tw: graphic descriptions of injuries

"Chris!" Deacon shouts, the rocks crunching underneath his feet as he sprints in her direction. He draws his gun and sees Tan do the same, but before either of them can pull the trigger, they watch as Chris picks up the gun and shoots. Two bullets rip through Huevo's shoulder, his body falling from the impact, and then she's on him again before he can blink.

He watches in horror as she beats Huevo senseless, but he's sure she can't even hear the man's pathetic pleas for mercy. Unable to make his own feet move, he sees her freeze with the gun in her bound hands and her body shaking so hard, he doesn't know how she's keeping herself upright.

Adrenaline. Anger. Revenge. He realizes, his heart breaking.

"Chris!" Deacon says again once he can move, but quieter this time as he approaches her. He starts to step around her so he's facing her, brushing a hand against her shoulder, but she has the gun trained on him before he can take another step.

"Woah, Chris, it's Deacon, it's me." He finishes stepping around Huevo to kneel. The ground bites into his knees but he ignores it in favor of calming her down. "It's over, Chris. It's me. You can stop."

He watches realization dawn on her face and exhales when she lowers the weapon. Pain underscores her voice when she says his name, but then she's standing on her own two feet in front of him, which is all he could've asked for.

Chris is in his arms before he can ask her any other questions or offer any help. Deacon regains himself through the tears in his eyes and carefully returns the gesture, knowing that the injuries he can't see must be worse than what he can.

"You're safe." He whispers, feeling more of her weight lean into him when she whimpers. A change in her breathing gets his attention and he knows, as relieved as he feels to just have her back, she isn't okay.

"Let's get you some first aid," Deacon starts to say, pulling back just to see Chris white as a ghost, sweaty, and swaying on her feet.

"Okay, Chris- Chris!"

Deacon hears the gun hit the ground and wraps his arms around her as the rest of her body gives out and her eyes roll back into her head. Shouting for help, he lowers her as gently as possible to the ground.

"Stay with me, Chris!" He repeats over and over. Tan runs back down the alley after dragging Huevo's somehow still-alive body away with Stevens' help.

"What's wrong? What happened?" He's trying to keep his tone as level as possible but worry and rage are bubbling underneath.

"She passed out, and she's burning up." He says to Tan, and then, clicking on his com, "this is 30-David. We have 24-David. Need immediate medical assistance, what's the ETA?"

As soon as he's finished speaking, Deacon's eyes trail over her again and stop at the heavy cuffs still binding her. He searches his belt for anything he can use to pop the cuffs off. Pulling out a multi-use knife, he jimmies them open and throws them by the wall with enough force to break them. Evidence protocol be damned, he never wants to see them again, or for her to have to. There are deep cuts on her wrist that are a furious red and keep him frozen where he is.

"Oh, Chris," he mumbles under his breath as he really takes her in for the first time, "what did they do to you?"

"Two RAs are eight minutes out and headed straight to you and the suspect. Backup medical will arrive shortly after. There are no other major medical necessities on scene." Crackles over their radios. He nods along to the information, but his eyes stay trained on Chris.

"Oh my god! Oh my god, Chris!"

The voice pulls Deacon's attention and his head snaps up to see Street a foot away, having stopped dead at the sight of her.

Street's mouth hangs open and before he realizes it, he's crying, running, and kneeling next to Chris, gently tracing a hand down her face. A sob sticks in his throat when his eyes start to catalog the bruises and blood that paint her face and body in colorful splotches, almost nothing unmarred. He freezes when his eyes trace over her waist.

"Her jeans," he rasps, rage and despair hitting him in equal measure at the undone button and half-down, broken zipper. Deacon rubs a soothing circle over his shoulder, his other hand on Chris's forehead as her eyelids start to flutter.

Awareness starts to come back into her body bit-by-bit, working its way up from the tips of her fingers like wires being untangled. Everything still feels ungrounded, like she can't tell what's real. Her limbs are fuzzy, fevered heat pressing through her veins.

Voices swim around her. She can't make out their words, can barely hear them over the ringing, but it's enough to make her blink her heavy eyes open to see the blurry faces above her and the slivers of the too-blue sky visible behind them. A whine escapes when she opens her mouth to try to talk, and immediately the people start shushing her, someone leaning down to her ear.

"It's us, Chris. It's Deacon and Street and Tan. You're safe now. Just stay with us for a few more minutes. You're safe."

They speak slowly and softly, repeating themselves as her brain struggles to process their words. Understanding flickers in her eyes. She pushes back against the ground, trying in vain to sit up even though it makes her body light up in agony.

"Street?" she tries to say, her heart pounding, but no sound comes out.

Chris ignores them telling her to stay down, repeating Street's name over again as the only lifeline she has. Deacon and Tan each wrap an arm around her to help bring her upright when she tries again, a trembling hand reaching for him once she's sitting. Street fumbles to get his TAC vest off, not caring about protocol, just getting her in his arms unobstructed.

Her body shakes from the effort of holding itself, even with her teammates on either side of her. Tossing his gear to the side, Street sits against the wall and easily takes her weight when she collapses into him, her pained whines breaking his heart. His scent envelops her, foreign against the smoke and desperation that's surrounded her for days.

He's terrified to hold too tight and hurt her more, but he needs to feel Chris close.

"Street," she exhales raggedly in disbelief.

"Yeah. Yes. I've got you," he murmurs into her greasy hair, too matted with dirt and blood to run his fingers through it. Her eyes skim over them and then find the red stain on the gravel where Huevo was.

"Is he…?" Chris asks, near inaudible, brain struggling to put together the puzzle pieces on her own. Deacon swivels to look behind him and then adjusts slightly so he blocks her view of it. He gently sets a hand on hers to try to soothe her. She's dazed, they can tell, but aware enough that she'll keep asking until she gets an answer.

"We don't know yet, but he doesn't matter. You're safe. We've got you, okay?" Chris nods, and then speaks again in an even raspier, slurred voice.

"The missing girls? Got 'em?"

Street's touch is warm on her back. He nods at Tan, who smiles small before meeting Chris's unfocused eyes again.

"We did, Chris. They're all safe, no one else is injured."

Her shoulders fall from relief. Deacon cuts her off when she starts to open her mouth again.

"Chris, you need to rest, okay? We need you to save your energy and try to stay awake until the medics get here. Everything is okay, I promise. It's okay."

She blinks, biting her lip as she struggles to understand, and wincing back when she tastes the metallic blood. Her gaze drops to her hands, her knuckles bruised and split, and follows the flesh up to her maroon-covered wrists. It feels odd, now that they're not bound, and it's just overwhelming enough to break the wall she's been fighting to keep up for days now.

The tears are quiet but relentless, her body unable to produce sobs after all she's endured. Street guides her head to his chest and tries to calm her down, but her breathing only worsens, her hyperventilating excruciating.

"I got you, Chris," Street promises, though he feels helpless. Deacon and Tan look just as uncertain. Tears rush to his eyes as he presses her even closer to his chest and gently rocks her. "You're safe now. I got you."

She cries until the last dredges of adrenaline wear off, making pain and pressure build in her head like a bomb while shock sets in. Street's voice fades in and out, like she's listening through waves, and she wishes she could hold onto it fully.

"We need another ETA on medical." Deacon demands through his comm, brow wrinkled with tension as he shares a glance with Tan.

Her body feels like lead. She gives up trying to support it and sags completely into Street, sliding halfway down his chest. Errant tears cut through the grime on her face and leave a mark on his shirt. He can tell she's barely managing to stay awake, but her eyes keep snapping open with effort.

"I didn't tell him." Chris slurs, repeating herself until they piece out what she's saying. She wants to talk more but her body won't listen to her. "Didn't tell 'im—the house—"

"I know," Street says in a voice thick with tears. "We know, Babe. You're safe now."

"The ambulance is almost here, Chris," Deacon assures her in the kindest voice he can, though the words don't reach her and she doesn't acknowledge him. Their wildfire of worry grows.

Others start to approach, the rest of 20-Squad. Deacon moves to meet them, and Tan slides into his spot.

"It's bad." Deacon says softly, a grave look on his face. "But she's alive."

"We got her, Deac, and she's strong." Hondo reassures them. For the first time, Deacon isn't sure that's enough.

Stepping around Deacon, Luca and Hondo take in Chris—dirty, bloody, and bruised all to hell. Their shock only lasts a breath until they jump into action, Luca setting down a first aid kit.

Her t-shirt is a torn mess that's barely covering her, let alone protecting any of her countless wounds. Luca hands Street a gray blanket that he immediately wraps around Chris, hoping the cover can provide a modicum of comfort. When Luca carefully tries to tuck it around her, his hand presses into her side.

It's like someone lit her on fire. Chris sits up and pushes away from the blanket grazing over her side, a gut-wrenching scream escaping. Her eyes squeeze shut as the burning pain grows and she struggles to breathe in the aftermath. Pulling her back onto his lap, Street tries to calm her down.

"Shh, Chris," he murmurs so only she can hear it. Fear and anger and sorrow pool in his eyes. "I'm so sorry," he breathes out, trying to calm her down as she convulses. "It'll be over soon. You can rest soon, I'm so sorry, Chris. I've got you."

The pain is too loud for Chris to be able to respond, but her arms come around his neck and she clings to him for comfort while the unending waves of agony crash over her. Her tears soak his skin and sticky blood, hers or Huevo's neither know, drags up onto her forearms and stains his neck, drying in his hair. He holds her as gently as he can, wary of any errant touch hurting her. Hondo's voice cuts through everything else, louder than her cries, the team meeting his eyes.

"Chris, I need to look at your side."

He waits quietly in hopes that she can digest the words. Eventually, Street feels the tickle of her hair under his chin from her listless nod, wet eyelashes brushing his neck. Her body starts trembling worse from fear, and he gives Hondo a silent warning to be careful.

"Okay." Hondo says, trying to give all of them some strength. Tan moves out of his way, and he raises the side of her shirt with the lightest touch he can.

It only goes so far until the fabric is too dried to her skin to budge, crusty with blood and God knows what else. He doesn't try to pull it and risk hurting her further, but what they can see is more than enough.

Dark bruising mottles her skin, some shaped like ugly handprints. A deep cut right under her ribs is dribbling blood, like it started to close and was ripped back open in the fight, inflamed. Angry red road-rash scrapes paint over her torso and curl around her stomach where they're met with days-old ulcers.

"It's all infected. Internal bleeding and pressure injuries." Hondo murmurs, voice pained and eyes trailing down the small clusters of burns that disappear under Chris's jeans and onto her hip. They can only imagine how painful it all is, their sharp breaths not enough to make her look up at them.

She's only getting worse with each moment, and the team knows they're not equipped to help her with what they have available. Still, hushed whispers are followed by the careful maneuvering of her limbs. Something soft is wrapped around the broken skin of her wrists, and her hair is tucked behind her ear so the flush of sweat on her forehead and cheeks can be dabbed at, her head lolling to the side. Unable to tear his eyes from her face, Street keeps his voice warm and even in her ear—a constant reminder that he's there, and she's safe.

The team watches as white turns red and hopes it's enough protection for now. Chris coughing snaps them all out of themselves and they refocus on her. Her body shakes and she lets out a whimper as she tries to relax, but can't.

"Here, Chris," someone else says. It takes a while for the words to reach her and for her to look up in response. She's met with Luca, eyes full of concern and fury, holding up an open water bottle that she nods at, but makes no move to grab. Even if she tried, his whole person is swaying in front of her and blending in with the background.

Head still against Street's shoulder and his solid form behind her, she opens her mouth slightly, eyes closing as if she's embarrassed or not completely aware. Luca sets the opening against her bottom lip and tips the bottle for her to drink.

She sips as much as she can, only about a quarter of the bottle, before closing her mouth again. She swallows down the taste of iron. Luca sets his hand on her cheek for just a second, reminding himself she really is there, before wetting a piece of gauze to clear some of the grime from her face. The water drips from her hairline over her eyebrows and nose, freezing against the heat that radiates from her.

"No, stop." Chris rattles, tone high with hurt. She pushes weakly at the arm it's attached to, and turns her face further into Street to get away from it.

"Luca," Street gets his attention and shakes his head, quickly returning his attention to Chris to comfort her, bringing her further onto his lap. Luca swallows and sets the water down, taking solace in Deacon's hand on his shoulder.

"Ambulance will be here any second." Tan says, the only one of them standing instead of kneeling by her. His voice shakes and they all understand; his eyes keep flicking to the end of the alley as if he can will help to get there faster.

Street is a statue with Chris against him. He whispers soft, sweet nothings about her safety and assurances that it's over into her ear. Blanket abandoned in a wrinkled hump on the gravel, he rubs gentle circles over her back. She shivers at the touch, so unlike every other sensation assaulting her.

No one knows what to say, and Chris opens her eyes. She scans the team best she can. She wants to tell them she's fine or that she'll be fine or anything, anything to break the silence.

But then, vaguely, the wails of ambulance sirens fill the air and she squeezes her eyes shut against the constant shrill. The pounding in her head grows to a timpani and she thinks she feels herself deteriorating even more as her fight or flight returns involuntarily as a response to the noise.

Street apologizes, tells her again that it's okay, and watches as the flashing lights come to a halt as close to the group as possible. Three paramedics jump from the bus, pulling a gurney with them. Chris feels consciousness leaving her again, her vision becoming blurry and voices mixing to an indistinguishable barrage of sound as every sensation becomes too much to bear.

"Street?" She murmurs into his neck, barely audible even without the extra bodies, but her breath and the vibration is enough to catch his attention. He leans his ear down to listen again, her voice small.

"Please don't leave me? Please? Please stay with me?" Chris begs, can't tell if she's rambling and unsure if the words are swimming for Street like they are for her. She keeps repeating herself until he sets a hand on her face to steady her frenzied voice, meeting her terrified gaze one more time and hoping he can assuage the fear overtaking her.

"I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."

hello! thank you so so much for reading- i hope you liked it! honestly, this is one of my favorite chapters to write. i'm obsessed with rescue scenes, and, even though there's a lot of angst and h/c to come, the rescue scene just always does something to me. i'm feeling a bit stuck with where i am down the line of this fic, so all comments/kudos are appreciated, as i'm sure they'll spark inspiration (as they always do). thank you to everyone who's continued to read! and- new "if you never bleed" chapter coming soon, who would've thought! xo, A ps. you can find me on tumblr streakyglasses :) come hang out!