Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

107. Priority

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I sat at Striker's side in anxious silence as he lay half-conscious on a stretcher in the emergency room, my eyes focusing on the bag of antibiotics steadily dripping into the IV in the crook of his arm. A respiratory therapist stepped into the tiny room and prepared a breathing treatment for him, handing him the nebulizer and instructing him to breathe into the mouthpiece. When she left, Striker looked warily at the contraption in his hand, and I stood from my seat and covered his hand with mine.

"It'll open up your airway," I explained, holding the nebulizer closer to his mouth. "Inhale it, honey. It'll help you breathe better."

He honestly didn't look like he had the energy to argue, and he quickly relented and did as told. Now that he was awake and stable, I was able to take a closer look at him: dark half-moons hung underneath his tired eyes, and while his skin wasn't quite as pale as it was when he collapsed in my apartment, he still hadn't regained all his color—and I didn't even need a stethoscope to hear the rales in his lungs.

The doctor came back in not long after he finished his breathing treatment, taking the stethoscope from around his neck and holding the bell to Striker's chest. "Take some deep breaths for me," he instructed.

Striker started to take in a deep breath, but quickly began coughing. He closed his mouth to suppress his coughs, clenching his jaw, but it only worked so well. The doctor listened to his lungs in between each cough, then hung the stethoscope around his neck again and said, "So, we checked your x-ray. It looks like you got some bilateral lower lobe pneumonia."

"English, doc," Striker rasped.

"Pneumonia, sweetie," I clarified, laying my hand on his. "You've got pneumonia in both lungs."

"You do sound a good deal better now after that breathing treatment," the doctor continued. "I'll have the nurses take out your IV and get your paperwork ready."

The knot in my stomach tightened slightly. "You're discharging him?"

"I'm going to write him a prescription for some oral antibiotics, steroids, and pain killers for that pleural pain," he replied, then turned to leave the room. "He should be fully recovered within the next week or so."

"Wha—But—" I shot to my feet and followed him. "Shouldn't you keep him for observation—at least for the night?"

The Slothborn demon looked back at me and answered with a hint of condescension, "Well, fortunately, he's doing well on room air, and he's tolerating eating and drinking, so he doesn't require any more IV fluids. We gave him a head start with the IV steroid and antibiotic, and the pneumonia should clear up within a week or so with those oral medications."

"But I—" I trailed off as he walked out the door, my anxiety and discouragement melding together.

"So they're done pokin' and proddin' at me?" Striker said, and he slowly sat up and pulled off his hospital gown, trying to stifle another cough.

I scowled as he stood from the stretcher and pulled on his jeans and black turtleneck, biting my lip when I noticed his breathing growing a bit heavier at the movement. Frustration tightened my chest—he was clearly too sick to travel back home by foot, or even public transport.

"Sit down, honey," I said, attempting to guide him back to the stretcher. "You're not in any condition to be riding on the bus back home, especially in this cold."

"I'll be fine, darlin'," he argued, the hoarseness of his voice suggesting otherwise, and he took a step to the side to circle around me. "It's not that far."

"Striker," I retorted in a low, authoritative tone, "sit your ass down now."

He blinked, seemingly a bit taken aback, but complied and sat back down on the side of the stretcher, a small frown tugging at his lips.