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The adrenaline is wearing off and all Street can feel is pain.
He’s putting on a brave face for Luca, gritting his teeth against the pain, but whatever the EMT’s are using to clean the wound stings and it’s causing tears to bead in the corners of his eyes.
The shrapnel hasn’t hit anything major, but it’s cut him up pretty bad and it’s gonna be a month at least before he’s back in the field.
The idea doesn’t sound so bad anymore; he has too much to live for and today was simply too close for comfort.
The letter in his locker weighs a little heavier in his mind.
Luca offers him a lift home and he starts to decline before realising that in his condition he probably can’t drive.
Street lets Luca pull him up and help him into a Charger, lets out an indignant ‘dude’ when he reaches across to try do his seatbelt for him.
Luca puts his hands up in defence, backs up before walking around the hood and climbing into the drivers seat.
The drive is quiet, the sound of the radio hums in the background, as he rests his head on the cool glass of the window. His head throbs with the beginnings of a headache, and his leg feels tender under his hand.
He wishes Luca would drive faster, like he would in Betty, but he seems pretty intent on making the ride smooth so as to not jostle his leg. Street appreciates the sentiment, but all he wants to do right now is embrace Chris and, as the minutes stretch on, he becomes more, and more antsy.
Finally, they pull up to the apartment and Street uses the handle on the ceiling to carefully pull himself out the car. Luca rushes around to help him but he manages to clamber out on his own.
His vision blurs for a moment as he blindly reaches for the roof of the car to steady himself.
Luca bends slightly to put Street’s arm around his shoulder. He hesitates for a second.
“Aw man, do you think Chris is gonna kill me?” Street huffs out a laugh despite himself.
“Hey man, maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll just lightly maim you.”
They hobble towards the entrance of the apartment block. Street has never been so thankful the building has an elevator.
Once he’s been deposited inside the elevator Street tells Luca to go. He protests, but Street insists that he’s fine, and that he should go, as long as he promises to bring a pair of crutches around tomorrow.
The elevator door closes and Street lets out a breath of relief. He’s so close to crawling into bed that he can already feel the exhaustion creeping down his limbs.
Briefly, he fumbles in his pocket for his key, inserts it into the lock and twists, then steps into the apartment. The apartment is swathed in a shroud of darkness, the only light coming from a small lamp by the couch.
“Chris?” He calls into the apartment. The bedroom door is shut so he moves towards it, intending to open it and check if she’s in there.
His eyes struggle to adjust to the dark, so he pauses in the doorway. Eventually, he starts to make out the shape of Chris, curled in the foetal position on the right side, his side, of the bed.
He smiles and moves to her side of the bed, intending not to disturb her and merely pass out next to her. However, as he sinks down onto the bed he lets out a hiss of pain.
He feels Chris stir beside him. Her hand seeks his form atop the duvet and she smiles when she locates him.
“Hey Street,” her voice is thick with sleep, “you’re back early.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.”
Immediately, she sits up, eyes clear. The bedside lamp is flicked on. Her eyes dart to the bandage on his thigh.
“You don’t look fine asshole.”
Street smiles despite himself, the insult almost endearing to his ears.
“Chris I promise I’m good, the EMT’s cleared me and it was just a flesh wound.”
Even with the assurance he sees Chris’ gaze skim the rest of his body for injuries, not believing his words until she confirms with her own eyes that the only wound is on his thigh.
Street settles back into the pillows with a groan. He holds his arms open, inviting, but Chris remains sitting up. She frowns.
“Street, you better start talking.”
“Nothing to say, just criminals being criminals.”
His eyes fall close, headache catching up to him, with a dull, repetitive, throb.
“Chris, I can sense you fretting.” He feels her hand slip into his.
“Just worried that’s all.” Her voice sounds smaller than he’s ever heard it and his eyes crack open to look at her.
Her eyes are downcast, and her shoulders shake slightly. Street sighs and pulls her hand gently, encouraging her to lie down.
He feels the resistance as she does so, but she lays down beside him, not touching him beside the hand he holds.
“You’re not going to hurt me.” The words seem to quell some of her anxiety and she shuffles until her front is pressed against his side.
For the first time since the shrapnel punctured his leg, Street feels himself let out a full exhale.
Her voice is muffled when she asks, “do you want to change out of your gear? I can help you.”
He can’t help himself from teasing, “trying to get me naked Alonso?”
Her hand lightly slaps his chest.
“Mind out the gutter Street.” He smiles on the tail end of a yawn.
“Just lay with me for a few minutes.”
He feels her nod against his side as his eyes slide shut.
-
When Street opens his eyes the first thing he notices is the pain in his leg.
The second thing he notices is Chris, kneeling by his thigh.
She’s removed his trousers at some point and has evidently just finished changing the bandage on his wound.
She notices, and points to the nightstand. “There’s painkillers and water on the nightstand.”
He nods gratefully and swallows them down. The water soothes his throat and immediately the pain diminishes.
“I knew you were trying to get me naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Definitely Street. Lift your arms up.”
He complies and together they work to pull his shirt off.
When it’s thrown to the laundry basket in the corner she speaks again. “You have a shrpanel wound in your leg and you’re here trying to flirt with me.”
“Cant help the fact that my girlfriend is so pretty.”
The painkillers are helping him think clearer and he registers the first half of her statement.
“You called Hondo?”
“Hondo called me actually. I hear you’re off for a month.”
“A month to spend with you.” He moves to press a kiss to her lips. She sinks into it for a moment before pulling back.
“I love you, but you need a shower.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Not so fun when you have to sit still while I give you a sponge bath.”
“Still think it sounds fun.”
-
Street’s sat in the empty bathtub as Chris runs a washcloth soaked with warm soapy water across his back.
He feels yesterday’s sweat and dirt wiped clean from his skin, smiles at the care Chris takes. When her hand reaches for the shampoo bottle, his smile widens.
The circles her fingertips trace on his scalp work in combination with the scent of shampoo resulting in a sigh of contentment to escape his throat. The gentle tugging on his strands as the filth of the warehouse washes away soothes the all-pervasive ache in his body.
When she’s done she places a kiss on his shoulder and steps out for a second to retrieve fresh clothes. Street doesn’t know if it’s the water drying cool on his skin or the lack of her presence that causes the hairs on his arms to raise.
She returns, underwear and sweatpants in hand. Carefully she manoeuvres him until he can grip on to the counter for balance. Clothes are dragged on and together, careful steps are taken back to the bed.
When he’s settled on the bed again Street speaks. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes fill with a question.
“What for?”
“For getting hurt. For worrying you.”
She sighs. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Injuries happen Street, even with the best team behind you accidents occur. There’s nothing that can be done to change that.”
His arm snakes around her shoulders and pulls her close, punctuated with a kiss on her hairline.
“I love you Chris, so much.”
“Love you too. Now, stay put while I get you something to eat.” He eyes her, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. She pokes his cheek.
“Shrapnel wound Street, shrapnel wound.”
“Had to try.”