"Shouldn't we open the rooftop trap or something?" Tan asked from Black Betty's front seat.
In the back, the pungent smell of sweat mingled uncomfortably with the even more poignant odor of chemicals and made Chris, Hondo, and Deacon all scoot slightly away from Evans.
"Oh, come on!" he complained while the little scar above his eyebrow twitched. "It's not that bad."
"You must have some damage to your sense of smell, man," Luca called from the driver seat.
"Easy on him," Hondo scolded. "Romeo here must just be accustomed to his own reek."
"Hey! Now you're gonna tell me that famous Street of yours would have found another way of saving that girl without diving into that cleaning liquid tank."
Chris smiled, meeting the guys' amused looks. "Oh, no. He would have probably sunk himself deeper."
"And more spectacularly," Tan added before gentle laughs filled the vehicle.
"Who's been to see him lately?" Deacon said as the chuckles died away.
Chris's eyes wandered around. She'd not seen Street in person for a couple of days now, but they had a few text exchanges, and for once, she was not worried.
"Luca and I dropped by last night," Tan said.
"How's he doing?" Hondo asked. "It's been a while since I last checked up on his progress."
"Focused." Luca glanced back through the rearview mirror. "You may start searching for another spot, Evans, 'cause our man is getting back soon."
"Yeah? You already said that weeks ago, and I'm still here."
"I hate to agree with him," Chris said, meaning it, "but I won't start the countdown yet. Unless you know something I don't?" she added hopefully.
A brief silence filled Black Betty, along with the still strong smell of chemicals. Then Luca spoke again. "Alright, he may still be far from coming back to the field with us, but it won't be long before he's discharged from the hospital."
Chris's heart made a twitch. "Seriously? And he didn't bother to inform us?"
"He still doesn't know," Tan warned her. "His nurse confided in us not to tell him too soon. They fear he will get over-excited and mess up."
Hondo nodded. "They really came to know him well in the last two months."
Two months and almost two weeks, Chris thought. That's how long Street had been confined there. No wonder he would get over-excited by the perspective of going back home. No doubt he would also try to accelerate things even more and end up screwing up his chances in the process.
The beeping of phones interrupted her stream of thoughts.
"Luca, head south," Hondo ordered. "There's a hostage situation that requires our intervention."
"More fun," Evans said. "Guess the shower will have to wait."
Chris couldn't help but glare at him, anger mixing with nostalgia. Even missing action desperately, Street would never have made such a lame comment when innocent lives were at stake. If her friend messed up his rehabilitation, she would mess his head all right.
... ... ...
After the crazy morning they had, finding the time to take a break and check up on Street was a breath of fresh air. Deacon followed Chris along the hospital hallways, heading to the gym. The air in there was actually far from being fresh. It reeked just as a place like that should, of sweat, feet, and strain with an occasional bit of desperation.
They glanced all around in search of their friend. All right, maybe the smell wasn't all that bad, wafting through the air, there also was hard work and hope mixed to a hint of success. All Deacon wished was that these last sensations came from where Street was doing his therapy.
"You're doing great, Jim," a woman said, drawing the two cops' attention to the far end of the room. The slim but muscular brunette was assisting Street while making him walk along a corridor of mats with handrails on its sides.
Chris made a small sign to Deacon, and they silently walked by but still remained in the distance to not disturb the session.
"Come on, a few more steps," the therapist prodded her patient. "You're almost there."
They watched Street slowly move his left leg forward, then tighten his grip on the handrails. His arms were hardly shaking, as his whole body was, but he started to move his right leg, growling and heavily panting all the way long. It had been a while since Deacon had stopped by, but from what his friends had told him, he'd expected Street's rehab was at a more advanced state than this.
Deacon glanced at Chris; her jaw was clenched, her hands tightened into fists, and the look she had in her eyes said it all. She also expected more. No, she knew this wasn't at all right.
"I—" Street gritted his teeth. "I can't."
Chris shot an alarmed look at Deacon. What was wrong with him now?
"Yes, you do," the therapist patiently encouraged.
Deacon turned his eyes again to Street, seeing him fatiguing to stay on his feet while they were used to seeing him running, jumping, and winning fights was hard to take in. Almost impossible after all this time.
Street stopped, his knuckles turning white with the effort of the grip. "It's my back… I can't go on."
Chris darted another meaningful look at Deacon and hinted a step forward, but he shook his head, suggesting self-control. Their friend was already having a hard time there; there was no meaning in pushing him over the edge now.
"It's okay, Jim," the therapist continued reassuringly. "A little pain is normal—"
Street groaned, trying, not too convinced, to drag himself forward. He was almost at the end of his route when his whole body gave up. He fell on his knees, hands on the ground, despite the therapist holding him to the waist by a string band. He growled and grimaced, fighting himself free from the woman's support and trying hard not to lay down heavily on the mats.
Chris gasped and advanced, revealing their presence. Deacon followed her.
"Just breathe. We're done for today." The therapist knelt behind her patient. "There is nothing wrong," she said while her hands carefully pressed on Street's back, around and under the back-brace. "It's just fatigue and muscular contraction for all the hard work you're putting up. Worst case scenario you pulled a muscle, I'm sure it's not your first time." She continued massaging him softly, glancing up at Deacon and Chris. "Nothing that alternating warm and cool packages won't settle before tomorrow's session."
Street pushed her away with the little force he had and rested on the fours without looking up from the mats, eyes locked on the sweat drops landing on it.
"We'll take it easy tomorrow, just in case—"
"Please," Street wheezed. "Shut up."
"Hey..." Chris ducked beside Street, who tried to ignore her.
"It's alright, Jim. I'm right here. It's alright, look at me." The brunette tried to sustain him to make him more comfortable. "Just keep breathing." She motioned to Deacon to bring the wheelchair closer.
Street was winding and panting, his whole body hardly shaking. And in all that, he was carefully avoiding lifting his face, keeping his eyes staring at the floor. What the hell was this? Deacon thought. He was supposed to be discharged soon...
"Come on—" Chris put a hand on Street's shoulder, but he immediately retracted, whining as the sudden movement clearly caused him even more pain.
"Don't touch me," he managed to say in a harsh tone, his head always turned the opposite way, his breath ragged.
Deacon watched Chris retreating; he didn't know what was harder to stand, seeing Street suffering like that, or the look on Chris' face when he rejected her help.
"Here we go, Jim," the therapist said as Deacon got the wheelchair in the right position for him to get on. "You ready?" She offered him her hand to give him the support he needed, but he didn't move, not even an inch. The worst of it was that he probably couldn't move at all.
Deacon stepped in, sticking his arm out for his friend to grab. Street gradually looked up to him and finally decided to hold on to his friend. Arm in arm, their eyes met, and Deacon's heart skipped a beat, facing all Street's pain flooding him from that simple glare.
As he was settled in the chair, Street instantaneously loosened his grip and retracted from Deacon's touch. He also turned his head again while his eyes shifted to silently bag the therapist to take him away from there. Away from them.
"You did good today, and tomorrow will go even better. You'll see." The lady helped him adjust his feet on the plates. "A nurse will be here soon to take you back to your room, alright?" As no response came, she just nodded and walked away, giving Deacon and Chris a supportive look.
"Street, look at me," Chris said, trying to get closer to him again. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine! Just go. Go away!" Street's tone was getting more and more upset and harsh and he was still unable to stand his friend's looks.
Not this again, Deacon thought.
"Just please, please leave me alone." Street took two fingers to the bridge of his nose and, with his free hand, pressed on one of the wheels to slightly turn the chair. "I just need a moment alone… Just… give me a moment."
'Leave me alone' was what his mouth said, but Deacon knew that it was not what he really meant. 'Help me' was what his eyes had shouted when they had momentarily crossed Deacon's. That was what every fiber of Street's shaking body wanted them to know: he didn't want to be alone, but he felt the need to. How to solve that?
Deacon looked at Chris; she was standing there speechless but refused to step back again. She looked back at him, then they both looked at the nurse who was now there to take Street back to his room.
"We're not leaving you alone, Street," Chris said, searching his eyes.
"I said, go away! I don't need this!" He raised his tone once again while the nurse put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
"Chris, come on." Deacon made her a sign to leave. There was just no point in stressing him even more.
She turned to him. "We can't let him behave like this."
"It's not worth it. Not right now." Saying those words cost Deacon a lot, but Street was holding his breath, his eyes were getting misty, and his resistance seemed to be strained to the limit. Deacon could clearly see he was about to break, and he could not be responsible for that.
He made Chris step away while the nurse started to push the wheelchair. They watched her moving Street toward the door and out of the gym. Once again, he was unable to look at them while passing along. But he didn't need words; he didn't need to look them in the eyes. Deacon could clearly feel his pain, his rage, his powerlessness, and his shame. He sensed all that, and he knew Street had to digest all those emotions on his own before letting them in again.
"We can't let him slip away from us like this," Chris said, taking a step toward the door as she wanted to follow the nurse.
Deacon reached Chris, ready to go the opposite way, toward the exit. "With him is always a game of pushing and pulling. You well know that."
"It's not a game. It's real life," she desperately said. "His life."
"You know what I mean. Balancing strengths is not always easy. Sometimes we just have to let go and let him do. He is suffering, but he knows we will be right here when he's ready to let us in. Give him his time."
Deacon walked the sterile hospital hallways at Chris's side, silence creeping around them. He hoped what he just said was true. He prayed to God that Street only needed a bit more time.
... ... ...
The night slowly closed on Street. There should not have been a reason why he wouldn't feel comfortable. He was clean and fed. His muscles were a bit sore but relaxed; his back didn't complain so much anymore; his torso was finally free from the constriction of the back-brace. But he was flushed by humiliation. His head throbbed. His chest fatigued to keep the air in.
His body had failed him right when he'd thought he was about to reach his goal, and his mind had not been able to support him. This time it wasn't his fault. He had not tried to overdue. He had followed all his caretakers' instructions to the letter.
Why did everything go wrong then?
Street's phone vibrated on the bedside table, but he couldn't manage reading the incoming text.
He couldn't come to terms with the fact he'd given up. How many times had he pulled a muscle in his life? How could he have given up like that just now? In front of the therapist, in front of Deacon and Chris? How could he have given up on himself? This time it wasn't his fault, and yet it was. But how could anyone reproach him? They were not in his body. Only Street knew what was going on inside his stupid body.
The attempt for a deep breath didn't work out so great, and he started coughing instead, but it wasn't his body at fault. It was his mind this time. And that was the scariest thing.
Deacon's eyes were etched in his memory. The way his friend had looked at him… And Chris's hurt expression, full of deep concern and hot disappointment... Street couldn't wipe those images from his mind.
The night passed over in a blur; if he had slept, he had not rested. Despite everything, his body seemed to respond surprisingly well to the commands of his weary mind now, and the only hurt was in his pride. It had not been a dream, Street repeated himself. He had faced a struggle in his rehabilitation, and when his friends had tried to help and make sure he was okay, he'd preferred to stop trying at all. Because choosing to not try meant they would not see him fail.
"Ready for you PT, sweetheart?" Nurse Cindy's voice drove Street's slow mind to the here and now. "Oh, you had a sleepless night, didn't you?"
Was it that obvious? He took his hand to his face. "I'm fine. Let's…" he started but didn't know how to continue. "Let's go," he managed. Saying that he wanted to go to therapy today was a plain lie.
When he reached the gym, Sue wasn't there to wait for him. Instead, Max's deep blue eyes were staring at him coming in.
"How are you, Jim?" he asked, his tone more stern than usual.
Street opened his mouth to reply with a halfhearted 'fine' but only managed to shrug lightly. Who the hell was this? Because this wasn't Jim Street.
"Sue told me all about your struggle during the last session," the therapist went on. "So we're going to take it a bit easier this morning. Then if all is right, in the afternoon session—"
"It is all right," Street said, forcing himself to meet Max's eyes. He felt it; his body was alright now, but his mind was a problem. What was he afraid of?
"You sure? You gave Sue a bit of a scare with that attitude of yours."
So that's why she is avoiding me? Street thought. "Tell her I'm sorry…"
"I'm not doing your dirty work for you. You'll see Sue later today, and then you can speak your own mind for yourself. But you better behave with her from now on, understood?"
"I'm not a kid. I just had a bad moment, okay?" Okay? he repeated to himself as if to make the point straight, preventing himself from going down a slippery road.
The session went surprisingly smoothly, and Street was even able to push the wheelchair back to his room on his own, with only slight assistance from nurse Cindy. He rode in silence, torturing himself about the previous day. What the hell did it happen? What was he so scared of? To make too much progress? To actually go home?
The nurse helped him to bed, but Street didn't pay any attention to what she said to him.
How was he supposed to deal with his friends now?
... ... ...