Nightmares can sometimes be real, our fears coming true in the most innocent of ways. Sometimes, those dark dreams help us see the light of day. Don falls ill.
Author's notes: I switch POV's between Robin and Don as the situation warrants. It's fairly narrative but I like how it turned out. I'm a big fan of the R/D pairing so if you're not, you may not like this. Aside from that, concrit is welcome and how one gets better. As usual, flames shall be used to warm my house.
She wakes to the sound of a key in the door. She exhales and listens to him as he makes his way upstairs; keys on the entry table, shoes by the door. Then, she hears his heavy footsteps on the stairs and the door to the bathroom closes quietly. A thin sliver of light shines from underneath the door as the shower starts to run. She stretches like a cat and waits for him, glancing at the clock. It's close to four a.m. She's pretty sure he hasn't slept in three days, only making it home to change and wash up, their paths crossing for only minutes.
The shower turns off and the bathroom door opens quietly not long after. She hears his bare feet pad into the bedroom, the rap of leather on leather, followed by a gentle thud, then another. His cell and holster now rest on the nightstand, faint streetlight shining on the black metal of his gun. She peers at him in the dim light as he carefully places his clothes on the chair in the corner, catching a faint scent of cordite as he does.
So, it ended badly again.
The mattress dips as he sits, exhaling in a huff. He rolls his neck and puts his head in his hands. She watches him for a few more seconds, seeing the tension in his frame bleed out. She rolls to her side and places a hand on his nude back, stroking it lightly.
"Hey," she says quietly. He lifts his head and gazes at her over his shoulder.
"Hey. Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tired half smile.
"It's okay," she replies, shifting closer, wrapping her body around his waist and draping an arm over his shoulder. She pushes herself to an elbow and kisses the warm, still damp skin between his spine and shoulder blade. She lays her cheek onto it and holds him close, feeling a breath released slowly from him, tension draining away and exhaustion setting in its place. She inhales deeply, finding the lingering scent of gunpowder under the clean soap.
"We got him. Went down fighting, just like we knew he would," he says, turning into her embrace. "I told you this could go all night again. You should have gone home, gotten a decent night's sleep," he adds, burying his nose in the crook of her neck.
"And sleep alone for the third night in a row? I'd rather wait for you here."
"Hmm," he rumbles, nibbling on her neck. "I'm glad," he says, his voice rough with fatigue, leftover adrenaline and need.
She puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back, cocking her head to look at him.
"Let me," she says, pushing him down until he's on his back.
He chuckles, deep in his throat, as she goes down on him.
___________
He wakes up slowly, little by little, and every sensation he's getting from his body is unpleasant. He's hot, covered in sweat, so he throws back the covers. He winces as he shifts, his back aching fiercely where he took a couple solid punches to the kidneys, his own hands throbbing from the hits he gave back. His neck is stiff from sleeping too long in the same position and he's got a headache the size of Texas. He flops to his back and groans, a fierce ache in his joints joining the party. He swallows slowly and coughs, his throat feeling raw and swollen. He glances at the clock and grumbles. It's close to noon.
He swings out of bed and has to stop, his vision growing dark. When the blackness fades, he's leaning on his dresser, dizzy and a bit nauseous. He looks at his alarm clock again and he knows why. Last time he ate anything was over 24 hours ago. He's got himself a serious case of low blood sugar. He makes a stop by the bathroom to pee before heading for the kitchen, not at all hungry but in dire need of food. He pauses by the mirror and frowns. No one should look that bad after sleeping for 7 hours straight. He wonders if it's just the lighting but he's got huge, dark smudges under his eyes, he's pale bordering on gray and his eyes themselves are so bloodshot it looks like he's been on a three-day bender.
He lumbers down the stairs, his feet heavy and dragging because his back is hurting too much to bother not shuffling. He stops dead in his tracks and stares. Robin's sitting at the table, laptop open and files strewn all over the table. Shouldn't she be in court?
She looks up at him and her eyes go wide. "Wow."
"That bad, huh?" he asks, or tries to. What makes it out of his mouth is some sort of pitiful squawk. He clears his throat and tries again but the result is only marginally better. He lets his chin fall to his chest and sighs, admitting that the way he's feeling might be just a bit more than low blood sugar.
"Yeah, that bad," Robin says, getting up to wrap her arms around him. "Did you sleep well?"
"Thought I did," he says, his voice still unrecognizable. "Just need some food, that's all."
He winces as her hands brushes a bruise on her back. He sees her frown and closes his eyes as she goes around him to look.
"What happened!"
"Mitchell got a couple good licks in before I cleaned his clock."
"Since when are you back in the field doing tactical?" The look she gives him is a little too knowing for his taste.
He tosses his head, grimacing. "Since I passed the eval, last week."
"You didn't tell me."
He can tell she's a little pissed, a little proud and just a bit disappointed.
"I didn't want you to worry."
She looks at him like he's stupid and maybe he is, a little.
"And what if you got hurt again? I'd find out from your team, or from your dad? How's that supposed to make sense?" she asks, fixing him with her prosecutor gaze, the one she gives suspects when she catches them in a lie.
He shakes his head, regretting the motion as his headache notches up. "Okay, you're right. I'm back out in the field. Psych cleared me on the Pete Fox shooting. So, I went on the raid to grab Mitchell. He ran. I chased. I caught him, he fought back. I kicked his ass. "
"And got yours kicked," she says, laughing just a little, just enough for it to show in her eyes. "I thought I smelled gunpowder on you."
He shakes his head, smiling. So, that's how she knew...
"His partner took a shot at us. We got him too." He smiles thinly and clears his throat again, triggering a coughing fit that leaves him breathless, dizzy and faint. He blinks hard a few times to clear his vision, finding Robin holding on to one of his arms, concern written all over her face.
"I'm okay. I just need to eat something," he rasps, his voice totally gone. It could just be from all the shouting he did yesterday but the ache in his joints says otherwise. "What are you working on? I thought you had court today," he asks as he puts the kettle on for some tea. The thought of coffee or orange juice is making his stomach churn so he figures peppermint tea is in order.
"Wheeler case. Got pushed back to next week so I have some time to go over it again, make sure it's airtight." She walks up behind him and puts her arms around his waist, laying her head on his back. "So I have a couple days off to spend with you. You're off today, right?"
"Yeah," he says, flipping open the cupboards. He's not hungry at all but he needs to eat. He finally settles on toast. He'd go for plain if he'd listen to his apparently temperamental stomach but his body needs more than that so he grabs the peanut butter after shoving two slices of 6-grain bread in the toaster.
"You feel a little warm," she tells him, the back of her hand pressed on his cheek. "Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"
He shakes his head slowly, pouring the boiling water over the teabag. "I don't know."
She raises her eyebrows, giving him the prosecutor look again. He decides he's not up for an interrogation so he just tells it like it is.
"I haven't eaten since yesterday morning." He puts up a hand, preventing her lecture. "And before you start, I know it's bad but it happens sometimes. I spent half the day shouting orders and running after suspects, drinking way too much coffee. Just... let me eat, shower and wake up a bit, then I'll let you know, all right?" he snaps a little forcefully.
She takes a step back, eyes a bit wide, eyebrows high. "No need to get defensive about it, Don," she says, her tone a bit hard.
He sighs and drops his head, sighing as the toaster pops. "I'm sorry. Just..."
"It's all right," she says, kissing him softly. "Come find me when you're human again."
He smiles as she slinks off, winking at him. He grabs the toast and the tea, plopping on his chair, wincing as the bruises press on the backrest. He takes a bite of toast and grabs the paper only to shove it back when the headache flares as soon as he starts to read. He hisses as the scalding tea burns his mouth but he drinks it anyway, almost enjoying the heat filling him. He's finished in a few minutes but instead of settling his stomach, the food and tea made things worse. His gut is churning and bucking, acid burning in his throat. He puts his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands, cursing softly.
He pushes off his chair and climbs the stairs and shuffles to the bathroom, grabbing a couple Ibuprofen tablets and some antacids as well. He washes everything down with water from the tap and goes very still, suddenly convinced this was a bad idea, the cool water settling like a lead ball in his stomach. The mild nausea he felt is roaring now, making his mouth water and sweat bead all over. He's really not sure if breakfast will stay put. Or rather he's sure it won't. He swallows slowly, willing the nausea back while putting up the toilet seat and leaning over it, squeezing his eyes shut. He breathes steady and deep for a while, the immediate feeling he's about to throw up slowly fading. It takes a few more minutes before he feels safe enough to rise and let the seat drop back down.
He looks to the shower but it's suddenly too much effort. He gets to the rail and tires to call out to Robin but she can't hear him, not with his nonexistent voice. He sighs and goes back downstairs, putting a hand on her arm.
"I'm going back to bed," he tells her and she frowns.
"Not feeling any better?"
"Worse, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Almost threw up breakfast. I'm just gonna go lie down."
"Okay. I'll check up on you in a bit."
_________
He tosses and turns, hi sleep fitful and filled with nightmares. He wakes with a start, a strangled scream on his lips, rivers of sweat soaking his t-shirt and hair. The light out the window is just beginning to fade, gathering shadows hiding the remnants of his dreams. He sits up quickly, rubbing his face hard, heart racing. He swallows fast, his stomach in knots. He clears his throat and coughs, his lungs rattling with congestion. Something is stuck in his throat so he coughs and hacks and coughs until he's doubled over, gasping for air. He gulps in a breath and hacks violently again. He doesn't have time to think when his gag reflex kicks in. He clamps his mouth shut and bolts to the bathroom, making it in just enough time to spit out the sudden flood of watery bile in his throat.
His discontent stomach doesn't need further encouragement. He vomits the toast, the tea, more bile, everything. When he's done, he's on the floor, huddled over the toilet, shivering and exhausted. His hands tingle and black spots are dancing in his vision but that's fine by him; at least, he doesn't have to look at what he just threw up.
"Honey? You okay?" Robin asks from the other side of the door.
He can't muster the energy to talk. His entire body hurts and he's shivering so hard his teeth are rattling.
"Don?"
She's worried. He should say something. He licks his lips and swallows, breathing fast but not getting enough air. He clears his throat, triggering another coughing fit that leaves him dry heaving and gasping for air.
He blacks out for a second or two because when the darkness clears, Robin's by his side, her hand stroking through his sweat-soaked hair.
"Don? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah," he whispers, curling in on himself, shivering. Her hand slips from his hair to his cheek and he groans in pain, all his joints on fire.
"Are you okay? My god, you're burning up!"
"C...cold," he says.
Robin shakes her head and reaches over to flush the toilet. "Can you get up?"
He nods, teeth chattering. He knows it's the fever but he's so damn cold! She helps him up and to the bedroom, sitting him on the bed.
"Take off your shirt."
He does as she asks and she sticks a thermometer in his mouth before disappearing in the bathroom. He rubs his arms with his hands, freezing. She comes back with a bowl of water and a cloth as the thermometer beeps. She takes it and frowns, showing it to him. 103,2. He closes his eyes and sighs. Even he knows that's really high. So he shuts up and puts up as Robin wipes his chest and back down with a washcloth that feels dipped in ice. He coughs on and off, congestion rattling in his throat and lungs and by the time she's done, he's nauseous and dizzy. She helps him slip on a fresh t-shirt, helps him lie down and covers him with the bed sheet, leaving the other covers off.
He doesn't realise he's drifted off until he feels her hand on his arm. He opens his eyes to find her offering a bottle of water and some ibuprofen. He takes both without a word, taking small sips of water, hoping it'll stay down. Robin is apparently reading his mind because she puts the bathroom trashcan by the side of the bed.
"Get some sleep. I'll come back in a while."
"Okay," he whispers, letting his head fall to the pillow. She drapes the cool cloth on his forehead and he shivers. Still, he leaves it there. He closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion take him.
____________
She hears the vibration from the kitchen counter and sighs. Don can never have a day off without at least one call. She's glad she took his cell downstairs with her. He's asleep, not to mention sick as a dog so she lets it go to voicemail. It rattles three more times five minutes apart before they try his home phone. She snatches it on the first ring.
She has time to see the name on the caller ID and greets David politely, a smile in her voice. Whatever he wants isn't so urgent when he hears Don's sick. He just asks for a call back whenever. Robin laughs a little after hanging up at the way David spluttered when he realised who was on the line. It's not like they don't know. It's just entirely different to interrupt your boss in bed, or think you are.
She cocks her head, not sure of what she heard. The sound comes again and she frowns. Don's cough sounds deep and really harsh. He was fine when she saw him yesterday morning and that worries her. She knows it's not a cold, it's the damned flu and she prays it's not the A H1N1.
She curses softly when she hears hurried footsteps from upstairs, followed by the slamming bathroom door. It's only a few seconds before she hears him throwing up again. She pushes to her feet and slowly walks upstairs, giving him some time.
When things quiet down on the other side of the door, she knocks lightly and goes in.
"You okay?" she asks quietly. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against the toilet, breathing hard, his face ashen except for the flush on his cheeks. His skin is dry and hot under her touch. He opens fever-glazed eyes when she brushes his cheek with soft fingers.
"You feel hotter. I'm getting the thermometer, okay?"
He just nods listlessly. He's much too obedient for her taste, testament to how bad he's feeling. She frowns at the thermometer, tempted to try again just to make sure what she's seeing is right. She knows it is. It reads 105, now. Almost two degrees in as many hours.
"One-oh-five," she tells him. "I think we need to get you to the hospital."
He doesn't really move, just nods ever so slightly, eyes closed, head on the arm that's still draped over the toilet.
"Don? Look at me."
He opens his eyes and lifts his head, meeting her eyes with a glassy gaze. She's relieved but not much, the thought of an ambulance floating in her head.
"Are you with me?" she asks.
He frowns at her as if he doesn't understand. "Robin?"
"Yes..."
"Why are... Charlie's supposed to... where am I?" he asks, looking around, confused.
"Home," she answers, worry exploding in her chest. "You're sick. We need to get you to the hospital, okay?"
He shakes his head slowly, confusion evident on his features. "What... S' cold in here," he says, shivering violently.
"Can you stand?"
Instead of answering, Don pushes himself to his knees and finally to his feet. She puts his arm over her shoulders. She can feel the tremors coursing though him and she's glad he still trusts her. If the fever's high enough for him to get confused, there's no telling what hallucinations his mind could conjure up. She helps him dress and as she does, he seems to focus a bit better, pushing back the confusion.
He gets up off the bed and gathers her in his arms, the searing heat of his skin burning against her cheek.
"Thanks for taking care of me," he says roughly. She feels him waiver on his feet and holds on tighter.
"You're welcome. Come on. I'll get the car."
Don lies sprawled in the seat next to her, as she speeds through the L. A. traffic and her worry is rising fast. He's barely moving, coughing a little, his complexion almost bluish. Last time he looked this bad, he'd had a ten inch blade shoved in his chest. She tries to talk to him, get him to react but about four blocks from the hospital, his head just lolls to the side and thuds against the window and stays there. She wants to scream in fear. Instead, she floors the pedal. She pulls right to the ambulance bay and jumps out of the car, yelling for help. Don doesn't move when she shoves the door open on his side and undoes his seatbelt. Nurses are behind her, pushing her out of the way, taking his motionless form out of the car and onto a gurney. She hears words like hyperpyrexia, febrile tachycardia and dyspnea. The gurney disappears inside and she's left alone, her empty car idling behind her.
Someone grabs her arm, asking her to move her car and come back in. They need her, need to know.
She speeds through the visitor's lot, parking where she shouldn't and doesn't care. Back inside, she finds the nurse and tells her everything, watching as Don is stripped to his boxers and wrapped in icepacks and cooling blankets, an oxygen mask on his face, countless wires on his chest. She answers questions automatically, never taking her eyes off the man she loves. Deep in her heart, she prays. He has to be okay.
They push her out of the room, tell her they need to stabilise him, that someone will come and get her when he's settled. She asks if they know what it is. The answer is the one she didn't want to hear. It's that damned virus. They hand her a mask and ask she contacts the people he was in close contact with.
She walks out into the waiting room, yellow mask on her face, all eyes on her, fear in her soul. She keeps walking until she's outside, pulls out her cell phone and calls his father, even thought she has no idea what to say. She wants to say not to worry, that Don's okay but she doesn't know if it's the case. Truth is what she knows best and so that's what she says, truth in facts, at least.
"Alan, it's Robin. Don's in the hospital. It's H1N1."
He wakes suddenly, confused and aching. He's freezing and everything hurts. He panics a little because he can't see all that well, everything blurred and fuzzy. He gasps and coughs, trying to get up. As he pushes on his hands to lift his back off the bed, he feels wires and tubes pulling, suddenly recognizing an oxygen cannula under his nose. He relaxes and lets himself fall back to the bed. He's in a hospital. He vaguely recalls Robin and his bathroom, being sick, a car and harsh lights. The rest is a blur of confused images. Nothing makes sense.
Bright panic surges up again. He shouldn't be here. Why is he here? His father... where is he? He was here last time he woke up, reading a book. He coughs and his chest hurts. A hand goes up to the scar there but the bandage isn't where it should be. The pain is wrong too. It's not where it should be.
"Dad? Dad, where are you?" he calls out, no sound coming from his throat. His eyes scan the room but he can't see, everything a haze, the pain in his head making it impossible to focus. He tries to push himself up but he can't, his arms too weak. Where is he? Why is he here? He can't think. He's cold. Why is he so cold? Something rattles in his chest and he's coughing, coughing until he can't breathe. He gasps and coughs hard and before he knows it, there's vomit in his throat and his mouth and he's choking and he can't breathe-
"Shhhh Donnie, easy, it's okay, it's okay!" There's a cool hand on his back and suddenly he's leaning forward, something metal against his chin. He coughs and spits and suddenly he can breathe again. He's leaning against something strong and comforting, his cheek resting against the comforting roughness of a wool sweater. The smell of it is familiar and he just relaxes. He doesn't know where they come from but there are tears falling from his eyes.
"Dad," he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut, unable to stop the flood of moisture.
"Shhh, it's okay. I'm here. I'm right here."
He doesn't know why but the tears won't seem to stop falling no matter how hard he tries. He just stops fighting and buries his head in his father's shoulder and lets them come. And suddenly, as fast as it started, it's over and he's calm again. He blinks a few times and lifts his head, his thoughts clearer than they've been in what feels like a long time. He lifts his head and wipes his eyes, taking slow deep breath. The cold is gone and now he's hot, sweating bullets, feeling the dampness soaking his hair.
"Better?" his father asks gruffly, helping him lie back.
"Yeah," he rasps, meeting his father's eyes. He blushes when he sees the stains of vomit down the front of his hospital gown, more so when he sees the ones on his father's sweater.
"I'm sorry, dad," he murmurs, not sure what exactly he's apologising for; the vomit, the tears, the loss of control or all of it.
"Don't worry about it. Fever's always done a number on you," he says quietly, grabbing a cloth on the bedside table and handing it to him. He wipes his face and lets his head fall back, exhausted.
"Let's get you cleaned up," his dad says, patting his arm. He opens his eyes to find his dad in a plain t-shirt, a fresh gown in his hand. It takes some doing but he manages to change despite the tubes and wires. It takes entirely too much out of him but he needs some answers.
"How long?" he asks, his voice rough and broken. His father puts a straw to his lips. He drinks slowly, letting the cold water soothe his throat.
"Three days. How much do you remember?"
Don shakes his head. "Not much. Getting home... A bad headache, getting sick, Robin's car... What happened?"
His father smiles and looks at his hands before meeting his gaze and tells him about the last three days, about the fever, the virus, how close he came, again. He tells him how Robin stayed near, as close as she could, how he was the only one safe enough to be here, something having to do with the 1957 epidemic.
He asks about the others, if they're okay, if he gave it to them.
"No. Everyone's fine."
He nods, his head heavy against the pillow. His father tells him to sleep and heal. He lets go, surrenders to the pull of slumber.
He dreams of her.
_____________
When he wakes again, there's a weight resting on his left shoulder. He looks down into a cascade of soft brown hair, spread over his arm like a blanket. He shifts gently and brushes his lips onto the top of her head. She stirs and looks up at him, her eyes bright as the smile he's sure is hiding behind the isolation mask on her face.
"Hey," he says quietly, feeling surprisingly better.
"Don't. You. Ever. Scare me. Like that. Ever. Again," she says, mock stern. She softens and squeezes his hand. "I'm glad you're okay."
"I'm sorry I scared you."
He sees her eyes light up again and he smiles too. When things settle down, when he's better and after Charlie's wedding, he'll take her somewhere, on the coast, and make her that proposal, the one she deserves.
For now, he just gathers her up in his arms and holds her close, content like he's never, ever been in his life.
He's done searching, finally figured it out.
She's all that was missing. His job will never cease to haunt him but he's chosen that life and he's okay with it all, now. His family is everything he wants it to be, despite his father growing a little older every day. He's got friends he'd give his life for and that would do the same for him. He's found his faith and the balance of it in the rest of his life and for the first time, as far as he can remember, he feels like he's standing on his own two feet, on solid ground.
He gets from life as much as he takes from it, the good and the bad, the light and the darkness. He knows there needs to be night for the sun to rise again, if only to make you stop and take notice.
The sun's rising outside his window, inside his soul.
He's noticed.
Fin.