I have finally reached my breaking point with this community. I was able to work through rude DMs and anons and even through my videos being stolen and reposted, but my telegram group was reported by someone in the group and taken down this morning. 2 years worth of content now gone for nothing.
This community is no longer enjoyable for me, and I don't see any point in continuing with the rampant stealing of content and garbage AI posts. I posted because it was fun, and because I enjoyed making friends here, but now it's no longer worth it.
I won't be taking my account down because even if I do, my posts will still be out there, and I don't really care either way. But, I won't be posting anything new here again. I won't be accepting commissions or selling videos out right. I'm done.
Have fun with your shitty uncanny AI resus and loser dudes catfishing "resus" girls.
When Dr. Hudson had chosen the plot to build his home, Fireball Beach had been a quiet place. That is until they got the notice in the mail that NASCAR would be building a new training center for their racers. The beach went from a serene stretch of sand where everyone knew each other to bustling with tourists just trying to catch a glimpse of their favorite driver. Dr. Hudson started keeping his windows closed and moved his study to the back of the house to avoid the noise.
One morning, though, he made his coffee as usual and decided to sit on the balcony. He made himself comfortable at the small table with his mug and the paper. Before he can start reading the headline, a flash of red catches his eye.
He looks over the railing to see a young blond he'd never noticed before jogging past the house. His lips are parted slightly as his chest heaves under a tight compression shirt. His shorts are tight and stop just shy of mid-thigh. His feet bounce lightly off the sandy sidewalk with effortless rhythm. His large over-the-ear headphones and dark aviators shield most of his face but his golden hair shines in the sun.
The doctor watches the younger man until he disappears around the next corner leaving him with a lukewarm coffee and uncomfortably tight pants.
The next morning Dr. Hudson does the same. Pouring his coffee and heading for the balcony. He stands against the railing to get a better view as the blond jogs up the beach again. He watches the way his chest and thighs move with each step. Watches how his lips part with each sharp inhale. His eyes are still hidden behind the dark glasses, but the doctor can just make out where a flush reddens his freckled cheeks.
Dr. Hudson assumes the man is one of the drivers from the racing center. He'd quickly realized that most of them prefer the treadmills in their air conditioned gyms, but not this one. He seems to thrive in the fresh air and sunlight.
One morning that the blond had come by, he'd seen a bright yellow 95 emblazoned on the back of his t-shirt. Once he was past the house, Dr. Hudson let his curiosity get the better of him. He'd sat down in front of the laptop in his study and quickly typed, who drives the 95 car for NASCAR? A dozen articles quickly flashed on the screen.
Top Rookie of the Season!
First Championship!
And finally, a name. Montgomery “Lightning” McQueen.
Dr. Hudson clicked the link and the cover photo nearly stole his breath. There was the jogger, sans glasses and earphones, with the brightest blue eyes the older man had ever seen. He was being showered in red and gold confetti while holding a trophy half his size.
Hud had never cared for the sport, but now he finds himself checking the paper for the boy’s name. He'd begun to notice that the better this McQueen finished, the more pep he seemed to have in his step that morning.
One morning Dr. Hudson heads out to the balcony as usual. He waits, but the blond never shows up. That was unusual, since it had been months and it seemed like he never missed a day. Maybe he had come down with something?
Another day, another no-show, and the doctor felt a small tinge of worry start to eat at him.
When the third day had come and gone, he just assumed the young man had gotten his fill of the same old beach views and decided to stay inside with the others.
When the paper arrives on the stoop the next morning, the photo on the front page makes him sick. There is a car, or what used to be one, mangled and smoking as a driver is pulled through the open window. His arm seems limp where it dangles by his side. The headline reads, McQueen Out! Crash at Talledega!
The doctor’s heart sinks as he scans the page. There's a small sigh of relief as he sees that the young man was taken to a hospital but seems to be stable. He sets the paper to the side and picks up his coffee, taking it down the hall to his study.
After a few months, Dr. Hudson catches a flash of gold through his kitchen window. The young man is back! But he seems to be keeping an easy walking pace. There's a girl hovering next to him, her hand outstretched ready to steady him at any sign of a problem.
“I'm fine, Cruz! I don't need to be babysat!” McQueen spits, swatting the young girl’s hands away.
“The doctor says you need to take it easy,” Cruz whines, “I still think we should have stuck to the treadmills.”
Dr. Hudson watches as Cruz guides them to turn around and head back the way they'd come.
A week later, the doctor is back on his balcony. He watches as the racer comes around the corner in a half jog. His face is red and his mouth hangs open, his chest moving quickly with heaving breaths. The blond is trying, and failing, to hide the limp on his left side as he jogs past. Hud’s heart aches for the boy. He’s watched many strong young men have to fight back for mobility after an accident.
He's braced against the railing when he sees the blond’s knee buckle, body dropping like a sack of stones. He drops his mug and rushes down the stairs, grabbing his bag before racing out the door.
He crosses the busy street, cars honking and brakes squealing behind him. He drops down beside the young man, his fingers quickly finding the pulse point at his neck. His heart is hammering wildly against his fingertips but his eyes are already beginning to look distant and empty.
“Hey! Hey! Stay with me!” The doctor shouts as he reaches into his bag and pulls out a valve mask. He seals it tight over the blond’s mouth and nose, forcing air into his hyperventilating lungs.
Those beautiful, bright blue eyes roll back as he begins to convulse. His back arches tight, arms curling in close to his chest.
“No! Nonono,” Dr. Hudson pressed his stethoscope over the racer's apex, listening as his heart goes from fibrillation to full arrest. He drapes the stethoscope around his neck and interlocks his hands over the now still chest. He slams them down, crushing the blond’s sternum in and making his ribs flare and pop. Hud finds his rhythm, counting aloud as he pounds the boy’s chest, “15, 16, 17, 18, come on!”
Once he hits thirty, Dr. Hudson presses the mask tight over his patient’s face, pumping in two full breaths. McQueen's chest rises slightly, pulling his already tight shirt taut across his chest.
The doctor drops the mask and begins another round of brutal chest compressions. The racer’s flat stomach bounces in tandem with each harsh thrust into his stalled heart.
His lips are turning bluer by the second and his skin is beginning to cool when the doctor reaches into his bag and pulls out a pair of sheers. He snips through the blond’s shirt quickly and pushes the scrapped fabrics aside. His sternum has already started bruising from the CPR.
A golf cart screeches to a stop nearby as Hud starts another round of thirty compressions.
“Mr. McQueen,” the girl’s startled voice screams. When she gets closer and can see what's happening, her eyes go wide. “I-I told him he wasn't ready! I swear I did!”
“That doesn't matter now. I could use an extra set of hands,” the doctor grunts as he continues working.
The young girl takes a step back, “I'm not a medic, I'm just a trainer.”
Dr. Hudson stops compressions and pulls the stethoscope from his neck, pressing it hard onto McQueen’s chest. “Cruz. That's your name, right?”
“Y-yes, sir,” responds the shaking voice.
“Well, Cruz, you're about to get a crash course. Come over here and kneel behind his head.”
She does as she's told and Hud shoves the ambu bag into her trembling hands.
“Make sure that's tight over his mouth and nose. Squeeze the bag twice every time I say. Got it?”
The blonde nods, placing the mask over the other’s mouth and nose and squeezing twice, her frightened eyes searching the stranger’s for approval.
“Good. That's good. Keep doing that.” He can hear the hissing of the bag as he digs through his duffle. He pulls out an AED and lets it clatter onto the sidewalk. He quickly rips the packaging open with his teeth, pressing the sticky pads onto his chest. He watches the young trainer, Cruz, as she keeps pushing breaths into McQueen’s lungs. Her eyes are watery and her bottom lip is quivering as she follows his directions.
“Okay, stop,” he says, studying the readout as the machine boots up. The flatline makes his heart sink and he braces his hands for another round of compressions. When his palms sink in deep, he hears the girl’s quiet sob. He starts counting aloud, “13, 14, 15, breathe!”
She presses the mask into place and squeezes twice.
“Good,” Dr. Hudson says, continuing compressions. He can feel his own arms and shoulders start to ache and his knees sting where he's been kneeling into the pavement.
After two more rounds, the machine beeps. He turns to see a small, wiggling green line. “Vfib. Don't touch him.”
Cruz scoots back, raising her hands.
The machine charges the first shock at 150J. When he presses the button, McQueen’s chest jerks, his shoulders bowing inwards and his hands twitching. With no change, Dr. Hudson charges to 200J. “Clear!” He hears Cruz yelp as the young man’s chest arches off the pavement, his head falling back as a harsh grunt is forced through his lips.
“He's breathing!” She says, reaching out for him. Dr. Hudson reaches out, grabbing her wrist, “he's not. It's just air being forced out by the muscles contracting. Bag him again.”
She starts bagging him as the doctor presses his stethoscope against his chest again. The machine beeps again, charging to 300J. “Stand back,” he says before pressing his thumb into the trigger, “CLEAR!”
McQueen’s chest and hips lift off the sandy pavement as his arms and legs jerk violently. When his body falls back, the machine whines a harsh flatline.
“Damn it!” Dr. Hudson spits as he begins crushing compressions again. The young man’s ribs pop and crackle under his palms as he works, soft huffs and grunts pushed up through the boy’s lips. “13, 14, 15, breathe!”
Cruz barely gets the second breath in before the doctor is pounding on his chest again. “Come on! Come on! Breathe!”
As she squeezes the bag again, the machine beeps. She raises her hands and scoots back without needing to be told what was coming next. The doctor presses the button and McQueen’s body arches before slamming back to the ground.
“Again! Clear!”
His arms and legs jerk harshly with the surge of electricity. When he falls back again, his mouth opens and closes on quiet, wheezing gasps.
“Is he breathing? Is he alive?” Cruz asks, leaning over to try to see the small ekg screen.
“Agonal breathing. He's still fibrillating, and we're going to have to shock him again. Don't touch him.”
Cruz sits back, watching as the young man’s eyes flutter and roll and his blue lips twitch.
The next shock makes the blond groan as his eyes roll back. When his back hits the pavement again his arms come up to grab at his chest.
“Mr. McQueen!” Cruz lunges forward cupping his cheeks in her hands. The agonal gasps become shallow, hyperventilating breaths.
Dr. Hudson presses his palms back over the racer’s chest, kneading into his chest. “That's it, nice and easy,” he coos gently as he tries to help work his heart back into rhythm.
Golden lashes flutter open and the brightest blue eyes Hud had ever seen land on his face.
-
The first thing McQueen sees is the sky. Bright blue with a few seagulls circling diving and swooping overhead. He's just getting his bearings when the shrill voice of his trainer makes him wince. He feels her hands cup his face and her brown eyes and blonde curls fill his vision. The fear in her eyes makes his chest ache, and he opens his mouth to speak. “I'm fine, Cruz,” he wheezes, his voice cracking as it leaves his dry throat.
“Like hell you are,” a new voice to his left scoffs. The voice is gruff, with a sort of eastern Appalachian accent. He turns his head to see who spoke and his eyes land on a familiar face. That's the old pervert that watches me run every morning, he thinks as he blinks up at the older man.
“You stay still, paramedics should be here any minute,” the man says. McQueen feels the chill as something sticky is removed from his chest. He turns his head to see a duffle bag filled to the brim with medical equipment.
“What…happened?”
“You were clinically dead for 10 minutes.” The older man says bluntly, “I performed CPR and now you're going to the hospital.”
Great. More doctors. McQueen thinks as he groans and lets his head fall back onto the sidewalk.
Since people want to repost my content here I most likely will be leaving the community. You can still find me on my telegram under the same name but this place has become a cesspool. Maybe one day I'll want to come back, so I'll leave the blog up, but as of now I'm done.
AI generators are currently developing at breakneck speed! AIs are already capable of generating CPR art quite well in our genre.
Please remember that I will never publish AI content on my channel!
This kind of content discredits the work of artists who spend a week, a month, and sometimes even several months creating a cool and memorable masterpiece!
Meanwhile, machines create illustrations in 10 seconds without putting a single drop of soul into them, because they simply have no soul!
No matter how good the AI is, it will never be able to draw CPR and drowning the same way a living artist does.
Unlike an artist, AI can't come up with completely new and unusual solutions unless it's been trained to do so. It only draws what it knows, while an artist can draw what their imagination knows, and their imagination knows no bounds.
Moral aspect aside (as if it's moral to make fetish content with people who are unaware and consenting and sharing it on the open internet not even it for private use )
But I'm sick and tired of this flood of AI resus slop.....
This message isn't targeted at anyone in particular, but I have to lay down a pretty strict boundary. I ask that you please ask if I'm in a good headspace for violent fantasies about myself. I've gotten some pretty gory messages in my inbox on here and it's really taken a toll on my mental health. Thanks in advance for understanding.
Reposting this again because I've started getting weird DMs and asks again. For the love of god please stop telling me how "bad your mental health is" and all the ways you want to kill yourself. WE'VE NEVER SPOKEN AND THAT'S HOW YOU OPEN THE CONVERSATION!? Do you even understand how fucking triggering and uncomfortable that can be? I'm going to be a real bitch here and say that if you ever send me anything like that it will be an immediate block. Like, this shit is unreasonable and I completely understand why so many people have left the community recently.
The Prince and the Knight's first meeting. Story under the cut.
M/M, Fantasy setting, Prince/Knight, drowning, both POVs, Resus
The branch sways slightly in the breeze as slim fingers barely graze the bottom of the shiny, red fruit. A pink tongue darts out from between full lips as dark brows scrunch in determination. The young man stretches onto the very tips of his toes, batting at the apple dangling just out of his reach.
The fisherman’s son sits on the bank, pole held loosely above the water as his eyes rake over the toned calves and plump thighs of the dark haired boy he'd been watching all afternoon. A moment ago he'd been lounging with his book, seemingly unaware of the eyes staring at him, when suddenly he'd jumped up and made a beeline up the hill to the apple tree. He's been trying to reach that particular fruit for the better half of fifteen minutes, and he doesn't show any signs of giving up.
The blond shrugs to himself. Better view for me anyway, he thinks, giving his pole a light tug to bob the cork.
The young man bounces on his toes again, batting at the apple. On the second try, his toes leave the ground, but still no luck. When he touches the grass again, his boot slips and sends him tumbling over the edge of the shirt cliff. A yelp and a splash are all the fisherman’s son hears as the other man disappears below the water’s surface.
The blond lets out a deep laugh at the other’s expense, expecting any minute for him to come up sputtering and cursing. The water’s surface remains undisturbed and the man feels his laughter die in his chest.
He should've come up by now.
The first thing the prince feels is ice. It's early spring and the water hasn't had time to warm from the winter frosts. He kicks and claws at the frigid water around him, trying to reach the shimmering surface that seems to be just above his head.
His lungs have already started to burn from the lack of air, his chest twitching as his cheeks bulge with his held breath. His arms and legs ache from fighting the thick cold threatening to swallow him whole, and his brain feels like it's stuffed with cotton.
He can feel his limbs beginning to slow, the surface seeming to shrink away from him as his eyes grow heavy. No longer in control of his body, he can't stop his mouth as it gapes open, the last of his air leaving his body in a rush of bubbles. His sinuses burn with the first rush of water that invades his airway, and his lungs quickly fill with the icy water.
He can feel his heart hammering behind his lungs as his body begins to convulse. Every third beat he can feel it skip and stumble before slamming back into the painful rhythm. Ba-dump, Ba-dump… the skip never comes, his body falls limp and green eyes go dim as he slips deeper into the murky lake.
The fisherman’s son drops his pole and rushes toward the cliff’s edge. He kicks his heavy boots off and dives into the lake. His eyes sting but he forces them open, scanning the water for the young brunet. Through the flurry of bubbles he spots a pale hand and reaches out. His fingers wrap around the delicate wrist and heave him up. Looping his arm around the smaller man’s chest, he kicks his legs and hauls them both toward the shimmering sunlight.
Breaking the surface, the blond gulps in a breath and starts towing the younger man toward the shore. When his feet touch the muddy bottom, he stands and turns to look at the boy in his arms. His heart sinks as he pulls him against his broad chest. His skin is ashen and his lips have turned a sickening shade of blue. The fisher tangles his fingers in dark curls as he steadies the other man’s head.
Every man on the water is taught how to drag someone back from a watery grave at a young age. The Kiss of Life, the man thinks, tilting the other’s head back. He seals his mouth over the other’s and blows deep. Both of their cheeks round before a gurgle deep in the young man’s chest has water erupting from his mouth and nose.
“That's it, get the water out,” the fisher says as he blows in again. He tilts the brunet’s head to the side as more water spills out. He blows in twice more, feeling the other man’s chest rise slightly against his palm.
He slides his hand under the young man’s knees and lifts him easily. His silk shirt is near translucent where it clings to his small chest, and the other man has to drag his eyes away from where his nipple perks through the thin fabric. The boy’s arms and legs dangle and sway as the fisher trudges through the shallows.
On shore, he gently lays the young man on his back. He leans down, pressing his ear to the man’s petite chest, listening for any signs of life.
Shit, he ain't got a heartbeat.
The fisher sits up, bracing his hands over the other’s breastbone. He pushes down, bending the delicate ribs under his palm, and here's another soft gurgle. More water dribbles out over the boy’s lips, so the blond tilts his head again. He holds his head to the side with one hand as he pumps into him with the other.
“How much water did you swallow?” He mutters, brows knit as he continues pushing water out of the man’s slack lips.
When the fisher hears the first small huff of air leave his lips, he leans down, sealing his mouth over the other’s. He breathes out, filling the young man’s chest until air sputters out between them. He does this two more times before finding the landmark between his nipples again.
He rolls his shoulders forward and slams the first real compression down into the man’s drowned heart. He can feel the thin ribs bending and popping under his hands as he works, and he whispers soft apologies between each count. “13, 14, 15, come on, breathe!”
He pinches the young man’s nose again, blowing two more breaths into his still lungs. His cheeks bulge and his chest rises with each artificial breath as the fisher continues rescue breaths.
“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, come on! Breathe, damn it!” His compressions are deep and fast, rocking the young man’s entire body as his shoulders dip and arms and legs sway.
The next cycle of compressions seem to bring some color back to the brunet’s soft features, his face more pale than grey and his lips have a subtle flush of pink. It gives the fisher renewed hope in his efforts and he continues another cycle of thirty compressions and two breaths.
The young man’s lips are soft against his own and he realizes he'd been fantasizing about kissing them all day. Not exactly what I had in mind, but let’s get you breathing and see what happens, he muses, blowing in another quick breath.
He breaks the seal of their mouths, staring down at the angelic face below him as he pumps one hand into the other’s quickly bruising sternum. “Fight, come on! You can do it, breathe,” he whispers, warm breath ghosting against cool, slack lips.
After fifteen one handed compressions he seals their mouths again blowing in another warm breath. A trail of saliva connects their lower lips as he pulls away again, continuing chest compressions.
The Prince’s senses come back to him one at a time. He can feel the water sloshing in his belly as something slams into his chest. It hurts, but when he tries to lift his arms or move away they feel cold and numb. The next thing he feels is a large hand cradling his neck before wet warmth envelops his mouth and air is pushed into his lungs. It's not really breathing, but right now it feels like the sweetest air he's ever had.
The air rushes from his lungs before he's ready and soon the crushing pain is back on his chest. His throat flexes and burns as he feels more water push its way out of his lungs.
His hearing comes next, slowly. Everything sounds like distant murmurs, like trying to listen to someone on the other side of a wall. Then suddenly, a clear voice.
“Come on! Breathe damn it!”
A man’s voice, from somewhere above him, is the first clear thing he hears. In the dark of his mind, in a body that won't move, he focuses on that voice. It seems to be counting in time with the painful pulses in his chest, every once in a while the voice stops and he feels the rush of air into his lungs again.
“Breathe,” the voice says again. It's the most beautiful word the prince has ever heard. He knows when he hears the lovely voice say that word then he'll be gifted warm air again, filling his lungs to the brim and satisfying the ache in his chest, if only for a moment.
His body suddenly jerks, vomiting up the rest of the water as his throat and sinuses burn. He feels the warm hands from before roll him onto his side before coming down to rub his back. “That's it, you're alright,” the voice from before coos, softer now.
His sight comes last. His eyes sting from the salty water, and he blinks a few times to clear them. When his lashes flutter open and his vision clears, he finally can put a face to the voice.
He hadn't expected it to be the blond fisherman he'd seen watching him earlier in the day, but he can't say he's upset about it. Crystal blue eyes brimming with concern scan his face as the same large, warm hands brush dark curls off his brow.
“You're okay, just breathe,” the fisher says, easing him into a sitting position.
The prince leans his weight into the warm chest, letting his head rest on the other man’s shoulder. His voice croaks as he smiles up at the stranger, “hi.”
The chest beneath him bounces lightly with a laugh, “hi. Y’know, if you wanted my attention there was an easier way to do it.”
The prince hums softly before his eyes slide closed again. “You'll need to take me home, my father will be worried.”
“Who’s your father? I'll carry you,” the fisher says, shifting the young man into a bridal carry.
He nearly drops him again when the brunet speaks again.
“The king.”
The Prince’s breathing evens out as his head droops forward. The fisherman’s son carries the sleeping Prince back to the palace. It takes some work to convince the guards he hadn't injured the Prince, to the contrary, the opposite. When they're satisfied, he's guided to the castle’s infirmary where he leaves the young prince.
He bows lightly to the guards, “I'll, uh, I'll be going now.”
“No,” the guard answers, “his highness wants to see you first.”
Maybe he wants to give me a reward, the fisherman thinks, imagining lumps of gold or jewels as he's led to the throne room.
The king sits on an ornate throne, the queen sitting at his side. The fisher can't help but notice that the prince looks just like his mother. The king stands and the guard places a hand on the blond's shoulder, pushing him to kneel.
“For saving my only heir, I'd like to extend a position to you within my kingdom. Knighthood, if you choose to accept.”
The blond’s eyes widen and he can only nod, his mind reeling as the sheathed sword is dropped onto each shoulder. He's whisked out of the large room and ushered into a room in the Knight’s quarters.
He's put in charge of the young Prince. He's told his job is to never leave the young man’s side, and so that's what he does.
Sarah stood at her kitchen sink watching the birds flit around her back yard. She was drying the last plate when the front door slammed open and the patter of feet filled the house.
“Mom! Mom! I found a fairy! Look! Look!” The voice of her over excited boy echoed off the linoleum. She turned to see the wild eyed child holding his fist out to her. When he pulled his fingers back Sarah gasped.
She'd expected to see a small toy one of the neighbor girls had left behind, but instead she sees a genuine fairy. Glittering dust covers the boy’s palm where the creature lay splayed out across it.
“I found her caught in a net, but she's not moving,” the boy frowns, “you're a nurse, can you fix her?”
Sarah bends to get a better look at the small thing in the child's palm. Its face shows all the telltale signs of asphyxiation. Purple face, slack lips with drool trailing down its chin, and half lidded lifeless eyes. She gently lifts the fairy’s chin with the tip of her pointer finger, trying to see if it will respond. There's a small twitch of its mouth and its chest spasms.
Agonal breaths. Could still be saved.
She turns her eyes back up to her son, “I'm going to try to save her, but you go on back out to play.” He tries to protest but she shakes her head, slipping the tiny limp creature into her own hand, “I'm doing magic and it'll only work if no one sees,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“Like a birthday wish?”
“Yep. Just like that. Now go,” she says, playfully shoving the boy out of the kitchen.
She turns around and places the fairy on its back on the counter. She knew it wasn't right to lie to him, but it would be easier if he didn't see what she was about to do. Plus, when this inevitably failed, she wouldn't have to see his disappointed face. She'd just tell him the little creature flew away too quickly, but that she was safe.
Sarah pressed two fingers into the fairy’s tiny chest experimentally. It gave easily, the ribs bending and recoiling with the slightest pressure. She counted out the cautious compressions aloud, “12, 13, 14, 15…”
She performed three cycles of hands only CPR before cupping the little body into her hands. She brought it up to her lips, covering the little fairy’s mouth and nose. She puffed three small breaths into its lungs, feeling the tiny chest rise and fall with each one.
She shifted it, pressing her thumb between its breasts for another thirty compressions, its wings twitching slightly with each pump. “Come on, little fairy, breathe,” she murmured, pressing her lips back over the lower half of its face again. Its lips were turning a deeper blue by the second, and she was beginning to lose faith.
Without a defibrillator I don't know if this will work. She thought as she tried to feel for a pulse, pressing the tip of her finger under its left breast. She couldn't feel anything, so she gave two more small breaths and began her thumb compressions again, squeezing the tiny fairy between her thumb and palm.
Its shoulders bowed and belly bounced with each careful compression, arms and legs swaying where they dangled over her hand.
After another two cycles of CPR, she pressed her ear against the fairy’s upper body, listening carefully for any signs of life. She can almost feel the little heart stuttering in its chest, and she thinks it may be in V-fib.
I'll have to try a precordial thump.
Sarah sets the creature back onto the counter and ever so carefully thumps its sternum with her index finger. With no change she tries again, this time a little harder. There's a hollow thud, but no other sound or movement. She returns to two fingered compressions.
“Come on, give me something to work with here,” she mutters, finishing her cycle of thirty and bending down to puff into its lungs again. She thumps its chest again, and this time there's a twitch. The tiny fairy’s leg jerks as she strikes her breastbone.
Just muscle spasms? Or are you fighting?
She rubs the creature's sternum, trying to rouse it into life. Its eyes roll and there's a few blinks before its mouth twitches around more agonal gasps.
“That's it, you can do it,” Sarah coos, gently massaging the fairy’s heart into rhythm. She leans down and seals her lips over its mouth and nose again, giving it a few encouraging puffs of air as it struggles to breathe on its own.
After another few seconds of breaths and heart massage, she feels the fairy jerk under her thumb. Its wings twitch and its eyes flutter open.
“There you are.”
The fairy bolts up before swooning and tipping onto its side, chest heaving as it fights to catch its breath.
“It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe now, and you can take all the time you need to recover. Once you're ready, you can go. I won't stop you.” Sarah says, walking back and opening the kitchen window.
The fairy sits for a few moments, never taking her wary eyes off Sarah before finally she stumbles to her feet, gives her wings a few test flaps, and darts out the window. The only evidence that she was ever there is the speckling of shimmering dust left on the counter.
New DocLight story since my CARS hyperfixation persists and I must put that twink in ✨situations✨
Red dust swirls as the stock car roars up the back straightaway. The small dirt track has become the racer’s second home as he prepares for the coming cup season. McQueen white knuckles the wheel as he nears the first turn. He jerks the wheel hard to the right, feeling the back tires start to get loose before spinning the wheel hand over hand back to the left. He grits his teeth when he feels the car start to fishtail, sliding hard into the dried brush on the side of the track.
He curses, slamming his hands on the dash as the dust settles. He catches a flash of lightning to the west, followed by a low rumble of thunder.
“Storm’s supposed to roll in tonight. Track gets slick when it rains, so quit and head home before it starts,” Doc had said, staring out the kitchen window.
Lightning huffs. One more lap, then I'll head back. He steers the rumbling car back onto the track and rolls up to the makeshift start line. A few small droplets dot the windshield, but he ignores them as he guns the engine and tears off back down the track. As he goes high around the first corner, the rain gets heavier. He pushes forward, trying to beat the storm.
Halfway up the back straightaway the bottom falls out. With no wipers on the car, he's suddenly blind. He presses his foot down on the break, but his stomach drops as the car starts to slide. He knows the track well enough by now to know he only has a few yards before the steep drop off. He clenches his teeth and jerks the wheel. The car slides sideways, but before he can feel relief, there's a snag, and suddenly he's weightless. The car goes airborne before slamming down on its roof. The impact snatches him in his harness, and he feels something snap in his shoulder. He's upside down, upright, and upside down again when he feels the car slide over the edge of the ravine.
The next impact is brutal. He feels his helmet connect with the window, then black.
Doc is standing on the porch, staring out at the downpour. He'd stepped out to listen for the 95’s engine when he'd seen the first few drops come down. He'd told the boy to be back before the rain started, but now here it was a monsoon and no sign of him. Maybe he just got stuck, he thinks as he worries at the hem of his sweater. Anxiety turns his stomach as he stares out at the water that's quickly pooling in the street. They hadn't had a flash flood in Radiator Springs in over a decade, but this storm is already turning the usually dry town into a lake.
The older man suddenly turns heel and grabs his keys off the side table. He pulls his coat over his head as he makes the short jog to the garage, pulling the creaking wooden doors open. He throws the door to the old blue car open and drops into the driver’s seat. The engine grumbles and sputters as it comes to life. Doc backs the car out of the covered garage, turning the wipers to their highest speed, and heads out of town towards the butte.
He keeps his eyes peeled for any flash of red off the sides of the road as he pushes the car forward through the slick mud. As he gets closer to the track with still no sign of the rookie, his heart is hammering. When he pulls up to the outcropping that overlooks the track, his heart plummets. There's no sign of Lightning or the 95. With the only road back into town being the one he just came in on, then he had to still be here.
He steers the car down the embankment and onto the track, following the path around the first corner. Halfway up the back straight he sees something through the rain that makes ice slide down his spine. Deep, gouging tire tracks in the mud that lead to busted glass and twisted metal parts. He stops the car, jumping out to inspect the wreckage. Squinting through the rain his spots the 95’s back spoiler mangled nearby, then a back quarter panel. The trail of carnage leads just over the edge of the drop off, and Doc rushes to check for the car.
When he spots the car it's upside down at the bottom of the ravine, but that's not what makes him panic. Water has rushed into the gulley, and it's nearly lapping at the exposed underside of the car. “Rookie!” Doc shouts as he slides down the slippery edge. When he gets alongside the car, the water is nearly up to his hip, and the current tugs hard at his legs threatening to take him off his feet. He grabs onto the side panel of the car and crouches down, the water now at his chin. His hand flails in the water until he finds the netting covering the driver’s window, pulling it free. He reaches past and his heart drops when he comes in contact with soft flesh. He grips onto what he assumes is the shoulder of McQueen’s firesuit and tugs, but he doesn't budge.
Oh, god. He still has his harness on. Doc thinks as panic rises in his throat. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the harness in his mind. Tries to blindly guide his hand to the safety release. One in the middle. Click. He feels it come undone. One at the seat. His hand slides down McQueen’s front until it rests on the buckle between his legs. He presses in but there's no release. He presses in, jerking on the release with all his strength until finally it comes loose.
Doc takes a deep breath, bracing himself against a submerged shrub, and ducks his head under the rushing water. Once he’s under, he pushes the harness away from McQueen’s chest and loops his arms under the boy’s. He can feel his own lungs start to burn as he frees the racer from the tangled wreck. Standing, he pulls the rookie’s limp body against his chest and starts the climb back out of the water.
Lightning still has his helmet on and his head lolls forward with the added weight as Doc pulls them to safety. He lays him on his back, fingers shaking as he tries to unclip the chinstrap. Once he hears the click, he braces the back of the blond’s neck with one hand and gently removes the headgear. His stomach turns as water pours from the helmet and he throws it to the side. He presses his thumb against McQueen’s lower lip, pulling his jaw open. Water is visible at the back of his throat and drips from his nose.
Doc had held hope that the helmet may have kept most of the water out of him, but clearly it did the opposite. He blinks the pouring rain out of his eyes and pulls the lifeless boy up into a sitting position. His head and arms drop forward as Doc’s chest presses flush against his back. He wraps his arms around McQueen’s middle, covering his balled fist with his other hand. He slams his hands up into the drowned man’s diaphragm, water gurgling in his throat before splashing onto the ground in front of them.
“That's it,” Doc murmurs softly, a stark contrast to how harshly his hands slam into the other's stomach. The blond in his arms bounces limply with each strong heimlich thrust, and Doc grunts as more water bubbles out of the rookie’s slack lips. A few more deep thrusts and he lays him back down, his head falling to the side. The older man doesn't even need to press his fingers into the boy's throat to know there's no pulse. He was too full of water for too long. He quickly pulls the zipper down on the bright red firesuit, the white tank he'd had underneath see-though. Doc takes a deep breath to steady himself, overlaps his hands over McQueen’s sternum, and pumps.
Doc had always found the act of CPR made him queasy, even in med school. It was brutal and violent, and left the victim traumatized and battered, if it was even successful. But now, here in the mud, with the first real love he's ever known beneath him, he's downright sick. He can feel bile rise in his throat with every bruising compression into the boy’s chest, hands caving into his ribs again and again.
Doc has no way of knowing how long he's been unresponsive. Dead. Doc’s mind supplies and it makes him physically recoil. “Not if I can help it,” he grits through his teeth as he continues his relentless pace of compressions. When he reaches thirty, he tilts McQueen’s chin up and pinches his nose. He sucks in a deep breath before sealing his mouth over the other’s.
The lips he'd just kissed in their kitchen a few hours ago, sweet from orange soda, and warm, so warm, were now frigid and slack. He blows air into them like he can bring the warmth back with his breath alone, begging between each gasp, “breathe. Come on. Breathe, please.” A few more desperate rescue breaths and he moves back to his chest. He slams his hands down hard, just like he'd been taught, “12, 13, 14, 15, come on,” he grunts. He finishes another cycle of thirty and slams his lips over his lover’s again, forcing another deep breath into his drowned lungs. He rests his hand over McQueen’s chest, feeling the artificial rise and fall of his breath inflating still lungs.
He continues like this as the rain pours down around them. Pump. Breathe. Pump. Breathe.
Doc reaches down with shaking fingers, pressing them against the side of the younger man’s neck. His shoulders curl inward and his body sags when he still can't feel a heartbeat. “Come on, rookie. I'm not supposed to outlive you,” he mutters, reaching down to stroke soaked blond curls off Lightning’s brow. Staring down at the ashen face and blue lips Doc feels a tightness begin to strangle him, and the first prick of tears form in the corners of his eyes. He sits up again, pressing the heel of his hand into the racer's bruised breastbone, “I think I've got a few more rounds left in me,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against McQueen’s temple.
He interlocks his fingers and begins pumping his chest again. The boy’s shoulders cave inward as his arms and legs sway with each harsh compression. Wet huffs and the popping of ribs are the only sounds heard over the driving rain as Doc continues to work on his young lover.
“Come on, give me something to work with.”
He pumps into the chest beneath him like a well oiled machine, the ribs bending and flexing under his hands. He'd stopped counting a while ago, but when his arms threaten to give out, he dips his head and pushes in a few breaths past cold, blue lips. His fingertips dig into the soft part of Lightning’s cheeks where he holds his airway open, and with each new breath he feels his cheeks bulge against his fingers. Doc feels the stale air brush his cheek as he turns to watch the rookie’s chest fall. He seals their lips again, blowing in until he feels the younger man’s chest strain under his palm.
The older man's arms are shaking and weak as he repositions for another set of compressions, “come on, kid, I don't know how much more I got.” He rolls his shoulders, putting his weight behind his hands as he drives them into the boy’s heart. He barely makes it to twelve before he's collapsing forward, bracing himself on his elbows, nose centimeters from the other’s. He's panting from exhaustion, but manages to pull in another breath, knowing that even if it were his last, he’d fill his lover's lungs with it. He gently seals their mouths, blowing what little air he was able to manage into his lungs. He barely pulls away, lips still brushing as he pulls in another wheezing breath to give the rookie.
Doc feels a twitch under his hand splayed across Lightning’s chest, and pushes the breath in further. There's another harsher jerk and suddenly his throat flexes and water rushes up. Doc sits up, quickly rolling McQueen over onto his side.
Lightning's lungs burn, and he's trying to suck in a breath but every time he does he can't get it past the water he keeps heaving up. He wants to cry out for help, but he can't get his brain to cooperate with his mouth, or the rest of his body for that matter.
“I've got you, you're alright.” A familiar voice above him soothes. He feels a hand press against his jaw, pulling his mouth open before fingers slip inside. They press down at the back of his tongue, and he'd gag if he wasn't already puking water.
“That's it, get all the water out.” He listens, letting his body relax as he coughs painfully, sinuses burning as water pours out of his nose. Once the coughing fit subsides, he sucks in his first deep breath. He feels cold and he can't stop shaking. He flops onto his back again and feels warm hands pressing against his face and neck. “Open your eyes, rookie, come on.”
Doc.
Lightning uses all his energy to pry his eyelids open, and he's met with a sight that makes his heart twist. The older man he'd fallen for is staring down at him. He's soaked and shivering, greying hair stuck to his brow as he runs his hands over the younger man’s chest. He tries to sit up, to comfort Doc and to wipe that look off his face. To show him he's fine. But, when he moves, Doc presses him back down.
“Stay still.”
And then he's gone. Lightning turns his head and watches as Doc disappears behind the Hornet. He reappears quickly with the quilt they normally used for picnics, draping it over him before pulling him onto his lap. He's struggling to hold his eyes open in the sudden warmth of the body pressed against him, and the last thing he feels is being lifted and placed gently onto the older car’s bench seat.
New DocLight story since my CARS hyperfixation persists and I must put that twink in ✨situations✨
Red dust swirls as the stock car roars up the back straightaway. The small dirt track has become the racer’s second home as he prepares for the coming cup season. McQueen white knuckles the wheel as he nears the first turn. He jerks the wheel hard to the right, feeling the back tires start to get loose before spinning the wheel hand over hand back to the left. He grits his teeth when he feels the car start to fishtail, sliding hard into the dried brush on the side of the track.
He curses, slamming his hands on the dash as the dust settles. He catches a flash of lightning to the west, followed by a low rumble of thunder.
“Storm’s supposed to roll in tonight. Track gets slick when it rains, so quit and head home before it starts,” Doc had said, staring out the kitchen window.
Lightning huffs. One more lap, then I'll head back. He steers the rumbling car back onto the track and rolls up to the makeshift start line. A few small droplets dot the windshield, but he ignores them as he guns the engine and tears off back down the track. As he goes high around the first corner, the rain gets heavier. He pushes forward, trying to beat the storm.
Halfway up the back straightaway the bottom falls out. With no wipers on the car, he's suddenly blind. He presses his foot down on the break, but his stomach drops as the car starts to slide. He knows the track well enough by now to know he only has a few yards before the steep drop off. He clenches his teeth and jerks the wheel. The car slides sideways, but before he can feel relief, there's a snag, and suddenly he's weightless. The car goes airborne before slamming down on its roof. The impact snatches him in his harness, and he feels something snap in his shoulder. He's upside down, upright, and upside down again when he feels the car slide over the edge of the ravine.
The next impact is brutal. He feels his helmet connect with the window, then black.
Doc is standing on the porch, staring out at the downpour. He'd stepped out to listen for the 95’s engine when he'd seen the first few drops come down. He'd told the boy to be back before the rain started, but now here it was a monsoon and no sign of him. Maybe he just got stuck, he thinks as he worries at the hem of his sweater. Anxiety turns his stomach as he stares out at the water that's quickly pooling in the street. They hadn't had a flash flood in Radiator Springs in over a decade, but this storm is already turning the usually dry town into a lake.
The older man suddenly turns heel and grabs his keys off the side table. He pulls his coat over his head as he makes the short jog to the garage, pulling the creaking wooden doors open. He throws the door to the old blue car open and drops into the driver’s seat. The engine grumbles and sputters as it comes to life. Doc backs the car out of the covered garage, turning the wipers to their highest speed, and heads out of town towards the butte.
He keeps his eyes peeled for any flash of red off the sides of the road as he pushes the car forward through the slick mud. As he gets closer to the track with still no sign of the rookie, his heart is hammering. When he pulls up to the outcropping that overlooks the track, his heart plummets. There's no sign of Lightning or the 95. With the only road back into town being the one he just came in on, then he had to still be here.
He steers the car down the embankment and onto the track, following the path around the first corner. Halfway up the back straight he sees something through the rain that makes ice slide down his spine. Deep, gouging tire tracks in the mud that lead to busted glass and twisted metal parts. He stops the car, jumping out to inspect the wreckage. Squinting through the rain his spots the 95’s back spoiler mangled nearby, then a back quarter panel. The trail of carnage leads just over the edge of the drop off, and Doc rushes to check for the car.
When he spots the car it's upside down at the bottom of the ravine, but that's not what makes him panic. Water has rushed into the gulley, and it's nearly lapping at the exposed underside of the car. “Rookie!” Doc shouts as he slides down the slippery edge. When he gets alongside the car, the water is nearly up to his hip, and the current tugs hard at his legs threatening to take him off his feet. He grabs onto the side panel of the car and crouches down, the water now at his chin. His hand flails in the water until he finds the netting covering the driver’s window, pulling it free. He reaches past and his heart drops when he comes in contact with soft flesh. He grips onto what he assumes is the shoulder of McQueen’s firesuit and tugs, but he doesn't budge.
Oh, god. He still has his harness on. Doc thinks as panic rises in his throat. He closes his eyes and tries to picture the harness in his mind. Tries to blindly guide his hand to the safety release. One in the middle. Click. He feels it come undone. One at the seat. His hand slides down McQueen’s front until it rests on the buckle between his legs. He presses in but there's no release. He presses in, jerking on the release with all his strength until finally it comes loose.
Doc takes a deep breath, bracing himself against a submerged shrub, and ducks his head under the rushing water. Once he’s under, he pushes the harness away from McQueen’s chest and loops his arms under the boy’s. He can feel his own lungs start to burn as he frees the racer from the tangled wreck. Standing, he pulls the rookie’s limp body against his chest and starts the climb back out of the water.
Lightning still has his helmet on and his head lolls forward with the added weight as Doc pulls them to safety. He lays him on his back, fingers shaking as he tries to unclip the chinstrap. Once he hears the click, he braces the back of the blond’s neck with one hand and gently removes the headgear. His stomach turns as water pours from the helmet and he throws it to the side. He presses his thumb against McQueen’s lower lip, pulling his jaw open. Water is visible at the back of his throat and drips from his nose.
Doc had held hope that the helmet may have kept most of the water out of him, but clearly it did the opposite. He blinks the pouring rain out of his eyes and pulls the lifeless boy up into a sitting position. His head and arms drop forward as Doc’s chest presses flush against his back. He wraps his arms around McQueen’s middle, covering his balled fist with his other hand. He slams his hands up into the drowned man’s diaphragm, water gurgling in his throat before splashing onto the ground in front of them.
“That's it,” Doc murmurs softly, a stark contrast to how harshly his hands slam into the other's stomach. The blond in his arms bounces limply with each strong heimlich thrust, and Doc grunts as more water bubbles out of the rookie’s slack lips. A few more deep thrusts and he lays him back down, his head falling to the side. The older man doesn't even need to press his fingers into the boy's throat to know there's no pulse. He was too full of water for too long. He quickly pulls the zipper down on the bright red firesuit, the white tank he'd had underneath see-though. Doc takes a deep breath to steady himself, overlaps his hands over McQueen’s sternum, and pumps.
Doc had always found the act of CPR made him queasy, even in med school. It was brutal and violent, and left the victim traumatized and battered, if it was even successful. But now, here in the mud, with the first real love he's ever known beneath him, he's downright sick. He can feel bile rise in his throat with every bruising compression into the boy’s chest, hands caving into his ribs again and again.
Doc has no way of knowing how long he's been unresponsive. Dead. Doc’s mind supplies and it makes him physically recoil. “Not if I can help it,” he grits through his teeth as he continues his relentless pace of compressions. When he reaches thirty, he tilts McQueen’s chin up and pinches his nose. He sucks in a deep breath before sealing his mouth over the other’s.
The lips he'd just kissed in their kitchen a few hours ago, sweet from orange soda, and warm, so warm, were now frigid and slack. He blows air into them like he can bring the warmth back with his breath alone, begging between each gasp, “breathe. Come on. Breathe, please.” A few more desperate rescue breaths and he moves back to his chest. He slams his hands down hard, just like he'd been taught, “12, 13, 14, 15, come on,” he grunts. He finishes another cycle of thirty and slams his lips over his lover’s again, forcing another deep breath into his drowned lungs. He rests his hand over McQueen’s chest, feeling the artificial rise and fall of his breath inflating still lungs.
He continues like this as the rain pours down around them. Pump. Breathe. Pump. Breathe.
Doc reaches down with shaking fingers, pressing them against the side of the younger man’s neck. His shoulders curl inward and his body sags when he still can't feel a heartbeat. “Come on, rookie. I'm not supposed to outlive you,” he mutters, reaching down to stroke soaked blond curls off Lightning’s brow. Staring down at the ashen face and blue lips Doc feels a tightness begin to strangle him, and the first prick of tears form in the corners of his eyes. He sits up again, pressing the heel of his hand into the racer's bruised breastbone, “I think I've got a few more rounds left in me,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss against McQueen’s temple.
He interlocks his fingers and begins pumping his chest again. The boy’s shoulders cave inward as his arms and legs sway with each harsh compression. Wet huffs and the popping of ribs are the only sounds heard over the driving rain as Doc continues to work on his young lover.
“Come on, give me something to work with.”
He pumps into the chest beneath him like a well oiled machine, the ribs bending and flexing under his hands. He'd stopped counting a while ago, but when his arms threaten to give out, he dips his head and pushes in a few breaths past cold, blue lips. His fingertips dig into the soft part of Lightning’s cheeks where he holds his airway open, and with each new breath he feels his cheeks bulge against his fingers. Doc feels the stale air brush his cheek as he turns to watch the rookie’s chest fall. He seals their lips again, blowing in until he feels the younger man’s chest strain under his palm.
The older man's arms are shaking and weak as he repositions for another set of compressions, “come on, kid, I don't know how much more I got.” He rolls his shoulders, putting his weight behind his hands as he drives them into the boy’s heart. He barely makes it to twelve before he's collapsing forward, bracing himself on his elbows, nose centimeters from the other’s. He's panting from exhaustion, but manages to pull in another breath, knowing that even if it were his last, he’d fill his lover's lungs with it. He gently seals their mouths, blowing what little air he was able to manage into his lungs. He barely pulls away, lips still brushing as he pulls in another wheezing breath to give the rookie.
Doc feels a twitch under his hand splayed across Lightning’s chest, and pushes the breath in further. There's another harsher jerk and suddenly his throat flexes and water rushes up. Doc sits up, quickly rolling McQueen over onto his side.
Lightning's lungs burn, and he's trying to suck in a breath but every time he does he can't get it past the water he keeps heaving up. He wants to cry out for help, but he can't get his brain to cooperate with his mouth, or the rest of his body for that matter.
“I've got you, you're alright.” A familiar voice above him soothes. He feels a hand press against his jaw, pulling his mouth open before fingers slip inside. They press down at the back of his tongue, and he'd gag if he wasn't already puking water.
“That's it, get all the water out.” He listens, letting his body relax as he coughs painfully, sinuses burning as water pours out of his nose. Once the coughing fit subsides, he sucks in his first deep breath. He feels cold and he can't stop shaking. He flops onto his back again and feels warm hands pressing against his face and neck. “Open your eyes, rookie, come on.”
Doc.
Lightning uses all his energy to pry his eyelids open, and he's met with a sight that makes his heart twist. The older man he'd fallen for is staring down at him. He's soaked and shivering, greying hair stuck to his brow as he runs his hands over the younger man’s chest. He tries to sit up, to comfort Doc and to wipe that look off his face. To show him he's fine. But, when he moves, Doc presses him back down.
“Stay still.”
And then he's gone. Lightning turns his head and watches as Doc disappears behind the Hornet. He reappears quickly with the quilt they normally used for picnics, draping it over him before pulling him onto his lap. He's struggling to hold his eyes open in the sudden warmth of the body pressed against him, and the last thing he feels is being lifted and placed gently onto the older car’s bench seat.
If you don't whump your favorite character, who will?
CPR Awareness Week
Day 3 - Sudden Cardiac Arrest
Day 8 - Love Triangle
Human Cars AU - Story under the cut
TW : CPR
Heatstroke
The day is unusually hot, even for the small desert town. The sheriff leans against one of the abandoned storefront walls, fighting to stay cool in the sliver of shade it provides.
He's been tasked to watch the delinquent for the day as he repaves the main street. He'd barely made it past the fire station yesterday before pitching his little hissy fit. He'd thrown the shovel down and whined and moaned until the sheriff decided he'd had enough and threw him back in his cell.
Now here they are, out in the Arizona heat again as the boy grumbles and complains.
The clatter of a shovel on fresh asphalt snaps the older man back to the present. Not again, he thinks as he turns to look in the blond’s direction. What he sees sends ice cold panic down his spine.
The younger man’s cheeks and ears are searing red. He sways on his feet, stumbling toward the sheriff, slurring, “I d’n feel s’g’d.” No sooner had the words fallen from his lips, his blue eyes roll back and he crumples forward into the older man’s outstretched arms.
The sheriff’s knees buckle with the dead weight and he lowers both of them down into the red dirt. The boy's lips twitch and his lashes flutter, but his chest doesn’t rise.
“Doc!”
The panic in the sheriff’s voice makes the older doctor jump. He tosses his book aside and quickly stands to see what the commotion is about. Is the kid making a run for it, again? When he steps out into the street for a better view, his blood runs cold.
“The boy ain’t breathin’,” the sheriff all but sobs as he tilts the racer’s head back, cradling a flushed cheek and sealing his mouth over the other's. Both their cheeks round and McQueen's throat expands as the older cop pushes the first breath into the boy's lungs.
Doc is to them in a few long strides, bad hip and back all but forgotten in his urgency. He kneels down in front of the pair on the ground, pressing two fingers into the side of McQueen’s throat.
“Shit,” Doc spit, “he's got no pulse. Brace him.”
The sheriff does as he’s told, shifting his weight back into his heels and pulls McQueen’s limp torso flush with his broad chest.
Doc plants his interlocked hands over the smaller man’s chest and rocks forward. He slams his palms into the blond’s chest as hard as he can, counting under his breath as he works. When he finishes a cycle of thirty compressions, he reaches for the young man’s throat again, digging calloused fingers deep into the artery there.
Nothing.
The sheriff turns McQueen’s face towards him again and gives two more quick rescue breaths.
“Lay him down,” Doc urges. They cradle him gently as they lower him to the ground. Doc shifts him so that his back is flat while the sheriff removes his jacket and tucks it under the boy’s thick curls.
Doc moves to kneel next to McQueen, rolling his shoulders over his laced fingers to begin proper CPR. His hands sink deep into the blond’s chest, releasing just long enough to spring back before pushing down again. Small huffs are the only sound the younger man under him makes. His shoulders bow inward and his head nods where it rests between the sheriff’s knees.
“13, 14, 15, breathe!” Doc sits back to catch his breath as the sheriff leans over to seal his mouth over McQueen’s. The blond’s face is quickly going ashen and his lips are turning blue. Doc leans back into position, ready to start another cycle of compressions as soon as the sheriff lifts his head.
“Come on, hotshot,” Doc grunts, his arms pistoning into the chest beneath him like a well-oiled machine. The sheriff’s gifted air is forced up his throat with each thrust, some quiet huffs while others sound more like short moans or growls as the air passes through the vocal cords.
“Please, son, breathe,” the sheriff whispers as he run his fingers soothingly through matted blond curls.
Doc finishes another cycle and leans back on his heels while the sheriff takes over breathing. He turns to call over his shoulder, “my bag! Go to the clinic and grab my bag! The one with the blue cross on the front!” He's not sure who goes, but he hears their hurried steps crunching in the gravel.
A moment later Ramone appears. He drops the bag and takes a step back, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. Doc is still pounding into McQueen’s chest, his whole body rocking and jerking with the force.
“Go. You don't need to see this,” the sheriff says, voice tense.
Ramone nods once and turns on his heels, half jogging back to where everyone is gathered in front of Flo’s Cafe.
Doc unzips the duffel and pulls a pair of shears from inside. He slides the blades under the hem of the white undershirt and snips, cutting it open in three fluid snips. He brushes the fabric aside, revealing the racer’s bare chest. A lump starts to form in Doc’s throat when he sees the darkening bruise already forming over the boy’s sternum.
He shakes himself, willing the stinging tears back from his eyes as he turns on the portable defibrillator. He sets the paddles to analyze and presses the cold steel over the blond’s heart. After a moment, the machine shows what he already feared. Still flatline.
He passes an ambu bag over to the sheriff, “seal the mask over his mouth and nose. Every time I get to fifteen compressions squeeze the bag.”
The sheriff nods, and Doc goes back to his task. Pump. Pump. Pump. Breathe. They continue this pattern for two more cycles before Doc presses the paddles back onto McQueen’s chest.
There!
The monitor reads a weak VFib and Doc takes his chance. He turns the dial to 150J and sets them to charge. “Keep breathing for him,” he commands, finally glancing up at the older man in front of him. His eyes are glassy and red, but his brows are set in determination. He squeezes the bag, filling the boy’s lungs again and again.
When the light finally blinks Doc pulls the paddles from their slot and covers them in conductive gel. He presses the cold metal against bare skin. As his thumbs hover over the triggers, he looks up at the sheriff, “stand clear. Don't touch him.” He does as he’s told, scooting back and raising his hands.
Doc nods.
“Clear!”
The boy's arms and legs spasm as his chest jerks inward. His head lolls to the side as his body stills.
“No change,” Doc mutters, turning the dial to 200J. “Clear!” This time, McQueen’s back arches off the sand. His head falls back with an involuntary grunt and his fingers and toes flex and curl. When he slams back to the ground with a dull thud, the monitor whines.
“No…no, no!” Doc dives forward again, driving his palms down into the blond’s chest. He feels more than hears the snap when one of McQueen’s ribs gives way under the pressure. Without it, the chest softens and his hands sink even deeper. He can feel an ache forming in his jaw from gritting his teeth. He’s stopped counting and is now just yelling at the man below him. “Come on! Don't do this to me, rookie!”
There's a huff, then a grunt. The sheriff is watching McQueen’s face like a hawk for even the slightest sign of life, and when his golden lashes begin to flutter he feels the first shreds of hope bloom in his chest. Come on, that's it.
McQueen’s lips twitch like he's trying to suck in a breath, then suddenly his face screws up in pain as the air is forced from his lungs again.
“Doc-”
“I'm not giving up!”
“Doc!” The sheriff reaches out and catches the older doctor by the wrist, halting his movements, “he’s back. He’s back.”
Doc reaches a shaking hand forward, pressing his fingers against the side of the rookie's, his rookie’s throat and feels the quick tapping of a pulse against his fingertips. He allows himself a few moments of relief, leaning over to rest his forehead against the sheriff's shoulder. “We need to move him to the clinic,” he mutters, “gotta get his temp down and get him on some supplemental oxygen.”
The sheriff nods, shifting to slide his arms under McQueen's back and knees. He grunts, his knees cracking and popping as he lifts them both from the dirt. He awkwardly reaches out, helping Doc to his feet before they start across the street to the small clinic.
