Chapter Text
He was bleeding.
He was trapped in that elevator with no way up or down, and he was bleeding copiously, so much so that he was finding it hard to keep his eyes open.
There had been a shooter in the hospital. Possibly someone who hadn't gotten quick enough care for a loved one, or someone who blamed one of them or all them for a close person's death. Sometimes, especially when a death is sudden and comes out of nowhere it's just easier to blame someone else.
The doctors, for example.
And so this man came in, guns blazing and shot all around him.
He got Will twice. Once in the forearm, luckily through and through, and another in the stomach. He hadn't been as lucky with that one, the bullet was still inside. He'd practically been thrown to the lift behind him, and he fell, onto the floor of the lift, hurting hi head as he went down too. Of course.
And then he seemed to have lost some time.
When he opened his eyes again, the lights of the elevator were off or blinking, and the thing seemed to be stuck in its place. Not going up or down, not moving. Just trapped there, like he himself was trapped, too weak to scream for help, too weak to move up a ventilation shaft or something. He couldn't move, and it was probably best if he didn't, as he'd probably only make him lose blood even quicker.
Some part of him knew that he should be trying to stop the bleed, applying some pressure, something. But he was so so tired, moving all of that much seemed absolutely impossible. He'd probably pass out while trying - he wasn't too far from it.
The lift came in and out of focus, sometimes disappearing, sometimes just losing its edges and getting terribly blurry and then sharp again. He could hear the faint echo of alarms and people screaming beyond the walls of the lift, and tried to worry. But it was hard.
Thinking was hard, and just breathing was so painful, so difficult... But he had to breathe, didn't he? Even if it hurt. He was used to pain, and he was used to pushing though pain. Even working despite pain had been something that etched to him, when he got hurt he kept on going, he had to help, for everyone else...
But now he had no strength. Perhaps because there was no one around that immediately needed his help. Well, he kind of did, but other people had always been the priority. His brother, his patient, everyone he worked with, his patients again, his head was swimming and thoughts wouldn't form...
He opened his eyes again. When had he closed them? It was a bit concerning, the lack of control he seemed to have over his own state of alertness. The pain of his stomach was sharper now, and he, as a doctor, knew that this meant...? What did this mean? Why couldn't he remember? No matter how he tried, he couldn't remember his medical... anythings.
The only thoughts that he could form, for some reason, were regrets. Bad decisions, things he could have/should have done better, people whose time he wasted, one thousand and one mean words directed his way that suddenly rang very true. Perhaps it was some sort of depression related to bloodloss, who knew, but the fact was that while he couldn't move enough muscles to scream for help, he could, and indeed was, crying.
Fuck.
How were the others? Were they safe? Natalie, Maggie, Elsa, had they been hit too? Had the situation resolved? He couldn't hear much outside of the lift and decided it was a good sign. The floor of the lift was getting completely drenched in his own blood which was a terrible sign.
Would they find him soon? Would finding him dead be traumatic for whoever it was? Better if it was someone that didn't know him all that well, then, so if it would just be tragic, but not painful. Had anyone even noticed that he was gone?
Well, maybe this way...
Maybe...
If he....
God, it hurt. It really hurt a lot.
Maybe it would hurt a bit less if he just... let go for a bit...
*
April was used to blood, it was part of her job. She'd seen gallons of it, she'd been drenched in it, she'd held organs in her hands. She didn't (couldn't) have a delicate stomach and she was not faint of heart.
But when that elevator opened and she saw the inside, she stopped breathing.
At no time had it occurred to her that Will might be injured, that he could even be dead. Because they couldn't find him, it meant that he hadn't come in, and that was it. Yeah, thy could use with his help, but it was probably better that he'd stayed away, he didn't need the extra pain, after all he'd seen, and been put to.
Didn't need this.
And while the most functional part of April was absolute locked and frozen and trying to understand what she was seeing, trying to process the fact that Will Halstead was dead or dying, some more primal automatic part of help was already screaming for help, moving people, getting orders, applying pressure.
Will was not dead, but he was not far from it, either.
She left him in the care some new doctors that had been brought in, and looked at her hands. Somehow, it was different knowing that it was his blood. Familiar, always there, comforting. She thought of him, alone, in that elevator, bleeding out, probably losing hope of getting help with every second that passed...
No.
The storm had passed.
Now they had to fix it.
Fix the horror.
*
There was someone talking, and that was the first thing that Will noticed.
The pain was still there, but it was quieted, minimised. He felt absolutely drained, but not a tiny bit stronger than before. He was hurt, and tired, and sore, but still, it felt like if he slept for a couple of weeks, and probably with medication, he could be okay.
And he was not bleeding. He was bandaged.
He opened his eyes for the umpteenth time that day, but this time it was different.
There was no lift, and he wasn't alone with his blood and his regrets. There was... people.
"Look who's back!" Maggie.
"Scared the shit out of us, buddy." Connor.
"How are you feeling?" Natalie.
They were okay, and he smiled, a little, painful, but genuine smile.
He was going to have more scars, yes, but...
He'd made it.