highly recommend listening to "you matter to me" from waitress the musical before/after reading
Chris is even more exhausted after the grief group. The constant buzz of the dim fluorescents and the smell of burnt coffee linger, and if it weren't for Street's hand on her back to keep her upright, Chris isn't sure where she'd be.
Street doesn't try to hide how his eyes keep scanning her, searching for any more unseen cracks that he'd give anything to remedy. The sunset gives way to dusk as the streetlights come to life. She stops short when they get to his bike.
Walking around her, Street doesn't grab their helmets, but faces her instead. The echoes of tears run down her face. Though Chris only said her name and that she lost a friend, this newborn catharsis is, too, a heavy weight to carry, and leaves her feeling exposed.
Leftover adrenaline zips through Street's veins. From her phone call this morning to standing in the slowly-emptying parking lot now, his worry hasn't moved an inch. With no thought of their jobs or rules, Street cradles Chris's cheek and sweeps his thumb over her cheekbone.
Between the hook-ups and bar fights, Chris can't remember the last time anyone treated her with tenderness.
She leans into the touch as more tears flood her lash line, and looks up to the dusty sky to try to clear them away. Balancing every part of her in his eyes, Street keeps from pulling her into a hug. His thumb is warm and steady against her. Chris lets herself live in it for another moment before clearing her throat and taking a small step back.
"Thank you," Chris whispers, voice raspy. Street gives her a small, sad smile, as if to say don't mention it, and turns to hand her a helmet. Looking her over, he sees the same crashing waves within her that almost drowned him after Nate, and his eyes flick to the sky in silent gratitude for Chris.
In the second between his eyes tracing over her and his mouth opening, anxiety fills Chris like a lead balloon, her ability to breathe stolen away by the fear of being faced with the expectant "what's next?".
"How does food sound? That new burger place just opened up around here, we can take it to go, if you want."
Coughing around her stun, Chris lets out a shaky laugh and nods as relief replaces the weight.
Satisfied, Street puts his helmet on and waits for Chris's arms to be tight around him before turning over the engine.
The restaurant is loud and bright. A ghost of a conversation she had with Erika about trying this place crosses Chris's mind, and, even with the leather jacket and all the body heat, makes her shiver. She sticks closer to Street's side than she normally would anyone's, lets their brushing arms keep her anchored to what's around her so she's not swallowed whole by everything else.
Feeling her shake, Street glances at Chris, but she's looking straight ahead, so he carries on to the sign marked "To Go."
"Hi," Street greets the waitress in a tone that's lightness is as fragile as Chris feels. Her usual instinct to scoff at his performance is quelled by her fatigue.
"I'd like two of the house burgers, both medium, please, with two cokes with no ice, and a side of ranch."
Chris hasn't pulled together the focus to read the menu by the time he's gotten the order out and settled up. The waitress smiles as she tells them it'll be about twenty minutes, and they're welcome to wait in the small seating area to the side or on the porch. The crowd outside tamer, Street maneuvers them through the glass doors with a final nod to the waitress, relaxing when Chris does in the fresh air.
Neither make conversation as they wait, content to feel the other breathing next to them as snippets of gossip and work details float to them under the string lights. It isn't as long as it feels when the waitress comes out with a brown bag that's stapled shut and tells them to have a good night.
She's disappeared again before Street can ask, so he careens his head around and decides walking around the perimeter of the place is better than wading and weaving through the inside once more. Back at his bike, Street glances at his watch to see it's nearly 9pm, and sighs as he mulls over his options.
Wendy's words about moving forward are stuck in Chris's head on a loop. The psychiatrist's suggestion to have people over, especially, and Chris bites back her own sharpness towards herself when her next thought is that Tan and Street's appearances certainly aren't the kind Wendy meant.
Street's next one can be, though, and that's what's important now. It has to be important now, if Chris is going to get through this.
"Can we go back to my apartment?" Chris asks first, surprising Street. Already back to some of herself, there's a sureness in her eyes that Street can't quite read, and that he isn't going to stifle.
If there's one thing he's come to realize since the disastrous visit only a few nights after Erika died, it's that patience is a virtue when it comes to Chris. Few things are further out of his nature, but he's willing to practice for her.
"Yeah. You want to swing by HQ and get your truck?"
Chris knows she should. But the back of Street's back is surprisingly comfortable and she doesn't trust the silence of her cab not to suffocate her, so Chris shakes her head.
"I'll catch a run in the morning. I'm sure I'll be able to use the endorphins."
Laughing low, Street says okay and gets them back on the road.
In the safety of Chris's apartment building, Street hovers his hand near the small of her back, but doesn't make contact. The last thing he wants is to make Chris more uncomfortable in a space already splashed with tragedy. He hears the change in her breathing the closer they get to her door, how it shakes like her hand does when she reaches for her keys.
Like always, the apartment is deathly quiet when Chris pushes the door open. Her eyes adjust easily to the dark angles that are her furniture, but she steels herself and flips on the light for Street's sake.
The first thing Chris sees is the picture of her and Erika on the end table. Her heart turns to ice and her body freezes where it is.
Seeing Chris clam up, the way she's swung between having all of herself locked away or spilling beyond control, breaks Street's heart. He takes a deep breath and carefully brushes past her into the kitchen, setting down the bag with a small thud.
Street's movement breaks Chris from her reverie, the urge to fall on the floor and never get up abating. Closing the door, she hangs up her keys and her jacket, and then watches Street as he moves about her space.
"Do you still have paper plates?" Street asks, opening cabinets and giving them a once over before moving onto the next. There's not much on any of her shelves. He finds them in the pantry before Chris can answer, and then starts the process over for cups.
"And do you want ice?"
His hand is just on the freezer door when Chris's footsteps stop him. She wraps her arms around herself, weak protection, she knows, but the only thing she can do, and clears her throat.
"I know what you're doing. I dumped everything. For good."
Betrayed by the way his expression washes over with relief and his body relaxes, Street looks down sheepishly. He starts to apologize when Chris shakes her head, unable to stomach any more conversation about it in the moment. Instead, she opens the plates and throws their food onto them, piling all the fries onto a third, shared one, and smiling when she pulls out the ranch.
Street busies himself with getting napkins and their drinks, but his periphery is focused wholly on Chris. With each passing second he feels more okay knowing that she is, at least more than she was.
With the food ready to go, Chris looks around like she's not sure where to eat. The dining room table has gone unused and feels far too formal, but sitting on the couch feels like breaking a promise to Erika.
Observing her, Street traces the space, too, really taking it in for the first time. He smiles when his eyes land on a sliding glass door.
"Why don't we eat on the balcony? Weather's nice enough."
His eyebrows are raised and Chris squints when she looks over, the beginning of a fire in her eyes.
"I don't have any furniture out there."
Thinking, Street's eyes grow when he finds a throw blanket folded over the back of her couch. He crosses the floor to grab it, and then turns to Chris's unenthused expression.
"If you're fine with sitting on this, then so am I. Like a picnic."
Chris wants to argue but her hunger pangs are relentless, her headache is growing, and all she wants is to be sitting somewhere and eating something.
"Fine," she agrees, blowing out a breath when she sees how Street tempers his reaction for her.
It takes them two trips to get the blanket down and all the food outside, but it's peaceful when they do. The burgers have gone lukewarm, but neither mind, and it's the best thing Chris has eaten in days so she tells herself to savor it.
Street keeps his gaze set on the traffic below and when Chris's hand moves for a fry so he doesn't reach at the same time. A chill runs through him every so often, cold seeping through the siding he leans against and his leather jacket. He forces himself not to think about what's next.
Each bite helps Chris relax, though when she looks down at the empty burger wrapper, the same memory as earlier comes back, just as heavy. Biting her lip and taking a drink both prove useless distractions, the tightness in her chest growing until a ragged cough escapes that Street can't ignore.
"Chris, are you okay?"
He's worried at first that she's choking with the way her hands come up towards her throat.
Getting to her knees, like she's going to stand, the heaviness keeps Chris where she is on the light blue blanket. Anxiety spreads through her, and she wrings her hands at her chest, repeating what she said that morning, now too quiet for Street to understand right away.
"I hate this."
She doesn't hear him when Street asks "what," and he exhales to keep himself from freaking out. Looking down at the now-empty plates, he throws them all back in the bag and then sets it behind him to give them both as much space as possible. A tear tracks down Chris's face, sliding down her tightly-clasped hands. Street kneels, too, needing to match her in something.
"I hate this," Chris says again. Sobs press against her chest that she refuses to devolve into, and Street is thankful when the struggle stops and they finally disperse after a few minutes. Words processing, Street sits back on his heels.
"Hate what, Chris?"
Chris's face screws up when he asks, shaking her head like she's fighting to keep her emotions from overflowing as the answer builds up within her. The effort makes her whimper and Street bites the inside of his cheek.
She feels like she's on a boat being battered by waves inside, but, slowly, Chris regains control. Her body deflates as she speaks, eyes closed.
"We said we were going to try that place."
Chris sniffles, her eyes meeting Street's. Despite her heartbreak, she can't help but grin when she thinks of Erika.
"On a day that 20 and 50 Squads were both off, if we ever got one. We were gonna hike Solstice Canyon and then go there afterwards."
Breath stolen from his lungs, Street wishes he knew what to say, but now that Chris is finally talking she doesn't need any spare time to collect her thoughts.
"There were so many things we said we were going to do, you know? Plans, even stupid ones. Each time it sinks in that those will never happen, it's like watching her die all over again. It feels like it's all my fault."
"It's not," Street counters immediately, voice sharper than he means. Chris's shoulders fall and he softens. "No one blames you. Erika wouldn't."
"I know," Chris admits, looking over the top of Street's head and out at the city.
"It's easier to say than believe. Vodka helped, until it didn't."
Street blows out a breath through his nose but doesn't argue. Cautiously, he moves closer and stretches his legs out in front of him while Chris watches and tries to figure out what to do with her defenses.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" He asks, narrowing his eyes at Chris's tiny smirk. She maneuvers her body around, too, sitting criss-crossed and facing him.
"You've been doing it this whole time. Trying at least."
Street's heart pounds against his chest, only ever for Chris. Another layer of sadness blankets Chris and she averts her gaze as she continues.
"You and Tan both. Showing up, being concerned when I've been apathetic or defensive. I'm sorry for putting you through that."
Shame is oddly cool where it fills her chest until Street speaks.
"I've put you through a lot, too, no apologies needed. But it's accepted, of course."
The levity he manages to bring even to the worst situations, when he's not the one stuck in them, insulates Chris. She pushes lightly at his shoulder through her gratitude, electricity flowing through them both at the contact.
It pulls Chris back to when they were standing in her kitchen, and she sighs.
"Confessing that you can't lose me in my kitchen didn't."
Eyes wide, Street feels the cool cement under his hands as he presses against it to adjust his body, squirming away from the confrontation.
"I'm sorry, Chris," he rushes, "I wasn't thinking straight. And I never should've, and—"
Stopping to get his breath back, he catches sight of Chris and freezes when she doesn't look distraught or pissed, but her face and eyes are calm. Street sits back to open the floor for her to talk.
As much as Chris pushes back against it, how much Street cares for her, even when it's misguided, is undeniable. It settles on her that losing that is scarier than having it.
"You mean a lot to me, Street, so much that I don't always know how to navigate it."
It feels like they're the only two people who exist, each looking at the other and hoping what they're seeing in the other's eyes is real. Flicking her eyes to his lips for just a second, Chris rubs one thumb over her other to stay grounded.
"There's rules, all the things we've talked about. And, besides, that," Chris sighs as reality trickles in, "I've gotta get myself back together before I focus on anything or anyone else."
Chris sounds sure of herself for the first time in recent memory and it makes Street smile wide, the light catching his face and making shadows from his dimples. It eases how uncomfortable Chris feels being so vulnerable, even with him.
"But I ne—want your help. I trust you, a lot more than I trust myself right now."
It's a bigger confession than anything she's said thus far and Street recognizes it. Memories of his own float by, and he understands what Chris means.
"Hondo's the one that kept me from killing Nolan after we found Nate. I was sure I had nothing left to lose. It was his trust in the world, in me, that helped me trust the team and do it all the right way. Your trust has helped me a lot, too," Street adds, nudging Chris's foot with his.
"We take care of each other, I get it," Chris says, not a hint of annoyance in her tone. Street nods.
"Is there anything else you want to talk about, right now?"
Sighing and looking out at the world again, clouds obscuring all the stars, Chris says no.
"I'm sorry about Nate," she says, another thing she'll always be sorry for.
"Don't be," Street says out of habit, the image of his foster brother clear as a bell in his mind.
"He didn't think I had enough game to get you back, guess he was wrong."
"Street—" Chris rolls her eyes, their laughs tangling in the air. It's like him to boil down the wreckage of her into something playful that anyone else would think is frivolous.
Putting his hands up in mock surrender, Street takes in how much freer Chris seems since when they got back to her apartment. The better mood carries them into conversation about things that are easier, actually frivolous, and their words exist in a bubble that's only for them to know.
Eventually, more and more space exists between Chris's thoughts, her sentences punctuated by quiet yawns. Agreeing that they both need sleep, Street picks up the bag and helps Chris to her feet so he can fold the blanket and drape it over her couch. She downs a glass of water, and turns to see Street standing at the end of the counter, watching her with soft eyes.
"Do you want me to stay? On the couch?" Street asks. There's no pressure in the question, and Chris doesn't balk, but shakes her head.
"I'll be okay. Some of this I need to face alone."
Nodding, Street smiles at how Chris sounds like herself. The two look at each other for a moment, energy flowing between them, and then Chris steps forward as Street wraps her in his arms.
Street's sure he's holding a miracle. Since Chris opened the motel door, all he wanted was to pull her in and not let her go.
Whenever Chris moves, Street adjusts with her, content to hold her forever. He runs a hand down her back until she settles again, and the constant rise and fall of his chest as he breathes rocks Chris like a lullaby. With his heartbeat steady and his hands warm on her back, he makes Chris feel like she's something still worth holding, and she sinks further into him.
She grasps onto the feeling of someone holding her for no other reason than they want her in their arms. It makes her believe, for the first time, that maybe she can stay right where she is, not needing to give or be anything she doesn't have, and be loved.
No words pass between them, just even breathing. Her head finds the small groove between his shoulder and chest and Street smiles when Chris tucks herself into it, closing her eyes. Street buries his face in her hair, surrounded by the smell of her shampoo.
She tries to remember the last time she felt so safe and comes up empty.
Street holds her until Chris breaks her arms around him and steps back. He's already memorized every line of her face and the details of her eyes but does it again under the dim kitchen lights. Sliding a warm hand down her arm, he squeezes her hand softly before letting go.
Already, they miss the weight of the other.
"Thank you," Chris says, like a secret.
"Don't mention it." He smiles, bigger when Chris does, too.
Patting his jacket pockets to make sure he has his phone and his keys, Street takes a final look around Chris's apartment and all the potential it holds. A question sparkles in her eyes when he meets them, one he knows that she knows the answer to even if it can't be voiced yet.
"I'm a text away if you don't feel like a ten mile run first thing in the morning." He tells her, bathing in the lightness of her laugh.
She doesn't answer besides the adoration that grows in her eyes as he collects the rest of himself and walks to her door. She follows so she can lock it once he's gone.
Half in the hallway, with a hand on the doorknob, Street turns so he's face-to-face with Chris, so close she takes a half-step back, though it's not unwelcome.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" He asks for a final reassurance.
Chris's hand rests on the inner doorknob, and she swears she can feel through all the metal and wood to her hand in his. Looking Street in the eyes, Chris nods.
"You'll see me tomorrow. Get home safe."
They both know they already are.
happy new year's! i hope everyone had a wonderful, safe celebration. here's to better things in 2024.
thank you for reading! this is one of my faves i've written. if it's not clear by the insane amount of almost-the-same fics i've written regarding the s4 erika storyline lol. but i listened to that song from waitress again, my favorite musical, and it all just fit so well. so i hope you enjoyed!
again, to everyone who reads/comments/kudoses regularly, thank you so much! i love getting to exchange ideas and talk in the comments and hear everyone's thoughts, and the support def keeps me going. or you can find me on tumblr and say hi streakyglasses :)
wishing everyone the best, stay liquid.
xo, A