Work Text:
Grief worked in funny ways.
It breaks people apart and pulls them together into something new when it's done. Most of the time, all you can do is hold onto the people you love and hope that when you make it out the other side, you're still together.
Jack Abbot had been in therapy for as long as you could remember, which means something when you've known the man your whole life. It was him who had insisted you go to therapy after your mom passed, despite the overwhelming force of his own grief.
There was a period of time when you were terrified you’d never be whole again. Desperate to act strong and not put extra weight on your dad’s shoulders. He didn’t need more on top of his job, the grief, PTSD, and now being a single parent. It felt like he was watching you for when you’d finally break down.
And, of course, he had been thinking the same as you, trying to hold it together for his kid after they lost their mom and were left alone with their mess of a father.
You moved out of your childhood home, unable to keep looking for ghosts. You attended therapy, separately, and then together. You ended up losing nearly all your friends. You opened up, finally, sobbing in some mixture of grief and shame, after trying so hard to keep it together. You also gained a relationship with your father that would make any other teen so embarrassed they’d skip town. You started to make new friends, people who saw you as more than just the kid with the dead mom.
The grief didn’t shrink, but you started to grow around it. Let the new mix with the old and make something worth saving.
When you came home one day and mention an invite to Pitt Fest with your friends, you expect uncertainty. Jack Abbot is a good dad. He’s your favourite person in the world, even if you never plan to say that to his face. He is also undeniably protective, and Pitt Fest would be large, crowded, and packed with poor decision-making.
Instead, he encouraged you. Said he was proud you're going out and connecting with others and having fun, in a roundabout way. And that was that.
With the promise you’d call him on your way home before he started his shift, you went to the festival a few weeks later.
And everything, as it tends to do when you look away for too long, went wrong.
—
He’d called three times. You didn’t pick up.
It was stupid, but as he shoved the car keys into the ignition, he contemplated driving towards the festival. To go and find you.
But it wasn’t feasible. It was across town. Even if he managed to somehow get close, it would be chaos, all those faces a blur in the crowd. And there’s no way they’d let him on a scene that's not secured.
Everyone who wasn’t injured would be held on site and questioned by police before being released. Injuries to be sent to the PTMC. The deceased was… something he couldn’t think about, right now.
“...then I can’t pick up right now, so text me like a normal person! Or leave a message, and I’ll text you. Bye!”
A beep. He sucked in an abnormally shaky breath.
“Hey. I need you to call me back asap. Let me know you’re okay. If you can, come to the Pitt, okay? I love you. I love you, and-” His voice breaks off. What else could he say? “Call me. See you soon.”
Jack didn’t make it to the nurse's desk before Robby was on him, and it's true he’d bitch at Robby all day long, but there are very few people he’d like to see more, right now. Just one, really.
A hug he could barely remember. A speech. Dana pulled him to the side.
“The kid. They’re at Pitt Fest?”
Leave it to Dana not to beat around the bush. Not that there was time to, now.
“Yeah. Yeah, I… Haven't heard from them yet.” Watching the way Dana’s face fell made it too real.
Suddenly, he wanted to go find Robby again. Robby and Jack were good at ignoring things, or better said, talking around them. Leaving space. Robby understood that Jack needed to be strong right now and keep his shit together. He couldn’t talk about how his kid, his fucking kid, might be dead or hurt, and he can’t do a damn thing about it-
And Dana must’ve seen that on his face because she pulled him in for a brief hug, promised to try and call you when she tried Jake, and moved along to help prep carts.
He has a good kid. A smart one. And so strong, even when they shouldn't have to be. The best child someone could ask for, even if all parents say that. He’d gotten damn lucky.
Jack Abbot hasn't believed in a god for a long time, or at least not a kind one who shows mercy. And yet…
He uttered a prayer under his breath, barely a whisper. Please. Please.
Then he finished setting up his kit, steadied his breathing, and did his job.
—
You had your first aid certification.
It was something you’d wanted, though you're sure your dad would have asked you to get it eventually.
You took the highest level courses they’d let you take at 16. You read books on a variety of medicine. Harassed your dad about resources and volunteered at the cancer clinic during the summers.
At first, it was an expression of grief. A way feel in control after mom. To feel like you could stop death if you faced it again. Then, with time, it had become a new way to talk to your dad, to complain about how weirdly the human body worked and ask about recent studies.
But nothing could ever have prepared you for this.
The gunshots came quickly. The screaming came faster, somehow.
You were off by yourself, attempting to find a stall with water cheaper than $6 (fucking festival prices, and they won't even let you take more than one bottle in with you). Suddenly, you were slammed into the side of a tent, almost falling through the tarp as people rushed past.
Everything started moving very fast.
Not fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. Someone was shooting at the festival.
You were going to die.
Closer to the stage entrance, someone went down, hard. Her leg folded underneath her unnaturally as she was shoved into the dirt. A young woman, maybe a few years older than you. She was going to get trampled if someone didn’t help her. If she didn’t get shot first.
She was going to die.
Your brain felt blank, suddenly.
Adrenaline, a distant voice in your head whispered. It’s hell of a drug. Makes people do all kinds of crazy things.
She was going to die if no one helped her.
The plastic tent cover brushed your leg. Somehow, you were standing halfway in it, foot through where the bottom had come untucked. When had you done that?
She was going to die if you didn’t help her.
You were moving before you realized the decision had been made.
She was pale and unconscious when you got to her. The crowd started to disperse further away from the stage. You shouldn't move her if there were a risk of spinal trauma, but the scene was far from secure.
Hoisting your arms under her armpits and clasping your hands together in front of her chest, you pulled, dragging her back into the tent you’d fallen onto earlier. It was abandoned, of course. Anyone with a lick of sense is running away right now.
There’s my brave kid. The sting of disinfectant on your knee. A dinosaur bandied. A kiss on the head.
ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation.
You tilted her head back. She had eyeshadow that was shaped like a butterfly. Her lips were painted the same colour as the wings. Lift the chin. Her airway was clear, breath steady against your cheek.
At least someone was relaxed.
Her leg was twisted all wrong, but you couldn’t fix that now. You patted down her body. Multiple open wounds, but they seemed minor enough. The blood had begun to cover your hands and arms, soaking into the knees of your pants. She had hit her head, surely, but a concussion was the least of anyone's worries right now. The stomach and chest didn’t feel hard or distended, so hopefully no internal bleeding.
God. Oh shit, you needed to get out of here. You needed to get both of you out of here.
Deep breaths, honey. A soccer game. Most of the team was older than you. New, bright green shin pads. You got this.
You needed help to get her out of here.
Before you were fully standing, your left leg gave out beneath you suddenly, pitching you into the dirt.
There was no pain. It felt as if your leg just… gave out. For a blissful moment, you wondered if maybe your leg had fallen asleep from kneeling so long.
When you pushed yourself up on your elbows and started to pull your knees beneath you, it was a genuine surprise to look down and see the bullet hole.
It was small. Smaller than you’d thought a bullet hole would be. You’d thought it would bleed less, too, somehow. Your ears rang.
Outside the tent, noise filtered in. A popping noise, random and sporadic. It was getting impossibly closer.
Hide and seek again? Alright, alright, fine! A deep laugh. The air smelled like blueberry pancakes. I’m seeking this time. Can’t try to fit myself behind the couch with my knees, honey.
You forced your body to go limp and held your breath.
There were footsteps outside. Help or another bullet? You couldn’t tell how visible you were from the doorway. If someone could tell you were still alive.
1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…
At 80, you had to breathe. You couldn’t just lie here and wait to bleed out.
Ready or not, here I come!
You slowly exhaled. Shifted an arm. A leg. That should hurt, right? A bullet wound should definitely hurt.
Fight or flight, fight or flight. You couldn’t do either, like this.
The woman was still non-responsive. A distant part of you screamed in envy.
This wasn’t fair. You wanted someone to help you.
You wanted your dad to make it better.
Your belt was slick with blood when you took it off your waist.
Stop the bleeding. You had to stop the bleeding.
They told you how much force a tourniquet takes. The answer is “more than you think it should.” How it could be so painful for the casualty, they sometimes would try to fight back, even knowing they’d die without it. None of this knowledge helped in that moment as you failed to stop the scream that slipped out.
Your hands shook.
Pull harder. You jerked the belt suddenly, forcing the prong through the fake leather, far higher than any of the other holes.
Cheap garbage. Thank god for modern fashion.
It hurt. The shock must’ve been starting to wear off. The belt wasn’t tight enough, either. But you couldn’t force yourself to take it off and try again.
Get help. One of the most important steps in emergency response. Contact help.
Distantly, you spare a thought for your friends. They’d been near the washrooms when you’d split up. You hope they’re nowhere near here.
The shots had stopped. The gunman must have moved further away again. Or was out of bullets. Or was hiding.
Staggering to your feet and limping towards the entrance of the tent, you distantly wondered about family resemblance and wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream.
Dad got hurt at work, and now I only have one leg. A pause. Yeah, but I still get around okay. Gotta be able to get up so I can go eat all the cake by myself, right? Hey, come back here-
There was an older man near the entrance of the tent, on the ground, moaning in pain. He had a gunshot wound in his right shoulder and a festival staff ID pinned to the other.
You want to keep walking. You needed help. So did the lady in the tent.
But she was currently stable. And you both looked to be in far better shape than he was.
He looked up at you, forehead sweaty, eyes glazed.
It hurt when you knelt next to him.
“I’m first aid trained. I… I’m here to help.”
—
It was Shen who received the ambulance you arrived in.
One of the last ones, the paramedic promised.
They were probably right, though. The shooter was gone, dead. Took the easy way out. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure he had much room for feeling anything at the moment.
There had been no word from you. And the last of the injured were here. The rest of the festival-goers were either unharmed or dead.
Later, he’d ask Shen and the paramedics for the full story. It wasn’t a long one.
They had found a kid way in the merchandise stalls. It was how it took so long to find them and get them out. They had been doing first aid on a man and pointed EMS to a tent with an unconscious woman. The kid had refused to be treated until they took the other casualties first, and had practically collapsed into the back of the ambulance.
It was Jack Abbot’s kid, which was what they didn’t say. They couldn’t have known, of course. But Shen had. He bought you the damn band shirt you were wearing for your last birthday. It wasn’t red, then.
“Oh fuck.”
You blinked up at him from the gurney.
“Oh. Nice to see you, too.”
It was his name, called by Shen in a way that is too stressed to come from Shen of all people, that caused his head to jerk up so fast the room shook. Dehydration. Blood loss, maybe. Definitely stress.
“We got the kid.” Jack was across the floor and at your side so fast he didn’t remember moving, only that Langdon took over for him and finished some sutures.
You were in a gurney, drenched in blood, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe, but he had to, because you looked up at him and there was blood streaked across your damn face, his baby, oh god-
“Dad.”
It wasn’t a question. An observation, maybe. It sounded more like a plea to Jack.
He needed to stay calm. Instead, what slipped out is “oh god.”
Shen injected an IV in your arm. Mohan pushed him closer to your head. He went to reach for a blood bag, and Robby was beside him. Bless him, Robby was taking over primary patient care without any questions, which was for the best.
Jack was good at acting under pressure, had saved lives while bombs blew behind him- but this was his kid. And he needed help.
“Most of it isn’t mine,” You whispered, and it took him a moment to realize what you were talking about. The blood. Most of it wasn’t yours.
No head injury. No spinal. Not internal bleeding. Impaired by blood loss and, now, the pain meds. The main source of blood loss is from a gunshot wound. In your leg.
Someone shot his kid.
“Dad?”
And the world rushed back.
“It's okay, honey. We got you. We’re gonna patch you up,” he soothed, attempting to focus on what he should be doing. To ignore how none of this should be happening in the first place. “You're okay. You're okay, I'm right here.”
Shen started a heavier painkiller on the IV. You shouldn't be awake for this.
Still, watching you fight to stay awake made him want to start screaming.
“Okay…” It was barely a whisper.
He shouldn't have been able to hear it over all the commotion. He did, of course. Jack was always listening for you.
“I love you.”
This was all so fucked up.
“I love you too. It’s okay. You can sleep.”
Your eyes slipped shut. He got to work.
—
When you woke up, it was a slow process. The world felt thick, like molasses. You opened your eyes, the ceiling familiar.
Your throat was so dry it hurt.
A machine beside you beeped steadily. An IV drip sat beside it. Your dad sat beside both, charting silently. His whole body jerked when you attempted to clear your throat.
You stared at each other for a long moment.
Slowly, he reached beside your bed and grabbed a cup of water with a straw, holding it up to your mouth. You sip lightly.
Water had never tasted better.
He set the cup back beside him, then grabbed your hand.
“Hi, baby.”
It should have felt wrong to smile after everything. And yet, you do. “Hi, Dad.”
He had been crying. You could tell. You hoped someone was around, but you know he wouldn’t allow himself to break down within view. Unless it was Robby, maybe. Robby was here earlier, right? You’d seen him. He’d spoken to you.
“My therapist is gonna have her hands full next session, huh.”
And now he was smiling, too, though it was the saddest smile you’d ever seen. You didn’t have to look at it for long, though, because he hugged you. It was awkward, with the wires and the hospital bed. His hands were shaking. It was amazingly perfect.
“I love you. I love you so much, okay? Fuck…” He sounded choked up above you, and you would cry yourself if you could. It all seemed so distant right now. The tears would come with time, you knew. He'd be there when they do.
“Paramedics told me some of what happened,” He pulled back, stroking a hand through your hair as he sat down. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave. And I love you so, so much.’
Oh. At the festival. The woman and her bent leg and her butterfly makeup. The man who worked at the festival and wouldn't stop bleeding.
Leaning into his hand, you croaked out, “You helped me do it.”
And that didn’t make sense, really. You wanted to explain further. How you had remembered to use your belt. First Aid training. Hide and seek. But the world was still moving slowly, all wrong. And you were tired. And you had time to explain later. You had time.
“Sleep?” He was still staring at you, so soft, as he adjusted the blankets on you. There were at least three, piled on the bed, and one of Robby’s sweaters on top.
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Go to sleep. I'll be here.”
As your eyes slid closed, his palm ran soothingly up and down your arm. Distantly, you remembered you didn’t say I love you back.
The hand ghosted over your IV site, checking for tension or shifting.
It was okay. He knew.