tw: discussion of aftermath of torture/graphic injuries, discussion of violence against children (brief), discussion of sexual assault, panic attacks
The first thing Chris becomes aware of when she starts to come to is something obstructing her throat. Her eyes are heavy and someone is holding her hand and something is beeping but it sounds far away. Her head hurts. Like someone slammed it against the ground, picked it up, and then slammed it again.
It takes her a few minutes to overcome the weight on her eyelids and blink them open to see blurry figures above her. They all look some combination of relieved and concerned but are quickly shuffled away by people she can only assume are medical. Whatever they say swims around her like alphabet soup.
"It's okay, Officer Alonso," one of them starts, a hand on her shoulder to soothe her. "You're intubated, so you can't talk. Try to stay still for me, okay?"
Chris tries to nod, tries to look sure of herself, though the doctors share a look and then there's a hand on her other shoulder, too. The hands remain on her as the nurses check her vitals and adjust the wires around her and shine a light in her eyes that makes her wince.
With each passing second it becomes harder to stay awake. Sleep pulls at her, spawning from her stomach and spreading out until all she wants is to close her eyes and for everything to be dark and quiet again. The doctors crowd around her so she can't see who's behind them. She's fading fast, she can feel it, and she just gets a glance at Street's face when a nurse moves to the left before she falls asleep again.
The scene barely changes as she continues to drift in and out of consciousness through the night and into the next morning. It seems like a nurse has taken permanent residence in her room, there every time she opens her eyes. She tells Chris she's okay and explains what she's doing, but Chris isn't awake long enough to remember anything.
Her instinct when she does wake is to move, to look and see who's holding her hands, but she's trapped under the haze of drugs and tubes and bandages.
"Hey, hey, no, you're okay." Street's gentle voice reaches her as she fails at another feeble attempt to turn her head. His hand not holding hers finds her forehead, warm and steady as he brushes back the hair that's fallen around her face and the tears that roll down her cheeks.
"Don't try to move, Babe," Street keeps his tone as even as possible around his own heartbreak, not caring about hiding a pet name in the presence of the team. "Rest, it's okay. I got you."
She can't follow any of what the team chimes in, but lets the rich, familiar warmth of their voices lull her to sleep.
When Chris wakes up, really wakes up, for the first time, it's just as the doctors are preparing to extubate her. The blonde nurse has a hand on her shoulder and tells her in a calm voice, again, that she's okay.
There's movement above her, gloved hands passing tools back-and-forth, and then she feels the tube sliding out. The nurse's hand on her shoulder and voice in her ear is the only thing keeping her calm as tears come to her eyes from the discomfort.
The team stands back against the wall, wanting nothing more than to go to her, but knowing the doctors can help more than they can. They watch, hands on shoulders, as they remove the tube from Chris's throat and then check her vitals, jotting down a million things in her chart as they adjust machine dials and medication levels.
As soon as the tube is gone, it's replaced by a cannula that's looped over her ears and under her nose. The plastic is cool and the weight of it feels odd, but less invasive. Before she can register it, there's a cup with a straw being held out in front of her.
"Slow sips." The nurse warns with a small smile.
The water is indescribably calming in her mouth, ridding her of the dryness that felt like sandpaper. She settles further back into the pillows once she's done drinking. The other nurses flutter around her for a lifetime, poking and prodding and writing things down. When they finally leave, the room seems bigger.
Dr. Richardson pulls a stool around to sit at her side and the team steps closer. She isn't sure where to look. Expectation settles on her like an old cardigan, too late to shake off once it's there.
A million questions rush to her, but they're cut off by a pad and pen being sat on her lap.
"Hi, Chris," the Doctor introduces himself. "I'm Dr. Richardson. I need to ask you a few questions, but if speaking is too difficult, you can write instead. Make sense?"
Nervousness runs through her, fear of what may, or may not, come out of her mouth when she tries to speak. She's shaking, too much to hide it from Street, and he throws caution to the wind as he sits on her other side and takes her hand. She can finally squeeze back, and it feels like Heaven.
"Do we have to do this now?" He asks, voice gentle for Chris's sake but dancing dangerously close to a violent edge.
"Officer?" Dr. Richardson addresses her. It's like knives to swallow, especially with everyone's eyes piercing into her. After a slow, slight wheeze of an exhale, she nods.
"I need to know."
"Okay," Dr. Richardson continues. "Do you know where you are?"
"The hospital." She whispers, the words gravely, scraping up her throat, but she gets them out.
"Good. How are your pain levels?"
She takes stock of herself now that she isn't surrounded by chaos. Her torso aches, pain stretching over her ribs and the bruising on her skin. Her head doesn't feel much better. It hurts to move her stiff neck, and looking at something too long makes her squeeze her eyes shut to calm down the sensations.
"Bad. My head. It hurts to breathe." She feels panicky and Dr. Richardson adjusts a few dials until she relaxes, more meds flowing through her. Her grip loosens slightly in Street's but he doesn't dare stop running his thumb over her knuckles.
"I know this may be difficult to think about, but do you remember what happened to you?
Chris stops cold, ice freezing her blood. Her heart sticks in her chest, her brain feels full of electricity, and she almost wishes her answer wasn't the truth, as much as she knows the not knowing is worse. That the quick, clear flashes of memories popping into her brain were just a far off nightmare. Her hand spasms and clenches, and the team wants to step closer to squeeze it and let her know they're there. She looks anywhere but at them.
"Yes."
"Good. Do you have any questions for me before I go through everything on the medical side?"
The pen taps against the paper.
"How long was I out?" She asks, Street's stomach clenching at how vulnerable she sounds.
"About six days. It's Thursday evening now, you were admitted Friday evening."
Her sharp breath cuts through the room.
"How long until I can go home?"
Dr. Richardson gives her a soft, expectant smile, and fixes his voice to smooth over her jagged edges.
"You suffered extensive injuries, as well as a major surgery. I can't give you an exact date, but we're doing everything we can to support a full recovery, as quickly as possible."
He stops, waits to see if there's anything else, and when she gives a minute shake of her head, continues.
"I'd like to go over everything, but we don't have to right now if you'd like to get some more rest. That's the most crucial part of your healing."
"Tell me." Chris chokes out, feeling exposed and unnervingly unlike herself. She knows that, once she knows, she'll feel better, the uncertainty always having been the worst. She also knows that the team has likely heard all of this already, but the idea of them knowing it all isn't any less horrifying.
Dr. Richardson goes through every scratch and stitch until it's enough to make her head spin. Whatever he brings up, she can feel even with all the meds pumping through her. She can't bring herself to look at the team for their reactions.
"A severe concussion." From having your head slammed into the wall.
"Burns." From cigarette ash hot on your skin.
"Swelling and bruising of the neck." From hands squeezing until you couldn't breathe.
Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. Dehydration. Infection.
By the time Dr. Richardson's run from the crown of her head to her toes, Chris is exhausted in a way that forms a wall between her and the rest of the world. He asks again if she has any questions, and she shakes her head, barely able to think straight. Her mind just shoves everything into the "trauma" box, that's already filled to the brim.
"I know this was a lot. Get some more rest, and if you need anything or start to feel pain, don't hesitate to hit the call button. Your team will be here and it will get easier. We're going to take good care of you, Officer Alonso." Dr. Richardson shakes her hand and goes to leave, Chris closing her eyes.
Before he can get out the door, her eyes slam open, and her breath speeds up, stomach sinking as reality comes into focus again. Chris's voice is loud and scratchy, no mistaking the question, nor her fear.
"Wait! Did you run a rape kit?"
The air is sucked out of the room, and it's only due to years of experience that Dr. Richardson turns his face into a mask before he walks back over and speaks.
It offers Chris no comfort— she's had enough experience giving people bad news to know why you need a mask.
"No. Your labs were negative for STIs, and the external exam didn't find any seminal fluid or indicative injuries. However, hospital policy means we didn't complete an internal SAFE kit. We can, but it's likely—"
"Likely internal evidence is already compromised or degraded. I know. It's fine."
Her jaw is locked, body wound tighter than a spring, gaze hard as steel but seeing nothing, and the team shares concerned looks that they hope she doesn't catch.
"Officer," Dr. Richardson says, voice low, "if you were assaulted, we can do the exam to find and save any evidence to help with prosecution."
She gives a shake of her head, voice cold to hide everything else rushing through her.
"They—there were threats." Chris admits, averting her gaze especially from Street's. "But they were waiting for Huevo to let them, and he didn't. So if you didn't find clear evidence of rape, then it didn't happen. Not—"
Chris's voice breaks, all her energy leaving her in one fellow swoop. Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallows with a wince and then blinks them open. Her words are choppy and on the brink of giving out on her.
"Sexual battery. Not rape."
It's flimsy, but it's the only thought she can offer herself for comfort, even as long as she's been telling other victims that there's no qualifying assault, even if the law does.
"It was only battery." She mumbles, clearly to herself.
Dr. Richardson gives her a moment, looking her up and down and wanting to see if she'll say any more or need anything else, but she's silent.
"Okay. If you need anything, hit the call button."
Chris nods, letting silence again take over the small room as the door clicks closed.
"Chris?" Hondo asks, voice lower than normal.
Her eyes blink open and it's clear the heaviness that's hanging on every inch of her. Even though they've been here the entire time, it's shocking how wrecked she looks. There's the tension of unasked questions floating in the air, but they leave them be.
In the unfamiliar room, with pain coursing through her, she knows she still doesn't have any control. Her brain starts to churn before her body fully settles back into the reality that she's alive and awake. A cacophony of questions reverberates in her mind like countless people shouting, indistinguishable and overwhelming. Whether she can face it or not, the weight of what she's been through is on her chest and it's suffocating her. Huevo's voice breaks through it all, clear as a bell, and all her systems tell her danger is imminent.
"I need to get out of here," Chris says, so quiet under her breath that no one else hears it. She tries to take a breath, but all that happens is a cough as sharp as a knife in her chest. She tries again.
"What, Chris?" Deacon asks, a shared look of concern blanketing her. Ignoring them, she clenches her hands into fists and presses scabbed knuckles against the hospital mattress. Her muscles burn and shake under the effort she's exerting to hold herself up, trying to turn so she can slide to the edge of the bed. It's infuriating how her body won't listen to her. More failed attempts only worsen her panic, and she feels her heart beat speed up beyond her control. Her psyche flies past the screaming protests of her battered body as the walls close in. Street sees the change and it stops his heart.
"Chris?" She hears, in different voices that aren't unfamiliar, but aren't comforting with how trapped she feels. Other pieces of sentences come to her, telling her to rest and stay down and asking what they can do, but all her focus is on getting her feet on the ground.
Blood rushes in Street's ears as he surveys the situation and tries to find a solution. He's been trained to help people his entire career, but now Chris is in clear distress, teetering on the edge of reality, and he feels utterly helpless. A constant, annoying beep fills the room, and then more doctors, and it's enough to spur him into action before he can think.
The monitors beep faster as her pulse accelerates and more pain flares up that she groans against. Something tells her if it doesn't stop soon, she's going to be knocked out in one way or another, and she presses a hand to her chest to try to breathe. A flurry of footsteps and the door blowing open only confirm her theory, but she's too far gone to recognize it.
"Wait. Give us a minute, please," Tan and Luca say, unsure of what to do but knowing more strangers in the room won't help. None of the medical staff look happy, but between Luca's frame and Deacon and Hondo's glares, they wait by the door. Street waves off all of them, jerking his head to try to get them to leave her alone.
She tries to stand again and falls back onto the mattress with a grunt, tears rushing down her face. His stomach forms a tighter knot, tears of his own starting to pool, and he looks back over his shoulder at the crowd after he kneels in front of her.
"Please," he pleads, hoping she can't hear this since shame and embarrassment are two of the last things she deserves to feel right now. "Go. I'll get you if she needs you. Please."
Sharp words are said that he doesn't hear, nor does he care to, followed by the door closing. The machines are still beeping, but at least they're alone, and that makes Street feel more in control. He slides off his zip-up and sets it to the side along with his guilt for not making sure she had more time to come to before being debriefed.
"It's Street, Chris," he says, all of his effort going to keeping his tone steady. She's shaking like a leaf, still struggling to stand. Careful, he sets his hand next to hers, but doesn't touch her.
"It's Street," he repeats, just in case. "We're in the hospital. You're having a panic attack."
"I hear their voi—his voice," Chris gets out, her own voice grating between the bruising and the aftereffects of the intubation. The edges of her vision streak and tilt. It feels like it's been years since this started, and she'll give in to whatever demands someone has if it'll make it stop.
"I need it to stop. Please." She begs him. Taking a deep breath, Street tamps down the rage he feels. He wishes he'd killed Huevo.
"I know you do," he affirms, voice soft. "Chris, can I take your hand?"
It's something so simple. Something that, if her life wasn't just ripped out of her control for two weeks, he'd do without thinking on the way to the motor pool or on the couch at one of their places. If she had the energy, she'd cry harder. Instead, she gives a nod. So small, it's barely noticeable. But he knows her, and he's too aware of everything about her right now to miss anything.
He moves slowly, not wanting to startle her, and puts his hand in her hazy field of vision before he actually rests it on top of hers. On instinct, her hand flips so they're palm to palm, and her fingers curl weakly around his.
"Can you look at me?"
It's a lot to ask, he knows, and he's fully prepared for her to shake her head. To his surprise, her head slowly raises until he can see her face. In the days she was sedated, the bruising has turned an ugly concoction of dark blues and green edges over her jaw and up to her hairline. A fresh white bandage covers half her forehead, contrasting the swollen red around her eyes from crying. He bites back any reaction as his own need for physical release lights up like a gun.
She's here, Street tells himself. She's here and alive and looking at him, and that's enough. Sitting back on his heels, he offers her a small, closed-lip smile, and softly curls his fingers around hers.
"There's my girl."
It would be a relief if pain wasn't sewn into her features. Phrases of comfort come to him, followed by a slew of why they won't be comforting to her at all. She's not okay, everything is wrong.
"You're safe," he settles on, because that's a promise he can keep. She's safe in the hospital, at least physically, with 5 armed men within 30 feet who are all ready to burn down LA for her.
"It's just us. It's you and me. I'm gonna keep talking, okay? You don't have to do anything other than hear my voice."
He talks about anything he can think of, from their favorite TV shows to Duke learning a new trick, until his voice starts to scratch. Even then, he continues in a softer tone until she opens her eyes again and squeezes his hand.
"I hear you," she finally whispers, her voice slurring and her grip loosening, and he nods around the tears in his eyes. Exhaustion hits her like a steel wall, the beeping slowing steeply as her body gives out on her. A tear rolls down her face at her own vulnerability and drips onto her hand that's fallen limp into her lap.
"Good," he smiles small, bringing with it a feeling of safety she's been missing for far too long. "Do you want some fresh air? I can open the window?"
She nods, sniffling. He lets go to find his feet, but his focus remains with her. The only window that opens is a small one, barely a few inches, and he understands why but another obstacle in the way of her comfort makes him want to kill someone.
It's a breezy day at least, so sweet air reaches her and she breathes it in as much as she can. Street's quick to return to her side.
"I know this was overwhelming. Rest will help, I promise."
Her reservations are as tall as mountains, with the memories threatening her. But her body won't listen to her any more, so she has no choice but to nod. Attempts to get herself back into the bed prove futile.
"Can I help?" Sincerity and concern ride his tone in equal measure, and she shrugs like there's no other option. He wishes he could give her real agency back, but his main concern is on not doing any more damage.
He pushes the thin covers to the end of the bed first, unsure of where to start.
Now that the panic has abated, she's angry more than anything, and she senses his hesitation. Her only reprieve is going to be sleep, so she shoves aside any of her own lingering discomfort over being touched.
"Just do it, Street," she says, the conviction in her voice betrayed by how raw it sounds. Nodding, he sets one hand on her back and wedges the other under her thigh, over the hospital gown. She helps where she can, pressing when he lifts her up an inch to put her back in the center of the bed. He draws the blankets up over her legs, adjusts the pillows so they'll support her upper back and neck, and cradles her head to help her relax against them. His zip-up is draped over her arms and chest for extra warmth. Once she's settled, he exhales.
"Sleep. I'm not going anywhere," he promises. There's so much more to be said, but not yet. Her hand spasms towards his and he takes it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
She's asleep not a moment later. Unwilling to leave her, he fishes around for his phone and shoots off a text to Luca, the name nearest to the top of his messages, that she's okay. On quiet feet, the team reenters.
They find the same seats they've been in for days, Street taking comfort in the ghost of hands running along his back. A mix of emotion is splashed across their features—fear and rage—but no words are passed between them.
When Chris wakes up on Friday morning, all the questions from the previous day rush back to her, one sticking out above the rest.
"My family?" She whispers, her voice cracking. She feels more like herself, but has a sneaking suspicion about how fragile that reality is.
"What's that, Chris?" Deacon asks, leaning closer and taking her hand in his. His touch is too much, every part of her on the fritz, but she manages not to pull away and just clench her jaw.
She prepares herself for how much it's going to suck to repeat herself, the same breathy tone coming out.
"My family?"
"We've checked in with them every day." Hondo says.
"They're trying to get back from their cruise, but storms are making that hard. Hopefully they can get back here soon."
Chris winces through the jolt of vivid threats, and shakes her head, even though she'd give anything to have them here with her.
"Tell them to stay."
"Chris," Luca starts, not expecting this to be a fight they'd have. He's prepared to explain their worry for her when she speaks more adamantly.
"They don't need to come."
"Are you sure?" Luca prods further, trying to uncover what Chris isn't saying. Her voice is flat and eyes distant when she speaks.
"He threatened to kill them in front of me. He can't get to them in the middle of the ocean."
"Chris, we got him. He's not going to hurt your family." Hondo tries, but her jaw clenches tighter.
"Unless you arrested every Los Brazos, we both know Huevo can pull strings even if he's in custody."
"No, he can't." Deacon cuts in, his tone firmer than the others, but his eyes gentle when they meet hers. "Huevo's in the hospital, unconscious, and he's going straight to solitary when he gets out."
"He called Mirabel grown-up!" She has to bite back the rushing urge to vomit. "He—That she—. I don't care if he's half-dead and in max with isolation. I need my family safe."
A chilled silence falls. They try to come up with something to say, but she shakes her head and closes her eyes again, nails digging into her palms.
"I'll go call your family." Street says, standing. Chris whispers okay, listening to the noise of his shoes against the floor as he walks out.
It gets harder to take a breath as her tears begin to run down Chris's face. She wants nothing more than to stop, to tell the team to leave, but she's frozen where she is. She doesn't know if the tears are of relief from not being there anymore, or the terror of everything flooding back to her, or some masochistic mix of both, just that everything inside of her feels wrong and she needs all of it to get out.
"You're okay," floats over her like a broken record from the team, but their placations slide off like she's in a fishbowl. Deacon sets a hand on Chris's shoulder out of habit, but is quick to remove it when she recoils, her muscles shaking with tension
She's so focused on calming herself down that she misses the gentle click of the door opening and closing and Street walking back in. He stops at the sight of her, looking around at the rest of the team, but all he gets is subtle shakes of heads. Stepping closer, Street feels absolutely helpless once again, his stomach twisting painfully. When he says her name, her eyes shut tighter.
Unable to stand the sight of her so at a loss of herself, Deacon slips his fleece off and lays it over her. Her eyes don't open, but her hands grip at the fabric until her knuckles turn white.
"What can we do?" Tan murmurs to Hondo. He says they can be there for her, however long it takes.
Luca opens his mouth, but Street puts a hand up to stop him, eyes locked on Chris. He motions his head to the door and hears the team leave.
Once the door closes, Street sits on the edge of her bed and lightly sets his hand on Chris's shoulder. When she doesn't startle, he carefully scoots closer and holds her as best he can around the wires.
"You're safe, Chris, and so is your family" Street says, trying to comfort her. "It's just us again. You're okay, I've got you."
"I fucking hate this." She chokes out. She hates the way she feels out of her own body, scared and confused as much as relieved. Hates that in the midst of her emotions, the only thought that settles on her is that she wants to go home. Whenever she tries to voice anything coherent, she can't, muffled by Street's chest and her own body refusing to cooperate. He cradles her closer, stitches coming undone at her agony.
"I'm so sorry," Street continues to whisper into her ear. His chest aches, but he's content to sit there until the world ends if he needs to until Chris feels okay again. "I promise, you're safe now."
Shaking her head, she doesn't know how to say that she isn't sure she'll ever feel completely safe again, even in Street's arms.
But his is the only touch that doesn't send her body into fight or flight, and she presses herself as close as she can to his chest as she trembles.
"Everyone's safe. Your family says they love you, and they'll talk to you as soon as you want to. I'm so sorry, Chris. I'm right here."
Blinking back tears, he rests his cheek on her head, more reassurances falling from his lips. The emotional stress lets her go eventually, only for physical discomfort to overtake her instead. Her eyes keep fluttering shut against Street's neck, and opening them again becomes a monumental task, but she manages it after a few tries. Squinting through her haze, she takes in the empty room and murmurs that the team can come back.
They wait another five minutes, just in case, and Deacon holds out a cup of water for her as soon as he sits, the straw sticking out. She gives him a tiny nod and tries for an ultimately-unconvincing smile. It warms his heart nonetheless.
Her eyes follow down to look at the jacket over her, barely able to make out the 30-D on the sleeve as her mind swims. Again, she wants to say something to them, but even being awake and aware is debilitating, so she hits her morphine pump and lets herself slip back into sleep against Street.
poor baby girl :( thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed this super angsty chapter, and having chris back! not a ton to say about this chapter, necessarily, but please let me know what you think! 3 we're really getting into the thick of things now. i've started a new job, so updates will probably continue to be every 10-14 days, and then whatever little boops and bops i come up with as they get finished lol. stay well! xo, A