.

I still can't wrap my head around the fact the he got shot. I never thought about it, but that kid acted like he could do anything. And for some stupid Antonio Dawson reason, I guess I believed him.

I never washed my hands. None of us did. I'm pretty sure we are scaring the other people here because we're all just sitting in chairs, our hands covered in blood, totally lost in thought. Like victims of a train wreck. Ha. My life is a train wreck. So that's a pretty accurate statement. At least for me.

I'm so lost in thought (evidently so is everyone else) that I don't notice the doctor emerge, I don't notice Voight stand and I don't notice them having a conversation. I only notice him come back with barely suppressed relief on his face. We stand.

"He's alive."

The tension leaves the room with an audible whoosh. However he's not finished.

"Two bullets, One hit a lung, the other hit an artery and was lodged near his heart. They were able to get all the fragments out and repair the damage to his chest, along with some stitches on his arm where a third bullet grazed him. That being said he flatlined twice and lost a lot of blood."

"But he's okay, right?" Erin cuts him off before he can continue the gore story. Voight gives her a tiny little voight smile.

"Room 304. And be quick, the visiting hours are almost over." She does a little sob/laugh and smiles, before jogging down the hall to her partner. The team split in various direction, some going home, others to the bathrooms to wash their hands, and some to the coffee machine; leaving me alone in the waiting room.

I just stand there. And smile for the first time today.

FIN

For the record this is the last chapter. So it's finish. As is Stop and Stare. I think. Yes. It is. Ok well I will post another little one-shot on Tuesday for y'all.

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