Work Text:
The second his phone lights up and he sees two missed calls from Marcos , Street knows something is wrong. Immediately, his guts turn with the weight of knowing that he should’ve stayed home despite Chris’s weak, raspy voice insisting that she was fine. Should’ve piled her into her truck and driven her to urgent care so they can get to the bottom of what is clearly not “just a cold,” and hasn’t been for a few days now.
“What’s wrong?” Deacon’s ever-calm voice cuts through his rapid thoughts. Shaking his head, Street steels his nerves and swipes up to call Marcos back, barely sparing Deac a glance.
“I don’t know. Something with Chris.”
He’s out of the locker room and into a locked meeting room before Deacon can reply, the phone ringing like a death sentence in his ear. People pass through the frosted glass, no idea that he’s picking at his nails and muttering to himself for Marcos to answer his damn phone.
“Finally.” Marcos’ curt tone comes over the speaker, at the same time that Street demands to know—
“What happened? Is Chris okay?”
Marcos sighs and it makes Street want to punch through the window. His mind takes off with worst case scenarios that play themselves out on the dark wood grain of the cabinets. It’s not even a second until Marcos speaks again, but it feels like a lifetime. Two.
“Your girl is sick. I don’t know with what, but she needs more than my Abuela’s chicken soup. She’s lying down now, but if someone isn’t here soon, I’m calling an ambulance. It’s what I’d do if my girl looked like her.”
Street’s heart skips a beat as he takes in Marcos’ words. Gripping the phone with white knuckles, his mind plays through all of his options. The door handle is cool underneath his skin as he goes back to the hallway.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The line goes dead before he can ask anything more about Chris’s condition. In his panic, he nearly runs face-first into Hondo, who stops him with an arm on his shoulder.
“Woah, slow your roll, Street, what’s wrong?”
He feels sweat collect on his neck and back underneath his leather jacket, and takes a step back so he can meet Hondo’s eyes.
“It’s Chris. Marcos called, she’s been sick for a few days now, but it’s apparently gotten worse. She needs a doctor, now.”
Halfway through, Hondo’s eyes widen and his jaw sets. He’s nodding before Street is done speaking, fists clenched around his fingerless gloves.
“Go, and keep us updated. I’ll pull in Stevens.”
Street’s jogging away already but manages to throw a quick thank you over his shoulder as the blinding afternoon light from the motor pool floods his vision. He debates taking a Charger, but there’s no guaranteeing LA traffic will give way for lights and sirens, and he can split lanes on his bike. His heart pounds with worry every second that his eyes aren’t on her. Shoving his helmet on, he turns the engine over and zips out of HQ too fast for anyone to get in his way.
He parks his bike on the curb and undoes the gate with shaking hands. A key to the safe house has been on his key ring since before Chris took over, but his only focus is getting to her, so much that he can’t tell what’s what and knocks fervently on the door instead.
You need to keep your head on straight , Street tells himself, but it’s a laughable instruction.
Marcos answers the door and, like he knows that Street’s going to barrel through him, is already taking a step backwards to clear the hallway. Barreling inside, Street freezes when he gets to the bedroom door. Even through it, he can hear Chris’s rattling coughs and how hard it is for her to breathe. His heart sinks as he gently pushes the door open and finds her curled up on top of the covers, shivering. Crossing the room in a few steps, he perches himself on the edge of the bed and rests his hand on her shoulder where dried sweat has left behind a gritty film. She moans painfully, instinctually leaning into his touch.
“Hey, Babe,” he says in the softest tone he can manage. His forehead creases with deeper wrinkles as she slowly turns onto her back, gasping as the change in position makes it feel like a knife driven through her chest. He wants to comfort her, but any affirmations that she’s okay die on his tongue now that he can see her face.
Her usual tan skin is pale with a sickening gray tinge to it. The brown eyes he’s come to love and know like the back of his hand are glassy with pain and accented with deep bags underneath. Her lips are chapped and blue, and he knows better than to hope it’s somehow just the lighting. Carefully, he draws his hand from her shoulder and over her neck to her forehead, his fingers clearing away the sweaty bangs sticking to her.
Heat radiates off her that he can feel before his hand is fully resting on her forehead. The warmth of his touch makes Chris groan, her eyes focusing enough to make out Street’s face. She squints, unsure of how or why he’s there.
“Marcos? You guys got a first aid kit around here?” He calls out, cutting off her attempt to ask him what’s going on. Pieces click into place when she sees the black and white of Marcos’ flannel in her periphery, and the bright green of the alarm clock reading just past three in the afternoon.
“I’m fine,” she starts to say. But something gets caught in her chest that feels as big as a boulder and then she’s turning back onto her side and hacking to try to get it out. The effort makes her sweat and leaves her freezing when the episode passes, the lingering taste of mucus lining her mouth. She doesn’t try to get onto her back again, instead pillowing her face on Street’s jean-covered thigh as pain flares through her entire body.
Moving on autopilot, he gets one hand on her shoulder to hold her steady as the coughs scrape themselves out of her. His other hand unzips the first aid kit and feels around until his fist closes on the cool plastic of a thermometer. Chris’s eyes are closed again when he looks down at her.
“Chris?” He starts, not wanting to give her no warning, even though they’re going to the ER after this regardless. “I need to take your temperature. You are not fine.”
His tone makes her want to argue, but she knows it’s a useless endeavor, and all she wants is to sleep. Acquiescing, the cold metal of the thermometer finds its way underneath her tongue. She’s almost out when the beeping brings her back and her heavy eyelids lift to see Street’s face lined with panic.
“One hundred and four, Chris; we’re going to the ER. Where’s your backpack?” He stands, trying to keep his frantic energy at bay as he scans the bedroom and thinks of what he observed on his way to the bedroom. She’s too tired to follow his movements, just shrugging and then using her remaining energy to sit up.
“My truck. I didn’t feel like bringing it in.”
It’s a lie he can spot from a mile away. Chris could live her entire life out of her backpack if she needed to. The only way she wouldn’t bring it inside is if it took too much energy to sling over her shoulders. Nodding, jaw tight, he spots her phone and keys on the nightstand and slides them into his jacket pocket.
“I just need to re—”
“Chris!” Street nearly shouts, managing to keep his voice low as another wad gets caught in her chest. She tries to cover how tight her muscles feel, like they’re constricting around her and she’s too exhausted for them to work properly, so all it does is cause her more pain. It’s a losing battle. At the sound of another harsh, gasping cough, he again braces her with an arm around her shoulders. Her face meets his torso and she burrows into his shirt. When silence, or as close to silence as they can get with her stunted breathing, falls, he pulls back and finds himself kneeling on the hardwood, looking her straight in the eye.
“You’re sick. I know you don’t want to be, and I know you don’t like to leave the girls, but it’s been days and it’s only getting worse. You need to see someone, alright? Please? I can’t—If something happened to you that we could’ve treated…”
They’ve both almost died enough for his unfinished sentence to say everything she needs to hear. Sighing, she gives him a dejected nod and throws her weight forward until she’s standing. The room sways around her and he steadies her with a hand on her elbow that turns into an arm around her waist.
“Do you still have clothes here?”
Not mentioning that hers are soaked through, there’s no way she’ll be comfortable in the hospital in jeans. The words take their time to process before she gives a sluggish nod and a half-hearted wave towards the dresser. He tries to be quick, but when he turns back around, she’s sitting again, fighting physical exhaustion in a way he’s never seen before.
“You’re almost there, Babe,” he coos as he undoes her jean button and then helps her stand, again. “Lean on my shoulders.”
His nerves flare when she does without even the thought of a fight, but are quickly superseded by peeling off her jeans and socks and maneuvering the sweats up her trembling legs. Her shirt and bra follow, replaced by a comfy cotton t-shirt that’s his.
“Anything else you need?” He checks, breathing a sigh of relief when she shakes her head. Pressing the door open, she braces one hand on the wall as each step makes it harder to breathe, grateful when she stops to slip her sneakers on.
“Marcos?” She calls out, voice hoarse and high with tension. His head pops out from around the kitchen doorway, clearly not wanting to get too close to whatever she has. She rolls her eyes.
“Maria and Carmen should be back by six. Selena by seven-thirty. If anyone calls, tell them to email me and I’ll get back to them soon. Call if you need me.”
Street can see on Marcos’s face that he isn’t sure what to say, so he gives Chris a short nod. Meeting eyes, Street gives his thanks over her head and then steers them both towards her truck, swiping the box of tissues off the entryway table as they go. He gets the seat adjusted so she’s as close to lying on her side as she can be, and lays his jacket over her top half once she’s buckled in. She’s lucid, which gives him just enough comfort to throw his bike in the truck bed before turning over the engine. Without her asking, he dials her heat up and leaves the radio off.
Chris has never been so grateful for how clean she keeps her truck. It’s going to make it that much easier to clean up the tissues she’s chucking to the floor of the backseat, once she feels like moving won’t send her lungs crawling up her throat. Now, she’s too tired to care beyond wrapping the used ones in a clean one to maintain some semblance of a non-biohazard. Each pothole and turn makes her body feel like it’s lurching out of her own control, sending her into more fits that each sound worse than the previous.
“Oh.” She whimpers, after another cough. The noise draws Street’s attention, who spares a quick glance over to see where red is staining white. His pulse races, foot getting heavier on the gas pedal.
“It’s going to be okay,” he tells her. Pulling out another tissue for her, she drops hers into his palm and he scrunches them together before tossing the ball with the mountain of others. He reaches his hand across the console to take hers in an attempt to take away the pain he knows she’s in. Her fingers curl weakly around his, shaky against his steady strength.
Pulling into the parking lot feels like a godsend. The tissues are almost empty, her face lined with discomfort and tension, and he comes to the gentlest stop he can.
“We’re here, Babe.”
Chris opens her eyes despite the stabbing feeling it sends through her head. The bright red and blue lights that dot the hospital fuzz and streak in her tired vision, and she’s slow to undo the seatbelt and sit back up. Looking over at Street, his bottom lip is between his teeth, eyebrows just raised when their gazes meet. Like he’s scared. Guilt pools in her stomach and settles next to the nausea.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and makes quick work of getting out and to her side to help her down. He’d offer to carry if it wouldn’t just become another obstacle in getting her actual medical care.
“Later. I love you.”
For a fleeting second, she feels better.
The ER waiting room is bright and loud and makes every cell in Chris’s body want to bury itself in Street. She pats her pockets for her wallet as they hobble towards the desk, a warm rush spreading through her when she realizes he has them. Keeping a hand firmly planted on her back, he smiles at the woman behind the desk.
“Hi, how can I help you?”
“My girlfriend’s been sick for a few days. But today her fever spiked to one o’ four, and there’s blood in her cough.”
The woman’s eyes widen just enough to signal concern before she schools her face back into the perfect picture of caregiving neutrality. She slides a mask across the desk that Chris loops around her ears.
“Just until we can get you into a room. Can I have your ID and insurance card?”
Street hands them over and taps his foot as anxiety builds in him like a bomb. He spares a look around the room, grateful it isn’t too full, but trying to settle his nerves enough to be okay with the inevitable wait. Sneaking a glance in her periphery, Chris deflates at the sight of him. Tears prick her eyes for the first time since her throat started to tickle, but don’t yet get a chance to fall.
“What other symptoms are you having?”
Turning her attention back to the woman’s expectant eyes, Chris clears her throat the best she can, wincing at how it feels like razor blades. Below the desk, she reaches out until her hand finds Street’s, and squeezes.
“Bad cough, chills, and body aches. It hurts—” she stops, muscling through another labored breath. “My chest hurts. To breathe.”
His hand running up-and-down her back is the only thing keeping her grounded. With a pitying smile, the woman hands Street a clipboard and her cards back.
“Christina, we’re going to take you back immediately to triage.” She gestures to the left with her head, a nurse in light blue scrubs already waiting. Chris sheds his jacket and shivers harder under the newfound cool air. He kisses her head before he lets her go, then turns back to the desk with a white-knuckled grip on the plastic.
“If you could fill out that paperwork for me, please. She might come back out, or they’ll take her to a bed immediately. Either way, we’ll let you know and get you back with her as soon as we can.”
“Okay, thank you.” Street breathes out. He finds a seat in the corner, one where he can see all the exits and entrances that she might come from. The paperwork is easy enough after knowing one another for so long, but he almost wishes it weren’t to provide him with a distraction. His mind spins faster with every passing moment, until a startling realization paralyzes him.
Bearings found, he walks back to the woman; for the first time, his brain processes that her name tag reads Fiona , and it’s a comfort to feel that someone else is on his side in helping her. His jaw is clenched so hard he’s afraid he might break a tooth, his phone in just as tight a grip in his fist.
“I’m going to step out to call her family, if she comes back out.”
“I’ll let her know.” Fiona promises.
The trees catch the late afternoon sun enough to provide shade along the wall he leans against. Counting his breaths, Street scrolls through his contacts and stares at Helena’s name for a minute before he can gather the courage to connect the call. Rough rock scrapes his fingers as he runs them incessantly over the grout line.
“Hello?” Helena’s voice is so familiar, so warm and safe that he could cry. He takes another breath.
“Hey, Helena. How are you?” His voice is hesitant even to his own ears, and he knows Helena’s too perceptive to let it go.
“I’m good, Honey. What’s going on, is everything okay?”
“Um,” Street clears his throat, desperately trying to keep the shake out of his voice. “No. I just brought Chris to the ER. She’s been sick for a few days and her fever’s super high. She’s getting checked out now, but I wanted to let you know. I’ll keep you updated.”
Guilty silence permeates the space between his teeth as he waits for her to answer. When she finally does, there’s a concern in her tone that kills him.
“Thank you. Please let us know, whatever happens. I can get there in 20 minutes if I need to.”
“I will. Hopefully they’ll know something soon.” It’s all he can think to say, squeezing his thumb tight in his fist to stop it from shaking.
“Sounds good, Sweetheart. We love you.”
“Love you, too,” he gets out, the click of the call ending signaling his brain back to reality. He takes a lingering look at the sky, and then turns back to the waiting room doors. The crowd changes face and his phone battery dwindles until Fiona calls his name. He heads towards her desk, but she points to the left where two double doors open and there’s another nurse waiting for him. She gives him an easy smile, talking as she walks.
“Hi, I’m Kaycee, one of the nurses on. We’re always concerned about a heart attack when there’s chest pain, but all her scans came back normal on that front. Unfortunately, her oxygen saturation is low, which is a concern. We’ve got her in a room now with oxygen going, and will be in shortly to start running some other tests.”
They come to a stop but before Kaycee knocks, Street puts his hand to the wood. He feels his heart racing.
“Were you able to give her anything for her cough? Or pain?”
“Unfortunately not yet. But once we have her results back, we’ll get her whatever we can. There’s a call button next to her bed if either one of you need anything.”
He gives his thanks and slowly turns the handle. His heart twists at the sight of her, changed into a hospital gown with her sweats still on underneath, but still shivering underneath the blanket they gave her. There’s a small gauze bandage on her arm where they undoubtedly took blood, and a pulse ox on her finger taking a constant reading. Her face is half-obscured by the plastic mask but he can see she’s uncomfortable even so.
Approaching the bed, she reaches a tired hand towards his and gives him the best smile she can when he takes it.
“Hey, you,” he says softly. “They said they needed to do some more tests?”
Chris nods, wishing she could give him the specifics but even as Kaycee explained it to her, the words quickly fell off the edge of her attention. It’s so much easier to focus on the feeling of his skin against hers. She wishes he could sit with her on the bed.
Her eyes flutter closed and fear grips him despite knowing she’s fine. That there’s a horde of people out there who can monitor her and will come rushing in if, god forbid, they need to. Needing to be closer, he brings his free hand up to her forehead and, just like at the house, brushes her hair out of her face. He grimaces at how hot she still is, pressing a kiss to her sweaty temple, and then feels for his phone in his pocket.
The loss of his hand is like ice on her spine and she whines. Her eyes narrow when she sees that he’s texting. She opens her mouth but only produces a cough and then deflates back into the pillows.
“It’s your family,” he admits. “I called Helena a while ago and they want to know how you’re doing.”
Her chest twists in a new way at the thought of her family. She knows they have to be as worried as Street, and she thought she’d been getting better at telling people when she needed them. Evidently, old habits die hard. But the thought doesn’t get to linger long, chased away by the knife in her skull and the door opening.
“Christina? I’m Dr. Armstrong.”
Street can’t help but smile small at her fingers curling into a wave at the doctor. Until Dr. Armstrong lowers her oxygen flow enough that the chest pain becomes too much to fight, and she’s back to coughing. It doesn’t last long thereafter, but another blanket of fatigue has settled on her that he’s helpless to fix.
“The good news is that there’s no sign of infection in the blood. The bad news means that we’re no closer to a diagnosis at this point. Based on your symptoms, I suspect pneumonia. We’re going to get a CT and a pleural sample. Depending on those results, we’ll get you started on antibiotics.”
“And if it is pneumonia, she’ll be able to go home then?”
Dr. Armstrong fixes his lips into a line that Chris can’t read as well as she used to be able to. Street’s SWAT skills still up to snuff, he knows he’s wrong before the doctor confirms.
“Not until your oxygen saturation is back up to a safe level. We can discuss the rest of what results will mean after we have them, okay? For now, someone will be down shortly to take you to CT.”
He wants to argue and demand answers, but a gentle squeeze on his forearm acquiesces him into a curt nod. Dr. Armstrong leaves them with a smile. To his credit, another nurse enters barely a few minutes later, empty wheelchair preceding her. Through the heavy mask, he can see the fight already brewing on Chris’s tongue, and it’s his turn to calm her with a touch and a look.
“Quicker it’s over, the quicker we’re home in bed.”
‘Quicker’ lasts for three days. Three days of a chest tube and oxygen and antibiotics, until, finally, she’s able to go home. He knows she still feels terrible, no argument in her mind over the wheelchair and discharge instructions to take it easy for the foreseeable future, and all he wants is to be able to take care of her in the comfort of their apartment.
She leans against the wall in the elevator, facing away from him to let out a harsh cough that makes the world spin. After, he wraps his arm around her side and waits for the ding to guide her down the hallway. The door opens without a key, Helena standing at her stove. She’s ladling soup into a container but abandons it when they walk in.
“Oh, Sweetheart, it’s good to see you.” Helena takes her gently from Street, pressing a kiss to her crown and running a hand over her back until her shoulder’s relax. When she pulls back, Helena gives her a smile and cradles her chin.
“There’s food in the fridge and freezer. Dishes and laundry are all done, besides the pot on the stove. Call if you need anything, and get some rest. I love you.”
“I will. I love you, too.” Chris murmurs, trying for brightness but managing little more than a stuffy sniffle. She leaves Helena with a quick, weak squeeze of her hand and starts the trek to her bedroom. Turning to Street, Helena hugs him, too, and he buries his face in her head to take a deep breath before pulling away.
“Thank you for keeping us in the loop. I wasn’t lying—anything at all, you call me or Sarzo.”
She fixes him with a look that strikes an equal mix of fear if he disobeys, and warmth over her care. Letting out a small laugh, he promises he will.
“Good. Go do what you need, I’ll get the kitchen cleaned up and leave you both to rest.”
“Thank you for everything.” He kisses her cheek and heads towards Chris. The closer he gets, the louder her coughing gets. As calmly but as urgently as he can, he sits on the edge of her bed and pulls her to his chest. Her skin is still clammy but no longer feels like the surface of the sun, and he lets out a soft sigh of relief.
“I’m right here, Babe, you’re okay.”
“I feel like shit.” She croaks out, relishing the feel of his fingers in her hair. The fit leaves her breathless and shaky, and she curls in closer to be in as much of his space as she can.
“I know. But you’re home now, you’ll start to feel better soon.”
He feels her nod, but her sniffles start again and they’re accompanied by tears soaking into his shirt.
“I’m sorry.” Chris confesses, her words broken up with more coughing. “For not going sooner. Making you worry.”
“Babe, it’s okay. You’re here, we’re gonna get you healthy. That’s all that matters.”
“But I—“
“Chris,” Street stops, leaning back just enough to meet her eyes and let her see how serious he is. Her thumb traces a dimple when he gives her a smile. “I knew how stubborn you were when I got into this. It’s one of the many things I love about you. We can talk about this when you’re feeling better if you want, but right now you’re exhausted. How about you get some sleep, and later we can take a quick shower and have some of the soup Helena made?”
“You sound like a hostage negotiator.” She murmurs into his neck. The vibration of his laugh calms her, and he helps her get settled under the covers.
“Stay?” She asks, as if there’s a universe in which he doesn’t. He runs a hand over her face and says of course.
“Let me get changed and I’ll be right there. Is there anything else you need or want?”
“Just you.”
Everything hurts. Her lungs, her head, her muscles. All she wants is her meds to kick in so she can go back to sleep, but she has little hope of that happening soon. Her chest feels like it’s been woven into knots that keep the small relief in coughing from her, and sweat forms on her neck not from the low-grade fever, but from panic.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Street promises, but one look at her tells him there’s no way she’s capable of standing on her own two feet for a shower, and that’s the only thing he can think of besides the meds to help. Sighing, he rubs her back until she gets the meds down with a glug of water. She moans when he slides out from behind her, but he tells her he’ll be back soon.
“Let me make you tea and then I can help you wash off the hospital.”
He starts the bath to get hot and throws together the tea with the help of her kettle. Once it’s sweet with honey, he sets it on the bathroom vanity and helps her out of bed. Her clothes—his—are kicked into the corner, and he throws his shirt on top so he doesn’t have to worry about getting it wet. Lowering her into the water, it only hits her mid-thighs but she sighs when the warmth seeps into her skin and steam starts moving through her lungs.
“Here, Babe. Chamomile.”
Chris wants to hold his face in her hands and kiss him senseless. Instead, she gives him a small smile and takes the mug, the tea soothing her sore throat and lungs. Between sips, he lathers the cloth with her citrus soap and sweeps it over her skin in gentle strokes. He works down her back and over her legs, and sets the mug on the floor when she needs a break from holding it. He’s quick but careful, especially around her incision, and works through her hair with ease once she’s had time to finish her tea.
Leaving the hot water running to keep the bathroom steamy, Street helps her out of the tub, then scrunches her hair dry and wraps her in a towel. Her nails dig into his shoulders when another cough escapes, spitting into the sink after and grimacing.
“I’ll grab you clothes and we can lie back down.”
He moves to lean against the vanity, but she shakes her head and murmurs something incomprehensible, refusing to let him go. Brushing her hair out of the way, he cradles her face to bring her tired gaze to his.
“What, Baby?”
“Want your robe.” She repeats. His smile is brighter than the bathroom lights as he turns to the door and grabs the long, gray garment off the hook. He hears the familiar sound of her towel falling into a heap at her feet, turning around to her back to him. It slips easily onto her willing frame, and he ties the front into a loose knot once it’s on.
“Need anything else?”
She shakes her head, then buries it in his shoulder and wraps her arms around his neck.
“Water bill’s gonna be a million dollars.” She yawns out, settling into his body laughing against hers. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he promises it’ll be fine, and rakes his fingers into her hair so he can hold her even closer.
“Are we walking back to bed or do you want to hitch a ride?” He softly teases.
“Mm,” she hums and leans more of her weight onto him. Laughing again, he leaves one arm around her back and leans down to scoop the other under her knees, jostling her as little as possible. The warmth of his bare skin is comforting now that she’s not burning up, and she nuzzles into his collarbone as he traverses the short path to her bed. Her sheets are pulled back so he’s able to slip her under them, but she’s reluctant to let go once she’s settled.
“Babe,” he smiles down at her, unable to deny that her fingers at the nape of his neck make goosebumps run up his arms. “I just need to turn the shower off, otherwise the water bill really will be a million dollars.”
She groans but lets her hand fall back to the bed. As promised, he shuts off the shower and sets her empty mug on the vanity to deal with later, and then slides in next to her. Her body finds his like two magnets, pillowing her head on his chest and curling her legs up so she’s completely tucked against him.
“Thank you. Love you.” Her small voice floats to his ears, breath hot against him. Smiling down at her, he plants another kiss on the crown of her head, and doesn’t stop running his hand up and down her back.
“Love you, too.” She waits to hear him say it before she lets herself give into the exhaustion, easily falling asleep with his heartbeat in her ear.
He looks down at her peaceful features and knows she’ll be okay, and he can finally breathe again.