Work Text:
The first time Street remembers leaving was when he just turned 6. Karen gripped his hand, a bloom of purple growing around her eye, and told him they were getting out of there as his father spewed drunken vitriol and threw empty bottles from the kitchen.
She promised that they’d find something better. Then she piled Street, his green blanket, and a suitcase into the backseat of their dark blue beater and took off.
They never did find anything better. Street recalls showing up back at home 4 days later, the shelter too crowded and anxiety spinning in his tiny body. He tried to hide behind Karen when his father opened the door, but there was no real hiding to be done. The house was quiet for an hour before the yelling started again.
That wasn’t the only time. Walking the road of his life backwards is full of weekends with his mom spent crashing on her friend’s couches, or the longest stint in a motel that only ended because someone stole her money. At least that’s what Karen told him, and Street’s chosen to believe it all these years later for his own sanity.
It got easier, he realized, the more they did it. Slamming doors became symbolic of the little power he had in this world, a power he was desperate to hold onto. The lesson sunk deeper into him the older he got.
When the group home tried to separate him and Nate. When his girlfriend cheated on him. Even the rush of feelings from being kicked off SWAT were rooted firmly in his dire need for any kind of control. Stalking out felt great, until the night air hit him.
But he couldn’t turn back, Street knew, hanging onto his mother’s promise.
Leave, and find something better.
He didn’t, but only because he saw how good what he had really was. Street thought he’d broken out of the instinct to run since then, but old habits die hard, especially when they’re all someone’s had for so long.
Chris was 4 the first time she remembers her mother leaving, though she’s sure it happened plenty of times before then.
The house was empty, the rest of her cousins and her aunt gone for the weekend, and she was relegated to the company of cartoons as her mother blow-dried her hair in their tiny bathroom.
“Christina?” Her mother called, coming into view in a sparkly dress and heels that Chris always wanted to try to walk around in. She stood up, but stopped when her mom opened the coat closet and pulled out a black, furry jacket, and grabbed her purse.
“I’ll be back later. Milk is in the fridge for cereal, just don’t make a mess or Suzanna will kill me when she gets back. I’ll lock the door.”
And with that, her mom walked out with nothing more than the sound of the key dead bolting Chris inside.
She remembers crying, too many too-big feelings inside that never got any smaller, until the sun set. Calming herself down with the help of her teddy bear, Chris clambered up a kitchen chair to reach the landline, Sarzo’s number thumb tacked next to it.
She fell asleep before he got her into his car, Helena in the backseat, just in case Chris needed someone to dry her tears right away.
Her mom showed up the next day, shoes in one hand and jacket crumpled under her arm. Chris can still feel where her mom grabbed her arm as she yelled at Sarzo something about her daughter . It all made her stomach hurt.
On the car ride home, her mother promised she’d never leave Chris like that again. She made it three days.
It wasn’t until Chris was sitting on a bench outside an LAPD station that it sunk in how many times her mother broke that promise, now irreparably. The door slammed shut one final time and dead bolted permanently, cementing in her mind that she’d never be enough to stick around for.
Between Cortez leaving and Erika’s death and everyone else who moved on, Chris thought she’d become strong enough to handle what hurt her so much as a child. Not until she was faced with it again did she realize she’s not.
By the time it comes to a head, neither Chris nor Street can remember what started the fight in the first place.
Not tonight’s, at least.
A series of long SWAT ops and busy days at the safe house meant dwindling time for the pair to see one another despite their best efforts. Canceled lunch plans on both parts turned into a cool air when they did find themselves at the house alone or her apartment.
From there it turned into barbs about forgotten chores or reminders about preferences known for years. Chris pretended she was still asleep when Street quietly slid out of the bed in the mornings. Street told her he was safe on shift, but not much else.
Now it’s led them here. He stands by the kitchen table, arms crossed and eyes as sharp as hers where she’s next to the couch.
There’s a flicker in both of them telling them things are going too far and none of it is that serious, but she’s shouting before that registers.
“If you’d just listen to me!”
It’s something she’s said to him a million times since their first day working together. Sometimes as a word of advice, or a warning, and often as a promise that she wants what’s best for him.
But now it just feels patronizing, like Chris is doing anything but listening to him. An ugly monster starts to rear its head in Street’s stomach, pulling his attention to the door behind him, to the possibility that he can turn around, walk out, and all of this will be over.
It’s like the siren’s song.
“No, Chris! You know what, I’m done. I’m done listening to this, I can’t fucking do this right now.”
Her eyes widen and her heart stops. Suddenly, whatever they were yelling about isn’t important, just keeping Street in the same room as her. It feels desperate, it is desperate, but she doesn’t care as her voice raises again.
“Where are you going?”
Her words are sharp through him. It sounds like a challenge more than a plea in his upset state, and he scoffs as he pulls his leather jacket on and tugs his keys hard off the hook.
“I don’t know. You want me gone, I get it. I’ll find somewhere better than here.”
Momentum pushes him through the doorway and all the way down the stairs to his bike. The first red light is where regret washes over him, but a driver is laying on their horn before he can decide to turn around.
By the time he pulls into a near-empty beach parking lot, the only thing he can think is that some space to work all this through is what both of them need, and she’ll probably be glad to have a few days to herself, too. His hand itches to check his phone and text her, but he doesn’t want to press her anymore.
With Luca out of town for a hip check-up, Street zips to their house, although it feels foreign after not staying there for so long in favor of sleeping wrapped around Chris’s warm body. In his long history of leaving, this time it doesn’t feel like he’s gotten anything good.
It’s the worst sleep he’s had in months, and Street feels dead on his feet the next morning.
Chris can recall a near perfect timeline of every time someone’s left her. Usually, though not always, happily.
This hurts worse than all of those times, and even the times that people were ripped away from her, like Erika. It’s worse than seeing Street on the ground, unmoving, after taking two slugs to the vest. This might actually be fatal.
The door slamming sounds like a coffin, and Chris is frozen inside. She wants to run after him, to sprint down the hallway and apologize and work out whatever bullshit has gotten them here.
But a sinister whisper in her ear keeps her glued to the floor.
He said he was going somewhere better .
She was never going to be enough, so who is she to stand in Street’s way of doing whatever he needs to thrive.
Her couch is uncomfortable, the leather sticking to her bare legs since she kicked off her jeans, and makeup drying on her face where it’s run from its original spot. She can’t fathom sleeping in her bed alone, so she tangles herself in a blanket and tells herself it’ll have to do.
The sky is getting lighter when she finally falls asleep.
He wakes up alone and gets out of the house as fast as he can for an air bike at HQ with his name on it. He’s the first one in, sweat already dripping down his face and neck when Tan and Deacon arrive, and he’s glad to blame his lackluster greeting on exertion from the workout instead of wanting to be wherever Chris is.
“You and Chris have any exciting plans for tonight?” Deacon asks when they’re alone in the locker room. Biting the inside of his cheek until his heart stops hammering, Street shakes his head.
“She’s been crazy busy with the safe house, so we usually just turn in by the time both of us are home.”
Deacon nods like he understands, but Street’s sure he’s never felt like his heart is being ripped out of his chest like this, worried that he’s lost the best thing he ever had at his own hand.
“Annie and I are the same way half the time. She gets back from class, we do dinner, bedtime, and we’re out.”
Street gives him a halfhearted chuckle, hoping he doesn’t see through it. He’s grateful when Deacon turns back to his own locker, until he addresses him again.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen Chris, you know. Annie and I would love to have a family dinner soon.”
Pressing his lips in a line, Street nods.
“I’ll talk to her about it, see when it might work.”
The rest of the day passes without a problem, but Street sees Chris every corner he turns. His stomach hurts, constantly twisting with anxiety, but he keeps telling himself that she needs space.
It doesn’t help that the sound of her door slamming reverberates in his mind as loud as a rock concert.
She hates this. She hates that every time she finishes a conversation, her mind wanders to him. Hates that she can hardly look at her apartment because he’s touched every corner of it so memories haunt her no matter where she goes. Hates the wall that keeps her from giving into her heart and responding to his texts. The sinister voice in her head that burrows into her bones and tells her that ‘he’s only going to leave again.’
Texts from the rest of the team keep rolling in. Clearly, he hasn’t told them, and that provides some semblance of relief. Wanting to offer him the same grace, she grits her teeth and cancels lunch with Tan. If any of them will take one look at her and see something is wrong, it’s him.
Or, at least, it would’ve been him. But she’s been off the team for almost a year, and her heart catches at the thought that this could be the beginning of the end of her relationship with all of them.
Chris shakes the thought off before it can sink its claws in.
By the third day without seeing or hearing from Chris, Street is ready to crawl out of his own skin.
The bags under his eyes are unhideable, his travel mug always full of coffee as he tries to conjure up the energy to save the city when he hasn’t slept well in days. He never noticed how much better he sleeps with the warmth of Chris and the steadiness of her breathing to soothe him.
Checking his phone in case she texted him, he sighs when there’s nothing. His message from last night sits unread, which he knows can mean a lot of things but none of them make him feel good.
It all gets worse when Tan comes in. He slams his locker against the neighboring one, the sound of metal on metal making Street’s head pound. His breathing is heavy, like there’s something wrong, and he can’t piece together what it is until Tan speaks.
“What happened with Chris?”
It’s cold water down Street’s spine that wakes him up more than coffee ever could. He’s done everything in his power to just avoid his relationship as a topic to spare Chris having to deal with other people knowing.
“I don’t—nothing.” He deflects, but there’s a shake in his voice and Tan raises his eyebrows.
“Dude, she canceled lunch yesterday and shooting tomorrow.”
“So?” Street tries to play it off.
“So, Chris only cancels plans when something is wrong. If she were sick, you’d have said, unless you haven’t been with her. And if it were just one, I’d chalk it up to her being busy, but both means she’s avoiding something. Or someone.” Tan states like it’s a matter of fact.
Sometimes he forgets how well Tan and Chris know each other. His stomach clenches knowing that she’s also trying to protect him from prying questions and unchecked emotions.
“We got in a fight.” sighs. “I don’t even know what over, it’s just been so busy recently and we’ve been at each other’s throats.”
Tan’s wince instills no confidence in him, both remembering the blowout arguments and cold shoulders that blemished their time on the team.
“Okay. What happened? I’m sure you could make plans and talk it out?” Shrugging, he says he doesn’t know how to answer either of those questions.
“I was yelling, and Chris was yelling. Finally, I just walked out. I figured we needed space, and I texted her yesterday, but she hasn’t read it.”
Street looks to Tan to find the latter frozen at his locker, knuckles white around his phone. Slowly, Tan turns to him, voice rumbling like a building storm.
“You walked out?”
“Yes?” Street nods, unsure of what he’s getting at.
“Why?” Tan asks.
“Why what?”
“Why’d you leave Chris?”
The word leave makes it all feel so, so much worse, and Street is quick to correct him with a sharp edge to his tone.
“No one left anyone. And, like I said, space. I don’t know what you’re looking for, man.”
Setting his phone down, Tan runs a hand over his exasperated face.
“I’m looking for a reason why you’d do something so stupid as to walk out on Chris.”
Street shakes his head to clear it, tamping down on his rising defensiveness because the last thing he wants is someone else he loves angry with him.
“We both needed time to cool down. My mom and I left all the time when my parents would fight. Never for long enough, but it was always a little calmer for a few minutes when we got back and they both had a clear head.”
The puzzle picture forming in Tan’s mind, he hums in new understanding. The crack of his knuckles echoes off the walls.
“I see where you’re coming from. But Chris isn’t someone who takes walking as ‘just to cool off.’ Not with her past.”
The words spin in Street’s head as he continues to try to understand. The inference is clear enough: people have left Chris. He knows that, but the look in Tan’s eyes still doesn’t seem warranted. Swallowing, Tan claps his hand on Street’s shoulder for them both to sit. He looks over his shoulders to make sure they’re alone before continuing.
“We were talking about our parents once, a long time ago, before you were on the team. These kids were being abused, one was able to break free and get help. It was a lot, and she and I were the youngest, so we’d talk a lot after cases then.”
I don’t know why she told me, she had no reason to. But her mom walked out on her. A lot. And then she’d come back and promise not to do it again, until she was drunk, and then she did. Chris said nothing would make her feel worse than that. I know you’ve got your shit, but she has hers, too.”
Tan leaves him, clapping him on the shoulder again and wishing him good luck. Looking around at the empty locker room, Street pulls his phone out to text her again.
Hey.
I’m sorry. I miss you. Hoping we can talk to work this out?
I promise, Chris, I want to fix this.
Chris blows out a heavy breath as she reads the texts from Street again. The okay . that she sent feels too small now that she’s sitting on her couch and staring at the door while the clock above the TV ticks away.
She feels like when she was a little girl and she’d wait outside for her mom to get back from wherever she was, only for her to not show. Her red-hot anger morphs into an unrelenting ache over the empty space beside her. Anxiety swirls in her stomach waiting for him to walk in.
He’s not her mother or anything like her. He loves her, and Chris knows that too well to truly believe that he wanted to hurt her. But he did, and another stitch along her heart rips as she struggles to reconcile that. Gaze traveling over her dimly-lit living room, she lands on the small picture frame on the opposite end table. It’s a photo of the whole team, before Street had even been with them a year, but his arm is slung around her shoulder and pulling her close. Already crowding into her lungs like air she needed to breathe. A small smile pulls at her face from the memories in the armory and kitchen and locker room—more reminders of times he didn’t leave.
The clock chiming with the arrival of another hour breaks her concentration. Sighing, she tucks her knees to her chest, and her eyes fall back to the door.
Street can hardly focus for the rest of shift as Tan’s words, paired with his continual, unsubtle glances, make his mind spin over what he hopes he didn’t mess up irreparably. His phone is already in his hand when the notification comes in that Chris responded to him. It’s not much, one word, but it’s the best okay he’s ever read in his life. He begs the criminals to stay inside and the clock to hurry up so he can get to her sooner.
Somehow, they do, and he leaves the moment that Hondo gives them the nod. The sun beats down on his face and gives way to too-bright headlights as he splits lanes to get to her apartment. He comes to the quickest stop he can without throwing himself over the handlebars and slides his keys into his pocket. Heart pounding, he squeezes his shaking hands into fists as he forgoes the elevator for stairs a nd finds himself outside her door.
Feeling his lungs expand and deflate a few times, Street offers a gentle knock. He hears her take a deep breath of her own and the quiet fall of her footsteps that stop once she gets to the door. The shakiness of her breath breaks his heart and he waits until the door handle clicks to let himself exhale. He takes a small step back as she opens the door, keeping it positioned in front of her like she’s trying to protect herself.
“Come in.” She says softly. His smile widens and he crosses the threshold, an undeniable feeling of home settling on him that he’s been sorely missing. He realizes, not for the first time, how much he needs her in his life. How safe she makes him. For the first time in days, his heart feels settled in his chest and his air in his lungs.
She’s back on the couch by the time he’s gotten his helmet on the counter and his jacket draped over the back of one of the barstools. He toes off his shoes and can feel her eyes on him as he takes the seat across from her. The chair melds around him, silence simmering in the space between them.
“I’m sorry.” Chris starts, allowing herself a glance at his eyes and her body relaxing when there’s none of the vitriol from the other night in them. Street opens his mouth, but she shakes her head. “There’s no excuse for how I treated you. Over nothing.”
She swallows and allows her gaze to drop for a moment, letting her words dissolve. He makes sure he’s heard them before he nods, gripping the arm of the chair but scooting towards the edge to be closer to her.
“Chris, I’m so sorry, too. Work has been so busy for both of us and everything just got out of hand. There was nothing to get that upset over. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about.” He admits, risking a small huff of a laugh that lands easily when she does the same. Her laugh is like music to him.
“Me neither. It doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t to you.”
She bites her lip, but it’s obvious she has nothing to worry about when he answers by standing and stepping around the coffee table to pull her into a hug. He cradles her head as they breathe one another in, and then meets their lips in a tender kiss that both melt into.
“I love you.” Chris murmurs against him when they part, her hands coming to wrap around his shoulders and her thumbs lightly brushing over the olive green of his t-shirt.
“I love you, too.” He kisses her forehead and tucks her back into the space between his neck and shoulder. The world dwindles to just the two of them in the yellow glow of her living room. Tears well in her eyes as she smells his familiar musk and his hand creeps underneath her shirt to rest on her bare skin.
After a moment and without a word, their bodies find themselves intertwined on the couch. One of her legs is nestled between his, his hand resting on her knee and tracing a soothing pattern over the denim. Despite how much better she already feels, a lingering weight drags on her heart. Unsure of how to bring it up, she swallows, feeling how he drops a kiss to her crown in response.
“Street?” She whispers. He hums against her hair and stills his hand; she can feel his eyes on her, sweet and warm. The part of her telling her to brush the whole thing off and move on beats in her veins, but she squeezes her eyes shut, and her voice sounds like a child’s when she speaks.
“I know I’m just as much to blame, I do. But I can’t stop thinking about when you—when you left.”
“Chris,” he cuts her off, but falls into painful silence at the choked noise that comes from the back of her throat and how she pulls herself to the other end of the couch. She needs to look him in the eye to have this conversation. And, she knows, if this is it, sitting in his arms any longer will only make the wound bleed that much more after the band-aid is off. A shiver runs through her and she tries to comfort herself by wrapping her arms around her chest and tucking up her legs. It doesn’t work, never like Street does.
Seeing her make herself small splits him in half. He reads the desperation in her eyes and wants to get on his knees and promise that he knows. He knows , and he’s never going to go anywhere again. But he knows her, too, and is certain that this fear is something she’s kept close to her vest, let out only in the most intimate of moments.
He wants to know her completely. To know every chip and crack that’s a part of her and love them just as much as the rest of her, more than anyone else ever has. So he sits back to give her the room to bare her soul with the promise that he’ll create space for it in his own chest, right next to his.
“You’re not my parents. I’ve been telling myself that for days. But you walking out that door felt worse than every time my mom left me alone…which was all the time.” She stops to take a breath, already feeling a small weight off her chest. When their eyes meet again, his are just as open to her as ever, and a wave of trust so strong washes over her that she has no choice to continue her admission.
“I hated it. All I ever wanted was for her to stay. For anyone to stay.”
Emotion threatens to overtake her and she can tell from the set of his mouth, open like he’s on the precipice of a breath but he can’t fully take it in, that he’s thinking of the same paths she’s crossed in the time they’ve known each other. Her gaze falls to her tattooed hands, flexing and clenching her fingers.
“You have. But when you said you’d find something better I—“ The tears start rolling, slow but steady, as she feels the last of the seams of her heart pop open and expose her entirety to him.
“I know that I’ve never been enough. My mom didn’t need words to teach me that, and by the time she died and my Aunt and Uncle could help, the damage was done. I was enough of a cover story for Thompson but nothing more, and I’ll never know if I believe what Kira said about her feelings. There are so many people I couldn’t save when I was SWAT.”
Tears wet Street’s face, too, as he holds himself back from throwing himself at her feet and explaining that it was a mistake. A stupid, awful mistake courtesy of his own parents that he’ll spend forever making up to her. He can feel the ghost of her hand in his almost as strong as the real thing, and his determination to make this right dwarfs the same perspective he had when he knocked. Not just to have her again, but to hold her and never let go.
“I never felt like I wasn’t enough with you. Part of me still doesn’t. But the other part, I can’t stop thinking about it.” Chris finishes. He knows the feelings she’s talking about all too well, and he hates that he made her feel like that.
She wipes under her eyes but they’re shining with more tears when she looks at him. He can count on one hand the times she’s looked as heartbroken as she does now. Gently, he reaches a hand out but waits for her to nod before interlacing their fingers and giving her a squeeze. His eyebrows scrunch together in disappointment with himself.
“Chris, I’m so sorry.” He moves closer so their knees knock lightly, lightning running up his spine at the contact. “It’s a stupid thing my mom used to say when we’d leave my dad, until we went back.”
He rolls his eyes with disgust at the whole situation, but before his mind can whisk him away on a tangent, she runs her thumb over his out of habit. Focusing on her quiet sniffles to stay grounded, a sigh escapes him and he softens.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I did find something better, and it’s you , Chris. You are the best thing in my life, and I’m not ever going to let you go. Leaving has been second nature to me since I was a kid but I don’t want it to be anymore. I want you. I’m so sorry for making you feel like that.”
“I want you, too.” Even in the low lighting, his face lights up with his dimpled grin and it makes the corners of her lips quirk up when she sees it. His hand is warm and familiar in hers, her voice getting softer and nodding as she speaks. “I love you, and I know you love me. I’m sorry that I’m not—that this got to me so much.”
Brows scrunching again, this time in disbelief at what he’s hearing, his mouth is open before hers closes.
“Chris, you’re more than enough. And you never have to apologize for the stuff from when you were a kid. Not to me,” he laughs, “especially not to me after everything you’ve seen me through.”
He moves to nestle her under his arm and she lets him, soothed once more by his cologne and steady heartbeat. She feels him mark the crown of her head with a kiss and her body relaxes instinctually while his nails scratch lightly up and down her arm.
“You don’t talk about your childhood often.” Street says. It’s a thought he’s had plenty of times, and he still doesn’t want to push, but there’s never been a time to bring it up that felt as right as right now does. He hears the catch in her breathing and keeps everything about how he’s holding her the exact same. She hums to gather her thoughts.
“I don’t know.” She confesses, confusion flooding into her brain over how to voice what she’s shoved down for so long. “It feels like there’s so much to say, too much, but there’s no changing it, either.”
A deep breath opens the world between them a little more, falling back into the safety only the other provides in the midst of the storm.
“It made me feel powerless, when she would leave. I was powerless, until I got old enough to call Sarzo or go to a friend’s, and even that was just a distraction. I try not to give those feelings power over me now. I won’t live my life with my past at the forefront.”
He’s awestruck, not for the first time, by how strong Chris is, and with a sadness for how little of a choice she had in the matter. Her head turns so her cheek rests more against his shoulder.
“It’s gotten easier over the years, but I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”
The silence that follows her words is poignant. Chris knows immediately that it’s the truth, and she’s not going to take it back. She can practically feel the ear-to-ear grin on Street’s face. He hooks his finger under her chin to tilt her face to his and meet their lips once more. It’s slower, softer, and her body rises off the couch as she sighs into it. She ends up further on his lap when they come back down, his hand painting gently down her face.
“I promise you that I’m never leaving you again.” Street murmurs as his forehead rests against hers. Her eyes are finally sparkling again, though tinged with uncertainty. She shakes her head and opens her mouth to argue but he doesn’t let her.
“We’re going to fight, I know. But we’ll stomp around here, or wherever we move in together, and maybe someone will sleep on the couch, and we’ll slam doors, sure, but it’ll never be the front door.”
His words hold no doubt and he kisses her again to cement them between them.
“Believe me?” He asks, smiling when he catches hers and tilting his head like a puppy when she bites her lip.
“I do. But no sleeping on the couch either. I did the first night you were gone, and I haven’t slept well in my bed without you, either. So, no leaving, and no sleeping alone.”
Unable to stop himself, he brings her the rest of the way onto his lap and cradles the back of her neck. Her laugh is warm on his skin, sending goosebumps up his arms.
“I can agree to those terms. What do you say we start making up for lost time now?”
He doesn’t need to ask twice before they’re down the hallway and she kicks her bedroom door, slamming it closed.