Street sat on the backseat of yet another Uber. Thoughts and feelings an untangled mess, he tugged at the seatbelt and rolled down the car window so slightly. He couldn't be more grateful there was no back-brace anymore to compress his already tight chest. None of his friends knew where he'd planned to go after leaving the HQ and after archiving his daily PT. They would have all tried to stop him, and they would have been right. He tightened his grip on the cane lying across his lap as to ground himself to the present.
He felt the need to do this, and so he did. He did not regret seeing his mom and checking on her in person. He did not regret the chance of resolving the feelings that in the last few weeks had churned in his stomach. He didn't regret telling her off either. Or did he? Why was he feeling like this now?
Why was the drive so long?
Reaching the correctional, Street had been more nervous than he thought he would have been, and just getting there and passing the security with the cane had been a challenge. Loads of memories had washed over him while waiting in the visiting room. And then, right there, he had seen his mom.
The following minutes had passed in a whirlwind, and Street had found himself rushing—for all was possible to him—out of the facility. His head had been light and his chest tight. His hand had trembled as he'd called for the Uber driver. He'd had to compel himself to choose his destination before it was there. Not back home; Luca would have been there, probably around the neighborhood walking Duke, but still too close. Street wasn't up for an open heart conversation with his friend, but neither for lying to him.
Calling Chris would have been as much as a terrible choice, if not even worse. He could never keep anything from her, not for long. This time would not be different, and she would read the discomfort on his face the second he'd crossed her door.
Where to go? Who to? Because right now, he didn't want to be alone either.
The car stopped. The drive hadn't taken so long after all. He hopped off, walked the short driveway leaning on his cane, and knocked on the door. Seconds later, Buck's eyes were staring into his very soul.
"Come in," his old friend said. "Look at you, Jimmy. I can see you're getting there."
Street couldn't get himself to talk, not even greetings. He just leaned heavily on his cane and walked in, the fatigue of the day catching up with him.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Buck asked, offering him a seat. "I know you didn't bother to drag your ass here shortly before dinner time just to say hi."
"Actually, an early dinner sounds terrific," Street plastered a smile on his face. "I haven't eaten anything since lunch, and you know how many calories my brain demands just to appear to function."
Buck watched him closely. "As if you came here for my cooking abilities."
"We can always have takeout." Street tried to broaden his grin, not sure if the attempt hit the mark. "You're ordering, I'm buying?"
By the time their cheeseburgers and fries arrived, Street had already spilled it all out to his old friend. All about the pang in his chest he'd felt while sitting there, watching his mom approach the table, and the flashbacks the sight had given him. All about her superficial questions about his health before moving on to her own and to the way the people around her mistreated her. And then he'd uttered everything about his attempted apologies and her reaction to them, minimizing the matter while at the same time amplifying her struggles.
"You know none of what happened to her is your fault," Buck told him, patting him on the shoulder. "Not last month, and not twenty years ago."
"I know," Street said, unwrapping his burger. "It's… gaslighting, guilt-tripping, manipulating… you name it, she tried it."
Buck stared at him, a couple of fries halfway to his mouth.
A sheepish smile curved Street's lips. "Dr. Wendy paid me more than a few visits while I was stuck in that hospital."
"Never thought to say it about a shrink, but I'm glad that lady did it. In twenty years, I've not been able to make you see the truth."
"I know you did try." Street swallowed a bite too big and coughed. When his throat felt free again, he went on, "And Hondo also tired. And Chris, too. And I'm sorry I haven't listened to any of you until it was almost too late."
"Almost," Buck reminded him. "But now your eyes are wide open."
"Yeah… the thing is…" Street darkened; his chest was tight again, making him feel like he'd just swallowed another big bite without chewing it enough. "I know I can't change who she is and how she behaves, but… She's still my mom, Buck. I can't burn bridges."
Buck exhaled loudly. "You don't have to, Jimmy. But you need to set boundaries."
"Believe me, I'm trying."
"Don't just try. Do it. And keep them up." Buck locked eyes with him. "That's what is best for her too, and you know it."
Street's smile was weary now. "I just hope it's true."
"You want to finish my fries?" Buck asked. "You stole from my plate all the time when I happened to take you out as a teen."
"I needed fuel to grow up." Street shrugged. His friend must have sensed his discomfort and took charge of changing the subject. "It worked, didn't it? I'm all grown up and strong as ever. Thanks to you."
Buck scoffed. Humbled. From his look, Street knew his friend understood he didn't mean thanks for offering food to a kid with a fast metabolism. If it had not been for this man sitting across from him now, Street would have never made it through the foster system. He would have never survived the years after leaving foster care and shifting from a precarious job to a precarious job until he was old enough to enlist. He would have never made it through the police academy, and he would have never made it to SWAT.
Without Buck, Street would have never had a real family.
But suddenly, a shadow crossed Buck's face as he glanced down to Street's cane.
"Oh, come on, enough of it," Street snapped. "Who was telling who to not blame himself for things out of their control? Shits happen on the job. You know better than anyone." Now, he was the one searching for his friend's eyes. "I'm fine, and once I'm back to my team, I'll be better than I've been in years."
"Are you ready to go back?" Buck eyed him suspiciously. "Really ready?"
"It won't be all that long until I'm dropping this stupid thing," Street gestured at the cane. "And then I'll bust my ass to go back to the field faster than the six weeks recommended."
"That's not a smart idea, and you know it," Buck said, almost stern. "And that was not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." Street's tone grew more serious too. "I don't have any kind of PDSD."
"Not for this, you mean?"
"Yeah." Street's chuckle died away quickly.
Buck peered at him even more closely.
"Dr. Wendy believes it too," Street assured. "I mean, she says we can't be a hundred percent sure until I find myself in one of those situations again, but for now, I don't show any sign."
Buck kept staring, his lips thin, silently encouraging him to go to the hard part.
"Okay, I know these things are tricky. I'm not trying to dismiss the importance of all this. Dr. Wendy says that there's a chance the first shooting I find myself involved in will not trigger me at all. But she also says that maybe next time I'm out grocery shopping and a stray cat jumps on a trashcan in an alley behind me, the trigger button will be hit." Street shrugged. "We won't know until it happens. Or not happen. She seems confident anyway. And so am I."
"You hiding anything from her?" Buck insisted on his investigation. "You're not having nightmares? No flashbacks at all? Not even since you're back at the HQ?"
"Nothing major since I left the hospital."
Buck finally relaxed. "That's good. That's good."
"I know," Street responded with a smirk. Then he looked straight at his friend. "SWAT and 20-Davids are the best things that could have happened to me in the last few years. In my whole life. I want to be back. No matter how much time and effort it will cost me. I'll be back to my team."
Buck shook his head but with a smile on his lips. "I'm not so sure the guys would want you back if I tell them all the stories I know about a kid and his drama club days."
"It has helped me with undercover jobs." Street shrugged, and then it hit him, and his eyes widened. "Tell me you burnt that picture."
"I don't know what you're talking about." A glint took over Buck's look. "Oh, you mean the one with a certain teenager in pantyhose?"
"You didn't keep it, did you? Tan and Luca would never give me rest. And God forbids it falling into Rocker's hands!"
"I might—"
Street tried for his best puppy eyes. "Come on, you would not kick a man already down."
"Of course not." As Buck said it, relief flooded Street. "I will wait until you're back on your feet, and then— Okay, okay, don't look at me like that. I don't even have any idea if I still have that picture from your end-of-the-year recital."
"Thanks."
"I didn't say I won't go looking for it if you give me another scare like this one, understood?"
"Understood." Street nodded, then hesitated. "I meant, thanks for being there, at that stupid recital. And—"
"Alright, kid, let's not get all cheesy here. This is as much as my old heart can take."
They both chuckled, sipping their cold beers, then Street had to reluctantly admit he was tired and ordered the tenth Uber of the day.
... ... ...
Street melted into the couch cushions, the only audible sounds coming from the TV and his deep breaths. Luca had been planning on going to his parents' for dinner for a whole week, and this morning, he had decided to take Duke with him just to treat the dog with a change of scenery. Street had almost been jealous; how long has it been since he'd been taken out for the evening? When it had come home from Buck's place, though, the quiet had been a blessing. Calling it a day, he'd changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a more comfortable tee shirt. The sensation of his bare feet on the cool floor had been almost therapeutic; it always made him feel more grounded.
The movie he'd chosen was about to start when Street's phone buzzed. It was Chris.
-You're up to come and open the door or should I use the spare key?-
A moment later, knocks resounded. His muscles weren't that sore that he couldn't have gotten up to let his friend in, but laziness had the best of him, so he just tapped on his screen a -key please- and waited until the door swung open.
"Am I interrupting something?" Chris asked, stepping through the door frame with a full plastic bag in her hands.
"Not really," Street shrugged with a smile. He had enjoyed having home all for himself for a while, but Chris's unexpected arrival had been even more comforting. Prevented she didn't want to talk about his mom, of course. "Come on in, make yourself at home." He hesitated. "Did I forget we had plans?"
Chris shook her head. "Tomorrow is our day off, and I have these Tequila, Margaritas, and Mojito samples," she pointed down at the plastic bag, "but everyone else was busy."
"Thanks, I guess." He tried to sound offended for being the last choice but then mimicked the smirk appearing on her face. "You know that with therapy and everything, I don't really work in shifts right now, right? I have to work in the morning, every morning."
"Don't worry," she said, showing him the content of her bag. "It's not that these homemade ice-creams contain much actual alcohol."
"Homemade ice-creams?"
"My second cousin, Roberto, asked all the family to try it out before launching himself into serious production." Chris had taken Street seriously when he'd told her to make herself at home. She moved as she owned the place, grabbing bowls and spoons and plopping herself next to him on the couch. "Where do you want to start," she asked, displaying the three half-pints she'd brought along.
"You pick," Street said. Talking with Buck had been freeing, but he didn't know how much he'd needed Chris's presence too until she'd settled in.
"Wait." Her hand froze mid-air, a spoonful of ice-cream dangling dangerously over the edge of one of the bowls. "You were seriously planning to watch that?"
Street glanced at the TV, which was displaying the opening credits of an old version of Romeo and Juliet. "I was just surfing the stations when you arrived," he lied to not endure her mockery.
Chris scoffed, silently meaning, "I can call you off anytime, but I'm choosing not to do it now." Then the music started. "Are you kidding me? A musical?"
Street just shrugged. "Sue me."
"I might," she said seriously while heading to the refrigerator to store the pint they hadn't opened yet.
She had a point; this version of the tragedy was so poorly made it actually was an accidental parody. Something light, which was the reason why he'd chosen to watch it in the first place. That and Buck's reminder of his drama club days. Truth to be told, that formative experience had started as the only alternative not to be suspended from school, somehow ending with him playing Romeo at the end-of-the-year recital.
Street was brought back to the present by Chris kicking her shoes off her feet and settling cross-legged on the couch next to him.
"Is this some low-budget production, or did these guys know nothing about history at all?" Chris said, taking her spoon to her mouth.
"Hey, this is good, the Margarita one," Street tried to change the subject, but Chris's attention kept going to inaccuracies and mistakes in the movie production. Her eye for detail was incredible, and she was definitely right: that thing was hilarious in every aspect, so much for a Shakespeare tragedy.
Right about the famous balcony scene, the screen went black for two seconds, and then commercials broke out, almost too loud to be reasonable. Ignoring the light protests of his body, Street stretched out for the remote control and lowered the volume of the TV a few levels.
Chris complained a bit more about the movie, then her look seemed to get lost into space.
"Earth to Chris, what's wrong?" Street asked, his brow furrowed. "It can't be for the movie. Spit it up."
She gulped down a spoonful of half-melted ice-cream. "It's work," she finally admitted. "But it's just a hunch. More of a gut feeling, actually."
"I've long since learned to trust your gut. Come on, what is it?" He asked, turning the TV volume a couple more levels down.
"Have you seen that gang-and-robbers detective running around HQ lately?"
"Who? Mr. Straight jeans and brand-new leather boots?"
Chris smiled. "Yeah, that's the guy."
"I thought he wasn't working with 20-David. What's your problem with him?" Street straightened up and rolled back his shoulders. "Did he try something inappropriate with you? Do I have to smack my cane on his head next time I see him?"
"I know how to deal with creeps, and you should know first-hand."
"Oh, come on, we've come a long way since that rough start." Street smirked. "I definitely learned my lesson, and you can't do without me anymore."
Chris scoffed. "You wish." But then her smile faltered. "It's probably nothing," she circled back to talking about Detective Pierce. "Munford and his team seem to work well with him, but… I don't know the way he looks at the Captain…it doesn't seem genuine to me."
"I'm sure Cortez can handle it, but do you want me to keep an eye on him tomorrow?"
Chris shrugged. "I don't even know if Pierce will be there." She got up to fetch the uneaten ice-cream from the refrigerator. "Ignore what I just said. It's probably nothing."
Street looked at her then back at the TV. The movie was starting again, and he set the volume back to normal. When Chris was back, she served herself the Tequila flavored ice-cream, then, without asking him, she filled Street's bowl too.
The rest of the evening passed so fast, marked by ice-cream induced brain-freeze and sound laughs reverberating in the whole house for the absurdity of some scenes playing on the TV screen, and suddenly the end credits were running before their eyes.
"Okay, that was something," Chris chuckled while putting her shoes back on. Then she started to collect the bowls and the now-empty pints.
"Don't worry, I'll do it," Street started, his hand searching for his cane.
"Stay where you are, the mess is on me." She collected the three empty pints.
"Wait, did we really eat that much?"
"One more reason to bust your ass with your therapy. You don't want to come back with some extra pounds and endure Tan and Rocker's mocks in the locker room, right?"
"Right. I've long since passed high school." Street relaxed back on the couch and listened to Chris rinsing spoons and bowls in the kitchen sink. Then his eyes fell on the little light flickering on his phone. Reading the text, he also glanced at the time. "Luca's sleeping at his pop's," he called off to Chris. "Why don't you take his room and stay for the night? I'm sure he won't mind."
Chris grabbed her jacket. "First, there was basically no alcohol in those ice-creams, so I can easily bear the drive home. And second, it's not that late at all, grandpa. Night's still young, and tomorrow is my day off."
"You have other plans?" Was that jealousy creeping up? Maybe, but just because he'd not spent a night out in four months now.
She smirked. "No. Last shift had been hectic. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight."
"I know the feeling." He really did, Street thought while watching his friend reach the door. For three whole months, all he'd dreamed of had been going back to enjoy his own mattress, the familiar-scented sheets, and the general atmosphere of his bedroom.
"Chris," he stopped her. "Thanks," he added when she turned to him.
She smiled her brightest I-didn't-do-anything smile; her eyes, though, told him it-had-been-my-pleasure. "Next time, I'll pick the movie," she said, making her exit.
"Deal," Street smirked at the closing door. He lingered on the couch a few minutes, then grabbed for his cane and headed to enjoy his own bed, as Chris had said she'd do. Next morning, he still had to work.
... ... ...