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"It's alright. Come on, get out." Sean's voice was calm as he moved back to his car. "We're good."
Logan was still ducked down in the passenger seat, one hand clenched around his seatbelt, eyes wide. His son was clearly rattled - but they were both still breathing. Sean's own pulse hammered against his ribs, a frantic, useless drum that hadn't slowed even after the last shot had rung out. He opened the door and leaned in to reach across the console, gripping Logan's arm.
"Come on," he said again. "Up you get."
After a long, shaky exhale, Logan got out of his side of the car and walked over to Sean on unsteady legs. The street smelled of burnt rubber, and the distant sirens were already closing in, red-and-blue lights starting to paint the buildings down the street. Celina was securing one of the shooters while Lucy was moving toward them, calling something he couldn't quite parse over the ringing in his ears. They started walking towards her, Sean keeping one hand hovering near Logan's shoulder - the contact reassuring him that Logan was fine.
The adrenaline that had carried Sean through the exchange - grabbing the gun, returning fire, shouting at Logan to stay down - was ebbing, leaving a strange hollowness behind it.
His next step didn't land right.
The pavement felt farther away than it should have. He reached out, his now shaking fingers - when had they started shaking? - closing hard around Logan's shoulder, using his son to keep himself upright. Logan turned at the sudden pressure of Sean's hand on his shoulder, startled.
"Pops? You okay?"
Sean tried to answer. The words came out wrong, an unintelligible mumble that barely got out before his knees buckled and the street tilted violently beneath him. He was standing one moment, on the ground the next. He hit hard, the impact jarring up through his side, and only then did a sharp pain make itself known, blooming beneath his shirt, the fabric already wet against his skin. Sean looked down, and saw blood.
He'd been shot.
The realization arrived with a strange, distant certainty. He'd been shot, and somehow he was only just beginning to feel it.
Logan's voice cracked above him, high and panicked. "Pops-Dad, no-he's hit-somebody-"
Footsteps pounded against the asphalt. Lucy's face appeared above him, suddenly blocking out the sky, her expression drawn tight with alarm. Someone pressed down hard against his side. Voices cut through the static filling his ears, sharp and professional, but the words refused to settle into anything he could understand.
Sean tried to lift his head, to make sure Logan was fine, that his son was right there, unhurt. His neck trembled with the effort, and his head sank back against the pavement before he could see him. The world narrowed to the pressure of fingers against his side and the distant sound of his son saying his name, his voice growing more desperate as Sean didn't respond.
Then even that slipped away.