tw: mentions of torture, blood, panic attack
Street's eyes bore into Chris as she turns her key in the lock, both of their pulses jumping. The door swings open slightly, but it isn't until she feels his subtle touch on her back that she enters.
Her apartment looks like it always does, if less dusty. The dirty dishes aren't in the sink anymore, she notices, and her bedroom door is closed. Street shuts the door behind them and sets down his backpack by the couch, watching her carefully. A glance at the oven tells her it's just after four.
"Are you okay?" He asks, his footsteps getting closer. His hand on her shoulder makes her start, just barely, and he massages it gently until she turns around, stopping her eyes from tracing over every surface. It's another moment before she opens nods, voice soft.
"Yeah, I'm okay." Chris's eyes flicker to the door to make sure it's locked, and then back to him.
"I'm going to take a quick shower. Luca said he'd bring dinner from the food truck around six thirty. Can you help me with the wrap after?" She squeezes his hand before turning to her bedroom door, not giving him a chance to oppose. Knots tighten in her stomach, all the way up to her throat, as her footsteps echo against the hardwood. Ignoring it, she turns the knob to come face-to-face with her bedroom.
It's been cleaned— no evidence left from the fight. Her possessions are neatly on the nightstand, the picture of her family is in a new frame, and her bed is made. The carpet has been washed, and the red drops she remembers seeing are no longer there. She flips the overhead light on and scrutinizes her closet door, but leaves it be with her SWAT backpack hanging off the handle.
If Chris wasn't getting a flash of her own yelling and the feeling of hands on her, she wouldn't think anything happened. It all looks exactly as it should. She jerks out of the memory, inhaling deeply to get rid of the tears in her eyes, and rubs her fingers against clammy palms. Making sure her feet are steady on the ground between each step, she gets to the bathroom and opens the door.
Like she expected, it's also been cleaned and bleached and repainted. Despite aesthetics, she tries to keep her focus on her own face instead of the wall behind her. The bruises are slowly fading and the butterfly bandage on her forehead is bright white. She looks as exhausted as she feels. She feels like a stranger. The sigh that escapes is better than the last time she was here.
Chris peels off her clothes and gingerly removes the bandages on her torso, wincing at the pull on her skin. Her fingers dance over the new scars on her abdomen. The stitches have dissolved, leaving behind red and pink lines that are sure to fade with time. Her fingers ghost over the still-healing cut under her ribs and she ignores the ache when she twists to look at it.
She remembers the cigarettes and the butt of the gun, but not the knife.
After a moment, her eyes fall away from her body and she steps into the shower. Even with the lowest pressure, the hit of the water feels abrasive. Standing on the other side of the tub, she wets a washcloth and doesn't linger on any part of her body for long.
Slowly, the warm water relaxes her muscles and she rolls her neck until it doesn't feel so tight, the meds from the hospital wearing off. Her hair will have to wait another day because her ribs protest every time she raises her arms. Part of her wishes Street were with her, helping her, a reminder of what hasn't changed, but she pushes the thought down. Clean, she rinses carefully, wraps a soft gray towel around herself, and lets the bathroom door swing shut behind her.
Chris's hand runs over her comforter as she walks to the dresser, pulling out a clean pair of sweats and a button-up shirt of Street's. As if he was waiting for the shower to stop, he knocks on her door and steps in with his arms full of supplies.
"How are you feeling?"
"Okay, a little bit better."
He smiles and kisses her temple, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her.
"Good. What do you want me to do first?"
Her eyes fall to the grain of the hardwood and she sighs.
"My side, I guess."
Chris maneuvers the shirt up until he can see. Street's sharp intake of breath makes her jaw clench. He hasn't seen the burns since they found her, and the marring on her skin causes his brain to short-circuit.
"Street?" Chris says, her tone firm.
"Sorry," Street says, snapping out of it and knocking out the rock lodged in his throat. "This might sting a little bit."
It does, and the smell reminds her of the hospital. She winces and he keeps repeating soft apologies until he's done. The next ointment is better, with a cooling sensation that draws the pain out of her.
"Can you hold that there?" Street asks as he starts to undo a large bandage. Their hands brush as hers hold the top of it in place, and a different heat rushes through her at the contact. The memory of every kiss and touch floods back to her, and she shivers as she sits in it.
"Does that feel okay?" Concern is in his voice and pulls Chris from her own mind.
"Yeah, it's good."
The rip of the tape reminds her of the hospital, too, and she takes a deep breath to remind herself that she's out. Taping down the edges, he checks one more time that it feels fine before taking his hands off her torso. She's cold where they were resting.
Her wrists are a quicker affair, though Chris avoids looking at them. Even the soft bandages on each arm feels like cuffs, keeping her back from her own life. Thankfully, the sleeves of her shirt cover them, providing a measure of protection she didn't have in the hospital.
Street watches her face as he finishes wrapping her up and gathering the garbage. Her eyes are closed, some of the stress he's used to seeing finally gone. The bruises are fading to whispers of purple and blue, evident but less glaring. Avoiding the cuts, he kisses her forehead again, smiling at her as she opens her eyes.
"We've got about an hour until the team gets here. We can throw something on the TV?"
"No," Chris whispers, unsure of where it comes from. He fixes her with a questioning look, relaxing when the corners of her lips quirk up. "Lie with me?"
"Of course." Street says, throat dry. "Let me grab your meds."
He takes the walk to the kitchen and back to collect himself, able to tell that he's doing a poor job but barely able to keep the orange bottles in his hands. Her eyes are closed when he pushes the door open. For a second, it reminds him so much of the hospital that it's a knife through his chest, but then she takes a breath and her lashes flutter open, and it's okay.
"Are you okay?" He asks, after she's swallowed the rainbow of pills and emptied the glass for good measure.
Unable to turn on her side to face him, Chris slots their fingers together on her stomach and gives a squeeze.
"Chris, are you feeling alright?" Deacon asks from across the table. Empty plates have been pushed to the side with crumpled napkins on top, and a mix of voices dance in her dining room. The chatter drops as all eyes turn to Chris rubbing her forehead. When she doesn't answer, Tan gently nudges her with his shoulder, repeating her name softly.
"What?" She asks, confusion lining her face. Their looks fill in the blanks and she sets her hand down, sitting up straighter.
"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine. I think the meds are wearing, I have a headache. A small headache," Chris corrects. Deacon nods at her, not wholly convinced. Standing and picking up his plate, the others begin to do the same.
"I'll get this in the kitchen, and we'll leave you for the night."
Chris goes to wave him off, say she's fine and they're welcome to stay, but they're already picking up and putting leftovers in her fridge so she sits and watches them. A touch at her back makes her spin around, Tan again beside her.
"Text us in the morning?" She gives him a tired smile and nod, leaning into his hug. "I'm so glad you're home. Have a good night."
"Have a good night." She says, the rest of the team slowly trickling over to repeat goodbyes. Deacon is the last to leave, running to his car and coming back with a blanket Chris is used to seeing thrown over the back of his couch.
"The kids would've killed me if I forgot. It's Lila's favorite blanket when she's sick, they insisted I bring it."
Chris looks at the blanket and then at Deacon, wrapping her arms around him as tight as she's able.
"Thank you. Tell them thank you." He gives her one last hug, making eye contact with Street over her head, and relaxing when the younger man gives him a subtle nod.
"Get some rest. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Deacon promises before closing the door softly behind him.
Chris tosses the blanket over the couch and then walks back to Street. He offers her more pills and a glass of water which she takes gratefully, swallowing them down with a sigh. Her phone says it's only nine pm, but it may as well be midnight.
"I can finish cleaning up if you want to get ready for bed." He smiles. She nods at him, though her gaze is distant, and leans up for a quick kiss.
The temperature seems to drop the closer she gets to her room, the darkness in the hallway pressing on her. She considers turning around and dozing off on the couch or in the guest room instead, but her mind tells her she's being ridiculous and she shakes away the thought.
Everything is fine, Chris tells herself, despite the anxiety living in her stomach and how the newfound silence in her apartment is heavy on her chest.
The door reveals her room in the exact same condition as earlier, but the shadows are longer and lingering. Her body freezes in the doorway, listening for any breath besides her own, but the closet is quiet and the only thing she hears is Street humming to himself in the kitchen.
Chris doesn't realize how tight she's gripping the door frame until she lets it go. The carpet is soft under her feet, and she turns on her bedside lamp to flood the room with light before going to the bathroom. Her ribs ache from the exertion of the day so she brushes her teeth and rinses her face as quickly as she can, not taking the time to scrutinize herself any further.
Sliding into bed, she tries to get comfortable, adjusting the pillows around her and pulling at the blankets. Her bed feels foreign after so long away from it, and it takes her a few minutes to settle into it. Once she has, she looks at the ceiling and focuses on the rise and fall of her stomach each time she breathes.
"Are you awake?" Chris's eyes pop open at Street's gentle voice and his quiet footsteps. She says she is and watches him brush his teeth and throw on pajamas before lifting the covers and sitting next to her. There's a book in his hand, and she gives him a questioning look.
"I'm almost done with it, figured I'd finish it tonight." He says.
They both know what he's doing. If it were anything else, Chris'd tell him she doesn't need someone to watch her while she sleeps, but she can't ignore the twisting in her gut that his presence helps mitigate.
"Okay." She says, rolling to flip off her bedside lamp while Street turns his on to the dimmest setting. He raises his arm for her to snuggle into him, and she relaxes when he puts pressure on her side.
Her eyes follow the words on the page until the letters start to swim. He presses kisses to her head every few pages, and, after a while, she manages to drift off.
She wakes into a room that's darker than the hospital ever was, with a chill in her bones thanks to a distinct lack of heat from the other side of the bed, and an ache that runs just parallel. A glance at the clock tells her it's nine am, later than she normally sleeps, but the stiffness coursing through her tells her she needed the rest. Standing, her inked fingers catch her weight on the headboard when pain shoots through her muscles. Deep breaths calm her ribs, but not her heartbeat.
Flicking on the bathroom light, Chris's eyes move over the room like normal, but stop when they land on the corner between the door frame and the wall. A sharp throb pulses right where the cut on her forehead is.
It doesn't take long before it grows to encompass her whole body. She tastes blood on her tongue where she bites her dry lips; her blood may as well be running down the walls with how oppressive it feels.
As the edges of her vision blur, Chris forces herself to tear her gaze away from the wall and stare at the sink drain instead. Her knuckles go white from how hard she grips the vanity, and tears replace the panic to obscure her desperate attempts at clarity. Trying for a breath, it sticks ragged in her ribs. They become shorter and shorter, until her legs start to tingle, body giving way underneath her own weight.
A whimper escapes as her knees crash onto the gray rug that she swears used to be lighter. But she can't dwell, instead pressing her forehead into the laminate edge as hard as she can, hoping the harsh combination of cold and hard will bring her back to herself.
"You're okay." She tells herself in a whisper, refusing to call for help. "Nothing's there."
Minutes or hours pass, most a failure of Chris forcing herself to stare at the cabinets to calm down, until her hands stop shaking and her heartbeat slows. Blowing out an unsteady breath, she digs her fingers into the vanity to stand, letting the fuzzy feeling dissipate before she takes her hands off the sink. Her throat remains dry even after a glass of water, so she splashes her face and gulps straight from the tap despite how much her ribs protest the bending.
Straightening herself up and taking one more deep breath, she comes face-to-face with herself. Puffy cheeks and red eyes and nothing like how she normally is.
If normal still exists.
But there's too much exhaustion on her to deal with the disgust that thought brings. Throwing her cabinet open, she grabs a clean washcloth and soaks it in freezing water to hold against her face until the remnants of tears are gone, and she has another excuse for the redness. Satisfied, she walks slowly into the kitchen to see Street's smiling face.
"Morning, Babe," he says, hope in his features that he hopes hides the worry in his body and mind. "How are you feeling?"
"Okay," she starts, clearing her throat and hoping what just happened doesn't read on her face. "Sore, but okay. How'd you sleep?"
"Good. I made eggs and toast if you want some."
A pang of hunger hits her as soon as he says that and she nods, pulling herself onto the bar stool as he sets a plate, water, and her medicine down, and then eats standing across from her.
It's hard not to stare, to voice all his concerns, but he turns to chattering mindlessly about the news and the team. She relaxes as she listens, tension easing out of her as the images from the bathroom float away.
Street is sitting on the balcony later that day, flipping through a magazine to give his hands something to do, when the screen door slides open. Chris is disheveled from sleep, his button-up riding up on her hip, with dark purple under her eyes and yellow painted over her haw.
She's perfect, in his opinion, and he can't stop the relief that he feels every time he lays eyes on her now. It's second only to his need to hold her, and she crawls into his waiting arms like it's all she needs, too. Her knees come to her chest, feet tucked underneath her, and a groan escapes but she shakes her head to tell him she's fine.
"Sorry for falling asleep." Chris mutters low against his collarbone. He kisses her hairline.
"It's okay. Are you feeling any better? Do you need anything?"
"I didn't think I'd be this tired. I didn't think I could be as tired as I was when I first woke up."
"The same thing happened when I got home from my liver surgery." He sighs softly. "I think the hospital takes it out of you in ways you don't realize until you aren't there anymore. It'll get better."
She lets out a hum and her eyes close against his neck. His hand traces up and down her back, debating if she'll appreciate a joke about her lack of argument. But the sun is warm on her body, and a sense of safety settles that Chris wants to bottle up and bask in forever; she speaks before he can decide.
"Jim?" She whispers, and it feels oddly, nicely, intimate.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad it's finally just us. Thanks for being here."
He smiles and pulls her closer to him, kissing her and looking out at the horizon.
"There's nowhere else I'd be, Chris."
they're home! i hope you enjoyed this chapter- now the real uphill battle begins
you might've noticed that i added a chapter cap to this story. that's subject to change, but i did finally write out an outline that i'm satisfied with, and i hope everyone else will be, too! (i might start combining some of the chapters though, unsure) but, now *my* uphill battle of actually writing it all begins lol.
comments/kudos appreciated- i love hearing everyone's thoughts! thank you for the recent love on if you never bleed!
more soon, here and elsewhere :)
xo, A
