some intense description of pain in this chapter (no graphic injuries)
Chris taps her fingers against her now-shorts-covered thighs, anxious to get home. Her good leg dangles off the edge of the bed, the immobilizer keeping the other perfectly straight. Crutches lean against the wall, all shiny metal and bleak gray pads that Chris is already dreading, even with a promise from Street that he'll make them more comfortable.
Her thoughts drift as she waits for Street to return. This morning, she remembers, but whatever was said last night eludes her except for the feeling in her stomach that it was important. She hates it, and Street's longing glances and heavy exhales that he tries to hide do nothing to make it better.
Doctor Montgomery's voice makes her shake the feeling away. The doctor hands Chris a stack of papers, discharge and care instructions that Chris couldn't read if she wanted to, and glances over her chart one final time.
"Everything looks good."
The look on Doctor Montgomery's face clues Chris into knowing she's about to get a lecture, albeit important, and she does her best to pay attention.
"No showering until the sutures dissolve. Stick to sponge baths, and be careful around the incision site. You shouldn't have any more bleeding, but some light drainage might occur so keep it covered for a few days."
Doctor Montgomery stops, giving Chris time to process and she's grateful for it. Chris would kill for a shower, but nods nonetheless.
"Absolutely no bending of the knee and keep it supported at all times when you're sitting or lying. PT put together a packet of exercises that you can do, but be careful not to work your hamstring. I know you have some other injuries as well, so I advise a few days of deep rest with very light activity, limited screen time, and prioritizing pain management."
Anxiety starts to pool in Chris as she thinks of injuries and days off and her job requirements, spiraling further at the memory of failed PFQs and cadres because of misogynistic instructors who will be foaming at the mouth to evaluate her now. Clamping it down before it can worsen, Chris breathes out an unsteady, "okay."
"Good. Everything is covered in those papers, too, and feel free to call if you have any questions. If nothing changes, I'll see you in a week for your first post-op. The nurses will bring your prescriptions and finish getting you discharged."
"Thank you."
Doctor Montgomery nods and shakes Chris's hand before leaving. Alone again, Chris's mind spins too fast to look over the paperwork or form cohesive thoughts about anything. She doesn't realize how far zoned out she is until she hears someone calling her name a few times.
"What?" She asks, too loudly and body jerking towards the source.
"I asked if you were ready to go? Team's waiting by the car. Are you alright?"
Street's got an easy smile, but worry sits in his eyes that Chris can't miss. Brushing off her worries, Chris tells him she's good to go. He smiles wider.
Street takes the papers from Chris and sticks them in his backpack where she can also see a few bags of prescriptions laying on top. Warmth fills her, though it's quickly tempered by her desire to take care of herself.
Backpack zipped, Street excuses himself to go find a nurse and returns with one not a moment later. Her scrubs are too bright for Chris's eyes, and she knows the woman is just doing her job but it takes everything in Chris to muster some semblance of friendliness as she looks at the leather seat of a wheelchair.
Street's looking at Chris from behind the nurse and can see she's doing a terrible job of hiding how unhappy she is about this whole situation. The crutches have already been loaded into the charger, though, so Chris slides begrudgingly from the bed into the chair. There's the ghost of dirt under her nails that whoever cleaned her hands missed, and Chris digs them into the armrests.
Breathing deep, Street gives Chris her sunglasses before they're outside, but even with them it's bright enough to make her wince back. The charger sits at the curb, the team around it, and the back door already open.
Chris braces herself on Deacon and Luca to stand from the chair and lower herself onto the cool black seat. Her heel rests on the concrete, and Tan waits for her nod before picking up her leg at the calf so she can slide back across the seats. Once she's comfortable, Hondo sticks his head in and tells her Tan and Street are driving her and the rest of them will meet at her apartment.
The walk from the parking lot to the complex door winds Chris. She's glad only Tan and Street are there to witness it, and don't say anything when she slumps against the wall of the elevator.
Opening the door, the rest of the team are already in her apartment putting away food that's easy to heat up and unpacking a new heating pad. She sees flowers and a "get well soon" card at the end of the island. Chris wants to roll her eyes and question them, but it's undeniable how soft it makes her feel so she leaves it be. The jean shorts cut uncomfortably into her waist, and Chris leaves them with free rein as she crutches to her bedroom to change.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Chris has to swing her leg up and winces at the stretch of her muscles when she leans forward to untie her shoe. She manages to kick it off with the other and doesn't care where it falls, following with her socks.
Even the largest sweats she has won't fit over the brace so she opts for an old pair of pj shorts, and taking off her top reveals a world of color over her back and torso. Not giving herself time to think about how close she was to dying, she turns to her dresser and pulls on the first shirt she gets.
When she returns to the living room, the team is done and there's a mountain of food and supplies spread about. Street's put two bright orange bottles on the counter and her discharge instructions next to it. They all stand near the kitchen table like they're not sure what to do with themselves now, and Chris sits on the couch so they know they don't need to do anything.
Hondo puts a water bottle on the coaster on her end table and she gives him a tight smile.
"You should be all set up. We don't want to crowd you, but Street said he'd stay, and Hicks cleared a week. I've got a phone from HQ. It's not yours, I know, but should hold you over until you can get a new one."
"Which the company is paying for," Deacon chimes in.
"So call if you need us, Chris, okay?"
Chris nods, says okay and thank you, and waits until she hears the door close to sigh. Adjusting her body so she's lying on the couch with a throw pillow under her head, she opens one eye to see Street staring at her from where he sits in a chair.
"You can go, Street. I'm fine."
Anger runs through him like electricity, but he tries to suppress his frustration with her for always pushing people away and wanting to deal on her own, even with major injuries. He scoffs, and then tries to cover it with a cough.
"I'm not going anywhere, Chris, unless you want me to call Helena and Sarzo so they can come, or drive you to their place."
That does make Chris roll her eyes.
"I can take care of myself."
Any hopes Street had that Chris remembers their conversation from the previous night are smashed with her words. Looking away so she can't see the disappointment on his face, Street takes a deep breath.
"I know. But you just had major surgery, and you have a concussion. That's about the best reason I can think of to let someone help you for once."
Chris knows he means well but there's something in her that balks every time the reality of leaning on someone draws nearer. It's louder and larger, if shallower, than the desperate desire inside to let herself lean for once.
"If I wanted or needed your help I would've asked for it." Chris says, but it's a lie and they both know it, and the lingering fear propels Street to call her on it.
"Chris, you could've died yesterday. You told me once you didn't like opening up. Sure, whatever, you've got your reasons, but I'm not leaving you alone right now."
Chris wishes she could walk because she'd love nothing more than to stalk away and slam the door in Street's face. But the meds from the hospital are just beginning to wear off and she still just wants to wash her hair so she leaves it with an unhappy scoff of her own.
Sitting in a cold, blunt silence, so different from the hospital the night before, Street raises his eyebrows when Chris seems to accept that he's staying. He takes a sip from his water bottle and pulls out his phone to entertain himself, but his eyes glance over to her every few minutes. After the fourth time, with a newfound evenness in her breathing, Chris is asleep.
Excruciating, all-encompassing, white-hot pain that starts in her knee and overtakes her entire body.
It's all Chris can feel when she wakes.
Opening her eyes provides no relief. The shadows that dance on her dark ceiling because the sun has set only serve to put her more on edge.
It's worse than being shot in the vest. Worse than poison gas. Worse than when that man wrenched her knee out in the first place.
She's sure she's dealt with worse pain than this in her life emotionally, but physically, she can't remember ever feeling like she's on fire from the inside out and like it's never going to stop.
"Street?" She wants to yell, but all she can produce is a breathy whine. Her fingers hook into the back of the couch and her palm as waves of pain roll over her, unrelenting.
It's only after she calls out for him a second time that the sound of the shower running becomes audible to her. For a brief moment, Chris considers getting up herself, but the fear that it'll only make the burning worse keeps her pinned down.
She can't think straight, every thought chased away by another fierce pain. Tears roll hot down Chris's face as she begs and prays for relief that doesn't come. Someone is whimpering loudly in her ears and she doesn't realize it's herself at first. Moving beyond her own horrible groans, Chris strains to listen for if the shower is still running.
It's not, but any attempt to yell is met with nothing more than a squeak and another round of agony. Panic and resignation war in Chris's body, and she doesn't have control over any of it.
She misses the sound of a door opening and of footsteps on hardwood, but manages to brace herself enough to get out one good shout of Street's name.
At Chris calling his name, Street is out of the guest bedroom, turning on the hallway light as he goes. It's dim, but enough to see the hurt screwed across Chris's face, like every nerve ending she has is being assaulted.
"Chris? What's wrong?" Street asks, louder than he means to in his rapidly-growing worry. He nearly trips over his own feet to get to her, and when he does, she can't open her eyes.
"Pain," Chris chokes out through gritted teeth.
Street curses himself for letting her sleep instead of waking her up for a dose. He flies to the counter and spills two pills into his hand, not bothering to put the bottle caps back on.
Chris's water bottle is still next to her, and Street slides his arm underneath her upper back so she can hold the pills on her tongue while he undoes the water and holds it to her lips.
The water provides a second of reprieve. A momentary bliss that's violently ripped away for more burning and pulling that makes Chris want to scream. She clenches her jaw so she doesn't.
Street sets the water down and leans Chris back so he can turn on the lamp by the chair. The extra light highlights the ropes of tension that are every one of Chris's muscles, and Street puts his hand on her shoulders.
"What else can I do, Chris?" He asks, mostly thinking out loud for anything that could help. His eyes fly over her kitchen counter and living room with effort, searching helplessly.
I can't get away from it . Chris thinks. I'm never getting away from it .
The thoughts break down any last sense of composure Chris has. A sob forces itself out of her, fast and heavy against her lungs. She hears Street's voice but not his words, and through her tears manages to string together her fear.
"I can't get away from it." Chris gasps, breathing spotty as her body begins to tingle in its best effort to minimize everything she's feeling. Her eyes burst open, not lasting long in the pain and blurred with tears, but Street sees how distressed and scared she is in them.
His own self-preservation instincts and any of the false, bullshit lines they've drawn between themselves go out the window before his heart beats again. His body acting before his mind has time to analyze, Street gets one hand under her shoulders and the other under her thighs. Chris's hand grips at his shoulder, fingers spasming it as she tries not to lose herself completely.
Her bad leg is pressed against his chest and shoulder, which Street hopes helps support it. He walks as fast and careful as he can to the guest room, Chris's complaints about wanting a shower echoing in his mind, not wanting to dirty her own sheets. There's no way for him to pull the comforter back before setting her down but the only problem he can focus on is helping her immediately. If that means getting every other blanket in this apartment later, then so be it.
Chris doesn't let go of Street when he sets her down, too blinded by the burning to even realize she's holding him so tight that it would leave scratches if he pulled away.
Carefully, Street settles a hand on hers and massages it until her grip loosens enough that he can set it down. He's torn between going back and grabbing water and medicine, an ice pack and the heating pad, but another sob keeps him right where he is and crawling into the guest bed next to her.
"Shh," Street tries to soothe her, heart beating a million miles a minute as he wraps his arms around her.
"It hurts," Chris says again, the only thing she's capable of saying or thinking in the midst of this hell. Street runs a hand up and down her arm, wishing he could do more to help.
"I know," he says softly, hoping his voice is even and comforting. "It'll pass, I promise. It's going to pass."
"I want my Aunt." She says, voice tight and shrill. Chris doesn't grasp what she said at first, and when she does it's overpowered by more burning in her leg and up through her stomach.
"I want my Aunt." Street hears Chris's words and his heart breaks. He knows that feeling, an innate wanting for maternal comfort that Chris hasn't expressed to him before. However bad he thought it was, it's worse.
Needing something, anything to hold onto, one of Chris's hands twists the bedding, and her other jerks upwards and makes contact with Street's arm where it lays across her chest.
Chris holds onto him like a lifeline. Her nails dig into his forearm but Street doesn't care, doesn't feel it as he focuses all his attention on petting her hair and telling her she's going to be okay.
It doesn't help. The pain doesn't move and Chris's body pushes at itself to free her from it. She's shaking with effort, sweat drying cool and gritty on her skin and making her shiver on top of it.
"Do you think sitting up might help?" Street asks, five minutes or five hours later.
Chris wants to scream that she doesn't know. She doesn't know what will make it better but she does know that if it doesn't stop soon she's sure it's going to kill her.
Instead, she nods, the movement as disjointed as before. Stilling himself, Street is as attentive as he can be as he moves her battered body so it's propped against his bare chest—her yell bringing him running from the bathroom before he got a shirt out of his backpack.
Street does his best to tuck the other pillows on the bed behind both of them, supporting her back and hips. He hopes it provides some modicum of comfort, each cry breaking his heart more.
Setting the side of his head against Chris's, Street holds her with the intention of never letting go. His free hand runs down her arm and slots their fingers together, working the tension out of her that comes back as quick as it goes. The other switches between petting down her hair and pressing lightly on her shoulder, trying to remind her that other sensations exist.
He turns his head to press kisses to her temple every few minutes after more promises that this won't last forever.
Chris doesn't know when the pain starts fading away. When her brain starts processing Street's words instead of vague approximations of noise. When the tension and terror that grip her start to ease, though slowly and unwillingly.
More tears fall when Chris feels no better even as the pain subsides. Exhaustion replaces it, just as strong and unbeatable. Discomfort, an alienness of her own self, sits on her chest like an elephant. Her focus is shot, barely able to concentrate on anything tangible around her.
Her mouth opens and closes, searching for words that don't come.
"Chris?" Street whispers, fear gliding on top of her name.
Chris nods against him languidly, the first indication in however long it's been that she heard him, and Street feels the grip of fear on his heart loosen.
Every exhale and the way her body leans heavier into him with each passing second speaks to how exhausted she is. Leaving his arm around her back, Street scoots to the side so he can throw some of the pillows on the floor and guide Chris down until she's lying back on what remains.
Pain sweeps across her features, but her eyes are clearer when she blinks them open. Her mouth opens again, too, but closes with the subtle shake of Street's head.
"I'll be back in one second." He says, careful not to jostle her as he gets off the bed.
Knowing she's not in the clutches of whatever had her is an indescribable relief, but his mind is racing trying to preempt whatever she could need. He slings the blankets from the hall closet over his shoulder and tucks two water bottles under his arm so he can grab both of the pill bottles.
He walks back into the guest room to set those down first, and then shakes out one of the blankets and lays it over her. Her eyes follow him lazily as he walks back out and then flutter shut, her whole being too shorted-out to do anything more.
Cold on her face makes her moan softly. It's hard to categorize the feeling in the midst of everything else. Chris doesn't understand what Street's doing until a soft, wet cloth is moving over her forehead and down her cheeks, wiping away the tears and grime. He carries it down her neck and over the part of her chest that's visible, his touch as light as a feather.
Trying to soothe her in any way he can, he takes a moment to wipe her hands off, too, wincing at the indents her nails left in her palms. Chris hears his footsteps and the sink once more, and then he's holding her head up with one hand and putting a fresh, cool washcloth under her neck.
Chris was sure the pain was going to kill her, but this makes her feel like she could die and be okay, so long as he was there.
Street gives her one last, soft kiss to her hairline, running a hand down her cheek and memorizing her face.
"Are you comfortable enough?" He asks, not wanting to disturb the fragile peace that's settled.
Chris nods, murmurs a "yes" that Street believes, and he exhales.
Street lies on his side, facing her. He reaches out a hand to hold one of hers, the pair resting lightly on her stomach, and gets his body as close to hers as he can without crowding her. His eyes soften on her, content even in the aftermath of what just happened to look at her and take solace in the fact that she's there and she's breathing.
Street's known for a while, longer than a while, that Chris is his person. Whether that be in a relationship or just as friends, he was prepared and willing to negotiate so long as they were together.
But now he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, past any mitigation or compromises, that he loves her.
He falls asleep with her hand firm in his.
hello! thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed this extra long update! as a h/c girlie, this was one of my favorite chapters to write. (also quite therapeutic as a knee surgery girlie lmao). i hope it was as sweet for you to read. comments/kudos always appreciated! stay liquid! xo, A