Coffee, Tan thought, heading straight from the locker room to the kitchen and ignoring anyone who may cross his path. It was fifteen minutes before the start of the shift, and he had been there for an hour yet, hitting the gym. He couldn't help, he had been startled awake by a nightmare early in the morning, and then he had not been able to fell asleep again.

He had always known police work was dangerous, and being SWAT was even a more serious matter. In Tan's mind, all those risks were well rewarded, and he had never desired to do anything else. However, since Street had been seriously wounded during that call, the peril had suddenly become more real.

Tan had been hit on the vest before and had witnessed others take a bullet and be less lucky than he had been, but he had always been able to shake it off. For almost a month, he thought he had succeeded in putting aside Street's injury, but in the last couple days, somehow, the fear had become more real.

The sight of his friend in the wheelchair had shocked Tan deeply, much more than he expected. It should have been an astonishing sight, the sign Street was improving, but it had not been like that. During all those weeks visiting him and seeing him struggling, Tan had been able to put a clock on his friend's injury. It will pass, he said out loud. Street is strong and he will manage to pull through, he repeated to himself and to his teammates. As long as his friend was confined to bed, Tan could pretend that Street just needed a little rest, but now… now he wandered around in a wheelchair, and that was way harder to ignore.

"Why no one had told me sooner?" The familiar voice surprised Tan as he opened the kitchen door a crack. It was Buck; his voice rang from Hondo's phone on the table.

"We thought he already told you," Hondo said.

"Yeah, well, he did not. I had to learn it by chance after all this time!"

"And I'm not even sure he will appreciate we did tell you now," Deacon added.

Tan silently entered the room and nodded to his teammates. It was a while since they last heard from their ex team-leader, from before he had left town about a month ago, a few days before Street got hit.

"He won't appreciate it? I know the kid, okay?" Buck continued. "It has been like that all his life, he'd always struggled to ask for help, but he had always appreciated receiving it at last."

"We noticed that," Deacon said, "We had more than some trouble convincing him to let us in when his mother messed up with his already critical situation."

"His mother? Come on, guys!" Buck's voice sounded seriously irked. "Street gets hurt on the job, a job I put him on, and nobody thinks to tell me. And then his mother, the woman I arrested almost twenty years ago, gives him trouble and nobody tells me either? You got to be kidding me!"

Tan stiffened. Before Street —and now Evans— he had been the new guy on the team. In a couple of years, he had learned a lot from Buck and had been quite disappointed when his friend and mentor had to leave his place to the green —and apparently arrogant— Street. He kept forgetting Buck himself put Street on the team and even more, kept overlooking the fact that Street and Buck had a long history together.

"You were out of town," Hondo objected, "there was little you could do for him when he kept his phone off day and night."

"I would have found a way. I always did."

Deacon sighed. "We just thought he should have been the one to tell you."

Buck's sigh resounded too. "Anyway, I'll be back in LA in a few days. Until then, keep an eye on him for me, okay?"

"He's family," Hondo said, picking up his phone. "And you taught us to always look after our family."

The silence fell heavy once Buck ended the call. Tan knew that his more experienced teammates were asking themselves the same question: what was there behind Street's refusal to tell Buck about his injury?

Suddenly, Tan's nightmares got, if possible, an even darker meaning. It was not just about getting hit, it was about needing help to get back on your feet —literally, in Street's case— and refusing to accept it.

But Street was tougher than that, Tan repeated himself while taking a deep breath. And he would be too if he ever had to face something like that. He would be, he had to believe it.

... ... ...

Street's eyes fluttered open to the afternoon sun. It had been a while since he'd been able to take a nap as fine as that one. He glanced at his phone; he still had about one hour before his physician would show up again for his PT. His muscles were a little sore already, but since Leon had stopped torturing him with the ultrasound-hell machine, the sensation was manageable. Although, Street had not decided yet if upgrading his sessions with Max to twice a day agreed with his no-pain-killers policy.

Adjusting his position in bed, Street decided it must. There were no other choices, especially now that Buck knew… How could have he been such a coward to not tell the man he admired the most about his injury? If only Buck had been there with him, Street though, things would have been different. He would have known how to help him with all the struggles —physical and not— because it had always been like that.

But Buck had not been there. He couldn't, and Street had chosen to not put that burden on him when he was so distant and unable to come back. It wouldn't have been right. That had been Street's excuse. It wouldn't have been fair to Buck, who had already saved his life countless times since that night, the worst of his life.

But now that he knew, now that Buck was about to come back to LA… Street thought about the phone call he had to face that morning, to Buck's voice, full of paternal reprimands, genuinely encouraging, and with a bit of concern. He had felt like a kid again, ashamed he didn't call him sooner but relieved that now he knew. That was what let him take the best nap since he had stopped accepting sedatives and pain meds.

"Glad to see you didn't lose this morning's positive attitude." Max's voice startled Street, deep lost in thought, and made him conscious he was smiling.

It had been a while since Street had found himself unconsciously smiling. That could only be a good sign, right? A sign he was going to crush the afternoon session and that tomorrow he will succeed again, and again…

"Ready Jim?" Max broke Street's stream of thoughts again. How was it possible that he was so ready to work and yet so distracted?

"I'm going to push you a little harder than this morning, alright?" the physician said, settling the bed to be perfectly horizontal. He then moved to uncover Street's body. "I need to try your strength and stability to see if, in a few days, you'll be ready for the next steps."

"I'll be allowed to abandon this thing then?" Street asked, looking down at his bare knees, which, peeking from under the gown, were almost as much as white as its fabric.

"Well, you'll need a tracksuit for hitting the hospital gym."

Those words left Street astonished. In the last few days, he got used to leaving the bed for one hour at a time, two times a day at most, and go around with the wheelchair, but he never actually left his room. Now, his physician was talking about taking him to the gym. It was a lot, but he felt ready for it.

"Alright, breathe in, you know the drill."

Breathing exercises first. As usual. Street felt like he had done nothing else all his life. This technique was a little different from the equal breathing Buck taught him to fight the fear as a child, but it seemed to work just fine. At least, he forced himself to think, when he would be able to run after suspects again, his lung capacity would be at full volume… unfortunately, he could not say the same about the rest of his body.

"And breathe out while you take your arm back to your body," Max recommended as they were about to complete the first few rounds of exercises, the easy ones regarding shoulders, arms, and elbow movements.

"And now to the tricky part?" Street smirked, feeling confident his back will not start to torment him again. After all, the morning session had gone smoothly…

"Who's all invested in the new routine already?" Max patted him on the shoulder. "Don't rush it. You know I'll not allow you to skip any step."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. It's just… I feel I'm making real progress for the first time, and I don't want to lose any occasion to—"

"Jim" —Max locked eyes with him— "you had made incredible progress all the way through during this first month, and I'm incredibly proud of how you dealt with pain and fatigue."

First month… Street felt the cold shower coming.

"And I don't want to turn off this fire, but you still have two phases of the rehabilitation program to check before you can be discharged and have a last phase as an outpatient. You understand?"

Street sighed, he didn't want to talk, as long as his body continued to send him positive vibes, he wanted to act.

"It means weeks. A whole month at least."

Another month like that? Another month… Street's hands scrunched the sheet underneath him. Max clearly noticed that, and Street immediately unclenched. He couldn't let that thought extinguish is flame, like the therapist called it.

"Jim, you're doing great," Max continued in an encouraging voice. "Baby steps are what your body needs to come back at full power, without permanent consequences. You think you can do that?"

"I can do anything."

"Good." Max smiled. "Then bend your right foot."

After a few repetitions of bending, unbending, lifting, lowering, and moving the legs to the side one at a time, it came yet another round of deep breathing. Street hated to admit it, but he needed those. His calves and his thighs were already sore and fatigued, and his back was starting to give signs of stress, and he knew it was not the end yet.

"Alright, good job. The fun part now, are you ready?" Max said, checking on the position of the back-brace. "Any pain? Anything I need to know?"

Street's face was sweaty and his cheeks were flamed, but he just shook his head. "I'm ready."

"Lean on your elbows and flex the upper part of your back. Let me see those abs contracting."

Street followed the instructions, fighting with himself to not show the physician how much he was struggling. He was stronger than he seemed, his back was not nearly as bad as one week ago. He could do it.

"Perfect." Max checked again on his patient's torso. "Keep breathing, and let's go on. Hands on your hips and pretend to walk very slowly." He put one hand on Street's knee. "One foot at a time, no exceptions."

Pretend to walk. That was the most frustrating exercise in his routine, but one of the most challenging, too. How could he struggle that much just to pretend to walk? He hated that, but still, Street didn't stop until the physician gave him the signal.

And then it was the turn to make his abs work again. While he fatigued to lift head and shoulders from the bed, Street thought nostalgic about the six-pack he proudly worked on before all that happened. There was the gown now, and the brace blocking his view, but from the ache and the weakness of his muscles, he knew he would have to re-start on that from the beginning.

"Good job, buddy. Come on, one last series. Raise your leg straight and keep it half-high until I say so."

Street obeyed. His body started to shake and his muscles to burn while he forgot to breathe.

"Keep it up. Come on, you can do it. And—"

Street loudly exhaled before Max could finish his phrase, and slowly lowered his leg.

"It's okay. You're doing great."

Street finished his repetition and went on with the other leg. Frustration slowly mounted in him, but he fought it. Baby steps, the physician had said. That was what his body needed, and that was what his mind must adapt to. He could do it.

Leaving him, Max had a satisfied expression, and Street must have had one too. At least he felt he should. Only one week ago, the therapist's positive attitude and his unconditioned support would have irked Street as much as making twice as difficult for him to complete the session, but that day, it was what he needed.

Waiting for the nurse to come and take care of all the sweat and the signs all that work had left on his body, Street kept going with the breathing exercises. Despite the soreness, the weakness, the burning in his muscles, and the difficulty of concentration he now had, he felt relaxed. And despite the back pain and feeling all shaky, Street was hungry.

A few minutes later, the vision of the black-haired nurse coming to the aid was the sweetest of all.

... ... ...

Tan wearily opened his apartment door. The shift had been unusually dull, the highlight of the day had been seeing Luca crashing a driving test and beating Evans on every level. That moment and Hondo and Deacon's phone call with Buck he'd overheard.

All day long, Tan had kept thinking about Street and the risks them as cops face every day. He was extremely happy with his job and wouldn't change it for anything in the world; every risk was worth the hassle, but still… he couldn't believe how much seeing Street in a wheelchair had shocked him.

His day had ended just like it started: in the gym. So now, despite the shift had been flat, he was exhausted, and when Luca had invited them at his home for a beer, Tan had to find an excuse for not going. He knew that he should really catch up on sleep, hoping he would not have the same nightmares of the night before.

The musky smell of his shower gel propagated in his bathroom along with the steam from the shower. Tan took long, deep breaths and relaxed. Less than fifteen minutes later, while settling on the couch with the leftovers of the Indian takeaway of two days prior, he felt like that monotonous day would have never ended.

He was surfing the TV stations when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was Street, answering the text he sent him a few hours prior. He had been busy with therapy, he said. The physician had worked him up and down, apparently, and Street admitted to him that despite the exhaustion and the residual pain, he had not been that satisfied in a lifetime.

Tan smiled at the screen. Street had everything under control. He would abandon the ominous wheelchair in no time. What had he been worried about?

The two exchanged a few more texts until Street stopped getting back to him. After a while, Tan shook his head, smiling while imagining his friend falling asleep with his phone in the hands. He got up and headed to his bedroom, confident that if Street would sleep like a baby like he imagined him doing, he could too.

... ... ...