Post 3x8 Lion's Den
Hurt/comfort, canon divergence
-x-
Chris roughly wipes away the tears she wishes would stop falling. Her truck seat is cold under her thighs, and she has to hold back hiccups that threaten to turn into sobs before she's able to turn the key.
She feels empty, like someone has taken everything inside of her and poured it onto the floor, impossible to pick up again. As she sits in the dark, her brain attempts to sort through the anger and confusion, but it only leaves her feeling more exhausted. Biting the inside of her cheek, Chris pulls out her phone and hits Street's contact.
He picks up on the second ring.
"Hey, Chris, what's up?"
"Hey, um," Chris winces, taking in a shaking breath and staring at the ceiling of her truck to try to keep the tears at bay. "Can I come over? I really don't want to be alone right now."
On the other end, Street can hear the cracks in Chris's voice.
"Yeah, of course." He says, forcing himself not to ask her what's wrong too soon. "It'll be unlocked, get here when you get here."
Relief floods her chest. Like he can see it, she nods, can't keep the corners of her lips from quirking up at his words.
"Okay. I'll be there soon. Bye."
She's almost whispering, and Street's heart clenches. He returns her goodbye and then hears the line go dead. Locking his phone, he sighs, his pulse starting to race when he realizes this has to be connected to whyever she wasn't in today.
Chris sets her phone in the cupholder and double-checks her mirrors before turning out of Ty and Kira's apartment complex. The radio stays off, her own thoughts so loud it's almost deafening. She doesn't know what to think or to feel, and she has to pull over twice to clear the tears from her eyes so she can see the road again.
Her heart pounds when she comes to a stop along the curb outside Street and Luca's house. Wiping away new tears, Chris doesn't take a glance at herself in her rearview mirror or the black of her phone screen. It's a struggle to get her backpack from where it's crammed between the passenger seat and dashboard on the floor, and Chris tells herself that's not a good reason to start crying. But it feels like one more thing going wrong that she can't deal with, and she leans her forehead on the steering wheel as tears start to fall.
Get a grip. Chris thinks, after a moment. Sitting back up, she steels herself and tugs at the backpack loop until it breaks free. With her phone and keys in one hand and her backpack in the other, she steps down from her truck and slings the straps over her shoulders.
Crickets chirp and the wind rustles against the metal fences as Chris walks up the driveway.
All she wants is to see Street. Through all the anxiety and shakiness, something in Chris's chest tells her that he can fix this, or take it away, or at the very least that he'll try to, and that's the only thing she can focus on as she approaches the door.
His words come back to her, that the door would be unlocked, and she's sure it is, but she can't bring herself to walk in unannounced. She raises a hand to knock twice, only able to connect her knuckles with the wood the third time. Her thoughts race so fast she can't make out any of them as she waits.
As soon as he opens the door and she sees him, backlit as the light floods outside, every thought drops from her mind.
Street's hazel eyes meet Chris's. She's clearly upset, but as he opens his mouth to speak, she's pushing out of her backpack and stepping into his arms, throwing hers over his shoulders.
He catches her weight like it's a dance they've practiced, and wraps himself around her to hold her tight to his chest. Chris buries her face in the space between his shoulder and neck, the light gray of his shirt darkening with her tears.
Leaving one hand squarely on her lower back, the other runs up and down as he shushes her.
"It's okay, you're okay," he says, low, and then changes his words when she starts to cry harder.
"Okay, shh, Chris. You're safe, okay? I promise, you're safe."
Because she isn't okay, and he should've seen that sooner before saying anything, but he can at least promise her safety in some sense of the word.
If there's one thing that Street's messed up life has given him, it's a perfectly-honed skill to tell when people just need to know that the world isn't actually falling out from underneath them, even when it feels like it already has.
He hates that she needs it.
"You're safe," Street repeats himself, bringing the hand that was moving to cradle the back of her head.
Chris nods against him, but her hands grasp desperately at Street's back, like she's afraid he'll dissolve underneath her touch.
At a loss and heartbroken for her, Street can't help pressing a kiss to the top of her head. There's nothing romantic about it, no thoughts about picnic tables and kitchen conversations, just a pressing need to do something more to help ground her.
Chris feels the ghost of his lips on her hair, and leans into him further.
After what feels like hours, the tears stop and some tension drains from Chris's body, her arms dropping back to her sides. Street lifts his head from where it was resting on hers so that she can take a step back, a shiver running through her from the cold from the newfound space between them.
Chris is dazed, exhausted, and knows that Street deserves an explanation. Realizing they're still in the doorway, she turns to pick up her backpack, and then finds herself bracing on the frame as the world sways beneath her.
"Woah, Chris," Street's concerned voice reaches her again. He sets a hand on her back and one on her side to steady her.
"I've got it. Why don't you go sit down, and I'll be over in a second."
She nods, taking another second to get her feet underneath her as the wall comes crashing over her. Her eyes trace over the living room, the TV on low in the corner and the arcade machine against the other wall, but she doesn't feel like she sees any of it.
Stepping on her heels to get her sneakers off, Chris lies down on the couch and maneuvers a blanket over herself. Vaguely, she hears Street moving in the background, and she closes her eyes as her head starts to pound.
Street sighs, biting his lip when he looks over the island and sees Chris on the couch. Her face is tense, brows pinched together, and she looks small in a way that he's never seen her before. His own anxiety starts to bubble as he fills a glass with water and walks it over, setting a hand on her shoulder and seeing the pain in her eyes when they blink open.
"Here, Chris," Street says. He holds the glass until Chris sits up, the blanket falling to her side.
Sitting on the other end of the couch, he watches as she sips the water and then sets the glass on the table.
"I left them." Chris says, after another beat. Her voice is hoarse and Street strains to hear, because her eyes are boring through the wall as she speaks, determined not to look at him. She's wringing her hands, and he stays quiet for her to say more.
"I thought she loved me."
Street's heart cracks deeper at the betrayal in Chris's words, and her defeated tone when she continues.
"I don't know why, how I convinced myself she'd really postpone or end things with Ty for me."
There are no more tears in Chris's eyes, just hunched shoulders and a flat voice signaling her acceptance of the situation when she says,
"I don't know why I thought it'd be different this time."
Street closes his eyes, his head shaking as he tries to wrap his brain around what Chris just said. Like she was a fool for daring to pursue a relationship. On the other side of the couch, Chris's eyes widen as she realizes her words, and her instinct to run kicks on in overdrive.
You have nowhere to go. Her brain reminds her. She feels it like a stab in her gut.
"Fuck," Chris mumbles under her breath, digging her nails into her palms. Her whole body starts to shake, and Street leans in.
"Chris, what's wrong?"
Everything. She thinks.
"I don't have a place to live." Chris says, wincing and breathy.
Because you didn't think this through. She berates herself, and it only serves to work her up more.
Because the thought of going back to Ty and Kira, of pleading her case and begging on her knees, is something she isn't capable of doing, nor does she want to. She feels better, safer, sitting on Street's couch in the midst of this breakdown, than she ever really did in their apartment.
But somewhere is better than nowhere, and now Chris has nothing.
Needing to feel in control of something, anything, Chris jumps to her feet and starts pacing. Her truck is by the driveway with her entire life packed into a few boxes. On the other side of the couch are her backpack and shoes. It all feels too big, like the world is tunneling around her and separating her from any and every tangible thing.
She comes back to herself when Street sets a warm hand on her shoulder. It's just enough pressure through her sweater to feel grounded, and when she turns to face him, Street crushes her in another hug.
He stands there for a minute, letting her collect herself in his arms and not saying a thing, until he feels her relax underneath him. Pulling back, Chris knows he's reading her like a book, searching her eyes and picking up on every fear rising within her.
Street recognizes the look that Chris gives him—it's one he's thrown her way more than once in their time. Chris is scared, but more than that, she trusts him.
They've told one another before that they trust each other with their own lives.
This feels a lot more dangerous than flying bullets or bombs.
Taking a deep breath, Street takes a moment to separate the feelings swimming in his stomach into the things he can't act upon and the things he can.
"You can stay here. For as long as you need to."
His hands are resting firmly on her arms, steady as he speaks.
"At least for tonight. We can figure everything else out tomorrow, but you're here tonight. Is that okay?"
Street's tone is soft but sure, a safety net that keeps Chris from hitting rock bottom.
"Yeah. Thanks, Street." She says, nodding almost frantically as her body comes down again.
Chris averts her eyes, so Street dips until he can see them again, not giving her a chance to feel like a burden.
"You're going to be okay. Are you hungry?"
Chris lets Street's words sink in and take the edge off the feeling of her stomach bottoming out. Shaking her head, her eyes flick to her backpack and then back to him.
"Just tired, and my head is pounding."
Street nods, knowing the feeling. Before he steps back, he runs his hands down her arms and gives hers a light squeeze.
"If you want to change, I'll get the couch set up?"
She's surprised, but appreciates that he doesn't offer his bed or Luca's, saving her a purposeless conversation she doesn't have the energy for. Chris grabs her backpack and feels Street's eyes on her as she turns into the hallway and then the bathroom.
Street exhales once Chris is out of his sight, a tingling sensation running up his entire body. He breathes in and holds until it starts to dissipate.
Street shakes off the rest and turns his attention towards the couch. He and Luca mutually agreed on a pullout couch, both having spent enough of their lives bouncing from one friend's to another, but he doesn't know what to make of Chris being the first one in a position to need it.
He doesn't think she knows what to make of it, which feels even worse.
Routing through her backpack, Chris is glad she had the wherewithal to shove some necessities into her backpack before throwing the rest of it haphazardly into boxes. She pulls her pajamas on, an old band shirt worn soft with age and shorts, and runs a hand through her hair once she's upright.
Her face doesn't look like her own, her mind spinning again and questioning every choice she's made, every aspect of who she thought she was.
You're not the one who gets yourself into shit like this. Your life doesn't explode.
It does, evidently.
It has.
Chris knows that she realistically can't ask herself to be fine after something so huge, but that doesn't stop the pressure from building in her chest.
The expectation that she should be fine, that she has to be. Because it's her own fault for taking this risk when she knows better.
So this disappointment in herself is well-deserved.
And the unforgettable, nagging feeling that there's somehow still someone out there that would make it all worth it.
(That she's maybe standing in his bathroom.)
Swallowing, Chris squeezes her eyes shut until she sees static and her mind quiets. She needs it to stop— the guilt, the doubt, the irrationality over her and Street. All of it is too much, and she splashes her face with cold water to shock herself out of it. When she raises her head, black streaks of mascara and eyeliner run down her cheeks, red and puffy from crying.
Taking a deep breath, Chris grabs a new hand towel from under the sink, wets it, and buries her face in it. The sensation of wiping off the grime and makeup, even if just with water, is soothing enough to make breathing a little easier. She tosses the used towel in the basket behind the door and notices how much slower her pulse is when she prepares to go back to the living room.
Street collects extra pillows and blankets to pile them onto the pullout while he waits for Chris. Too riled up to sit down, he gets two glasses of water and then makes two cups of tea, running out of coasters before he can set all of them down.
He's contemplating making toast despite her insistence that she isn't hungry when his train of thought is broken by her quiet steps on the hardwood.
He catches sight of her, leaning on her side against the wall, all long legs and mussed hair illuminated by the hallway light.
Street's never been a believer, but this is enough to make him one.
In a flash, Street turns back towards the couch to remember those boxes he made her earlier before facing her again.
"Hey, feeling any better?" Street asks. Chris nods, crossing the few steps to the couch and sitting on the edge. She looks up at him and he catches the fractures in her eyes, wishing he could take them away.
"Yeah, thanks," Chris says softly. She spins to sit against the back of the pillows he's propped up, pulling a blanket over her legs while he hands her a cup of tea.
"If you get hungry, let me know. We've got a lot of quick stuff."
Chris nods again, fingers tapping the side of the mug, and she's unsure of what to say until the moment builds too much and something forces itself out of her chest.
"You can sit down."
Like snapping out of a trance, Street sits almost immediately at her words, staying on top of the covers. He's not sure why he was standing, some unforeseen notion of not wanting to cross any of her lines, but Chris doesn't have the power to keep up with her own rules right now with how shitty she feels.
Sipping her tea, Chris looks over at Street.
"Thanks, again."
"Of course," he says with a smile. Tracing his gaze over her, Chris's shoulders are still high with tension, and Street refrains from running a hand down her back. He pulls his knees up and circles his arms around them.
"Do you want to talk about anything else that happened?" Street asks. "No pressure."
Chris exhales heavily and looks into the swirling of her tea, hoping it can give her some kind of omen for whatever's next to come. She shrugs.
"I love Kira more than Ty. Kira loves Ty more than me. Same thing that happened with their last ex. They're going to choose each other." As soon as she's finished, Chris takes another shaky sip, waiting for Street's response.
"That's really hard, Chris, I'm sorry. I know you wanted to make it work with them."
The genuineness in his voice comes as a surprise, although she isn't sure why. He was the one she first went to when this situation began to unfold, and he's never been anything but supportive.
She almost wishes he'd say something snarky and judgmental, to validate how she's talking to herself.
Instead, he takes away her fear that everything is against her.
Chris nods, bending her own knees.
"They were my first real, serious relationship since Thompson." She admits, sheepish and not meeting Street's eyes.
He recovers quickly, wanting to ask more, but she keeps talking.
"I'd had flings, a few dates. But nothing long term, especially with the move from K9 to SWAT. There was always too much to prove or too much work to be invested in anything but the job."
And you.
It goes unsaid, but the thought comes to Chris's mind and sticks there.
Since day one, she's been making exceptions and turning her life upside down to fit Jim Street into it.
Shaking the thought away and hoping Street didn't notice, more words spill out of Chris.
"It felt right, nice, to try again with them. Now I feel like a fucking idiot. Deacon and Annie, my family…" Chris trails off, and Street understands.
"You've never cared what people think of you before, Chris," he reminds her, same as he did when she first posed all this to him. "That doesn't mean it's easy, but you're an adult who made her choice, and they all need to respect that regardless."
A scoff escapes Chris.
"You've met my family. They love me, but they also love to question my identity and relationships. This is only fuel for that fire."
Hurt is creeping back into her voice, and Street reaches out a hand to rest on her back, inching closer.
"I wish there was more I could say, Chris. All that I can promise is that I'm here for you. I'll defend you against anything they have to say."
Through her bangs, Chris's eyes float over to him, and she smiles small. With his one hand already on her back, Chris leans the rest of the way into him, sighing as the weight of holding herself up is relieved.
Street's nails gently graze her back, and he waits a second for their bodies to settle into one another's.
"Is there anything else, Chris? Anything I can do?"
She hears more than a few questions in those two. Biting her lip, the words bounce back and forth in her mind as Chris contemplates asking what she's dying to know, though she's managed to bury her reasons why.
"How are things with Molly?"
Street freezes. Looking down, he sees Chris watching him in her periphery, and he shrugs.
"It's good, still new, you know. Why do you ask?"
She doesn't have an answer for him.
"I'm glad." She says instead, thinking of all the legwork she did for the both of them to finally reach out for the other. "You deserve to be happy."
Chris looks away, redirecting her attention to her drink, and Street's glad for it so she doesn't see the doubt that crosses his face.
"So do you, Chris."
You make me happy. She thinks, and then sighs, fatigue washing over her and body sliding further down into the pullout.
"You're sure you don't want something to eat?" Street asks again, trying to find his footing somewhere else. Chris shakes her head, murmurs a 'no.'
Nodding, Street risks another glance down at her and finds her eyes fixed halfheartedly on the TV. Her limit for conversation has been hit, he can tell, and he leaves a hand on her shoulder to keep her from jostling as he reaches for the remote.
"Any requests?"
"Whatever you want." Chris says, adjusting one pillow behind her back and hugging another to her chest as she settles on her side, the pillow and her head resting against Street's torso. She feels his hand on her shoulder like an anchor and tries to memorize the weight of it.
After a minute of scrolling, Street finds a cooking show that Luca recorded. They only make it through the second round before Chris's eyes are sliding shut of their own volition, the dishes on the screen blurring together.
"Sorry," She murmurs, moving off Street's side so he isn't stuck underneath her and lying just on the mattress. Glancing down, he gives her a soft smile.
"It's okay. You can stay there if you want."
Chris wants to, but an image of Molly floats by, and that's not something she has in her right now so she stays where she is, save reaching a hand out from under the blanket to find his.
By the end of the episode, Chris's breathing is even, and Street smiles down at her. Carefully, he takes his hand out of hers and lifts himself off the couch, watching to make sure the springs don't make a noise.
He picks up the glasses and sets them on the kitchen island before turning off the TV and flipping off the lamp, shrouding the living room in darkness except for the glow of the arcade machine.
"Night, Chris," he whispers, though he knows she won't hear him. It's an odd feeling, indistinguishable at the hour, but he thinks those boxes he was so adamant about making earlier are crashing back together. Looking back at Chris from the dim light of the hallway, Street's knows there's no separating them.
Street closes the door to his room and sits on the edge of his bed, rolling out his neck. His phone's been charging since soon after Chris called, and when he unlocks it, he sees a barrage of texts, a few from Tan and Luca, one from an old Long Beach pal, but mostly from Molly.
Switching off the light and lying back onto his pillows, Street scrolls through the texts. He reads them over-and-over, messages from her asking if he's okay and about the plans for the following evening, and blows out a breath.
Street doesn't know how to respond. He'd know if he could ask Chris her opinion, but she's the one person he can't go to because she's the whole reason his mind is spinning in the first place. Not wanting to cause any undue anxiety, Street sends a quick apology for being absent, and promises to confirm everything in the morning.
He goes to bed contemplating a single message.
Molly, I think we need to talk.
-x-
Hello! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! This one was so much fun to write- I'm sure I'm not the only one who was hoping Street would answer when she called. I have one extended/divergent work based off 3x8 and another work from 3x12 coming up for this series! Not sure what after that, but I'm trying to get those done before I start anything else lol. If there's anything you'd like to see, let me know! Comments/kudos are appreciated 3 3 Stay liquid! Xo, Allie