Street's been waiting for the crash, and he's afraid it's here when Hondo tells the team that Chris is taking some personal time. Apparently, she told him it's to spend time with her family before she goes to Germany, but Street doesn't know how much he can believe that.
She'd been doing better, he thinks. They'd gone to the grief group a few times, and he sees her often around HQ with Wendy, but he knows that looks can be deceiving and life can be a bitch that changes on a dime.
The Imperial Duke's message board they'd discovered sits large and bright on one of the screens in the Eagle's Nest. It's ever-updating, full of vitriol and bigotry and the occasional comment about cleaning out America's police forces. The looks 20-Squad shared when the first one popped up were grave, knowing that, even if not directly mentioned, it's teams like theirs the Dukes want gone. No more Erika or Chris or Hondo or Tan, and, though the consensus is that no one's life is actively in danger yet, they've seen enough to know that there's always something simmering underneath the surface that's bound to boil over sooner or later. Maybe not in LA, but somewhere, and the weight of that knowing hangs heavy over them all the time.
Hangs like an anvil over Chris's soul, dangerously close to crushing her at any given moment.
Street watched how her jaw clenched from across the table. Saw the steel blaze across her eyes as she built up her armor to protect herself. The rest of the day was fragile as glass for all of them before it released into a blessed off-weekend. He'd texted her, once and then twice, but she didn't respond and he didn't want to keep pressuring her as much as worry grew in his heart. Now, he wishes he had, as it's Monday two days later, and besides from a call to Hondo and Hicks, she's been radio silent.
Street decides then and there in the locker room that he isn't going home after they get off shift. His fingers twitch, wanting to text Thomas and see if she's stopped by or spoken to any of them, but he knows that she'd hate him if he did. Sighing, he resigns himself to just getting through the day to focusing on only what's in front of him. It's easier said than done.
Finally, glorious 6pm rolls around and he's off the clock. Practically running to the locker room, Street tears off his gear, throws a goodnight over his shoulder, and makes his way to his bike. He thinks for a second of telling Luca, and then remembers that he's having dinner with Kelly and her mom. One less worry on his shoulders, he's quick to adjust his helmet and revs his engine. Anxiety buzzes through him, unsure of how Chris might react, but his concern for her is greater than his concern for her anger.
Traffic is heavy. It takes him 15 minutes longer and more horn honks than he's proud of to get to her apartment, but to her complex he goes. There's a spot open next to her truck, which doesn't mean anything (but, with them, everything seems to mean something), so he parks and takes a deep breath as his legs hit the ground again.
Street makes himself take the elevator to give his heartbeat time to get steady and make sure it can stay steady. He finds Chris's door unlocked, which is as upsetting as it is comforting, only because he doesn't have to stand in the hallway and can come to freeze inside the doorway instead.
Her apartment is dark, curtains drawn despite the sunny day, and silent except for the low hum of her appliances. Natasha finished picking up the rest of Erika's belongings, and it's clear Chris has made no move to replace anything that she needed. Bare shelves line the walls of her living room, save for the pictures of her and Erika or her family that she's turned over so they're face down, and he doesn't need to check her fridge to know that it won't hold much. There's a dirty dish and a small, empty pizza box on the counter, evidence at least that she's eaten something in the past 60 hours. Her phone sits next to it, dead.
For a brief, terrorizing second, Street finds himself with a hand locked around the freezer handle, fighting between ripping it open and not wanting to know what he might find. They've had more than a few talks about the role alcohol has played in both of their lives, and he can't bear the thought that, as much as he could understand, that's what she would choose to turn to instead of him.
But he needs to know, the urge in his stomach too great to fight. Pulling open the door, he breathes a sigh of relief when there are no bottles to be found. Nothing sits in her garbage, either, and he hates that everything has come to this.
Hates it, but he's willing to scream and fight with her if need be, for her, because she's done the same more than once in the past few years.
Deflating some, Street moves down the hallway to see what would've been Erika's bedroom door standing wide open. He can't imagine how Chris looks at it each day, but she told him before that it was like a reminder for her, like Nate's motorcycle key is. To be better, to do better. When he told her that can't be healthy, she said she'd bring it up with Wendy. God only knows if she did.
His head turns to the bathroom on his other side. The door is closed, but something tells him to open so he does, flicking on the light.
A mess of glass sits on the floor, shattered. Looking up, the mirror is cracked all over, small, spiderweb like concentrations of energy that bleed out into another through bigger breaks. His eyes travel to the door frame where he sees a red streak from where Chris must have punched second. Just looking at it makes him wince and makes his blood run cold. He can see dried red dots on her floor and vanity, and the hand towel he's used to seeing next to the sink is missing. Checking underneath the sink, he's relieved when her first aid kit isn't there.
His feet move fast but quiet to deposit him in front of her closed bedroom door, where he listens for any sense of movement but finds none. Ice starts to creep up through his bones, and he raps his knuckles against the door twice.
"Chris, you here?" He calls, trying in vain to keep the shake out of his voice and his volume even. The pit in his stomach grows when he gets no response. A chill runs over his shoulders as ghosts start to come to his mind.
"Chris?" He says again, louder in case she was asleep. It works, and he sends a silent thank you to God or whoever. He hears a body shifting, and a low, scratchy throat being cleared.
"Come in." She says, just loud enough for him to hear it through the door. Her voice is thick, loss and pain sitting in it that squeezes his chest so tight he almost can't breathe.
One more deep breath.
Slowly, in case Chris decides she wants to bolt, or she wants him gone, Street turns the door handle and listens to the hinges creak as he pushes it open.
Her room is darker than the common space. Her black-out blinds are drawn, and Street wonders for how long when she uses the covers to block the minimal light there is from straining her eyes. Tracing over everything, it all seems to be in order. Another small, empty plate sits on her nightstand with a half-empty bottle of water and an open bottle of what he assumes are painkillers. A few empty plastic bottles are on the floor next to an empty tissue box and bandage wrappers. Her backpack sits half-open and tossed against the closet door, so unlike its usual position next to her shoes, and the clothes she wore to HQ for their last shift sit in a crumpled pile next to it.
It only takes Street seconds to take it all in, but it feels like hours for both of them. For once, Chris isn't scared and doesn't care about the mounting energy between them. Everything else is too much, and she doesn't have it in her to do anything more than turn to face his direction before the little energy she mustered is zapped.
Street feels the telltale pressure of tears in his eyes and blinks them back. He refuses to break down.
His footsteps are heavier than they've been the entire time inside her apartment when he crosses the hardwood floor to her bed. He fights his instincts like a dog in a cage to keep from turning the light on and sitting on the edge next to her. Reason tells him that Chris's right hand is the one that's hurt, but he doesn't know that for sure and doesn't want to worsen whatever damage is there. Taking stock of himself, he kneels instead.
The floor is cool through his jeans, but the sensation is quick to fade as her features start to come into focus through the darkness.
Never, Street thinks, has he been so happy to see someone. For as much as they've hurt one another, danced around and thrown words sharp as knives, this string between them is one he knows he'll die if it's cut. Over the comforter, his hand finds her shoulder and rests on it gently, searching for any signs that his touch is too much. There aren't any.
Chris's eyes close a second after he kneels, giving him no time to read into the sinking ships in her pupils. She can't find it in her to open them again just yet. When his hand sits on her shoulder, though, the weight is a comfort even through layers of heavy fabric.
"Hey," Street says, as soft as he can to avoid anything too sharp or too fast.
His voice is like a lullaby in her ears, something she wishes she could fall into and wrap around herself and stay safe in forever. A shaky breath is what she gives back.
"I was worried," he continues, needing to fill the silence with something now that he's there, "when Hondo said you'd be out."
And he feels like he's saying too much, like it's too heavy, but he also can't think of anything to say to make this any lighter. Their friend is dead. People who support the killer are posting about it online. Chris is supposed to leave in weeks for Germany, where she'll be gone for months.
In an instant, he went from the world stable under his feet to hanging by a thread, upside down. He doesn't know how.
"I missed you." He eventually lands on, because saying anything about any aspect of work seems ludicrous, full of reminders about how everything is different now. Missing Chris, though, has been a constant whenever they've been apart since they met.
Chris nods against the pillow, a minute movement of her hair rubbing the pillowcase. She's not sure what she's trying to tell him. If she missed him, or if she's worried. It seems they mutually agree that she's telling him she heard him, which is enough for both of them.
Street's thumb grazes over her shoulder in silence for another few minutes as his eyes study her face. Even in the dark, the tension in her jaw and dark circles under her eyes stand out. Her brow is furrowed, but he doesn't know if it's from her hand or her thoughts. In an effort to ease it, he moves to cradle Chris's cheek instead, brushing her cheekbone and the hair that's fallen in the way.
Feeling his hand on her face nearly makes her break. It's too caring, too gentle, too good for the world they live in. Before she gets the chance, he speaks again.
"How's your hand?" His tone isn't judgmental, full of wanting to help.
She should've known he looked in the bathroom. A sigh drags through her internally, but doesn't escape.
His question is the first time Chris has thought about it since she did it Saturday night. Despite her best attempt to distract herself, when she came home that evening, all she could think about is how she's alone and Erika's dead. The ensuing spiral that took her down with it only drowned her in other traumas— her mother, getting shot, all of her fears.
Stone-cold sober, Chris remembers being in the bathroom, crying, wanting to scream, needing to do something, anything, to give herself some sense of whatever she used to have. And then her hand was through the glass, and down hard on the vanity, and up against the door frame. The noise the mirror made grated against her, small, jagged pieces falling out of the frame and clinking against the bathroom tile. She thinks there might be some embedded in the bottom of her shoes.
It hurt like a bitch. Enough to break Chris out of wherever she was in the moment, but only to numb her all out in the aftermath. She ran her hand under hot water, wincing at how it stung, and dug out the big pieces before wiping it all down with alcohol, and wrapping it in her hand towel. Unfortunately, the hand towel was white, and she added it to the mental list of things gone irreparably awry lately.
She hasn't looked at it since, except to slap a few larger bandages on the cuts the following day. Her sheets don't seem to be stained, which is enough to be grateful for, for now. She hasn't thought of it since either, too busy staring at the wall or the ceiling and almost forgetting how to breathe while her mind spins.
Under the covers, she tries to flex and extend her fingers, eliciting a hiss. Her eyes are still closed.
At her expression of pain, Street puts more pressure on her cheek until he's sure she's back with him. His other hand is careful as it comes up, curling just around the edge of the comforter as if to pull it back. He knows she can take care of herself, even when she's in the midst of a wreck. The bandage wrappers tell him that much. Still, she shouldn't have to.
"Can I look, Chris?" He asks, leaving her room to say no if she wants. Instead, she nods her head again, this time a clear affirmation.
He's not surprised when he pulls the covers back to find her in a hoodie, but she still shivers at the sensation of more air. For the second time, he wonders how long she's been in bed.
He swears he could've laid down forever after Nate.
He was right about it being her right hand. Running his hand down her arm, he stops when he gets halfway down her forearm.
"Can I turn the light on?"
She knows that he needs to, that it's the only way to actually see what she's done and how it is or isn't healing, but just the thought of the light is too much. It makes her want to cry, and her heartbeat speeds up. As long as she's here, under the covers, in the dark, she can pretend that this is all normal and fine and just what she needs to be doing to survive the present. Once the light comes on, it's game over. She knows it, and she can tell by the way that his fist clenches just so around her arm that he knows it, too.
"It's okay, Chris," he assures her, and she was never one for church, but something in this, between them, reminds her of a snake and an apple and to reconsider rules and what's worth it.
"It's just so I can see it better."
His voice is so gentle. Chris doesn't know how he's managing to not be treating her with pity, but make her feel like he's just leveling with her. There's kid gloves in his tone, she's not unaware enough to miss that, but he's one of the few people she'll let treat her with them. Really, it's just the team when she's hurt, and, really, it's only him regardless of circumstance. If this were anything else, she'd roll her eyes and begrudgingly agree, but here her only move is to nod again, small, and crane her neck so that her face is pressed into the pillow to maintain some illusion of the dark.
The light flicks on and she groans in opposition. Eyes having adjusted to the dark, Street also has to blink a few times to clear his eyes before they refocus on her hand. Her fingers are barely visible underneath the heavy hoodie sleeve, and he's careful as he moves her arm, sure her muscles are stiff.
Rolling back the sleeve, Street holds his breath until her whole hand is revealed. It's bandaged, wrapped up almost to her top knuckles like she does when she's training, and he's careful as he undoes it.
He lets out his breath slowly. Thankfully, it isn't as bad as he thought it might be, and it's clear her training took over when it came to caring for it. Light bruising swirls around her knuckles, with cuts marring the skin, but none of them are too deep and they're already scabbing over. Dried blood is smeared from when it first happened, tinting parts of her skin red.
"This might hurt," Street murmurs, a preemptive apology in his voice. Gripping her wrist, he uses his other hand to flatten hers out. Chris's body jerks, tries to pull back and protect itself when her muscles strain and it sends a shockwave of pain through her. Street's hand on her keeps her steady and he apologizes again.
Hand flat, he turns it over to make sure there's no damage to her palm. He drags a finger down each of hers, feeling the way her fingers twitch under his touch. Her hand is cold underneath his, so when he's done, he continues holding it. Traveling up her forearm, he makes sure there's no other injuries hiding anywhere, but it all stops at her wrist. Street presses a feather-light kiss to her knuckles.
"I think you'll be okay. Let it breathe, and I can bandage it in a while." He whispers, reaching over to turn the light back off.
She nods for what feels like the millionth time, and lets out a small murmur of a "thank you," too. Her voice cracks from disuse, and though she hasn't opened her eyes, he gives her a sad smile. He sees how uneven her breathing is, how she's teetering on the edge, and asks another question he needs to know.
"Have you eaten anything today?"
Chris doesn't remember the last time she ate. Saturday night? Sunday afternoon? Her complete avoidance of her phone and TV in the past few days have thrown off her sense of time, and if she didn't have to call out, she likely would've let Monday pass in the same fashion.
"No," she says, a little stronger this time. He can hear the shame in her voice, and wants to dispel it.
"It's okay," Street tells her, keeping his tone even so she can't pick through it for doubt. "I'll make something, okay?"
He's wary of leaving her, even if it is just down the hallway, but she hums at him in approval. Slowly, he sets her hand down where it was resting before, tucks the comforter back up around her, and turns the light back off. Tension drains from her body as she adjusts on her mattress, letting out a breath.
Over the blanket, he runs a hand down her arm again, and leans closer before he goes.
"I'll be right back."
Peeling himself off the floor, Street takes a deep breath once his back is towards her, the same tears coming to his eyes. On unsteady feet, he walks to her kitchen, filling a glass with water and taking it to her before going back and opening her cabinets.
They're about as barren as her fridge, save a few boxes of mac and cheese, a loaf of bread, and some fruit that he catches in the corner of her counter.
He pulls out a pot and sets the water to boil. While he waits, he searches her drawers until he finds a butter knife that he can use to cut the fruit, a banana and an apple. The small bottle of dish soap on her sink is almost empty, so Street rinses the utensil and other dishes and then leaves them to sit. As he moves through her space, as charged as it is, he manages to get lost in the rhythm of what he's doing, so much that he doesn't hear her soft footsteps start to come down the hallway.
In her bedroom, Chris listens to hit footsteps go and then come back. The clink of the glass on her nightstand makes her blink her eyes open, once she's sure he's back in the hallway. Her body is stiff, days of stillness settled into her bones in a way that takes her a few minutes to undo and sit up. When she does, her head is heavy, hazy, but her chest feels lighter than it has in recent memory.
The water is cool in her mouth and washes away the stale feeling there. Chris reminds herself to sip, because the second the water hits her stomach it's like all her body processes restart, and she's aware of how hungry she is.
She can hear drawers and cabinets closing and the flicker of her stove and it's enough to prompt her into action. Her feet find the floor, a shock of cold running through her, and her knees buckle but she catches herself on the headboard. Straightening, she breathes deep until her pulse stops racing and she's steady enough to take another step.
Her steps are almost silence down the hallway. Chris has always been light on her feet, and that's when she isn't trying to not make noise. As she walks, she runs her hand against the wall and keeps her gaze forward, not letting it fall to the bathroom or Erika's room. His humming reaches her once she's about to turn the corner to the kitchen, and it makes her smile small.
Street's standing at the stove, his side profile to her and he doesn't realize she's there until she's already wrapping an arm around him and pressing into his side.
A sharp exhale leaves her as she sags into him, her body settling into the space of his. His arm comes around hers like habit, holding her close as much as he's holding her up. He gives himself a moment to just feel her there, feel both of them in the moment regardless of the intricacies of their relationship.
The noodles are almost done, and she lets him go to finish while she hoists herself onto a barstool. Laying her forearms on the countertop, Chris rests her head on top and closes her eyes. He watches her in his periphery.
She raises her head but doesn't look at him when he sets a bowl next to her, fork sticking up, and the plate of fruit between them. Her stomach turns at the thought of eating, but growls, and she takes a small bite, and then another.
She's glad that he's also eating, both so she doesn't have leftovers and so her own chewing isn't the only thing floating to her ears.
After a few bites, her stomach settles and it gets easier to finish. She waits to eat the banana and then washes all of it down with another glass of water that he hands her, and two painkillers. How he knows she needs them, she can guess, but doesn't confirm because it will only make her chest ache worse.
Bowl empty, Chris stares down at her hands and takes two deep breaths. On the second, she raises her head for the first time in days to make eye contact with someone, and she's grateful that it's him.
"Thank you," she says. "For everything."
Street smiles sadly at her, the joy of seeing her tempered by the weight in the air.
"Of course." He takes the dishes and sets them in the sink on top of the others, knowing that's the least of her worries. Her eyes float around her apartment, almost like she's never seen it before and is trying to familiarize herself. He watches, and then walks around the bar and sets an arm on her shoulder to get her attention.
"What do you say I wrap up that hand?"
Like a reflex, her eyes go to her knuckles and she flexes her fingers, saying sure. He finds the first aid kit on her dresser and sets it on the bar, letting silence fill the space between them.
"I wasn't sure if I could do this anymore," Chris starts while Street opens a bandage. His hands still at her words, tilting his jaw to gaze at her and trying to find concrete meaning in her eyes.
"SWAT, being a cop, all of this," she gestures to her apartment. "Living here. It's all just been too much recently. Like I needed to get away from it before it crushed me." She scoffs at herself, eyes rolling to the ceiling and then back to her hand. "Lot of good it did."
"You should've seen my apartment after I sent my mom back to prison," Street says, placing the first bandage. "My mirror was spared, but I must've broken every glass and thrown everything I had on the floor before I was able to clean it up and get myself back together."
She thinks back, squints to remember those days in the aftermath where he was half at the house and half at his apartment, and she asked if he needed help but he brushed her off. In hindsight, Chris wonders what might be different if she hadn't let up so easily.
Not looking at her, he opens an alcohol swab for some of the deeper cuts on her hand, and continues.
"It shouldn't be too hard to replace."
The mirror, he means, and it's all she can do to nod because her voice sticks in her throat for everything else that can't be replaced.
The alcohol starts to burn, making Chris hiss, but it gives her a better excuse for the tears in her eyes. Street's fast but gentle with the rest of the work, wrapping her hand in more tape to keep everything in place. Knowing she's taken care of, he feels useless now, unsure of what he can say or do, but she surprises him by speaking first.
"Everyone keeps telling me that going to Germany will help clear my head and give me something else to focus on. Can I tell you the truth?"
It's rhetorical, the memory of standing in a seedy hotel room too early in the morning flashing into her mind. Even so, he nods, trying to reassure her wherever he can.
"I'm terrified. I'm so scared to be there when my head is barely straight on my shoulders. I know I'll have Luca, and that I'll be busy and distracted, but my stomach drops every time I think of having to pack and get on a plane and be gone for 12 weeks."
Street doesn't say anything, can tell there's more sitting on her chest that she needs to let off, and has known her long enough to pick up on when she just needs to say things out loud o work through them.
"And then, there's this other small part of me, that's still so excited to go. I know she'd want me to, to keep leaving a legacy. I don't know if that legacy is worth it anymore. But I owe it to her to go, after everything—"
She rips her eyes away from him when tears start to blur her vision, the anvil getting closer with each breath. The turned-over picture frames catch her attention, and the empty coffee table where they'd sat when they moved their things in and ate take-out with plastic silverware. The bright orange of the sunlight through their blinds and the smile on Erika's faced as they laughed over something Chris has already forgotten. God, how much has she already forgotten about Erika? It chokes her from the inside, and she needs to remember.
Street doesn't know what she's seeing, but the depth in her eyes tells him it's something important, something that's been lost. Chris stands without word, walking to one of the shelves and picking up a frame. It's her and Erika, smiling in a selfie at the top of a hike, but it isn't enough. Chris can't remember all the stupid jokes they'd tell each other, or what hook Erika claimed for her keys.
She doesn't know all the things she would have come to remember, all the memories, all the moments, because Erika's not getting to live them, and neither is she. It doesn't provide any solace that the man who killed her is also in the ground. Not when there's however many more of him out there.
There was only one Erika.
The rope is cut. The anvil falls. The shaky, uneven stitches she'd slowly been using to pull her herself back together have been unwound like they're nothing.
Chris clutches the picture frame to her chest and slides down the wall, knees coming up to her chest in a desperate attempt to protect the photo and the hope it held. From where he was in the kitchen, Street goes to her, and feels his heart breaking with every step he takes.
The sobs that rack Chris's frame are devastating and uncontrollable. All the numbness she let protect her for the past few days is stripped away. She feels as raw as she did in the moments right after Erika died, kneeling on the sandy ground, begging that EMT to keep doing CPR. Chris was sure, at that moment, that the world ended.
She convinced herself it hadn't, but maybe she was right all along. Maybe this time the world tilted, and it won't tilt back no matter what she tries to do or how she tries to fix it. The thought burrows into her, through her bones and reverberating in her chest and it makes her cry harder, louder, her grip on the picture frame tightening.
Street comes to her side, just like she did barely a half hour ago at the stove. This time, though, he's not just holding her up, but he's the only thing holding her together.
In the midst of her sobbing, Street slides an arm under her knees and lightly behind her back to lift her into his lap. Without all the TAC gear and quips she wears at HQ, she's lighter than he could've imagined. He adjusts so his back is against the wall, with Chris's body heavy against his chest. One hand is around her back and the other wraps around her front so he can hold her closer.
He doesn't say anything, or shush her, or even move much aside from the occasional shrug of his shoulders from his own tears. Street's eyes find the ceiling and he exhales slow, thinking about all the things that have come to pass recently. It's too much for any of them to handle, but at least at work it's easy to hide the cracks beneath cases and training and being around one another. Tan has Bonnie, Hondo goes home to Darryl and Nichelle. The Kays are a force enough to make anyone feel better. Christ, he thinks, even he and Luca get home and talk over a beer most of the time. They've all got someone to go, some other living thing in their space that makes holding the burden of all this that much easier.
Except for Chris, he realizes, and he doesn't know how he didn't see it sooner. She said it, when they went to the grief group, that it was hard to come home to an empty apartment, but the strain of doing that day-in and day-out, is unimaginable. Even if she did stop to see her family in-between, he knows she's wary of living there again, ever since Ty and Kira. And, when it comes to a rock and a hard place, Chris is wired to pick the option that causes the least suffering for everyone else regardless of what it does to her.
He isn't. Street can think back and pinpoint all the times in his life that he's screwed up or been selfish and made things harder for others just so he could breathe easier. He knows he didn't have it easy, that maybe his behavior was warranted, necessary even, sometimes, to survive, but not since joining 20-David.
The times he threw her under the bus or made her life harder just because he was immature and hot-tempered, and all the times he did it even after she defended him and stuck her neck out, tore her apart. They've talked it over a few times, and Chris told him as much.
When he asked why, why she'd keep doing that even after he proved her wrong, all she did was shrug, like there was some obvious, unspoken answer about why he was worth it.
He needs her to know that she's worth it. That going to Germany or not or living in this apartment or not or any other choice she makes or not is worth it because it's her.
"Whatever you decide to do is worth it." Street says, voice high with tears and muffled in her hair, but clear enough that he hopes she heard him.
She shakes her head, hard and fast, like she couldn't disagree more.
"It should've been me," she says, through tears and shallow breaths. It makes his heart stop, but before he can speak, she's continuing.
"She shouldn't have been there, she wasn't supposed to be there. I was. All I ever did was make things harder for her."
There's so much pain in her voice that it makes his blood boil, angry at the world for hurting her this much, but he clamps it down because it won't help.
"No, Chris," he says, cut off by her shaking her head again.
"It's true. She had to work harder than I ever did to even make SWAT because I was already there. And then I pushed her away, and didn't help. When she made it, people still looked at her like she didn't belong. All she wanted was everything I've had, and the only thing that all of that got her is dead. Emboldened more people to advocate for the monster that killed her."
Anger and sadness cut her tone like a knife. The picture frame is tight to her chest, the corner digging into her skin, and Chris's eyes are steely in front of her. He's used to that look, it's the one he often sees at work.
When she's unequivocally, irreversibly made up her mind about something.
Blinking her eyes shut, fatigue hits Chris like a train that breaks her thoughts, and the tears start falling just as viciously as before. Her body sags further into his, one of her arms hooking over his shoulder like she's trying to disappear into him.
If she could, he'd let her in a heartbeat.
Street's mind is spinning just as fast as hers now. He believes, has to believe, that somewhere deep down, even if she can't think or feel or see it right now, she has to know that she's not at fault for Erika's death. That it was a tragedy. That no one blames her.
That her being on SWAT is at times more detrimental than beneficial for other women, though, is a tougher battle, and there's proof enough of it that they've already talked about. He doesn't know how to remind her that her position, her skill, is so well-deserved, that her being there is an inspiration for so many people, for him. That everything she's done matters, even with the current state of their world. Gathering his thoughts as her nails leave half-moons in his shirt, Street speaks slow, ensuring that she hears every word.
"Erika wouldn't blame you for what happened, and you're a big part of the reason she knew she could try out for SWAT in the first place. We didn't talk often, but it was obvious how much she looked up to you, and I doubt that she'd want you to give up on everything you've worked so hard for."
He takes a deep breath, listens to her ragged breathing.
"I can't imagine how hard it is to do all of it without her now, and I'm not going to pretend that it won't hurt and sting at every turn to have to do it for her, now, instead. But you've got the entire team to help you do that, to make SWAT better for more women off the platform you single-handedly built. You've got me."
His words move through her, spreading out from Chris's core in a way that she's not sure if she can process them where she is. The conviction in his tone, though, a commitment to her and to Erika, is undeniable, pulling her back to Earth just enough to take the edge off.
"Those men, those people, Street—" she says, the side of her fist pounding lightly against his shoulder to expel the extra energy coursing in her veins and not caring how it makes her hand throb. He shushes her, rubbing her back and tucking her head under his chin as his body digests the desperation in her voice.
"I know, Chris, I know," he comforts her. "There aren't words for it. I promise, we're not giving up until it's destroyed. Until no one ever has to see or go through anything like this again."
A post pops into his mind and makes him wince. He doesn't remember the username, but he remembers reading something about a dead bitch of a cop, and tightens his grip around her.
"I'm so, so sorry, Chris."
Her fist stills on his body, her body taken over by shaking. Chris can just hear his heartbeat where her head is, tears she doesn't know how she's produced in her eyes.
There's nothing else she has to say, nothing else she can. Street gets it, she trusts that if nothing else, completely now. It's a comforting thought, if one that she knows can't protect her forever.
But it can for right now. And she gives herself that.
One of Street's hands is cradling her face, grazing a thumb over her cheekbone to wipe away the salty water.
He loses track of how long they sit there. Tears of his own dry gritty on his cheeks, but he can't take a hand off her to wipe them off. Her cries turn to whimpers, and then stunted, stuffy breathing and clearing her throat to get rid of the phlegm. She can't tell if she feels better or the same, worn out in every way and only able to discern a fuzzy feeling hanging over her.
Chris wonders if he feels the same way, and tilts her chin up so she can see his eyes by the dim light of her kitchen. They're clear, honey gold flecks among the brown and green, and deep as the ocean. Her hand drags from his shoulder to his jaw, fingers barely brushing over the bones and feeling his jaw clench and then relax.
And then she's lifting herself up, barely, but enough to press her lips to his. The tears make him taste salty, and he inhales but then relaxes into her, his eyes melting shut.
It's simple, really. A plain kiss, a pressing of lips that they both let linger until she pulls back to catch her breath. Their eyes search one another's, Street's looking for an explanation and prepared to stop this before it goes further, and hers hoping to find understanding enough for the night.
"I'm sorry," she says, low and eyes downcast. It's so unlike the other kiss they shared, drunk and charged and he wanted to live in it forever. "I just needed you to know. I can't keep doing this, us, like this, in the wake of everything else. It isn't fair."
And maybe, she thinks, she's a little more selfish than she realized. She doesn't care. It feels right, and SWAT rules can be damned when SWAT can't be the home she thought it was, right now.
Street doesn't answer her, just cradles her face with his hand and kisses her again.
Butterflies flutter in his stomach, so much uncertainty of what they are and what this is floating around, but he needs her to know, too, that there's something concrete between them. Something immovable, no matter how hard they try to push it away, or life chisels it down. It's never been more apparent than right now, with the last of her tears hitting his skin. They're as in with each other as they are with troubled mothers and tragic backstories and tight grips on what they do have so it doesn't slip away.
Chris's body relaxes under his touch, still taut but it's no longer drumming through her. When they separate, she gives him a small smile and lays her head back on his chest. For the first time since Erika died, since that message board popped up, her head is quiet.
She takes slow, deep breaths against him and listens to his heart, feeling the gentle sway of her body in his arms. She isn't sure what to say, or what she needs, but she shouldn't be surprised that doesn't matter to him.
"Do you want to go to bed?" Street's voice is soft in her ear, and from the way she's barely holding up her own body against him, she has to be exhausted.
The shake of her head gets his attention before she answers, a whisper with anxiety creeping into it as she thinks of the bubble of the last few days being gone, as much as being in it was killing her.
"Can we go to the house? It's not good, I don't think… I think I just need a fresh start with this place, and I need some time not living in it, for a night."
"Of course, you can stay as long as you want." He says. She doesn't miss the distinction between her need and his want, but she also can't sort them out inside herself when it comes to him.
Chris maneuvers off Street's lap and stands with him in tow, bracing herself on his arm when the change in orientation makes stars float in front of her.
"I'm good," she assures him, squeezing his arm once more before letting go. Before she can go pack her bag, though, he hugs her and drops a kiss on her hairline.
"I know you are," he says with a smile as they separate. "Where's your broom?"
Her brow furrows until she remembers the glass in the bathroom. Sighing, she tells him it's in the closet, but that he doesn't need to clean it up.
"Let me help, Chris," is all he says, tone steady. Her lips are in a tight line as she nods and begs herself not to start crying again. She walks wordlessly to her bedroom and hears the closet door open, the sound of glass on plastic.
Rooting through her drawers, Chris grabs enough clothes for the night and the next day. She's afraid if she sits on her bed, she'll fall back into never wanting to give up, so she slips on her shoes and stands by the bathroom door until he's done. Squeezing past Street, she doesn't look at the damage she did, just grabs her toothbrush and face wash and shoves them into her backpack. He's waiting by the door, motorcycle keys in his hand, and her truck keys barely visible on the hook behind him.
"My wheels or yours?"
She bites her lip, eyes traveling from one set of keys to the other.
"Mine, but you don't mind driving?"
"'Course not," Street says with a smile, putting his keys in his pocket and grabbing hers.
She takes one last look at the apartment for the night, no feelings too big to deal with hitting her when she does, and exhales. When Chris turns back around, Street's looking at her like she's the sun, and it's funny, she thinks, because she's never felt more like midnight and darkness and an absence of light. He's the sun here.
In her periphery, Chris sees his hand extended towards her, and knows that if she doesn't take it, he'll let it go without saying anything. Part of her wants to run, to turn back before this goes further, to not give in to what she'd call a childish gesture if she were talking to anyone else. The other part of her, though, is too tired to care, to analyze or dissect, so she takes his hand and wraps her other around his forearm as they walk down to her truck.
His bike is to her passenger side, and he opens the door for her and lets her get in, closing it before loading his bike into the bed. Chris's eyes are closed by the time he slides in next to her and buckles in, the same tension as before slowly leaking back into her body.
Reaching over, he gives her hand a squeeze and takes a deep breath while he holds it so she can try to match it. He waits until he's sure she's good to turn the key, and doesn't bother with the radio when there's enough noise happening in both of their heads.
Her breathing has evened by the time he comes to a slow stop in the driveway. A few kids are bouncing a basketball by the dim light of the court, and Luca's car is missing. Checking his phone for the first time in hours tells him Luca won't be back tonight, and he breathes a sigh of relief.
Chris is staying at the house tonight. No questions.
It should keep Luca off their backs long enough for Chris to get her feet under her. Tucking his phone away, Street looks at her and lets his eyes travel over her. She looks small in the passenger seat, swallowed by her hoodie, but like herself, and it gives him hope that things will be okay.
They'll be okay.
She'll be okay.
"Chris?" He says gently, a hand on her shoulder as she blinks her eyes open.
"Hey, sorry," she murmurs, adjusting to the light. He smiles and tells her not to be, hopping out and walking around the truck to open her door.
"Luca won't be back until later tonight, so it's just us and Duke, yeah?
Chris nods, uses his hand to step onto the driveway, and then throws her bag over her shoulder. It rustles against her back and he hands her back her keys when he fishes for his to unlock the door.
It's quiet, but not as quiet as her apartment with Duke's soft snores and the way the floors creak, and dark, but still lit up by the fairy lights they can see through the back door and the blinking lights of the arcade machine.
Her shoulders drop as soon as she's through the doorway, because it feels like an actual home, and she can't really remember the last time she had one of those.
A stab of pain hits her gut when the thought that she thought she'd make one again with Ty and Kira, and then Erika, comes to mind, but she shakes it off. Too much has already been dug up tonight, and that's a monster that she can fight tomorrow morning.
"Do you want to take a shower?" Street asks, unaware of the new horizon she's standing on. Her eyes move from the twinkling lights to his, and she wants to kiss him again, but instead she nods.
Chris hasn't showered since Saturday, couldn't bring herself to get out of bed to try, and her own skin is starting to grate on her.
He jerks his head towards the bathroom. "Towels are under the sink, anything else you need should be in there. Use whatever."
Use whatever.
It shouldn't settle on her chest in such a warm way as it does. As soon as it's out of Street's mouth, he realizes the depth of his words. But only because it's her he's said them to.
Chris gives him a thanks and turns down the hallway. Street waits until he hears the shower water start to move, needing to get his emotional footing underneath him now that they aren't at her apartment.
The buzz of his phone, Luca, reminds him that he grabbed hers from off the counter while she packed, and he sets it to charge before checking his messages.
Got it. Hope it's okay, give her my love. Right now's tough, man.
It's an understatement, but makes him smile nonetheless. He's heard the team say "it's a family thing," more times than he can count, and he didn't use to understand, but with each passing day on 20-David, he knows what they mean.
Street shoots off a quick response and kicks off his shoes. Chris turned on the hallway light on her way to the bathroom, a small, but good sign, so he follows the path to his bedroom to change. He rolls his neck and shoulders, trying to dispel some of the knots that have formed over the day, and trades his work clothes for a plain t-shirt and sweats.
Back in the living room, he isn't sure what she'll want when she gets out of the shower. He's sure she's tired, so is he, but it's only 9:30, and he doesn't want to be presumptuous about where either of them are sleeping.
Turning on the TV for background noise, Street downs a glass of water, and taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, a new kind of nervous energy in his system. Her phone lights up, and he smiles at her lock screen, a picture of her and Victoria. Then he sees his missed messages among calls from her family and a barrage of other notifications.
He turns the phone over, so its face is to the table.
Flipping through the guide until he finds a movie, something familiar to hold at least half his attention, Street waits for the shower to stop. The TV wakes Duke up, and he pads from his bed to sit next to Street on the couch, leaning his whole body weight onto Street like he doesn't weight close to 100 pounds. Street huffs as his lungs struggle to expand, and lets Duke's presence be a comfort.
In the bathroom, Chris turns on the light and then the shower, unpacking her clothes and her toothbrush and pulling out towels and doing everything in her power to not look at herself for as long as she can.
But their bathroom is small, and she can only turn around so many times before her eyes meet her in the mirror.
It's odd, looking at herself after not seeing anything for so many days. Her body feels like her own when she reaches a hand up to her face, but the woman staring back at her in the mirror is like a stranger. She doesn't know what to say to her, or how to help her, nor does she know if she wants to.
Alongside the snake and the apple, the image of water and the tightening of lungs and the release of breaking through the surface all come to her.
Rebirth.
That's the thing she needs, the thing she's been looking for, but it's elusive and always just out of her reach.
Not in a godly sense, she knows, but some form of return. A return to who she was with room to grow into someone else.
No matter what, she needs to not be stuck in this goddamn in-between that's locked itself around her like a box ever since Erika's death. That she thought she was close to breaking out of until the recent developments have made staying in there sound like the safest, easiest option.
It's not, she realizes now, in the yellow light of the bathroom, searching her own eyes until the truth that was stuck in her gut rises into them, breaking the surface.
You need to keep going.
She's heard that a lot recently, from her family and Wendy and Street about therapy and group, from Tan in the ring, from their evaluating officers at HQ and the bills on her countertop and the rain constantly spinning into a hurricane around her.
Not from herself.
She swallows back tears.
It's small, the fire in her stomach, but lit.
Stepping into the shower, the hot water pulls a sigh from her. She's careful with her hand, but takes her time washing her body and her hair, using whatever's there, until she feels finally, actually clean.
The steam helps clear her head, too, making it easier to see when she gets out even though the mirror is fogged through. Street's smell lingers in the air, on her, blanketing her in something that helps her protect the fire, makes her feel safe enough to kindle it.
Chris pulls on her clothes and runs a brush through her hair. When she's done, she can just see herself through the streaks on the glass, and she lets the corners of her lips quirk up into a small approximation of a smile.
It's foreign, but it feels good, feels like her. And recognition continues to filter back into her body as she brushes her teeth and washes her face, taking a few deep breaths before opening the door.
Despite her newfound sense of calm, Chris's head is still pounding, and her eyes are puffy from earlier. Her hand aches again. On just as quiet of feet, she walks down the hallway, smiling again when she sees Street wholly focused on petting Duke.
"I'm glad I found him a good retirement home." She says, a hint of a joke in her tone. Street laughs, smiling at her with teeth and dimples and stars in his eyes that, if she's the moon, she wants to hang herself by them forever.
At the sound of her voice, Duke abandons Street for her, making Chris chuckle. She pets his head as he pushes between her legs, looking up when she feels Street stand and get closer.
"I didn't hear you get out of the shower. How're you feeling?"
She huffs, remembering a time when he asked her if she was happy, and she told him that was a small word for a big word.
After a minute, she settles on,
"Less foggy."
Street gives her a half-smile as his eyes look over her face again, now really able to see her for the first time. He takes in the curve of her nose and the set of her lips, and how Chris looks when she's just existing without anything else on top of it. She lets him, doesn't try to look away or avert her gaze as much as she used to try in the past.
"Thanks for coming to check on me," she says, Duke's collar jangling.
"I'll always come to see you, Chris."
You've always seen me, he thinks, unsaid.
And, well, there's no fighting back against that.
Chris's lips are on his again, soft and smooth. Her hands come up to his shoulders, and she feels like she's 17. She feels her hair, wet and cold, against her cheeks, and Street's smell is even more overwhelming now than it was in the bathroom.
He's breathing heavy when they pull apart, chest rising and falling as an unfamiliar sense of ease pushes into him, like everything in the world is where it's supposed to be.
Now, though, she feels unsteady on her feet, a look in her eyes when he finds them like she's worried the world might be about to explode around them. Street puts his hands on her elbows to steady her.
It happens every time. Chris kisses him like she has nothing to lose, and then there's air between them again and a rock smacks to the bottom of her stomach. But she doesn't feel like apologizing this time.
Because she isn't sorry.
But she also knows this is another thing that will make her world tilt, and, for better or worse, she can't handle that right now.
"Street," Chris starts to say, voice hoarse, but he stops her before she can.
"We don't have to do anything else." He says, love and devotion and certainty in his eyes.
"Not tonight, and not ever, if you don't want to. Or, we can talk about it in the morning tomorrow, or some time later. There's no pressure, okay? I promise."
Street's voice is full of understanding, a softness she's not used to when it comes to them and romance and all the things about one that burrow under the other's skin. Chris focuses on his touch, and all the instinct and desire she has to fight about this leaves her body.
"Okay," she whispers.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, Duke pushes against Chris's legs where he's been standing, shoving her off balance. Street's grip keeps her upright, and she laughs at the unexpected jerk of her body. Duke circles around them before lying on his bed with a huff, leaving them in the middle of the living room.
"I'm good," Chris says to Street, and then,
"We'll talk about it, sometime."
Her voice is definitive, the tone that matches when her eyes are lit up and energy is buzzing through her so loudly he can practically see it. It's different, hearing it outside of HQ, when it comes to them, but Street trusts her.
Chris takes her hands off him to bury a yawn into that rolls through her whole body. She shakes it off, but Street takes a moment to look at her again, to see her, and it's clear that she's exhausted down to her bones.
"Bed?" He broaches, and she nods as another yawn escapes.
"Yeah. I can sleep on the couch," she says, watching the argument form in his mind before she's finished speaking.
"Trust me, our couch is nice for sitting, not so much for sleeping. Take my room, I'll sleep in Luca's and test whether he cuddles as much as everyone says."
She chuckles small at his joke.
"Are you okay with staying?"
Her question almost knocks the breath out of him. Street manages to get his bearings fast, hoping she didn't see how easy she throws him off his feet. Something flutters in his stomach. He can't pinpoint what it is.
"Yeah."
Exhaling, Chris turns but lets him step around her to lead the way. She's been in his room before, plenty of times, just not like this.
But there's nothing in her gut telling her to run. No alarms going off that this is the wrong choice. Any reason that pops into her mind, she can't deny is just an excuse.
She waits for his nod to slip into bed. Duke jumps up, and Chris adjusts herself before patting the bed so he comes to lie against her front, entire body stretched against hers.
Street stops in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and then coming to see Chris in his bed, Duke against her, her face buried in his fur but partially visible.
It's a sight he wants to come home to forever.
He jolts his body back into action, not wanting to give her the room to make a comment. Turning the light off and shrouding them in darkness, he's careful not to disturb her when he gets in next to her.
Fitting himself into her space, Chris turns when he's settled, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
He drops a kiss to her forehead, murmuring into her hair.
"We'll make all of this right."
It's a promise, she can hear it, and not just for them. To make it right for Erika, to stop the Imperial Dukes, all of it, for her to go to Germany and come back and them figure it out along the way.
She nods, hums an affirmation. She trusts him.
Before Street can say anything more, the weight catches up to her, and Chris is out. He listens to her breathe and feels the rise and fall of her chest, letting it all lull him to sleep.
The next morning, Chris is woken up by Duke moving from the bed to the floor, and sunlight just beginning to come in through the slats in Street's blinds.
It's bright, and she blinks against it until she blinks herself awake.
She's staring into Street's eyes when she does, and he murmurs an apology for Duke before running a hand through her hair. Getting up, Street goes to let Duke out and she follows, uncertain of where Luca might be but hoping that he isn't awake yet.
In the kitchen, Chris moves to the Keurig and pulls down two mugs. Through the kitchen window, she can see Street's back as he watches Duke. She bites her lip as the coffee brews, and then slides the glass door open to step onto the porch.
"Thank you," he says, taking the mug and wrapping an arm around her when she leans into him, sipping her own coffee.
Bodies pressed together, Chris watches the sunrise. She lets herself be energized by the pinks and oranges, and breathes deep in the fresh air, feeling like she's getting a fresh, new start, for the first time.
In her thoughts, she sees Erika, her family, the moment Hicks announced her as the winner of TLI, her hand through a mirror. All the things that have been so unsteady lately, that have made her feel so tilted.
She wonders how the world, or someone in hers, can tilt itself so much that it eventually comes right back around to being even.
Resting his chin on her head, Street takes peaks of Chris in his periphery, watching her watch the sunrise in a way so intimate, so delicate, he wonders if she's let anyone see her like this before.
He thinks, for a second, of freezing this moment in his mind. Holding onto it so tightly that his knuckles turn white and he shakes from the effort. But on his next glance and sip of coffee and exhale, he realizes his mistake, and lets that all go.
It's much better to live through something than to trap himself trying to live in something.
And maybe they won't talk about last night again, even with her promise. Or it will take weeks, or months, or visits to Wendy and her family and getting back from Germany, but he knows, at least, what he wants, and he thinks that she probably does too, for herself and for both of them.
He wants to live through this with her.
-x-
Hello! First, thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Title is from Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier, and it absolutely helped me build this piece. This one was truly a doozy for me. I wrote it in 3 days, it's the longest piece I've written and published (looking at the currently 15 chapter WIP that I don't know where to go with). I love this relationship, especially given the depths of their characters and everything they go through. There are so many ways to explore the roads they could've walked to end up where they are, and why they did or didn't. Really, they're amazing characters, and I've always been a hurt/comfort girlie, so putting them in or diving further into their situations and seeing how they might get through it together just does it for me. I'm not sure when I'll have another update for "if you never bleed," but I think I might take a few chapters to focus on Street, there, too. Let me know if you have any requests or anything you'd want to see more of from the show! As always, comments and kudos greatly appreciated. It makes my heart light up every time I get to connect with someone in this fandom through my writing, so thank you 3. Stay liquid! Xo, A