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.”

Chapter Text

He’s been hiding his nightmares for as long as he can remember.

He’d learned quick that Dean wouldn’t comfort him, wouldn’t soothe his cries and wipe away his tears.

Wouldn’t hold him until he felt ready to try sleeping again and then tuck him under the covers with a promise that he was just next door if Wes got scared again.

Dean yelled.

Told Wes he had to work in the morning; long hours at the factory to pay for the expenses of an ungrateful child like Wes.

Told him that he was meant to be in bed, asleep, and that he’d better get back that way fast or Dean would give him something to be afraid of.

Dean was usually the monster in his nightmares anyway.

His mom often slept through them.

Enough alcohol or drugs in her system that she didn’t even hear his cries.

The small handful of times when she hadn’t, her reassurances had been clipped.

She’d flip on the lights; pointing around him that he was in his bedroom, safe in bed with nothing that was going to hurt him.

Then she’d tell him to lie down and go back to sleep.

Tomorrow would be another long day.

Then she’d turn the lights back off and go back to bed, leaving him alone in the dark with only Tito to soothe him.

By the time Miss Edwin dropped him off with the Goodreaus, he’d learned to keep them to himself.

For the most part at least.

He’d struggled after losing Tito; with nobody to comfort him and the memory of watching his best friend being shredded to haunt his nightmares.

He’d woken with the ghost of beady black eyes in the back of his mind for months.

Mr. Gregor hadn’t cared for his nightmares.

At least not the way his parents had.

There hadn’t been shouting or disappointed looks.

No orders to go back to bed and be quiet.

Just a clipped announcement the next morning as he left for school that he’d forfeited dinner that evening.

With that motivation, he’d learned to stay quiet.

He’d wake with soundless screams, muffling himself instinctively with his pillow as he’d worked to calm ragged breathing.

There was never really any chance of falling back to sleep on those nights.

Just Wes lying in the dark by himself trying to reassure himself that it wasn’t real.

It didn’t really work when his reality isn’t that much better.

But it works well enough for a few years.

He manages to avoid one more thing to bother and inconvenience his foster parents with.

Until Mrs. Thompson.

He’d gotten sick a few weeks after being dropped on her doorstep and it had knocked his guard down enough that he’d woken up screaming that night.

She’d come in and talked with him, an unusual kindness to her words that had set every nerve on edge.

Then she’d offered him a glass of warm milk, telling him that it would help him get back to sleep.

He hadn’t wanted to drink it but she’d remained sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him until he drank it and unable to think of a way around it, he’d downed the glass.

And it had worked.

It hadn’t taken long before he’d fallen back to sleep.

And right into a nightmare that he couldn’t seem to find his way out of.

His life is such a dumpster fire that it sometimes take him a while to realize that he’s dreaming.

It starts out as recreations of actual horrors that he’s lived through and it isn’t until things start to take on an other worldly horror element that he realizes this isn’t just his real life.

Usually once he gets to that point he can jolt himself out of it.

But not this time.

He’s racing through a dark, barren landscape – being chased by a twelve foot monster wearing Dean’s face and desperately trying to shake himself out of this.

To find his way back to the real world.

But he can’t.

He falls into an opening chasm, barely managing to catch himself on a scraggly tree branch as he plummets.

If you die in a dream, you die in real life – a voice quietly echoes through his mind.

Would that be so bad?

If he manages to wake up, what exactly does he have to go back to?

Mrs. Thompson hates him almost as much as Miss Edwin.

Has made him copy countless bible verses since he arrived here and hardly lets him leave the house other than to go to school.

He hasn’t managed to get to Axel’s in weeks. Hasn’t boosted any cars since he’s been here either.

And while he’s not sure what exactly he’s saving money for, he doesn’t like seeing the cash flow stop.

It at least means he can buy himself new shoes when his foster parents can’t be bothered.

Or a coat that actually fits when it starts to get cold.

Besides, Mrs. Thompson had probably put something in that milk to make him fall back to sleep so she wouldn’t have to deal with him.

Something that’s keeping him from waking up again.

No skin off her nose if it doesn’t stop the nightmares from coming back.

The chasm starts to close again, with him trapped between its walls and on his way to being crushed.

Maybe this is it.

Suddenly he wakes up, gasping for breath and his stomach rolling.

He crashes out of bed, stumbling across the hall and dropping to his knees in front of the toilet and ejecting the contents of his stomach.

The light flicks on overhead as he pukes and he half twists, staring back at her.

“You’re meant to be asleep.” she says, her lips twisted in disdain – as if his nightmares and nad reaction to whatever she’d dosed him with are a result of poor upbringing and his usual slovenly ways.

“Sorry.” he chokes out.

He was already sick and miserable – couldn’t she just cut him some slack for once?

“Keep it down.” she orders. “And clean up after yourself.”

And then she stalks off to bed.

A rare tear slips free, making its tracks down his cheek.

 

Mr. Mitchell is different.

He’d woken him up after two in the morning, screaming and tumbling out of bed and then staring at him in confusion, struggling to place himself in reality.

But the man hadn’t yelled at him.

Hadn’t punished him for waking him or drugged him to get him back to sleep.

He’d just helped him tuck himself back into bed and then perched on the side, reading to him until the soothing voice had lulled him back to sleep.

And he hadn’t ended up right back in another nightmare either, had slept peacefully the rest of the night.

When the man had approached him the next morning about considering therapy, he’d honestly thought this was the other shoe dropping.

That this was the lastest way of brushing him off on someone else and not having to deal with the inconvenience of losing sleep to a pathetic, broken kid’s nightmares.

But Mr. Mitchell hadn’t been brushing anything off.

He’d carefully researched countless therapists, making Wes appointments with two or three that had seemed promising until they’d finally found one that he could at least tolerate.

He’d driven Wes to every appointment, sitting in the waiting room while he was inside talking – or usually not talking – instead of taking the hour to go out and do something while his young charge was otherwise occupied.

Had encouraged a dream journal – a notebook that he swore he would never look at (a promise that Wes had slowly come to trust) – where he could write down the contents of his nightmares to discuss – or not – with his therapist.

Something that had started helping him long before he’d finally decided to give his therapist a real chance to help him.

And throughout it all, he’d been there for every nightmare.

No matter how hard Wes tried to keep them to himself; muffling his cries with a pillow, a blanket or even pressing his face into the short shag of the carpet, Mr. Mitchell always knew.

Would come into his room to rest a gentle hand on his quivering shoulder, talking quietly until he feels safe to get back into bed.

Tucks him in and then sits there reading to him until he falls back to sleep, no matter how long it takes.

Continues to do so even after Wes turns eighteen right up until the night before he moves out (because of course the nerves of leaving the only real home he’s ever known stirs up a pretty spectacular nightmare).

And even after he does, he knows he can always call him when he’s having trouble sleeping.

That he’ll talk to him – or even read to him – for as long as he needs, no matter how late it is.

Sometimes, he even realizes that Wes is awake – whether from a nightmare or just struggling to sleep – without Wes even needing to call him.

It’s just one of many things that earn the man a promotion complete with a new title.

Dad.

Chapter Text

He’s always hated the number of empty, abandoned buildings in Chicago.

Both because he knows it doesn’t have great things to say for the state of their economy and because of the number of havens it offers to criminals.

He and Hailey had been sent to bring in a possible witness in their current case.

Nobody had been more suprised than them when the man had fled rather than agreeing to come down to the station or even just slamming the door in their faces.

They’d had no reason to expect that a visit from the police would be a cause for him to make a run for it.

Tabling the idea that he might have been more than a witness, they’d radioed in the pursuit and taken off after him.

Followed him all the way to an abandoned apartment building a few blocks away that had been cleared out when the city condemned it for serious structural issues after a fire.

They’re hot in pursuit down a flight of stairs leading into the basement when Jay feels the building shake beneath his feet.

Shouts a warning to his partner and then dives forward, tumbling down the stairs with litle grace as rubble tumbles down onto them.

Crashes hard against a wall at the bottom, screaming as a beam crashes down across his torso, pinning his arms at his side.

His vision swims, teetering toward darkness several times but never quite making that jump into unconsciousness.

By the time he’s found his footing in the land of the living, the dust is starting to settle.

There’s no light in the basement and he can only assume that the stairwell is entirely obstructed by debris.

Hopes desperately that Hailey was far enough behind him to avoid being caught in it.

Wonders idly where their witness – or whatever he is – is in this mess.

“Jay?”

Tears of relief spark in his eyes as he hears his partner’s call from beyond the wall of rubble.

She’s alive.

“Hailey.” he croaks weakly, groaning as it sends an angry flash of pain through his chest.

The beam pinning him has obviously broken something.

“You okay down there, partner?” she calls.

“I’m something.” he calls back shortly.

“You’re hurt.” she concludes and he doesn’t have the breath to respond to her – to agree or deny her statement.

“How bad is it?” she presses when he doesn’t answer her.

“Nothin’ a drink wouldn’t fix.” he lies and hears her laugh.

“Sure.” she tells him. “Look, I don’t have service here so I’m going to get as close to the doors as I can and try to get a call out for help but I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

“Sh’ld go.” he answers.

“I’m as stuck in here as you are.” she dismisses and he honestly can’t tell if she’s lying to him or not. “I’ll be back soon.”

He can hear her footsteps moving away before he can muster up another attempt to tell her to get out of here and he settles back as much as he can.

She’ll get help.

The only question is if he’ll still be alive when they get here.

 

He’s half drifted off when he hears her voice again.

Blinks his eyes open and instinctively tries to lift his hand to rub at his face.

A flash of panic shoots through him when he can’t move, reminded painfully of too many days after the IED when he’d woken up restrained after lashing out in his sleep.

Part of him understands the decision.

He’d rather deal with it a hundred times over than to hurt someone because he wasn’t fully in control of himself.

But he also can’t help but feel that they’d resorted to it too quickly and without trying anything else first.

He also hates that they’d done it while he was asleep rather than waking him first.

In a lot of ways, he would have preferred if they’d just applied to restraints before he went to sleep every time rather than waking up to find that it had been done while he was unaware.

Hailey calls his name again and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

These aren’t hospital restraints applied by trained if somewhat thoughtless nurses.

He’s pinned by a fallen beam that’s also inhibiting his breathing.

“Hails?” he gasps.

“Help’s on the way.” she promises him. “Patrol was responding to back our pursuit anyway, saw the building collapse.”

That’s good.

They’ll get Hailey out of here soon.

“‘ny way out?” he manages.

“I can get close but no.” she says. “But I’m not leaving you Jay.”

He doesn’t answer.

There’s no convincing her otherwise – not right now at least – and he might as well save his breath for when that changes.

“Jay.” she calls. “How… how bad is it, really? You sound like you can’t breathe.”

He sighs.

“Pinned.” he admits. “Beam. Chest. ‘urts.”

“I’m sorry.” she says softly. “Just hang in there, okay? Help is coming. They’ll get you out in no time.”

He wishes that were true.

But he hurts.

“Any sign of Pedderson?” she asks. “Maybe he can help shift the beam?”

He shakes his head before remembering she can’t see him.

“‘aven’t seen ‘im.” he chokes out. “Or ‘eard ‘nythin’.”

If the man was still alive, he would have come back near the stairs.

Would have checked out the viability of the only existing way out of this basement.

Either he’s dead or he’s as pinned as Jay is.

His eyes drift closed.

He’s so tired.

“Jay.” Hailey says. “Hey, I know it’s hard to talk but I need you to stay awake okay?”

He groans.

“I know, partner.” she says gently. “Can you tap your foot or something. Drum your fingers on the beam? I don’t want you to hurt yourself worse but I need to know you’re staying awake for me.”

He directs his attention downward, drumming his fingers against the beam experimentally.

“‘ear that?”

“No.” she says apologetically. “Sorry, Jay.”

He coughs, doing his best to ignore the taste of copper that fills his mouth.

Puts all his energy into lifting his foot and dropping it heavily back to the ground.

“I can hear that.” she calls back. “Just try to keep doing that, okay? Every once in a while.”

She keeps talking, telling him a story about her next door neighbor and he does his best to focus on her voice, interrupting every so often by banging his foot against the ground.

He almost doesn’t pick up on the new voices joining her, missing them entirely until her voice changes in response.

“I’m not leaving him.” she protests. “I told him I wouldn’t.”

“We need room to work.” A new voice tells her and its familiar but he’s too tired to place it.

“‘ail.” he gasps out.

“It’s okay, Jay.” she calls back. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll get you out, okay?”

“S’kay.” he answers. “Go.”

“Jay.” she protests.

“Capp.” Severide says, the name enough for Jay to realize who it is.

“No.” Hailey shrieks. “I can’t leave him.”

He doesn’t say anything – she wouldn’t hear him over her own cries anyway – but chooses to trust the older firefighter to get her out of the building.

To get her to safety.

“If you can hear me, Jay.” Severide calls once the noise quiets down. “Just hang tight a little longer, okay? We’ll be through this rubble in no time.”

He doesn’t have the energy to answer him.

Hailey’s out.

She’s safe.

 

He’s still holding onto some fragment of consciousness when the light starts to trickle through, glancing across his face.

Sees his friend’s face through thinly slitted eyelids as Severide kneels in front of him.

“Hey there.” he says softly. “We got you, bud. Just leave the heavy lifting to us, huh? Like you cops always do.”

The small huff of air he exhales at that hurts and he closes his eyes with a weak groan.

“Easy.” Severide soothes, grabbing his hand. “Easy. Sorry.”

He doesn’t open his eyes but squeezes his friend’s hand back.

Doesn’t even realize they’re placing airbags until he hears the whirring of the motor, feels the pressure on his chest starting to lift.

Everything happens in a blur and he’s in stokes basket before he knows it, the slight prick in his arm as someone starts an IV.

Then he’s lifting off the ground and any thought of opening his eyes dies as nausea and dizziness swirl through him.

Even with an oxygen mask over his face, he can feel the air get cleaner, easier and easier to breathe with every step that they take toward daylight.

Then the sun is shining on his face and a warm, familiar hand is closing over his.

He risks opening his eyes and gets a glimpse of a literal angel.

Her blonde hair – glowing in the setting sun – and those gorgeous blue eyes are all that he can see.

All that he needs to see.

“Hails?” he wheezes.

“Don’t try to talk.” she tells him. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He cracks a faint smile and squeezes her hand.

Maybe when he can breathe again, he’ll tell her how much those words mean to him.

Tell her that he’s not going anywhere either.

Chapter Text

Dean gets out of prison while the paperwork for the adoption is still processing and everything grinds to a near halt.

They get a middle of the afternoon visit from his social worker, letting them know that Dean is getting out on parole by the end of the week and the process has already begun for Dean to resume physical custody of his only child.

Unless Sean petitions for his parental rights to be terminated and convinces a judge to sign off on it, Wes will be returning to live with his birth father.

His heart stops.

Dean Bartlett still has a prominent starring role in his frequent nightmares.

He can’t – won’t – go back to live with him.

Sean pulls him into a tight hug, rubbing his back and pressing a kiss into his hair.

Promises that it will all work out.

That he won’t let him be sent back to that monster.

Then he heads straight to the courthouse to get the paperwork filed.

Three weeks later, they’re sitting on one side of the court room, each wearing a clean and neatly pressed suit and Wes clutching Tito the Second.

Across the aisle is Dean; wearing jeans, a dress shirt and a tie.

He hasn’t gotten close enough for Wes to know if he smells of alcohol.

Sean had made sure to get them there as early as he could and had placed himself between Wes and the aisle.

Both of his fathers are given the chance to make their case – though Dean’s seems to boil down to little more than the fact that he’s Wes’s biological father.

Each man makes a final statement and then the judge is calling Wes forward to ask his opinion.

Avoiding eye contact with Dean and focusing on his dad, Wes carefully recites his prepared statement.

The judge thanks him with a smile, allowing him to leave the stand and go sit back with his dad.

Sean slings an arm around his shoulder and he leans into his side.

The judge steps into his chambers to deliberate and Wes does his best to ignore the elephant in the room.

But the elephant doesn’t want to be ignored.

“Wes. Come on, kiddo.” Dean cajoles. “You don’t really mean that. I’m your dad, pal. I know we had a rough couple of years there but I was just stressed with everything going on with your mom and work.”

Wes glances over.

“You hate me.” He says quietly. “And you always did.”

“No way.” Dean protests. “You’re my son. I love you.”

The judge exits his chambers before Wes can say anything in response to that and quickly renders his verdict.

Dean’s parental rights have been terminated and his dad has been granted full custody.

Wes hugs his dad, burying his face in the man’s shoulder to avoid looking at Dean.

They exit the courtroom, making their way down the hallway together, only to end up in an elevator with Dean.

Wes clenches his jaw and his dad carefully places himself between them.

Hopefully it will only be a very short ride down to the parking garage.

Then they can leave and he never has to see Dean again.

Only just as the elevator car passes the first floor, it gives a wild lurch and then with a loud bang, suddenly they’re free falling.

It doesn’t last very long before they come to an abrupt halt.

Wes is thrown to the floor, his head cracking hard against the wall as he lands.

Lights out.

 

He’s already tense, trying to shield his son from the boy’s biological father and working to keep himself from punching the man.

Then he’s being thrown backward as an explosion fills the air and the elevator car is plummeting through three floors of basement parking garages.

He’s knocked to the floor, crashing down without much chance to steady himself.

When his brain finally catches up, he pushes up to his knees, crawling over to check on his son.

Wes is completely limp on the floor, blood oozing freely from a gash on his right temple.

“Wes?” He calls gently, pulling him into his arms and struggling out of his suit jacket. “Kiddo, can you hear me?”

He folds the jacket on itself before pressing it against his son’s head.

“Come on, bud.” He begs. “Open your eyes.”

Wes moans feebly but doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t really respond to him.

He turns to see Dean staring at them from his place on the floor.

“Grab the emergency phone.” He orders. “It’ll connect directly to security.”

Dean doesn’t move.

“He’s hurt damn it.” Sean snaps. “Move.”

Dean scrambles over to the phone which has already begun flashing and presses the button to answer it.

“Y-yeah.” He stumbles out. “We’re stuck in the elevator. Think it, think it hit the bottom of the shaft.”

“Are there any injuries?” A calm, steady voice asks.

“My shoulder hurts.” Dean says and Sean growls.

“Sixteen year old male with a head injury.” He calls out. “Unresponsive so far.”

“Understood.” The security officer responds. “Fire Department is already on the way, I’ll brief the paramedics on the injuries when they arrrive. What are his vitals like?”

“Pulse is strong and steady.” Sean tells him. “He’s breathing a little shallow though.”

“I’ll let them know.” The man says. “Are you injured, sir?”

“I’m fine.” Sean growls. “Just help my son.”

“Help is on the way, sir.” The man assures him. “Just keep trying to rouse him and let me know if anything changes, alright?”

“Okay.” Sean agrees, settling back on his heels.

He tentatively lifts his suit jacket away from the side of his son’s head, pleased to see that the bleeding has slowed significantly.

Pressing it back into place, he gently rubs the thumb of his free hand over his son’s shoulder.

“Wes.” He cajoles. “Come on, dude, open those eyes for me.”

Wes moans again, eyelids twitching slightly and Sean leans forward, digging his thumb in just a little harder.

“That’s it, kiddo.” He encourages. “Come on, let’s see those eyes.”

Wes’s eyes finally blink open and Sean finds himself blinking back tears.

“Hey kiddo.” He says softly. “Welcome back.”

“Dad?” Wes mumbles, looking around.

“Try not to move your head too much.” Sean cautions. “You smacked it pretty good.”

“Ow.” Wes mutters, dropping back. “Wa – happened?”

“Something messed up the elevator.” He says cagily.

It had been a bomb.

He’s got enough experience to recognize the sound of something blowing up.

But he’s not about to panic his son – and likely more so Dean – by telling them that while they’re still trapped in here.

“We’re … trapped?” Wes asks, blinking slowly as he struggles to get the words out.

“For the moment.” Sean tells him. “But the boys in red are on their way. We’ll be out of here soon. Just hang on, kiddo.”

“Tired.” He mumbles.

“Need you to stay awake, bud.”

Wes groans.

“Always the sleeping with you.” Sean teases lightly.

“Always tired.” Wes whines.

“I know.” Sean agrees softly. “But you have to stay away until a doctor says you’re good to sleep. Thems the rules.”

“Tito’d lemme sleep.” Wes says petulantly.

Then he freezes.

“‘Ere’s Tito?”

Sean glances around, seeing the trusty stuffed dog on the floor a few feet away.

Manages to reach out and grab it, tucking it under Wes’s arm.

“Your buddy is right here, kiddo.” He promises. “He’d never leave you alone.”

Wes tightens his hold on the beloved friend.

“He still has that?”

Dean’s voice startles them both, having essentially forgotten the man was here with them.

“No.” Wes mutters. “An asshole like you killed the original. Dad replaced him for me.”

“Little old for a stuffed animal, don’t you think?” Dean says with a sneer.

“Little old to forget about the unconscious teenager cause you have a bruise on your shoulder, don’t you think?” Sean snipes right back.

This man is a crucial part of why Wes had formed such a strong attachment to the original Tito.

A decent part of creating the circumstances that had led to it being destroyed in such a brutal way.

And bears no small responsibility for why being gifted a replacement had meant so much to the then fifteen year old.

He has no right to mock its importance.

Dean grunts in response, turning back to hit the button for the phone.

“Security.”

“How long til they get us out?” Dean snaps.

“They’ll actually be cutting through the front door starting in just a minute.” The security officer says. “I was about to call and ask that you move everyone away from the front doors for safety reasons.”

Sean half crawls, half drags himself away from the doors with Wes still cradled in his arms.

Dean scuttles away himself.

It takes a few minutes but then he can smell the smoke of the acetylene torch cutting through the heavy double doors.

So focused on keeping Wes awake and watching the torch cut through the door, he almost misses it.

Dean pounces, grabbing Wes’s foot and dragging him toward himself.

Wes lets out a yelp, kicking out at him.

Sean sees a weapon in the man’s hand and somewhat roughly dumps his son to the floor to lunge at him.

He gets ahold of Dean’s wrist, shoving it away from himself and roughly twisting it to force him to drop the knife.

Pins the man’s arm behind his back and positions himself atop him to keep him from getting up.

“Get off me, you bastard.” Dean growls.

“Stay the hell away from my kid.” Sean snaps in return.

“He’s my son.” Dean snarls. “My blood. You can’t just steal him from me.”

“He didn’t.” Wes retorts bitterly. “You dumped me in the trash. He saved me. You never wanted to be my dad and congratulations. Now you aren’t.”

“Watch your mouth, you little bitch.” Dean spits and Sean hisses, twisting his arm harder.

“Don’t you even dare talk to him.” He orders harshly.

A few moments later, there’s a clunk behind him as the section of door they’re cutting out falls free and a court security officer is pushing through.

He quickly takes over for Sean who stays on point long enough for him to get Dean in cuffs before moving over to where paramedics are already checking on Wes.

“Hey kiddo.” He breathes. “Sorry bout that. You okay?”

“You’re bleeding.” Wes gasps, eyes locked on Sean’s midriff.

He glances down, surprised to see a shallow laceration where Dean’s knife had apparently broken the skin.

“Tell me you’re okay and I’m fine.” He tells his kid.

Wes glares at him and he chuckles.

“A few stitches at best, kid.” He promises. “I’ll get patched up while they photocopy your brain looking for damage.”

Wes rolls his eyes and then grimaces – apparently finding that ill advised – and looks to the paramedic.

“Can you get him some gauze?”

She smiles at him.

“Let’s get you and your hard head on your way to the hospital before the adrenaline starts to fade.” She suggests. “Then I’ll get him bandaged up for you on the way.”

She glances up at Sean.

“That is, assuming that you’ll be accompanying us.” She adds.

Wes’s hand tightens around his and Sean favors him with a smile.

“He’s my son.” He tells her. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

Chapter Text

He’s out for good. 

What was such a huge part of his life is now entirely in the past. 

But that past won’t leave him alone. 

The memories of the horrors that he’s seen continue to haunt him in every part of his life. 

Walking through the liquor store and hearing bottles clink, clink, clink. 

He’s writhing against restraining hands, grinding his teeth into the canvas of someone’s belt. 

Fire burns through him as the medic digs a bullet out of his stomach. 

The tiny chunk of metal falls into the plastic tray with a soft clink. 

But they still won’t let up, won’t stop digging into his flesh. 

A soft hand lands on his shoulder. 

“Sir?”

He jumps, skittering back to the present and looking around the store, a hand pressed against his stomach. 

The shelves are too close together, the walls closing in on him. 

He needs that alcohol, needs to forget- at least for a little while. 

But he can’t…

He runs out of the store. 

Hides in his bedroom for three days. 

Doesn’t shower, doesn’t eat, only leaves the room to use the restroom or to sneak alcohol from his dad’s stash. 

But Pat Halstead hasn’t bought any hard liquor in months and the cheap – low alcohol content – beers that he does have just don’t have what it takes to suppress the memories enough for him to get a few hours of sleep. 

Finally it’s enough to drag him out of his room. 

Three days with only a few nightmare ridden snatches of sleep leave him needing a respite. 

Just a few hours to leave the past behind. 

He wants to just drag on fresh clothes but the smell is foul enough that he can’t stand himself anymore so he reluctantly turns on the shower, stepping under the spray. 

Is on his knees as the first drops hit his face. 

He was choking before the water even started flowing, the saturated cloth over his face making it hard to breathe. 

The fear and anticipation mounting. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Then a steady trickle and already, what little air was penetrating the cloth is gone. 

But they don’t start there. 

The flow keeps increasing and he can’t. breathe. 

His hands are clawing at his face but he can’t find the edge of the cloth, can’t get it away from his face. 

Can’t get air to his lungs. 

BANG!

“You wanna use all the water, you’re gonna start paying the water bill.” his dad growls from the other side of the door as he looks up, shaking the water out of his eyes. 

A shaking hand comes up, turning off the water and then running through his hair to push sodden bangs off his face. 

His hair is much longer than he likes but he can’t even fathom the idea of letting someone come close enough with scissors to get it cut. 

He can’t even shower. 

He’s clean enough for now. 

Might be taking sponge baths for a while. 

He stumbles to his room, dressing quickly and then digging into his closet. 

His old walkman from high school – that he’d listened to everywhere much to his mom’s dismay – is still buried under mountains of dirty socks. 

Raids of his brother’s old bedroom to borrow one of his favorite CDs – picked because it’s loud not because it reminds him of Will – and the junk drawer to find fresh batteries and he’s good to go. 

With his brother’s music pumping into his ears, he’s able to avoid any more triggers as he makes his way to the liquor store to stock up. 

Gets home and downs a fifth of whiskey before finally collapsing in an exhausted sleep. 

Wakes up to the smell of smoke. 

Burning flesh. 

Kyle. 

He fights back to his feet, ignoring the pain in his chest but the closer he gets, the more it seems to drag him down. 

“I close my eyes, begin to pray.”

Will?

His brother had listened to this song on repeat his senior year of high school. 

A scream rends the air. 

“Deluca!”

He scrambles forward, gasping for air and inhaling more smoke. 

Laden with burning flesh. 

He coughs, sending additional spikes of pain through his chest. 

“I hope he’s not like me, I hope he understands.”

He frowns. 

Will wasn’t here for this.

There was no music playing. 

Was? Wasn’t? What is he thinking?

“Halstead!”

“I’m coming.” he cries. “Kyle, just hang on buddy. I’m coming.”

But he can’t get there. 

The more ground he covers, the further away he is. 

This isn’t right. 

A memory. 

He jolts upright in bed. 

He can still smell the smoke but it’s different now. 

Not human flesh. 

Not his friend burning alive. 

Someone grilling hamburgers. 

He can still hear the tinny sound of music and looks down to see his headphones lying atop the blanket where he’d knocked them off as he woke. 

He misses his brother. 

Will had done his best to stay in touch while he was in the hospital, had taken the train down to Walter Reed every weekend. 

But they’ve barely spoken since he got back to Chicago. 

He stumbles down the stairs, picking up the phone and dialing his brother’s number from memory. 

His brother answers on the fourth ring. 

“Hello?”

“Will?” he says, horrified by the tremor in his voice. 

“Hey kiddo.” Will says, obviously distracted. “What’s up?”

I had a flashback – he thinks – the memories won’t leave me alone and I can’t sleep.

“Just wanted to check in.” he says instead. “See how you’re doing.”

“Ah.” Will says. “I was actually just getting ready to head out for a study group.”

Oh. 

“Yeah.” he says, aiming for casual and – to his ears at least – missing badly. “No big. I know you’re busy.”

“I’ll call you when I get home – yeah?” Will asks. 

“Sure.” he agrees. 

If you don’t end up grabbing drinks or doing karaoke – he thinks bitterly. 

“You doing okay?” his brother asks, voice suddenly shrewd. 

Like you care – the quiet voice at the back of his mind says bitterly. 

“I’m fine.” he says, forcing a smile even if his brother can’t see him. “You should go. Don’t wanna be late.”

He ends the call before his brother can answer and heads into the kitchen, looking for a beer. 

His dad is at the table, reading the newspaper.

“Did you open my window last night?” Jay finds himself asking. 

“Had to air out the room somehow.” his dad grouses. “Smelled like something died in there. If you want to get a job, this hour long shower once a week thing isn’t going to cut it.”

He swallows hard. 

“Uh yeah.” he mumbles. “Got it.”

“Any thoughts of actually doing that?” his dad demands. “Or are we just planning on freeloading forever?”

Jay winces. 

“No uh, I’m working on it, Dad.” he says. 

His dad rolls his eyes. 

“Sure you are.” he retorts, going back to the newspaper. “Let me know when Wilbur takes flight, huh?”

He ducks his head but heads up to his room; grabbing his shoes, keys and wallet and then slipping out the door without a word. 

He makes his way down to Halsted street, walking along the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. 

The Walgreens down on 47th street has a now hiring sign in the window and he takes a breath before stepping through the door. 

The cashier at the counter looks to be about sixteen but she eyes him up with raised eyebrows before picking up the phone and summoning a manager. 

He’s not crazy about her or this place either but his dad’s right about one thing. 

He can’t just freeload forever. 

Pop pop pop

He dives to the ground, rolling into a crouch and searching for cover. 

Searching for his rifle, helmet, radio… anything. 

How the hell did he lose them? 

The sarge will have his ass. 

“Dude,” a voice – female, young, and distinctly American – says next to him. “What is your malfunction?”

He glances around, the linoleum floors and tacky aluminum shelves slowly coming back into focus. 

Color floods his cheeks and he pushes to his feet. 

Hears footsteps and turns to see an older man in a red polo walking toward him. 

“Nevermind.” he says, stepping back. “Sorry to waste your time.”

Then he all but runs from the store. 

Sits on the bleachers at a nearby park, staring at his hands and only marginally caring about the strange looks he’s getting from people walking past. 

He can’t sleep. 

Not without a substantial amount of alcohol and even then, not for very long. 

He’s scared to take a shower. 

Dozens of everyday things; clinking glass, dripping water, cooking meat and backfiring cars just to name a few, set off wildly vivid flashbacks where he doesn’t remember where he is or what he’s doing. 

He’s unpredictable. 

Crazy. 

And he doesn’t know how to fix it. 

When he looks up, three hours have passed and he drags himself off the bench and down the street. 

There’s no missed calls when he gets home. 

His dad is at work so he sits on the floor in the hallway, staring at the phone – waiting for it to ring. 

An hour passes. 

Then two. 

Three. 

Soon enough it’s after two in the morning. 

Which means it's after three in New York. 

The bars have been closed for an hour so Will is definitely home by now. 

But he didn’t call. 

He forgot. 

He falls asleep in the hallway. 

Only to have his dad all but trip over him when he makes it home from work an hour later. 

“Good god, Jay.” the man snipes. “If you’re going to fall asleep in a public area, could you at least make it the shower again?”

“At least I didn’t have to switch to the night shift to keep myself from drinking away mom’s life insurance.” he snaps. 

“No, you’re just drinking away all the money you made in the Army instead.” his dad growls. “Like you think I’m just going to be here to take care of you forever.”

“Take care of me?” Jay spits out. “You can barely be bothered to look at me.”

“I’m keeping a roof over your head, aren’t I?” his dad retorts. “Not leaving you to sleep in an alleyway somewhere?”

“Father of the year.” Jay says with a sneer, turning for the door. 

“Where are you going now?”

“Out.” he snarls. “I can see when I’m not wanted.”

He ends up back at the park, lying on his back in the middle of the field instead, staring up into the sky. 

It’s grounding in a way. 

Afghanistan has grass, more than most people realize, but it smells different. 

Especially different than this carefully cultivated park grass. 

But it also brings back memories. 

Kicking a ball around the yard with his brother and his dad. 

The summer he’d played soccer with his mom cheering for him at every game. 

His dead mom. 

His dad who hates him. 

Who is disappointed in him. 

His brother who thinks he’s too much work. 

Who is too busy with his friends to remember he even has a little brother. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, tears streaming down his face, before he hears voices. 

A lot of voices. 

He looks around, seeing a crowd of parents and little kids clustering at the side of the field. 

Soccer practice. 

Little kids coming out to run around with their friends for an hour and then go home with their parents. 

To have stories read to them. 

To be tucked into bed with hugs and kisses. 

Little kids with innocence that he doesn’t have anymore. 

That he’ll never have again. 

He scrubs the tears from his face the best that he can and stands up, ignoring the cautious looks from moms as they watch him pass. 

Finds his way back to the liquor store where the clerk gives him a similar suspicious look but still sells him a fifth of whiskey. 

It’s a long walk to the North Avenue Bridge – almost three hours – but he can’t bring himself to even consider getting in a taxi or a bus or anything where he’ll have to deal with another person. 

He almost hopes that the walk will help clear his head but it’s still as muddled and foggy when he reaches the bridge as when he left. 

The sun is just cresting the horizon when he stops at the center of the bridge and the road behind him is quiet and empty. 

Nobody to see as he slowly climbs over the railing, leaning against it and untwists the cap from the bottle of whiskey. 

The longer he stands there, the more whiskey he drinks, the more the water beneath him calls to him. 

The louder it offers him peace if he just gives himself up to its comforting embrace. 

But one thing keeps holding him back. 

Seeing him right now would break his mom’s heart. 

If she was here right now she would tell him that he can get through this. 

That he just needs to find the new path, the purpose that will light his way out of this hole. 

But she’s not here and he can’t see it. 

Can’t figure out how to take the first step because he’s not sure what direction leads out instead of deeper into the darkness. 

“Son?” 

He jumps, dropping the nearly empty bottle of whiskey to the ground and wincing as it shatters against the concrete. 

“Are you alright?”

He looks over, seeing a man in baggy jeans and a navy blue hoodie standing a few feet away with one hand tentatively raised toward him. 

“Uh.. I… Uh.” he stammers, looking away and clearing his throat, scrubbing at his eyes. 

“Hey.” the man says softly. “Whatever you’re going through. You’re not alone.”

Isn’t he?

Mom dead. Dad and brother who are sick of him. Mouse is… off looking for his next fix. 

Countless brothers dead. 

Who does he have left?

“I’m here.” the man says, holding out his hand. “Whatever you need. Whether that’s resources, advice or just someone to listen. I’m not leaving until you come with me.”

Jay looks down at the hand. 

Slowly, he takes the hand. 

The man helps him back over the railing, leading him off the bridge and to a bench with a gentle hand on his back. 

And somehow, he finds himself talking. 

 

twenty years later

“Hailey.” Jay says, holding his wife’s hand. “This is Brandon Newton. He… he helped me find a new path. Helped me believe there was one. That it wasn’t the end of the road for me.”

“Hi.” she says with a smile. “I’m-”

“You’re his Hailey.” Brandon says, cutting her off with a similar smile. “Jay and I try to grab a drink at least every couple months or so. He’s talked about you an awful lot the last couple of years.”

Her cheeks flush but she offers her husband a smile. 

He presses a kiss to her temple. 

“I’ll grab us some drinks.” he says, drifting away. 

“Thank you.” Hailey says once he’s gone. “For being there when he needed someone. When he needed you.”

“I kept his heart beating.” Brandon says. “Helped him figure out a course correct. But that was just so he could find you. So you could breathe life back into him.”

Her smile becomes cautious. 

“Hailey.” Brandon says seriously. “I’ve known Jay a long time. I got him off that bridge, helped him believe that he could keep going – that there was something out there worth waiting for but that something, that was you.”

She turns to glance at Jay who’s laughing at something the bartender said. 

“He was just going through the motions for a long time.” he tells her. “Looking for snippets of good to keep that belief burning. Then he met you and that fire blazed back to life. You’re good for him, Hailey. Never doubt that.”

Her smile widens again. 

“He’s good for me too.” she tells him. “So thank you, for keeping that ember alive for me.”

They shake hands as Jay returns to the table, sliding drinks across the wood and curling an arm around Hailey as she sidles up to his side. 

“I love you.” she says, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I love you too.” he tells her with a smile, glancing over at Brandon and lifting his glass. 

“To the future.” he says. 

“The future.” 

Chapter Text

1.

Wes isn’t a kid who gets a lot of affection.

Physical or otherwise.

If Dean touches him, it’s with a belt or his fists.

A hand at the scruff of his neck to drag him to where the man wants him.

His mom is nicer.

Actually picks him up and carries him around sometimes but even as a toddler, he can sense her annoyance.

Then one night that changes.

He’s three years old and he toddles into the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel as she runs the bath.

He leaves Tito in his room – his best friend doesn’t like water – and stands there, shivering and clutching his towel tighter around him.

His mom’s eyes look funny.

She’s not as nice when her eyes look like that but he’ll be in trouble if he tries to get out of taking his bath.

“Come on.” she says, motioning him forward.

He drops his towel, shivering even more as he steps forward.

She hooks him under the arms, lifting him up and into the tub.

He feels the heat before his feet touch the water and bends his legs, pulling them up and away.

Twists, trying to pull himself up her arms and over her shoulder.

That earns him a sharp smack on the bottom that he mostly ignores.

“Too hot!” he shrieks.

“It’s fine.” she snarls. “It’s bath time, Wes.”

“Mommy noooo.” he whines, still fighting her.

She gets ahold of his wrists, holding both of them in one hand and then plonks him harshly into the tub.

He screams.

Something about the near feral, agonized tone seems to get through to her where his pleas and the temperature of the water hadn’t and she doesn’t stop him as he scrambles back over the side.

Grabs hold of him to help pull him out.

“Shit.” she mutters as he drops to the floor, sobbing.

His skin is red and irritated and she scrambles to drain the tub, getting rid of the hot water.

Starts the water running again, putting her hand underneath the faucet and then freezes.

“Dean.”

Wes whimpers as she calls for his dad.

He already hurts and Dean coming only means more pain.

A head pokes in the door.

“What?” the man growls. “Can’t you bathe a three year old without help?”

“It… it was too hot.” she stammers. “I need to… to cool him down but I can’t… I can’t tell if this is cool enough.”

Dean rolls his eyes but steps forward, sticking his own hand under the water.

“It needs to be cool but not cold.” his mom whispers.

After a few adjustments, he nods and steps back.

“Let’s cool you down, baby.” his mom says, reaching for him.

Wes reels away.

“Get in the tub.” Dean growls.

“I’ve got him.” his mom says. “You can go back to the game.”

Dean rolls his eyes again but that’s all the encouragement that he needs to storm back toward the living room.

“It’ll help, baby.” his mom says softly.

Wes eyes her hands suspiciously for a moment before slowly inching forward.

His skin hurts but, to be honest, he’s not sure he trusts his mom to make it better.

The cool water does help but its a long time before his clothes, blankets and even Tito don’t hurt rubbing against his skin.

He never lets his mom pick him up again.

 

2.

While Miss. Edwin tries to find somewhere for him to spend the night, another social worker sits him down – using a doll to talk to him about where adults shouldn’t be touching him.

He already knows about them from the movies that Dean used to watch with his friends.

Movies that his mom always yelled at him for watching when Wes was around.

She always tried to send him to his room when they were playing but Dean would regularly call him out to bring them snacks or more beer.

She’d also pulled him aside once to tell him that no adult should ever touch him like that and that if one of Dean’s friends ever does he should tell her.

But since she can’t even stop them from watching the movies he’s really not sure what she would do if it was to happen.

He doesn’t bother trying to explain that to the social worker.

Just shakes his head when she asks if he has any questions.

It doesn’t come into play until he’s staying with the Walters.

Five year old Trina Walters is his constant shadow.

She wants to sit at the table next to him, her chair so close their elbows keep bumping each other.

She wants to play together all the time.

She even keeps asking if they can have sleepovers.

It drives him nuts because to him, physical touch means pain.

Means Dean beating him over some accidental error.

Means his mother accidentally scalding every inch of his body with what luckily hadn’t quite been second degree burns though plenty of places had been close.

He doesn’t react well to a virtual stranger, even a little girl who seems pretty harmless, wanting to crawl into his lap all the time.

And then Trina convinces her mom to allow a sleepover and spends the night in her pink sleeping bag on the floor of his bedroom.

Quietly whispers to him in the dim light of her night light once the door is closed that sometimes her daddy touches her in a way she doesn’t really like.

He’s instantly awake, kneeling on the floor next to her to ask her to point out on her doll what she means.

Wishes he knew what to do about it.

It isn’t always easy to get ahold of his social worker.

He knows she probably wouldn’t care if it was him but maybe a sweet little girl will matter more.

Trina doesn’t know if her mom knows.

If he tells her, can she actually stop her husband any better than he’d believed his mom could?

It all comes to a head just a week later when he steps between Tobias Walters and his daughter, refusing to get out of the way.

He ends up in the hospital but at least Trina gets the help she needs.

 

3.

Mr. Gregor is not a touchie feelie kind of guy.

Even negative physical contact from him is rare.

He’ll deliver a few punches here and there, maybe a smack upside the head but he tends to stick to withholding food or locking him in the cage.

Right up until he scrubs right through Mr. Finley’s shirt.

The hand on the back of his neck catches him off guard and he jerks away, crying out and lashing out with flailing limbs.

But Mr. Gregor’s hand still closes tightly around his neck from behind, dirty nails digging into his tender skin.

He drives down, slamming Wes to the ground on his stomach.

Pulls his shirt up and out of the way.

A loud scratching sound and then he smells smoke.

Feels heat.

Pain flashes across his skin, a phantom memory of an event that he barely remembers.

Then pinpoint pain at the small of his back, heat searing through his skin.

He screams, bucking up against the man’s hand.

“Please, stop.” He pleads.

“I told you what would happen if you damaged any more clothes.” The man says next to his ear, his breath hot and smelling of beer, rotten food and cigarettes as it wafts over Wes’s face.

“It was an accident.” He insists.

It wasn’t. Not completely.

Mr. Finley’s shirts are all worn and threadbare, darkly stained with grease and motor oil.

The soaps that Wes is given to use just can’t get them clean without some intense scrubbing.

So he’d scrubbed.

And the fabric had given way under his hands.

He’d known it was going to happen eventually.

But he’d really thought Mr. Gregor would hit him for it. Not -

He screams as the cigar presses against the skin of his lower back again.

“Shut it, kid!”

Another jab against his lower back and searing pain in another spot.

He cries out, hands scrabbling around in search of something that will help.

An angle to push Mr. Gregor away, space to push himself up and get the man off of him…

Anything.

But he’s helpless to stop him and five more burns are placed before Mr. Gregor releases his neck, standing up and walking away.

He can barely move at school the next day, his stiff movements enough to clue his teacher that something is wrong.

He’s in the Emergency Room before lunch and goes to bed in a different home that night.

 

4.

His touch aversion decreases while he’s staying with the Marlows.

He discovers, through the most roundabout way possible, that being hugged is actually kind of nice.

Mrs. Marlow offers him a hug any time he wants one, even comes up with a way for him to tell her that he’d like one without having to say the words.

But his time there doesn’t last.

Three seperate times he gets pulled away to be sent back to his mom.

There are other homes in between stays there that leave him uneasy.

Then his mom dies.

Overdoses in her bedroom with him just the other side of the door.

He hopes he’ll be sent back to the Marlows, wonders if just maybe he can be placed there permenantly.

Miss Edwin doesn’t offer any explanation; just tells him that the Marlows aren’t accepting children right now and probably won’t be any time soon.

Instead he’s placed with Mrs. Thompson.

Thelma Louise, though he’d never dare call her that to her face.

He speaks to her as little as possible, if he’s honest.

It doesn’t stop her from coming to the conclusion that he’s been possessed by a demon.

Might even encourage it.

After the manhandling, the beatings, the duct tape around his wrists and over his mouth, and the knife in his side, well – he pretty much never wants anyone to touch him again.

Especially after Miss Edwin and the police buy her story that Nolan had done all of it on his own with only a little help from Jed.

That she’d had no idea what they were doing until Jed had gotten cold feet and decided to call the police.

Nolan gets charged as an adult and heads off to several years in prison.

Jed gets off with only nine months in juvenile detention.

Mrs. Thompson has her foster care license suspended until she completes a series of classes designed to help her prevent something like this happening under her roof again.

Wes gets half the pain medication that he needs and a scolding about telling tall tales when he continues to insist that she’d been involved – that the whole thing was her idea.

Spends longer in the hospital than he normally would have – with doctors and nurses who have apparently never heard of bedside manner or at least didn’t have any left to spare for him – before going off to yet another foster home.

 

5.

Axel is an annoyingly touchy kind of guy.

Nothing inappropriate but tactile in a way that’s annoying to a kid like Wes who just doesn’t like people touching him.

A hand on his arm or his back to nudge his attention in the direction that he wants Wes to look.

Leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder as Wes sits in the driver’s seat of a car, slotting his tools in the ignition.

His hands over Wes’s, guiding the slim jim into place in the door frame as he encourages Wes to pay attention to the feel when it locks on.

Even once he’s no longer training him there are constant hands on shoulders, slaps on the back or even patting Wes’s cheek.

He’s pretty sure that a blind, deaf baby could see the way that Wes tenses up every time he touches him but he doesn’t seem to care.

And Wes is too scared of him to ask – more than once at least – for him to stop.

He does move his hand but it’s only a few days before he either forgets what Wes said or decides he doesn’t care.

And it gets worse and worse as time goes on.

As he finds himself less on the man’s good side and more in the doghouse.

As the arrests start to stack up, getting him on the cops’ radar and making him a liability as much as – if not more – than an asset.

Those touches start to become less affectionate and more threatening.

Less a claim that Wes is a tool in his arsenal and more a reminder of what will happen if he sells out.

The situation spirals and before he really knows it, he’s on his knees at Axel’s feet – his hands taped behind his back and Axel’s hand tight around his throat.

No oxygen making it into his lungs as another violent, angry touch slowly suffocates him.

 

+1.

He survives Axel.

A litle skill and a lot of luck gets him out of harm’s way just long enough to get some help.

When he wakes up after blacking out – genuinely thinking that this was it but somehow surviving a frantic emergency surgery – Detective Mitchell is still there.

And there he stays.

No matter what Wes does, no matter what he says – no matter how many times he recoils from his touch – the man is still there.

When the US Marshals decline a request to put Wes in a protective custody foster placement he offers Wes a place in his own home.

When he refuses to do his homework – his self confidence crushed by a long string of crappy teachers – and when a fight over it causes Wes to slip out a second story window and disappear across town – Detective Mitchell comes after him.

Finds him shivering on a park bench and tenderly carries him back to safety.

Quietly gives him another shot to explain his refusal, listening silently with tears in his eyes and then finds the words to convince him to give it a shot.

Is a steadfast presence in his corner over the next several months as he slowly makes up for years of lost time.

Builds his knowledge but, more importantly, builds his confidence.

When Axel bribes his way out of prison a few days before trial, Detective Mitchell pulls out all the stops to find Wes before he can kill him.

To bring him home.

And in a quiet hospital room a few days later he hands him a small stuffed dog.

A promise.

That he’ll never be alone again.

Two weeks later – once his ribs have started to heal – he lets himself sink into his first hug in over three years.

And for one of the first times in his entire life, physical touch doesn’t immediately mean fear.

It means safety.

Chapter Text

Finding out that Niall Walsh was her biological father had thrown her.

It had taken something that she’d always thought she knew about herself – taken her very identity – and turned it all on its head.

How did she relate to her mother; a woman that she now knows had lied to her her entire life and betrayed the man that she claims to love?

How does she relate to her father; the man that she’d grown up calling dad who suddenly doesn’t line up as smoothly with that title as she’d thought?

Does she nurture a relationship with the man that suddenly has a claim to some part of it?

In the end she’d skirted the limits as far as facing up to any of it.

She’d let her mother know that she knew without ever speaking the words.

Told her dad that she would always love him and that he would always be her dad without sharing her mother’s secret.

Confronts Niall with the secret – listens to him explain that he’d thought this was what was best for her.

When she asks him what’s next – he tells her that it’s time for him to disappear.

Offers to help him relocate to Budapest – that maybe they can get to know one another - only to be told that he’s accepted that what’s best for her is if he lets her go.

Watches him walk out of her life again.

This time for good.

 

Until suddenly he’s back.

Calling her out of the blue – full of apologies but begging for help.

He’s in the Netherlands and has run afoul of an old friend from his IRA days who somehow discovered that he’d sold out and allied himself with law enforcement.

He knows that the man isn’t working alone in whatever he’s planning but isn’t sure who else may be involved.

Likely this is another case of young blood being recruited to the cause.

She isn’t sure what the IRA would be working toward in the Netherlands but he insists that he doesn’t know either.

He’s holding something back.

He’s holding a lot of things back but she won’t be successful at pressing him for the details over the phone.

She arranges for them to meet and ends the call.

Dials her boss’s number.

She’ll have to take some personal time.

With no US citizens in the mix, Wes won’t be able to bring the team out to back her up.

He can connect her with local law enforcement, especially if she can find something credible to prove that there’s IRA activity in the Netherlands.

Only, as she walks through Amsterdam Airport Schiphol, she sees a familiar navy blue jacket.

“Wes.” she says, shaking her head as he pulls her into a hug. “What are you doing here?”

“You think I’m going to let you go up against you’re not sure how many guys with just the Dutch police to watch your back?” he teases her. “After their goat rodeo last year?”

She chuckles.

“I got in touch with Chief Constable Dekker before my flight took off.” he tells her. “He’s very concerned about the IRA being active in the Netherlands and he owes me a favor so he’ll help out as much as he can.”

“Thanks.” she says. “I’d like to make contact with my friend first. He was holding something back on the phone and if I can drill into the truth, I think we’ll know more about where they can help.”

“Deal.” he agrees. “Must be a pretty good friend, huh?”

She hesitates.

Andre knows that Niall is her father but she hadn’t told anyone else what she’d discovered.

She’d been confused – and more than a little embarrassed – by the discovery.

Not to mention a little concerned how it would affect her career if Interpol was to learn that her biological father was a noted member of the IRA.

Her mother had never been that deep in and had cut all ties by the time that she was born so it had never been an issue but Niall had remained strongly connected right up until he’d been arrested and convinced to wear a wire.

“An old friend of my mother’s.” she tells him, ignoring the pang of guilt. “He helped us with an investigation a few years back.”

He nods.

“Cool.”

Nothing in his face says that he sees through her half truth and it makes her feel even more guilty.

“I’ll follow your lead.” he tells her.

 

They’re a little delayed in leaving the airport, operating out of official jurisdiction involves having to rent their own vehicle, but soon enough she’s navigating her way to where Niall had agreed to meet her.

It’s a small open patio cafe and they find seats at a table by the street, ordering coffee and then waiting.

They’ve been nursing their coffees for forty five minutes, doing their best to ignore the irritated glances from the waitress, when Niall finally settles into the third seat at the table.

“Smitty.” he says warmly.

“Niall.” she says guardedly. “You promised me a name.”

And then I’m going to get the truth – she adds internally.

“Tre Wiggins.” he says, glancing around. “Your mom and I ran with him a little back in the day. I hadn’t seen him in years when I ran into him last week.”

“What are they doing in the Netherlands?” she asks.

“I just don’t know, kid.” he says, shaking his head. “I know he’s gathering up Dutch youth. Radicalizing them with the belief that sometimes violence is necessary to achieve political goals. I believe he’s focusing his attention on Catholic youth -perhaps selling them the same ideas of Irish sovereignty or perhaps something different entirely.”

“Did he try to recruit you?” Smitty asks.

If he had, maybe they can use him to get closer to Wiggins and the others – to maybe understand what they are working toward here.

But that also depends on why he’d come to her looking for help.

“No.” he says, shaking his head. “He uh, he actually threatened me.”

“Threatened you?” Wes asks.

“He knew what I’d done.” Niall clarifies. “Wearing that wire to help you find out who murdered that man and his son. And he wasn’t happy.”

“Was he specific about anything?” Smitty asks. “Or just general threats?”

“He said that my blood would be the next to be spilled for the cause of justice.” he says. “Whatever that means.”

Wes frowns, glances to her.

“How do you wanna play this?” he asks.

“We need to identify the young blood.” she tells him. “Wiggins won’t be doing the dirty work here.”

He nods.

“I can talk to Dekker.” he says. “Have him arrange covert surveillance on Wiggins and then maybe you and I go introduce ourselves, nudge him into making contact.”

She tilts her head, considering.

It’s a play she’s seen from him before, with the added twist of working with the locals and having backstops in place before he cracks a few eggs this time.

And it had worked for Czonka.

In a manner of speaking.

“Alright.” she agrees. “Let’s do it.”

She turns her attention back to Niall.

“Lay low for a while.” she orders. “What we’re about to do will likely only turn up the heat in the short term.”

He nods.

“Thank you, Smitty.” he says, reaching for her hand. “I know I’ve asked a lot.”

She just smiles uncomfortably and stands up.

 

Tre Wiggins isn’t a hard man to find.

They’re more delayed by waiting for the surveillance team to get in position.

He owns a pancake restaurant just off the campus of the University of Amsterdam.

It’s a smart move.

College students are in and out of the joint all day which will make it difficult for the surveillance team to identify which ones he might be passing messages to.

Wes falls back, letting her take the lead.

“Mr. Wiggins?” she asks, stepping up to the counter.

“Yeah.” he grunts. “Who’s asking?”

“Megan Garretson.” she answers. “Working with the Dutch authorities. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Bout to hit the lunch rush.” he growls.

“We won’t take long.” Wes assures him. “In and out.”

He sighs.

“Fine.” he mutters. “What do you wanna know?”

“Is the name Niall Walsh familiar to you?” she asks.

He smirks.

“Did he go crying to the police?” he taunts. “It wasn’t a threat. Merely a prediction. Justice always comes for traitors.”

“Are you aware of anyone in the Netherlands other than yourself who would want to hurt him?” she presses.

“And have you harass them at their places of business as well?” he scoffs. “I think not Miss. Garretson.”

She bristles at the words.

Technically she’s not here in her official capacity.

Any authority she has comes through the cooperation of the Dutch Police.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t irritating.

“If anything comes to mind, give us a call.” Wes interjects smoothly and she collects herself to hand over her card.

He takes it, sliding it on the counter underneath the register and then turns back to making orders.

Wes nods toward the door and she reluctantly follows him.

“We were never going to get useful information from talking to him.” he reminds her as they walk down the street.

“I know.” she mutters. “Just poking the hornet’s nest.”

“Now we see what comes out.” he says.

She nods stiffly and they walk in silence the rest of the way to the side lot into the side lot a few blocks away where they’d parked.

Three teens, no older than fourteen, come from behind vehicles with guns raised.

Neither she or Wes are armed.

And as far as she knows, Dekker hadn’t placed anyone specifically on this lot, reserving his limited manpower to watch the pancake shop and the much smaller employee lot around back.

“Hands up.” the oldest of the teens, long black hair falling into his face, snaps.

“If Wiggins put you up to this-” Wes says carefully.

“He didn’t put us up to anything.” the teen to his right snaps, his face almost as red as his hair. “We’re doing what needs to be done. For the cause.”

“He’s just using you.” Smitty says.

“Shut up.” Emo boy says. “Gray, pop the trunk.”

“They won’t both fit.” the third boy says.

“Just pop it.” Emo snaps.

The lid to a nearby trunk slowly rises and Emo turns to Wes.

“You.” he snaps. “Get in.”

Wes slowly steps forward.

“Think about what you’re doing.” he says carefully. “This isn’t a path to take lightly. You can still turn back.”

Emo darts across the three paces between them, bringing the butt of his gun down hard on Wes’s head.

He pulls away but the blow still catches the side of his head and drops him limply over the trunk of the car, eyes at half mast.

“Get him in.” Emo orders Gray while Red keeps his weapon trained on Smitty, driving her back even as she instinctively steps forward.

Gray tucks his gun in his waistband, stepping forward with his hands visibly shaking.

He lifts Wes’s legs, shoving him fully into the trunk.

His hands move, trying to push himself up she thinks, but the movements are uncoordinated and non-productive.

It doesn’t stop Emo from stepping forward, delivering another blow to the head with the butt of his weapon.

“Eli.” Gray says, his voice shaking as much as his hands, “Maybe we should think about this.”

“Too late.” Eli snaps, slamming the trunk closed and turning to her. “You’d best get in the car, lady. Or we leave your body here for the coppers to find and bad things happen to your boyfriend.”

She bristles but she’s outnumbered and outgunned.

Wes is injured, likely unconscious, and locked in the trunk of a car.

She climbs into the backseat.

Gray gets behind the wheel, Red climbing into the passenger seat and twisting to sit with his gun resting on the center console – still pointed directly at her.

Eli gets in next to her – his gun also trained on her.

“Now what?” she asks, working to keep her voice even.

“Now he drives and you shut up.” Eli snaps. “Gray, you know where to go.”

She falls silent as they pull out of the lot.

Well, this didn’t go according to plan.

Chapter Text

She stumbles slightly as Eli leads her down the stairs into a basement.

The building is abandoned, the outside worn down enough that she can’t tell quite what it was once used for.

Her hands are secured in front of her with a trio of zip ties but she’s more concerned with glancing back.

Wes is still in that trunk and – she can only hope – not still unconscious.

She doesn’t think Eli had landed that hard of a hit for all of his bravado but even a pathetic hit at the wrong spot can have devastating consequences.

There’s exposed pipework spread across the basement but she still can’t piece together its intended use.

She’s pulled over to the wall and her restraints secured to one of those pipes.

Gray and Red – the only member of this trio who hasn’t had his name carelessly revealed – come down the stairs next.

Gray is pulling Wes along while Red holds a gun on him.

Her boss is unsteady on his feet, blood coating the left side of his face, but his eyes are clear and she feels herself relax.

She stays quiet while the boys shove him to the floor across the room, securing his restraints to a pipe the same as they had hers.

Then the three of them leave the basement.

“You alright?” she asks quietly.

“Never gonna build a photo wall to rival McKintrick’s if I keep messing my face up.” he quips.

“Hate to tell you this.” she says, forcing playfulness into her tone. “But it wasn’t that great to start out with.”

“Ouch.” he breathes, tipping his head back against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Wes.” she says. “You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.”

“We take care of the people who take care of us.” he says. “It’s the only way we can be effective out there.”

He’s my father.

The words are stuck on the tip of her tongue.

Why didn’t she just tell him earlier?

Now he’s been kidnapped, taken multiple blows to head, and she couldn’t even be honest with him about why they’re here.

“We needed to identify the young blood anyway, right?” he says. “Though I gotta say, I hadn’t considered they would be this young.”

Neither of them had.

She’d expected college age kids.

Not teenagers.

They fall silent, Wes closing his eys though she can tell he’s not asleep.

Part of her wants to insist that he open them, that he can’t afford to risk falling asleep.

But he’s checked out as pretty lucid thus far so she elects to let him rest for a while.

Hours pass.

She’s not really sure how many – they’d taken her phone and she doesn’t wear a watch.

Wes still has his watch but she doesn’t want to disturb him asking for updates on the time every few minutes.

The door swings open.

Tre Wiggins comes down the stairs.

“Well,” he says considering the two of them. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“We had to do something.” Eli protests from behind him.

“No.” Wiggins snaps. “You didn’t. Braedon, I expected you to reel him in better than this.”

Red steps forward, looking abashed.

“They disrespected you.” he scoffs. “And they’re trying to bring heat down when we can’t afford it.”

“And kidnapping an Interpol agent and her American FBI friend doesn’t bring heat!” Wiggins growls. “You’ve got potential but you are young and foolish. You have to learn when to step back and let them fish.”

“He’s thirteen.” Wes calls. “Just a kid, not a patsy to blame for your mistakes.”

Smitty glances over at him.

She’d called in a favor when it had become clear that this Californian was going to be a permanent fixture with their team.

Was going to be her boss in a manner of speaking.

Knows a little bit about his own juvenile record and how he’d been manipulated and used by a man not dissimiliar to Tre Wiggins.

This has to be a bit of a sore spot for him.

“I don’t put the pressure on them.” Wiggins scoffs. “They believe in the cause, they want to succeed for the sake of their own futures. I’m just here to help them understand when they’ve gone astray, when they need to do better.”

“I’ve known plenty of assholes like you.” Wes snarls. “You prey on kids that have been let down by society. Set yourself up as a father figure to kids who desperately need one.”

“Funny that you mention father figures.” Wiggins scoffs, turning to Smitty with a smirk before looking back to Wes. “Did she even tell you why she’s come out here? Who Niall Walsh truly is to her?”

Smitty pales.

She knows that she needs to tell Wes who Niall is – even if he’s angry with her – but she wants to do it on her terms.

It doesn’t look like she’s going to get the chance.

Wes glances her way, eyes narrowing in confusion as Wigging stalks toward him.

She clenches her fists in helpless frustration as he crouches in front of her boss.

“Did she tell you that Walsh is her daddy?” he taunts, hand reaching out to dig into Wes’s side.

He groans, eyes pressing closed and she frowns.

Is he hurt more than she’d realized?

Did something happen between his being pulled from that trunk and when he was brought into this room.

“Mummy had a bit of an affair with her little friend during their activist days.” Wiggins taunts loudly before leaning in to whisper something into Wes’s ear.

Then he digs his thumb harder into Wes’s side, drawing a gasped cry of pain from him and stands up.

“A little something for the two of you to talk about, I suppose.” he says. “While I figure out the best way to clean up this mess.”

He stalks out of the room, the three teenagers following like ducklings stumbling after their mother.

The door slams closed, the sound echoing through the silence.

“I’m sorry.” she says after a moment. “I.. I should have told you but I…”

She trails off.

She doesn’t completely know why she hadn’t told him.

“‘ow long ‘ave you known?” he asks.

“A litle over a year.” she says. “We were working an IRA case in my hometown and I asked my mum for his number. They were friends back in the day and I thought he could help us. When we were wrapping the case, I saw a picture of him when he was younger and…”

She trails off but he just nods.

“I confronted him and he didn’t deny it.” she says. “But he said it was best if he stayed out of my life. For my sake.”

He nods again, jaw working as he breathes through the pain.

“I never even really talked to my mother about it.” she tells him. “Andre knows but only because he was standing right there when I realized it. I didn’t… I couldn’t figure out how I felt about it and when he walked away I think I stopped trying. Just buried it and did my best not to think about it anymore.”

“Better for you professionally.” he comments.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you.” she says quietly. “I just… didn’t know how to tell you either.”

“I won’t report it.” he says, looking away. “If that’s what you were worried about. God knows I take enough heat for who my biological father is.”

She winces.

“How badly are you hurt?” she asks instead of trying to answer that.

“They always tell you the anxious, panicked ones are the worst.” he says, shrugging. “Gray had a knife and I guess I came out of the trunk too fast.”

“Anything internal?” she asks.

“Pretty sure it’s just a fairly superficial laceration.” he says. “No organ damage, not a lot of blood loss, just a little tender.”

She nods, not completely sure she buys it but not sure she has any place to press it right now.

“What did he whisper to you?” she asks.

He smirks.

“Told me I should be careful with you, that you might cheat on me like your mom.”

She can’t help but chuckle.

“Not altogether worried about that.” he says with a shrug.

If she’s being honest with herself, he should be more worried about her stealing his girl but she hasn’t even admitted that to herself much less out loud where someone like Wiggins might hear.

“Nah.” she agrees. “I might make a play to be the other woman though.”

“Wouldn’t let Amanda hear you say that.” he says.

“She’s already going to be a bit cross with me.” she say, shaking her head.

“Not your fault.” he says. “My idea to poke the hornet’s nest.”

His eyes are closed again and again she elects to let him rest.

It’s up to her to find a way for them to get out of this mess.

 

Wiggins comes back, flanked only by Braedon.

“Where’s the other ugly ducklings?” Wes taunts without even opening his eyes.

“Eli will never be a fixer.” Wiggins dismisses. “And Grayson is too jittery, too anxious to make the right decisions under pressure.”

“If Braedon can avoid you scapegoating him to save your own skin.” Wes says bitterly.

“So negative.” Wiggins taunts. “I don’t know who hurt you, buddy, but I’m not like that.”

Wes scoffs audibly but doesn’t answer him.

“You’ll be relieved to learn that we’ve elected to put you out of your misery.” Wiggins continues. “Braedon is going to put Mr. Glass Half Empty down first. Then I’ll deal with the lovely Miss. Walsh myself.”

She’s not Miss. Walsh.

However conflicted she’d been about whether or not to get to know Niall, her dad will always be her dad.

She will always be Megan Garretson.

Braedon draws his weapon.

“Make it quick and don’t get too close.” Wiggins cautions and he nods.

Points the gun at Wes’s chest.

It turns out, he’s still too close.

The door slams open, Dutch police officers flooding into the room.

In the same heartbeat, Wes slides down, slamming his foot against the front of Braedon’s knee.

She can’t quite hear the snap in all of the chaos but she watches the joint fold in on itself with a small wince.

The gun clatters helplessly from his hand as he drops to the ground.

Wiggins takes the moment to prove what a coward he truly is.

His hands immediately raise and he turns toward the officers, dropping to his knees.

Chief Constable Dekker doesn’t waste any time clearing him from the room, posting two officers to watch over Braedon while he waits for medics, and then crosses over to her.

A knife makes quick work of the zip ties and then she’s racing over to Wes with the man hot on her heels.

While Dekker is focusing on cutting his hands free, she pushes back his jacket to get a look at the laceration on his stomach.

It’s a little deeper than she would call superficial but it at least appears to be safely in the laceration range rather than the stab wound she’d been somewhat afraid to find.

His head injury assures that he gets taken first, bundled up onto a stretcher with gauze packed neatly against his side and an IV running into his arm.

She walks alongside as they wheel him toward the stairs, taking his hand as he reaches out for her.

“We’re good.” he says, catching her eye. “But I am going to make you call my dad.”

She grimaces.

Cruel and unusual punishment.

Chapter Text

Miss. Edwin is in a hurry.

It’s Friday and this is her last task of the day.

As soon as she drops him off at his latest foster home, the weekend can begin.

He’s not sure if the anxious rush is just because it’s been a long week and she can’t wait for it to be over or if she has plans this weekend but he’s tempted to call her later tonight just to be a pest.

Brake lights appear ahead.

Miss. Edwin curses and slams on the brakes – sending Wes lurching forward against his seat belt.

A deafening crash sounds as they plow into the back of the vehicle ahead.

Horns are honking and somewhere nearby he can hear the wailing of a car alarm, probably triggered by the impact.

His heart is pounding against his chest as he looks around.

His chest hurts.

“Damn it.” Miss. Edwin curses under her breath.

She’s got a bloody nose, probably from the airbag, and is pinching the bridge with her fingers.

The car alarm is still going and it’s starting to give Wes a headache.

Miss. Edwin is just releasing the pressure to see if the bleeding has stopped when a tap against her window startles them both.

She manages to roll it down, offering the police officer a wry smile.

“Is everyone okay?” he asks, glancing past her to Wes.

“I think we’re alright.” she says. “The airbag hit my nose but the bleeding is stopping. Wesley’s seat belt did it’s job.”

“My chest hurts.” he chances and the officer nods.

“They do that.” he says sympathetically. “We’ll have the paramedics take a look, make sure it’s nothing worse but you’ll be bruised.”

Wes nods, reaching over to undo his seat belt.

It had locked into place during the collision and is now pressing against his sore chest.

The officer turns his attention back to Miss. Edwin, asking for her license, registration and insurance card.

Wes hopes she gets a ticket.

Maybe if she doesn’t have a clean driving record anymore she won’t be able to drive him around and he’ll get a new case worker who doesn’t hate him.

A paramedic arrives at the window a few moments later, helping him out of the car and walking him over to the ambulance.

They take his vitals and then ask him to lift his shirt so they can probe at his chest.

He grimaces as fingers find a particular tender spot over his sternum and the paramedic frowns.

“That hurt?” he asks.

Wes nods.

The man reaches up to pull the stethoscope from around his neck and places the earbuds in his ears.

“Just gonna take a quick listen, okay?” he says and Wes nods again.

He hisses as the cool metal disc makes contact with his skin but doesn’t move.

“Well?”

Wes jumps out of skin as Miss. Edwin arrives next to them, interrupting the paramedic with her demand.

“Nothing definitively alarming about his vitals but I don’t love them.” the paramedic tells her. “And I really think he should go to the hospital for a chest x-ray just to make sure there’s no blunt force chest trauma.”

“He’s bruised from the seat belt.” she dismisses. “I made sure that he was wearing it properly before we left and it was a low- speed collision.”

She did not, in fact, check his seat belt but he was wearing it the way he was meant to be.

“Kids as small as him can get serious chest trauma even if the seat belt is used correctly.” the paramedic says. “It’s why they’re starting to recommend booster seats for kids who are out of car seats but still under certain height and weight limits.”

“I’ll pass on to the department to look at the latest recommendations.” she says. “But Wesley is fine. He has a history of exaggerating minor injuries looking for sympathy.”

What minor injury is she talking about?

When Tobias Walters had kicked the shit out of him and broken several ribs?

Or the multiple cigar burns that Mr. Gregor had given him?

“We don’t have time to sit in the ER for several hours so that he can feel like he’s gotten enough attention for the day.” she adds.

The paramedic opens his mouth, eyes enraged but his partner puts a hand on his arm.

“Jason will get a refusal to transport form for you.” he tells her. “Do you mind if I take a quick look at your nose?”

She sighs but submits to him gently probing at it.

Five minutes later, he’s climbing back into her car and reluctantly doing his seat belt back up.

Miss. Edwin makes a big show for the police officers and paramedics on scene of checking his seat belt for him and then pushing the door closed.

He’s so tired.

He’s not slept well the last several nights because his mom has been drinking heavily and using again.

He’d avoided calling anyone because he knows how to manage her when she’s like that, knows how to stay safe.

But he doesn’t get a lot of sleep.

He’s a lot more tired after all of this though and just wants to get to whatever new home has been found for him and go to bed.

His chest hurts.

He has to move the seat belt, and it probably doesn’t work as well like this, but he manages to lean forward and it eases some of the ache.

They pull up to a curb only a few minutes later and he allows a small smile when he realizes he’s back at the Marlows.

He releases his seat belt, grabs his bag and follows Miss. Edwin up to the door.

Lacey Marlow smiles at them when she opens the door.

“You alright, sweetheart?” she asks, eyes narrowing as they land on Wes.

“We had a little disruption on the way here.” Miss Edwin says lightly. “He’ll likely want to head to bed early.”

He nods, stepping forward.

“Alright.” Lacey says, not sounding convinced. “Why don’t you get ready for bed, sweetie? You know where your room is.”

He nods and trudges up the stairs.

He’s out of breath by the top and shakes his head.

He just needs a good night’s sleep.

He always sleeps better here at the Marlows, in fact its the only place he’s ever been able to truly relax in his entire life.

If he waits until after Miss. Edwin leaves, Mrs. Marlow might give him some tylenol for the ache in his chest.

He closes the door and drops his bag, fishing in it for a pair of pajamas.

Tosses them on the bed and toes out of his shoes, starting to unbutton his pants.

A wave of dizziness passes through him as he bends to pull them over his feet and he grabs the bed to steady himself.

Shit.

He gets the pajama pants on and sits on the side of the bed, taking a minute to catch his breath before trying for the shirt.

He feels like shit.

Forgetting about putting on the pajama shirt, he lies back – hoping that resting for a few minutes will make him feel better.

The pain in his chest spikes sharply and he bolts upright, hand coming up to press over his chest.

His heartbeat is thrumming loudly in his ears and he can feel tears welling up in his eyes.

Something is wrong.

There’s a quiet tap on the door and he calls out weakly.

Mrs. Marlow pokes her head in the door.

“I’ve brought some tylenol.” she says. “Miss. Edwin said-”

She cuts off abruptly as her eyes land on him.

“Wes?” she says, “Sweetheart, are you alright?”

“It hurts.” he whimpers.

“You’re white as a ghost.” she says, kneeling in front of him and pressing her hand against his cheek. “Not warm though.”

He swallows hard, focused on breathing.

“Alan.” she calls.

Footsteps thud down the hall and he flinches away.

“Call 911.” she tells her husband as soon as he appears in the door frame. “Something isn’t right.”

Paramedics arrive quickly and some part of him is relieved to see the same pair that had responded to the accident.

They get him on a stretcher, quickly raising the head when he cries out.

An oxygen mask is placed over his face and a needle slid into his arm.

“Get him on the ECG monitor.” the older paramedic says. “I don’t like the look of those neck veins.”

“I told that bitch he needed to be checked out.” his partner mutters as he sticks nodes on Wes’s chest.

“Not now, Jason.” the man says. “Let’s get him to the hospital. I don’t like how fast his heart rate is.”

Mrs. Marlow trails along as they race him back down the stairs and toward the ambulance.

Just as they reach the ambulance, there’s a sharp spike of pain and everything suddenly goes black.

 

He wakes up to beeping.

Another hospital bed.

Shouldn’t there be some kind of rule about this?

“Wes?”

He rolls his head, blinking slowly as Mrs. Marlow comes into view.

“Mrs. M?” he mumbles, his voice cracking and breaking.

“It’s okay, Sweetheart.” she says, holding up a glass of water for him. “Don’t try to talk too much just yet.”

He takes a few small sips.

“‘appn’d?”

“The crash caused something called a cardiac tamponade.” she tells him. “Fluid accumulated around your heart until it couldn’t keep beating on it’s own.”

His heart… stopped?

“You went into arrest when they were loading you into the ambulance.” she says, her eyes haunted. “The paramedics managed to get you back, were able to keep you going until we got to the hospital and then a doctor drained some of the fluid.”

He nods tiredly.

“You’re going to be okay, Wes.” she assures him. “They had to do some minor surgical repair to address what caused the fluid to build up in the first place so you’ll have to take it easy for a few weeks but we should be able to take you home as early as tomorrow.”

“K.” he breathes.

“For the meantime, why don’t you try to get some more sleep?” she suggests. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He nods, letting his eyes drift closed.

“Thanks, Mrs. M.” he mumbles sleepily.