Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 7: Rescue

Then, finally, thunderous footsteps stormed toward you.

"We've got it- let us take over!" one barked, already sliding their hands into position as another unpacked equipment with frantic efficiency.

You did not move until they physically pushed you back, your breath ragged, fingers trembling. You watched, taking over with rapid, practised urgency.

You stepped back only when they physically nudged you aside, your own chest heaving, palms trembling. You watched their hands move faster than thought, watched the defibrillator pads go on, watched his body jolt violently with the shock.

"Continue compressions...charging...clear...check pulse...charging again..."

For a long, suffocating moment, nothing happened.

Then-

"Got a pulse! Weak-keep him oxygenated-move, move, move!"

His chest rose with assisted breaths. His lashes fluttered but did not open. His head lolled to the side, dust falling from his hair like ash. They secured him onto a stretcher, shouting vitals, rushing him out.

Still unconscious.

Still frighteningly motionless.

But alive.

Relief surged through your chest so violently it hurt. They rushed him into the ambulance, oxygen mask pressed firmly to his face, saline running, medics shouting numbers and vitals.

You stood there in the smoke and dust, chest heaving, watching him disappear behind closing doors.

Hours later, even in this clean hospital corridor, you can still feel the weight of his body under your palms. His cold skin. His silent chest. The desperate force of every compression you drove into him. The taste of dust when you breathed air into his lungs. The terror that sat in your throat when you felt nothing, no heartbeat, no movement, no sign he was still in there.

You inhale shakily, your hands still faintly trembling, your heartbeat still echoing that desperate rhythm:

One. Two. Three. Four.

You sink into a chair, wiping at your eyes before the tears can fall, because now that the adrenaline has faded, the fear comes crashing in, raw, overwhelming, suffocating.

It reminded you too much of the memories, faces you could not save, breaths that never returned, and a fire ignited deep in your chest, fierce and unyielding.

No, you would not let it happen again.

Not another innocent life lost while you stood there, trembling, watching the world collapse around them. Not on your watch.

Now you sit in the waiting area, hands clenched together, silently begging the universe to be kind, each second stretching painfully long under the hum of fluorescent lights.

Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate. You look up to see a frail elderly woman making her way toward you. You stand immediately, bowing slightly. There is something about her posture, the way she holds herself, the quiet strength in her expression, that tells you exactly who she is. Her face is lined with worry, but her eyes radiate a calm courage that comes only from loving someone fiercely for a long time.

"How's my Hermy?" Her voice is soft, trembling only slightly.

It hurts. You do not have the answer she deserves. Before you can respond, the doctor steps out of the recovery room. You turn to him, hope and dread warring in your chest.

"The young man is extremely lucky you found him when you did," he says. "The punch caused internal injuries, and being trapped under rubble made things worse. But-" he offers a small, reassuring smile, "he's stable now. He's going to make a full recovery. It'll take time, but he's strong. He will be alright."