The Los Angeles afternoon is shrouded in deep, gray clouds as Street rides towards the safe house. Texts to Chris gone unanswered built anxiety so tight in his chest that Hondo told him to go, and stay with her if you need to. Street doesn't remember how long it normally takes him to get there from HQ, but today it's just under twenty minutes, making sharp turns through yellow lights and cutting through the neighborhood's alleyways.
"No, Marcos!" He hears Chris's sharp voice as soon as he kills the engine. Though the visor on his helmet darkens everything, he sees the two of them standing in the front yard, arguing. Chris's arms are crossed, her jaw clenched, and Marcos flails his arms as he yells back in Spanish.
Not wanting to interrupt, Street leans against his bike, letting whatever conversation the two are having come to fruition without a known audience. After her initial yell, Chris dropped to a whisper, signaling a level of seriousness he hasn't seen her pull out on Marcos before.
Like with suspects and everyone else, though, it's quick to cut through whatever bullshit Marcos is making Chris deal with. Street watches Marcos's fists fall back to his side and his chin drop, no less angry but clearly defeated. He says something, a final word that makes Chris close her eyes and inhale deeply so she doesn't explode, and then turns around.
Street was doing his best to look nonchalant, like he just arrived, but it obviously doesn't work. Marcos's gaze finds him like a bullet, and he's quick to fire off something about what Street's looking at and to try to get Chris to see some "fucking sense, god dammit."
"Hey!" Chris bites, stepping to the edge of the gate and glaring at Street in a warning to stay back until this is over.
"I know you care about Mama Pina, and I know you care about these women. I do, too." Chris presses, no doubt in her blazing eyes or tone.
"So you need to trust me, because I'm the one trying to carry on her work. You want to stay overnight through this, I appreciate it, but the second I see any Los Nuevas out here in numbers, I'll haul your ass and everyone else's downtown."
"Yeah. We'll see!" Marcos calls over his shoulder, glaring at the two of them as he slams his car door, blasts his music, and drives away. Chris pinches the bridge of her nose and drags her fingers over her eyebrows, trying to chase off the incoming tension headache from their talk.
The quiet creak of the gate and Street's hands coming to gently massage her shoulders are a bigger help.
After Chris's hand drops back to her side, Street steps closer and wraps his arms around her shoulders. Pressing a kiss to her head, he feels a hot, thready breath on his neck, and pulls back.
"You alright? Wanna talk about it?"
Exhaling, Chris flicks her eyes to the sky and tilts her head back, reigning in her emotions as much as she can.
"It's nothing. I'll— Why are you here?" Her voice grows darker, a new edge cutting through it when with her realization that there's no way his shift is over. Street runs his hands from her shoulders to her biceps, squeezing lightly in an attempt to soothe her.
"You weren't answering. I know there's a lot going on right now, Hondo told me to take today, too. There's nothing exciting happening at HQ, trust me, unless you count Tan and Rocker pretending like either one of them are good snipers."
Chris isn't convinced, but there's too much on her mind and heart to argue with Street, too. Shaking him off, she doesn't say a word as she walks back inside with Street in tow.
The living room and dining room lights are on but the house seems darker than the last time he was here, when Mama Pina's death was still just an unknown inevitability. Now, papers with her name and pages worth of legal information line the dining room and kitchen tables. Boxes of her things that are better-off donated are stacked in the hallway, and other photos from her bedroom have found their way onto living room shelves. It's overwhelming for Street, and he's been looking at it for all of five seconds. Chris has been here nonstop for the past three days.
"Marcia and Jenni are at work. Selena and Carmen are volunteering at Nichelle's. I think they're all—It's hard to be here now that Mama Pina isn't." Chris finishes, voice as drained as her body, falling heavy onto the couch and relishing the silence.
"Yeah," Street whispers, wanting to say something but unable to find the words. He sits down next to Chris and shoots off a text to Hondo that he'll see him the next day, maybe. Up close, the tension drawn across Chris's face is even deeper. Her lips are red from where she's bitten them, and any sleep she managed to get that first night at his house has long since worn off in the days passed.
"Have you eaten today?" Street asks, voice soft. Cracking an eye open, Chris shakes her head.
"I could go for a burger? If you don't mind getting them. I should really finish going through these estate documents. The women are fine, but she left the property to me, and."
Sighing, Chris blinks twice until the threat of tears passes, and musters whatever kind of smile she can for when she looks over at Street. Sadness swims in his light eyes, and she leans in when he kisses her before doing anything else.
"I'll go to Joe's and be back in fifteen. Text me if there's anything else you need, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks, Street." Chris lets her hand run down Street's arm and through his fingers as he stands to leave, mimicking him after the door closes to get herself to a chair at the dining room table.
Numbers swim before her, words she hasn't heard since her mother died printed undeniably, unmoving in her vision. Any other form she grabs to try to make sense of only makes Chris's headache grow. Tightness grips her chest, its claws sinking deeper every minute.
The screen door swinging shut startles Chris so bad she almost knocks the table over when she jumps up. On instinct, a hand reaches towards the back of her waistband, trying to wrap around a gun that's no longer there.
"Sorry! Sorry." Street says, wincing at the second bounce of the screen door. Plastic bags rustle against each other as he walks towards the kitchen, abandoning them on the counter to check on Chris.
He glances at a few of the papers, outlining funeral costs and California laws and pages upon pages of Mama Pina's handwritten notes, and they all make his stomach sink. Turning the corner back to the dining room, Street sees Chris, knuckles as white as the cloth draped over the table's edge, and shoulders hunched.
"Hey," Street says, softly, not wanting to startle her again, or ask if she's okay despite his instinct to since he knows the answer.
"Hey," Chris replies, not yet looking at him. Her voice is thick with tears, and he hears her sniffle until it passes with her clearing her throat. "Sorry about the door, I was distracted."
The same tightness as before digs into her heart again, and Chris speaks before she can think herself out of it.
"I can't focus on this right now. Let me clear off the kitchen table and we can eat."
"I got it, you're exhausted." Street stops her. Permission granted, Chris falls like lead onto one of the kitchen chairs as Street piles the papers into neat stacks and gets their food on plates, setting Chris's in front of her.
"I can help, when we're done."
Chris feels like a wall that his words hit and crash in front of her, not penetrating.
"Going through those papers." Street explains. "Fresh eyes might help discern what needs to go where, yeah?"
Swallowing a tasteless fry, Chris nods.
"Yeah, sure."
Street takes a bite of his own burger, afraid that letting the silence linger will only push Chris deeper into the darkness that hangs over her.
"Do you want to tell me what Marcos was going on about? Seems like he's the one who needs to see sense for whatever it was." Street says, eyes scanning Chris's face for any indication of anything.
He gets a halfhearted eye roll and a sigh, but he'll take it. Chris wipes the salt and grease from her hands on her jeans.
"He's concerned that people—men—are going to target the safe house now that Mama Pina's gone. People knew her, they knew not to fuck with her. Said they have no reason not to test me, and Los Nuevas want to start patrolling and staying here at night."
Talking about it is as tiring as the argument, and Chris lets her head rest in her hands, elbows on the table.
"I was a cop for over a decade. I can handle myself and protect these women, and the last thing I need is for the safe house to be associated with a gang."
Chris is a mix of aggravated and defeated, and Street reaches a hand across the wood grain of the table to hold one of hers while she eats another fry.
"I'm sure word will spread fast that no one should fuck with you either," Street tries to assuage her, only sure that it helps when he hears a small, dry laugh.
"Hopefully." Chris says, a shiver overtaking her.
The pair lapses into silence. Despite her earlier hunger, half the burger and a handful of fries is all she can manage over the next ten minutes, and pushing the plate towards Street, Chris stands.
"You can have it, if you want. I'll be in the living room."
She turns on her heel and leaves without another word. Swallowing, Street sighs as the hope that eating would help Chris feel better slips away.
Fifteen minutes later, Chris's leftovers in the fridge and their dishes in the drying rack, Street goes to meet her, speaking as his feet hit the carpet.
"I put your—"
The sight of Chris curled up asleep on the couch stops him, words dying in his throat. Papers sit on the end table, having lost the battle against her exhaustion. Her head rests on a pillow from the bedroom that he didn't notice when he first walked in, and Street realizes she must be sleeping on the couch when she stays at night. Heart clenching, Street exhales his anxiety and walks softly to the couch to cover her with a blanket before taking her spot at the dining room table.
Every few minutes, he glances over the forms to make sure she's okay, and he's certain that Chris is so tired that nothing less than an earthquake would wake her. Her body shifts on the leather cushions as her sleep turns restless, but he doesn't wake her up to a reality that's even more painful.
Carefully, Street pulls out his phone and finds Deacon's contact, moving to lean against the wall in the hallway.
"Hey, Street, everything okay? How's Chris?" Deacon's voice comes through, comforting.
"She's… dealing. Taking a nap right now." Street says, his words shaking as he struggles to form a coherent thought.
"The funeral's the day after tomorrow. Will you tell Hondo I'm going to take off through the weekend?"
In the silence before Deacon's answer, Street strains to listen for anything to indicate Chris is awake, but only hears the patter of rain beginning to hit the windows and darken the pavement.
"Of course. We'll all be there. Any reason you called me and not him?" Deacon asks. Street can sense his confusion through the phone.
"Yeah, actually. I know it's a different kind of law, but there's, like, a million forms here that Chris is trying to handle on her own. I was wondering if Annie would be able to help me figure them out if I sent her some pictures?"
Street's fingers tap against the front of his jeans. His eyes trace over the hallway, the photos of Mama Pina and the people she's helped over the years, one at the end of her and Chris.
"I don't see why not. She's home today, so you could give her a call if you need."
Deacon's words come as a relief, giving Street some ability to help Chris with a little bit of right now, and he thanks Deacon twice before the call ends.
Street gathers the papers from the dining room table and brings them into the kitchen, equal parts not wanting to wake Chris, and knowing that if she's in his periphery, she's all he'll be looking at. Pulling his laptop out of his bag, he FaceTimes Annie, more warmth flooding his heart at her sympathetic smile.
"Hey, Street, how are you and Chris doing?" She asks.
A soft, tired laugh escapes.
"I'm okay. Chris is hanging in there. There's a bunch of forms she's been working her way through, I was hoping you'd be able to help me widdle some of them down?"
The stack of papers looms behind his laptop, and he's in awe, again, at how much Chris takes on. Concern sits not far behind.
"Sure. Throw it at me." Annie says, and Street takes the first packet off the pile.
Chris wakes up with a jolt, disoriented, and anxiety immediately filling every crevice of her. The house is quiet, darker than when she accidentally fell asleep, and the only light she can see floods around the corners from the kitchen and living room.
Looking at her watch in a panic, Chris lets out a sigh of relief when it's just after 5. The sun is setting, but she has another few hours before the women are set to return. Chris rolls out her neck, stiff from the couch, and waits for the world to stabilize under her feet when she stands.
Ambient noise comes from the kitchen, the sound of cabinets closing, a low hum, and rain hitting the roof in an unwavering song. Chris wipes the remaining sleep from her eyes to see Street standing at the sink, laptop closed on the table behind him, and the papers more organized than she left them.
"Hey," Street says with a smile, turning to meet her. His voice is so soft, cutting through the panic that threatens to strangle Chris, she wants to cry. Afraid she'll start if she opens her mouth, Chris nods, sitting silently at the table.
Flipping through the papers tells her most of them are filled out, some completely and some to a further extent than she'd gotten. Street's neat script flows across labeled boxes in black ink, only waiting for Chris's final signature.
"How did you?" Chris asks, disbelief pouring from her.
Let me help take care of you so you can take care of them. His words come back to her, as strong and familiar as his hand when it rests on her shoulder.
"Annie helped." Street keeps his tone even and voice quiet, not wanting to break the fragile calm that's graced the house.
Hair falls in Chris's face when she drops her chin, trying to hide tears as they track down her face. She hears the legs of another chair drag against the tile, and feels Street's knees press against her. Taking both of her hands, Street rests them on his lap and runs his thumbs over her knuckles.
"It's okay," he whispers, once her tears have stopped. His lips meet both of her hands before leaning across the small space between them to kiss her, tasting the salt of her tears. Separating, Street tucks Chris's bangs behind her ear and wipes away the mascara and eyeliner that have run from her lashes to sit underneath her eyes.
"I've got you, okay?" He promises.
Sniffling against more tears that sit in her throat, Chris nods as one of her hands wraps around his wrist.
"Thank you, Street." Her voice cracks, uneven air leaving her, and he kisses her again.
The sun sets through the kitchen window as the two sit in silence for as long as Chris needs, her only measure of time Street's pulse under her fingers and the warmth from his hand on her cheek.
hello! thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed! as per usual, this got away from me, meaning that this is not the final chapter! i don't know when that will go up as she's but an idea at the moment, but i wanted to share this one now. the next will be moving into the territory of the funeral itself, and i hope to include more of the team. thank you so much for all the incredibly kind comments and kudos. stay liquid! xo, A ps. not necessarily feeling these titles, so they may be subject to change (but probably not)