Kyle Chandler in the Summer 2026 issue of Men’s Journal (that's a link to the article on my website because for some reason the article is only available on Apple News)
There's Still Time: Dylan Young x Reader (Grey's Anatomy)
AN: Back when these eps were first released I desperately wanted Dylan to get a happier ending. I didn't understand that fanfiction was a thing back in 2006, and that I could literally write my own ending for him. Twenty years later (fuck... that is terrifying) here I am writing for the O.G side character that captured my heart.
Summary: Dylan tries to convince himself there's still time for a life with you when that bazooka round explodes.
The only thing that Dylan thinks about when that bazooka round explodes is you.
He cradles the beaten-up shell between his hands like newborn, his breath controlled and measured as he takes each step towards the containment unit at the end of the corridor. His boots scuff on the tile beneath his feet, the rubber squeaking with every footfall.
Internally the clock ticks, the metronome that keeps him calm as he holds his life in his hands. If he focuses on that sound he keeps his nerve, his training taking over the same way it always does in moments like this.
Two feet, he counts down as he closes the distance.
Only two feet until he dumps this thing, strips off his blast armour and returns home to the woman that he loves, the one that made Lieutenant recently in Major Crimes. The two of you were meant to be celebrating tonight, having dinner at The Pink Door but then he’d got this call out….
There’s still time, he reminds himself as he places the explosive inside the containment unit.
He may not make dinner, but he can grab takeout on the way home, surprise you-
The shell goes off before he gets the lid closed.
He registers the explosion instinctively as the sudden, violent jolt hurls him backwards, a deafening crack erupting through the air as he hits the wall with such force, he’d be surprised if his back isn’t broken. A wave of heat hits him, surging through his blast armour, searing his skin as he collapses against the tile. Copper erupts in his mouth, his ears ringing, his face wet with tears and blood as plaster dust rains down on from the ceiling. His cheek presses against the ruined tile as he stares down the empty corridor, his life playing out in a series of snapshots.
That first kiss at Point Shilshole Beach after you’d taken him paddle boarding, the scent of sea salt in his nose, the wind on his cheeks.
His hands in your hair during that first night, the way you loved him like no one else, clinging to him in the twilight hours.
The wedding day that will never come because the ring still resides on the top shelf of his locker, waiting for the right moment.
“I’m sorry.” He tries to whisper but the words they won’t leave his throat over the gurgle of crimson that leaks from his mouth. The world starts to tip, sliding away from underneath him.
I don’t want to go…
But he can’t hold on either.
The darkness is here, and it doesn’t knock politely, instead it slams into him, stealing him away from you.
When he wakes up, he’s convinced he’s in hell. His chest burns, the agony prickling through his senses accompanied the constant heavy pressure he feels in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow but instead he almost gags around the foreign object that’s been thrust into his mouth. He starts to fight, to reach up and wrench it out but his arms feeling their moving through molasses, cumbersome, weak.
“Dylan.” Your voice is a whisper as your face appears above him, his own angel, sent straight from heaven to tear him out of this hellscape. “You have a breathing tube in, I need you to calm down.”
Your hand slips into his and he grips it tightly, muscles trembling as his lungs flood with cool air, dispensed by the machine that breathes for him. The panic subsides as awareness filters in. The rhythmic bleep of the machine that measures his heart rate, the water-stained ceiling above him, the scratchy blanket.
He’s in hospital.
He should be dead.
But then he remembers the studies he’s read of bazooka shells just like the one he handled, how they tend to malfunction after spending time in high humidity and salt air. Both of which Seattle has plenty of. The moisture infiltration must have degraded the chemical stabilizers in the powder rendering a weaker explosion.
Your face disappears from his view, and he squeezes your hand again, reassuring himself that you’re still there.
“I’m not leaving.” You promise as you reach for the call button, signalling the doctor. “I’m staying right here.”
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If Lanterns turns out as bad as it looks so far I will draw Kyle Chandler's Hal as my bigender Hal design im not kidding. I'll even make him more c❤️nty. I'll give him more feminine curves. Someone hold me to that so i do it when the first episode comes out .
