Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Except Ellie.

A/N: I apologize profusely for the wait. I'm in the middle of working on an original novel, so my updates might take some time. Also, I wanted to get this chapter up tonight before the new episode, as I am having all sorts of panicky, angst-ridden thoughts about the fate of Jeff Clarke. (Jeff's Twitter is freaking me out.) If something happens to Clarke tonight or anytime this season, I'll be an inconsolable wreck. I'm basically crying already. Let's all cross our fingers.

Chapter 4

"Clarke was right, this place is miserable."

Shay stepped across the threshold, her arm linked with Dawson's. Dawson's free arm was laden with several bouquets of fresh-cut flowers, while Shay kept a large navy blue CFD canvas bag in tow. Both were exhausted from their shift and training, respectively, but knew this trip to the hospital was an important one. Ellie was a week into her stay in the ICU, and Shay and Dawson had finally configured their schedules to allow the visit. Clarke was preoccupied at Molly's with Herrmann and the rest of Squad, so Ellie's room was sparse except for the nurse who glanced up at them from a clipboard.

Dawson elbowed Shay, causing her to screw up her face in a sheepish grimace that could have been the visual representation of the word 'oops.' Shay ducked her head at the nurse, though the young woman didn't appear to be upset with her assessment about the room.

"Sorry," Shay offered.

"I'll be out of your way in a minute," she replied. Her tone was light and friendly, which Shay was thankful for. "You're from the firehouse, right?"

"Yeah," Dawson said. "I'm Gabby Dawson."

"Leslie Shay. I brought Ellie in."

"Nice to meet you both. I've met quite a few of you from Firehouse 51." She finished jotting down notes. "I'm Sara. I've been with Ellie since that first night, and every time someone stops by, I keep my fingers crossed for her."

"How is she?" Shay asked.

"She's starting to heal just fine." Sara capped her pen and tucked it into the clipboard. "She's had a couple good days, her vitals look all right. I'm hoping she'll wake up soon. I'd like to see a happy ending to this story."

"Same here," Dawson answered. "No one's dropped by to identify her yet?"

Sara's face fell. "She remains a mystery. No visitors, except for your firehouse, a couple of cops, and lovely woman named Cindy who bought me coffee the other day."

Shay and Dawson couldn't help but smile at that.

"Do you know who came in from the CPD? I wouldn't ask, otherwise, but my brother's a cop." Dawson asked.

She hadn't had time in her hectic schedule between training and Molly's and everything else to ask Antonio if the case had crossed paths with him, especially since it was now so strongly tied to their firehouse.

Sara looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, I think I did. Dawson, you said, right?"

"Yeah," she replied. "His name's Antonio."

"That was him," Sara confirmed. "He was with another guy. Kind of mean looking, but he was adamant about figuring out what Ellie's situation was before the fire and checking into foster care options in the meantime once she wakes up."

"Do you know if they got anyone to take her in?" Shay questioned.

"Sorry, couldn't tell you." Sara shrugged. "That's all I know." She moved toward the door. "Have a good visit."

"Thanks," Shay and Dawson called after her.

The room was decidedly more silent and bleak once their conversation faded away. There was only the sterilized colors, the beeps and hums of machines standing guard by Ellie's bed, and the distant voices and footsteps down the hall outside. Shay pushed the glass-paneled door shut and dropped the canvas bag onto the lone chair in the corner.

"All right, that's enough of this," she declared. Shay fished her iPod out of her pocket, having fully charged it earlier in the day for this sole purpose.

Dawson laid the bouquets of flowers across the table near the bed where the handmade cards had been arranged.

"What are you doing?"

"I made her a playlist," Shay said. "Maybe some tunes'll get her to wake up. Or maybe she'll completely hate it and wake up just to tell me to turn this crap off. I dunno what teenagers listen to these days, but I like to think I have a decent taste in music."

Dawson laughed. "When you word it like that, you make us sound like old ladies."

"Dude, sixteen was ages ago."

"All right." Dawson held up her hands. "All right, you've got me there. I'd rather not take that nostalgia trip."

Shay moved over to the chair to rummage through the bag. "Oh, hell no."

Light, gentle piano music drifted into the room from where Shay's iPod was perched on the windowsill. Dawson went to work settling the flowers into cheap vases they had picked up on the way and filling them with water from a plastic bottle. One bouquet held yellow and bright pink roses, another was an arrangement of multi-colored daisies. The third and largest bouquet was made up of several gigantic sunflowers that Shay had insisted on. Dawson was glad for the choice, since the bright colors seemed to liven up the room almost instantaneously.

"So…" Shay dragged the syllable out, "foster care, huh?"

"If they can't find her family, I guess that's the way to go. Why? Are you…thinking what I think you're thinking?" Dawson fixed her with a cautious look.

Shay had a blanket in her arms—leftover and unused from her and Severide's place. It had some sort of vivid pattern made up of lime greens and hot pinks and blues and purples. In another life, it had been one of Shay's bed comforters.

"No, no…No, I wouldn't…I mean, of all people, I bet Clarke would've…"

"I don't know if he's in the right place for that, Shay."

"Well, maybe he could." Shay draped the blanket across the hospital's regulation white linens and knitted cream colored quilt. "Just temporary."

"We don't know if it would be temporary," Dawson reasoned. "Look, I'm sure if it comes down to it, they'll find her a nice home. She'll be in good care if Antonio has anything to say about it."

Shay nodded, silently, and busied herself with smoothing out the wrinkles in the blanket. Dawson watched her, reading her expression, knowing she hadn't exactly dropped the subject. She'd known Shay long enough to realize when certain things burrowed themselves into her mind and stayed put.

"What?"

"Nothing," Shay replied, moving back to the canvas bag.

"It's not nothing, Shay, come on."

She looked up, one hand curled around the bag's handle. "I dunno, I just…everyone at the house cares about her so much, I kind of wanted to get to know her once she wakes up. I think we all would, ya know? If she gets cozy with some other family, good for her, but…I don't want her to lose touch with us. Or with Clarke, who's practically earned his right to be her parent."

"Please," Dawson said. "As if she could. Ellie won't forget about 51, believe me. Even if she goes to a foster family, Clarke sure as hell won't give up his visits. Plus, Chief's got an open-door policy at the house."

"Yeah, you're right."

Shay pulled a few stuffed animals from the depths of the bag. Everyone had chipped in, quietly, for everything they had brought along, and Dawson and Shay had spent an exorbitant amount of time in the hospital's gift shop deliberating over the choices. Dawson rounded the end of the bed, and Shay tossed her a fluffy dog that bore a vague resemblance to Pouch.

"But," Shay continued, placing an orange fox above Ellie's pillow, the animal's fur sticking up at odd angles, "we're absolutely sure firehouse foster care isn't a thing? We could all go through the classes, and hey, the beds aren't too bad. Neither's the food. And, it's probably one of the safest places in the city…"

Dawson put the stuffed animal dog at the opposite end up against the footboard. She shook her head, laughing.

"It's not a terrible idea, but it might not be the best one, either."

"Well, if it hasn't been done before, how do they know it's not in the rule book?"

Shay put a little hedgehog next to the Pouch lookalike.

"It'll be fine, Shay," Dawson reassured her. "Whatever happens, we'll make sure Ellie sticks around. Like I said, I doubt Clarke will want to say goodbye to her anytime soon."

Dawson pulled a huge rolled up paper out of the bag, letting it unfurl onto the floor. It bunched up at her feet, obscuring the letters.

"Here, help me with this."

Shay found the roll of tape and ripped off several lengthy pieces, which she stuck to her pant leg while she assisted Dawson. They each grabbed an end of the gigantic banner and placed it up on the back wall of the room, to the right of Ellie's bed. After some struggling, trying to get the paper straight and even, Shay taped her end. She ran her palm along the banner to smooth it out, and Dawson plucked the pieces of tape from Shay's pants to secure her end.

"It looks really good in here," Shay said, pleased. She stood back next to Dawson to admire the handmade banner, a hand poised at her hip.

"Who did the letters?" Dawson asked.

"Rafferty."

Dawson raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Mm-hmm, she did a great job. Who knew?"

The message GET WELL SOON was spaced out in meticulous block letters across the length of the paper. Each letter had been colored in a different shade. Below that, FIREHOUSE 51 had been printed in neat, yet flowery handwriting, which Dawson guessed to be Rafferty's, too, since it couldn't have been Shay's. Around the letters of GET WELL SOON, the empty space had been plastered with messages from everyone at the firehouse, punctuated in messy, albeit discernable, signatures.

Shay went around to the side of the bed, her eyes instinctively tracing the numbers and lines on the machines to track Ellie's vitals.

Dawson stayed on the opposite side, doing the same out of habit, though her gaze soon wandered to Ellie's face. She hadn't been there the night they had pulled her from the building, but she had heard the story relayed in differing versions in her spare time spent at the firehouse. Looking down at the young girl, she wondered what had led her here, to be cared for by no one except a bunch of well-meaning strangers. Dawson slid her hand under Ellie's, so their palms were touching. Her thumb curled around Ellie's fingers.

"She looks so much better, all things considered," Shay stated. "It was pretty rough when we brought her in."

They stood in relative silence, the sound of Shay's playlist droning on peacefully, full of placid melodies and calming, lullaby-like voices. The music did enough to overpower the machinery, and while Dawson couldn't place some of the songs, what she did hear was saccharine and airy. All of the colors they'd brought into the room certainly did something to cover up the drab and impersonal surroundings, but Dawson thought the music was a nice touch to lighten the mood.

Two songs had passed when Dawson whispered urgently, "Shay."

Shay was leaning over the guardrail, attempting to control the stuffed animal fox's unruly faux fur.

"What?"

"Shay," Dawson repeated, so Shay finally looked over at her, "Ellie squeezed my hand."

Shay's eyes widened at about the same time her mouth opened in surprise, wondering if she'd heard Dawson right.

"You're sure?" she inquired. "Like, really, really sure?"

"Uh, yeah," Dawson said, her voice calm underneath her excitement. "Her fingers are moving."

Shay pushed the stuffed animal fox aside and took Ellie's other hand. She leaned further forward and watched Ellie's face.

Dawson studied them both, her heart beating wildly in her chest, hoping selfishly that Ellie would wait to open her eyes. She thought Clarke deserved to be here, to be the very first person Ellie saw when she awoke.

"Ellie," Shay called. "Can you hear me?"

She brushed Ellie's hair away from her face. "Can you open your eyes?"

A tense moment passed. And then another. Ellie's eyelids fluttered. Dawson held her breath and could all but feel Shay waiting. There was a flash of blue, quick but not unnoticed, before Ellie's eyes closed again.

Dawson couldn't keep the grin off her face. "I'll get her nurse," she suggested. "You should call Clarke."

/

"Hey," Clarke said softly, Ellie's hand between both of his own, "are you going to open your eyes for me, too? You should see it in here. Shay and Dawson fixed the place up for you."

By the time Shay got the news to him, he was already behind the wheel of his car. He'd made the drive to the hospital from Molly's in near record time, and while he insisted that Shay and Dawson could stay, they ducked out to allow him a visit. Sara, Ellie's nurse, had confirmed what Shay told him in run-on sentence, out-of-breath form over the phone—Ellie had moved her hand in Dawson's grip and her eyes had opened for a very brief moment. He hoped that could only mean good things. Sara had assured him that he would be able to stay overnight, just in case Ellie woke up sometime between now and the morning. A small part of him clung to the belief that this was finally the scrap of sunlight at the end of a very dark tunnel.

Clarke was impressed by Shay and Dawson's handiwork. Somehow, they'd managed to give the ICU room the appearance of a teenage girl's bedroom, at least in some sense. The banner on the wall—which had been kept secret from him, somehow, and he had to commend the firehouse for that—was a particularly wonderful touch. He made a mental note to decipher everyone's handwriting later on.

The flowers Dawson had arranged cut through the odors of hand sanitizers and cleaners that Clarke had difficulty getting out of his nose. Now, he could focus on the aromas of roses and daisies and sunflowers, and it did something to clear his thoughts. At the very least, it made him think of spring, and a Chicago that wasn't weighed down with snow and chilled to the bone. He wondered if Ellie could pick up on them. He wondered what kinds of things she thought of; if her mind was quiet or tangled up in half-made dreams.

Clarke wasn't sure if anything he told her while he sat here broke through her coma. He'd talked until he had fallen asleep a couple of times—stories from the firehouse, stories about his best friend, Gil, groggy truthful statements that tumbled out in the darkness before he could stop them. Clarke had told Ellie once that he thought Gil had helped him find her the night of the fire, but afterward he figured the statement was too stupid said aloud.

It was incredible how much his happiness, his hope depended on this teenage girl opening her eyes.

A lot had happened in a week.

Clarke kept Ellie's hand in between his, which remained clasped together. He had been vigilant since he sat beside her, looking for any sign of the slightest movement. Ellie hadn't looked at him, hadn't said a single word since that wall of debris had rained down on them both. It seemed like a lifetime ago, like Clarke had emerged from that building newly formed, ready to begin another life now that he realized how delicate and ever-changing it was.

He let out a breath. "I've had a terrible past few months," he confessed. "Longer than that, maybe. I don't know. Every step forward, I get pushed three steps back. Something tells me you might be able to understand that."

Ellie's chest rose and fell, evenly.

"I think we both need something to go right for once," Clarke told her. "If you're okay, I'm okay. We had a deal, remember? I'm still with you."

Ellie's eyes were closed, like they had been for a week. He swept his thumb across the back of her palm, which had become a habit now. Clarke hoped, suddenly, that if she dreamed, it wasn't of fire and smoke and bloodied hands. He prayed her dreams weren't anything like his.

He needed her to be all right. Good news was hard to come by.

/

Clarke had fallen asleep sometime around eleven-thirty, after Sara had stopped by to check in on them. He'd slumped awkwardly against the guardrail of the bed, one hand still near Ellie's. Military life had left him with the ability to sleep lightly; a useful skill that carried over into his career as a firefighter.

So, when he felt Ellie's hand reaching against his own, and felt her stir, he roused himself from his own sleep quickly. At first, he thought he was dreaming, but her slight, panicked movements alerted him that he wasn't. Clarke blinked away the fatigue and his vision focused.

Ellie was awake.

She was blinking rapidly, confusion etched into her face and half-stuck in sleep. She didn't lift her head off the pillow, which he couldn't blame her for; every move had to have been made with such effort. He imagined she was in some pain, and probably sore and stiff. Her fingers sought out the sheets beside her, her hand coiling and uncoiling around the starched fabric.

Clarke smiled—the most genuine grin in a week—and settled his hand back on top of hers.

"Hey," he said. His voice was steady, though it was taking nearly all his willpower to do so. "There you are."

Her fingers wrapped around his. Ellie's eyes, at last, fell upon him and stopped their frantic and puzzled searching.

"Jeff."

Her voice was weak, like it had been when they first met, from a week of disuse and assistance from a breathing tube. Clarke thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes, though he couldn't be sure, as his own vision had become blurred.

"You're in the hospital," he said, so she could get her bearings, "in the ICU. It's been about a week since the fire, but you're going to be fine. You're okay."

"You've been here this whole time." Clarke noticed it was a statement, not a question, but it didn't sink in.

"Yeah." He felt warm tears spill down his cheeks and didn't bother to sweep them away. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you I wouldn't, right?"

Ellie squeezed his hand. "Thank you."