Station 5 - Paramedic!Sidney Crosby x Daughter Reader
Summary: Paramedic Sidney Crosby works in Pittsburgh’s busiest EMS station. A school shooting forces him to find you injured. Warnings: school shooting, blood/injury detail, major character injury, medical trauma, panic, emotional distress, parental trauma, conflict of interest in emergency care, angst, whump a/n: This is an AU where the Pittsburgh Penguins aren't hockey players, they're EMTs/Paramedics in Pittsburgh!
Word Count: 2,145 requests open :)
You are here! | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Station 5 is never quiet.
The tones, the talking, coffee brewing, the microwave beeping. Normal.
But today, the tone that cuts through the radio traffic is different. While technically nothing was different, the tones felt sharper and wrong.
There were no jokes in the bay. No banter. Just the sudden crackle of dispatch and the kind of silence that follows it.
“Station 5, Allegheny county is requesting units 5-1, 5-2, and 5-3 for an active shooter at North Pittsburgh High School, MCI with multiple injuries.”
The words hit like an alarm.
Sid was already moving before the dispatcher finished. Turnout coat half-zipped, gloves in his pocket, keys in hand—but his mind snagged on one detail he shouldn’t have known yet.
Sid doesn’t even finish setting down his coffee, already moving toward the rig. “Letang, you’re with me. Malkin—take the second medic unit with Ben. Rust, you're in 3 with Rut.”
Evgeni was already pulling latex gloves on, face set in that calm that never really means calm at all. “Let’s go.”
Ben Kindel, still new enough that his hands hesitate for half a second, grabs the house bag. Rutger McGroarty, another new hire, was already in the back of the third unit, checking airway kits like lives may depends on it, because they might. Bryan Rust—a firefighter form their sister station, with a fresh EMT certification that's still warm—doesn’t say anything as he gets into the drivers seat of the 3rd unit.
North Pittsburgh High School.
The words echo in Sid's head.
That's his daughter's school. That's your school.
So the world narrows.
The scene hits them before they even fully stop the ambulance.
Inside the school is triage.
And it’s ugly.
There's chaos, but it's not cinematic. It's messy and panicked and too real. Kids were running in every direction. Teachers shouting. Officers trying to establish zones that don’t exist in the mess.
Sid moves through the crowds of people, classrooms look wrong. There's desks tipped over and supplies scattered in the halls. There's little trails and smears of blood all over the place from people who're already getting help.
Down the hall, Ben thinks this situation shouldn't feel as normal as it does. He’s scanning, tagging, making calls no one should have to make.
One kid—no pulse, catastrophic injuries, non-survivable in the time and resources available.
Black tag. Expectant.
It feels like a word that should never exist in a hallway full of children.
Then he sees you and something in his brain stutters.
Not because of the blood. Not because of the wound. But because he recognizes your face.
You've been to a fewStation 5 dinners. You've sat at the long table with the rest of them like it was normal to be surrounded by medics and firefighters. Laughing at something Bryan Rust said once, and talking to Kris like you belonged there.
“Hey—hey,” Ben says, already dropping beside you.
You're still conscious.
You're still moving.
And you're not alone.
There’s another student beside you—worse. Much worse. You're holding pressure on their wound, but they're not responsive in the way they need to be. Ben’s eyes flick once, quick calculation, and the decision lands heavy but immediate.
There’s no time.
He swallows it down.
But she is still trying.
Still pressing you hands to the other student’s wound like you can will them to stay here.
“Stop,” Ben says gently, but firm. “Hey—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes find his.
Recognition flickers there too, but it's faint and confused.
“Ben…?” you breathe out.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s me.”
His hands are already moving.
Quick pack open. Tourniquet out.
Above your thigh wound—fast, practiced, tight.
You gasp sharply when it cinches.
“I'm sorry,” he says immediately, even though there’s no room for it. “I’m sorry.”
Then, without hesitation, he slides one arm under your arm, the other under you knees and lifts you bridal style, like it’s instinct.
“Hey—hey—what are you—” you start, disoriented.
"You can't stay here. You need more help."
Your eyes are still on the other student, "But— but they're—" "They're gone." He says, already moving towards the door, "you did everything you could."
You're lighter than you should be in his arms. The thought hits him hard and he pushes it away immediately as he carries you out.
Outside, the parking lot is chaos layered over chaos.
Ambulances from other stations, flashing lights, shouting, officers trying to hold lines that keep dissolving.
And that’s when Sid sees Ben.
That's when he sees you.
Everything in him stops.
“No,” he says out loud without meaning to.
Kris is right beside him immediately, hands already up. “Sid—wait. Let me—”
But Sid is already moving forward.
Ben is halfway across the lot when Kris steps in front of Sid.
“Sidney,” Kris says sharply, grabbing his arm. “Stop. You cannot treat her. She's your kid. That’s a conflict of interest.”
It doesn’t land.
Not properly.
Sid looks at him like he doesn’t understand the language anymore.
“Get off me,” Sid says.
“Sid—”
“Get the fuck off me.”
The words are quiet. Controlled. But there’s something underneath them that makes Kris let go.
And then Sid is there.
Right there.
He takes you from Ben without a word. Just a transfer of weight and trust and terror.
“Let's put her down here,” Sid says immediately, already lowering himself with her.
Concrete. Open air. No time for anything else.
He sees your thigh.
Blood. Too much of it.
His jaw tightens so hard it aches.
He’s already reaching for his shears.
“Hey,” he says, voice shifting—different now. Not father first. Medic first. Maybe both at once. “You’re gonna be okay sweetheart, but I gotta cut your pants off.”
Your eyes are wide. You're trying to focus on him, but it’s slipping in and out.
“Here?” you ask faintly, looking around at the parking lot, the flashing lights, the strangers.
“Yes,” Sid says. “I have to.”
You swallow hard.
“Please don’t look.”
That one hits him straight through the chest.
“No,” he says, firmer now—not unkind, but absolute. “I have to look.”
A beat.
Then softer, like it costs him something to add it: “I’m sorry.”
He cuts. It's clean andd fast. Controlled hands that don’t shake the way everything else in him is shaking.
Kris is beside him now, already snapping into professional mode. “Hemostatic gauze. We need more pressure.”
Evgeni is there too, silent and focused, opening packs, handing things off like he’s done this a thousand times in worse conditions.
Sid doesn’t look at anything except what he has to.
The wound.
The bleeding.
Not your face.
Not if he can help it.
“Keep talking to me,” Sid says as he works, voice low but steady. “Tell me your name.”
“You know my name,” you laugh, but there's no humor in it. It almost sounds confused. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I need to know you’re still with me,” he says. “How’re you feeling?”
Kris is packing gauze now—firm pressure, controlled. You hiss softly at the pain.
“A little floaty,” you say.
Sid nods immediately. “Okay. That’s the shock talking. I’m gonna put a blood pressure cuff on your arm and a little clip on your finger, alright?”
He starts placing them as he speaks—routine, grounding himself in steps because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose it.
You shift slightly—just enough to glance down.
You hadn’t looked yet.
Not really.
Your breath catches instantly.
“Oh my god—”
Sid reacts immediately, one hand firm on your forehead, guiding your gaze up.
“Hey—don’t look at it,” he says quickly. “Look at me.”
Your eyes snap to his.
“There’s so much blood,” you whisper.
“I know,” Sid says. There's nothing to gain from sugarcoating it. “We’re fixing it. I just need you focused on me instead, okay?”
Kris glances up at Sid for half a second—measuring him, ready to intervene if he slips.
But Sid doesn’t.
He's is already back at your thigh, finishing the pack with practiced precision.
“More gauze,” Kris says.
Evgeni doesn’t speak—just places another hemostatic packet into Kris’s hand and moves on to the next patient without hesitation, because there are always more patients.
The monitor finally comes online.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Your vitals appear in pieces of information that feel too clinical for something that hurts this much to look at.
Heart rate: 121. A little fast, but that's expected. Blood pressure: 100/68. Low-normal but holding. SpO₂: 96%, acceptable. Respirations: shallow but present.
You're still here.
You're still talking.
That’s the thing Sid is holding onto.
“Good,” Kris murmurs, almost to himself. “She’s compensating.”
He presses the last of the gauze firmly into place, securing it with pressure bandaging.
“Hold here,” Kris tells Sid, briefly. Sid does—instantly, like muscle memory, like instinct.
Kris reaches for your shirt next.
“I need to check for other wounds,” he says gently.
Before you can really react, the fabric is cut—quick, careful, clinical. It falls away enough for Kris to scan your torso.
No additional entry wounds.
No exit signs.
Just the one.
“Only one GSW,” Kris confirms.
A beat passes—small relief in a situation that has almost none.
Sid exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, like he’s been holding that breath since the moment he saw you.
Kris moves down, hands firm but gentle at your hips, assessing pelvis stability.
“Pelvis is stable,” he says. “Good.”
Sid’s hand briefly mirrors the check—careful pressure at your sides, like he needs to confirm it with his own hands. Like he doesn’t trust anything he hasn’t touched himself.
“Eyes,” Kris says next.
He pulls a penlight from his pocket.
Your pupils are checked quickly—left, right.
They’re dilated.
Not great, but not catastrophic. Not surprising considering everything.
Pain, adrenaline, shock.
“Reactive,” Kris notes.
Sid is already reaching for the next step in his mind, moving ahead of the chart. “Give her fifty of fentanyl,” he says, voice tight but controlled.
Kris nods once. “Got it.”
He turns slightly. “IV kit.” He holds it out toward Sid without hesitation.
And that’s when something changes.
Sid reaches for it, but his hand doesn’t obey him the way it should.
It shakes.
Just enough.
Just enough that he sees it.
He stares at it like it betrayed him.
His breathing catches once.
“Kris,” Sid says, quieter now. “I—I can’t.”
The words are almost foreign in his mouth.
Not because he doesn’t know what to do, he does, but he knows exactly what he’s being asked to do.
Start an IV on his daughter.
And he can't.
Kris doesn’t even pause.
“Okay,” he says immediately, already scooting in closer. “Then you’re off this one.”
Sid looks up at him sharply. “Kris—”
“Go find another patient,” Kris says, firmer now.
Sid doesn’t move.
“Sidney,” Kris warns, and it’s not loud, but it cuts through everything.
A pause.
The whole parking lot seems to shrink around that moment.
Sid’s jaw works once. He looks down at you again.
You're watching him.
You're still there.
You're still with him.
His hand comes up slowly, brushing your hair back from your forehead. Careful. So careful it almost hurts to watch.
“I love you,” Sid says quietly.
No speech. No reassurance dressed up in clinical language.
Just I love you.
He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead—brief, steady, grounding.
Then he stands.
And he leaves.
The space that remains feels smaller without him.
Kris doesn’t acknowledge it out loud. He just moves into the role Sid stepped out of, smooth and immediate, like muscle memory shared across twenty years of working side by side.
You’re still awake when he turns back.
“Y/N?” Kris says, checking you again.
His voice is calm. Always calm with you.
He’s already prepping the IV—fast hands, practiced movements. Tape ready. Saline lock ready. Everything in its place.
You swallow, throat dry, eyes still tracking him.
“Kris…” you say.
“Yeah?" he answers, without looking up yet.
Something about how quickly he responds makes it easier to speak.
You hesitate. Then ask it anyway.
“Is it bad?”
That’s the thing about Kris.
He doesn’t lie to make people comfortable.
He pauses for half a second—not to soften it, but to measure how to say it without wasting time.
“It’s not good,” he says honestly.
Your eyes close briefly. Just a small exhale through your nose, like your body is accepting the information before your mind fully does.
Kris doesn’t rush you through that moment.
He just keeps working.
Then, after a beat—his tone shifts slightly, steadier in a different way.
“I’ve seen worse though.”
The IV needle is ready now.
His hand is steady as it lifts.
"Small pinch."
And outside the frame of your vision, the parking lot keeps moving—sirens, radios, other patients—but here, in this small space between breaths, Kris stays exactly where he is.
Focused and present.
Not letting you drift anywhere without him noticing.
