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Street’s breaths bounce off the backsplash and blinds as he closes the door with his hip and a definitive click. The quiet stretches on like the shoreline, and with his toes digging into the steel of his boots, Street’s shoulders fall and his carefully constructed dam cracks into a million pieces.
Every successful team needs a good leader. A strong leader. A leader who knows how to make tough calls and defend them to the end. That’s the type of leader Hondo and Hicks are, the kind Chris is at the safe house, but it’s feeling more and more out of Street’s grasp.
He’s spent a lot of his life feeling like a fuck-up, but it’s never felt so damn terrifying until now. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, all of Buck’s mantras and Chris’s levelheaded reminders are floating about, but he’s deaf to them as he stumbles to the bedroom and throws his backpack on the bed.
“What the fuck was I thinking?” He murmurs to himself, eyes tracing the life they’ve built themselves before, followed by a sniffle. His restlessness grows like a tsunami under the sea, and he’s about to shoot Chris a text that he went for a drive to clear his head when the running of water catches his attention.
Countless promises not to run and irrefutable evidence that the other is a better coping mechanism than anything else rush over him like a tidal wave. In his periphery, he sees the photo from their first real date on the wall—cheeks pressed together and eyes bright. The one she insisted they hang up, but in the bedroom because it’s only for them. Instead of reaching into his pocket for his keys, he peels his jacket off and tosses it next to his backpack in a black lump. His boots go next, kicked to some corner of the room as he beelines for the bathroom.
It’s a different world. Chris’s soft hum fills the air, mingling with the citrus-tinted steam from her body wash. The sage towels they picked out together are hung neatly next to the shower, two toothbrushes sitting in a silver cup on the sink. Her form is just visible through the blur of frosted glass. In a six by six room, everything is right in the world.
He hears the familiar sound of a shampoo bottle closing and something comes over him. The need to be in her arms, to give himself to her to make better, overcomes everything else. His jeans hit the ground with a flop but the idea of getting off his shirt and underwear is forgotten as he opens the door and steps under the spray
“Street? Oh—woah!” Chris gets out as she turns to see him, and is promptly pulled into his arms. Her arms return the gesture on instinct, shampoo reside leaving palm-print shapes on his back. A million questions sit on her tongue but she forgets the second she feels hot tears on her shoulder and feels him shaking.
“Okay,” she says, getting her bearings while her heart calms down from the adrenaline rush. She wipes her forehead on the sleeve of his shirt to clear away the shampoo she can feel creeping down. “You’re okay.”
He shakes his head vehemently against her bare shoulder, his labored breaths mixing with the shower stream until it’s hard to piece out which is which.
“You are.” Chris promises. “Everything is going to be okay. Come on, follow my breathing.”
Pushing carefully at his shoulder like one would a child, she coaxes him into letting one of his arms fall limp at his side. His hand has yet to steady when she slips their fingers together, and she worms their arms between their bodies to flatten his hand out over her chest.
“See?” She whispers, drops her chin until she manages to catch his eyes. They’re full of fear and anger, a volatile mix she hasn’t seen in years, and her own heart stops for a second before she remembers he needs it more. “Nice and easy. Breathe in. Good.”
Slowly, his breathing evens out and his hands loosen their vice grip. But she takes a half step back and his fingers curl into her chest in a desperate attempt to keep her where she is. Her lips ghost over his jaw.
“It’s okay, I’m right here. I want to get you out of these clothes, is all.”
Nodding his silent permission, the corners of Chris’s lips quirk into a gentle smile, and her hands begin the work of pulling off the soaked burgundy fabric. It splats onto the floor but they ignore it to get his underwear off and lay them on top. With nothing but the water between them now, she sees the full extent of his pain, from the hunch in his shoulders to the set of the jaw.
“C’mon, sit, babe,” she nudges her knees into his until he hits the built-in stool and his body obeys. Her hands start to massage the tight wads of knots making home across his upper back, thumbs digging in with more pressure. “This okay?”
“You should wash the shampoo out of your hair.” Street says, as if suddenly coming back into himself. She raises an eyebrow, and he gives her a half-smirk, though it’s exhausted. “I’ll be fine for a minute. Please?”
“Just because you said please.” She smiles. She finishes quickly, his eyes lingering on the line of her muscles as she stretches her arms overhead until she’s warmed through. Not bothering with the conditioner, she wraps her arms around him again. His face nuzzles into her stomach, her hands carding through hair to hold him closer.
“What if I can’t do it?” Street asks, before Chris can.
“Do what?”
“Lead this team. Be a Sergeant.”
“You can,” she promises, only to hear him disagree.
“I’m not like you,” he whispers, something deep and raw stirring in both of them. “Or Buck, or Hondo. They need someone to bring them together, and that’s not me. I don’t know why I thought I could do this. Help them ?”
Each word is a knife—one she thought they’d long untwisted and extracted from his ribs, and closed up the wounds left behind. Looking to the ceiling to take some deep breaths, the increasing chill of the water is nothing compared to the hollowed beating of her heart. She sniffles back her own tears before he notices.
“Hey, listen to me.” Chris kisses the crown of his head and curls over him, protecting him and his body any way she can. “You are a leader.”
“They’re a mess, Chris.” He cries. “And now it’s on me.”
“I know. But you’re not alone. You can handle this, it’s just going to take a little time.”
“Unless I get someone killed in the meantime.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, the shower floor bites into Chris’s knees as she lowers herself to be at his eye-level. Her hand draws down the front of his chest to his thigh, tracing soothing circles.
“Look at me. Please, Jim.”
Street falters as the words reach him. He can count on two hands the amount of times she’s called him Jim in the years they’ve known each other. Unable to not follow where she leads, he brings his red, scared eyes to hers. Her jaw clenches.
“Whatever happens, I will be here. But me, Hondo, Buck—everyone who loves you knows the kind of leader you are. I can’t imagine how scary it is being back in Long Beach, having everyone looking to you, but they trust you.”
Weight starts to fall away from his shoulders as she speaks like the water droplets rolling down the glass doors.
“Even when we met, you never let anyone down on purpose. You were always trying to do what you thought was right. It’s part of you that made me fall in love with you.” She kisses him softly, his eyes slowly losing their fogginess under her words. “And you’ve grown so much. You’re more discerning now, you’re a team player; you’re equipped with everything you need to lead your team, and I know that because I see it in you every day.”
Her words soak through his skin and into his blood like medicine. Slow-acting, but present. She doesn’t stop with the circles, either, keeps her breathing nice and even while she lets the calming sound of falling water surround them.
“You have so much heart. You’re going to take it, and the best of what you learned, and make a team that has each other’s backs like our team did. Like I know you have mine. You deserve this shot. You’ve earned your own trust. Please believe me.”
She falls silent, a half-smile gracing her features. She leans into his touch as he raises a hand to cradle her jaw, his thumb caressing her cheekbone, memorized by it.
“Thank you,” he says, moments later. Her gaze awaits him when he looks up, a sad but unwavering smile on her face.
“I love you.” She kisses him. Pours as much of herself into it in the hopes it’ll sink in just how much she meant everything she said; if it doesn’t, she’ll just say it again. Street takes her hand when she goes to stand up, squeezing.
“Come on, let’s get today off you,” Chris suggests, and there’s no argument to be had. “The water’s cool, but it’ll be quick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. A cold shower never hurt anything. Besides, after, I’ll warm you up.”
The paralyzing fear that’s had him in its grips starts to thaw, and she relaxes at the first hint of a true smile. A small sparkle in his eyes, the beginning divots of dimples. His low laugh echoes off the grout, and it feels as good as it sounds.
“You already did.”