Summary: This is a missing scene from 4x01, "Showdown." It takes place between when Danny realizes Martin is shot, but before they arrive at the hospital. This is all Danny's POV.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Not making money off of them.
My head hurts. I know it's bleeding. And I really don't care. Because all I can see is Martin sitting in the car, bleeding way too much. And all I can hear is this horrible, pain-filled wheeze coming out of his mouth. His eyes are murky, more grey than blue, so unlike their usual color, and that scares me almost as much as his shirt that's now more red than not.
"Martin? Martin?" I say, and my voice sounds strange -- so far away, and almost pleading. I feel like I can't breathe, like I'm suffocating on emotions that are agonizingly familiar. I know death. It's ripped away the people closest to me. I think it wants to do it again.
I push those emotions down, as far down as I can, and focus instead on Martin, on the here and now, not on the past.
"Where did you get hit?" I ask, my voice stronger this time. I want to be strong, for me, for him, for both of us.
He doesn't try to speak, and I'm not surprised. I don't think he's capable of forming words right now, whether because of pain or shock or both. I hear a vehicle screech to a stop behind us, and I duck out of the car. A civilian steps out of his SUV, and I scream at him to call an ambulance. He moves quickly, and I think I hear sirens, but I can't tell how close they are, or if they're even coming for us.
I don't think about it for too long. There isn't time to worry about when help is going to arrive. Right now, I'm the help. I have to do something.
I head for the driver's side of the car, and as I move past the trunk, I see Adisa Teno's lifeless body sprawled out in the street, and I don't care. My head still hurts, and blood is still trickling down my face, and I just … don't … care.
I grab the handle of the driver's side door, but when I move to open it, nothing happens. "Damn it," I say, and try again, with more force, with enough force to send a spike of pain through my head. I shake it off and pull again, and this time the car rocks as the door pops open. I wince, wondering if I've hurt Martin, but all he does is make that horrid gasping, wheezing noise. His head slowly turns to look at me, his left hand still feebly grasping the lapel of his coat.
"I gotta get you out of the car, OK?" I try to sound reassuring, but I can hear the panic in my voice. "I need to see where you're hurt, and I need to stop the bleeding." Because this is bad, Martin, really, really bad, and I think you're dying, and if I don't do something …
My thoughts trail off as I see him nod, the movement so slight I would not have noticed if I wasn't looking directly at him. His eyes, more heavy-lidded now than a moment ago, close briefly, and then sluggishly open. As I release his seat belt and gently grip him underneath his arms, I notice he still looks more shocked than in pain, and I wonder how much he's hurting. I wonder if he's scared. I know I am.
"You're going to be OK," I say, and feel like the world's biggest liar. I don't believe me; how can I expect him to believe me?
I pull him out of the car as quickly but carefully as possible. It takes only a few seconds to lay him out on the street, and he doesn't say anything. He just keeps breathing, in that awful way he now breathes.
But thank God, he keeps breathing.
Once he's lying on the asphalt, I open his coat, and as I see the extent of his injuries, I feel sick. There are two bullet holes, not one. Two. And there's so much blood. How can he bleed this much and not die?
"I … I gotta get the first aid kit, OK?" I ask, but this time, there's no nod. His eyes are barely open, and his breathing is quieter. Still tortured, but quieter. I know that's not good.
I retrieve the first aid kit, flip it open, and find several gauze bandages inside. I grab two and start putting pressure on his wounds. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't moan. His eyes just drift shut. I wait for them to open again, like they did just a few minutes ago, but they don't. Did he … no, he's still breathing. It's shallow, but I can feel it underneath the warm, wet, blood-soaked bandages.
"Martin?" I whisper. And then, louder, "Martin! C'mon, man, don't do this. You gotta stay with me." If he would just open his eyes again, I'd feel better. But he doesn't open his eyes. I curse softly, and toss aside the bandages that are now almost dripping with Martin Fitzgerald's blood. I get more bandages. I apply pressure. I wait. I stare at the blood. I stare at his face. And I wait.
I hear sirens, more than one. They're almost here. They better be almost here, because the bleeding isn't slowing. The bandages I just got a few moments ago are drenched. I replace them. I apply pressure. But this time, I don't look at his face. I focus on the blood, the blood that I can't seem to stop from flowing out of those damn bullet holes. I couldn't stop Dornvald. I have to stop the bleeding. I have to. I have to.
What if I can't?
Was it just a few minutes ago that we were sitting in the car, getting the news that Viv's OK?
"At least we're ending the day on an up note," I'd said.
"Yeah," Martin had replied.
Some up note.
The bandages are soaked again. I pull more out of the first aid kit and apply pressure. A lot of it. More than before. I worry that maybe I'm pushing too hard, but I can't be, can I? Because the bleeding still won't stop.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blur of red and white. The ambulance is here. Finally. How long since the first shot was fired? Probably only minutes, but it feels longer. Right now, I know timing is everything. He could bleed to death before he even gets to the hospital.
Two paramedics are coming at us. I hear their footsteps, but I don't look at them. I can't tear my eyes away from my hands and the bandages and the blood.
And then I hear Jack's voice. Jack's here. I thought he was at the hospital with Viv? He's asking me something, I'm not even sure what, because all I can think about is how much Martin is bleeding, and how I have to stop it. How somebody has to stop it.
The next few minutes are a blur. My head hurts, and I'm bleeding, and Martin is dying. They're getting ready to take him to the hospital, and as I tell Jack what happened, I feel something shift inside of me. In an instant, my focus goes from saving Martin to avenging him. I want Dornvald. I want him dead so bad that for a moment, nothing else matters. Then Jack practically throws me into the ambulance, and there's Martin, and my world once again consists of watching my friend bleed to death. I reach out a hand to try to help stop the bleeding. It's not that I don't trust the paramedics, but I have to do something. And as the ambulance makes its way toward the hospital, I realize my head still hurts, and there's still blood on my face, and I still don't care. The blood on my hands hurts worse.~end~