nothing extremely graphic, but reader discretion is advised for body horror/blood/gore.


Chris stumbles into the elevator and up to her apartment on weak feet and with blurry vision. A coughing fit catches her just outside her door so bad she has to lean against the wall for support, and when she pulls away there's a bloody flower in the palm of her hand. She drops it where she stands, blood and spit smearing across her face, and reaches a stained hand into her pocket until she feels the cold metal of her key biting into her palm.

The safety— no —the isolation of her apartment makes the pain in her body grow tenfold. The agony that she's been in since she left the parking lot is becoming too strong to fight. Abandoning the open door, she blindly makes her way deeper inside. It's colder than it's ever been, deep grays and blues that blend into shadows of lost time. Her hands leave red streaks along her walls and countertops, worse when she nearly collapses in the kitchen.

I'm not dying in my fucking kitchen , she thinks, although the reality that she is dying isn't lost on her. Something about the bathroom feels more poetic, or maybe it's just ingrained in her to go there after years of her Aunt and Uncle ushering her in during bouts of the flu. Either way, she doesn't even have the wherewithal to get her leather jacket off before she falls to her knees, and then to her back, on the bathroom tile. Her head lands on the rug outside the shower, soft against her cheek as another acrid, red-coated flower pushes past her lips.

She feels something else on her face. Something wet , she realizes, and it doesn't take long for her shaking fingers to find the source pouring from her nose. The hot blood coats her fingers in a way that's almost beautiful when she holds her hand up to the dim, streaky light. Her appreciation for the sight is cut off by something squeezing her insides worse than before. Another coughing fit, her body heaving and convulsing until what feels like an entire garden is next to her. But even with that, she can feel something behind all of it. Something pushing everything else out of her so it can wind around her stomach and lungs, up her esophagus, straight through her heart.

Chris's breathing turns into wet wheezes as her body contorts to try to get it away from itself. She looks to the ceiling and finds her life playing out in scenes like it's a projector. All the times she fought to live.

With him. Without him. Always a fight.

So why are you giving up now?

Street. She realizes, the only time it's truly mattered. You have to tell him.

Moving is like a thousand stinging nettles on her nerves. Her hand spasms as she rolls further onto her side enough to rip her phone from her jeans pocket, fibers of denim getting caught underneath her nails. Tears leak fast from her eyes that make it hard to find his contact, and she has no choice but to call because her hands are shaking too much to even hold the phone up.

Each unanswered ring is a knife through her heart.

"This is Jim Street. Leave a message."

Fuck.

With no choice but to try again, she does. And again. And again. Each result is the same—no answer.

One more time. And then whatever happens, happens, and whoever's fault it is, it is.

This time, it goes straight to voicemail without so much as a ring. She gives herself the hope that his phone died instead of him turning it off, and chokes around the flowers crammed in her throat.

"Street," Chris starts, immediately seeing that she has fewer words than she'd hoped. For all the walls she's put up in the vein of not talking, now everything seems too important not to say. Another flower comes up, something too covered in red to make out, and she can't hold back the groan of pain as her body shudders. Each word is shakier than the last. Her breathing labors, the world spinning around her and the unwelcome guest inside her making its fatal, final stand.

"Street. I'm sorry. I love you."

I think this is it for me. I should've told you sooner. I'm sorry I didn't. I'm sorry for everything. It's my fault. I hope you're not the one who finds me. Please don't blame yourself—it's my fault. I love you.

The beep of the voicemail ending sends her train of thoughts crashing. Pressure builds too high through all of her body to even move, freezing her on the bathroom tile as the last of the vines grow and thorns pierce her. Coughs come out louder and wetter, spraying blood along the base of her shower and over her rug, her fingers failing to find anything to hold onto to try to get enough strength to fight.

Overwhelming petals fill her mouth and graze past her teeth. Her jaw opens wider, not of her own volition, as more relentlessly follow. The layers and layers of flower leaves her until all that's left inside is a thin stem, responsible for tying her insides together irreparably. She doesn't have it in her to tell her body not to relax. Her jaw closes, lips parted just enough to allow the stem to pass that's connected to a giant carnation. Red, she can only imagine. A final shudder and her eyes close, too, her body releasing all of its tension. Too many thoughts and none at all fill her subconscious as it slips away from her, most of them about him.

Her last thought before she goes is that maybe he'll keep the flower as a piece of her to hold onto.


He should've answered. Should've put down the beer the first time his phone rang and ran out the door. Street knows he'll never forgive himself for the terror of Chris's voice, teary and apologetic and almost too soft to even hear. Maybe he forgets to put the kickstand down on his bike and maybe he almost knocks down her neighbor as he rushes through the parking garage, but adrenaline pulls him towards her like a solid steel cable.

He doesn't waste time on the elevator. Taking the stairs two at a time, Street comes face to face with the fifth floor landing and busts through it in a blind haze. He sees her door standing open when he turns the corner and his heart jumps into his chest so fast, he's surprised it doesn't fall out.

Undeterred, he sprints through the door and follows the trail of blood and flowers to the bathroom, not letting himself think about what it means. He's forced to when he sees her.

Lying on the floor, unmoving, not breathing, surrounded by flowers and blood and dried tear tracks on her cheeks.

"No. No, no, no! "

Diving to her, his hands are moving before he can think. They grip the stem of the carnation in her mouth and pull. Hard . It barely budges, as if it's knotted around all of her organs.

"I'm not giving you up, Chris," he says through gritted teeth and tears of his own. "C'mon."

He tugs again to no avail, and leans back on his knees to give himself a second to breathe. To look at her. She's still the most beautiful person he's ever seen, inside and out. Her laugh reverberates in his mind, the feel of her warm hand in his in the kitchen at HQ. It's all too much to lose.

Sending a prayer to a god he's never believed in, Street grips the stem again. He doesn't pull, or tug. He yanks. Unrelenting to its resistance, and even as her body lifts with the force of his hands. It's barely noticeable, but he feels how the stem shifts until another inch of it is in his hand.

"I love you, too, Chris." He pleads, tipping her head back to try to open her airway so he can get it out quicker. "Okay? And I know you love me. So please, please come back to me."

Painstakingly, thorns cutting into his hands until they're on fire, he pulls the stem out of her. More leaves come with it, shredded petals covered in god knows what, and he has no choice but to throw his fear about what it's doing to her to the side. Whatever happens, they'll deal with it. So long as she's alive.

"I love you." Street keeps mumbling under his breath. Each new scrape across his palm or ungodly noise from the vine pulling out of her body only serves to better remind him of that, and he says it again.

He thinks he's got it when something gives him more pushback than before. He tries again, wincing at how her jaw dislocates and he hears something crack. Pulling again, he sees the first white tendril at the back of her throat.

Roots.

The weight of the realization almost knocks him backwards. But he knew saying he was done was a lie the second the words crossed his lips. He's never wanted to be done with her. Couldn't give up even if he tried no matter how many times they've fought and she's pushed him away.

"Don't think about that." Street forces himself. He's so close. So close to at least knowing he tried, if he can't save her, and a sob wrenches itself out of him as he goes for his phone to pull up his voicemail.

"Street… Street. I'm sorry. I love you."

"Prove it!" Gripping all the plant that he can fit in his fist, he pulls. And pulls. And pulls. Until finally, the roots give way. They spill up her throat and past her lips in one final go, and he throws them to the side like they're on fire. They might as well be, with how badly he wants to burn them.

Letting that go in favor of looking at her face, his heart sinks when her eyes are still closed. No sign of life beneath her wrist or when he puts his ear to her chest.

"Please," he cries, again. And, past everything on and around her, leans down to kiss her gently. It lands on the corner of her lip in his effort to avoid where hers are split and chapped, and it tastes a terrible mix of iron and floral.

She gasps.

Chris gasps as life rushes back through her and sends her flying upward. Gasps as her neurons start firing and she sees Street kneeling to the side of her, more concerned than she ever wants to see him again. Gasps in the deepest breath she can because she can.

He gathers her in his arms before she can ask questions. The second he has her, a sob tears from her throat. It's painful, scratchy, but she doesn't care as each one hurts worse than the last because she's there in his arms. Alive .

"Sh, sh." Street coos at her, burying a hand in her hair and nestling her into his chest. "I'm here. We're okay, you're okay. I love you."

And, God, does it feel better than it has any right to, to tell her.

Her body runs out of tears far sooner than she thinks it will. As the cries turn to gradual sniffles, Street takes advantage of the quiet. Lavender fills his nose when his lips brush against her hair.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak." She rasps, her fingers loosening their grip on him but holding tight to the soothing motion of him rocking her.

Carefully, he pulls back to look at her face. Her eyes are lazy as they trace over his, and then look at the carnage on the floor. Seeing the mess of stem and roots makes her nauseous, and a headache pounds behind her eyes. Another wave of dizziness assaults her that she closes her eyes against, only to feel something dripping down her nose before she can bury her face in his neck like she wants to.

"Shit, here," he jumps into action. Dragging a towel off the bar next to the shower, he gently places it against her nose. "Lean forward a little bit."

She follows without argument, letting her body relax into the familiar weight of his hand on her back. But she has a nagging feeling that only one thing will make it stop.

"Street, listen," she starts, a haggard edge to everything about her.

"Chris—"

Cutting him off with a shake of her head, she gathers the little strength she has to channel her words.

"I love you."

Street freezes. Though he shouldn't be surprised, it's surreal to hear those words from her. He almost doesn't want to believe in it lest something happen that drives a wedge between them. But she takes the towel away as the words hang between them, and when she wipes her face all that's left are some stubborn flakes of dried blood, with no sign of any more.

Getting his bearings, he smiles at her and gently takes her face in his hands again. It's a soft kiss, more like their first than their second, but now the only source of intoxication is the other. Her lips are dry, uncertain hands timidly coming to hold his chest, and a slight, searing pain shoots through her when they meet his. But it's nothing compared to before, so she leans in even closer.

"I love you," she repeats. "And I'm sorry."

"I love you, too," he smiles at her. She doesn't return it only for the blood lining her teeth, and he looks around the bathroom again, wincing at the sight. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay?"

"Yeah," she exhales, although her body protests every movement. Street helps her to her feet and she tries not to look at the mess on the floor or her own face in the mirror. She can see the gears turning in his head, following without question when he perches her on the toilet. The room continues to thaw when he roots through her cabinet like he's always lived there to find a clean washcloth, gesturing for her to take her jacket off while he soaks it with hot water.

Decidedly not focusing on the dried blood under his nails and in the crevices of his hands, Street rinses off and keeps his eye on Chris in his periphery. She's pale, a tinge of blue still ghosting over her lips, and he bites back the worry that strikes in his chest. Squeezing the excess water out of the cloth to ground himself, he turns back to her and starts to gently wipe at her face.

"How do you feel, really?" He murmurs.

It's too kind. Too sweet and too warm for someone like her to deserve after all she's put him through, and it turns out she isn't completely out of tears.

"Okay," Street collects himself. The washcloth lands on the vanity with a wet plop, his fingers instead threading through her hair. He recognizes how overwhelmed she is and curses himself for questioning her not even half an hour after he crashed into her apartment when it's obvious this has been going on for months, if not years.

Years. His stomach twists, hands pulling her close until her face is buried in his torso.

"Shh, you're alright. The sooner we get changed, we can go sit on the couch. It'll just take a few minutes. Promise."

Through a strained inhale, Chris nods. The heels of her hands are rough where she wipes away the last of the tears and grabs for the washcloth to speed up the process. Her toothbrush ends up in the trash after she washes away the lingering metallic taste, and she has half a mind to replace it with Street's lips. Both their eyes keep falling to the mess on the floor, but he guides her into her bedroom instead.

"You hungry?"

Glancing at the clock, it's hard to believe it's been just over an hour since they parted at HQ. But Chris hasn't eaten all day, so she gives a small nod as her fingers twist into the comforter, voice still quiet.

"Yeah. I'll change and then meet you in the kitchen."


Fuzzy socks and warm mug of tea in hand, Chris finds herself measuring every breath as she takes in the steady beat of Street's heart against her back. Exhaustion sits on her like a blanket, not unexpected all things considered, but she refuses to let herself drift off until they've talked. His fingers carding through her hair are making that task all the more difficult.

Like he can sense how she's toeing the line, Street jumps over it for her. There's still a twinge of hesitation in his voice, but they're both calmer now that they're out of the bathroom, the mess left for later.

"You doing okay? I'd still like to take you to the hospital."

He gives a crooked smirk when she side-eyes him, tightening his grip on her shoulder.

"'M fine. I'll talk to my cousin tomorrow."

"Your cousin?"

"It's a long story."

"Got nothing but time, Chris," he presses just so. She presses closer to him.

"After I left Ty and Kira," Chris starts with a small sigh, moving only as far as she needs to set the mug down before resuming her position, tucking her feet under his thigh. "You didn't pick up. And I don't remember—it's blurry—but before I called Deac, I had this coughing fit. I felt something but didn't pay it any mind until I got back in my truck the next morning and saw the petals on the floor."

She traces his face to make sure he's still with her. Cool relief floods through her when there's no traces of doubt in his eyes.

"It wasn't much, and it took me a few months and a few more times of it happening to figure out I wasn't crazy. Helena used to tell us folktales when I was little, from all over the world. I couldn't ask her, but Lorraina's even more into them, and she helped me figure out what was going on. So much has happened; it came and went over the years. But ever since Lankford things have been… persistent."

Unsure of what details to spare, Chris takes a moment to distract herself with the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent surrounds her.

"It's been harder to work, getting harder to breathe sometimes. I haven't been sleeping because I kept waking up hacking in the middle of the night. All came to a head after the parking lot earlier."

"Chris—"

"No." She's adamant despite thick tears building in her throat. "I, I just want to move on. From the past, not you. For right now at least. Trying to think about everything going on and everything from before is too much."

Tipping his chin down, Street looks into the deep brown of her irises and sees nothing but the truth.

"Okay," he agrees with an easy smile. "You mind if I stay tonight? Don't think I could leave if I tried."


Waking up with Street around her is an odd experience.

For starters, she wakes up calm for one of the few times in her life she can remember. His soft, even breathing brushes through her hair, and his warmth isn't imposing like it's been with past partners. Instead, it evens out the gaps where she lacks her own. Everything about him, them, is comfortable . She didn't know waking up could ever feel so good, and already she knows she doesn't want to go back to the alternative.

Second, beyond calm, is a distinct lack of anxiety. For all the sparking emotions that lead them here, the little wisps of concern over their upcoming conversation are just that—wisps. Small flutters in the deep of her stomach and heart that are more anticipation than fear, and they all fade away when his groggy voice finds her.

"G'morning." He rasps, holds her tighter. It is, assuming it's morning, but when she looks over, it's just past eleven pm, and she's not surprised at how quickly they fell asleep.

"Not quite," she teases softly, voice still strained. He leans over to glance at the clock himself, and his weight draped over her is more familiar than it should be. He smiles to himself when she relaxes into it. "How're you feeling?"

"Perfect, now that I know you're okay. You are okay, right?"

Concern tingles like a low electrical current through his blood, but it dissipates with her nod.

"I am." She starts, and then a rush hits her so fast the room spins even as she's lying down. No more lies, or even half-truths. "I will be. Are you?"

A kiss to the shell of her ear sends a shiver down her spine. Chris shifts in his arms so they're facing and bathes in the light of his smile. His lips are soft where they land on her forehead and nose before finally finding hers.

"I will be. I love you."

In the newfound safety of her apartment and deep in her insides, Chris feels the future start to bloom.


hey all, thank you for reading! in know this is a bit out of the ordinary, so i hope you enjoyed.

first, thank you for all the well wishes! it's been a few days and everything went well I've obviously had a lot of spare time on my hands, and this draft has been in my works forever and was a tumblr prompt long before, so i thought it'd be nice to work on as a little distraction/to finally get 'er done.

i honestly loved playing around with the more grotesque imagery this au always allows, and then cracking open into all the lovely fluff at the end. it's one that could easily be an insanely long fic, but in the name of it being a prompt and wanting to keep it shorter, i decided to drop us all in at the end. so another thanks to everyone who maybe took a chance on reading this to the end, lol.

no telling as to when the next thing will be up, whatever it may be, but until then hello & stay well! all my love

A