Work Text:
When the bullet hits Chan, Big feels as though it hits him, too, punching through muscle and ripping a path towards his heart.
He shouts Chan’s name, a desperate yell that tears out of him unbidden, as the other man goes down behind a stack of crates.
Something wild and feral brews in Big’s veins—a storm churning through his blood— and he almost launches himself across the open space separating them. Only a virulent spray of bullets stops him.
Then, Chan reappears, injured arm tucked into his side, firing with his non-dominant hand. He looks glorious and Big’s heart leaps.
They take out several gang members and duck down when the men return fire. The vast warehouse space makes the bullets echo through the room like a thousand raindrops on a tin roof.
“Big,” Chan calls over the din, “use the crates.”
“What?” Big shouts back intelligently.
Chan nods his head to the boxes Big is positioned behind.
Oh right.
The warehouse is full of alcohol, bottles and gin and rum filling every crate. Khun Kinn and Porsche were supposed to sample them before everything went to hell. They should be long gone by now, hustled back to waiting cars by Arm and Pol.
He and Chan stayed to provide cover as soon as resentful shouts and gunfire took the shape of an ambush.
Big holsters his gun and pushes over one of the smaller crates. It tips easily, sending the contents smashing across the floor, spilling towards their enemies in a river of claret.
He turns over another box and this time, instead of breaking, some of the sturdier bottles roll towards the gang. The gleam of spinning glass gives Big an idea. He looks around for something to force open one of the ground-level crates and finds a broken-off piece of old pipe.
It’s an imperfect crowbar, and Chan has to draw fire away while he gets the damn box open, but when he does, he’s able to send an army of bottles rolling towards their adversaries.
Crouching back behind his scant cover, he pulls out his lighter and hesitates.
If it was just him, he’d set the whole place alight without a second thought. But Chan might get caught in the blast.
Chan, who looks commanding and handsome even with blood flecking his neck and dirt streaking his temples. Chan, who Big would carve open the beating heart of a city to save from harm.
The other man calls his name and it bursts through him like a second pulse. Their eyes meet across the space.
“Do it,” Chan shouts.
An order is an order.
Holstering his gun, Big holds his lighter to the stream of liquor. The spark catches instantly, but Big doesn’t stop to watch. He drops the lighter and launches himself towards Chan.
“Big!” Chan shouts, clearly not expecting his sudden gambit across the open space.
Bullets whiz past him, sending a torrent of adrenaline coursing through his body. The sound of men panicking forms a short-lived sonata accompanying his steps.
He tackles Chan to the floor right as the explosion hits. The liquor detonates with atomic ferocity, fire surging up in a wall between the bodyguards and the gang, heat licking Big’s suit as bits of wood land on him.
Sound becomes hazy and he must lose consciousness for a few seconds because the next thing he knows, Chan is shaking him urgently and saying his name.
He sounds worried so Big opens his eyes. He’s lying on Chan’s chest, the other man’s face inches from his own.
Abruptly, he shoves himself up onto his palms, debris sliding off his back.
“Sir, are you alright? Did I land on your arm?”
“You didn’t,” Chan says, voice rough. “Are you alright? What were you thinking, running out into the open like that?”
Big glances away, chagrined. He can’t tell Chan that he couldn’t stand seeing him hurt again. It would have torn apart the soft glow inside of him that flares around Chan.
He knows what it is, but doesn’t dare put a name to it.
When he looks back, Chan is watching him closely, and his frown has unfolded into an oddly tender expression. Big wonders if he knows. He’s always been notoriously bad at hiding his feelings and Chan is sharp.
The older man shifts underneath him and Big springs back, blushing furiously and apologising.
“We need to go,” Chan says, brushing off his apology as he sits up.
Big turns to see a veritable inferno consuming the room. Heat washes over him and he registers that the dampness on the back of his neck isn’t from a working sprinkler system, it’s sweat.
“Are you injured?” Chan asks as he pushes into a standing position.
Before Big can answer, Chan sways and Big lunges to catch him, pulling his superior’s left arm over his shoulder.
“Sir?” The word is packed with fright.
“I’m fine,” Chan mutters, looking anything but.
“I need to check your wound,” Big says, entreating.
“Let’s get out of here first,” Chan replies, nodding towards the doors at the back of the room.
Big unholsters his gun and checks their path is clear. No new shouts or gunshots greet them, so they hurry through the emergency exit and into daylight.
The sun feels gentle in comparison to the fire, but Big is conscious that Chan’s breathing is laboured and he’s listing into Big with every step.
They stumble through the nearby streets until Big finds an empty storage unit with a broken lock. The interior is surprisingly clean but has no seats, so Big helps Chan lower himself to the floor.
“How bad is it?” He asks, trying to get a look under Chan’s suit jacket while the other man leans against the wall and slides his phone out of his pocket.
“I’ve had worse,” Chan replies, but his voice is strained.
He makes a brief call to Arm, requesting an extraction. Big peels off his jacket while he’s talking and then freezes in his tracks.
Chan’s shirt is inky black, soaked in blood from his shoulder all the way down to his trousers. A small pool of red has started to form under him.
“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” Chan says, ending the call. He notices Big staring and looks down at himself.
“Ah. That’s a lot of blood,” he says, almost unconcerned.
Big’s hands hover over the wound, trembling. He knows he needs to stop the bleeding and find bandages, but dread holds him captive.
Chan can’t die here. It would crush Big. He’s their anchor. He’s—.
A warm hand folds over one of his and he looks up to find Chan watching him, expression gentle.
“Find something that can be used as bandages.”
Having an order to fulfil snaps Big out of his stupor. He nods, springing to his feet. Riffling through storage boxes, he finds scissors and tape but no cloth. When his suit snags on the corner of a drawer, he realises that he already has a makeshift bandage.
Dropping back down beside Chan, he tugs off his jacket and begins cutting it into strips.
“This will have to do, sir.”
Chan hums in agreement and then grunts in pain when Big helps him sit forward and begins bandaging the wound. The bullet is lodged in the juncture between his shoulder and arm, but doesn’t seem to have hit an artery.
“Tight as you can,” Chan instructs as Big tapes off the strips of fabric. He adds conversationally, “When I told you to use the crates, I thought you’d start a fire, not blow up the room.”
Big ducks his head. “Sorry, sir. I just…wanted to take them down.”
“Well, you certainly succeeded. Just try not to take us out next time,” Chan says, looking at his neck. Big can tell his skin is scraped raw from the debris that caught him. Better him than Chan, though.
As he turns to wind a bandage across Chan’s chest, Chan grabs his wrist.
“Did you get hit?” His voice is serious, all mirth gone.
Big follows Chan’s gaze down to his own torso. Blood is splattered across the side of his white shirt.
Carefully, Chan lifts the fabric to reveal the graze of a bullet above his right hip.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” He demands, concern clear in his words.
“I didn’t realise…” Big trails off, confused.
When Chan got shot, he could almost feel the wound in his own skin. When hegot hit, he didn’t feel it at all.
“It must have happened when I crossed the room,” he adds, hyper-aware of the fact that Chan is staring at his stomach.
“Dress it, now. Use my jacket.” His tone is non-negotiable, but Big balks.
“Sir, your wound is more serious. This is just a graze.”
“Big, I’m ordering—”
“With all due respect, sir, I won’t put my wellbeing above yours.” Big has never once interrupted Chan since he joined the family. Until now.
They stare at each other, hard and immovable for a heartbeat, and then Chan sighs.
“That’s why you knocked me to the ground, isn’t it?”
Big flushes and that, in itself, answers the question.
Chan finally lets go of his shirt and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Your life matters just as much as mine or anyone else’s, Big.”
The words pierce him more thoroughly than any bullet. They strike just behind his ribs, close enough to his heart to spark a realisation: Chan is as concerned for him as he is for Chan.
No reply seems adequate, so he just holds Chan’s gaze for a long moment.
Then, he grabs another strip of makeshift bandage and mumbles, “I hope that means you won’t reprimand me for insubordination.”
Chan huffs out a laugh.
“That would make me ungrateful, I suppose. But don’t put yourself at risk for me.”
“I can’t promise that, sir.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Chan says. As Arm and Pol’s voices drift in from the street as he adds, “But don’t be surprised if other people do the same for you.”
Big knows he means himself. He tries to hide a smile as he ties off the last bandage. The soft glow inside of him burns brighter.