Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Will realizes is that he can’t feel the sheet.

He can see it—light green, wrinkled across his legs, tucked neatly the way nurses do it without even thinking. But there’s nothing under his skin. No cool cotton, no weight of the blanket, no itch, no pressure.

Just… absence.

He tries to move his toes. Tries so hard his jaw clenches and a vein stands out in his neck. Nothing happens. It was only up to his knees earlier but now it’s higher.

“Oh, hey, Will. You with me?”

Maggie’s voice floats in from the doorway. He knows that voice as well as he knows his own, but right now it sounds like it’s being piped in from another planet.

He blinks up at the ceiling tiles, then turns his head. Even that feels sluggish, like pushing through molasses. Maggie walks in with a chart against her hip and that guarded-soft smile she saves for bad-news days.

“The tick,” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse. “They found it right. I remember Natalie removing it vaguely?”

“Yeah.” She sets the chart down, fusses with a monitor cord that isn’t actually tangled. “Natalie found it. Actually between your curly red hair follicles. The girls up and walking they are keeping her overnight for observation but she should make a full recovery?”

Will thinks of the crushing weakness, the way his knees had refused to listen to him, the terror in Natalie’s eyes when he slurred through, I can’t move. He remembers the sharp edge of fear underneath her professionalism.

“Bits,” he murmurs. “How long have I been out?”

“About eight hours since we got the tick off though I think that was just sleep due to exhaustion rather than anything more sinister.” Maggie hesitates. That hesitation lands in his stomach like a stone. “I’m gonna go grab Nat, okay?”

“Maggie.” His throat tightens. “What’s wrong with me?”

She meets his gaze, and for a second she’s not the unshakeable charge nurse, just a friend who’s seen too much. “Let me get the doctor, Dr. Halstead.”

He hates that. Dr. Halstead, cause unlike normal he’s on the wrong side of the bed now.

⸻

It’s Natalie who comes in first, lab coat half-on, stethoscope askew, hair falling out of her ponytail. Will knows every crease on her face, every microexpression. Right now, all of them are telling him the same thing: this is bad.

“Hey,” she says softly, approaching the bed like he’s a skittish patient. “You look better awake.”

“Define ‘better,’” he croaks. “Because I still can’t… feel anything.”

He tries moving his arm. He sees the muscle tense under his skin… but the motion is tiny, clumsy, more like a twitch than anything purposeful. The effort sends his heart rate blipping up on the monitor.

Natalie’s gaze dips to the screen, then back to him. “Okay, slow down. Breathe.”

“This should be over,” Will says. Panic slithers into his chest. “Tick paralysis reverses after removal. We’ve all said it a hundred times. Kids get in, get out, they walk, they go home. Why can’t I move my legs?”

She wets her lips. “Sometimes… in rare cases… if there’s been prolonged compression, inflammation, or—”

“Spare me the journal abstract, Nat. Just tell me.”

She sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips; he watches it, doesn’t feel it.

“Your MRI didn’t show any structural damage,” she starts. “That’s good. Neurosurgery doesn’t see anything to operate on. But your spinal cord… it might have sustained some inflammatory injury. Dr. Abrams thinks it’s like a toxic neuropathy that hit harder than usual.”

He stares at her. “And my legs?”

“We don’t know yet,” she admits. “We’re consulting neurology, starting high-dose steroids, aggressive rehab once you’re stable. Sometimes function comes back slowly. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s too soon to—”

“So I could be paralyzed.” He says it flat, because someone has to.

Natalie swallows. “You could have permanent deficits,” she says carefully. “We just don’t know the extent but your arms seem to be returning and your airways were spared.”

The room goes very quiet. The monitors hum, the vent in the ceiling clicks on. Somewhere outside, a bed wheel squeaks down the hallway.

Will tries to flex his foot again. Nothing. He feels like a body drawn in chalk—the outline of himself without the filling.

“I was on shift twelve hours ago,” he says, incredulous. “I was arguing with you about a treatment plan. I was walking. I—” His voice breaks. “This can’t be it.”

Natalie’s hand hovers for a second, then lands on his forearm. Warm. Solid. The heat doesn’t travel past his elbow.

“It’s not ‘it,’” she says quietly. “It’s just… it’s the next thing.”

He laughs once, bitter. “That’s a terrible inspirational poster, Manning.”

“Yeah,” she relents. “I’m workshoping it.”

But her thumb moves in slow arcs on his skin, and he focuses on that: something he can still feel, something that’s still his.

⸻

The weeks blur.

First comes the ICU, then a step-down unit, then a private room with a big window that shows him the helipad and the city stretching past it, tauntingly vertical.

He learns new numbers: T8, T10, ASIA scores. He knows exactly which dermatomes respond to sharp versus dull. He tracks the faint return of sensation over his ribs like other people track lottery tickets.

“You got something?” Natalie asks one afternoon, pen hovering over her notepad.

“Maybe,” he says, staring at his abdomen. “Like… a buzzing. Or I’m imagining it because I want it too much.”

She presses a safety pin gently into his skin. “Sharp or dull?”

He closes his eyes, concentrates. “Dull,” he says at last.

She marks it down. It’s something. Not enough.

Choi is blunt but kind. “Your injury level looks around T9,” he explains, showing Will the diagram. “That’s why your arms and upper chest are spared, but your legs and lower trunk—”

“Don’t say ‘sparing,’” Will mutters. “Makes it sound like they got off with a warning.”

Choi gives the ghost of a smile. “I know you know all this,” he says. “But your doctor brain and your patient brain aren’t the same thing.”

“Yeah, well,” Will says, staring at the wheelchair parked in the corner. “My doctor brain assumes there’s a protocol. A fix. A drug. You tell me ‘no surgical target,’ ‘time will tell’—it feels like we’re doing nothing.”

“Rehab isn’t nothing,” Choi says. “Giving your body every possible chance isn’t nothing.”

“Still feels like I’m just lying here watching everyone do my job without me.”

“You’re allowed to grieve that,” Choi says simply.

The word grieve hits harder than the diagnosis.

⸻

Rehab is brutal.

He wants to tell them to drop the “doctor.” It feels like a rank he hasn’t earned anymore. They teach him transfers, sliding from bed to chair on a transfer board. His shoulders burn, his hands blister. The first independent transfer he does, the therapist grins like he just won a gold medal. Will stares at the wheelchair again. “So this… this is my new attending chair, huh?”

The therapist—María—raises an eyebrow. “You planning to go back?”

“I don’t know how not to,” he says. “But I also don’t know how to run codes from a seated position when the crash cart is taller than me.”

She smirks. “You adapt. Or you become really good at Yelling At People.”

People come.

Connor brings coffee and radiology films and acts like they’re just two guys gossiping over cases, flipping through scans while Will lies there doing quad sets he can barely feel.

“Your hands still work,” Connor says one afternoon, nodding at the images. “You could do admin, teaching, research. You’d be good at that.”

Will snorts. “Admin. I’d rather eat glass.”

“Okay, so consults? Telemetry? Not everything needs legs.”

“Says the cardiothoracic surgeon who stands for eight-hour procedures.”

“Hey, I didn’t say we’re swapping,” Connor says lightly. His eyes are softer than his voice. “I’m saying your career isn’t over unless you decide it is.”

April drops by after shifts, still in scrubs, sometimes with Maggie, sometimes with Choi. They bring him gossip, small dramas, wins and losses from the ED. Will listens and feels a strange, raw longing—like his life is still happening in a room he can’t get back into.

Natalie is there more than anyone. She’s there for PT when they practice wheelies in the therapy gym and he nearly flips backwards, heart hammering. She’s there when the physiatrist calmly explains that significant motor recovery below T10 is unlikely now that they’re past twelve weeks.

“So that’s it?” Will asks afterward, staring at the ceiling. The words feel cracked. “This is… permanent.”

Natalie’s quiet for a long moment. “This is chronic,” she corrects gently. “Permanent is what it is no matter what you do. Chronic is what you learn to live with.”

“I don’t want to ‘live with’ it. I want to walk, run, have legs that do stuff!”

“I know,” she says, and her voice frays, just a little. “I know.”

He looks at her, really looks, at the circles under her eyes and the way she’s been carrying his grief like it’s her own. “You don’t have to keep doing this,” he says roughly. “Sitting in rooms while I memorize spinal levels and complain about bedsores. You didn’t sign up for—”

“Actually,” she interrupts, a flash of something fierce in her eyes. “I did. I signed up for all the worst days. That’s what ‘I care about you’ means, in case you missed that day in med school.”

He huffs out a laugh so wet it borders on a sob. “Pretty sure I skipped that lecture, yeah.”

Her hand finds his. He can feel that. He clings to it like it’s the last grounding point in a world that’s tilted.

⸻

The first time he goes back to Med, it’s as a visitor. Will rolls himself through the familiar sliding doors, the hiss of them opening feeling both welcoming and like the intake of a beast he used to know how to tame. People stare. Not for long. Mostly a double-take, a quick flash of surprise—Oh. Wheelchair.—then they look away. He tells himself he doesn’t care. He absolutely cares. Maggie spots him first. She abandons her post at the admit desk, ignoring the phones, and marches straight over, arms wide.

“Well look at you,” she says, grinning. “Running laps in my ED.”

“Careful,” he laughs, gripping his wheels. “I’ve got a horn installed.“

She snorts and leans down to hug him. Up close, he can see the sheen in her eyes. “You scared the hell out of us,” she murmurs in his ear.

“Yeah,” he says lightly. “Sorry about that.”

She straightens, pats the back of his chair. “You want to see Treatment 3? It misses you.”

He hesitates. Part of him is desperate to bolt, to spin around and retreat back to the safety of being a patient elsewhere. But another part—a stubborn, Halstead part—refuses to let this place become a ghost he’s afraid of.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Inside Treatment 3, everything looks the same. Bed, monitor, yellow sharps container on the wall. The last time he was in here, he’d been lying flat, breath catching, legs limp. He remembers Natalie’s hands under his shoulders, steadying him, the terror chewing at the edges of his vision. He rolls closer to the bed. His reflection swims in the metal railing—freckles, red hair, dark circles, chair.

“Good times,” he says dryly.

Natalie steps in behind him. He doesn’t even have to turn to know it’s her.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

“No,” he answers honestly. “But I’m here.”

She smiles, standing next to him. “That’s enough for today.”

He exhales. “Do you ever… replay it? Wonder if you could’ve done something different? Found the tick sooner, started treatment earlier… realised it was a tick and not any of our other differentials”

“Will.” Her voice sharpens. “You are not going to spend the rest of your life apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.”

He looks down at his hands in his lap. “I know that. Rationally. But there’s this… voice that won’t shut up.”

“What’s it saying?”

“That I should’ve noticed her or my own symptoms sooner. That I should’ve stopped and trusted my own instincts. That if I had been more stubborn, maybe I’d be walking.” He swallows. “And there’s another voice that says I did this to myself. That I don’t deserve to come back.”

Natalie steps around, kneels in front of him so they’re eye level.

“Listen to me,” she says. “You got bitten by a tick after picking up a scared little girl and carrying her into the ER. A tiny, stupid arachnid. It doesn’t care how many degrees you have, how many patients you’ve saved, how much you love your job. It doesn’t strike good people or bad people. It just… bites. Biology does what it does. You don’t get to assign moral value to that.”

“Feels like I do when I look at this chair,” he mutters.

“Then maybe,” she says, tilting her head, “you need new symbolism. See it as the thing that gets you back in here, doing the job you’re insanely good at, just… differently?”

He searches her face. “You really think I can come back?”

“I think if you don’t,” she says, “I’m going to have to work with some random attending who doesn’t know how I take my coffee or when I’m about to cry in an empty supply closet, and frankly, that sounds unbearable.”

A laugh bubbles out of him, unexpected and bright. He feels something twist in his chest—not the old life coming back, exactly, but a new shape forming where the jagged edges have started to smooth.

⸻

The transition is clumsy.

HR meetings, accommodations discussions, an accessibility consultant who looks about twelve and uses words like ergonomic and workflow optimization until Will’s head spins. They offer to adjust his schedule. He wouldn’t do traumas at first; he could take more consults, more admitted patients, more family meetings.

The first day back, he rolls into the ED in the same scrubs but with his white coat hem shortened so it doesn’t catch on his wheels. His badge still says Attending Physician.

“Dr. Halstead,” a nurse calls, waving him over. “We’ve got a febrile kid in 7, sats dipping, looks septic. Can you—”

She stops, eyes flicking to the chair, like she’s just remembered this isn’t the same doctor who used to bark orders during crashes.

“Yeah,” Will says easily, heart pounding. “I’ll take the history and exam, get the sepsis order set going. We may need to prep for a line.”

He wheels into 7, the familiar adrenaline déjà vu and something new—logistics, angles, line of sight. The kid’s mom is pacing, eyes wild. “Are you the doctor?” she demands, seeing him.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m Dr. Halstead. Tell me what’s going on.”

She looks at the chair for half a second, then at her child. That’s all. This was a doctor who was going to help her through this crisis that was what mattered.

He listens, asks questions, examines what he can from his position—the kid’s color, work of breathing, cap refill, mental status. The resident joins, lanky and nervous.

“Okay,” Will says calmly. “You’re going to get access and I’m going to talk you through fluids and antibiotics. Respiratory’s on the way. We’ve got him.”

He finds the rhythm again—not the physical choreography he used to rely on, but the mental one. Pattern recognition. Clinical intuition. The ability to make the chaos feel small enough for everyone else in the room to breathe.

When the kid stabilizes, the mom grabs his hand. “Thank you,” she says, eyes shining. “Thank you, doctor.”

And for the first time since his legs stopped listening to him, the word feels like it still fits. He is still Dr Halstead.

⸻

That night, he wheels onto the roof.

The city spreads out below, lights blinking in different rhythms. The air is cool; he pulls his jacket tighter. The helicopter pad hums a low electric buzz behind him.

He doesn’t hear footsteps, but he feels the shift in the air when someone comes to stand beside him.

“Busy day?” Natalie asks.

“First septic kid back,” he says. “Didn’t fall out of the chair, so I’m calling it a win.”

She smiles. They stand there in comfortable silence for a minute. The wind brushes his face, lifts his hair. He watches a car’s headlights trace along Lake Shore Drive like a slow pulse.

“You know what I realized today?” he says quietly.

“What?”

“I kept waiting for this big cinematic moment where I’d accept everything. Like, I’d suddenly be okay with the chair, with the loss, and my grief would pack its bags and move out.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t.”

“But I had this… this second in the trauma bay when I was talking to that kid’s mom, and I wasn’t thinking about my legs. I wasn’t thinking about dermatomes or outcome data or what I can’t do anymore. I was just… a doctor. Again. For like thirty seconds, the chair was just… furniture.”

He swallows. His voice goes husky. “And it hit me that maybe that’s what life is now. Not one big acceptance event. Just a bunch of tiny moments where it doesn’t hurt as much.”

Natalie looks at him, eyes bright in the rooftop lights. “I think that’s pretty much what it is for everybody,” she says. “Yours is just more… obvious.”

He chuckles, then grows serious again. “I’m still angry,” he admits. “At the tick. At the universe. At my own stupid body. I don’t think that’s going away.”

“Anger doesn’t have to go away to make room for other things,” she says. “It just… shares the space.”

“What, like bad roommates?”

“Exactly.” She nudges his shoulder lightly. “Grief leaves dishes in the sink. Anger eats your leftovers. Hope pays more than its share of the rent.”

“Terrible metaphor,” he says, smiling.

“You love it.”

He does. He loves that she’s here, that he’s here, that despite everything that’s been taken, so much remains.

Below them, the city keeps breathing. Somewhere, a siren wails. Somewhere, a kid spikes a fever. Somewhere, a tick hides in tall grass, not knowing who it will choose next.

Up here, Will Halstead sits in a chair that feels a little less like a verdict and a little more like a tool. His legs are quiet and will probably always be, but his mind is loud, his heart louder.

“I’m not okay,” he says, more to the night than to her. “But I’m… more okay than I was.”

Natalie threads her fingers through his.

“That counts,” she says. “It all counts.”

He squeezes back, feeling her warmth, the weight of her hand, the steady presence at his side. There’s a whole part of the world he’ll never move through the way he used to.

But there’s also this: the hum of the hospital behind him, the pulse of the city below, and the quiet, stubborn certainty that as long as his hands can heal and his mind can work, he is not done.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

The first thing Will notices is the silence.

It’s not actual silence—this is the ED, there’s never silence—but it’s that particular kind of hush that drops right before everything explodes. The monitors are steady. No one’s yelling. Someone laughs at the admit desk, sharp and quick.

He’s midway through explaining a medication change to an elderly patient when the crash alarm goes off.

Code Blue. Treatment 4.

The sound spears through his chest. He feels the old reflex flare—move—before the newer reality slams in: wheels, not legs. Angles, not strides.

“I’ll be back,” he tells his patient, already turning his chair.

His hands find the push rims automatically. He rolls hard.

The hallway narrows with bodies as people move toward Treatment 4. He’s shorter than he used to be in these crowds, forced to weave between hips and carts instead of looking over shoulders. Someone hesitates in front of him and he hears himself snap, “Coming through!” more sharply than intended.

They part. He slides into the doorway of 4 just as the room’s chaos comes into focus.

Middle-aged man, maybe fifty, sprawled on the gurney. Grey around the edges. A nurse at the head of the bed trying to get a mask seal, another fumbling with the defib pads, someone else checking for a pulse with shaking fingers.

“No pulse!” the nurse at the wrist shouts, voice too high.

For half a second, everyone looks at everyone else.

This is the gap. The moment where someone has to take it.

Will’s body decides for him.

“Move!” he barks, and the muscle memory of leadership snaps over the room like a code blanket.

He rolls straight to the side of the bed, bumps the brake lever with his palm, locks his chair. The bed is up too high; it hits him mid-chest.

“Drop the bed,” he orders. “All the way down. Now.”

The nurse at the controls fumbles, then slams the button. The bed hisses and sinks. Will adjusts, backing his chair a few centimeters, lining himself up dead center with the patient’s sternum.

He can feel eyes on him. There’s a flicker in the room—Is he really—?—but there’s no time for that.

The bed reaches its lowest setting. It’s still not ideal, but it’s close. Will laces his fingers, straightens his arms, and leans forward from the hips, planting the heel of his hand on the patient’s chest.

“Starting compressions,” he says, more for the record than for himself. And then he pushes.

The first few compressions are awkward.

He has to recalibrate the angle—he can’t drop his whole bodyweight from above the way he used to, can’t rock from his knees. But his shoulders are strong from weeks of transfers and chair propulsion, and his arms have learned new ways to work.

He locks his elbows, engages his core, and uses his upper body like a piston. Down. Up. Down. Up.

The sternum gives under his hands; he feels the faint recoil, hears the soft thump-thump-thump of the chest meeting the mattress.

“One, two, three, four…” he counts under his breath, tempo ticking in his head. The monitor shows the jagged flatness of pulseless electrical activity.

“Get the backboard under him,” Will says between compressions. “Maggie, you’ve got the backboard?”

“Already on it,” Maggie’s voice answers, calm and grounded as she slides in at his side.

They roll the man just enough to shove the board underneath. Will doesn’t stop; he adjusts his hands as the surface firms up. The compressions improve immediately; the recoil’s cleaner.

“Bag him, good seal,” Will snaps. “Somebody on the clock. We’re going in two-minute cycles. What’s the story?”

“Collapsed in the waiting room,” a nurse answers from somewhere near the door. “Chest pain for thirty minutes before that. No prior records in the system.”

“Okay,” Will says, still pumping. “Get me a twelve-lead ready for when we get a rhythm back. Push 1mg epi IV now.”

“Epi going in!”

He’s vaguely aware of someone entering the room—Choi, sliding in like a shadow to the foot of the bed.

“Will?” Ethan’s eyes flick to the wheelchair, then to Will’s hands on the chest. There’s a split second of assessment—form, depth, rate. He gives the tiniest nod. “How long down?”

“Two minutes max before CPR,” Will grunts. His shoulders burn; sweat beads at his hairline. “This is first cycle.”

“Okay,” Ethan says, voice going loud for the room. “Dr. Halstead has compressions. Let’s get an airway and IV access secured. Maggie, call for cath lab standby in case we get ROSC.”

Will keeps counting in his head, feeling time as a series of compressions instead of seconds.

At around ninety, his triceps start to shake. He adjusts his grip, shifts his weight farther forward, practically half out of the chair as he drops onto the sternum. The edge of the bed digs into his upper ribs. He ignores it.

This is what you trained for, he tells himself. You can do this part. Chair or no chair.

“Two minutes,” someone calls.

“Check rhythm,” Ethan says.

They pause. Will hovers, hands still hovering above the sternum, chest heaving.

The monitor shows coarse V-fib now. Better than PEA, but still deadly.

“We’re in V-fib,” Ethan says. “Charge to 200. Clear except compressor.”

“Charging!” the defib tech calls.

Will backs his chair instinctively, unlocking the brake with a quick flick and rolling back half a meter. “All clear!”

The shock arcs through the man’s chest, his body jerking on the backboard.

“Resume compressions!” Ethan orders.

“I got it,” Will says, already rolling forward again, chair bumping the bed.

“Will,” Ethan says quietly, eyes narrowing. “You need a switch?”

“In a bit,” Will says through gritted teeth. “Let me finish this cycle.”

He plants his hands back on the sternum and starts again. His shoulders scream, but his rhythm stays steady. His world narrows to the feel of bone under palm and the faint hope that each compression might be pushing oxygen just far enough.

“Good compressions,” Maggie says low by his ear. “You’re right on rate.”

Somebody starts ventilations with the bag-valve mask, timed to his compressions. Thirty, pause, squeeze. Thirty, pause, squeeze.

Will’s sweat drips onto the sheet. His back aches where it meets the chair. He ignores all of it.

At the end of the second cycle, Ethan moves closer. “Switch,” he says firmly. “Now.”

Will’s instinct is to argue, to prove he can keep going, that the chair doesn’t make him weaker. But he knows his own limits. Good CPR isn’t about ego.

“Fine,” he pants, backing off again. “You’re up.”

A resident slides into his spot, taller, able to get his shoulders directly over the sternum. “I’ve got compressions,” she says.

Will rolls toward the head of the bed instead, where the respiratory therapist is wrestling with the mask seal.

“Let me take airway,” Will says. “You keep an eye on sats and CO₂.”

He locks his chair again, angles himself near the head, and reaches for the bag. The patient’s jaw is slack; the oropharyngeal airway is already in place. Will adjusts the mask position, using his thumb and index finger in the classic “C” shape, other fingers lifting the mandible in a jaw thrust.

“Slow, full squeezes,” he says to himself as much as anyone. He times the ventilations with the compressions—after every thirty, he squeezes the bag, watching the chest rise.

“One thousand one, one thousand two…” he murmurs, letting the rhythm dictate his breathing.

“Epi cycle two?” Ethan asks.

“Coming up on four minutes,” Maggie confirms. “Go ahead.”

“Push another milligram.”

The room has hit that clean-code groove now. Everyone knows their job; everyone trusts the flow. Will feels the old rush of it, the way his mind slots into the pattern.

Chair or not, this is the same. Recognize rhythm, deliver shock, compress, ventilate, repeat until the heart decides to listen.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Ethan says after the next cycle. “Hold compressions.”

The resident lifts her hands. Will stops bagging, eyes glued to the monitor.

A rhythm appears. Slower, more organized. Sinus bradycardia, maybe. His heart jumps in his chest.

“Check a pulse,” Ethan says.

The nurse at the femoral site leans in, fingers pressing. A beat passes. Two. Three.

“I have a pulse,” she says, voice shaking.

Will exhales like he’s been punched.

“Okay,” Ethan says, steady. “We’ve got ROSC. Let’s support that blood pressure. Start a norepi drip if he’s hypotensive. Get that twelve-lead on him; I want to see if we’re dealing with an inferior MI or what. Airway?”

“Still bagging,” Will says. “Good chest rise. We can intubate now, he’s a bit more stable.”

Ethan nods, eyes flicking over the group. “Nice work, everyone.”

The adrenaline slowly seeps out of the room. The volume drops. Tasks become quieter: adjusting drips, printing ECGs, documenting.

Will keeps ventilating, his hands moving automatically. The patient’s chest rises and falls under the mask, his skin pinking up just a shade.

“Will, I can take that,” the respiratory therapist offers, reaching for the bag.

He hesitates for half a heartbeat, then lets go. “Yeah,” he says, flexing his fingers. “He’s yours.”

As his hands drop to his lap, he suddenly feels everything: the burn in his shoulders, the damp cling of his scrub top, the ache where his ribs met the bed edge. His arms tremble.

He backs his chair away, just enough to be out of the circle around the bed. He watches, jaw tight, as they prepare to intubate.

Ethan steps out beside him, eyes still favoring the patient but glancing at Will.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Will swallows. “Fine.”

“You did good compressions,” Ethan says. “Textbook.”

There’s no pity in his tone, just clinical assessment. Somehow that means more than praise.

“For a guy sitting down?” Will says, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“For any code leader,” Ethan corrects. “You moved the bed, you adjusted, you delegated. That’s what matters.”

Will lets that sit for a second. The old fear nudges at him, familiar and bitter: What if they see me as a liability? As slow? As in the way?

Then he remembers the mom in the last case, thanking him. Remembers the pulse under the nurse’s fingers. Remembers the chest under his hands a few minutes ago and the way the compressions worked.

He rolls backward and out of the room, out into the hallway where the air feels less thick. He blows out a long breath.

Maggie appears at his side like she’d been waiting.

“You good?” she asks.

He nods, flexing his hands again. “I forgot to be scared,” he admits.

“During the code?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“That’s how you know you’re where you’re supposed to be,” she says simply.

⸻

He doesn’t realize how much his body is complaining until he’s back in the tiny office, a corner in the ED with a desk and just enough space to turn his chair. He rubs his shoulders, feeling the tight ropes of muscle under his fingers.

There’s a soft knock, then Natalie slips in without waiting for an answer, hair slightly frizzy like she’s been running around.

“I heard you had a code,” she says. “You okay?”

“Rumors travel fast,” he mutters.

“ED gossip is faster than Wi-Fi.” She leans against the doorjamb, studying him. “You did compressions?”

“Yep.”

“In the chair?”

“Yep.”

“How’d it go?”

He opens his mouth to make a joke, then stops.

“It was…” He searches for the right word. “Different. Harder. But—I could do it. Once the bed was down, it was mostly angles and leverage. My shoulders are going to hate me tomorrow, but…”

“But you did it,” she says, a small smile curling her mouth.

He shrugs, suddenly self-conscious. “It wasn’t pretty. I had to switch out after two cycles. I used to be able to go five.”

“That’s because you used to be stupid and not let anyone else help,” she says dryly. “Good codes aren’t solo performances. They’re relay races.”

He huffs a laugh.

“There was this moment,” he admits quietly, “when the alarm went off and everyone started moving. I could see them looking at me. Just for a second. Like they were waiting to see if I… hesitated.”

“Did you?” she asks.

“A little,” he says. “Then the doctor part of my brain yelled louder than the insecure part. Guess muscle memory isn’t just for hands.”

She steps closer, perching on the edge of his desk. “You know,” she says, “I was worried about this moment.”

“Me too,” he says, surprising himself.

“I kept thinking, what if there’s a code and you’re there and you freeze because all you can think about is what you can’t do anymore?” Her eyes are soft, voice careful. “And then I heard you were the first one on compressions and I thought, ‘Yeah. That’s Will.’”

He looks at her, throat tight. “I didn’t freeze,” he says. “I… adapted.”

The word feels strange on his tongue, but not wrong.

“You didn’t just adapt,” she counters. “You led. You adjusted the environment to you instead of trying to force yourself into the old mold. That’s huge.”

He leans his head back against the chair. “It’s stupid,” he says after a beat. “But part of me needed proof. That I still belong in that room. That when the worst thing happens, I’m still someone you want there.”

Natalie’s eyes shine a little. “You have never stopped being that person,” she says. “The wheels don’t change that. They just change how many steps you take to get to the bedside.”

He snorts. “Zero, technically.”

“See?” she says, smiling. “Efficient.”

He sits with that, letting the compliment seep in. The tension in his shoulders eases a fraction.

“I did forget something, though,” he says suddenly.

“What?”

“To complain about my shoulders during the code.”

“That’s what ibuprofen is for,” she says. “Take something, stretch, and then come with me. I’ve got a patient who refuses to talk to me but might talk to a redhead in a wheel—”

She stops herself, mid-word.

Will’s lips twitch. “You can say it,” he says. “It’s not Voldemort.”

“In a wheelchair,” she finishes, rolling her eyes at herself. “Teenager. Spinal fusion last year. Keeps telling everyone she’s ‘broken.’ I thought you might be a better counterargument than me.”

He considers that. A part of him still flinches at the idea of being anyone’s cautionary tale or “inspirational story.”

But the code is still in his bones, the pulse they brought back still echoing in his ears. He’d just proved to himself that he can be what people need in the worst moments. Maybe this is another version of that.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay. Let’s go talk to her.”

Natalie’s smile is bright and proud and a little relieved. “Attending Halstead, doing a consult. I’m honored.”

He snorts. “Don’t get used to it.”

As they head out of the office, he rolls next to her instead of slightly behind. The hallway feels a little different after the code—not wider exactly, but less like it’s narrowing around him.

He’s still angry, still grieving, still occasionally gutted by the ghost of what used to be.

But today, in that bright, brutal little room, when the alarm screamed and the monitors flatlined, he moved. He adapted. He helped bring someone back.

The chair creaks softly beneath him. His shoulders ache. His hands are a little unsteady.

Inside, though, something feels steadier than it has in a long time.

Chapter Text

Will registers the sound before anything else. He never even sees the other car. One second he’s checking his mirrors, the next the world explodes sideways. Something hits him from the left, impossibly fast. The world jerks sideways. Metal screams, the driver’s side door crushes in to his fragile body. Glass pops. The impact slams into him hard enough that his shoulder whips into the door and the belt bites across his chest. The drivers chair groans but holds, then everything spins— as the seatbelt bites harder into his chest and shoulder.

Then there’s motion—spin, skid, the sickening, weightless tilt—and then—

Blank.

⸻

Voices come back first.

“…BP’s holding, 110 over 70…”
“…GCS 14, he answered at the scene…”
“…right leg grossly deformed, likely femur, tib, fib…”

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

He hates how long it takes his brain to line up the answer.

“Will,” he croaks. His tongue feels thick. “Dr. Halstead.”

“Of course it is,” another voice mutters, grim and familiar.

The blur above him sharpens. Choi. Trauma gown, eye shield, that focused look he wears in the bay when things are bad but manageable.

“Hey, Will,” Ethan says, leaning into his field of vision. “You’re in the ED. You were in a car accident. You with me?”

He’s on a backboard, C-collar snug around his neck. The overhead lights are different from this angle—too bright, too far away. He tries to move his arms; they’re strapped.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I—ow.”

Pain spikes in his shoulder and ribs where the belt caught him. His head throbs with a dull, behind-the-eyes ache, the kind he’s seen a thousand times on CT with a reassuring no bleed note.

He tries to wiggle his toes. Nothing.

Then he remembers: nothing is baseline.

“What happened?” he asks. “Other driver…?”

“Other driver’s en route to Lakeshore,” Ethan says. “You took a T-bone on the driver’s side. Airbags deployed. EMS says you were conscious and coherent at the scene, so that’s something.”

“Great,” Will mutters. “Five stars for William Halstead.”

“Airway’s patent, breathing okay, but I don’t like that right leg,” a resident says from somewhere near his feet.

Will cranes his eyes downward. He can’t see past his chest, collar in the way.

“Talk to me,” he demands. “What’s wrong with the leg?”

There’s a small silence. He hears the rustle of someone stepping aside, Then Natalie’s face appears over him, hair stuffed under a lead apron, eyes already too bright.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“Apparently not,” he says, trying for a smirk. “Leg?”

“It’s… pretty mangled,” she admits. “You’ve got obvious deformity in the thigh and lower leg. We’re thinking femur, tibia, and fibula fractures. We’re getting trauma films now.”

He feels… nothing. Not even the dull ache he sometimes imagines when he stares at his legs too long.

“Naturally,” he mutters. Will can’t help but think just because it doesn’t work doesn’t mean let’s not wreck his already-useless leg and his sense of safety at the same time.. we’re going full the universe has bad timing.

“Exactly,” Choi says. “Primary survey first. We’ll get to the leg. Deep breath for me.”

Hands press on his chest. Cold stethoscope. Fingers at his ribs.

“Any pain here?” the resident asks, pressing along his torso, staying mercifully above the level of his injury.

“Yeah,” Will grits, as fingers find the seatbelt bruise. “Left side. Probably cracked a rib or two.”

“Pelvis stable,” another voice says.

Someone tries to press lower, toward his hips.

“Stop,” Will snaps. “Below the belly button, I’ve got nothing. Don’t waste your time asking if it hurts.”

The resident—tall, new, eyes a little too wide—freezes. “Oh. Right. Sorry, Dr. Halstead.”

“Don’t ‘Dr. Halstead’ me while I’m in a C-collar,” he mutters. “Either ‘Will’ or ‘the annoying trauma patient in 3.’”

Maggie appears at his shoulder, gloved hand landing gently on his forearm. “You already got the second label,” she says. “We’re multitasking.”

A portable X-ray machine whirs closer.

“Okay, Will, we’re going to slide a plate under your back,” the tech says. “On three. One, two, three.”

They log-roll him with the practiced care he’s seen a thousand times from the other side. Being the one moved feels wrong, like his body is a prop in someone else’s simulation.

“CT next,” Ethan says. “Head, C-spine, chest, abdomen, pelvis. I want to make sure we’re not missing anything before ortho plays with that pretzel you call a leg.”

“Are we sure CT’s safe with the metal in there already?” Will asks faintly. “You know, my shoulder from a college night that came during a lifetime of bad decisions?”

“Scanner can handle your personality,” Maggie says. “We checked.”

The CT is an exercise in claustrophobia and restraint. He lies still while the machine whirs, while contrast warms his veins. He stares up at the plastic and thinks about how many times he’s stood at the head of this table, reassuring patients they’d be fine. He makes a mental list of all the things he’d said to them. He doesn’t repeat any of them to himself. None of them sound right in his own head.

⸻

Back in the trauma bay, Ethan stands at the foot of the bed, looking at the images on the monitor.

“Okay,” he says, voice edged with relief. “No intracranial bleed. No C-spine injury on CT. Small pulmonary contusion, couple of rib fractures on the left. No solid organ injury. The leg, though…”Ethan winces “Comminuted mid-shaft femur fracture, displaced tibia and fibula fractures…Closed. You got lucky there. Ortho’s already on their way down for traction and surgical planning.”

“Luck is an interesting word choice,” Will says.

Natalie, still at his side, squeezes his hand. “You could be dead,” she says quietly. “I’ll take ‘annoyed, bruised, and orthopedic nightmare’ over that.”

He swallows. For a moment, the buzzing in his head quiets, the reality of alive wrestling his irritation into something softer.

Then the door swings open and a whirlwind of green scrubs and overconfidence rushes in.

“Dr. Halstead, I’m Dr. King, ortho resident,” the whirlwind says, already pulling on gloves. “Heard you decided to test the tensile strength of your leg bones.”

Will’s eyes flick to him. Young. Cocky. Familiar in that I’ve done three of these and now I’m invincible way.

“Yeah,” Will says. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Let’s take a look,” Dr. King says, lifting the sheet.

He whistles low. “Okay, yeah, that’s… that’s something. Deformity at the thigh, obvious shortening, external rotation—”

“Careful with that,” Natalie warns, as he reaches for the foot.

“I need to assess distal pulses and neuro status,” King says. “Can someone check DP and PT while I do motor and sensation?”

Will opens his mouth.

“Dorsalis pedis and posterior tibial pulses intact,” the nurse calls from the foot of the bed, fingers on his ankle.

“And sensation?” King asks, pinching his toes hard enough that Will can see the blanching of skin.

“Stop,” Will says sharply. “That’s not going to help.”

“Noxious stimulus is standard,” King says, a bit too briskly. “Sir, can you feel this? Wiggle your toes for me?”

Will’s temper, frayed by pain and the indignity of it all, snaps.

“I have a T9 SCI,” he bites out. “I haven’t moved or felt my toes in months. If you’re using my motor and sensation to judge acute nerve injury right now, you’re going to fail your boards and ruin my day.”

King blinks, thrown. “Right, I—uh—yes, I saw that in the chart, I just—”

“Forgot,” Will says coldly. “You forgot the part where I can’t feel half my body and decided it must only matter when you’re presenting in rounds.”

The room goes a little quieter.

“Okay,” Ethan says, voice neutral but edged. “Let’s focus. We have warm foot, good pulses. That’s what matters right now.”

“Yes, Dr. Choi,” King mutters, flushing. “I’m sorry, Dr. Halstead.”

“It’s fine,” Will says, even though it very much isn’t. “Just… don’t make clinical decisions based on deficits I walked in with. Or, well. Rolled in with.”

King clears his throat. “Right. We’ll put on skeletal traction for now to maintain alignment, then take you up for an intramedullary nail in the femur and ORIF on the tibia and fibula. Given your insensate limb, we’ll need to be extra careful with padding and positioning to avoid pressure sores.”

“Now he remembers,” Will mutters.

Natalie’s fingers tighten around his.

“Traction first,” King says. “We’ll give you some sedation and local. You shouldn’t feel too much.”

Will lets out a humorless laugh. “Trust me, if I feel anything in that leg, we’ve got bigger problems than broken bones.”

⸻

Surgery blurs into anesthetic fog when the mask goes on, the anesthesiologist tells him to count backwards from ten, and the world slips away.

Waking up feels like surfacing through wet sand. Heavy. Grainy. Loud.

Monitors beep. Something squeezes his arm rhythmically—the blood pressure cuff. His throat scratches around an oxygen cannula.

He blinks. Post-op recovery bay. Ceiling tiles. The vague taste of plastic and cotton mouth.

“Welcome back,” a nurse says. “How’s your pain?”

He does a body inventory. Head aches dully. Chest and ribs hurt when he breathes. Shoulder sore. Right leg feels like…

Nothing.

Like always.

“Hard to say,” he rasps. “My leg’s offline most of the time.”

“Any pain anywhere?” she prompts.

“Shoulder, ribs,” he says. “Feels like I lost a bar fight with a brick wall.”

She smiles. “We’ve got meds for that. Ortho resident will be by in a minute to check on you.”

He closes his eyes. The fog makes it harder to hold onto annoyance, but it’s still there, simmering underneath.

Wrong side of the OR. Wrong side of the ER. Wrong side of the power dynamic.

He hates it.

⸻

Dr. King appears at the foot of the bed, mask dangling around his neck.

“Hey, Dr. Halstead,” he says. “Surgery went well. We nailed the femur, plated the tibia and fibula. Good alignment, stable constructs. Blood loss was within expected range.”

“And the leg?” Will asks. “Still attached? Decided to start working while I was out?”

King chuckles awkwardly. “Still along for the ride. No motor or sensory response distal to your baseline, of course…”

He trails off, catching himself.

Will lifts an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t want to pinch my toes again just to be certain?”

King winces. “I deserved that,” he admits. “Look… I’m sorry about earlier. I should’ve accounted for your deficits from the start. I got locked into my trauma script and forgot the person in front of me isn’t a clean slate.”

Will stares at him for a beat.

“Pain is protective,” he says finally. “When you don’t have it, we don’t get the advantage of patients telling us, ‘Hey, something’s wrong.’ I know that. You know that. That means you don’t get to use my lack of complaints as proof everything’s fine… or as proof it just broke now.”

King nods, chastened. “Understood. We’ll be checking your leg frequently for swelling, tension, and perfusion. Even without pain, signs of compartment syndrome can still sneak up on us. I’ll make sure the team’s on the same page.”

“Good,” Will says. “I’d really prefer not to add ‘amputation’ to my list of fun life experiences.”

King hesitates, then says, “For what it’s worth… you were very calm in the trauma bay. Most people would’ve panicked.”

“Most people feel their leg trying to exit their body,” Will says dryly. “I just had the… fun experience of watching mine look wrong without feeling it. It’s a different kind of panic.”

King nods, clearly out of his depth on that front. “We’ll see you up on the floor once you’re transferred,” he says, backing away.

When he’s gone, Natalie steps in from the side curtain, where she’s clearly been lurking.

“You were listening?” Will asks.

“Of course I was listening,” she says. “You think I’m going to miss the part where you traumatize a resident into becoming a better doctor?”

He sighs, the motion tugging at his ribs. “Maybe I was too hard on him.”

“Maybe he needed it,” she counters. “You’re not a test question, Will. You’re a real patient with a complicated baseline. Forgetting that because the algorithm says ‘check toes’ is dangerous.”

He looks down the bed, where his right leg is elevated, wrapped, encased in bulky dressings. It looks even less like his than before.

“I worked so hard to make peace with them,” he says quietly. “The legs. Or… whatever approximation of peace this is. And then one stupid intersection and now they’re not just useless, they’re broken. Again.”

Natalie’s face softens. She moves closer, leaning on the side rail.

“Just because you can’t feel them,” she says, “doesn’t mean they’re not still part of your body. It’s okay to be upset that they’re hurt.”

“But it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” he says. “I mean, functionally, nothing’s changed. I couldn’t walk before, I can’t walk now. So why does this feel like such a violation?”

“Because your body is still yours,” she says firmly. “Every inch of it. Whether you can move it or feel it or not. That leg still gets you from your chair to your bed. It still affects your balance. It still belongs to you. Someone crashing into your car when you are on your way to work and shattering it is still an assault on you.”

He swallows hard. The back of his throat stings.

He lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-sob.

“And,” she continues, softer now, “you hate being a patient. You hate the loss of control, the way people talk over you. You hate it enough due to the spinal cord injury never mind now an orthopedic catastrophe and… yeah. Of course this feels like too much.”

He stares at the ceiling. “It’s like the universe keeps putting me on this side of the bed just to watch me squirm.”

“Or,” she says, “it keeps putting you here so that, when you’re on our side again, you remember exactly how this feels and never let anyone go through it alone.”

He turns his head to look at her. “That’s a very Manning way to spin it.”

She shrugs. “Someone has to counteract your Halstead fatalism.”

He smiles weakly, then winces as his ribs protest.

She reaches out and, very carefully, takes his hand.

He holds on.

He doesn’t enjoy being on this side. He hates the gown, the IV, the collar still digging into his neck. He hates seeing his own name on the board instead of next to someone else’s.

But he’s breathing. He’s alive. His mangled, insensate leg is at least still there, and the people around him are very much not forgetting that he’s more than a checklist.

It’s not the kind of gratitude that cancels out his anger. It just… shares the space.

Chapter Text

The TV asks him if he’s still watching.

“Don’t judge me,” Will mutters at the screen. “You’re the one auto-playing season four.”

The remote rests on his chest, his fingers draped over it lazily. The couch under him is familiar; the position isn’t. This is such a real kind of awful for him. His leg, has trapped our boy in his apartment and all his “I need to be useful and independent” buttons are poked.

He’s half-reclined, pillows stuffed behind his back. His right leg is stretched out on a stack of cushions, encased from thigh to toes in a long-leg splint wrapped in so much padding and ace wrap it looks like a prop from a bad mummy movie. The splint keeps his knee locked in extension, his ankle at ninety degrees, everything immobilised so the hardware can do its job.

His own wheelchair—the custom one he fought insurance for—is parked uselessly across the room.

In its place is the hospital’s idea of mobility: a clunky, wide steel rental chair with a built-in elevating leg rest to support the splinted limb. It’s ugly, heavier, and, worst of all, harder to control while he keeps his busted leg elevated.

It might as well have “PROPERTY OF TEMPORARY INVALID” stamped on the back.

The tubing from his Foley snakes under his shorts, loops to a drainage bag hooked discreetly (or so he tells himself) on the side of the chair when he’s up, and on the coffee table or floor when he’s here. The bag sloshes faintly when he shifts.

He hates the sound. He’d argued about it in the hospital.
I can still cath.
You shouldn’t be getting up that often with this leg.
I have a routine, I don’t want—
Will, you’re exhausted, in pain, and banned from solo transfers. We’re trying to reduce how often you have to move. This is temporary.

He’d heard that word so many times it had lost all shape. Temporary. Like the paralysis was supposed to be.

The apartment is too quiet. Netflix chatters in the background—some procedural he could half-follow and half-ignore. A stack of books sits on the coffee table, spines uncracked.

When he first got home, he’d made a plan. Reading lists both fiction and nonfiction. Research articles. Maybe starting that paper on atypical tick paralysis he’d been threatening to write. If he was stuck here, at least his brain could be working.

Instead, he spends most of his time counting the tiny cracks in his ceiling drywall and letting the TV wash over him like white noise.

He shifts slightly, trying to find a position that doesn’t make his ribs complain. The movement jostles his leg. He doesn’t feel it, but he hears the soft scrape of splint against blanket, the faint slosh of the bag.

He grits his teeth and grabs the remote more tightly. “You’re fine,” he tells himself. “Nothing hurts. That’s the problem, remember?”

He misses pain in a way that would probably make a psych resident salivate.

⸻

The door opens with a rattle of keys.

“Will? You decent?” Jay’s voice calls.

“Define ‘decent,’” Will answers. “If you mean pants, then yeah. Just barely.”

Jay steps in, juggling a takeout bag, his keys, and the awkwardness of seeing his big brother flattened on the couch again.

He kicks the door shut and takes it all in: the splinted leg, the rental chair, the catheter bag, the TV menu hovering accusingly.

“Place looks like a medical supply catalogue threw up,” Jay says lightly, setting the food down.

“Yeah, I’m thinking of charging admission,” Will says. “Ten bucks a head, you get to watch me argue with gravity.”

Jay comes over, eyes flicking to the leg. “That’s… a lot of hardware under there.”

“Mm-hmm.” Will points at it. “Femur nail, plate, screws. My leg’s more Home Depot than human at this point.”

Jay doesn’t flinch at the bitterness. “How’s the pain?”

“In my leg? Still nothing.” Will taps his chest. “Ribs, shoulder, ego—those hurt more than I would like.”

Jay follows the line of the catheter tubing with his eyes, expression tightening, then very carefully not changing.

“Enjoying your new accessory yet?” he asks, nodding at the bag.

“What the Limited edition Louis Vuitton bag,” Will says sarcastically. “Goes with nothing, makes everything harder. We love it.”

“You were doing the… uh, self thing before,” Jay says. “Why’d they—”

“They want me getting up as little as possible while the fractures start to heal,” Will says, cutting him off. “Transfers are a fall risk. Falls are bad. Thus,” he gestures at the bag, “I now pee into a fashionable clear sack, covered by an equally fetching navy cotton cover”

He says it flippantly, but something in his voice catches. Jay hears it; of course he does.

“You’re not doing transfers at all?” Jay asks.

“Not without someone here,” Will recites, like he’s quoting scripture he disagrees with. “Hospital orders. For ‘safety.’”

“Yeah, well,” Jay says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “you did just get ride your car off. I can see why they’re on edge.”

“I break my leg once, and suddenly no one thinks I can sit on the edge of my own bed.”

“You also can’t bear weight on that leg, and you’re doped up half the time also you have ribs and a shoulder that aren’t cooperating,” Jay points out. “Not exactly a winning combo.”

Will turns his head away, staring at the TV. A sitcom laugh track explodes and dies.

“It feels like… regression,” he says eventually, voice low. “I spent months learning how to do all this myself. Transfers. Cathing. Chair setup, angles, all the stupid little hacks that make this”—he gestures vaguely at his body—“functional. And now I’m back to calling people to help me from the couch to the chair like it’s day two all over again.”

Jay sits on the coffee table edge, careful to avoid the leg and the bag. He’s close enough for Will to see the faint lines in his forehead, the way his jaw clicks when he’s thinking hard.

“It isn’t the same as failure,” Jay says.

Will snorts. “Did you get that off a motivational poster?”

“Therapy, actually,” Jay says evenly. “You should try it sometime.”

Will huffs, but doesn’t argue.

Jay reaches over, taps the splint lightly. “Doc says how long you’re in this thing?”

“Six to eight weeks for the fractures to start behaving,” Will says. “Then maybe they’ll let me bend the knee a little. Longer before full bone healing. Hopefully not longer before I’m cleared for independent transfers again.”

His shoulders sink. “I went from rolling into a code and doing compressions to… this. Measuring my day in how many episodes I binge before I fall asleep.”

“Speaking of measuring,” Jay says. “When was the last time you got up?”

Will hesitates. “I’ve done weight transfers.”

“Will.”

He closes his eyes. “Up properly probably this morning.”

“Like…you haven’t actually transferred and moved off the couch since you left your bed before Natalie left for her shift”

Will doesn’t answer. That’s answer enough.

“Dude,” Jay says softly. “You can’t just melt into the couch.”

“I’m following orders,” Will shoots back. “No solo transfers. You were at work, Natalie was on call, home health PT isn’t coming till tomorrow. What exactly was I supposed to do, sprout wings?”

Jay sighs. “You could’ve texted me.”

“You were working,” Will says, stung. “I’m not calling you out of an undercover op to help me empty my bag or make me a sandwich.”

“You’re not a burden, Will.”

The way he says it—firm, exasperated, a little wounded—makes something twist hard in Will’s chest.

“It feels like I am,” he admits, voice small. “Every time I text Maggie to ask if a bruise is normal, every time I ask Nat to double check a med because I’m weirdly on the receiving end… Every time I stare at that stupid chair and think ‘I could get into it myself if everyone would stop treating me like glass.’”

Jay studies him for a long moment.

“Have you tried?” he asks.

Will’s jaw tightens. “No.”

“Because you’re respecting your doctors’ orders,” Jay says.

“Because,” Will says, louder than he means to, “I was in a car accident that broke crap I can’t feel. I don’t get early warning signs. If I screw this up, I don’t get a ‘whoops, that hurts.’ I get ‘whoops, nonunion’ or ‘whoops, pressure sore’ or ‘whoops, you fell and hit your head.’”

The words hang there, raw and ugly.

Jay’s expression softens. “So you’re angry,” he says. “At the rules. But you’re also the one enforcing them.”

Will exhales, deflating. “It’s easier to be mad at everyone else than admit I’m… scared. Of moving. Me. The guy whose entire personality is ‘I pushed through.’”

Jay nudges his shoulder gently. “You can be scared and pissed off and still smart about it. That’s allowed.”

Will lets his head thunk back against the pillow. “I hate that I need help to do basic things,” he says. “I hate that my universe shrank to the size of this apartment the second I got home. Hospital, at least, had people and noises and… purpose.”

“Hey,” Jay says. “Purpose isn’t gone. It’s just… off-screen for a bit.”

“That’s a terrible metaphor,” Will mutters.

“Shut up and let me feed you,” Jay says, reaching for the takeout.

⸻

By day three of house arrest, the walls feel like they’re leaning in.

He reads for an hour—some article on new therapies for spinal cord injuries—before the words slide off his brain. He tries a novel; loses track of the plot. TV wins by default.

He falls asleep in the middle of an episode. Wakes up to the afternoon light slanting differently across the floor and his neck stiff from the weird angle.

The door opens again.

This time, it’s Natalie.

She’s in jeans and a sweater instead of scrubs, hair loose around her shoulders, a grocery bag on one arm.

“Hey,” she says softly. “I come bearing fruit and yogurt and something green so you don’t get scurvy on top of tick paralysis. Only one odd medical condition per lifetime.”

“You saw the pizza boxes, huh?” he says.

“And the empty Chinese cartons and sandwich plates left by Jay, and the divine smell of ‘I stopped caring about vegetables two days ago,’” she says, heading for the kitchen.

He watches her unload things—berries, pre-cut veggies, those little yogurt drinks that are definitely marketed to children.

“How’s the leg?” she calls.

“Still shaped like a log,” he says. “Ten out of ten structurally interesting, zero out of ten useful.”

She comes back, wiping her hands. Her eyes flick over the room: the untouched stack of books, the remote, the angle of his body.

“You been up today?” she asks.

He knows lying is pointless. “PT came this morning,” he says. “Helped me into the chair, watched me roll around the apartment like a very surly king, then helped me dump myself back here.”

“And since then?”

He glances at the clock. 3 p.m.

“Couch and I are in a committed relationship,” he says.

She hums, moving closer. “Energy level?”

“Low.”

“Pain?”

“Manageable.”

“Mood?”

He doesn’t answer.

She raises an eyebrow. “That’s a category, you know.”

“Bad,” he finally says. “It’s bad. Happy?”

“No,” she says gently. “You’re not either.”

She sits on the edge of the coffee table, as close as Jay had, but in her own orbit.

“You swapped to a Foley,” she says, nodding at the bag. “How’s that going?”

“I hate it,” he says immediately. “It’s convenient, but I hate it. Feels like… giving up. On the little independence I had left.”

“It’s not giving up,” she says. “It’s triage. Conserving energy while your body deals with major trauma.”

“I know,” he says. “Doctor brain gets it. Patient brain feels like I’m sliding backwards down a hill I already climbed once.”

Natalie looks at him for a long moment.

“You know what I see?” she says. “I see someone who was in a major car wreck a week ago, had three major fractures fixed, and is still making sarcastic jokes instead of yelling at everyone. I see someone whose body has been through hell twice in one year and is still here.”

He squints at her. “You’re doing the Manning reframe thing again.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Because the Halstead narrative is ‘I’m useless,’ and I think that’s garbage.”

He swallows. Silence stretches, but this one isn’t entirely uncomfortable.

Finally, Natalie stands. “Okay,” she says. “Here’s the deal. You need to get up at least once more today. Not to prove anything. Not to rebel. To keep your lungs open, your skin intact, and your brain from fusing to this couch.”

He opens his mouth to protest. She cuts him off. “With help,” she adds. “With me. We’ll do the transfer by the book. No heroics.”

He hesitates. The thought of moving—of the awkward, clumsy dance of sliding onto the chair with his leg sticking straight out, of all the ways it could go wrong—makes his stomach clench.

But the alternative is… this. Stagnant. Numb in more ways than one.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “We do it your way.”

Her face softens. “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Dr. Halstead.”

They go through it slow. She locks the chair in place next to the couch, leg rest already elevated, cleared path. They talk through the mechanics like it’s a procedure.

“On three, I’ll help you pivot,” she says. “You tell me if anything feels off. Even if it’s just your ribs.”

He nods, palms sweating.

The actual transfer is messy. He feels weak, uncoordinated, hyper-aware of every bump and jostle. His ribs protest when he leans. His arms shake. But he makes it.

He ends up in the hospital chair, right leg supported, bag hanging on the side, breathing hard like he ran a race. His heart hammers.

“See?” Natalie says, a little breathless herself. “You didn’t explode.”

“Give it time,” he pants. Then, after a beat: “…thank you.”

She smiles. “Now you’re up, you can roll out onto the balcony for a bit. Get some fresh air. Remember there’s a world beyond crime shows and terrible ads.”

“Oh, we’re overachieving now,” he says, but the thought of real air that isn’t filtered through his windows tugs at him.

He wheels slowly toward the balcony door, Natalie shadowing his splinted leg like it’s carrying nitroglycerin.

Outside, the city hums. Distant traffic, someone’s music, the clatter of a train. The sky is a washed-out blue, clouds drifting.

Will stops there, hand on the wheel, leg sticking out like a flag, and just… breathes.

The chair still feels like a downgrade. The bag still feels like a surrender. His leg is still a mess. His independence has taken another hit, and his mood is very much not okay.

But the air is cool on his face. The sunlight hits the splint and makes the white wrap glow faintly.

Natalie leans on the railing beside him. “That look like regression to you?” she asks.

He considers.

“It looks like… a detour,” he says slowly. “An annoying, uncomfortable, humiliating detour.”

“Detours still get you where you’re going,” she says.

“Eventually,” he says.

“Eventually,” she echoes.

He lets the word sit. Not as a broken promise this time, but as something like… permission. To not be okay yet. To be in-between.

“By the way I’m moving in for the next few weeks. I’m not let you become a Houch”

“Do I get a choice in the matter?”

“Nope!” She gives him a wink.

Halstead just shakes his head with a small half smile.

The stillness is still loud. The apartment is still too small. The couch will still claim him more than he wants.

But he’s upright. He’s breathing outside air. His stupid, mangled leg is elevated and healing, whether he can feel it or not.

It’s not much.

It’s something.

Chapter Text

The ED smells like coffee and antiseptic and adrenaline.

Will didn’t realise how much he’d missed it until the automatic doors hissed open and the noise hit him: monitors pinging, phones ringing, the low murmur of nurses at the desk, the overhead voice calling for lab runs and transport.

He rolls in a little earlier than his shift actually starts, because of course he does.

His own chair is back under him—sleek, light, customised. The rental behemoth is long gone. His right leg is still not fully healed, a lighter brace under his scrubs keeping everything protected. At his last check, they said the X-rays look good. Hardware in place. Bone healing. Ortho has signed off with a long list of “within reason”s that he fully intends to ignore.

Eight weeks.

Eight weeks of splints and home PT and feeling like the walls of his apartment were closing in. Eight weeks of watching the ED from a distance through group texts and vague gossip.

He’s cleared now.

Phased return, Sharon had said.

Light duties to start, Ethan had added.

You hear that, Will? Natalie had said, eyes narrowed. Light.

Which is adorable, really. As if anyone has ever successfully convinced William Patrick Halstead to “take it easy in his puff.”

Maggie spots him first.

“Well, well, well,” she says, hands on hips, grin wide. “Look what the trauma bay dragged in.”

“Relax,” Will says, rolling up to the admit desk. “I come in peace. Mostly.”

She laughs and leans over to hug him, careful around his shoulder. “How’s the hardware?”

“In my leg?” he asks.

“Yeah obviously,” she says. “You ready for this?”

“I’ve been ready since week three,” he admits. “My bones just needed time to catch up.”

Sharon comes out of her office like she sensed a policy violation.

“Halstead,” she says, crossing her arms. “Look who is all vertical. Well. Vertical-ish.”

“Morning, Sharon,” he says. “I have returned to be a productive member of society.”

“You have returned,” she agrees. “To a phased-return schedule. Four-hour shifts for now. No overnights. No doubles. No solo heroics.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You don’t trust me.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Trust me, Natalie is on my side and I am not above paging her to drag you out of here if you break the phased return rules.”

He grins despite himself.

“Paperwork’s done,” she continues, tone softening. “Employee health cleared you. Ethan and I signed off. I’m glad you’re here, Will. Just… remember you’re not indestructible.”

“I’ve got the scars to prove it,” he says lightly.

“Good,” she says. “Try not to add more today. Now go. You’ve got beds filling up.”

He turns toward the tracking board.

The names, the complaints, the colours—they light up parts of his brain that have been half-asleep. Chest pain in 2. Abdominal pain in 5. Shortness of breath in 7. A red trauma banner blinking for ETA: 6 minutes.

He feels it: the old familiar hum.

“Superman’s back,” one of the nurses mutters as he rolls past.

“More like Professor X,” another quips.

Will snorts. “I’ll take it,” he says. “Less laundry, more telepathy.”

And then he’s off.

⸻

He does try to take it easy. For about ten minutes.

He starts with 5: abdominal pain, pale, mid-40s. He wheels in, rolls up alongside the bed so he’s level with the patient’s eyes instead of looming or shouting from the doorway.

He listens. The story’s classic: periumbilical pain moving to the right lower quadrant, low fever, tenderness on palpation.

“Appendicitis,” he says afterward at the desk, firing off orders. “Get labs, CT abdo/pelvis with contrast. NPO, fluids, antibiotics started if there’s a delay.”

“Easing back in gently, I see,” Maggie says.

“What?” he says. “It’s an appendix, not a war crime.”

Room 2: chest pain. He takes the chart, scans the ECG as he moves. Subtle ST depressions, T-wave changes.

“You see this?” he says to the resident, tapping the strip. “Posterior MI pattern. Don’t let the normal-ish front leads fool you. Get posterior leads and call cardio now; I want this guy on the cath lab’s radar before his troponins even come back.”

The resident nods, scribbling. “Yes, Dr. Halstead.”

Room 7: shortness of breath. The nurse gives him the quick rundown—history of PE, off anticoagulation for a dental procedure a week ago, now tachy, hypoxic.

“D-dimer’s not going to save you here,” Will mutters, already ordering CT angio. “Start heparin once we’ve got a scan. And somebody get respiratory in here before he starts writing his will.”

He moves like he always has: fast, decisive, pinging from room to room, connecting dots, seeing patterns, being the centre of a storm only he seems to enjoy.

He’s hyper-aware of his leg the whole time—even though he can’t feel it.

He watches his transfer technique like a hawk when he moves from chair to low rolling stool for certain procedures. He clears the footplate carefully when he backs up. He doesn’t pivot sharply; he doesn’t let anyone bump the brace.

But otherwise?

He’s flying.

“Thought this was a soft re-entry,” Choi says dryly, catching him at the board between cases, Will’s hair already a little wild, stubble a little more damp with sweat than he’d like to admit.

“This is soft,” Will says. “I’m not even yelling yet.”

“I saw you talk three people down from ordering unnecessary CTs in the last hour,” Ethan points out.

“That’s preventative medicine,” Will says. “I’m saving radiology from hating us.”

Ethan studies him, gaze flicking to the leg, then back up. “How’s your pain?”

“Ribs twinge if I twist too much,” Will says honestly. “Shoulder’s fine. Leg’s…well
It’s a flaccid healing leg. Structurally sound, sensationally confusing.”

“Fatigue?”

“Manageable.”

“Lying?” Ethan asks mildly.

“Only recreationally,” Will says.

Ethan huffs. “Don’t make me bench you.”

“You can try,” Will says, rolling away toward his next patient.

⸻

The trauma comes in midway through his shift.

“High school football,” Maggie calls as the team gathers. “Sixteen-year-old male, bad tackle, helmet-to-chest impact with hyperflexion. Lost movement in both legs on the field. Onboarded as a trauma.”

Will’s heart stutters.

He rolls into the bay, the air buzzing. The kid is on the gurney, still in half his gear, face pale but awake. His eyes are huge under smeared black eye paint.

“Name?” Will asks, rolling up near his shoulder.

“Logan,” the kid says. His voice shakes. “Logan Reyes.”

“Hey, Logan,” Will says, friendly, steady. “I’m Dr. Halstead. We’ve got you here at Chicago Med. We’re going to take good care of you, okay?”

“They said…” Logan swallows. “They said I wasn’t moving my legs right. On the field. I… I tried.”

“Okay,” Will says softly. “We’ll check everything out. Right now, I need to do a quick exam. You remember what happened?”

“Blitz,” Logan says. “I was scrambling. Guy hit me low, another high. I felt… like lightning down my back. Then nothing.”

Will nods, filing it. Mechanism, symptoms, timeline.

Primary survey, first. Airway, breathing, circulation. Neck in a C-collar, backboard under him. Vitals decent. No obvious chest trauma beyond some bruising. No abdominal tenderness.

Then neuro.

“Logan, can you squeeze my hands?” Will asks.

Logan squeezes weakly. “Yeah.”

“Good. Can you lift your arms up like you’re grabbing a pass?”

Logan does, arms trembling but functional.

“Okay,” Will says. “Now, I’m going to touch different parts of your body. You tell me if it feels the same as your face, or different, or not at all.”

He moves carefully, systematically. Shoulders. Chest. Upper abdomen. Lower abdomen. Flanks. Around the level of the nipple line, sensation starts to falter.

“Feels… weird,” Logan says.

“Like what?” Will asks.

“Like… it’s there but, like, far away.”

He moves lower. Hips. Thighs. No response.

“How about this?” Will asks, pressing a pin into the skin above the knee.

“I… I don’t feel that,” Logan whispers.

Will nods slowly. It’s high thoracic, probably. T3, T4. Maybe a bit higher. Hopefully incomplete, but it’s still early.

He meets Choi’s eyes over the kid’s body. Ethan’s expression is grim but focused.

“Get him to CT,” Ethan says. “Spine series, then straight to MRI if neurosurgery wants it. Call Abrams. Start steroids?”

“Up to neurosurg,” Will says. “We can load if they want, but let’s get imaging first.”

They work fast, efficient. Logan’s mom arrives mid-chaos—a flurry of tears and questions—and is gently corralled by a Natalie, who must have sensed the emotional storm from three cubicles away.

Will watches them wheel Logan out toward radiology, the kid’s eyes scanning the ceiling like it might tell him whether he’ll ever walk again.

His own spine hums with memory.

⸻

Later.

The rush quiets.

His four hours are technically up a while ago. Sharon has given him the Look twice already. The board, for the moment, is manageable.

Logan is back. CT showed compression fractures at T4–T5 with canal compromise. MRI confirmed cord involvement. Abrams took him to surgery within the hour for decompression and stabilisation.

Now he’s in a step-down neuro room. Post-op, Awake & Stable.

Will should have gone home an hour ago at least. Instead, he’s at Logan’s door.

“Fifteen minutes,” Sharon had said. “Then you go.”

He knocks softly on the door frame.

“Hey,” he says.

Logan is propped up a little, hospital gown replacing the uniform, hair flattened from surgery. The eye black is gone, but the ghost of it remains in faint smudges.

He turns his head slowly. “Doctor… Halstead, right?”

“That’s me,” Will says, rolling in. “You mind if I sit for a bit?”

Logan shrugs with one shoulder. “You’re the doctor. You can do what you want.”

“Eh,” Will says. “You’d be surprised.”

He parks his chair next to the bed, locks the brakes. Logan’s gaze drops, inevitably, to the wheels.

“Oh,” he says, startled. “I… didn’t… notice before.”

“Good,” Will says lightly. “Means I wasn’t doing it wrong.”

Logan’s eyes flick back up, searching his face. “Is that… from a tackle too?”

“Tick, actually,” Will says. “Less dramatic than football. More irritating.”

Logan blinks. “A… tick?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “I’ll tell you the story sometime when there’s less fentanyl in your system. How you feeling right now?”

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Logan says. “And then the truck backed up again over me like twice. And also like my legs are away on… vacation.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

Will nods slowly. “That tracks.”

“They told me…” Logan swallows. “The surgeon. He said it’s… high thoracic? T… 4 maybe. That they decompressed the cord. That it’s too early to know how much function I’ll get back. That it could be… you know…”

He gestures vaguely toward the sky as if hoping maybe there would be some useful world out in the ether.

“They used a lot of words,” he says. “I heard some. I mostly heard ‘might not walk again.’”

“That’s a heavy sentence,” Will says quietly. “Especially when you’re sixteen and your entire life is out routes and game tape.”

Logan’s eyes fill. He blinks hard, tears slipping anyway.

“My coach came by,” he says. “He kept saying I’m strong, I’m gonna beat this, I’ll be back under the lights next season. My mom just kept nodding. Nobody looked at the part of me that can’t move.”

He swallows, frustrated. “I can’t feel my feet, man. I tried. I look at them, I tell them to move, and it’s like yelling at a wall. Everyone keeps acting like if I just want it enough…”

He trails off, breathing fast.

Will lets the silence sit a beat. Then another.

“Can I be really honest with you, Logan?” he asks.

Logan sniffles. “I mean… yeah. Please.”

Will leans back slightly, hands in his lap.

“Your life just broke into a ‘before’ and an ‘after,’” he says, voice steady. “Before the tackle. After the tackle. No matter what happens with your recovery, that line is there now. You don’t get to go back to the exact same trajectory.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, like he’s bracing for a blow.

“But,” Will continues, “that doesn’t mean the ‘after’ is empty. Or pointless. Or lesser. It just means it’s different. Many people find their lives after injury were better as they are more appreciative, some people find there is is no change in the quality and meaning in their lives and others do feel it as a loss to their quality of life but they are all Valid. The main thing all this lives share is that it just means it’s different.”

“Different how?” Logan demands, desperate. “Different like… therapy and wheelchairs and everyone feeling sorry for me? Different like never playing again?”

“Different like you’re going to have to learn a whole new playbook,” Will says. “And it’s not one you asked for, and it’s not fair, and it’s going to suck. A lot.”

Logan gives a shaky, humourless laugh. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”

“I’m bad at lying,” Will says. “But I’m good at patterns. And here’s what I know, from patients, from colleagues, from… myself.”

He taps his chair lightly.

“Some people with injuries like yours get back a surprising amount of function,” he says. “Not overnight, not easily, but they do. Some don’t. Some end up walking with aids. Some use chairs full-time. Some find that the part of their life that was sports shrinks, and other parts grow.”

“Like what?” Logan asks.

“Like school,” Will says. “Like coaching. Like advocating for other kids who get hurt. Like whatever else you care about that you maybe haven’t discovered yet because football took up all the oxygen. Also it maybe be the football part shrinks somewhat but the sport part stays the same or grows but in a new direction.”

Logan stares at the ceiling. His lips wobble.

“I just… I don’t know who I am if I’m not QB1,” he admits. “I’ve been… that guy since forever.”

“Yeah,” Will says softly. “I know that feeling.”

“Yeah?” Logan asks, glancing at the chair again.

“Yeah,” Will says. “I was the guy who stayed on his feet for twenty hours, who ran codes, who never left the trauma bay. Then one day my legs just… quit. And it felt like everything I knew about myself went with them.”

He shrugs. “Turns out, my brain didn’t live in my calves. I can still diagnose, still lead, still be the guy you want in the room when the worst thing happens. I just had to figure out how to be that guy sitting down instead of standing.”

“Is it… better?” Logan asks. “Now?”

Will thinks about that for a long moment.

“It’s… not what I wanted,” he says honestly. “I’d undo the injury in a heartbeat if I could. I’m not going to pretend I love it. But I’m not… done. You know?”

He gestures towards the ED doors, invisible from this room but ever-present in his mind.

“I went back to work,” he says. “I still save lives. I still annoy my colleagues and make bad jokes and complain about paperwork. The chair is annoying. The broken leg was annoying on top of annoying. But none of it cancelled me.”

Logan swallows. “What if I never play again?”

“Then you’ll grieve,” Will says. “Hard. And everyone who tells you to ‘stay positive’ is going to drive you insane. But you’ll also… find other things. Maybe you help design adaptive football programs. Maybe you go into rehab medicine. Maybe you write about this. I don’t know. I just know there’s more to you than a jersey number, even if that’s all anyone’s looked at until now.”

Tears slide down Logan’s temples into his hair.

“I’m scared,” he whispers.

“I know,” Will says. “Me too.”

“Of what?” Logan asks, incredulous.

“Of a lot of things,” Will says. “Of losing more function. Of screwing up at work. Of falling. Of being a burden to the people I love.” He gives a crooked half-smile. “Of getting in another car accident and having the ER ban me from working here as I am too much of a liability or insurance risk.”

Logan snorts, the sound half-choked. “They can’t ban you. You’re like… part of the furniture.”

“Rude,” Will says. “But accurate.”

He rests his forearms on the bed rail. “Here’s what I can promise you,” he says. “Whatever happens, we’re going to be straight with you. No ‘you’ll definitely be walking by prom’ fairy tales. No doom-and-gloom pronouncements either. Just the truth as we know it, plus every tool we’ve got to maximise what your body can do.”

“And if my body… doesn’t?” Logan asks.

“Then we work with what you’ve got,” Will says. “We adapt. We pull in rehab, PT, OT, psych, social work. We build you a support line that would make your offensive coordinator jealous.”

Logan is quiet for a while. The monitors beep softly.

“You… you gonna be around?” he asks, voice small. “Like, if I have questions. Or just… freak out.”

“Yeah,” Will says simply. “I’m around. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Even if I ask you the same question ten times?” Logan presses.

“Then I’ll answer it ten times,” Will says.

“What if I…” Logan swallows hard. “What if I hate the chair? What if I don’t want to get in it?”

Will’s throat tightens.

“Then I’ll tell you that’s okay,” he says. “And I’ll sit here and we can hate it together for a while. And then, when you’re ready, we’ll talk about what it can give you back instead of just what it feels like it took.”

Logan looks at him for a long, searching moment.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

A nurse pokes her head in. “Time for neuro checks,” she says apologetically.

Will nods and backs his chair up a bit. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

He looks back at Logan. “I’ll swing by tomorrow,” he says. “We can talk very niche crossover content.”

Logan huffs a watery laugh. “Okay, Doc.”

⸻

In the hallway, Will exhales slowly.

His shoulders ache. His ribs twinge. His leg is a quiet, braced line under his scrubs, hardware in bone he can’t feel.

He feels… tired. More emotionally than physically. The good kind of tired, the kind that comes after doing something that matters and hurts at the same time.

Natalie appears by the nurses’ station, like she has a radar for when he needs someone.

“You talked to him?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “He’s… a lot like I was. Except with better hair.”

She smiles softly. “You overdid it,” she observes, eyeing the clock.

“Probably,” he admits.

“You going to do it again tomorrow?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“I saw you today,” she says, quieter now. “Flying around like you never left. Diagnosing. Bossing residents. Being… you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he says.

“It’s a very you thing,” she says. “Just… remember. Even Professor X takes breaks.”

He snorts. “Pretty sure that man lives in a school full-time.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Go home, Will.”

He looks back toward the ED, toward the board, toward the endless stream of people who will roll, limp, or be carried through those doors with their own before-and-after lines.

Then he looks down at his hands on his wheels, his braced leg, his ID badge.

He’s back. Not the same, not whole in the way he used to understand it, but here. Working. Helping. Sitting at the crossroads of other people’s worst days, offering them whatever mix of skill and honesty and stubborn hope he has left.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go home.”

“For real?” Natalie asks.

“For real,” he says. “But I’m coming back tomorrow.”

“I know,” she says. “And somehow, I’m okay with that.”

He wheels toward the elevators, shoulders burning in that familiar way that means he’s done just enough.

Behind him, the ED hums on. Ahead of him, the doors close.

Tomorrow there will be more patients, more diagnoses, more impossible conversations. More teenagers staring at ceilings, more parents gripping railings, more residents fumbling over baselines and deficits and what it means to really see the person in the bed.

He’ll be there for as many of them as he can.

Not as Superman. Not even really as Professor X.

Just as Will Halstead, in his chair, with his broken-and-mended bones and his still-working heart, playing the long

Chapter Text

The date sneaks up on him.

Will doesn’t notice it at first. It’s just another busy autumn day at Med—flu cases starting to trickle in, the usual parade of injuries, an endless run of consults. He’s halfway through a lukewarm coffee when he glances at the calendar on the staff room wall.

One year.

Same month, same day, different shift.

One year since his legs stopped listening to him in Treatment 3. One year since a stupid tick rewired his whole life.

He stares at the square of the date for a second too long, coffee cooling in his hand.

“Everything okay?” a nurse asks, popping her head in.

“Yeah,” he lies automatically. “Just realising I forgot to buy an anniversary gift for my spinal cord.”

She snorts and disappears, and he rolls back to work, trying not to think too hard about then vs now.

He’s in the middle of explaining a COPD exacerbation to a resident when the trauma pager goes off.

GSW to the leg – ETA 5 minutes. CPD escorting.

Maggie’s voice crackles overhead. “Trauma team to bay 2. GSW incoming.”

Will feels his body switch gears before his brain finishes reading. He pushes off from the desk, wheels humming over the floor.

“Finish the workup,” he tosses to the resident as he does a 180 degrees turn out of the cubicle. “Steroids, nebs, BiPAP if she tires. I’ll be in trauma.”

He rolls into bay 2, checking monitors, oxygen, the crash cart with the casual efficiency of someone who lives here.

“Who’ve we got?” he asks Maggie.

“Male, thirties,” she says, flipping through the EMS notes. “GSW to the left knee, controlled bleeding in the field, tourniquet applied, awake and complaining loudly. CPD en route behind ambulance.”

“Mechanism?” Will asks.

“Domestic gone sideways,” she says. “He and his partner were clearing an apartment, suspect opened fire, he took a round when he dove for cover.”

Will’s stomach dips. “Partner?”

“Ruzek,” she says. “He’s fine. Just called to say they’re behind EMS.”

Will’s heart does that weird, stuttering two-step it always does when Intelligence and the words GSW share a sentence.

“What’s our patient’s name?” he asks, even though he already knows what answer will make his skin crawl.

Maggie squints at the sheet. “Chicago PD Detective Jay Halstead—”

She stops.

Will goes very still.

The room suddenly feels way too small.

“Of course it is,” he says, voice thin.

“Will—” Maggie starts.

“I’m good,” he cuts in automatically. “I’m fine. I’m here.”

He plants his hands on the wheels, grounding himself.

EMS barrels in moments later, doors bursting open, stretcher rolling fast.

“GSW to the left knee!” the paramedic calls, pushing. “Tourniquet at mid-thigh, applied at scene twenty-two minutes ago. He’s awake, BP holding, but he’s trying to tell us he’s fine, he’s not.”

“I am fine,” Jay grits out from the gurney, pale under the grime, jaw clenched. “It’s just a graze—”

They roll him under the lights and Will’s close enough now to see it: uniform pants cut open, left leg soaked in blood around the knee, tourniquet strapped proximal and tight. The joint is swollen, misshapen, a mess of entry wound, torn skin, and dried blood.

Not a graze.

“Hey, Jay,” Will says, forcing his voice into something that sounds like normal. “Long time no see. Thought we talked about not doing this.”

Jay’s head snaps toward him. Relief flashes across his face, then annoyance.

“Really?” he says through his teeth. “You get wheels and decide I need to catch up?”

“Sorry,” Will says. “I don’t share this particular hobby.”

He moves into position at the foot of the bed, the familiar rhythm of trauma exam trying to elbow past the fact that that’s his brother bleeding on the gurney.

“Airway?” he calls.

“Patent,” the paramedic says. “He hasn’t shut up since we picked him up.”

“Breathing?”

“Clear bilaterally, sats 98% on 2L.”

“Circulation?” Will asks, already scanning.

“BP 128/76, pulse 96,” Maggie reports from the monitor.

Will nods, forces his eyes to treat the leg like any other leg.

“Okay, Jay,” he says. “We’re going to cut the rest of your pants and take a good look, alright?”

“If you ruin another pair of jeans we’re talking,” Jay replies, voice tight.

“Occupational hazard,” Will says, jerking his chin at a nurse. “On three. One, two, three—”

They transfer him fully onto the trauma bed, strip away the last of the fabric. The leg is a mess. The bullet has chewed through around the distal femur/inferior patella region—there’s a small, neat entry wound on the medial side and a more ragged exit on the lateral, oozing.

The knee itself looks… wrong. Swollen, distorted, joint line obscured. There’s already impressive bruising.

“Bleeding?” Will asks.

“Tourniquet’s doing its job,” the paramedic says. “Field dressings soaked. We didn’t mess with the knee much, just stabilised.”

“Good,” Will says. “When did you apply this?”

“Twenty-two minutes ago,” paramedic repeats. “On scene.”

“Okay.” Will nods. “We’ll get it off as soon as we’re ready for controlled bleeding in a civilized environment.”

He pulls a pair of sterile gloves on, mind working.

“Lungs are clear, chest is good, belly’s soft,” he narrates as he palpates. “No other obvious wounds?”

“Negative,” paramedic says. “One shot, one hit.”

“I’m offended,” Jay mutters. “I don’t get the graze, I get the bullseye.”

“You always were an overachiever,” Will says.

He finishes the primary survey, trying to ignore how his fingers shake just a little when they move back to the knee.

“Okay, Jay,” he says. “I’m going to loosen this tourniquet slowly. If you start spraying like a Quentin Tarantino movie I’m putting it back on and calling Ortho faster.”

“Comforting,” Jay says.

“Ready?” Will asks the room.

Gauze, suction, extra hands poised.

He releases the tourniquet a little. Blood flows more freely from the wound, but not in jets. No obvious arterial spurting.

“Good,” Will says, exhaling. “Pressure dressing. Let’s get an X-ray of the femur, knee, and tib-fib. Start him on broad-spectrum antibiotics—this is an open joint until proven otherwise. Tetanus status?”

“Up to date,” Jay grits.

“Of course you know that,” Will mutters. “Get him some analgesia too.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to rate my pain?” Jay says.

“You’re a Halstead with a hole in your leg,” Will says. “Ten out of ten and you’ll say ‘five.’ We’re skipping that part.”

He glances at Maggie. “Let’s call Ortho trauma and page Connor just in case there’s vascular involvement. I want pulses checked every five minutes until I’m satisfied.”

Ruzek appears in the doorway then, still in tac gear, face creased with worry and guilt.

“Jay!” he blurts, eyes going wide at the sight of the leg.

“I’m fine,” Jay snaps, because of course he does.

Ruzek grimaces. “You were bleeding all over the living room, man.”

“Added character,” Jay says.

Will looks between them. “You,” he says to Ruzek. “How close were you when this happened?”

“Close enough to hear the pop and Jay swearing,” Ruzek says. “We’d cleared the bedroom, moved into the living room; suspect was behind the couch, came up, fired low. He aimed centre mass. Jay was moving.”

“Lucky he hit the knee,” Will says, then immediately regrets hearing the sentence aloud.

“Define ‘lucky,’” Jay mutters.

“Lucky as in, you’re complaining instead of not talking,” Will returns.

The portable X-ray machine arrives. They cover Jay’s gonads, position the plate.

“Okay, Detective,” the tech says. “Hold still for me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jay says.

Will watches the screen as the first image pops up.

The distal femur is fractured, multiple shards radiating from where the bullet punched through. The patella’s chipped. There’s metallic debris in the joint space—shrapnel. The tibial plateau looks mercifully intact, but the alignment is… angry.

He exhales slowly. “Well. Good news is, your leg’s still attached. Bad news is, your ortho doc is going to buy a boat after fixing this.”

Jay cranes his neck. “That bad?”

“Comminuted distal femur fracture with intra-articular involvement,” Will says. “Bullet’s gone, but it made a mess. They’re probably going to take you to the OR pretty quickly. Clean out the joint, fix the bone with plates and screws, maybe an external fixator short-term if they’re worried about swelling.”

“And walking?” Jay asks quietly.

Will meets his eyes. There’s the cop, the soldier, the man who’s been shot before. There’s also the little brother who used to chase him around the block.

“You’ll walk,” Will says. “Eventually. But you’re not doing stairs or chasing perps any time soon. This is… a big one, Jay. It’s going to be months.”

Jay swallows. “Crutches?”

“Crutches. Maybe a brace. PT for a long time. A whole lot of ‘take it easy’ that I know you’re genetically incapable of following.”

“Says the guy who went back to work with a broken everything,” Jay says. Looking Will up and down and remembering Will’s previous injuries.

“Do as I say, not as I catastrophically model,” Will replies.

Ortho arrives then—King, looking a little less cocky than the last time they had a shared case.

“Oh good, it’s the Halsteads,” he says, glancing between Will and the leg. “Thought my day was too quiet.”

Will’s eyebrow lifts. “Relax, this one can still feel his toes. Your neuro exam matters this time.”

King flushes. “Not my finest moment,” he mutters, then squares his shoulders. “Detective Halstead, I’m Dr. King with orthopaedics. Based on the films, we’re going to need to take you to the OR. The bullet did some damage to the bone and the joint; we’ll need to clean it out and stabilise it.”

“Do what you have to do,” Jay says. “I just… don’t bench me forever, okay?”

“We’ll aim for ‘pain in the ass on modified duty,’” King says. “But you’re off that leg for a while. No weightbearing until we say so. You’ll hate it.”

“I already hate it,” Jay says.

King nods. “We’ll get consents done and get you upstairs as soon as there’s a room.”

He ducks out. Will stays where he is.

For the first time since Jay rolled in, there’s a pocket of quiet.

Jay’s breathing slows a little, the initial adrenaline drain replaced by the heavy throb of pain meds.

“So,” Jay says eventually. “Role reversal, huh?”

Will looks up. “What?”

“Last year,” Jay says. “You on the bed, me freaking out. Now I’m the one with the busted leg and you’re doing the whole calm-doctor thing.”

“I wasn’t calm,” Will says immediately. “I was… functional at best.”

“You’re functional now,” Jay says. “With… what did you call it? A structurally interesting leg and both legs just along for the ride?”

Will glances down at his own limbs, hidden under his scrub pants. “Something like that.”

Jay studies him for a second. “Just for the record,” he says, voice softer, “this sucks.”

“The bullet?” Will asks.

“The whole thing,” Jay says. “The idea of being the one who can’t run. Who needs rides. Who has to sit on his ass while everyone else works. I… didn’t get it before. Not really. Not like this.”

Will’s chest tightens.

“You’re not going to end up where I did,” he says. “You’re not paralysed. You’re not losing your job. You’re not—”

“I know,” Jay says quickly. “I know that. And I’m not saying it’s the same. I just… I’m suddenly very aware of how much it must’ve sucked for you. And I was so busy being terrified I was going to lose you that I don’t think I ever said that.”

Will blinks.

“You… were there,” he says slowly. “You drove me to PT, you yelled at nurses when they tried to rush me, you sat on my crappy rental couch while I had a bag hanging off my chair. That counted.”

“Yeah, but I also said a lot of ‘you’ll be fine’ and ‘you’re strong’ and ‘you’ll figure it out,’” Jay says. “Like I was trying to fast-forward you through the crappy parts.”

Will huffs a small laugh. “Newsflash: they don’t fast-forward.”

“I’m noticing,” Jay says dryly, then grimaces as the movement jars his leg.

Will leans his forearms on the bed rail.

“Look,” he says. “This is going to blow. It’s going to be boring and painful and humiliating in stupid ways. People are going to try to help too much or not enough. You’re going to want to punch every person who says ‘at least it’s not worse.’”

“Already there,” Jay mutters.

“But it is temporary,” Will says. “You get that, right? Bone heals. Joints rehab. You complain your way through PT and you get back most of what you had. This is a long, crappy detour, not the whole road.”

“You sure about that?” Jay asks.

Will hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I am. This part, at least, I know.”

Jay exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “Then you get to be the annoying one this time.”

Will’s brow furrows. “How?”

“You get to be the guy who says ‘Don’t be an idiot, use the crutches,’” Jay says. “Who yells at me when I try to carry groceries with a busted leg. Who sits on my couch and forces me to get up twice a day so I don’t turn into furniture.”

Will smiles, small and genuine. “Deal.”

“And you’re allowed,” Jay adds, “to say ‘I told you so’ when I complain about how much PT hurts.”

“I’m not passing that up,” Will says.

A nurse steps in. “They’re ready for him upstairs,” she says. “Transport’s on their way.”

“Alright,” Will says, straightening. “They’re going to take you to pre-op, get you all set. I’ll check in after surgery, okay?”

Jay nods, eyes suddenly a little shiny.

“Hey,” he says, as Will starts to back his chair up. “One more thing.”

“Yeah?” Will asks.

“You’re good at this,” Jay says quietly. “The doctor thing. The… being calm while it’s my blood on the floor thing. I don’t know how you do it, but… I’m glad it’s you.”

Something in Will’s chest cracks and reshapes.

“Yeah, well,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my favourite annoying patient. Don’t get used to it.”

Jay smirks. “No promises.”

Transport arrives. They lift the bed, disengage the brakes, wheel him out. The leg is still a mess, but contained now. Pain is managed. Plan in place.

Will sits in the suddenly empty trauma bay for a second, listening to the echo of monitors and footsteps and his own heartbeat.

One year ago, he’d been the one on the bed, terrified and numb in every sense of the word. Today, he’s in the chair, hands steady, mind clear, heart doing that complicated mix of fear and focus only family and medicine can produce.

He glances up at the clock.

One year.

He’s still here. So is Jay. Neither of them are exactly how they used to be. Both of them are a little more metal than they should be. Both of them are going to be limping—one literally, one metaphorically—for a while.

Maggie appears in the doorway, watching him.

“You okay?” she asks.

He exhales. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, no. But… yeah.”

She smiles. “Looks like Halstead Junior’s going to be the invalid for a while,” she says.

“Good,” Will says, rolling toward the door. “It’s about time we took turns.”

He pushes back into the flow of the ED, the buzz of it wrapping around him. Behind him, upstairs, his brother is being prepped for screws and plates and a future argument about knee braces.

Ahead of him, another trauma is probably already on the way.

He’s got work to do.

⸻

Two months after the shooting, Jay hates his own living room.

The couch is lumpy. The TV is boring. The walls have personally wronged him.

He glares at the brace on his leg like it might get the message and fall off.

It’s one of those hinged, metal exoskeleton-looking things, running from mid-thigh to mid-calf. The knee is finally allowed a bit of bend, but he’s still on limited weight-bearing. Crutches lean against the coffee table. His service weapon is locked in a box by the door, nowhere near his reach. He can quote the pattern of his ceiling cracks like scripture.

His phone buzzes.

WILL: outside. stop being dramatic and buzz me in

Jay squints at the door. “How— I didn’t even—”

He thumbs the buzzer and hears the downstairs lock click. Thirty seconds later, a knock, then the door opening.

Will rolls in backwards, wrestling a grocery bag over the threshold.

“Your building has it out for wheelchairs,” he grumbles. “I hit, like, three different ‘historic’ bumps on the way up.”

“So sue the city,” Jay says. “It’s what lawyers are for.”

Will snorts, nudging the door shut with his hip. “How’s the knee?” he asks, eyeing the brace.

“Awesome,” Jay says flatly. “Ten out of ten, really enjoying my new hobby of counting how many steps from couch to bathroom.”

“Wow,” Will says. “And they say I do sarcasm.”

He rolls into the kitchen, starts unloading: actual vegetables, a rotisserie chicken, some microwavable stuff he knows Jay will actually eat, and a pack of cookies because he’s not a monster.

“How’s PT?” Will calls.

“Great,” Jay says. “If by ‘great’ you mean ‘run by sadists.’”

Will comes back out, parking next to the couch, studying him.

“What’d they have you doing today?” he asks.

“Parallel bars, bending the knee, tiny little steps with the therapist hanging onto my belt like I’m learning to walk,” Jay says. “They keep saying ‘you’re doing really well’ and ‘look how far you’ve come’ and I keep thinking about the part where I used to run stairs three at a time.”

Will’s mouth quirks. “Yeah. Funny thing about ‘used to.’”

“There’s this one PT,” Jay goes on, ignoring him, “who keeps saying, ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body.’ I wanted to whack him with my crutch.”

“You’d miss,” Will says. “Your balance still sucks.”

“Thanks, doc.”

They lapse into silence for a beat. The TV murmurs in the background, some game Jay isn’t really watching.

Will glances at the untouched crutches. “You been up today?”

“Yes, Mom,” Jay says. “Twice. Bathroom and kitchen. Congratulations, I met my step goal of twelve.”

“You’re allowed to be pissed off,” Will says. “You had a bullet punch through your knee. That’s not nothing.”

Jay shifts, grimacing as the brace tugs. “It feels stupid,” he admits. “Like, I know it’s serious. I saw the X-rays. I’ve seen worse in the field. I know how many screws are in there.”

He taps his leg.

“But I also know,” he continues, “that I’m going to walk again. That this is… temporary. So every time I start to complain, my brain goes, ‘Hey, at least you’re not in a chair, shut up.’ And then I feel like an ass.”

Will leans back, wheels squeaking softly. “You are an ass,” he says. “You’re also allowed to be miserable.”

Jay scowls at him. “That’s not how it worked when it was you.”

“No,” Will says mildly. “Because when it was me, you were the guy saying ‘you’ll be fine’ and ‘you’re strong’ and ‘you’ll figure it out.’ Remember?”

Jay winces. “Yeah. About that.”

Will shrugs. “You did your best with what you had,” he says. “You were terrified. I get it. But if you think I’m going to give you the same ‘chin up, champ’ garbage, you’re out of luck.”

Jay eyes him warily. “So what are you going to give me?”

Will gestures around. “This,” he says. “Groceries. Rides. Unsolicited lectures about crutch technique. The occasional reality check when you try to hop up the stairs with a backpack.”

“That was one time,” Jay mutters.

“You nearly ate the landing,” Will says. “I could feel the orthopaedic gods sharpening more screws.”

Jay picks at a loose thread on the couch. “I hate relying on people,” he says quietly. “I hate calling in favours. I hate the ‘Hey, can you swing by and help me bring up laundry’ texts.”

“Yeah,” Will says softly. “I know.”

“And it’s not even…” Jay hesitates. “It’s not like you. You had to relearn everything. Transfers, chairs, bathrooms, driving. I just have to… sit still for a few months. And I’m still losing my mind.”

Will tilts his head. “You done minimising your own crap yet?”

Jay looks up, surprised. “What?”

“You took a bullet to a joint,” Will says. “You had major surgery. Your job depends on you being able to move fast, and right now you move like a very annoyed turtle. That’s a big deal. You don’t need to slap a ‘but someone has it worse’ sticker on everything.”

Jay exhales. “You sound like my therapist.”

“Maybe he’s onto something,” Will says. “Also, you have a therapist. Good job.”

“Don’t distract me,” Jay says. “I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.”

“You can do that,” Will says. “You just don’t get to do it alone.”

Jay stares at him for a beat, then laughs, short and reluctant.

“You really going to be here the whole time?” he asks. “Through the whining and the pain and the part where stairs make me cry?”

Will smirks. “You sat on my couch and watched me curse out my rental chair for a month,” he says. “Consider this karmic balance.”

⸻

The first time Will goes with Jay to PT, the therapist’s eyebrows nearly climb into her hairline when she sees him roll in behind his brother.

“You brought backup,” she says. “Hi, I’m Lila.”

“Hi,” Will says, introducing himself. “Attending in the ED, part-time resident pain in the ass. I figured I’d supervise.”

“I feel very supported,” Jay mutters.

Lila grins. “We’ve been working on knee flexion and partial weight-bearing,” she tells Will. “He’s ahead of schedule, not that I’d tell him that.”

“I heard that,” Jay says.

“You were supposed to,” she replies.

They get him to the parallel bars. Will hangs back, but his eyes track every movement.

“Alright, Detective,” Lila says. “Left foot forward, right follows. Tiny steps. Put as much weight as you feel safe with.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but his face tightens as he shifts. The first step looks clumsy. The second is better. By the fifth, his breathing has gone shallow, jaw clenched.

“Pain?” Lila asks.

“Just… tight,” Jay says. “Like my knee’s being squeezed in a vise.”

“On a scale of one to ten?” she prods.

“Five,” Jay lies.

Will snorts. “It’s an eight,” he says.

“Stay out of this,” Jay grits.

“You made a face,” Will says. “Your ‘five’ face is different from your ‘I stubbed my toe’ face.”

Lila chuckles. “You two are worse than my married couples.”

Jay reaches the end of the bars, pivots, and starts back. Halfway, his knee buckles slightly. His weight tips.

“Whoa,” Lila says, catching his gait belt. Will’s hands move too—instinctively, like he might somehow teleport under his brother.

Jay regains his balance, heart racing. “I’m fine,” he snaps, more rattled than hurt.

“No falls in my gym,” Lila says firmly. “We stop before you face-plant. Sit.”

Jay sinks onto the nearby mat, chest heaving, sweat beading at his hairline. He looks furious. And scared.

“I hate this,” he says under his breath. “I hate feeling… weak.”

Will rolls closer, not too close.

“You’re not weak,” he says. “You’re deconditioned. There’s a difference.”

Jay scowls. “Sounds like semantics.”

“Semantics are important,” Will says. “Weakness implies something’s wrong with who you are. Deconditioned means your body’s behind your brain right now. It’ll catch up.”

Lila nods. “Your brother’s right,” she says. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Jay huffs out a laugh despite himself.

“You remember what you told me?” Will asks, quieter now, tone shifting. “Back when I was still in the splint, stuck on the couch?”

“I said a lot of things,” Jay says warily.

“You said regression isn’t failure,” Will reminds him.

Jay blinks. “I did?”

“You did,” Will says. “You were talking about me needing to use the Foley, needing help with transfers. You called it strategy.” His gaze softens. “This? Using bars instead of walking free? Taking breaks? Letting Lila catch you? That’s strategy too.”

Jay looks at his brace, at the bars, at his own hands.

“It feels like going backwards,” he says.

“Yeah,” Will says. “So did my rental chair. So did the hospital bag. So does every time I have to ask someone to move a chair out of the way so I can fit through.”

He shrugs. “Full recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s a drunk guy on a spiral staircase. Ups, downs, sideways. You know this. Now you get to live it.”

Jay snorts. “Your metaphors are getting worse.”

“I’m tired,” Will says. “You’re heavy.”

Lila claps her hands lightly. “Break’s over,” she says. “Two more passes on the bars, then we ice that knee and call it a win.”

Jay groans, but he stands.

This time, when his leg wobbles, he doesn’t snap “I’m fine.” He just grits his teeth, lets Lila steady him, and keeps moving.

Will watches, hands resting loosely on his wheels, a tiny, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

⸻

The full-circle moment sneaks up on them too.

It’s late, after one of Jay’s longer days—PT in the morning, follow-up with Ortho in the afternoon, paperwork hell at the precinct to set up his light duty assignment. Will’s just come off a shift.

They end up on Will’s balcony, because that’s where they always seem to land when things are too big for the walls.

The city hums below. The air is cool. Will’s chair is parked near the railing. Jay leans against it, crutches propped within reach, brace visible under his sweatpants, knee swollen but healing.

“Doc says I can ditch one crutch in a week.”Jay says, staring out at the lights. “Assuming I don’t do anything stupid.”

“So, never then,” Will says.

“Ha-ha.”

They stand/sit in companionable silence for a minute.

“You know what the day you were shot was?” Will asks.

Jay frowns. “Uh… Tuesday?”

“One year since the tick,” Will says.

Jay straightens a little. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Will says. “One year since Treatment 3 exactly. Since we found out my spinal cord is allergic to arachnids. I had forgotten my own anniversary until I was doing your paperwork.”

Jay whistles low. “Huh.”

They both look out over the city again.

“Fourteen months now,” Jay says quietly. “Feels like longer.”

“Feels like yesterday,” Will says. “Depends on the day.”

Jay’s jaw works. “I keep thinking about that,” he admits. “About… you. This last year. The car. The fractures. Going back to work. That QB kid. And now me.”

“Yeah,” Will says. “It’s been… a lot.”

“You still mad?” Jay asks abruptly.

“Yes,” Will says, without hesitation. “At the tick. At my body. At the universe. At stairs. At anyone who parks in the accessible spot without a placard.”

Jay snorts.

“But I’m also…” Will searches for the right word. “Less… hollow about it. More… settled, I guess. The anger doesn’t take up all the space anymore.”

“What does?” Jay asks.

Will shrugs. “Work. Your progress. Figuring out which resident I’m going to traumatise with my teaching style next. Bugging you about PT. Regular things.”

Jay nods slowly. “You know Logan’s been texting me,” he says. “You gave him my number, right?”

“Maybe,” Will says innocently.

“He sends me videos from rehab,” Jay says. “Him transferring, him throwing a ball from his chair, him wheeling up stupid hills.”

“Yeah?” Will leans in.

“Yeah,” Jay says. “He asked me the other day if it’s weird that he doesn’t think about the tackle all the time anymore. Just… sometimes. Like background noise instead of… everything.”

“What’d you say?” Will asks.

“I said that sounds like healing,” Jay says. “Not forgetting. Just… not living in the impact moment.”

Will smiles, small and proud. “That’s good,” he says.

Jay glances down at his own leg. “You ever think that way about… this?” he asks, nudging his brace. “About your chair? About… me, now?”

Will considers.

“There was a while,” he says slowly, “where all I could think was: ‘I used to walk. I used to run. I used to stand in traumas.’ It was like a drumbeat. Then it was: ‘I used to move without thinking about it.’”

He looks at his hands on his wheels.

“Now,” he says, “it’s more like… sometimes I notice. When I can’t get somewhere. When I’m sore. When something stupid and small is suddenly complicated. Or when I meet a kid like Logan. But most days… it’s just how I get around. Like… my glasses or contacts.”

“All this trauma and you’re comparing it to being nearsighted,” Jay says.

“I look terrible squinting,” Will says. “It’s a tragedy.”

Jay laughs. It’s a real laugh, not the brittle one he’d had in PT.

“And you?” Will asks. “You still thinking ‘I used to run’ every time you look at the stairs?”

Jay looks down at his leg, then at the crutches, then out at the city.

“Yeah,” he says honestly. “A lot of the time. But…” He hesitates. “There are also these moments. Like in PT today, when I took those steps without thinking, and only afterwards realised I didn’t picture the bullet. Or when I’m at my desk and I get caught up in a case and forget my leg’s throbbing until I stand up and it yells at me.”

He shrugs. “So I guess… maybe the tackle and the bullet and the tick are starting to move… further back. Not gone. Just… not the only thing in the frame. The spiky ball is there but the box is bigger”

Will nods. “Detours,” he says softly. “Not the whole road.”

Jay bumps his shoulder gently. “Didn’t know you’d get poetic at the one-year mark,” he says.

“Don’t get used to it,” Will says. “I’m still going to tell you to stop being an idiot when you overdo it.”

“Pot, kettle.” Jay says.

“Difference is, I’m charming,” Will says.

Jay groans. “Oh my God.”

They fall quiet again, the kind of quiet that feels full instead of empty.

“You know,” Jay says after a minute, “I never thought the word ‘invalid’ would come up in conversation about me.”

“I told you,” Will says. “We’re sharing the invalid duties now. Rotating schedule.”

“Yeah, well,” Jay says, “next time, let’s just… both be fine.”

“Deal,” Will says. “No more ticks, no more bullets, no more cars. Just boring, normal days where my biggest problem is a resident misreading an ECG.”

“And my biggest problem is Ruzek being Ruzek,” Jay says.

“Exactly,” Will says.

He glances at his brother’s brace, at his own chair, at the city.

“We’re messed up,” Jay says, not unkindly.

“Spectacularly,” Will agrees.

“But we’re still here,” Jay adds.

“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “We are.”

Below them, a siren wails faintly and fades. Somewhere, Logan is figuring out how to catch a pass from his chair. Somewhere, a med student is memorising spinal tracts without knowing why it’ll matter to them someday.

Up here, two Halsteads rely on different kinds of metal mobility aids and watch the world go by.

Not fixed. Not finished. But moving forward, crooked and stubborn and together.

“Hey, Will?” Jay says.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Jay says. “For… all of it. The groceries, the yelling, the… not pretending this doesn’t suck.”

Will swallows, throat tight.

“Right back at you,” he says. “For the rides. And the yelling. And the ‘regression is strategy’ thing I’m absolutely stealing.”

Jay smirks. “You quoting me now?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Will says. “It’s big enough.”

He backs his chair up so they’re side by side at the railing. Jay shifts his weight, brace clicking softly, one hand resting on the metal, the other braced casually on the back of Will’s chair.

Full circle, but not a loop. More like a spiral, each pass a little further out, covering new ground.

Behind them is the tick, the car, the bullet. Ahead of them is… everything else.

“Ready?” Will asks, after a while.

“For what?” Jay says.

“For whatever’s next,” Will says.

Jay takes a breath, looks at the city, at his brother, at the chair, at his own brace, and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”

They turn back toward the door together—one rolling, one limping, both moving forward.

———

Chapter Text

“Okay,” he muttered, eyeing the whiteboard on his wall.
• Change sheets
• Laundry
• Pharmacy
• Food Shop
• Burgers w/ Jay – Molly’s – 7 pm

He sat in his chair in the middle of the living room, hoodie sleeves shoved up, brake levers under his hands. The apartment was set up like a puzzle he’d already solved a hundred times—open floor, low shelves, grab bars in the bathroom—but each chore still had its own mini obstacle course.

First: sheets.

Changing bedding from a chair was like an upper-body CrossFit workout. He locked the brakes, planted his feet on his footplates, even if they didn’t really help much, and planting them meant literally lifting them with his hands and repositioning them in a better spot on the foot plate. He then half-hauled/half rolled himself sideways, yanking the fitted sheet free in increments.

By the time the clean sheet was on, his shoulders burned and his lower back was throbbing in that deep, electric way that meant his nerves were pissed.

Will flopped back into his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“One task down,” he said to nobody. “Body: already filing a complaint.”

He gave himself a minute, then wheeled over to the overflowing laundry basket. Transferring it to his lap took some balancing so it wouldn’t slide off. The hamper ended up wedged against his chest, smelling faintly of detergent and hospital—some shirts still carried that weird institutional scent he couldn’t wash out.

The building’s laundry room was at the end of the hall. At least it was on the same floor. He backed his chair out of the apartment, did the tight little turn he’d practiced to avoid slamming his knuckles on the doorframe, and nudged the door shut with his elbow.

The hall seemed longer when his arms were already tired. Push, glide. Push, glide. The basket dug into his ribs. Halfway down, he stopped and rested his hands on his wheels, feeling his triceps tremble.

“New rule,” he told the ceiling lights. “Buy fewer clothes.”

In the laundry room, the first washer was just low enough that he didn’t want to kill whoever designed it. He wrestled clothes from his lap into the machine, one fistful at a time, bracing his other hand on the washer lid to keep from tipping forward.

Standing up for this would have been easier—if standing up was still an option and not something that he was getting used to was barely even a prayer.

Back in his apartment, he had a solid forty-five minutes before the washer finished. He could’ve rested. Should’ve.

Instead, he looked at the board again.

Pharmacy.

“Fine, fine,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket and sliding it on. “Field trip.”

⸻

The pharmacy/grocery store combo was two city blocks away. In the Before times, he would’ve walked it without thinking. Now, he rolled.

The sidewalk was mostly flat, but “mostly” still meant cracks, random slopes, and one incredibly stupid section where a tree root had pushed the concrete up at just the right angle to suck momentum from his wheels.

He hit it, felt himself slow, and dug in harder, hands gripping rim and tire.

Arms screaming a little, he made it to the corner and hit the curb cut just right. Six months ago, curb cuts had been invisible. Now he noticed every one—good ones, bad ones, the ones that funneled you straight into a parked car.

Inside, the blast of artificial light and cooler air washed over him. Carts rattled. Someone’s kid was crying near the cereal aisle. The ambient buzz of fluorescents layered under it all.

He paused just inside the automatic doors and took a breath. Big spaces still hit him weird sometimes—so many angles to watch, so many ways to get boxed in or have someone step right in front of him.

“Okay,” he told himself quietly. “In and out. Tiny list.”

He rolled to the pharmacy counter first. The tech recognized him.

“Hey, Dr. Halstead,” she said. “Refill?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Should be under my name.”

She didn’t raise her voice or slow her words or lean over the counter like she was talking to a child. He loved her a little for that.

As she rang it up, a guy behind him in line shifted impatently. Will felt more than heard the sigh.

“Sorry,” the man muttered under his breath. “Always takes forever.”

Will’s shoulders tightened. He kept his gaze on the card reader.

The tech shot the guy a look over Will’s head that could’ve stripped paint. “Have a good one, Dr. Halstead.”

“You too,” Will said, pocketing the bag.

Groceries next. He grabbed one of those small hand baskets and hooked it on his lap, trapping it lightly between his stomach and chair. Steering one-handed while preventing gravity from stealing his apples was a fun little coordination drill.

Halfway down the dairy aisle, someone bumped into him just enough to nudge the front caster. The chair veered a bit, bumping the edge of the cooler.

“Whoa,” he muttered, stopping to let himself recorrect and get back on track.

“You okay there?” a familiar voice asked.

He turned his chair.

“April,” he said, exhaling some tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.

She stood with a shopping basket on her arm, eyes flicking down his body automatically—chair, legs, posture—then back up. No pity, just that nurse scan he knew well.

“Hey, stranger,” she said. “Using our shared day off for wild adventures, I see.”

“I live on the edge,” Will said. “Sometimes literally. That cooler almost took me out.”

“Classic dairy section,” she said. “Silent killer.”

He huffed a laugh. The spasm in his quad eased a bit.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Thought you ordered stuff delivered most weeks.”

“I do,” he said. “But I was going to run out of coffee and milk, and I refused to let that happen again.”

“Valid emergency,” she agreed. Her eyes softened. “How’s it going?”

He rolled his shoulders. “I made my bed without swearing today. That feels like progress.”

April snorted. “That’s definitely progress. I’ve heard you swear just trying to open a yogurt.”

“That foil is a menace and you know it.”

She shifted her basket. “You need a hand finishing up? I’ve got time.”

Part of him wanted to say no on principle. Another part felt his triceps shaking and knew how much more work the trip back would be.

“Maybe just reach for the high stuff?” he said. “If you have to climb, I don’t stand a chance.”

“You got it,” she said.

They moved through the aisles together—her grabbing things off higher shelves, him handling the lower ones and navigating. Twice someone cut right in front of his chair without looking. The second time, April reached out and nudged the cart away, giving Will space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

At the checkout, he managed everything himself—card, bags, the whole routine—if only to prove to his own brain that he still could.

April walked with him to the automatic doors.

“You sure you’re okay getting back?” she asked.

“I’ll be slower,” he said. “But yeah. I’ll text you if I get eaten by a curb cut.”

“Do that,” she said. “And seriously, Will, if you ever want company for a run like this—call. I don’t even need an excuse to buy more snacks. You would do it for me if the roles were reversed.”

“I know,” he said. “Thanks.”

Her hand landed briefly on his shoulder, warm and steady, before she let him roll out into the afternoon.

⸻

By the time he got home, switched laundry to the dryer, and put groceries away, his arms were noodles and his back felt like it had a live wire running through it.

He rescheduled “take out trash” on the whiteboard with a small arrow and the very mature note: TOMORROW.

Then he collapsed onto the couch with his legs propped up and closed his eyes “for just a minute.”

He woke up to his phone buzzing against his chest.

Jay: You bailing on me?

He squinted at the time. 6:08 p.m.

Will: Just pre-gaming with a medical coma.

Jay: …that’s not better

Jay: Molly’s at 7 still good?

Will: Yeah. But if you want me conscious, you’re driving.

Jay: On my way. 6:45.

Will let the phone drop onto his chest again and took a breath. Every part of him wanted to stay horizontal. But staying horizontal was a slippery slope, and he’d slid down it enough in rehab to know he’d feel worse later.

He pushed himself up, transferred back into his chair, and rolled to the bathroom. Getting changed sitting down was a practiced dance—shirt swapped, jeans adjusted with a little pant-leg hike so they didn’t snag. By the time he’d hauled himself back into the chair and wrestled on his shoes, he was sweating lightly. He eyed the clock.

“You’re fine,” he told his reflection. “Jay’s seen you worse.”

⸻

Jay texted from the curb, and Will rolled down to the front door, locking it behind him. The building’s entrance had a ramp now—an actual, regulation ramp instead of the terrifying “temporary solution” the landlord had tried first. Will had… strongly advocated for the change.

Jay leaned against his truck, hands in his jacket pockets. His eyes did that quick, unconscious scan—face, shoulders, chair, legs—and then he grinned.

“Look at you,” he said.

Will snorted. “And you look much better? Have you seen yourself in the mirror. How does Hailey not run in the opposite direction when she sees you.”

Jay popped the truck’s back door open and checked that he had the portable ramp they kept there now for places that pretended to be accessible and weren’t.

“You want to roll into the bar or transfer to a regular chair when we get there?” Jay asked, coming around to him.

“See how I feel, maybe I’ll stay in this,” Will said. “Less getting up, less falling down.”

“Cool,” Jay said easily. He didn’t reach to push the chair. Didn’t hover. Just walked beside him, letting Will set the pace.

Molly’s had a ramp up the back entrance and room to maneuver on the main floor if you picked your spot. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t a nightmare either.

Inside, the noise swallowed them—laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling at a game on the TV. Will felt his shoulders creep up, then forced them down.

“You good?” Jay asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Will said. “Just loud.”

“Wanna grab that corner table?” Jay pointed. “More space, less risk of somebody tripping over you and dying dramatically.”

“Tempting,” Will murmured, but he nodded.

They settled at a low table where his chair slid under decently.

“What can I get you?” Jay asked, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Bacon cheeseburger, fries, beer?“

Will hesitated a heartbeat. “Erm yeah burger and fries, no beer. Coke.”

“You got it,” he said, no weirdness, no extra volume on the word “Coke,” no “good for you” comment. A tiny thing, but it eased some knot he hadn’t realized was there.

When he arrived back at the table, Jay leaned back in his chair. “So. How many near-death experiences did you have today?”

“Two,” Will said promptly. “Almost dislocated my shoulder changing sheets, and a man in the pharmacy line looked like he wanted to kill me with his glare for just existing and being a normal person in the real world.”

“Sounds about right,” Jay said. “You feeling okay now?”

“Tired,” Will admitted. “But in a… earned it kind of way, not a ‘my body betrayed me in my sleep’ kind of way.”

Jay’s mouth twitched. “Progress?”

“Progress,” Will agreed.

Their burgers arrived, and the smell alone felt like therapy. Eating in the chair was a bit of a balancing act—he had to be careful leaning forward so he didn’t tip—but he’d gotten the hang of it.

Halfway through, he did a weight adjustment which caused a twinge in his back. The jolt ran up his spine.

Jay saw the flicker of pain cross his face. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Will said, waiting for the aftershocks to settle. “Just my nervous system reminding me it exists.”

Jay stabbed a fry into ketchup. “Show-off.”

Will laughed, the sound surprising him with how easy it came.

For a while, they just… talked. About Voight, about crime scenes, about hospital gossip, about a new attending at Med who’d already managed to piss off both Goodwin and Maggie in the same week.

Every so often, someone walked behind Will’s chair a little too close, and he had to resist the urge to tuck himself smaller. Every so often, his brain supplied a nasty little running commentary about everything that was wrong. But over all of it was this steady, quiet fact: he was out, he was with his brother, and he was still him.

When they were done, Jay picked up the check before Will could get his wallet out.

“I can pay,” Will protested.

“I know,” Jay said. “But I promised Mom I’d buy you burgers for life if you ever stopped trying to stitch yourself up in her kitchen.”

“That was one time.”

“One time too many.”

Outside, the air was cooler. Will felt the fatigue hit him in a wave once the noise and adrenaline of the bar dropped away. His arms were heavy, his back ached, his legs buzzed like they were full of hornets.

“You look wiped,” Jay said, not unkindly.

“I am wiped,” Will said. “You’re still driving me home, right? Or was that conditional on how entertaining I was?”

“Nah,” Jay said. “I’m stuck with you either way.”

He opened the truck door for Will. The transfer into the passenger seat was slow and a bit clumsy—he hated how much he had to think about where his legs went, how to twist without pulling something—but they’d done it enough times that it was, at least, familiar.

As Jay folded the chair and stowed it in the back, Will leaned his head against the window and let his eyes close for just a second.

“Hey,” Jay said quietly when he slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Will opened one eye. “For what? Not spilling ketchup on myself?”

“For doing a full on day and still coming out with me,” Jay said. “For laundry and pharmacy and grocery store and burgers. For getting out when you could’ve stayed home. That… that’s not nothing.”

Will swallowed. His throat felt tight.

“It kind of feels like nothing sometimes,” he admitted. “Like I used to run codes and now I get excited about making it to the end of the block without needing a break.”

“Yeah, well,” Jay said. “Sometimes the small stuff is the hard stuff. Doesn’t make it smaller.”

Will watched the city blur past as they drove. The damage was still there, etched into his nerves. The tick was gone, but it had left its signature behind. Walking was no longer a thing he did without thinking; every movement was a negotiation.

But he’d done his laundry. He’d gotten his meds. He’d navigated a grocery store with help. He’d gone out and eaten a ridiculous burger with his brother.

Not the life he’d planned. But, piece by piece, still a life.

⸻

Chapter Text

Eighteen months after the tick, physical therapy feels… almost normal. Not fun. Never fun. But routine enough that Will has a favourite parking space, knows which vending machine actually eats your dollar without giving you anything, and can recognise everyone by their gym shoes and grunts.

It starts like a joke. Jay rolls into Med’s rehab gym on a random Saturday, hands in his pockets, hoodie on, knee brace gone for good but the faint stiffness still in his gait.

Lila, the PT, looks up from adjusting a parallel bar height. “Detective,” she says. “You lost? No appointments today.”

“Yeah,” Jay says. “I’m here for my brother.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure he doesn’t have PT today. He doesn’t have PT every week anymore. He doesn’t really need to learn skills anymore. Just you know stretching”

“Yeah,” Jay says again. “That’s kinda the point.”

Behind him, the door bumps, then swings wider as Will backs in, his own chair humming over the threshold.

“You told her yet?” Will asks.

“No,” Lila says slowly, eyes pinging between them. “But I’m suddenly very concerned.”

Jay blows out a breath. “I want to borrow a chair,” he says. “Just for the day.”

Lila blinks. “A… wheelchair.”

“Yeah.”

“For… you.”

“Yeah.”

She looks past him at Will.

“Wasn’t my idea,” Will says, hands up. “I suggested beer and a game like a normal brother. He wants to ‘do a day in the life.’”

Jay shifts, self-conscious. “Look, you kept talking about how most of the hard stuff isn’t the big obvious things, it’s the constant little crap. I just… I want to see it. From your height. For more than five minutes in PT.”

Lila’s expression softens, just a little. “Okay,” she says. “That’s… actually kind of great. And stupid. Great-stupid.”

“Story of his life,” Will says.

They end up picking a compact manual chair—lighter than the hospital tanks, but not as slick as Will’s custom rig. A solid Footplate, removable armrests, decent tires. Lila adjusts and eyeballs Jay’s posture.

“Try moving,” she says.

Jay grabs the rims, pushes awkwardly. The chair lurches forward in a slightly crooked line.

“Wow,” Will says. “So natural. So smooth.”

“Bite me,” Jay grunts, correcting.

Lila hides a smile. “Okay,” she says. “Ground rules. You can’t use this to avoid the hard parts. No bailing halfway through the day because your shoulders get tired.”

“They’re not gonna—” Jay starts, then feels the burn after twenty metres. “Okay, they might.”

“Rule two,” Lila continues, “you actually pay attention. Not just to the big obstacles, but to how people treat you. That’s half the experience.”

Jay nods, suddenly a little less cocky.

Lila glances at Will. “And you,” she says, “no laughing when he smacks into door frames.”

Will puts a hand over his heart. “I would never.”

⸻

Jay’s first clue that this is a mistake is the ramp.

They leave through the employee entrance. It’s the path Will always takes now—automatic doors, ramp, smoother concrete. Technically, it’s not even a ramp. It’s the mildly sloped sidewalk up from the staff parking lot to the hospital entrance—the one Will usually crushes without thinking, chatting on his phone and pushing like it’s flat. Jay follows, pushing and trying not to grunt with the effort.

“First observation,” he says. “This thing does not go straight.”

“Second observation,” Will says. “Your form is tragic.”

He shows him—hands starting at the top of the wheel, pushing in smooth arcs instead of little frantic grabs. Jay imitates, tongue poking out in concentration.

By the time they reach the parking lot, his shoulders are already aware they’ve got muscles.

“Remind me why we’re doing this again,” he grunts.

Will, rolling easily beside him in his own chair, takes a sip of coffee. “Because you said—and I quote—‘I want to see what your average day is like, can’t be that hard.’ Though I think you were joking about the can’t be that hard part.”

“Past me was an idiot,” Jay mutters, palms squeaking on the push rims.

“Welcome to my TED Talk,” Will says

Will hits the button on his car.

“Dibs on shotgun,” Jay says.

Will stares at him. “Obviously though I can move the hand controls out the way if you really wanted to drive”

“Oh,” Jay says, flushing. “Right. Sorry.”

He catches himself, then realises that’s the whole point of today.

Will transfers up into the driver’s seat with practiced ease, breaking down his chair and hauling it in behind him. Jay, meanwhile, folds his borrowed chair and wrestles it into the back like a particularly uncooperative deck chair.

“Congratulations,” Will says, watching in the rearview. “You just did the ‘I swear I’ll only need to get in and out once’ math. You’ll be wrong.”

⸻

First stop: coffee.

It’s a little independent place a few blocks from the hospital. Will likes it because they know his order and the door is usually propped open. It has a ramp that’s technically up to code and practically useless: steep, narrow, and placed next to a door that opens outward.
Usually it’s pretty accessible though today the door is closed, a heavy thing with no automatic opener.

“Told you this was a good idea,” Will says, watching Jay eyeball the angle.

“I’ve seen you do this like a hundred times,” Jay says, lining himself up. “How hard can it—”

His front caster hits the top lip, catches, and the whole chair lurches backward just enough to make his stomach plummet.

“Okay,” he says sharply. “Oh-kay. That’s… steeper than it looks.”

“Uh-huh,” Will says. “Try again, but lean forward. Centre of gravity.”

Jay takes a breath, leans forward, and pushes. The tires grip, and he rolls up over the lip, heart racing.

Jay rolls up, plants his hands, tries to pull it open. It swings toward him, hits his footplate, and shoves him backward.

“Okay,” he grunts. “Rude.”

Will reaches past him and catches the handle. “Pro tip,” he shows him its trick for this type of door and then says, “doors that open toward you are the devil.”

“I got it,” Jay says, bracing one wheel, grabbing the handle, and pulling like he’s breaching a room. The door inches open. He tries to hold it with his hip while rolling through. It swings back; he slams his knuckles.

“Language,” Will says mildly, when Jay swears.

“Yeah, but I used to go through them with my hands,” Jay says, turning toward the entrance. “Not like… this.”

He reaches for the handle again, pulls. The door stubbornly swings toward him, half-blocked by his footplate.

He tries to angle, but there’s not enough landing space to clear the arc. The chair bumper taps the door. He lets it fall shut, tries again from another angle.

A woman coming out pauses. “Oh! Here, sweetie, let me just—” grabbing the handle. “Oh! Sorry, sweetie, let me get that,” she says.

Jay bristles at sweetie but plasters on a tight smile. Before he can answer, she’s behind him, hands on his push handles, yanking the chair backward out of the way so she can open the door fully.

“Whoa,” Jay says, grabbing his wheels.

Will’s voice cuts in, calm but firm. “Ma’am, please don’t move his chair without asking.”

She blinks, flustered. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know,” Will says. “But you have to ask first. We’re not shopping carts.”

Her cheeks flush. “Oh. I’m… sorry.”

Jay forces a tight smile. “It’s okay,” he lies. “Thanks for… holding the door.”

She steps aside. Will grabs the handle, backs his own chair up, and does the classic lean-pull-roll manoeuvre that he was trying to explain to Jay, using the door as leverage to get them both through.

Jay watches, impressed despite himself. “How long did it take you to figure that out?”

“A week,” Will says. “And three bruised knuckles.”

Inside, the place is busy. Tables close together. Chairs jutting out like landmines.

Will weaves through with the ease of practice, calling “behind you” just enough to clear a path. Jay, less graceful, clips a chair leg and apologises as a guy grabs his coffee to save it from spilling.

“Sorry, man.”

“No worries,” the guy says, but he looks at Jay’s chair with that quick flicker of pity Jay has seen directed at Will and never at himself.

He doesn’t like it.

They reach the counter. It’s high—bar height. The barista is drying mugs, back turned. When she turns she grins at them. “Hey, Will. The usual?”

“Hi,” Will says. “No can we get two cappuccinos and one of those giant muffins that’s probably illegal? Make Jay’s a bit stronger. He’s realising gravity is a thing.”

“Sure thing babe,” the barista says, turning—and looks straight at Will.

“Erm can I get a venti caramel macchiato with soy and an extra shot?” The woman behind Will asks the barista.

Jay blinks. “Did you say medium?” Asked the barista looking at Will to confirm his order, trying to ignore the rude woman for the moment.

The customer shakes her head still not really looking at Will. “No I said large, actually maybe I don’t want a caramel one? What’ve you got—”

“Erm I’ve not finished ordering,” Will says, not rude, but very clear.

“Oh!” she says, finally focusing. “Sorry, I just— I didn’t… see you there.”

Will’s lips quirk. “That’s weird,” he says. “I’ve got bright red hair and a whole chair. Hard to miss.”

Her cheeks pink. “Right, sorry.”
The barista leans over nearer Will. “Two mediums, one muffin, do you want me to throw in one of those pastries you normally get?. Names?”

“Will and Jay,” Will says nodding at the added pastry.

She writes it on the stickers and passes them and the cups to the person at the machine.

They find a table near the window. It’s a two-top, table leg smack in the middle, not ideal. The barista comes over and moves the chairs out the way for them.

Will parallel parks his chair at the end. Jay tries the same on the other side and bumps the table, sloshing the empties before the barista has a chance to clear them off the table for them.

“Whoops,” he says.

“At least you didn’t catapult the coffee,” Will says.

A kid at a nearby table stares openly, eyes ping-ponging between the two chairs. He is staring openly, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“Mom,” The kid finally pipes up, trying to do it in a whisper but not actually whispering, “why are they?”

“Liam,” his mother hisses, mortified. “Eat your yogurt.”

“Why do you both have wheels?” Liam persists. “Are they racing?”

Jay opens his mouth. Will beats him to it, smiling. “Yeah, I won,” he says.

The kid considers this, nods solemnly, and returns to his juice box. The dad still doesn’t say anything, but at least he looks mildly embarrassed.

Jay feels something unclench in his chest. It’s just a moment, tiny, but it feels… normal.

Their drinks arrive. The barista sets them down a little too carefully, like she’s afraid they’ll break. Or maybe she is just worried Jay will knock them over

“You guys need anything else?” she asks.

“We’re good,” Will says. “Thanks,”

When she leaves, “See?” Will says quietly, once they’ve rolled away with their drinks. “Not all commentary’s bad. Sometimes it’s just curiosity with no filter.”

Jay lets out a breath. “Is that… normal?” he asks.

“The door? The counter? The bouncing eye contact?” Will says. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Yeah,” Jay says. “Could do without getting body-snatched at the door, though.”

“You lasted twenty minutes,” Will says. “New record.”

Jay shakes his head. “That ‘sweetie’ comment. Man I’m thirty-five.”

“Oh, you didn’t get the memo?” Will says. “Chair drops your age by about twenty years in some people’s heads. Thirty if you look sad.”

“You’re not mad?” Jay asks.

“Sometimes,” Will says, sipping his coffee. “Sometimes I’m just tired. Today I picked coffee over a fight. You’ll figure out your own scale.”

⸻

Next stop: birthday present.

Hailey’s birthday is in two days. She insists she doesn’t want anything. This, obviously, means Jay has overthought it.

They head to a little boutique downtown that Will swears has “normal human things, not just candles that smell like feelings.”

The curb cut in front of the store is half-covered by a parked delivery truck.

Jay stares at it. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Will says. “Textbook.”

He steers around, looking for another ramp. The next one is clear but drops them in front of a pothole big enough to qualify as a sinkhole.

“I swear the city hates us,” Jay mutters, bouncing over it.

The door, mercifully, is automatic. Inside, the store is all narrow aisles and wobbly displays.

“Okay,” Will says. “Rule one: control the environment. If you knock over a rack of scarves, own it.”

Jay snorts, then immediately clips a low table with his footplate. A stack of books wobbles ominously and he immediately gets stuck between a table of candles and a stack of “staff picks.”

“Welcome to ‘accessibility is a suggestion,’” Will says.

Sorry,” he says, flushing, grabbing at the nearest stack to steady it.

A clerk appears out of nowhere, all concerned eyes and urgent whisper.

“Oh no, honey, it’s totally fine,” she says—to Jay, directly. “We can move things if you need more space. Do you want me to get that for you?”

She gestures toward a display in the back. “Or is there something specific you’re looking for? We have some really uplifting books and journals, if that’s more your speed.”

Jay blinks. “I’m… just here for a birthday present.”

“For you?” she asks brightly. “Or… someone helping you today?”

It’s for my girlfriend,” Jay says tightly. “She’s a detective. She likes knives and candles that smell like crime scenes.”

The clerk laughs, assuming he’s joking. “Okay, so maybe something… gentler? We’ve got a great self-care section.”

“Pretty sure that’s not her vibe,” he says.

Will wheels up beside him. “Big non-sparkly mug, slightly aggressive slogan, maybe a plant she can’t kill,” he tells the clerk. “And a card that doesn’t mention ‘journeys’ or ‘overcoming.’”

The clerk smiles more genuinely now. “That we can do,” she says. “This way.”

As she leads them through, she reflexively steps ahead to hold some items out of their way but doesn’t comment further on the chairs. Jay lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. It’s a slalom of people, displays, and random boxes.

“We’re not both fitting,” Will says after they almost jam side by side.

“So we split the party,” Jay says. “You take vinyl, I’ll check books and… whatever those weird mugs are.”

“Hailey will kill you if you just get her a mug,” Will says. “She’s still mad about the ‘World’s Okayest Detective’ one.”

“That was hilarious,” Jay protests. “Fine, I’ll look for… knives.”

“Absolutely not,” Will says.

They peel off. It takes Jay longer than it should to realise some of the shelves are just high enough that he has to tilt his chair back to see the top row. His shoulders protest when he reaches.

The staff member appears again, all earnestness and flannel.

“Oh, hey,” she says to Jay. “Do you need me to grab something from the top for you, or…?”

“No, I’m good,” Jay says. “Just scoping.”

“Okay,” she says. “We can also, like, bring stuff down if you want to browse without… you know.”

She gestures vaguely at the world.

Jay hesitates. “Thanks,” he says. “If I need a stepstool, I’ll let you know.”

She smiles and retreats to see if Will needs help, and he can’t quite tell if that felt good or patronising.

Will rolls back over a few minutes later with a record in his lap. “She likes this band, right?” he asks, showing Jay.

“Yeah,” Jay says. “And she keeps complaining she doesn’t have it on vinyl. Good call.”

He scans the shelves. “Two gifts. Overkill?”

“Or just right,” Will says. “She puts up with you. She deserves tribute.”

He ends up with a mug that says TRUST ME, I’M THE CALM ONE, a candle that smells vaguely like cedar and coffee, the vinyl record, and a card with a cartoon of two cops high-fiving over a perp.

At the register, the clerk bags everything and hands it to Jay without drama.

As they exit, he shakes his head. “Did she just…”

“Try to point you to inspirational journals?” Will says. “Yeah.”

“Like I was here to… I don’t know, process my feelings instead of buy a birthday present,” Jay says.

“You should process your feelings,” Will says. “But not because you’re sitting down.”

Jay groans. “Why is everyone so weird about it?”

“Because they’ve only seen this in movies,” Will says. “Wheelchair guy rolls into frame and suddenly it’s A Very Special Episode.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “Great. Today’s episode of ‘Very Special’ starring Detective Dumbass.”

Will grins. “Hey, you asked for the full experience.”

“I take it back,” Jay says. “I want the only time my body parts hurt this bad to be after a tough gym session. At least nobody offered me a journal.” bumping over the threshold. “My hands already hate me.”

⸻

The next stop is because they already bought tickets before Jay had this mad idea. Six Flags is forty-five minutes of highway and bad radio. Will drives, hand controls smooth under his fingers. Jay navigates, badly.

“Take the next exit,” he says.

“That’s the cemetery,” Will says. “We are not doing Six Flags: Haunted Edition.”

“Fine,” Jay grumbles, correcting.

They hit the outskirts: big signs, bigger coasters in the distance, flags whipping in the wind. The parking lot is a sea of cars, sun bouncing off windshields.

Will flashes his placard. The attendant waves them toward the accessible section near the front.

“See?” Will says. “Some perks.”

They park. Will builds his chair smoothly as if he has done this all his life. Jay hauls his borrowed chair out, unfolds it, and drops into it with a sigh.

“Should I feel guilty?” he asks, eyeing the blue wheelchair symbols painted on the asphalt. “I can still walk.”

“You’re with me,” Will says. “That’s what the placard is for. I’m not dragging my ass across this lot because you’re having an empathy day.”

Soon they’re under the big arch, surrounded by families, teens, and the occasional walking Dead from the exhausted parent subset.
They roll to the entrance, Jay is in the loaner chair from PT, Will’s Smoov power-assist clipped to the axle, and his arms are already burning halfway up.

“Hit the Smoov.”

Jay glances down at the little power-assist wheel behind his chair, the controller mounted under his seat. He taps the button with his thumb. The motor kicks in, and the chair glides forward with a gentle hum.

“Oh,” he says, startled. “That’s… cheating.”

“That’s technology,” Will corrects. “Cheating would be you just giving up and walking instead”

Security is a gauntlet of bag checks, metal detectors, ticket scanners. The crowd compresses. Suddenly Jay understands in a visceral way why Will hates shoulder-height elbows.

Twice, someone cuts right in front of him, stopping dead. He slams his hands on the rims to avoid running over their ankles.

“Sorry,” they toss over their shoulder without looking.

“Do they… not see me?” Jay hisses.

“Welcome to stealth mode,” Will says. “People look over you, past you, at the ride. You’re scenery until you’re in their way.”

“You ready?” Will asks.

“For what?” Jay says. “Lines?”

“For accessible lines,” Will corrects. “And ramps. And a lot of people realising we’re not here to do charity work.”

They hit guest services first. Will leads the way, like he’s done this before. Will asks about accessibility while Jay waits outside.

“Manual chair, good with transfers. We’ll need whatever ride access program you’ve got that isn’t just ‘stare at us and feel awkward.’”

The attendant—twenty, maybe, with a name tag that says ASHLEY (SHE/HER)—smiles without flinching.

“Absolutely,” she says. “We’ve got an access pass that lets you enter through alternative entrances and gives return times if the ride uses stairs or has tough queues. You’re able to transfer on your own?”

“Yep,” Will says. “Just can’t do ladders or steep stairs. Also, if a ride has one of those fake ‘accessible’ entrances that ends in three steps, I’m filing a complaint.”

Ashley laughs. “You’d be surprised how often that comes up,” she says. “Let me get you set up.”

She talks to him like he’s just… people. Explains how the pass works, where the elevators are, which coasters have roll-on loading platforms.”

As they turn away from the Guest Services Building, a guy in his twenties behind them mutters, “Must be nice, skipping the line.”

Will pauses, feels the familiar flare of heat in his chest. Another young guy in a scooter nearby hears it too; he rolls his eyes and flips the mutterer a casual bird when their eyes meet.

Jay looks like he’s about to say something nuclear. Will nudges his wheel against Jay’s.

“Pick your battles,” he murmurs. “Do you want to spend our Superman: The Ride time arguing with Kyle, or do you want to yell on a coaster?”

Jay grinds his teeth. “Coaster. For now. It’s early in the day,” Jay mutters. “Give it time.”

⸻

They start small: a gentler coaster with a transfer-friendly side entrance.

The accessible path, naturally, is behind the dumpsters.

“I swear this goes somewhere fun,” Will says, leading the way past the smell of hot garbage and pretzels.

“Is this the disabled entrance or the employee smoking area?” Jay asks.

“Both,” Will says. “Multitasking.”

They reach a locked gate with a small ACCESS ENTRANCE – SEE ATTENDANT sign.

The ride attendant spots them and hurries over, fumbling with keys.

“Sorry, guys,” he says. “This thing’s supposed to stay unlocked, but people kept leaving it open and kids would sneak through.”

“No worries,” Will says.

He opens it, waves them through. “You guys good transferring?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Jay says.

“Cool,” the attendant says. “We’ll load you guys last in this train so you have time. Just a heads up, you’ll probably have to leave the chairs here and walk across to the car.”

Jay stiffens. “We… can’t walk.”

The attendant squints. “At all?”

“Nope,” Will says cheerfully. “Two full-time chair users. We can transfer, but walking’s off the menu.”

The attendant’s smile falters. “Oh. Uh. Let me check with my supervisor. I think the policy is you have to be able to walk across the platform in case of emergency evacuation.”

He disappears. Jay turns to Will. “Seriously?”

“Yup,” Will says. “Accessibility, but make it conditional.”

“Does that ever make sense?” Jay asks.

“Sometimes,” Will says. “If the evacuation route is stairs only, they have to plan for getting everybody out. But it also assumes nobody else on the ride will help, that no one can carry, that the only safe evac is ‘everyone walks.’”

The supervisor arrives. She looks apologetic before she even speaks.

“Hey, guys,” she says. “So, he’s right. For this coaster, our emergency exit is a stairwell. We can’t guarantee we’d be able to get you out safely if there’s an evac, so we can’t load full-time chair users.”

“Even if we sign something?” Jay asks.

“Even then,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Will says. “Thanks for explaining. Which rides can handle full chair users? We don’t want to keep playing roulette.”

She brightens a bit, rattles off a list. Log flume. One of the bigger coasters with an accessible evac route. A couple of flat rides. “Guest services should have it on a printout, too,” she adds.

“Appreciate it,” Will says.

They roll away. Jay is quiet for a few seconds.

“Doesn’t that piss you off?” he asks finally.

“Yes,” Will says. “And also no. I like not dying in hypothetical fire scenarios. But yeah, it’s frustrating when the line between ‘safety’ and ‘we didn’t bother to design better’ is blurry.”

Jay sighs. “I feel like a liability.”

Will glances at him. “Welcome to the club,” he says. “We have jackets. They’re poorly fitted.”

—-

They do the rides Jay can transfer to without too much gymnastics: coasters with benches that he slide onto, log flumes where he can brace, a spinning thing that he immediately regrets when his stomach flips.

Loading is its own choreography.

At one coaster, the ride operator leans over. “Hey, man,” he says to Will. “If you can slide over on your own, we can give you an extra few seconds. No rush.”

“Appreciated,” Will says.

Transferring isn’t nothing, Jay realises. He locks his chair, swings the footrests aside, plants his hands, and hauls himself over with a mix of arm power and momentum.

Jay remembers the first time Will got out of the hospital 18 months ago. Jay hovered, hands ready but not grabbing, like they practised after Will yelled at him once for “spotting like a nervous dad when he was still in the ward.”

“Got it?” Will asks, once Jay is in.

“Yeah,” Jay says, catching his breath. “Chair good?”

“I’ll move it,” the attendant says, spinning both chairs out of the gate, then parking them in the designated area like oddly loyal dogs.

On the coaster, as they ratchet up the hill, Jay glances over. “You okay?” he asks.

“Terrified,” Will says. “Which means it’s working.”

They scream, they laugh, they get off with Will’s hair in his eyes and Jay clutching his harness.

“Worth it,” Jay pants.

“Obviously,” Will says.

⸻

Lunch is at one of those generic park food places: burgers, fries, things that will make them regret their choices later.

They roll up to the counter. The menu boards loom overhead. The cashier’s eyes flick from Jay to Will to their chairs.

“You guys together?” he asks.

“Unfortunately,” Will says. “One bacon and cheese burger without pickles, one chicken sandwich, two fries. And two soda fountains.”

“Diet?” the cashier asks, looking at Will’s chair like it’s a sign.

“No,” Will says. “I take my sugar like my ableism: unsubtle and everywhere.”

The kid blinks, then laughs, surprising himself. “Okay, man. Respect.”

The food court is packed, tables jammed close together. They make it halfway in before realising there’s no easy route through the maze.

“Hang on,” Will says. “We’re doing some rearranging.”

He looks at a nearby table with empty chairs. “Hey, anyone using these?” he asks the teenagers hunched over their phones.

They glance up, take in the chairs, and shake their heads.

“Cool,” Will says, and proceeds to move two chairs out of the way with practiced efficiency, creating parking spots for themselves.

“Bold move,” Jay says, following his lead at another table.

“You wait for permission in these places, you starve,” Will says.

Jay is halfway through inhaling fries when a woman in her forties passes by, slows, then doubles back.

“Excuse me,” she says to Jay, hand on his shoulder.

He freezes. “Uh. Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say,” she says, smiling earnestly, “it’s so beautiful that you are out and about. You’re such an inspiration.”

Will feels the words hit like a slap.

He pastes on a polite smile. “Why are people like me an inspiration?” he asks.

She blinks. “Well. You know. In wheelchairs, most people just stay at home.”

“Yeah cause living our lives and doing normal things is inspirational now,” Jay points out, incredulous.

She laughs lightly, as if he’s joking. “Anyway, bless you. Enjoy your day.” she says, patting his arm.

She moves on before either of them can marshal a response.

Jay stares after her, mouth open. “Did that just— did she—”

“Yup,” Will says, taking a furious bite of burger.

“She thought we were some little sick little cancer kid that managed to heroically come to the fun park?” Jay says.

“Something like that,” Will says. “Yeah Nat and I were out last week and a woman said that she was some kind of saint for pushing me around, when the ramp was too steep. Welcome to the ‘inspiration’ channel. It’s always on, never requested.”

As they eat, Jay catches a group of teenage boys filming them on a phone, half-hidden behind a pillar. He hears the word crip whispered and some snickering.

His jaw tightens. “You seeing this?” he mutters.

Will doesn’t turn his head. “Yep.”

“You gonna say something?” Jay asks, simmering.

“I might,” Will says. “But sometimes ignoring them is more effective. They want a scene. Don’t give them one.”

A beat later, a park security guard appears near the boys, says something low and firm. One of them flushes and pockets the phone.

Jay raises an eyebrow. “Did you…?”

Will shrugs, takes another bite. “Ashley at guest services has eyes everywhere,” he says.

“You deal with that crap all the time?” Jay asks.

“Not constantly,” Will says. “But often enough to make bingo cards tempting.”

He looks at Jay. “How are you doing with all this, honestly?”

Jay hesitates. Then: “Overwhelmed,” he admits. “I knew it was hard. I watched you. I helped you. But this… this is relentless. The doors, the people, the counters, the way everyone either ignores you or stares or talks over you and it’s all just—” He gestures helplessly. “It’s a lot.”

“Yeah,” Will says quietly. “It is.”

“And I get to get up at the end of the day,” Jay says. “I get to hand this chair back. You don’t.”

Will shrugs, eyes drifting to a nearby table.

A group of teenagers is sitting there—three in hoodies, one in a power chair with neon spoke guards. They’re all arguing about which ride is best. The girl in the chair rolls her eyes and flips her hair when one of the boys teases her about being scared of heights.

“That’s the other side,” Will says, nodding at them. “You see that?”

Jay follows his gaze. “Yeah,” he says, watching. “What about it?”

“They’re just… kids,” Will says. “They’re not drama. They’re not saints or tragedies. One of them rolls. That’s it.”

As if on cue, the girl glances over, spots Will, and lifts her chin in a little nod—the kind of micro-acknowledgement only people in the club know.

Will nods back. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“You got a whole secret handshake network, huh?” Jay says.

“Wheel mafia,” Will says. “We meet on Tuesdays.”

“Do you ever… miss being invisible?” Jay asks after a beat. “Just… being another guy in line?”

“I wasn’t invisible before,” Will says. “I was the redheaded doctor yelling in the trauma bay.” He smiles, small. “But I miss not having to think so hard about… existing in space. Every doorway, every bathroom, every damn curb. The mental load is… heavy. The part where people treat you like you’re either fragile or heroic gets old.”

He takes a breath. “But then there’s stuff like… Logan texting from rehab. Or kids seeing someone my age in a chair out here doing normal stuff and realising your life isn’t over just because you can’t walk. Or my coworkers finally learning not to park the crash cart in front of the only ramp.”

Jay nods slowly. “You shouldn’t have to carry all that,” he says. “But… I’m glad you’re here to. If that makes sense.”

“Kind of does,” Will says. “I’m good at all this. It’s almost like I live in this body every day,”

They eat. The world moves around them: kids, teenagers, parents, people in chairs, people on scooters, people with canes, people with no visible aids at all.

It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s… life.

⸻

The best ride of the day ends up being the log flume.

The accessible entrance is actually decent: wide, flat, no dumpsters. They’re loaded last, with extra time to transfer.

“Okay, Detective,” Will says. “Show me what PT taught you.”

Jay transfers from his chair to the ride seat in a neat pivot, bracing on his hands. He slides along, leaves room for Will, who pops his front casters, moves in his own practiced way.

“You’ve done this before,” Jay says.

“Maybe once,” Will says, grinning.

The attendant takes their chairs and rolls them to the exit platform.

As the log bumps away, water slapping against the sides, Jay lets out an actual, unguarded laugh.

“This is so dumb,” he says. “We’re going to get soaked.”

“Yup,” Will says. “You remembered to bring a change of clothes, right?”

Jay’s face falls. “I… hate you.”

The drop is small but satisfying. They get sprayed, not drenched. When they pull back into the station, the attendant is there with their chairs lined up perfectly.

“Transfer?” she asks.

“We’ve got it,” Will says.

She doesn’t hover, doesn’t grab, just waits until they’re clear and then sends the log on.

“You see that?” Will says quietly as they roll away, wet and grinning.

“Yeah,” Jay says. “She just… treated us like normal people who know what we’re doing.”

“A low bar,” Will says. “But when people clear it, it feels pretty good.”

⸻

By late afternoon, they’re both tired in a way that has nothing to do with ride thrills and everything to do with pushing, transferring, dodging stares, and navigating a world built for standing, they’re both wrecked.

Jay’s shoulders feel like he did a hundred pushups. His palms are sore. He has a blister forming at the base of his thumb. He has a new respect for the way Will uses his arms.

Will, for his part, feels the usual deep fatigue of a long day out, the slight ache in his back from transfers, the overstimulation of crowds.

On their way out from their last right, they wait for the elevator. A family approaches behind them: parents, two kids, one stroller.

The elevator arrives. It’s already half full. There’s enough room for the chairs if they manoeuvre carefully.

“Go ahead,” Will says to the family. “We’ll catch the next one.”

The mom hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“We’ve been sitting all day,” Jay says dryly. “You’ve earned it.”

She smiles, shepherds her kids inside. As the doors close, the little boy waves at them. “Bye, racers!”

Will waves back. “See? Race cars.”

“Race cars with shoulder cramps,” Jay says, rotating his neck.

The next elevator is emptier. They roll in, adjust, hit the button.

In the enclosed space, the quiet feels heavy.

The elevator dings and the doors open and they roll out of the shop towards the exit of the park. They roll toward the car .
Jay glances over.

“You want the sappy part?” he asks.

“Always,” Will says.

“I’m glad I did this,” Jay says. “Even if my arms are going to fall off. Even if some people were idiots. Because… it’s your normal. And if I’m going to be in your life, I should know what that really looks like. Not just the hospital part.”

“Hey, Will?” Jay says, as they hit the highway.

“Yeah?”

“Next time Hailey’s off,” Jay says, “we’re bringing her.“

Will chuckles, back in the car, Jay hauls his chair in and collapses into the seat with a groan.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet. “I, uh… I didn’t realise how much I wanted you to see it until today.”

Jay watches him for a beat. “For the record,” he says, “you were right about the Smoov. Without it, I’d be crawling up that Six Flags hill.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Will says, starting the engine. “Next time, we do a grocery store at 5 p.m. on a Friday. Peak chaos.”

“I’m out,” Jay says. “Day pass only. I’m not ready for the produce aisle boss battle.”

Will laughs, the sound loose and warm.

“I’m dying,” he announces.

“You went hard,” Will says. “So,” Will says. “Review of the day?”

Jay blows out a breath. “You want the Yelp version or the honest one?”

“Honest,” Will says.

Jay thinks. “Okay. Chairs are harder than they look. Ramps are evil. Doors are worse.”

“Accurate,” Will says.

“Some people suck,” Jay continues. “Some people are surprisingly cool. Teen boys with phones are still the worst demographic on earth.”

“Also accurate,” Will says.

“And…” Jay hesitates. “I get it more now. Not just theoretically. Like… I knew you were dealing with barriers. I knew there was weirdness. But there’s a difference between ‘I know’ and ‘I almost tipped over on a doorway and got manhandled by a stranger before coffee.’”

Will laughs. “Welcome to the experiential learning module.”

Jay looks at him, serious now. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” Will asks.

“For the times I breezed through a door and didn’t notice you wrestling behind me,” Jay says. “For the times I said ‘at least you’ve got wheels’ like that made it simple. For… not seeing all of it.”

Will’s expression softens. “You saw enough,” he says. “And now you see more. That’s how it works.”

Jay nods slowly. “You’re really out here doing this every day,” he says. “And then fixing other people on top of it. No wonder you’re exhausted all the time.”

“I was exhausted before the chair,” Will says. “Now I just have better excuses.”

Will’s throat tightens. He busies himself with the straps on his wheels.
They pull out of the parking spot, merging into the slow stream of cars leaving the park. The sun’s starting to dip, the sky streaked orange.

Two brothers, two chairs, one long, messy, shared road.

No heroics. No pity. Just a day of ramps and coasters and weird encounters and the quiet, fierce kind of understanding that only comes from pushing through it all side by side. Jay lets his head thunk back against the headrest. “I knew wheelchair life was work,” he says. “I just… thought the hard part was the big stuff. Getting in and out of the car. Transferring. Figuring out the bathroom situation. I didn’t factor in the million little ways the world is not built for your wheels.”

“Yeah,” Will says softly. “That’s the fun surprise.”

Jay turns his head, studying him in profile. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.

Will frowns. “For what?”

“For every time I rushed you,” Jay says. “For every ‘come on, it’s not that far.’ For the way I said ‘at least’ too much. ‘At least you’re alive, at least you can work, at least—’” He grimaces. “I was trying to help. I was also being an idiot.”

Will exhales, tension he didn’t know he was holding leaking out. “You were scared,” he says. “So was I. We both said stuff we’d say different now.”

Jay nods. “If you ever want to tell me to shut up when I do that again, you can.”

“Oh, I will,” Will says. “Loudly.”

Jay snorts. “Good.”

They drive in comfortable silence for a while, the highway unspooling under the tires, the rollercoasters shrinking in the rearview.

“So,” Will says eventually. “Verdict? On chair day?”

Jay considers. “It sucked,” he says. “And it was… good. And it was… eye-opening. And I’m going to feel it in my shoulders for three days.”

“Welcome to my gym routine,” Will says.

Jay looks down at his hands. “I know I get to stand up at the end of this,” he says. “I know that makes it different. But… I don’t think I’m going to forget what it felt like. Being talked over. Being ‘sweetied.’ Watching doors bounce off my footrest. So,” Jay continues, “next time you need someone to run interference, or to tell some guy at a bar to talk to you not at me, or to move a chair so you can get to the table, you call me.”

“I already do,” Will says.

Jay smiles. “Then you keep doing it.”

They’re quiet again until the skyline creeps into view, familiar and jagged.

“You know what the best part was?” Will asks.

“Not getting stuck on the log flume?” Jay says.

Will snorts. “The way you almost got in a fight with a twenty-year-old at Guest Services.”

“So… hanging out?” Jay says.

“Yeah,” Will says simply. “Just… doing stuff. Being out. Not because of a hospital, not because of a crisis. Just… brothers being idiots at an amusement park. Also I got to be the more able part one for once”

Jay nods. “We should do that more,” he says.

“The idiot part?” Will asks.

“The not-crisis part,” Jay clarifies. “We’ve had enough big drama days. I vote for more medium days. Coffee days. Wheel days. Whatever.”

Will smiles, soft and real. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

They pull into Med’s lot to return the borrowed chair. Jay unfolds it one last time, sits in it for the short trip to rehab, and then stands up, legs a little wobbly, the world suddenly taller again.

The chair sits between them, empty.

“Feels weird,” Jay says.

“Yeah,” Will says. “It does.”

They hand it back to Lila, who takes one look at their faces and laughs. “You look like you’ve been run over,” she says.

“Close,” Jay says. “We went to Six Flags.”

She winces. “Oof. Double workout.”

As they head back out, side by side—one walking, one rolling—the automatic doors whoosh open for them without a fight.

It feels, briefly, like the world is making space on purpose.

Crazy.

Nice.

“Next time,” Jay says, “we’re doing a movie instead.”

“Accessible theatre?” Will asks.

“I’ll call ahead,” Jay says.

“Look at you,” Will says. “Learning.”

Jay bumps his shoulder lightly. “Somebody’s got to keep up with you.”

They move forward together, into the kind of day that doesn’t make headlines or anniversary dates. The kind you only notice when you’ve gone without them for too long.

Ordinary. Complicated. The kind worth fighting doors—and everything else—for.

Chapter Text

Six Flags, take two, is Hailey’s idea.

“If you two idiots are going to do questionable things with roller coasters,” she’d said, “I’m at least coming to supervise.”

So here they are: Will in his chair, Smoov humming at low power; Jay walking, knee brace traded for a slim compression sleeve under his jeans; Hailey in a Cubs cap; Natalie with a backpack full of snacks, sunscreen, and enough first aid supplies to start a minor clinic.

The air smells like funnel cake and hot metal. The park speakers blast pop songs that all sound vaguely the same.

“You nervous?” Nat murmurs as they head for the first big coaster.

“About the roller coaster or about you seeing exactly how stupid your boyfriend’s risk tolerance is?” Will asks.

“Both,” she says.

Jay walks ahead, scanning the path like it’s a scene. He’s been on the website, read all the access policies, and announced on the drive over. “If it says ‘must be able to evacuate with assistance,’ we’re good. Your assistance is me. I will carry you off anything they’ll let us on.”

Will had snorted. “You’re not fireman-carrying me off a roller coaster, Jay.”

“Don’t worry,” Jay had replied. “I was thinking more princess carry. Very dignified. Though we don’t need to actually do it but I am not letting you miss out on anything if I can help it.”

Now, at the entrance to the first coaster, he’s in full detective presenting evidence mode.

He shows the attendant Will’s access pass, the note about transfers, the line that says Guest may ride with a companion capable of providing physical assistance in the event of an evacuation.

“That’s me,” Jay says. “I can lift him. He can transfer. You get us on, we’ll get him off.”

The attendant—mid-twenties, chewing gum—reads the note, gives them a once-over, then shrugs.

“Works for me,” he says. “As long as you’re taking responsibility, man.”

“I am,” Jay says. “Trust me.”

Hailey leans in as they roll through the gate. “You realise you’ve just signed up for manual labour, right?”

“Worth it,” Jay says, glancing at Will. “He’s not missing out if I can help it.”

Will shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

⸻

It’s… great.

Better than last time.

Most of the coasters have actual accessible entrances they didn’t know about. The park’s clearly updated some procedures; there are more signs, more ramps that don’t end in surprise steps.

For each ride, the pattern repeats:

Jay handles the conversation with the attendant.
Will transfers, Nat and Hailey hovering just enough to steady things but not smother.
They stow the chair, ride, scream, laugh, swear at the drops; Will’s adrenal glands apparently still work just fine.

On one launch coaster, Jay lets out such an undignified yell that Hailey immediately demands the on-ride photo for blackmail.

“I will frame this in the living room,” she says, holding up the image of Jay mid-scream, hair everywhere, Will and Nat equally wrecked.

“That’s a HIPAA violation,” Will protests.

“This is Six Flags, not the ED,” Nat says. “No HIPAA, just happiness.”

The only weird moment happens in line for a mid-sized coaster when a teen in front of them nudges his friend and nods at Will.

“Dude, that’s the doctor who did compressions on my uncle,” the kid whispers, not quietly at all. “He was in a chair then too. Guy’s a beast.”

The friend glances back, gives Will a quick, respectful nod. No pity, no comments. Just acknowledgement.

Will blinks, then nods back.

Jay elbows him. “Fan club.”

“Shut up,” Will says, but there’s a faint flush on his cheeks.

⸻

They save the monster coaster for the afternoon.

It’s massive—twists, flips, one long slow climb that makes your stomach clench just looking at it. The kind of ride that has its own fan merch.

At the access gate, the sign is clear:

Guests using wheelchairs may ride if they can transfer with or without assistance and have a companion capable of helping in case of emergency evacuation.

Jay taps the sign and looks at the attendant. “That’s us,” he says. “All Good”

The attendant is a woman with a tight ponytail and efficient eyes. She studies them both—the chair, the upper-body strength, Jay’s build.

“You sure you can get him down stairs if we get stuck on the lift?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” Jay says without hesitation.

Will rolls his eyes. “He’s annoyingly strong.”

The attendant cracks a smile. “Alright,” she says. “We’ll load you on the back row. Little easier to manage.”

Transfer’s a bit awkward—higher seat, narrow space—but they make it work. Will’s chair gets rolled off to the side, parked under the watchful eye of another attendant. Restraints down, checks done.

Nat reaches over from the row in front, squeezes Will’s hand.

“You good?” she asks.

He squeezes back. “Define ‘good.’”

Hailey grins at Jay. “You bail, you’re dead,” she says.

“I’m not bailing,” he says. “I’ve made peace with whatever happens to my spinal discs.”

The train jerks forward, clacking loudly as it starts the long climb.

Will feels his stomach do that familiar flip—fear and thrill and a little bit of What am I doing? all tangled together.

He glances sideways. Jay is watching the climb, jaw set.

“You know,” Will says, “when you said you’d carry me off a ride if necessary, I assumed the ‘if necessary’ part was hypothetical.”

“Still is,” Jay says. “Relax.”

At the top, the world drops away. The first plunge yanks a yell out of all of them—Hailey’s whoop sharp, Nat’s laugh high and breathless, Jay’s shout torn between terror and joy. Will’s is somewhere in the middle.

The coaster roars through its course: loops, corkscrews, that weird sideways bit that makes your organs feel rearranged.

Halfway through a final banked turn, there’s a sudden clunk.

The train shudders. Brakes hiss. They slow… and stop.

On the track.

On a tilt.

High up.

The noise dies. The world suddenly feels very, very still.

“Oh,” Will says.

“Okay,” Hailey says, in the dangerous tone of someone bracing for chaos.

“Please tell me that’s part of the ride,” Nat says.

It is not part of the ride.

The speakers crackle.

“Attention, guests,” a slightly shaky voice says. “We’re experiencing a temporary mechanical issue. Please remain seated and keep your restraints on. Our team is working to resolve the problem. You’re safe where you are.”

“Define ‘safe,’” Will mutters.

“Not plummeting,” Jay says. “This is fine. Everything’s fine.”

Hailey twists in her seat. “You good?” she asks him.

“Loving my life choices,” Jay says. “Zero regrets.”

Nat leans back toward Will. “You hurting?”

“Nope,” he says. “Just hanging out. Literally.”

Minutes tick by. Heat presses down. The novelty wears off, replaced by the low, simmering anxiety of being stuck in the sky with nothing to do but think.

Finally, the voice returns, this time joined by the faint clank of footsteps on the maintenance catwalk.

“Okay, folks,” the PA says. “We’re going to begin evacuations. Our team will come to you. Please wait for instructions and do not attempt to exit the vehicle on your own.”

Hailey exhales. “Here we go.”

Jay’s eyes meet Will’s.

“Oh my God,” Will says. “It’s happening. You’re getting your princess carry.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Jay says. “I’m doing my heroic moment.”

“Just remember my head doesn’t bend backwards,” Will says.

A couple of maintenance staff appear along the catwalk—harnesses, radios, the whole deal. Below them, way down, Will can see other trains being inched back into stations, people walking along platforms.

They reach their car. The lead tech clips his harness to a safety line, steps onto a small metal platform attached to the side of their row.

“Alright,” he says, projecting calm. “We’re going to unlock your restraints one row at a time and walk you down the catwalk stairs. It’s secure, I promise. Just take your time, hold the rail, no filming please.”

He starts with the front rows. Harnesses. Clicks. People gingerly step out, cling to the railing, make their way down.

When he gets to them, he hesitates.

“You all able to walk down?” he asks.

Hailey and Nat nod. The tech’s eyes flick to Will.

“I’m not,” Will says simply. “Full-time chair. I can’t use my legs.”

The tech nods, no visible panic. “Okay,” he says. “You have someone here who can help? Policy says you need a companion capable of assisting.”

Jay raises his hand. “Yeah I can carry him.”

The tech looks him up and down, assessing. “You sure? It’s a couple flights of pretty steep stairs.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” Jay says. “And he’s mostly sarcasm, that doesn’t weigh much.”

Will elbows him. “Rude.”

The tech considers, then nods. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll do you guys last on this row so we have space. You—” he points at Hailey and Nat “—head down first with my partner. Meet us at the platform.”

Hailey squeezes Jay’s shoulder. “Try not to drop him,” she says.

“Not helpful,” Nat says, smacking her arm.

The staff unlock Hailey and Nat’s restraints. They climb carefully out, gripping the rail, following the second tech down.

Then it’s just Jay, Will, and the harnessed employee.

The tech looks at Will. “You able to sit up okay?” he asks. “Core strength?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Arms and core are fine.”

“Good,” the tech says. “We’ll unlock your restraint. Once it’s up, you pivot as much as you can toward him, and he’ll lift. You—” he nods at Jay “—hold the rail with one hand if you need to, but your priority’s keep him stable. We go slow. If at any point you feel shaky, tell me. I’m right here.”

Jay nods. “Got it.”

The restraint unlocks with a heavy chunk. Will sits forward carefully, hands braced on the edge of the seat. The ground looks very far away.

Jay shifts into position, one foot braced on the catwalk, one still in the ride car, arms sliding under Will’s shoulders and knees.

“Ready?” he asks.

Will rolls his eyes. “Just don’t drop me, Superman.”

Jay grunts, lifts.

For a second, Will’s stomach swoops—not from height this time, but from the unfamiliar sensation of being lifted with no control, nowhere to put his hands. His arms tense instinctively around Jay’s neck.

“Got you,” Jay mutters, adjusting his grip.

The tech hovers near, one hand out but not touching. “Nice and steady,” he says. “Step onto the platform.”

Jay does, shifting his weight. The metal creaks faintly but holds. He turns toward the narrow stairs.

The world has gone weirdly quiet. Just the hum of park machinery in the distance, the murmur of evacuated riders below, the rasp of Jay’s breathing by his ear.

“You good?” Will asks, feeling Jay’s heart hammering.

“Peachy,” Jay says, voice tight but steady.

They start down.

One step. Two. Three.

Jay moves carefully, each foot placement deliberate. He braces one shoulder against the rail when he can, keeping Will’s weight centred.

“You okay?” the tech asks periodically.

“Fine,” Jay says through his teeth.

Will focuses on breathing. On not trying to help in ways that would throw Jay off balance. On trusting.

Halfway down, the angle of the stairs shifts. They pause on a small landing. He sets Will down and shakes his arms off. Will can see the platform now—Nat and Hailey looking up, faces drawn tight with worry and something like awe.

“This is officially the dumbest way we’ve ever bonded,” Will says quietly.

“Give it a minute,” Jay says. “We’ll find new ways.”

They start the second flight.

By the time they reach the bottom, sweat is rolling down Jay’s neck. His arms tremble from the strain. But his grip never slips.

The tech unclips from the safety line, steps ahead to clear space.

Hailey steps forward automatically, hands out.

“I’ve got him,” Jay says, more gently than the words sound.

He carries Will the last few steps onto solid platform before carefully lowering him onto the bench nearby.

As soon as he’s seated, Will blows out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

Jay straightens slowly, rubbing his forearms.

Nat swoops in, doctor mode on overdrive. “Any pain?” she asks Will, eyes scanning him. “Back, shoulders, anything feel off?”

“I’m fine,” he says, a little hoarse. “Just, you know, went from ‘whee’ to ‘trust fall’ real quick.”

She turns to Jay. “You?”

“Arms are on fire,” he admits. “But nothing lasting. I think.”

Hailey looks between them, shaking her head. “You two are insane,” she says. “Do you know that?”

“Accurate,” Will says.

The tech from the stairs steps over. “You guys okay?” he asks. “Sorry for the scare.”

“We’re good,” Jay says, rolling his shoulders. “Thanks for letting us do it this way.”

The tech shrugs. “You had a plan, you knew your limits, you listened to instructions,” he says. “That’s all we ask. Honestly? You’d be surprised how many people freak out more on the stairs than on the ride.”

He glances at Will. “You alright there, man?”

“Yeah,” Will says. “Just adding ‘evacuated from a coaster in a princess carry’ to my list of life experiences.”

The tech laughs. “That’s a good story to tell.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Hailey says.

One of the ride operators brings Will’s chair over to where they are seated on the next. They’re then escorted back to the main path, given some “we’re so sorry” vouchers and free drink bands.

As they roll/walk away, Jay finally exhales hard.

“Okay,” he says. “That was… something.”

“You okay?” Will asks, looking up at him.

Jay nods, then laughs, a little wild. “When I said I’d carry you off a ride, I did not think the universe was listening.”

“Careful what you manifest,” Nat says.

Hailey snorts. “Next time, manifest ‘uneventful day with perfect weather and no mechanical issues.’”

Jay flexes his hands. “I’d do it again,” he says suddenly.

Will looks at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jay says. “If it means you get to do the things you want, not just the things the world forgot to put stairs on.”

Will opens his mouth, closes it, swallows.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “For… that. For letting it be my risk too.”

Jay frowns. “What do you mean?”

Will gestures vaguely. “A lot of places, a lot of policies, treat people like me as… static. As ‘too risky.’ The assumption is ‘better safe than sorry’ but what they really mean is ‘better you stay home.’”

He shrugs. “You read the fine print and went, ‘Okay, it says someone has to help; I’ll be that someone.’ You didn’t decide for me that the risk was too much. You just… offered to share it.”

Jay considers that, then nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Because you should get scared on stupid coasters like everybody else.”

“Deep,” Hailey says. “Real deep.”

Nat smiles, eyes soft. “You both handled that well,” she says. “I was two seconds away from yelling at the sky.”

Will smirks. “I saw your murder face.”

“It was for the mechanical failure,” she protests.

They keep moving, the adrenaline slowly draining, replaced by the weird, floaty exhaustion that always follows these kinds of stories-they’ll-tell-forever.

On the way out, they pass a little kid in a rented stroller, craning her neck to watch them go.

“Look, Mommy,” she says. “They got stuck on the big ride!”

“How do you know that?” her mom asks.

The kid shrugs. “They’re smiling like they’re tired. That’s what Daddy does.”

Will catches the comment, laughs under his breath.

At the exit, they pause for a second, just before the arch.

“Same time next year?” Hailey asks.

“Let’s maybe not schedule the breakdown part,” Nat says.

“We can’t control that,” Jay says. “But we can control whether we show up.”

Will glances back at the steel skeleton of the coaster, then down at his chair, then over at his brother.

“Yeah,” he says. “We show up.”

They roll and walk through the arch together—no drama, no hero speeches, just four people, two chairs, one ridiculous story richer, heading for the parking lot and whatever detours come next.

—-

By the time they get back to Will’s place, the park noise is still ringing in their ears—screams, speakers, the clack of tracks—but the apartment swallows it whole the second the door shuts.

Hailey drops her bag by the entryway, toeing off her shoes. “Okay,” she announces, like she’s calling an official meeting. “Nobody is allowed to do anything athletic for the rest of the night.”

Jay makes a face as he unlaces his trainers. “You say that like I didn’t spend my day getting emotionally jump-scared by a funnel cake stand.”

Natalie heads straight for the kitchen, already opening cabinets. Not frantic—just that calm, familiar I’m here and I’m settling in kind of movement.

Will rolls in behind them, leans down, and shifts his weight onto the couch in one smooth transfer like it’s muscle memory. He pulls a cushion behind his back, exhales, and lets his shoulders drop.

There. Home.

His chair sits parked at an angle near the coffee table, out of the way. Not a centerpiece. Just… a chair.

Hailey flops down at one end of the couch and immediately steals the throw blanket. “Pizza?” she asks, voice bright and lazy.

“Pizza,” Jay agrees instantly.

Natalie glances over her shoulder. “Pizza’s fine. But we’re doing the civilized thing and getting one with something green on it.”

Jay points at her. “You always do this.”

“It’s called keeping you alive,” she says, deadpan.

Will reaches for his phone. “Alright. Two pizzas. One each for the factions. Options: pepperoni for Team Grease, and—”

“Veggie,” Natalie says.

“Not depressing veggie,” Hailey adds. “Fun veggie.”

Will smirks. “So… ‘garden’ but with garlic and extra cheese.”

Natalie nods, satisfied. “Exactly.”

Jay sinks into the armchair, then immediately regrets it and stands again to stretch his arms, rolling his shoulders with a wince.

Hailey clocks it. “Oh my God. You’re sore.”

“I carried a fully grown man down several flights of emergency stairs,” Jay says, like he can’t believe he has to explain physics.

Will turns his head, eyebrow up. “Allegedly ‘princess carried.’”

Jay points at him. “Don’t call it that.”

Natalie’s mouth twitches. “He did okay.”

“Thank you,” Jay says.

Will gives Natalie an amused look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I am enjoying everyone being home and alive and not stuck on a roller coaster,” she corrects, and leans in to press a quick kiss to Will’s temple—automatic, affectionate, like punctuation.

The tension in the room—whatever thin leftover thread of adrenaline—snaps clean.

Hailey grabs the remote. “Game on?”

Jay perks up. “Yes.”

Will nods. “Yes. And we’re not analysing the coaching decisions like it’s a crime scene.”

Hailey looks offended. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jay snorts. “She absolutely does.”

⸻

The pizza arrives fast enough that it feels like the universe is apologising.

They eat right out of the boxes, plates abandoned as a concept. Hailey sits cross-legged with the blanket over her knees. Jay claims the armchair again, this time with a pillow tucked behind his back like he’s trying not to admit he’s been humbled by stairs. Natalie sits on the couch beside Will, close enough that their shoulders keep bumping.

The game’s on, crowd roaring through the speakers.

Hailey takes one bite and immediately makes a noise like she’s been wronged. “Why is this so good?”

“Because you were emotionally traumatized by an evacuation,” Will says.

Natalie points at him with her crust. “No coaster talk.”

Will zips his lips theatrically.

Jay watches a play unfold and groans. “That was a terrible decision.”

Hailey laughs. “From the guy who thought diving behind a couch during a gunfight was a good idea?”

Jay turns his head slowly. “That is not the same.”

“It’s leadership under pressure,” Will says, smug.

Natalie leans in. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m encouraging the banter,” Will says. “It’s a vital sign.”

They argue about nothing for a while—ref calls, whether pineapple belongs on pizza (Hailey is aggressively pro, Jay is personally offended, Natalie is neutral but judgmental), whether Will would have been a better quarterback than the current guy on screen.

“I would’ve been a great quarterback,” Will says.

Jay barks a laugh. “You? You’d ignore the play call and improvise.”

“That’s called creativity,” Will says.

“That’s called getting sacked,” Jay replies.

Natalie’s smile is soft as she watches them, like she’s filing the moment away.

At some point, the conversation drifts into weekend logistics—Hailey’s bridesmaid’s, whether Jay’s suit still fits, Maggie’s latest gossip, Choi’s eternal grumpiness.

No one mentions wheelchairs. No one performs inspiration. No one tiptoes.

It’s just… them.

⸻

Late in the second quarter, the volume drops naturally, like the apartment is settling into its evening skin.

Will lounges deeper into the couch, warm and full, eyes half on the screen. Natalie’s feet are tucked under her, one hand absentmindedly tracing the seam of the cushion like she’s thinking about something else and doesn’t need to say it.

Jay shifts again, rubbing at his forearm.

Will catches it. “You sure you’re okay?”

Jay snorts. “I’m fine. I’m just—” he rotates his shoulder and makes a face. “—discovering new muscles.”

Hailey points at him. “You’re proud though.”

Jay pauses, then shrugs, pretending he isn’t. “Yeah,” he admits. “I am.”

Will nods once, satisfied. “Good. You should be.”

Natalie reaches out, briefly squeezing Jay’s shoulder—tiny, supportive, no fuss. “You did great today,” she says simply.

Hailey leans back and grins. “Look at us,” she says. “Everyone alive. Everyone fed. No one in an ambulance. A perfect night.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Jay says instantly.

Will laughs. “You guys are superstitious.”

Says the man who works in an ED.

Hailey stretches, yawning. “This is nice,” she says. “Like… old times. Just louder.”

Jay’s gaze flicks around the room—pizza boxes, blankets, the soft glow of the TV, Natalie’s socked feet on the cushion, Will’s chair parked off to the side like it belongs here because it does.

“Yeah,” Jay says quietly. “It is.”

Natalie nudges Will’s knee with hers. “You want more water?” she asks.

“No,” Will says. “I want you to stop mothering everyone.”

“I’m not mothering, I am a mom” she says, affronted.

Hailey points at the water glasses Natalie filled anyway. “You are absolutely mothering.”

Natalie looks at them. “Okay fine,” she concedes. “I’m mothering. But you’re all alive, so you’re welcome.”

Will smiles, turns his head toward her. “Thanks, Mom.”

Natalie flicks a napkin at him, then laughs when it lands on his shoulder and sticks to pizza grease.

Jay snorts. “That’s karma.”

Will peels it off and tosses it at Jay without aiming carefully. It hits Jay’s face and slides down dramatically.

Hailey cackles. “Men,” she announces, like she’s narrating a nature documentary.

And the night just… continues. Soft. Easy. Familiar. Like if you squinted, it could’ve been any year.

Except Will knows better than to squint at his life now.

He doesn’t need to.

He’s got pizza, a game, and his people—messy, loud, annoying, perfect.

And for tonight, that’s all.

⸻

The fourth quarter turns into background noise—the kind that fills the room without demanding attention. Everyone’s hit that warm, slow drift you only get after a long day and too much pizza.

Hailey is the first to start fading. Her head tips back against the couch, eyes half-closed, blanket still clutched like it’s a prize. “If I fall asleep,” she mumbles, “nobody draw on my face.”

Jay doesn’t even look up. “No promises.”

Hailey’s eyes snap open. “Jay.”

“I’m kidding,” he says, and the way he says it makes it obvious he’s only mostly kidding.

Natalie gets up quietly and pads to the kitchen. She returns with four fresh waters like she’s proving a point.

“I don’t want water,” Jay says automatically.

Natalie sets it on the table anyway. “Drink it.”

Jay squints at her. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m preventing your body from turning into beef jerky,” she says.

Hailey points sleepily at Natalie. “See? Mothering.”

Natalie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “If I stop, you’ll all combust.”

Will shifts his weight on the couch, comfortable, full, feeling the kind of tired that doesn’t scare him. He watches Natalie place his outstretched legs on her lap, the way she always does when she’s deciding to stay.

Hailey suddenly sits up like she’s been possessed. “I want the last slice.”

Jay’s hand shoots out at the same time. “No. I want the last slice.”

They freeze, both gripping the same crust like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Will looks at them. “You’re both thirty-something.”

Hailey keeps her grip. “It’s symbolic.”

Jay narrows his eyes. “It’s pepperoni. It’s mine.”

Natalie reaches over with absolute, surgical calm, plucks the slice out of their hands, and takes a bite.

Both of them stare at her, aghast.

Natalie chews. Swallows. “What?” she says, totally innocent. “Nobody claimed it.”

Hailey makes a strangled noise. “You— you can’t do that.”

Jay points at her. “Traitor.”

Natalie takes another bite. “I can and I did.”

Will laughs, low and soft, and leans his head back. “That’s my doctor,” he says. “Swift. Efficient. Merciless.”

Natalie nudges his shoulder with hers, pleased with herself.

Hailey collapses dramatically into the couch. “This is why I don’t trust either of you,” she declares.

Jay mutters, “I can’t believe I got outplayed by a pediatrician.”

Natalie lifts the slice slightly like a trophy. “Winner winner.”

The room settles again. The game clock ticks down. Hailey is inching toward sleep like it’s a job. Jay rubs his eyes and tries to pretend he isn’t exhausted.

Will turns his head toward Natalie, voice casual in that way that means it matters but he’s not trying to make it A Thing.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Natalie hums, looking at him. “Yeah?”

“What time is Helen dropping Owen off tomorrow?” Will asks. “I just want to make sure I’m up— and, you know, not in the middle of something.”

Natalie’s expression softens instantly, like a light went on behind her eyes. “Ten-thirty,” she says. “She texted earlier. She’s bringing banana muffins apparently.”

Will’s face brightens. “Banana muffins?”

“She said she’s ‘making sure you boys eat something besides pizza,’” Natalie says, smiling. “Her words, not mine.”

Jay, half-asleep in the chair, cracks one eye open. “Can she adopt me please?”

Natalie points at him without looking away from Will. “Only if you behave.”

Hailey, eyes closed, mumbles, “Nobody adopts Jay. Jay is feral.”

Jay’s voice is drowsy but offended. “I am not feral.”

“You are,” Will says, and it’s said with so much fondness it barely counts as an insult.

Natalie leans in, quick and gentle, and kisses Will’s cheek. “Ten-thirty,” she repeats. “I’ll set an alarm, okay?”

“I can set—” Will starts.

“I know,” she says, cutting him off softly. “But I want to.”

He holds her gaze for a second, then nods. “Okay.”

The clock winds down. Someone on TV does something dumb. Hailey makes a sleepy noise of disapproval without opening her eyes. Jay’s head tips back again.

Will exhales, the kind of breath that empties out the last of the day.

Normal night. Pizza. Game. People he loves. Tomorrow morning, banana muffins and a little kid who will probably climb on his couch and ask him a hundred questions.

He glances at Natalie again, and she looks back like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Good night?” she asks quietly.

Will smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Good night.”

Chapter Text

Will doesn’t really notice the quiet until Jay and Hailey’s voices fade down the hallway and the door clicks shut behind them.

The apartment exhales.

Natalie locks up, twists the deadbolt like she always does, then turns with that satisfied look people get when they’ve successfully herded everyone out and no one died. “Okay,” she says, stretching her arms over her head. “We survived. No broken bones, no emergency evacuations, no one arrested.”

Will smiles, but it doesn’t quite land.

He wheels into the bedroom on autopilot and flips on the lamp. Soft light, familiar space. The nighttime version of home.

In the bathroom, everything is where it’s supposed to be: wipes, gloves, lubricant packets, spare catheters in a neat bin under the sink. The mindless practicality of it usually helps. Tonight it doesn’t.

He does what he needs to do—quick, practiced, no drama—then checks his skin the way he’s been trained to, the way he trained himself to. It’s boring and necessary and, on bad nights, a reminder that spontaneity comes with a risk assessment.

When he’s done, he washes his hands, dries them, and catches his reflection in the mirror.

It’s not the first time he’s seen his legs like this. It just… hits different tonight. Eighteen months ago, they’d looked like his legs. Stronger. More there. Now the muscle’s thinned in places he tries not to stare at. His knees look bonier. His thighs sit a little flatter against the chair cushion, like the shape has changed when he wasn’t looking.

Natalie disappears into the bathroom to wash up. Will starts his routine because he always does, because his life is made of routines now—little ladders he climbs to get from one day to the next without slipping.

Back in the bedroom, Will wheels over and transfers onto the bed, the motion easy from repetition. He scoots back, then reaches down to pull his legs up with his hands, swinging them into position and arranging them on the mattress. He is careful and practiced, pulling the covers up more out of habit than comfort. He stares at the ceiling, waiting for Natalie to finish in the bathroom, shirt half-lifted, and catches himself in the mirror across from the closet.

All he wanted was simple—just them, no Owen, no interruptions, no planning.

He swallows.

He’s seen this a thousand times in the last eighteen months, but tonight it lands harder: the way his thighs have lost some bulk, the softer definition, calves a little thinner than the version of himself his brain still defaults to. The surgical scars run pale along his skin on the leg he broke a year ago.

He shifts, and the movement makes his legs flop a bit more loosely than they used to. It’s not dramatic. It’s just… different. Enough to tug at something inside him.

He can hear Natalie running water, humming softly. Normal, domestic, easy. The kind of sound that should make him feel safe. He’s already done his bathroom routine—teeth, face, bladder stuff all handled and tucked away behind closed doors like any other quiet, mildly annoying part of nightly life.

But lying back on the bed, alone with himself for a minute, the weight of it all decides to show up now, a knot tightens in his chest.

He pushes the covers back off himself and forces himself through the rest: checking skin where pressure likes to start trouble, smoothing lotion over spots that get dry. It’s not dramatic, it’s just… tedious. And some nights, the tedium feels like a loss all over again.

Tonight, he’d wanted something simpler. Something selfish and easy.

Jay and Hailey were gone. Owen wasn’t here. No chance of a tiny kid barreling into the room at the worst possible moment.

He’d been looking forward to being a boyfriend, not a patient doing an inventory of risks. He’d been looking forward to tonight—no Owen, no interruptions, just him and Nat and nothing clinical or complicated in sight.

And now his own body has walked in like, Hi, I’d like to be the main character again. He’s sitting on his bed, bare-chested, staring at himself like he’s a stranger he didn’t mean to invite into the room.

His own body has killed his vibe.

Will lies back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the bathroom door. He tries to breathe it off, to let the heaviness float away, but his brain keeps replaying the image: the before-and-after legs, the routine, the sense that he has to manage himself before he’s allowed to want anything.

He’s still in that headspace when the bathroom door opens and Natalie pads out in an oversized t-shirt, hair damp, moving like she belongs here, toothbrush still in hand. She looks like the person he loves, like home with a pulse.

She pauses immediately, reading him the way she always does—like she can see the subtext hovering in the air. She takes one look at him sprawled on his back, too still, and instantly knows something’s off, voice quiet. Not alarmed. Just there. “What’s wrong?” she asks, climbing onto the edge of the bed.

Will tries for a shrug and fails to make it convincing. “Nothing.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow and comes closer, perching on the edge of the bed. “Will.”

Will keeps his eyes on the ceiling for a beat like it might be easier than letting her see it. Then he exhales and turns his head toward her.

“I’m being stupid,” he says.

Natalie’s expression doesn’t change. Not pity, not impatience. Just attention. “Try again.”

He huffs a short laugh. “Okay. I—” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “I caught myself in the mirror. And… my legs look really different now.” He blows out a breath and drags a hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I was… looking forward to tonight.”

Her mouth softens. “Me too.”

“And then I—” He gestures vaguely at himself, frustrated at how hard it is to say out loud. Natalie sets her toothbrush down.

Will’s voice stays light, but it’s thin around the edges. “It’s been eighteen months, so it’s not like I expected nothing to change, but… there’s just so much less muscle. It’s like my body keeps quietly rewriting itself and I only notice when I’m not ready.”

Natalie’s hand lands on his forearm, steady.
He swallows, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s safer than looking at her.

“And then,” Will continues, swallowing, “I did the whole night routine. The bathroom stuff. The checks. The…” He shakes his head, frustrated. “And it just hit me all at once that I don’t feel like your boyfriend right now.”

Natalie’s brows pull together slightly.

“I feel like a patient,” Will says, and the words come out rougher than he means. “Like I have to do a whole protocol before I’m allowed to exist. Before I’m allowed to want you without my brain going—‘Okay, and what are the risks, and what if something goes wrong, and did you do everything right.’”

Natalie is quiet for a beat, absorbing it.

Then she reaches out and lays her hand on his chest, warm and steady. “Hey,” she says softly. “Look at me.”

Will turns his head. Meets her eyes.

“I’m not thinking about your routine,” she says. “I’m not tallying what’s different. I’m not comparing you to some version of you from eighteen months ago like you’re a chart trend.”

He gives a short, bitter laugh. “I am.”

“I know,” she says, thumb moving gently against his skin. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

Will’s jaw tightens. “I just… I hate how much mental space it takes. I hate that I can’t just—” He exhales. “I want you. And then my brain goes, Here’s a list of reasons you’re not allowed to want things tonight.”

Natalie’s expression shifts—soft, then suddenly bright with that particular Natalie brand of determined. Like she’s decided this is a problem and she’s going to treat it.

““Hey,” she says, gently firm. “You are not ruining anything.”

Will’s mouth twitches, humourless. “Feels like I am.”

“It feels like you’re in your head,” she corrects. “And you’re letting the mirror tell you a story that isn’t the whole truth.”

Will looks up at her, eyes tired.

Natalie’s gaze holds his, soft but sure. “I know what you see,” she says. “I know what it takes every day. But I don’t look at you and see a patient.”

“What do you see?” Will asks, voice low.

Natalie’s mouth curves. “I see the sexiest redheaded doctor I know.”

Will blinks, caught off guard. “That’s a very narrow pool.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t competitive,” she says, deadpan. “Second of all—”

She leans in closer, voice lowering like she’s sharing a secret.

“And,” she adds, deadly serious and completely ridiculous at the same time, “just because you’re ginger doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Will stares at her for half a second, then a laugh breaks out of him—real, warm, relieved before he can stop it—surprised, a little breathless. It loosens something in his chest.

Natalie smiles like she’s won pleased with herself. “There he is.”

“You’re impossible,” he says, still laughing, rubbing at his eyes.

“I’m accurate,” she says. “And I’m also not interested in you deciding you’re not boyfriend material because your legs changed. That’s not your call.”

“That’s… that’s your move?” he says, still laughing.

“It’s a classic,” she says. “Works every time. You’re welcome.”

Will shakes his head, breath easing. “You really are impossible.”

“I’m also correct,” she says, and presses a quick kiss to his shoulder. “And for the record, I like your body. I like you. All the versions. Tired you, grumpy you, post-shift you, soft-at-home you.”

Her hand slides down his arm, fingers lacing with his. Will’s laugh fades into something quieter. “I just… hate feeling like I have to manage myself all the time,” he admits. “It’s hard to switch from ‘monitor and maintain’ to… being with you.”

Natalie nods, thumb stroking his arm. “Then don’t switch,” she says. “Not abruptly. Not like flipping a light. Just… let it be both.”

He looks at her.

“You’re allowed to have a routine,” she continues. “You’re allowed to need things. That doesn’t make you less of a boyfriend. It just makes you… a person who lives in a body.”

Her voice drops a little, more intimate. “And I want you. I wanted you before the routine. I wanted you after the routine. I want you on your bad nights, too.”

Will swallows, throat tight. “Yeah?”

Natalie leans in and kisses him—slow, deliberate, like she’s rewriting the narrative with her mouth instead of arguing with his brain.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against his.

“Now come here. If you want to stop,” she adds, gentler now, “we stop. If you want to just sleep, we sleep. If you want to be close without any pressure, we do that. We can take it slow. No performance needed. Just us. But don’t decide for me that I’m not attracted to you. Don’t take that away from us.”

Will’s throat tightens. He nods once. “I’m not trying to.”

“I know,” she says. “You’re just… in your head.”

“Yeah,” he admits.

Natalie brushes a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Then come back out of it,” she says softly. “Come here.”

Will shifts closer. Natalie climbs under the blanket and curls against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one arm across his torso, her forehead resting lightly against his.

The contact is grounding in a way nothing else is.

After a moment, Will exhales against her hair. “You really don’t care?” he murmurs.

Natalie lifts her head just enough to look at him. “I care about you,” she corrects. “And I care that you’re safe. And I care that you don’t punish yourself for having a body that needs things. But your legs looking different doesn’t change what I want.”

She pauses, eyes flicking over him with warm honesty.

“Also,” she adds, “you’re still annoyingly hot.”

Will laughs quietly. “Stop.”

“Nope,” she says, kissing him again—slow, unhurried. “Doctor’s orders.”

Will’s hand comes up to her cheek, thumb tracing along her jaw. “Okay,” he whispers, letting himself sink into it.”Will exhales, his hand sliding up her cheek, grounding himself in something real.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Natalie smiles softly, it’s small and sure. “Good.”

They kiss again, and this time Will doesn’t feel like he has to perform “normal.” He just has to be here. With her. In the quiet.

And when the night shifts into something more, it’s not loud or cinematic—just soft, familiar, wanted and for the first time since he’d caught that flashes of himself in the mirror, the feeling that he’s a patient starts to fade—replaced by something familiar and steady.

Wanted. Seen. Home.

Not despite everything.

Just… included in it.

——

Will wakes up before the alarm, before the light has properly decided what kind of day it’s going to be.

Natalie is still asleep beside him, one arm tucked under her pillow, hair a soft mess across her cheek. The room is dim and warm and quiet in a way that makes him want to stay put.

He doesn’t.

He slides carefully out from the covers, transfers into his chair in just his boxers, and pauses for a second—hands on the wheels, breathing steady—before rolling toward the bathroom.

The floor is cool under his tires. The apartment makes its familiar little noises: a distant pipe settling, the soft click of the fridge, the faint hum of the city beyond the window.

In the bathroom, the light is too bright at first. He blinks, then looks around like he’s seeing it fresh.

It’s his bathroom. It still has the same mirror and the same chipped corner tile he always meant to fix. His toothbrush cup still sits slightly crooked because Natalie never puts it back in the same spot and it makes him irrationally fond.

But there’s a lot here that wasn’t here eighteen months ago.

The shower chair, angled neatly in the corner of the tub. The grab bar by the toilet. The little caddy that lives beside the sink with supplies arranged in a way that’s half clinical, half comforting, a couple of meds in their bottles. The boring, necessary infrastructure of a life he didn’t plan for.

He rests his hand on the counter and lets his gaze drift over it all.

Some of the changes are the kind he’d wished for without daring to say out loud.

It’s his bathroom—except it isn’t just his anymore. Natalie’s shampoo is wedged next to his, and Owen’s little step stool sits folded by the sink like it owns the place. A toothbrush with spiderman on it leans in the cup, slightly too loud and proud for a room this early in the morning. A tiny plastic dinosaur on the windowsill that Will swears he did not buy and yet has become a permanent resident.

And then there’s the other stuff. The shower bench. The grab bar. The small caddy with the supplies he never imagined he’d keep within arm’s reach.

Gifts and losses, sharing the same counter space. Other changes are… not wishes. Just facts. A system. A routine that feels like a checklist on the mornings when he’s tired and fine on the mornings when he’s not thinking too hard.

He rolls closer to the sink and catches his reflection, then looks down as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.

His legs look different in the fluorescent bathroom light—paler, thinner, shapes altered in small ways that add up when he really stares. His feet, especially, look… odd to him sometimes. Like they belong to someone who lives a different life. They aren’t misshapen as such is more the muscles that used to lead to them no longer exist anymore.

There are scars too: old ones, new ones, the faint track-marks of surgeries and accidents that left their signatures on his skin. He’s never minded scars much. They’re concrete. They’re proof of something survived. They’re battle scars in the simplest sense—wars fought, wounds closed.

He can live with those.

It’s the other scars that are harder.

The ones you can’t point to in a mirror.

The ones that show up as a tightening in his chest when his body does something unexpected, as a flash of panic when a room turns into Treatment 3 in his head for no good reason. The tick bite itself feels almost ridiculous when he puts it into words—tiny thing, huge aftermath. Like the universe wrote the punchline first and dumped the setup afterward.

He stares at his feet again, at the stillness of them, the quiet permanence.

Strength, he can understand when it’s measured in something physical: broken bones healing, surgery scars fading, muscles rebuilding where they can. Mental strength is messier. Some days it feels like resilience. Some days it feels like endurance. And some days it just feels like… getting through the morning without letting the mirror win.

Will looks away before he can spiral.

He reaches for the shower controls, tests the temperature, sets everything up the way he always does. The routine is familiar enough that his hands can do it while his mind drifts.

He wheels closer, transfers into the shower, and sits there for a beat under the spray—water hitting his shoulders, warm and steady.

He closes his eyes.

He thinks about the last eighteen months: the way time can hold both gifts and losses in the same clenched fist. Natalie. Owen. A version of home he didn’t have before. And also this—grab bars, routines, a body that changed without asking him first.

When he opens his eyes again, the water is still falling, the morning still waiting.

He soap-lathers his hair, lets it rinse out, and tries to let the warmth do what it always does: soften the edges.

Not fix.

Just soften.