Probably need some suspension of disbelief that Danny takes his undercover cop car home.
TRIGGER WARNING: vomit
It's been a week since Linda's been home, and Danny is again running his hand through her short hair as she leans over the toilet.
It's been an hour, or maybe two—he doesn't know anymore—and there's nothing in her stomach to come up. She can't seem to stop gagging and spitting, He's talked her into one sip—one freaking tablespoon, he'd actually measured it—of water. It had come right back up with a ferocity that made her cry.
He runs his hand down her arm, gently pinches the skin. It stays pinched, and his hand is dry. Normally when she's sick, she sweats through her clothes—even without a fever.
"Babe, I think you're dehydrated. I think you need to get some fluids in you."
"Nooo," she moans—the first word she's said since they went to bed hours ago.
"Yes, Linda. You're dehydrated. You've thrown up like every bite of food you've eaten for the past few days, and now you can't even keep water down. I'm taking you to the ER."
The boys have been at his dad's for the past few days, because they were freaking out because of how sick their mom has been.
She sits up, wiping her mouth, and backing away from him. "No…no…no."
Her eyes are wide with panic. Is she delirious from pain and lack of food?
"Yes, babe. You need to get some fluids in you, or you're gonna get really sick."
She's explained it to him before—something about hydration and kidneys and enzymes or some such crap—but he doesn't remember her explanation. And he's not even gonna try to explain it to his semi-delirious wife."
"I'll be right back, babe."
He runs downstairs, opens the front door and the side door, then goes into the kitchen and rummages around for the garishly-orange former Halloween candy bowl they now use as a puke bucket. He puts three garbage bags in it, hooks the bowl over his arm, and goes back upstairs.
He puts jeans on over his pajama bottoms and grabs his wallet, Linda's wallet, and her nurse's ID—a little bribery might help them get seen faster. Just in case the Warrior Kings or whoever-the-hell it was, are lying in wait, he puts his gun in its holster on his waist.
When he goes back into the bathroom, Linda is lying on the floor, her body jerking as she gags. He picks her up, shoves the puke bucket into her arms, and carries her carefully down the stairs.
He hits his lights and sirens and speeds to St. Victor's.
Linda's groaning makes him go faster. In between the gagging and the tears and the sirens, he can only hear one word: "Hurts." Having thrown up a few times (well, more than a few) with a bullet-hole or two in him, he can imagine the agony she's feeling.
He screeches into the entrance marked "emergency room," puts his flashers on and gets out of the car, then reaches back in to shut off the lights and sirens. A nurse—summoned by the sirens, maybe?—rushes out with a wheelchair. He helps her get Linda in to it.
"Danny," she mumbles.
"I'm right behind you, babe. I just need to park the car."
"I can park it, Sir," a man—his shirt says the name of the hospital, maybe he's a valet, Danny doesn't know. He checks that his gun is still at his waist and hands over his car key.
Shifting from one foot to the other, stretching, turning around deliberately to rub Linda's head, he gets the paperwork fills out. He wishes he had eyes in the back of his head. No one looks like a threat—but then, Curtis hadn't looked like a threat, either.
He answers the question the tired nurse or receptionist or whoever the hell she is, asks him. Why do they need to know all this? Can't they just see his wife and make her feel better?
He hears his name and crouches down to Linda's level. "I'm here, babe. What do you need?"
"Where 'r we?" she slurs.
"At the hospital, babe. You're dehydrated." He's worried by the slurred speech.
"No. No hospital. Not safe. I wanna go home."
"You are safe. I'm right here. No one's going to hurt you. I'm trying to help you, babe."
"No hospital," she says again, and starts to cry.
He rubs her back, hands the paperwork to the nurse, and waits for his insurance card to come back to him.
She's crying so hard now he's afraid she's going to choke, and then the gagging and dry-heaving start again.
"How long's it gonna take?" he snaps at the nurse.
"There are some more serious patients ahead of your wife, Mr.—Detective—Reagan. We're doing our best."
"Well, your best needs to be faster. My wife is miserable. She hasn't kept anything down in days, and because she's a nurse, and nurses make $#!++y patients, she wouldn't let me bring her to the hospital."
"Looks like you didn't have any trouble today."
Danny really wants to punch this woman and knock the smug look off her face. "Yeah, that's because she can't stand, much less put up a fight. Now, this woman is the Commissioner's daughter-in-law. She needs a doctor—now."
"Commissioner of what?" the nurse asks, but stands up and disappears into the back.
Danny curses and bends down to rub Linda's back.
It's 3 a.m.
An already-long night is gonna get even longer.