If Street knew how his day was going to go, he would've called in sick. He leaves Chris in their bed with a kiss on her forehead and her half-asleep, "Love you. Be safe." Aspen, the German shepherd she adopted after he was retired from LAPD, lifts his head in goodbye, but wastes no time in cuddling up in the now-empty spot against her chest.

Everything is normal until just after lunch, when a silent alarm tips them off to another in a long line of bank robberies. It doesn't settle on him until he sees the map of LA and remembers the to-do list he saw scrawled in a notebook left on the counter. At the time, he rolled his eyes at her clutter and threw the notebook back on her desk, but now his heart won't beat in his chest.

"Street? What's wrong?" Hondo asks. Waving him off, Street pulls out his phone and dials.

"C'mon, Babe. Pick up. Please pick up."

"Chris Alonso. Leave a message!" Plays immediately, making it clear that her phone is on silent or off. He grips the device and tells himself not to freak out before he has any proof, but the team is staring at him, and he has no choice but to share.

"That's Chris's bank. I think she was going there today, and she's not answering her phone."

Chris's heart is pounding. From the second two masked men stormed into the bank, guns blazing and screaming for everyone to get on the ground, her body and her brain have been warring with each other.

You're unarmed. The bank manager tripped the silent alarm. Stay down, wait it out. Do not get killed.

She knows she's right. But the terrified faces of the other in the bank—children huddled against parents, a bus full of seniors, people just trying to live their lives—spurs her into action. Cataloging the pile of belongings on the tile floor, she spies a lanyard long enough to do the job, and carefully reaches out until she can grab it, her eyes never leaving the suspect. She sees one of the security guards tilt their head at her, but shakes her head to keep them from doing anything yet.

If this goes south, she won't be responsible for anyone else's death.

On instinct, her eyes check all the possible exit points, and she tests the strength of the lanyard to make sure it won't snap. Satisfied with her findings, she takes the deepest breath she can, and gets to her feet. It almost feels like her first day on SWAT, legs not as steady as they would eventually become, confidence not as strong.

The need to protect and serve, however, hasn't changed since her first day at the academy. Once she's got her footing, she springs into action before her mind can tell her to sit back down.

Her training comes back to her like she never left. The barrel tackle comes from the left before the man has even realized she's standing, the pain of her elbow hitting marble quickly fading against rushing adrenaline. His head smacks the ground hard enough to knock any possible yell out of him, and she uses it to her advantage to get an arm around his neck. Counting her breaths, she waits until he goes limp to kick the gun far enough away and tie his hands. Everyone's eyes bore into her, but she lets them roll off to find the clock.

"Come here." She says to the guard, just loud enough for him to hear. Her hand is in his pocket for zip ties, some sliding into her own pocket and the rest securing the man fully.

"We've got maybe two minutes until the other one is done. Give me your taser, and get him and the hostages out of here." She sees the doubt in the middle-aged man's eyes, as if he's faced a quarter of the things she has, and she bites back her temper.

"I'm a former SWAT officer. Now go. Take this with you and keep it secure."

Chris eyes the gun, but there's no way it's legal, and the last thing she wants is trouble for herself. Her expert hands get it disengaged, handing it over to the other security guard who's helping usher the shaking customers through the bulletproof doors.

This isn't going down without a fight. She thinks. He'll rush to the street and shoot anything that moves before he lets her zip tie his wrists. Surveying the now-cavernous room, she tucks the taser into the back of her waistband, and sneaks behind the only door he can open to get back to the lobby.

Do not blow this, Alonso.

The moment the door opens, she watches as he processes the lack of bodies, and then she moves. Her only goal is to get the gun out of his hands, even when he turns and fires a round that only misses her by an inch. Nails to his face, she uses her other hand to butt the gun upwards, sending it spiraling from his grip.

Diving towards the weapon, Chris kicks her legs when she feels a wrist wrap around it.

"Get off!" She shouts. The man doesn't, not that she expects him to, and she has no choice but to wrench her body onto her back to keep him from getting her taser. The memory of a heat only possible from a burning car in the middle of the desert ghost town licks her face, terror racing through her veins.

Just get the gun. Get the fucking gun.

Finally, her fingers curl around the stock. It's heavy in her grip, but she braces herself and swings it towards his face. The shock of the impact makes him let go of her. She scrambles back to her feet, chucking the weapon as far away as she can behind the counters, hoping it's far enough. If she were in full gear, she'd taunt him now that it's just them.

His weight crashes into her too fast for that to happen. Her head connects with mahogany and drips maroon, a groan escaping. Foregoing touching the wound to assess the damage, she reaches for anything she can use to fend him off. Her fingers wrap around a pen. She clicks it and stabs his shoulder as hard as she can, piercing through shirt and skin and eliciting a scream that she uses as a distraction to pull out the taser.

The prongs hit his side and sends his body seizing. Again, she counts her breaths and holds her wrist steady with her other hand so she doesn't let go until she's sure he's unconscious. She zip-ties his wrists and ankles, and then slides one more through the make-do cuffs to attach him to one of the bolted decorative bars. The taser is kicked across the floor for good measure. She watches it slide until it hits a wall, adrenaline still flowing, and flutters her fingers over her forehead, wincing at the upset nerves, grimacing when they come away sticky and hot. She grabs a wad of tissues to hold pressure, and then grabs her phone and wallet from the pile.

"Gun." Chris mutters to herself. The direct order plays on loop as she bumps open the entry gate with her hip and spots the now-unimposing gun. Before she gets to it, her eyes catch an empty box, and she tosses it over the counter to stick all the personal items in.

"You good, Street?" Deacon asks across Black Betty. His knuckles are white around his gun and his jaw is clenched so tight he's getting a headache, but he nods.

"I'm good."

Luca pulls to a stop, and as the team jumps from the truck, confusion washes across their faces. Two security guards have one man in cuffs, and there's a sea of scared people huddled a few doorways down.

"What's going on, man?" Hondo asks the other guard, handing off the gun to Tan.

"One more suspect inside, and one female civilian. She took down that one and stayed behind while we got the other hostages out, maybe five minutes ago. Said she's a former SWAT officer. The gunman has the same weapon, and she took a taser. No shots fired."

Each word confirms Street's worst fear, his neck craning but unable to see anything through the crowd. He forces himself into deep breaths while Hondo calls Deacon back and they get into formation.

"We go in hot, but careful. If you don't have a clean shot, don't take it. Let's go."

Busting through the crowd, unis finally arriving to create a perimeter, they freeze again once they're in the mess of the lobby. One man sits in a haze, just starting to wake up and struggling against makeshift restraints. Street feels his heart breathing start to go shallow as Chris is nowhere to be seen.

A groan from behind the counter sends him flying in that direction. Hondo and Deacon follow, already talking.

"Chris?"

Shaking off how scatterbrained she is, Chris grabs the gun and stands with a groan before she falls forward. Her mind is just figuring out how to get it apart when the doors bust open and familiar voices assault her hearing.

"Chris? Chris!"

Luca and Tan hang back to deal with the suspect, replacing plastic with sleek metal and leaving his facemask behind. Hondo, Deacon, and Street are on her in a second, taking the weapon and all talking at once until she raises a hand to shut them up.

"How'd you know I was here?" She looks between the three of them, uncertain of their raised eyebrows and concerned looks.

"Security guard outside told us there was one female customer still in the bank, ex-SWAT. It's a short list."

"Oh." She looks at them and then at the surrounding scene, shrugging. "Well, they're taken care of. Someone should write this down, because I'm not repeating it."

She launches into her statement, letting bloodied wads of tissue fall and replacing them with fresh white ones as she goes. When she's done, she sighs. The rush is starting to fade, exhaustion and a foreign discomfort replacing it.

The more he listens to her talk, the more aggravated Street becomes. Every one of his cells lights up with fear at each new detail, followed by confusion over why she'd put herself in harm's way. Completely unarmed and alone. He can feel his jaw getting closer to the floor and snaps it closed, clearing his throat.

"We're good here? I have a date with my shower." She breaks him from his thoughts, though he's too stunned to speak.

"You have a date with the EMTs outside to make sure you don't need to go to the hospital." Deacon corrects her. He punctuates his sentence with a look that lets her know it's not an ask, it's an order, and she'd roll her eyes if it didn't hurt so goddamn bad. She sees him look at Street to make sure she gets seen, and then he and Hondo leave to finish processing the scene.

Her path outside is interrupted by a firm grip on her elbow holding her in place. She turns to see Street, his jaw tense and eyes sharp.

"What were you thinking?" He spits through gritted teeth. Her eyes widen, trying and failing to shake him off.

"We're not—"

"Like hell we're not doing this now. You could've been killed, do you realize that?"

Fury flares in her stomach, the come down starting to make her feel off-kilter and out of control. Her voice shakes under the effort it takes to stay calm.

"These people were scared and in danger. Someone had to do something, and I was the only one who could."

"SWAT was on the way. You were reckless for no reason!"

"How dare you—I stopped them! Everything is fine." She argues.

"You're not fine!" Street tries, his fear making him shout and drawing others' attention . But the conversation is too far gone, her eyes narrow with distrust. Her voice drops to a raspy whisper. It's worse than any yell.

"You're right. My head is killing me. So let me go so I can get checked out and go home." Ripping her arm out of his grip, his hand falls limp at his side. His footsteps echo but she turns back around to stop him in his tracks, not caring about the team looking on. "Do not follow me!"

With that, she slips outside and under the crime scene tape to a waiting paramedic.

She's halfway home when her tears blur her vision too much to see the road. Shallow breaths start to race as she pulls into a random parking lot and cuts her engine, each more painful than the last. Her knuckles are white around the steering wheel as countless "what-ifs" play in her mind.

It used to happen all the time after hard cases, but then she was always surrounded by her team. The feeling is heavier, more terrifying in the loneliness of her cab. She manages to uncap the bottle in her cupholder and down it, the water disgustingly hot but at least enough to take the edge off. Wiping her cheeks with her sleeve, she struggles through a deep breath and knows she needs to get home before the fatigue from the panic truly sinks in.

She glances at her phone where she threw it on the other seat. You can call him, she thinks, but their fight is fresh in her mind and the last thing she wants is to rehash that, too. After turning her phone off completely she pulls onto the road.

It's another ten minutes before she gets to her apartment and trudges up the stairs. She's welcomed by Aspen, and takes comfort in his soft fur and the weight of his head against her thigh. Her backpack, shoes, and jacket end up in a pile by the door, her phone on the counter. All she wants is to put pajamas on and curl up in bed with her dog, but, while the pain meds are still keeping her injuries at bay, she slips into the shower.

Breathing in the steam, her fingers dance over the slowly-appearing bruises on her elbow and torso. Her whole body shakes as light pink swirls down the drain. Again, she wishes Street were there, but she shoves the thought away to run a washcloth over herself and wash her hair. The shock of cold air helps ground her when she's done.

Chris grabs the first shirt she can, which happens to be one of his. It's soft and familiar where it falls on her body, hitting lower than her sleep shorts do. Glancing at the clock, it's past two pm, and her stomach grumbles but the call of her bed is too strong to fight.

"C'mon," she calls Aspen. The dog jumps onto the bed and circles a few times before plopping down next to her. He nuzzles into her and she buries her face in his fur while her other hand reaches blindly for the remote. Settling on a marathon of home remodeling shows, she tries to relax.

The show becomes nothing more than background noise as each attempt to block out the robbery fails faster than the previous. Commands to breathe fall on deaf ears. Aspen tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing with worry, and she holds him closer. Tears roll down her cheeks and are caught by his shoulder.

Sleep comes in relief only when the pain medications start to wear off and the energy it takes to be awake is energy she doesn't have anymore.

His anger morphs into realization and guilt mere minutes after she leaves. All he wants is to apologize and hold her. To make sure she's okay in the way he couldn't in the midst of his fear.

He silently debates staying at the house the rest of the day. In the time it takes him to change, he steadies his breathing and decides they aren't breaking their "no going to bed angry" streak now. As hard as it's been, and as hard as this will be, he'll use the key she gave him and they'll figure this out.

Just in case, he knocks before entering. The apartment is quiet, the beginnings of sunset starting to speckle in through the windows, and he's quiet as he takes off his shoes and jacket. Seeing her things thrown in a messy pile twists his stomach. He hangs her jacket next to his and sets her backpack on one of the barstools. Her phone is on the counter, and he makes a note to turn it back on later so she can respond to the texts he's sure the team has sent her, if she wants.

"Chris, Babe?"

Blankets rustle. He holds his breath.

"Come in."

Her voice is soft, and he presses the door open to see her sitting up against the headboard, her knees bent towards her chest and Aspen's head pillowed on her thighs. Under the dim light of the nightstand lamp, he catches the bruise that's broken the confines of the square bandage on her forehead, and the repetitive way she strokes Aspen's head to self-soothe. Normally, he'd cross the carpet and kiss her, but he wants to maintain space if that's what she wants, so he changes into pajamas and sets out his clothes for the next day. Her eyes stay fixed on him the entire time.

"Sit?" She asks, when the only reason he has to be gripping their dresser is to keep from turning around and facing her. He relaxes at the invitation, and flicks his eyes to hers before sliding underneath the covers. Aspen lies between them like a barrier, but she nudges him with her knee and he begrudgingly moves to the end of the bed, both laughing softly at his expression. Swallowing, the familiarity of his person and the safety it brings her is too much to deny, and she adjusts so their shoulders touch.

"How was the rest of your day?" She asks. He has to stop himself from clenching his fist, recognizing that she's just as upset by the whole ordeal as he is, and trying her best, too. Without Aspen, her fingers tremor on top of the covers. He moves so his pinky brushes against hers. The silent support works, a little of the tension draining from her.

"It was fine. No other calls, so paperwork, mostly. I'm sorry for how I reacted earlier."

She can't choke back the distress in her voice completely, shaking her head.

"Let's not. Please, not yet." Her tone is adamant but pleading, and he risks squeezing her hand.

"Okay. Do you need anything? Have you eaten?"

His question makes her aware of her own body for the first time since she laid down. A low, pulsating pain runs like an undercurrent through her arm and forehead, and her stomach is cramping for food. She shakes her head again, this time less urgent.

"Tylenol, I guess. And no, but I don't have an appetite."

Feet back on the carpet, he tucks the blanket up higher around her and runs his hand down her arm.

"Give me a few."

The sweet smell of cinnamon sugar pulls her from her cyclical thoughts. Street returns with two water bottles and one plate adorned only with two slices of toast, cut into triangles, and half a banana. Chris wrinkles her nose at the fruit but her hand is reaching for the plate before he's sat down, savoring a sugary, buttery, delicious bite. A tiny moan slips through her lips, making him smile, a napkin floating into her lap.

They're quiet while they eat save her thanking him, and after he sets the plate on the nightstand he tips two painkillers into his hand and passes them over. With food in her stomach and the warm weight of Aspen on her feet, she takes a deep breath and lets it out slow through her mouth. He's watching her carefully, cataloging each muscle in her face as it moves, until she looks at him.

"How are you?" He asks again, soft, seeing nothing but her. A hand comes up to brush his thumb over the bandage. She forces herself to hold his gaze, the words taking a long moment to come to her.

"Physically, I'm fine. But honestly, pretty freaked out by the whole thing. Confused."

He doesn't understand, his mouth opening as he searches for what to say, but she continues, sliding her hand into his and interlocking their fingers. Her voice grows thicker with each word.

"It was scary. They came in shooting and yelling. My instincts were on fire to do something because that's what I've always done, but I knew that I was alone and unarmed. I knew how quickly things could go south, and I couldn't stop myself. It was like a pit opened up in my stomach that was going to swallow me whole if I did."

She shivers as the weight of the day hits her in full force. The faces of the other people are seared into her mind in full color, and when he closes the gap between them to pull her into his side, she takes the relief of burying her face in his shoulder to block them out. He doesn't say anything while she collects herself, wiping away a tear when she's done.

"It's a different come down on this side of it. I'm so used to busting down doors with a team, to being the person others are looking to. Now a weird dissonance thing is happening."

The more she talks, the more she sounds like herself. He's grateful for that, and he doesn't take her opening up to him for granted considering his reaction. His gaze falls in his shame but she squeezes his hand.

"I get it. If you'd done what I did, I'd be upset. But, Street, I'd do it again."

"That's still not an excuse for what I said," he counters quickly. "I let my fear of losing you take over, and I blamed you for saving 15 other people instead of the robbers for putting you in that position. You needed my support. I'm sorry, Chris. And if, God forbid, something happens again, I'll be there. I promise."

Her lips are perfect where they leave a kiss on his face, just above his jawline.

"Can we let it go for now? As upset as I was, all I've wanted since I left that stupid bank was you. This."

"Me, too," he exhales, kisses her forehead. "All day, I couldn't shake the thought of if something happened to you. It was bad when you were SWAT, but now—I can't lose you."

She smiles sympathetic at the memory, and her fingers light him up when she turns his face to hers to kiss him.

"You won't. Not now that you've got me."

Burying his face in her hair, he breathes in her shampoo and swallows back his tears. Even though he knows his anxiety is going to take much longer to settle down, he tries to take solace in the terror of the day finally being over and they're together.

"I love you." He murmurs.

"I love you, too." Her lips find his again, separating only when Aspen butts his head in between their chests. She laughs at the interruption and how Street rolls his eyes, and it falls like a song onto his ears.

"We love you, too."

Satisfied with the attention, Aspen lies down half on the comforter and half over Chris's legs. She pets him absentmindedly, resting her head against Street's shoulder with a sigh. He runs his arm down hers and sets it on the strip of exposed skin where her shirt rides up. Her humming makes him dig his fingers into her further, though still soft, and she drops her lips to his neck.

"I don't know what I can get him to do to like me better." Street laments, whining enough to make her throw a fake pout in his direction, and laugh again.

"He does like you, he just likes me better. It's not my fault I literally speak his language and you don't."

"So I took Spanish in high school. Sue me for wanting to be better on the job."

He smirks, loving that he can push her buttons just right to earn a playful shove on his shoulder and a hot layer of annoyance in her voice.

"A true American hero. I took French in high school. Learned German starting the summer before senior year." She murmurs something under her breath in German, rubbing it in, and pats his shoulder at his false despondency.

"That's what I thought. He might start to like you better if he sees you taking care of me."

On cue, her stomach grumbles, and Aspen lifts his head up to look between the pair. Street nods.

"What are you in the mood for? Anything for the real hero of the day."

Chris softens at the comment, dropping her gaze down to her hands. Memories flood her mind, not only of the day but of her years as 24-David, every victory and defeat playing like a movie.

"I'm not a hero." She mumbles, and shakes her head to try to clear how overwhelmed she feels again. Sensing the change, he brings her gaze to his and keeps his voice even. His eyes can't help but flick to the bandage on her forehead, but it only fuels his need to create some peace.

"You're my hero. Every day, from the first day I met you. When you told me you liked, what was it? Dogs, not dawgs. So how about we do burgers for dinner?"

She laughs, wholeheartedly this time, and cuddles closer to show her appreciation for how he always manages to cool her self-inflicted heat.

"It's still true. Burgers sound great, thank you." She disentangles them, but tilts her head when he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up his face and he's halfway through the order before he looks up at her.

"Oh, no, I'm ordering from Paul's. While we wait, we've got Bake Off to catch up on."

Trading the phone for the remote, he brings her TV to life and navigates easily to the show, while she wrestles the throw blanket out from under Aspen and nudges him over before he can wedge himself between her and Street.

They both know there's more to talk about. Fears and hard feelings that will crop up in the hours between now and sunrise, but until then they're okay. Her laugh fills up the bedroom and his fingers brush against her spine, and it's all the long stretches of easy silence and sweet safety they've ever wanted.

hi, all! thank you for reading- i hope you liked this one! after writing "we always knew you were the better half of our good times," i wanted to explore Chris taking care of a situation by herself, the reaction of Street/the team, and both her and Street's feelings of what happened. i've been really into them just talking and all the domestic fluff lately, and i had a lot of fun writing the end of this with them talking about Aspen and being together. as always, thank you for all the lovely comments (and letting me know what i missed in s7 lol), and the kudos/etc. please feel free to leave prompts/suggestions, too. until next time! (and new aost soon :)) xo, A title from 'sweet nothing' by taylor swift