Work Text:
If there’s on thing Street knows to be irrefutably true about Chris, it’s that she’s determined. No matter what she sets her mind to, no matter what obstacles crop up along the way, she’ll find a way to get it done, no matter the cost. He admires her for it, he loves her for it.
He just wishes she would learn that determination doesn’t have to mean running herself into the ground. That taking a break is as much a part of being productive as barrelling through walls and shattering glass ceilings. It would save him a lot of time and worry spent waiting for her body to shut down because it’s telling her she needs to rest, but she won’t listen. Until that day comes, however, he’ll be there to catch her when she falls.
So when he hears her get into the shower an hour before they’re supposed to go to her Aunt’s house for dinner with her extended family, he kicks into high gear.
A clean bed, lit candles, closed blinds, and his secret weapon waiting patiently for its time to shine. He feels the weight of it against his back where he’s perched on the bed, staring at the bathroom door for her to finish. Underneath his genuine concern over her inability to slow down, his stomach is warm knowing he’s the one that gets to be there for her when she does. The comforter is soft underneath his palms, and he laughs to himself as he waits for the water to stop. It’s another few minutes before it does, and then another still before she opens the door.
“What are you doing?” Chris asks, towel held around her chest, eyes widening when she glances at the clock. “We have to leave in half an hour.”
“No. We don’t.” His tone is gentle, but her eyes narrow and her jaw tightens all the same. They’ve done this dance a million times by now, though, so he takes the lead before she can cut the music.
“We’re staying in. I already talked to Helena about it.”
“Street,” she scoffs, moving to the dresser to look for clothes, but he leans over so he’s still in her field of vision. “That’s ridiculous. I’m—”
“Fine? I’ve heard that one before, Babe. You’re not. You’ve been falling asleep on your feet for the past three days, and I’ve seen your rolling your neck and trying to stretch out all those knots, but I doubt they’ve gone anywhere. Am I right?”
She sighs like she’s annoyed, but he sees how relief floods her eyes and her shoulders drop a little of their tension.
“Fine, you’re right,” she admits, and he thinks, maybe, it’s finally starting to sink in. But then, “But we can’t miss dinner. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Lips in a line, Street takes a deep breath. Their whole bedroom seems to breathe with him, expanding and contracting as he finds a way to be both gentle and unyielding. He crosses to her, his back shielding the bed, and carefully takes her elbow. Her breath stutters, and her eyes flick to his for barely a second as her body reorients itself, and then she gives in and looks at him completely.
“I talked to Helena,” he repeats. “As far as your family is concerned, we have the flu. Please, Chris, I’m just worried. And don’t tell me not to worry because I always will, because I love you.”
Her eyes go glassy with tears, and it breaks his heart; this has only happened once or twice in the midst of these conversations. He needs to fix things before she feels any worse. He turns quick and grabs what he’s been banking on this whole time.
“Besides,” he says soft, turning back to her. “I’m just the messenger. This guy is the one insisting on a night in.”
She doesn’t see it at first, and she freezes when she does, her mind racing with a million memories and even more questions. In his hand sits a stuffed white bear that she’s had since she was three. It also looks worse for wear, having been stitched and patched up more than once by Helena’s expert hands, and he hands it over when she reaches for it, reverent.
“Oh my God,” there’s disbelief in her voice, but not in a bad way, and he can’t stop himself from smiling even though she’s not looking at him. “Where did you get this?”
Chris cradles the bear to her chest on instinct, breathing in the scent of lavender when she buries her nose in the fur, and brings her gaze to Street. His heart starts to settle back down in his chest, and he exhales.
“Swung by your family after shift last night. Sarzo and Helena have also noticed you’ve been overdoing it, and gave it to me to give to you.”
Her brown eyes roll, but they’re too full of love for him to take it seriously.
“ So ,” he seizes the moment, “the only clothes you’re putting on are clean pajamas. And then you can get in bed and pick a movie while I heat up dinner, and reheat your—”
“Poppy.”
He can’t stop a grin from overtaking his face, but he does manage to keep the overwhelming urge to kiss her until they’re both senseless at by.
“Poppy.” Street finishes. “Please?”
“Okay,” Chris finally relents. She’ll never admit how good it feels to shove the world out and lock the door, but she does rise onto her tiptoes and kiss him. “Thank you.”
“Mm,” he hums, and kisses her again, letting his lips linger on hers. When they part, her eyes are brighter than they’ve been in a while, clearer, and he smiles. “You’re welcome. I love you. Now, hand over Poppy.”
She doesn’t realize how tightly she’s holding the bear until she has to let go. The moment it slides through her fingers, she misses the weight.
“I’ll take good care of her.” He promises.
In the silence, she grabs shorts but then slides her drawer shut to open his, instead, and pulls out one of his retired SWAT shirts. It smells like him when she slips it overhead, and she breathes deeply while she finishes changing, hangs up her towel, and, finally, slides under the covers.
Her body sinks into the mattress as if it were a cloud, insulated even more by the thought of Street and Poppy in the kitchen. Still, the weariness she’s just managed to stave off becomes more apparent the longer she lies there. Her neck and shoulders ache no matter how she wraps herself around his pillow. She grabs the remote to find a movie to distract herself with, but it’s thin, her groans drowning out the dialogue of Spiderman.
“Okay,” Street’s easy voice takes off some of the edge. He enters the room with a tray of food that he sets on the dresser, Poppy, and another heating pad. “That cannot be comfortable.”
“Everything hurts.” She murmurs, nuzzling further into his pillow.
“I know,” he sets a hand on her shoulder, pulling lightly so she rolls onto her back and sits up. He fluffs and stacks all the pillows into a soft wall for her to lean against, holding them steady while she tries to find a comfortable position. “How’s that?”
“Better,” she sighs.
“Good. Just let me slide this behind you, and you’ll be all set.”
Leaning forward, Chris feels a spread of warmth over her back, and sighs. The heat immediately radiates through her muscles and helps her relax, enough for her to fall asleep if she wanted. But the sound of silverware clinking makes her open her eyes, stomach grumbling at the sight of chicken casserole.
“When did you have time to make this?” She asks softly. Her mind pours over what she remembers him telling her of his schedule, and finding no spare minute. He smiles small when she looks at him, and he shrugs.
“I have my ways. Figured you needed some comfort food. Oh,” he jogs around the bed to sit next to her, his own plate and fork finding his lap. “This is the best part.”
For the second time, her vision blurs with tears. Every part of her tries to come up with reasons why she deserves this and for how to say thank you, but nothing is enough on either account. Even if she could, he’s keeping his eyes glued to the screen as if it’s the most interesting thing on Earth.
She’s no stranger to this dance, either. This is the part where he acts like he’s only doing what anyone would, and she grapples with giving in despite knowing it’s not. As always, she does give in. Savoring the first taste of home in warm, delicious cheese and chicken, she also turns her attention to the TV.
“When he gets bit is not the best part.”
“Speak for yourself.” Street teases back. “It’s the beginning of it all. Any time I got so much as a mosquito bite as a kid, I convinced myself I’d wake up the next morning with cool powers.”
“Really?” She laughs, a much-missed sound for both of them. “What would they’ve called you? SpiderStreet?”
He shakes his head, sucks in a reflective breath with all too much drama.
“No, I always thought just ‘Spider’ would be my go to. Much cooler.”
“I see. Well, it isn’t too late for that to come true.”
“Oh? Does this mean you’ll patch up all my bruises and help keep my identity a secret?”
“Maybe,” Chris shrugs, checking him in her periphery, lips twisted into a grin. “But until you get those powers, it means you get to handle whenever there’s a spider in the bathroom.”
“Deal,” he chuckles. “How’s the casserole?”
She lowers her fork to take another bite, but is met with the sound of metal scraping ceramic. An internal heat overcomes her with how this is further proof she’s been taking terrible care of herself. Luckily, the room is dark.
“Gone. But it was delicious.”
“Good. Here, let me take your bowl. I’ll be back.”
The movie plays but she pays it no attention while she waits for him to come back. He does quickly, more pillows underneath one arm and an again-warm Poppy in the other.
“Those are from the guest room.”
“Good observation, Alonso.” He winks, and stacks them up where his would be if they weren’t behind her. Reaching for the end of the bed, he snags their extra blanket to shake out over them, adjusting it after he situates himself, half-propped up and half-lying down.
“I’ve got it,” his sweet, light tone stops her from reaching back to fix her own pillows. One is folded in half against his torso for her to lie on, another along her back, and the last two he sets to the side. Poppy is snuggled as firmly into her chest as she is into Street’s. The sense of safety surrounding her from all sides easing away all other thoughts than being where they are. That one fades, too, when he presses a kiss to her head. “The heating pad still okay? Do you want the extra pillow for your hips?”
“It’s good.” Her hair fans out as she nods, voice swallowed by the pillowcase. “I’m good. Thank you.”
He holds her closer, arm wrapped securely around her and lips barely an inch from the shell of her ear.
“You’re welcome. Tell me if you change your mind.”
“I will,” she says, and where she expects the fizzle of discomfort in her chest, she finds resolution instead. She leans into his lips on her forehead, moaning quietly.
Street can’t make himself look away from her. Her long lashes, the slope of her nose, tattooed hands holding onto Poppy. The whole scene is so indescribably comforting, and he wonders if she knows just how far he’d go for her. It makes a well in his chest that he has to be careful not to fall into. Attempting to tread carefully, he forces his eyes back to the TV. He’s just cluing back into the plot when there’s warm breath across his bare skin.
“What’s that, Babe?”
“This. This is the best part.”