Chapter Text
The problems don’t start until later.
She sees Wendy diligently, discussing every minute detail that she remembers from when she was taken, and, slowly but surely, the weight of it falls off her shoulders. Her anger and anxiety come out in the ring with Tan and Luca, at dinner with Deacon and Hondo, and in the quiet moments at her apartment with Street. The TV drones on quietly but instead she focuses on the soft feel of his hand in her hair until she drifts off. Waking up sometime later, with a kink in her neck, she kisses Street until his eyes open and murmurs that they should go to bed. When she’s cleared to go back into the field, it feels like she’s finally going back to where she’s meant to be.
And then, one day in the middle of a case, her adrenaline is pumping and a gun fires and she’s left putting pressure on a dying man’s gushing wound. She thinks nothing of it in the moment, too focused on staunching the hot, red liquid with anything she can get her hands on. Even after EMTs arrive and cart him away, it doesn't register. There’s a suspect to be caught, so a quick wipe of her hands on her pants is all she can do before she’s running to his last known location.
She sees the shadow of red on her hands once they get back to Betty fifteen minutes later. There’s dried blood under her nails and in the cracks of her hand. It makes her feel numb, her brain flashing back to yellow grass and the men’s dead eyes staring back up at her. A chill runs up her spine and sticks there after the image has dissolved. Silently, she takes her seat in the van and holds her gun so no one sees her hands shake.
The water runs pale pink against the sink at HQ and burns hot on her skin long after her hands are clean.
Lying in bed that night, with Street snoring softly beside her, her eyes won’t close. Her anxiety rises as she thinks of living that moment in the shed again and again for the next five hours. She gives up all together, instead grabbing a glass of water and putting her headphones in to listen to a podcast. Street curls around her sometime in the night and it makes her smile. The weight of his arm across her waist helps calm her down, and she reminds herself to keep her breathing even so he doesn’t wake up.
She manages to drift off two hours before their alarms blare them awake. A quick shower helps her wake up, followed by a cup of coffee and breakfast that’s made better by the fact that she wasn’t the one to cook it. Street asks her if she’s okay when she finishes, noticing that she’s quieter than usual and she nods and says she’s fine.
“Okay,” he says, leaving it and pressing a kiss on her head before going to take his own shower, “I’m always here to talk if you want.”
Her weariness grows with each passing day. She blames her exhaustion on long cases and nights spent with her family, though she’s gotten concerningly good at knowing the difference between 2 am tired and 3 am tired. Tan asks her if it’s a good idea to be in the ring, noticing bruises on her knuckles from so much time at the bag, but she snaps at him that she’s fine, and slides under the rope onto the soft mat. Her hands and wrists ache when she gets home that night. She ices them until they’re numb. Sleep still evades her.
The memory starts to haunt her during the day, too, whenever she isn’t otherwise occupied. It’s the feeling of a phantom hand ghosting over her, and the team calling her name twice because the first time all she can hear is a gun going off. She takes to picking up extra shifts in the armory to combat it. When Street and the team ask her what’s wrong, she brushes them off, lies and tells them that she’s saving for a gift for her cousin, and they don’t push.
Her work in the field is as sharp as ever, and she tells herself that she has everything under control.
An appointment with Wendy gets her a renewed prescription for sleeping pills and an assignment to journal often to ease her stress. She only uses one of them.
She staves off the situation becoming Street’s business as long as she can. The pills help, for the most part, and she wakes up without too much fanfare when a nightmare does arise. She runs her hand through his hair and over his face to calm down, the tips of her fingers ghosting over the shell of his ear as he sleeps peacefully. He always asks in the morning if she feels okay and how she slept, his own fingers tracing the circles under her eyes, and she whispers that she’s fine before pulling back and grabbing her full coffee mug off the counter.
The prescription runs out before the lingering feelings of fear do. She buys a journal, afraid that asking for another prescription won’t end well, and it sits on her nightstand, full of doodles and half-written thoughts.
Sooner than not, the rest of the team picks up on her unease. She reassures them that she’s fine, that there’s just a lot going on, and keeps up with the plans they make to try to get them off her back.
She arrives earlier and leaves late to avoid their questions but they’re as persistent as she is, and each time they ask how she is, she feels her volatility grow. This routine is growing stale for all of them, with her ability to manage it dwindling. Her smiles get so tight in the morning Street’s afraid she’s going to crack a tooth so he backs off, tells the team to do the same which only causes them to keep a closer eye on her. The feeling of being in a fishbowl is enough to drive her to take a sick day just to get out of HQ. She tells Street she’s staying with her family for a few days to get him out of her apartment.
The nightmares only worsen with him gone. Sweat makes her hair stick to her neck, and she has to squeeze the pillow so tight her knuckles turn white to keep her hands from reaching for him. She wants to reach for her phone, text him or call him and tell him to come over, but instead she rides out the waves of panic alone each night.
When the lie drops and he comes back, she drags him to the couch and plants herself on his lap, her knees on either side of him.
“I’m sorry.” She whispers, placing a trail of kisses over his jaw and down his neck.
Sated and comfortable next to him in the afterglow, she sleeps for four hours, longer than she has at any given time in recent memory. She wakes up to his hand in her hair and him gazing at her like she’s the sun, and can’t help but consider resorting to it again.
None of them stop asking how she is. She tells them she’s okay, just tired or just hungry or just stressed, and keeps up on her promise to see Wendy regularly, although she spends a good chunk of the time just reveling in silence on her couch. The older woman tells her it’s normal to have a delayed reaction, that all Chris can do is keep working through it at her own pace. It reminds her of the months immediately following her mother’s death, when she felt like life was slipping out from underneath her, and her Aunt told her the same thing.
“We’ll always be here for you, Chrissy, if you want to talk to us.”
She makes a mental note to call her Aunt, and then lets the image float away from her.
“The journaling has been helping.”
Street doesn’t know how she’s still going. It’s been two months since they found her, and what he hoped was a few bad days have blossomed into a weight that’s constantly on her shoulders.
He takes to staying up, too, rolling to face away from her in bed and making his breath even, but he listens. Her breath catches often, the sheets bunching up as she tosses and turns, and sometimes she wraps herself around him and he feels a distinct wetness between his shoulder blades.
He tells himself he’s going to bring it up in the morning but then she looks so tired he convinces himself not to. It’s the weekend, at least, and they aren’t on call, so hopefully she can find time to rest.
“I’m here if you ever want to talk.” He reminds, placing a kiss on her hairline as he walks to the shower. She hums.
His shower is 15 minutes, and by the time he returns to the living room, hair damp, she’s asleep on the couch. He sighs, worried but glad she’s finally getting some sleep, and covers her with a blanket before pulling his iPad out of his bag.
“I’m fine, leave it!” She bites, louder than she intends to, and then slams her locker and leaves without looking back at Street. The rest of the team watches her stalk out from their positions in the hallway. Once she’s out of their sight, they head into the locker room to find Street staring at the wall, his jaw clenched. His head jerks in their direction. They awkwardly stare at each other for a moment before Luca speaks up.
“You going to tell us what that was all about?” His voice is gentle, but has an edge, like they’re all waiting for a shoe to drop. Street shakes his head.
“She’s stubborn, I’m worried. Nowhere we haven’t been before.”
“You trust her?” Hondo asks, and is met with a curious look.
“Of course, we all do.”
“She can do her job safely?”
Street swallows.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve gotta trust her to work this out. Until Wendy or something else tells her someone needs to step in, Chris is an adult and she can handle herself. If and when she wants to come to us, she will.”
His words settle on Street like a balm, calming his heart. He knows he has a right to be worried, but he trusts Hondo’s advice, and he nods. He looks around at the rest of the team, unsure of what to say and hating that they’re talking about Chris now that she isn’t there to speak for herself. Opening his locker, he grabs his bag.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”
He heads to his motorcycle and thinks of how much space to give her, his worry surmounting his cares about her being angry. He settles on taking the scenic route back towards her place, and stopping to grab them both dinner. By the time he gets back, hopefully, she’ll have calmed down enough to talk.
It’s dark out when she arrives at her apartment, and she’s exhausted. She drops her backpack by the door and makes no move to turn any of the lights on as she walks to the kitchen. Pulling down two glasses, she fills one with ice water and the other with two fingers of vodka and downs them both. She sets the glasses into the sink and stashes the bottle back in her freezer, moving back to her bedroom. Her beside clock tells her it’s only 8pm but it’s all she can do to take the hottest, quickest shower she can manage, brush her teeth, and throw herself into bed, willing her brain to shut up.
Street pulls up to her apartment complex and stares at the outside for a moment. His backpack is heavy on his shoulders, and he takes a deep breath before heading inside with the takeout bag swinging next to him. He’s been thinking about what to say since he left HQ, something to make her understand that he can’t help unless she lets him in, but it all goes out the window when he gets to her door and hears shouting.
He scrambles for his key, his first thought being that there’s someone else in there, and tears through to her bedroom. The door slams open, the light flicks on, and his eyes land on her, alone, thrashing in a fight with no visible opponent.
“Chris!” He breathes out, at her side in an instant. He kneels on the mattress and tries to catch her wrists to stop her fighting. Tears leak down her face as she moans out painful no s and stop s, ripping herself from his grip. Her breathing gets choppier the longer she stays in the nightmare, and Street keeps repeating her name, pleading with her to wake up.
Chris hears the gunshots and feels the blood hit her skin, warm and sticky, and then her brain finally lets her go. She shoots up like a bullet, and jerks her wrists from Street’s grip on instinct. Then she realizes where she is and who he is and wraps her arms tightly around him, burying her head in his chest. Her tears start before she can even take a breath, and her fingers dig into him more as she sobs. He breathes heavily, one hand cradling her head and the other moving slowly up and down her back. His eyes are stuck on the wall just above her headboard as his own heartbeat falls back down to normal.
“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He says with a slight shake in his voice. He repeats the mantra until her sobs turn to hiccups and she pulls back, his grip loosening but his hands still resting lightly on her back
She can feel a pounding starting between her eyebrows, and that her eyes are puffy. Clearing her throat, she sighs.
“I’m sorry.”
Her gaze wanders to the closed blinds and Street brings it back with a gentle hand on her face. She expects to see some anger from earlier in his hazel eyes, but the only thing there is concern, and it makes a feeling bubble up so big in her chest she thinks she’s going to start crying again.
He kisses her forehead and his thumb grazes over her cheekbone.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Do you want some water?”
She shakes her head, her body in a weird place between wired and exhausted.
“I’m going to shower.” He nods, leaning in to kiss her one more time before she untangles herself from him and the sheets and stands. She’s as beautiful as ever, mussed hair and his shirt hitting her thighs, and he grabs her hand before she gets out of his reach. She squeezes back out of habit, turning to look at him.
“It’s going to be okay. I promise.”
The side of her mouth quirks up into a small smile.
“Thank you.”
She washes herself quickly and then stands under the stream of water with her eyes closed. She tries to focus on the feeling of the water hitting her, each individual drop making her feel more and more like herself, and when she opens her eyes again she feels calm.
The bathroom is steamy when she steps out, a soft gray towel wrapped around her. Wiping the mirror to clear a streaky circle, she looks at herself, turning her face from side to side. Her skin is dull, bags marring the area beneath her eyes, but the redness from crying has faded away. She finishes drying off and getting dressed, and runs a brush through her hair. Before she goes to her living room, she grabs his hoodie sitting on the top of the hamper, taking comfort in how it feels.
“Hey.” She says softly, padding down her hallway to see Street on the couch with the TV on low. He pauses it immediately, and lights up when he sees her.
“Hey.” He echoes. “Feel better?”
“Yeah,” she nods, stepping closer. He swings his legs off the couch to make room for her and picks up a mug from the coffee table.
“Made you tea.”
Her smile warms his heart. When she takes a sip, her shoulders relax. She sets the mug back down and sits next to him, giving a glance to the paused screen before taking a deep breath.
The only way out is through , she tells herself, and her hand finds Street’s to squeeze it. Everything will be okay .
“I’m sorry.” She starts again, shaking her head to stop him before he interrupts.
“For lashing out. Ever since that case a while back…” She sighs, rolling her eyes as if the anger will protect her.
“I know post-traumatic reactions are normal. I’ve been seeing Wendy, but it feels like we’ve talked about everything, and I don’t know why this won’t stop. I’m fucking exhausted.”
A shaking hand reaches for the mug and she takes a sip to calm down. There’s a ring from where it sat on the table, and she tries to set it back in the same spot. Street is looking at her when she sits back up. He waits a moment before he can’t help himself and hugs her again, holding both of her hands when they separate.
“I’m so sorry.” He says, voice low. Her head barely moves, a small shake, and she refuses to meet his gaze, instead staring out the window.
“Chris? Chris.” He squeezes her hands lightly, finally pulling her brown eyes to his.
“None of this is your fault.” It’s his to turn to stop her when her jaw starts to drop.
“Healing isn’t linear. We’ve both through plenty enough to know that by now. And this hiccup is something you can and will get through, okay? I’m going to stay right by your side, and the team wants nothing more than to just know you’re okay. They’ve all been through the same things, they’ll understand.”
She looks like she doesn’t believe him, and he holds in a sigh.
“We’ll always be here for you, Chris. It doesn’t matter for what, or when. I need more than two hands to count all the times you’ve helped any one of us out, for small things and big things. You deserve that same support.”
He stops there, giving her time to process.
She bites her lip and lets her gaze roll over the ceiling before she speaks.
“I know. I know . But I hate feeling like this— helpless.”
He murmurs that he gets it, but that she isn’t.
“You’re doing what you can. Talking to Wendy, talking to me, getting in the ring. It’ll get better, it just might take some time.”
“You promise?” There’s a softness to her voice, and he knows that she’s strong and can take care of herself, that she could get through this alone if she really needed or wanted to, so it makes him melt right there that she trusts him enough to get through it together. He’s smiling before he knows it, dimples on full display.
“Yeah. I promise.”
Her tone changes, a teasing lilt filtering in.
“And you’ll be here?”
A laugh escapes him and he nods.
“The entire time. And the time after, too.”
She leans in to kiss him and lets him pull her into his lap. Fatigue still runs through her muscles and over her bones, but she feels lighter than she has in weeks. Her head settles under his chin, and he traces up and down her arm, grabbing the remote and finding a movie.
“Hand me my phone?” She asks, her voice muffled by his shirt, and his arm tightens around her as he reaches for it. She can feel his inquisitive eyes on hers and looks up at him.
“Wendy. And Hondo. The team deserves an explanation.”
He kisses her head and reassures her that they’ll understand, taking her phone and setting it back on the table.
She grabs the blanket over the back of the couch and shakes it out over both of them. Their legs are tangled together and she fixes her hand over his so their fingers slide together like puzzle pieces. Her tiredness grows as the move plays on, eyes drooping.
He laughs every so often, and the rumble of it beneath her paired with the steadiness of his heartbeat only soothes her further. She murmurs something unintelligible and he lifts his arms so she can turn to face the back of the couch before holding her again. She’s warm against him, and the low dialogue and buzz from the TV help the rest of her thoughts drift away so she can rest.
“You okay?” He whispers.
“Yeah.” She says back, a small smile on her face.
He buries his face in her hair and says that he loves her, but she’s already asleep.