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The living room light is on at Luca and Street’s when Chris pulls up. She’s glad for it, it means he’s definitely awake, but it takes her another fifteen minutes to open the door of her truck and walk to their front porch.
She examines the scuff marks on the siding and a lone moth buzzing around their dim porch light for another few minutes before knocking on the door. A few quick raps is all she can manage before the panic she’s tried to keep at bay comes swelling up, settling in her throat like an anvil. Her breath sticks in her chest and her fists are so tightly clenched, her keys dig into her palm.
The knock startles Street, who’s been staring at the wall for the better part of an hour. No matter how many times he’s replayed the day, the only two conclusions he comes up with are that he doesn’t know how things could’ve ended differently, and he’s so glad it wasn’t Chris who was lying there. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if it was.
Chris. His thoughts travel back to her. They always seem to. He’s mulling over how she’s doing when he’s surprised by her standing on his front porch.
He takes her in. She’s in the same clothes she left HQ in, but they’re more wrinkled. The first thing he did when he got home was change, throw his clothes as far back in his hamper as he could. He thinks she would’ve done the same, but then he remembers that her home is, was , also Erika’s home, and maybe now it’s no one’s. Aside from her outfit, she’s wound like a rubber band about to snap, gaze flipping between vehemently aware and dazed.
“Chris?”
She jumps at her name, like all of a sudden she remembers where she is.
“I—” She makes eye contact, briefly, before turning back towards her truck. “I shouldn’t be here, I’m sorry.”
She’s only a few steps down the walkway when he catches her arm, grip loose enough that she could pull away if she wanted to.
“Chris? Why don’t you come inside for a second, get some water?” He wants to let his thumb graze her bicep but he refrains. Something is wrong, something beyond how everything is wrong at the moment, and he knows if he lets her leave it’ll end up worse.
Chris deflates some, still taut like a string, but her focus returns to him. She closes her eyes for a second, takes a shallow breath, and nods. Street lets go of her arm and follows behind her into the house, gently closing the door behind him.
He’s in the kitchen getting two glasses of water and Chris is pacing a small strip over the carpet, arms crossed as if to protect herself. The next time she turns around, he’s there. She’s already shaking her head no when he speaks.
“It’ll help calm your nervous system if you drink it.”
She’s nauseous enough she thinks she might not keep anything down, but she takes a small sip of the water nonetheless. The sensation helps jolt her brain back to the present and before she knows it she’s finished half the glass. She moves to the bar, sets the glass down and leans against it. She looks like she wants to talk, like there’s something in her brain begging to come out if she’ll let it.
“Want to sit down?” He’s looking at her. Her eyes are locked on something far beyond the front window, nails tapping against the countertop.
“Here.” The sound of his voice much nearer pulls her back to him, and she rips her hand away when he tentatively takes it from the counter. Immediately, Street takes a step back and puts his hands in front of him in surrender, one holding a small role of athletic wrap.
“Thought you might want to get at the bag for a few. Could use some wrap so you don’t bust up your knuckles?” The heavyweight bag hangs from a chain in the corner and she nods. On her cue, he takes her hands again and wraps them carefully, like she might fall apart beneath his touch. Once that’s done, he gestures to a pair of headphones on the table next to the couch.
“I’ll be in my room when you’re done, or if you need anything.” With a quick pat on her shoulder he’s down the hallway, door closed.
Street sighs. Even through his music playing and the drywall, he can hear how hard Chris is hitting the bag, and it makes him wince when he hears her crying. He stares at the ceiling and tries to keep himself from sinking too deep into his own despair. She was close with Erika, close enough to want to be roommates, but he knows their relationship went deeper given that they were the only two women on SWAT. Paving the way, making it known what women are capable of, and he can’t imagine how alone Chris feels now that that’s been taken away. Just the thought is almost enough to drive him to check on her then, but he sits on it.
Chris hits the bag until she physically can’t anymore, arms unwilling to lift back up for one more swing. With each beat, a moment from the day flashes before her eyes: Erika getting ready, loading Black Betty, getting to the house, Tan getting shot, getting out, Erika falling down, Erika bleeding out, CPR, CPR, CPR, why did the EMT stop doing CPR? , Erika’s body on the ground, unmoving, gone. Between each image is the reverberating thought that this is all Chris’s fault . That she doesn’t know who she is anymore now that it’s clear she didn’t have Erika’s six, and how could anyone else trust her to have theirs now? It builds up within her and makes her want to scream, but no sound comes out. She doesn’t deserve to voice this— these selfish thoughts that it’s all her fault because it doesn’t really matter whose fault it is or isn’t because Erika’s dead . So how dare she even think about herself for one second?
It’s then that the pain hits her for the first time since they left the op earlier. Regardless of any other details or circumstances, Erika’s gone and she won’t be coming back, and that’s enough to break her.
Her breath is coming out in quiet, forced gasps as she struggles to get the hand wrap off as quickly as possible. Chris feels trapped in her own body in a way she hasn’t since she was 15. Even the feeling of air on her skin is too much and she just needs everything off . Her knees buckle under her but she doesn’t care, doesn’t realize that Street heard the soft thud of her hitting the carpet from his room.
Finally, her hands are free. Her back is against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest with one arm wrapped around her stomach and the other sitting lightly at her throat. Tears roll down her fact, thick and hot, and she meets her forehead with her knees, too. She wishes she could switch places with Erika for a minute. God forbid what her family would think and go through, but it means Erika would be here. Erika deserves to be here .
A sob climbs its way out of her, starting deep in her stomach and scraping up her chest and throat as it comes, taking every last piece of her with it. It lets itself out with a guttural noise, and once the first of it’s out, the rest takes no time in following.
Silence isn’t what Street is listening for. Nate’s death isn’t the same experience as Erika’s, but he remembers how out of sorts he felt in the days immediately following. In the blink of an eye, the world is incomprehensibly different, but everything works as if it’s the same; he knows the whole team is feeling the same sort of confusion right now.
A noise like a book falling off the fireplace catches his attention, but still he waits. Her pain is hers alone and she deserves, and needs, to feel it first before anyone else interferes. Rushing to her side, giving her an audience to grieve to, would only make it worse.
After a few minutes of her sobbing, he walks as softly as he can to the living room, sees her against the wall, and kneels in front of her. A hand on her shoulder makes her flinch back, eyes snapping open. Hitting the wall knocks more of the wind out of her and she lets out desperate, high-pitched whimpers in an attempt to get any air in. This is what it feels like to drown, and the ocean is miles away.
Street tries again to bring her back but she shakes her head no as hard as she can. The tears don’t stop coming, and his arms around her, the idea of being touched and comforted by someone, is too much to bear. Thoughts of Erika keep drifting by, each heavier than the last, magnifying the hopelessness that’s made a home in the empty cavity of her chest.
Quickly and quietly, Street leans up and flips off the light so only the dim yellow light of the hallway filters through, barely anything. He sits back down next to her, close enough to touch but not making any contact. With the lights off and the exhaustion overwhelming her through tears, her body moves to sit against his, almost like it’s working against her mind’s will, but it doesn’t matter when his arms come around her and try to hold her together.
His touch burns, like it’s too much life to handle against her. She wants to push him away, her brain is screaming at her to push him away, but instead, she tightens her grip on his arms, pulls him closer until she’s completely flush against him and her tears soak through his shirt. Like he’s the only thing keeping her from completely losing her sense of self.
The cries worsen, animalistic noises pouring out of her that last for hours even when she thinks it might be through. Street stays silent, tears streaming down his face, and makes sure all of his focus is on not faltering underneath her. He wishes there was something he could say, or something he could do, anything to make her feel better, but he knows every time her breath catches before she keeps crying that there’s nothing in the world that can fix this.
Shades of pink and orange from the sunrise are just beginning to peak over the dark night sky when Chris quiets, not making any moves to separate herself from Street. She’s exhausted, every cell in her body spent after the last 24 hours, and until she opens her eyes again she can almost pretend this little bubble of safety she’s in is something she won’t have to leave. Street could almost believe she’s asleep if it weren’t for the clipped breaths and tremors running through her.
“We can stay here for as long as you need.” He murmurs into her hair when the first streaks of daylight break the cracks in the blinds. She nods, entire body deflating against him after being so tense for so long. His thumb brushes lightly up and over her shoulder, over and over again.
The clock ticks. The sun continues to hang in the sky. She cracks her eyes open a hair, enough to see that everything is still solid, even if it feels like it’s crumbling. Thoughts are racing through her brain, about everything that’s happened and might happen, but when she opens her mouth nothing of the sort comes out.
“I’m starving.”
And normally, the comment would get a chuckle from Street. It’s not an uncommon request with the severity of their work schedules to need food as soon as they get back to HQ, but today it makes him realize he also doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten. Lunch, the day before? Breakfast?
“Eggs and toaster waffles coming right up. You can guess who bought what. But how does a move to the couch sound first?”
“Sure.” She kicks off her shoes before she stands, which gives her an unexpected sense of ease. It takes them both a minute to get up, muscles reawakening after being held in the same positions for so long, but soon enough she’s on the couch and the next time she opens her eyes there’s a plate of food and a glass of orange juice on the table next to her.
She finishes half before her appetite goes and she’s left pushing a waffle through sticky syrup with her fork. She gives him a look when he says he needs something from outside, not noticing he swiped her keys from the table, but doesn’t question it.
In his absence, she takes their dirty dishes back to the kitchen, scraping and rinsing them off before washing her own hands and shaking them dry. The scars and tattoos littering the skin stand out more in this light and she examines every line across her palm, wondering briefly if they’ll ever look like they did before .
Her attention is pulled by the screen door closing and she turns to see Street setting her clothes and toiletries on the coffee table. He didn’t bring her go-bag in and she doesn’t blame him.
“Fresh towels are in the bathroom if you want to take a shower. Anything else you might need is in the medicine cabinet.”
Chris does everything she can to avoid looking at herself in the mirror after closing the door behind her. She turns the water as hot as she can stand and scrubs until her skin is red and raw, the body wash a familiar smell that mixes with the steam and blankets around her. After making quick work of her hair, she turns the dial the other way and waits for the ice-cold water to hit her. It shocks her, draws out a small gasp but she keeps standing underneath the stream until her entire body feels numb. She has half a mind to sit on the floor of the tub, let the water pelt her so she can suffer, but it isn’t her own water bill she’d be running up so she gets out and wraps herself in a towel.
Now clean and dry, another folded gray fabric on the top of the toilet catches her eye. It’s too small to be a towel and placed in such a way it’s clear Street set it there for her. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth for a second as she turns it over in her hands, lets it unfold. Long Beach PD stares back at her and before she can question it, she slips the hoodie on and rolls up the sleeves. It’s warmer than she expects, worn soft in the way only an older, well-loved piece of clothing can be. This time, when she wraps her arms around herself, she doesn’t feel completely alone.
Meanwhile, Street straightens up the living room. He throws away her discarded hand wrap and finishes loading the dishwasher before refolding the blanket spread haphazardly over the chair. He listens for when the water stops, exhaling when he doesn’t hear anything else. His mind is spinning, dragging him to what’s going to happen when she walks out his door, whenever that is. He doesn’t know how they move forward from this, as people or as a team or as whatever the two of them are, and it twists up in his gut and makes him anxious.
She can take care of herself, he’s been confident of that since the first day they met, but she can’t go through this alone and he can’t figure out how to tell her that without it blowing up. I want to be there for you, he thinks, but I don’t know what any of us need right now.
He allows himself a smile when she steps out of the bathroom in his hoodie, a small bit of grace in the midst of this storm, because she looks like she belongs in it. Her eyes are clearer than they were when she knocked on his door hours ago, but it’s still amiss. She’s smaller and quieter than she’s supposed to be, taking the very things that make her her and shrinking them down to lock them away and keep them safe.
“How’re you feeling?” He asks, knowing it’s a stupid question but he can’t stand the silence anymore.
Chris sighs and sits on the couch, hanging her head.
“Do you honestly think I have an answer to that question?”
“No, but I figured I’d ask anyway.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Bad,” he answers. “Sick, heartbroken— worried. About you mostly.”
“I—” She clears her throat, opens her mouth and then closes it again.
“I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry. We’re all in shock.”
“I couldn’t go back inside, to the apartment. Just stood there looking at the door until I went and sat in my truck for God knows how long. Thought about going to a bar but I got this gut feeling that if I started drinking I wouldn’t stop, like my mom. I’m sorry for showing up here unannounced, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
She looks at him, really sees him, for the first time since she knocked last night. The pain in his eyes is devastating and she wishes she could take it away, could take all of this away .
“You don’t have to apologize, Chris, I’m glad you came. Thank you for trusting me.”
“Do you still trust me?”
“I— what?” He looks at her like she has two heads; she’s wringing her hands, knee bouncing.
“Do you still trust me?”
“Chris—”
“Can you?” She asks, getting louder, “Can any of you after yesterday?”
“Chris, what happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Like hell it wasn’t!” She stands. “The only reason Erika was there was because of me. So tell me again that if I hadn’t pushed, she would be dead?”
He searches for words but can’t find any, and all Chris can see is the defeated look on his face.
“That’s what I thought. It’s my fault she was there, that she got shot. I don’t know how any of you could trust me again after that. I can’t.” Her voice trails off at the end, and once the words sink in, it’s everything Street was worried about.
He stands to meet her, takes her hand to pull them both down onto the couch, and then lets her go so she can curl herself up with her back against the armrest.
“You want to know what I think, Chris?” She nods, small enough that someone else would miss it.
“I think you’re scared. We all are, trying to process what happened. After Nate, it took me a long time to be able to look myself in the eye, feel like a whole person again. I wondered, constantly, if there was anything I could have changed. But the one thing I never doubted was that my team had my back. I can’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but I promise you no one blames you, that you’re still you, and that you’ll feel like yourself again. You’re a good person, Chris; I’ll say it until you believe it.”
She sniffles, wipes away the tears with the back of her hand and looks over at the TV.
“I don’t know where I’m supposed to go from here, you know?” Her voice is gravelly and she heaves a breath, desperate to keep any more tears at bay. Street sets his hand on top of her knee and squeezes it.
“You’re welcome to stay here. We’ll figure it out together. Me, you, the team. You’re not in this alone. Can I get you anything?”
She shakes her head, puts her hand on top of his and squeezes back.
“Do you care if we just…” She makes a vague motion between them but he understands what she means nonetheless. He lets go of her hand and lies down, leaving space for her to crawl over and settle between him and the back of the couch. He runs a hand up and down her back and whispers reminders that she’s safe, that she’s exhausted and can sleep and he’ll be right there when she wakes up. She doesn’t say a thing and lets herself be held.