Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.

A/N: My Chicago Fire fic muse struck once again after a long hiatus. I have fallen in love with Jeff Clarke, and seeing as there's not much fic of him, I decided to go for it. This was inspired by the latest episode. Hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1

It was a suspiciously calm shift until they were called to an abandoned building in a rough part of the city. Night had long since fallen and the orange flames leapt from the upper windows to touch the inky black sky, throwing a shimmering gold glow onto their trucks and faces. Jeff Clarke wasn't sure what the building had been used for, but from the looks of it, the structure had been left to its own devices for a while. The encroaching inferno would turn its already crumbling brick and shattered windows into ruin without much trouble. It would be a tough situation as far as safety was concerned, but they had to make sure the building was vacant.

Clarke's breath clouded in the chilly air. Over the ambient noise of the fire forcing its wrath upon the derelict structure, instructions were called out left and right, and the team of firefighters fell into their routine after the proper assessments had been made. Clarke heard Chief Boden's baritone echo across the empty lot as he retreated with his team through the entrance. Inside, smoke created a thick haze all around them and his breathing became loud in his ears beneath his mask.

"Careful, guys," Severide warned. "Watch your step. Let's get the place cleared as quickly as we can."

Clarke trailed behind Severide with Casey and Herrmann behind him and Mills rounding out their group. They broke off into different directions to clear the building more efficiently, their voices urgent and quick over their radios. Adrenaline propelled Clarke forward through the gunmetal gray smoke, following the maze of staircases and vast rooms. Herrmann and Mills passed him with their arms around a couple of half-conscious people battling smoke inhalation.

"Keep goin'!" he heard Herrmann shout. "We might have more of 'em in here."

He nodded and pressed on. It wasn't unheard of, not by a long shot, to find these vacated buildings overtaken by homeless squatters looking for a semi-stable roof over their heads.

The beam of his flashlight, white and nearly blinding, cut through the dark that seemed to want to suffocate him. Soon enough, the pitch blue-black of the landscape would be engulfed in a raging, warm light. Clarke could ignore the crackling of wood and brick, the tinny sound of glass splintering into dozens of pieces, and the hum of the flames in the levels above charring everything in their wake. He couldn't, however, stop himself from flinching every time the structure groaned in protest around him. It was a noise of defeat; a warning that something would give way. Clarke didn't want to be there to have a roof cave in on his head or fall through a weakened floor, swallowed up by fire and smoke.

He shoved those fleeting images aside to settle in the same far off corner where he'd buried those sudden bursts of claustrophobia, yet not far enough to reach everything he had stored since coming home from his last deployment.

"Fire department!" he yelled. "Call out!"

Nothing. He scanned the rooms he came across on his way to back down to the first level, the flashlight guiding him, breaking through the dense haze. Clarke got no response for his efforts, no matter how many times he repeated the commands. He was at the rear of the building, which looked like an entire world away from where they had originally set foot across the threshold.

The building shook. Clarke braced himself against a wall, listening to the violent storm of debris and soot that was probably raining down somewhere on the opposite side of where he was. Heat crept up the sides of his face; he felt beads of sweat drip down the small of his back beneath layers of gear. His breath resounded in a fast rhythm, his blood pounding in his ears.

"Everyone all right?" Severide asked over their headsets.

"Yeah," Clarke said, and was relieved when his fellow firefighters responded in variations of the affirmative.

"Get out as fast as you can," Boden's voice ordered. "You hear me in there? Don't need to be sticking around longer than you've got to. I don't trust this place."

"Got it, Chief," Casey said.

Clarke went down a hallway, stepping over a tipped over chair toward a door that led to the back stairwell. He shouted for anyone who might have been within earshot, but everything he passed was unoccupied. Elbowing open the door, Clarke backed into it and entered the bottom landing to a staircase that reached the upper levels of the building. There was another door on his right that led straight outside, to the cracked and pothole splattered pavement of an abandoned lot much like the one where their trucks had been parked.

In a few long strides, Clarke reached the bottom landing and stared up into the hollow darkness. His flashlight illuminated the stairs, bouncing off the walls.

"Fire department!" he hollered. "Call out if you can hear me!"

He was sure the building had already been cleared, that his relentless calls wouldn't find anyone. He waited a moment and inched closer, planting one foot on the last step.

"Fire department," Clarke repeated. "Anyone up there?"

Clarke had turned on his heel when he heard it: soft, almost inaudible against the backdrop of a collapsing building. He took two steps this time, his hand on one of the walls. For his tall, broad frame and all this gear, the staircase appeared narrower than it actually was.

"Hello? Call out!" He had to be absolutely sure.

The reply sounded strangled, yet louder, echoing down to him, "Up here!"

His gut twisted in an anxious knot, a fleeting sensation, before he ascended the stairs. The building around him trembled again and knocked him into the railing along the wall. While the movement was jarring, it didn't hurt—he registered everything but pain. The warmth seemed to intensify into stifling heat, the layer of dirt and sweat that coated his face was a familiar feeling that pulled at his skin. There were voices, gravelly and imperative in his headset, but they faded once Clarke's mind focused on getting to whoever had beckoned him.

"Hold on!" he called. "Don't move!"

It wasn't comforting to realize the stairs under his feet felt like they wouldn't support his weight longer than necessary once he was two flights up. A sharp turn followed, and he saw a shape at the top of the next landing. His flashlight found someone slumped into the corner. Clarke made quick work of the last staircase, trying to ignore the unsteady feeling the entire place was now consumed with.

Clarke sunk to his knees, the light throwing exaggerated shadows onto the face of a young girl. She had her head tilted back onto the exposed cement of the surface behind her. At first, Clarke couldn't tell if she was conscious. Her hands were limp at her sides, her eyes barely open, but he watched her chest rise and fall in a labored rhythm. A groaning, creaking sound forced Clarke to avert his gaze upward to the next staircase. It was packed in with fallen debris—huge chunks of concrete, wood, twisted metal forming a barricade from the upper levels. Beyond that, Clarke noticed the brilliant, flickering glow of the fire that would eventually overwhelm the space if they didn't put it out in time.

"All right." He turned his attention back to the girl, whom he assumed by estimation was somewhere in her teens.

She was covered in soot and concrete dust. A layer of it had settled into her brunette hair, onto the shoulders of the thin coat she wore. The flashlight's beam revealed rivulets of crimson down one side of her face. There was a tear in her coat sleeve, the edges stained dark. She squeezed her eyes shut against the glare of the light.

"All right," he repeated, as if to summon every ounce of strength and courage his body possessed. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? You're gonna be just fine. Can you tell me your name?"

"Ellie." Her voice was a whisper.

"Ellie," he said. "My name's Jeff Clarke. I need you to stay awake. Can you do that?"

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Good." He gave her a reassuring smile.

The look on her face, though, didn't do much to reassure him that she was all right. Her forehead glistened with sweat and her skin held a sickly pale complexion. Clarke knew head wounds bled more than anything, and looked worse than they were, but it worried him. He wasn't sure how much blood she'd lost before he had arrived.

It was then that Clarke remembered the voices on his headset. Boden sounded irate, and Severide was practically screaming at him.

"Clarke? Clarke, where the hell are you? Answer me!"

"I'm in the back stairwell," he replied, at last. "I've got a girl here, she's injured. I'm bringing her down."

"Hurry your ass up," Severide said. "You've got two minutes. Two, that's it."

He focused his attention, again, on the girl. "Ellie? You still with me?"

She nodded once more.

Clarke leaned over, ready to scoop her up into his arms. "There's just a few flights of stairs," he explained. "I'll carry you down. You hang on, and—"

"Can't," she said. It was above the whisper that had been her name. It sounded final, like she, for whatever reason, had accepted defeat.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, I promise," Clarke said. "I won't let anything happen. But we have to move right now."

"I can't," she told him.

Her eyes opened and she stared at him fully for the first time before her gaze strayed. Clarke followed her line of vision down to her bloodstained fingers. In the uneven light, Clarke had assumed they'd been plastered in dirt. She had swept aside her coat. A blossoming stain on her shirt underneath outlined a deep wound on the lower left side of her abdomen. Clarke saw what kept her in place—a piece of rebar had lodged itself there, impaling her.

In an instant, the determination that had etched itself into Clarke's face vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of dread. It seemed to cancel out the invading heat of the fire, dousing him in an icy awareness.

When she looked back at him, the crystalline blue of her eyes had filled up with tears. She closed them and a droplet slid down her cheek, making a track in the dirt covering her face. She had the face of someone trying very hard to hold back a well-deserved sob, her lower lip shaking in dissent.

Clarke let out an exasperated sound. He lifted his head toward the ceiling to collect himself. There wasn't any fairness to be found in this situation. None at all. He shuddered to think how she had fallen into this mess, how long she had been trapped in this damn stairwell wondering if anyone would come.

Long enough for her to accept that she wasn't going to make it, apparently. Long enough for her to be showing signs of shock. He couldn't help the anger that crept up on him. If he had found her before she'd gotten to this point…

"I'm sorry," she said. Clarke searched her face, realizing she'd misread his reaction.

"No, no," he assured her. "No, you've got nothing to be sorry for." Clarke placed a gloved hand on top of both of hers, resting in her lap. He held her gaze calmly. "I am going to get you out of here. You're fine. You'll be okay, I promise. Hang in there for me, that's all you have to do."

Clarke sat back on his knees. "Chief, we have a problem."

There was a pause. Obviously, it wasn't what Boden had wanted to hear. "This building's coming down all around you," he said. "Talk fast."

"We're three flights up on the landing. The girl here—Ellie—she's caught on a piece of rebar. I don't want to move her, she's—you've gotta send up Squad."

"Copy that," Boden said. "Hold on, both of you."

The voices of his fellow Squad members mingled with Boden's booming commands, while they formulated a strategy for the rescue and worked to get the fire contained. He heard pieces of it, but he was distracted by the horrible scraping and groaning that echoed above them. His heart gave a fearful lurch once he saw Ellie's eyes had closed. Clarke inched forward on his knees to rest in front of her. One of her hands had fallen to her side, the other settled near her hip, below the gaping rebar wound.

"Hey," Clarke said lightly. "Hey, Ellie, you still with me?" Her skin was pallid, her lips nearly devoid of color. She was breathing, but it was a struggle. Ellie coughed and her eyes fluttered open.

He smiled. "There you are." He took her hand in his and held it, his thumb brushing along her knuckles. "Eyes on me, okay? Everything's fine—we're gonna get out of here, get you right to the hospital. Nothing to be afraid of."

Ellie dipped her head in a slight nod, sniffling. She coughed, the movement enough to make her wince. Clarke couldn't help but grimace himself, regarding the angry-looking piece of metal that protruded from her lower abdomen. He didn't want to jostle her, but if they could get her coat off, he figured it might help shield the open wound from the layers of ash and dust drifting around them.

"Hurts," she said. It sounded like a half-sob.

"Caught yourself good," he told her. "You're tough, though, right? Got yourself this far…just a little bit longer. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I like to hear," Clarke answered. "You're doing really good, Ellie. Listen, if we get your coat off, it might help protect you from all the crap flying everywhere."

He thought he saw the corner of her lips upturn in a millisecond smirk.

"It's going to hurt, but I'll do it as quick as I can, all right? You'll push through it?"

"Mm-hmm," Ellie replied.

The relentless complaining of the foundation surrounding them became background noise, though Clarke still thought it sounded too ominous for his liking. The smoke in the stairwell was hazy, but not too thick, and he hoped the team outside was keeping the fire at bay. He worked at freeing Ellie's arm from the coat, then gently tore the fabric where it had already ripped from the rebar.

A tremor rose up from somewhere in the building, sending new plumes of soot and gritty filth down onto them. Immediately, Clarke braced his palms against the wall above Ellie's head, shielding her from anything that could have caused her more harm. He was wary of whatever lay in the staircase above, wondering how long they'd have until the tightly packed debris would finally give.

The crash from somewhere below, however, hadn't gone unnoticed by his ears—neither did the quiet gasp Ellie let out.

"It's okay," he assured her. "It's okay, you're fine. I've got you." Ellie's hand had closed around a fistful of his jacket, her knuckles stark white. The panic on her face made her look younger than she probably was.

Clarke's attention turned back to his headset. "Severide, what's your ETA? It's getting messy up here."

"Hang tight," Severide said. "Partial collapse…part of the ceiling…there's a lot of debris in our way. Got work our way through to get the stairs clear."

"Hurry your ass up," Clarke replied, echoing Severide's earlier command.

"Got it, man," Severide said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Hold on, we'll get to you."

"Almost out," Clarke told Ellie. "You hanging in there?"

Ellie's grasp on his jacket relaxed. She was still shaking. Her eyes were glassy, a few more tears clinging to her eyelashes.

"I…am," she said, her breathing ragged, "…if you are."

He laughed. "Deal."

Clarke could feel the sweat matting his hair beneath his helmet, rolling down his face under the mask. The smoke was beginning to dissipate, the wavering light above not so bright and close. The smell of charred ruin was heavy in the stairwell. The pungent odor mixed with the traces of blood from Ellie's wounds. It wasn't something Clarke was a stranger to, but he could allow himself to think about that at the moment.

He maneuvered the coat around her back and gingerly helped her other arm from the sleeve. Ellie cried out, her fingers tangled into the front of his jacket again to help her work through the pain.

"You did great," he said. "It'll be over before you know it. You all right?"

Ellie exhaled, a watery, thin sound. "Yes."

She let go of his jacket, her eyes trained on him while he sat back on his knees again. Ellie leaned her head back against the disintegrated concrete of the wall, and Clarke draped her coat across the front of her shoulders as closely as her wounds would allow. He knew the coat would help trap the heat in and stifle the shock.

"How old are you, Ellie?" Clarke asked, tucking the coat in place.

"Sixteen." She sounded drowsy. It worried him—he didn't want her to become complacent and lose consciousness. He could tell it was a battle for her to keep her eyes open.

"Sixteen," Clarke shook his head. For him, sixteen seemed like a long time ago. Another lifetime, way before he'd enlisted. "You'll bounce back from all this. Real quick. You'll be out of the hospital in no time."

A flicker of something crossed her expression and was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Clarke sat beside her on her right, his shoulder angled away from the staircase that had been barricaded in. He reached over and grabbed her hand, surprised when her grip was firm. Everything in the way her fingers latched onto his told him she was counting on his strength. He was terrified, but he didn't have time to let that sink in. He wouldn't allow it to. He was calm because she needed it—when everything around her was falling, Clarke knew Ellie was relying on his ability to remain steady.

She coughed, fighting to take even breaths. Clarke heard the anxiety there, the pain, and wished he could do more. He tugged off his mask and held it against Ellie's face, careful of the area still seeping crimson. There was no telling where exactly the blood was coming from, so he made sure to place it with gentle care.

"Hold on, Ellie," Clarke said. "Deep breaths…that's it. They're on their way, I promise you. Just hold on."

When she closed her eyes, Clarke became worried, but it was fleeting. Ellie spoke quietly. "I thought I'd made you up."

Clarke bowed his head, processing what she'd said. What she'd meant.

"I thought…when I heard you calling…it wasn't real," Ellie said. "I didn't…think anyone would find me…where I'd fallen."

"Don't worry about that now," he said. "You're getting out of here, that's all that matters."

"It's bad," Ellie said. She couldn't battle the weakness in her voice. Clarke felt her head loll to the side, against his shoulder. He glanced over and saw her eyes had closed. "Don't lie. …Please."

Clarke became suddenly aware once more of the awful clamor looming over them. Ellie was squeezing his hand—she heard it, too.

Hey, Clarke, how much sand do you think we have left?

He shut his eyes and took a breath.

Plenty. They had plenty of sand left.

"I don't like lying," Clarke said. "Let me worry about how bad it is. You've got to stay awake. Focus on that, nothing else. Keep talking…stay with me, Ellie. You're doing just fine."

His headset crackled. "How are you doing up there?" Severide asked.

Clarke looked at Ellie. She'd opened her eyes the tiniest bit.

"Hanging in," he said. "But it's not steady. There's a bunch of debris above us."

"Yeah, tell me about," Clarke heard Capp remark.

"Give us a few more minutes, we're almost there," Severide said.

"Got it," Clarke answered. He took another breath.

Ellie's head was still slumped into his shoulder, her fingers entwined with his tightly. Her dark hair was matted to the side of her face in blood that had begun to dry. The yellowish light from the flashlight between them amplified how pale she looked. Clarke heard her whimper every so often. He'd give anything to trade places with her; he'd rather be the one hooked on rebar instead. It wouldn't have done her much good, he figured, but at least she wouldn't have been in so much pain.

She moved the mask away from her face. "Tired," Ellie stated.

"I know," Clarke said. He removed his helmet and swiped the back of his arm across his forehead before replacing it. "Not much longer. We have a deal, remember? I'm holding you to it. You've got to stick with me."

"I'll try."

He had to strain to hear her answer. Her voice was small, thin, overtaken by her uneven breathing.

"Just keep talking to me," he said. "It'll make things easier. We're almost through it, I swear."

There was a pause. Clarke watched the dust and ash drift in the thinning haze around them. Somewhere in the pile of rubble beyond his shoulder, maybe higher up, wooden beams creaked like dry twigs in the wind. Stones of cement slid between cracks, taking shards of glass along with them. Even though the fire had been contained, the danger hadn't vanished. Clarke felt like he was waiting for a rubber band to snap.

"You…always been…a firefighter?" she asked.

"Not always. I was in the military."

"…Really? What branch?"

"Marines."

She shifted beside him and let out an agonized gasp for her effort. "Semper Fi."

Clarke squeezed her hand in reassurance, a wide smile on his lips. "That's right."

"Thank you," Ellie told him. "For your service."

He gave a sheepish nod.

Several moments of silence gathered between them. Clarke thought he heard voices in the distance, muffled by whatever held them back. He hoped it wasn't his mind playing tricks, just like Ellie thought his shouting had been a hallucination. Clarke's mouth was dry, thirst crawling its way up his throat. The gritty dirt plastered onto his skin was uncomfortable, but not anywhere near something he couldn't deal with. He'd suffered through worse.

"Ellie?"

"Still…here."

"How'd you end up in this place?" Clarke asked. He had to admit the question was at the back of his mind and he had his assumptions. It was unfair to make them until he had actual answers.

"Long story."

"Fair enough," Clarke said. He could tell he was intruding on a sensitive topic by the sound of her voice, so he didn't press the matter any further.

Ellie surprised him by speaking up. What she said hit him like a punch to the chest.

"I don't…have anyone. Out there."

There was heartbreak in her words. Her tone sounded final, again, as though the situation at hand allowed her to speak truthfully. Clarke didn't want her to think like that, to accept defeat. He didn't know what to say to her, exactly. He felt the corners of his eyes sting and was fairly certain it wasn't from the dust.

"There has to be—"

"No." Ellie coughed. "No one."

Her head felt heavier on his shoulder. "Don't give up on me," Clarke demanded.

"Harder to…stay awake."

"We're getting out of here, I swear to you—"

Something above them finally gave way.

As soon as Clarke heard the onslaught of debris, he threw his weight forward. He covered Ellie, pushing her into his side and using his back and shoulders as a barrier against the chunks of wood and misshapen cement that fell down the stairs toward their prone bodies. Clarke groaned as the solid rubble hit his back and bounced off his shoulders, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Somewhere under the shelter of his arms and torso, Ellie gave a strangled sob.

"It's okay, it's okay," he yelled. "You're all right—you're safe, I've got you. It's okay."

He hated to think of how much the movement and force of the debris jostled her wounds. Clarke waited for it to stop, hoping and praying it would, when his helmet skidded across the stairwell landing. He grunted as he felt something sharp nick the side of his face. He scrambled to protect his head from the stray bits of rubble still making their descent, huddling under his arms. His chin brushed against Ellie's head; her fingers, having fallen out of their hold laced with his, burrowed into his jacket.

It stopped, but he found himself partially buried. Clarke tried to shift, but it didn't do any good except for making the soreness in his back and shoulders more apparent. At least Ellie hadn't been hit with anything.

"Damn it."

Clarke realized he was being called, and not on his headset. Severide's voice, panicked, was coming from the around the corner of the stairwell.

"Clarke! Clarke, man, answer me! You okay?"

"Yeah," he panted. "Yeah…I took most of the hit."

"Are you hurt?"

Relief flooded through him once he saw beams of flashlights against the wall.

"Not bad."

"Hang on," Severide exhaled. "This building's a bitch."

Clarke smirked. "Ellie," he called.

He uncurled from his protective hold over her, and the smirk on his lips faded. Her eyes were closed, the hand that had been holding onto his jacket for dear life had gone limp.

"Oh no," he said, barely above a whisper. "No, no…Ellie, come on. Open your eyes. Ellie! Open your eyes for me, sweetheart, come on. Don't give up. We're almost out. Stay with me. Ellie!"

Clarke tugged off his gloves and pushed two fingers into her neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak. He felt a fire burning in the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

"We need EMT's up here right now!" Clarke shouted.

He cradled Ellie's head against his chest, his shoulder pressed into the wall and the scattered debris weighing down his lower back down to his hip and leg. Severide and Shay made it around the corner, Shay carting a backboard.

"She's unconscious," he told Shay. "I tried to keep her awake as long as I could but—" He didn't hide the tremble in his voice. Clarke was somewhat grateful Ellie couldn't see him losing his composure.

"You did fine, buddy," Severide assured. "Shay's going to take over. We'll get you guys outta here."

Mills and Capp approached Ellie with the saw, and in a matter of a couple minutes, she was free from the wall that kept her pinned. The rebar was still lodged, but Shay affirmed they didn't want to move it until they had her in the ER. Severide went to work shoving the debris off Clarke with Mills' help while Capp assisted Shay in getting Ellie onto the backboard. Clarke was aching and sore, but gratefully not seriously injured. The slight sting of a cut on his face was nothing but a minor distraction as he watched Shay stabilize Ellie and Severide helped him to his feet. Mills handed over his fallen helmet.

"Thanks," he said, replacing it.

"We have to move it," Shay ordered. "I don't like how weak her pulse is."

Clarke insisted on helping carry Ellie down the rutted, debris-laden staircases and none of them argued. They moved quickly, efficiently, to the back exit and out to the waiting ambulance. Shay didn't protest when Clarke hopped into the back of the ambulance with her, slamming the doors shut behind him. Rafferty took off toward the hospital, sirens blaring.

Ellie's condition appeared worse to him under the harsh light of the ambulance. He could see how much blood plastered her face, how colorless her skin was against her dark brown hair. Shay had slipped on an oxygen mask first thing and was now assessing her wounds. Clarke knew Ellie was in good care and couldn't focus much on what exactly Shay was doing. He clutched Ellie's hand like he had in the building, running his thumb over her knuckles, his head bowed. He didn't say a word the entire ride to Lakeshore, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess, a silent mantra for Ellie to be all right.

Clarke's hand didn't leave Ellie's until they carried her away to the ER.

He watched her disappear from his sight and stood in the middle of the entryway, feeling lost. Helpless.

The thought came to him, again, and his stomach twisted into knots:

Hey, Clarke, how much sand do you think we have left?

He let out a breath, one he'd been holding for a while. Clarke pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, blinking to stifle the wave of emotion that threatened to make itself visible on his face.

Clarke hoped with everything he had in him that the top of Ellie's hourglass was still obscured.