Archive of Our Own

One month.

Street would be lying if he said he didn’t call and make this reservation three weeks ago. 

So maybe it was barely a week after they got together. Maybe it was presumptuous. But after a five-year wait, and one of the best nights of his life that has turned into one of the best months of his life, he’ll be damned if they don’t celebrate. Twenty Squad is off-rotation for the weekend, Mama Pina has another volunteer with her to cover the safe house, it’s all falling together. 

“We have plans on Saturday.” Street says, stopping Chris’s forkful of bacon and eggs halfway to her mouth. Her instinct is to look over her shoulder as if they’re in the kitchen at HQ and he’s talking to Luca, but she finds only her empty living room looking back at her. His eyes are narrowed when she swivels around, and she shakes it off. 

“We do? What for?” Her smile sparkles as she finishes the bite. He glances down at his empty plate and reminds himself to savor the moment. His fingers crawl over the breakfast bar until he finds her empty hand and slots them together. 

“Our one-month anniversary. I made us dinner reservations.”

Nerves flutter around his stomach in a way they haven’t before, but he doesn’t have the time to dissect them before Chris answers. Her hand is warm where it cradles his jaw, lips soft and salty on his. 

“Thank you. Paul’s?” 

The nerves fly away and he breaks into a grin, kissing her again, more forcefully. If it weren’t for the clock behind her reading half an hour until his shift starts, he wouldn’t pull back. 

“Yep. Only the best.” 

He slides off the barstool and snags both their dishes to set in the sink, her brown eyes following him like a future she can’t believe is real, but she never wants to stop looking at. With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his boots on the hardwood, he leans over the side of the counter until he can reach her lips again. 

“Saturday at seven.” 

“I’ll be there.”

The takeout she’s had from Paul’s pales in comparison to dining in. Their matching leather jackets rest over the backs of their chairs, waiters and other guests floating by, but she doesn’t notice any of them in favor of the last bit of burger in front of her. Street can’t help how he’s looking at her in-between bites of his own, and she rests her cheek in her hand after a sip of her wine. 

“You know I didn’t expect anything, right?” She asks, a small knot in her stomach. Anniversaries with Ty and Kira were…weird, and the last thing she wants is for them to somehow become so important that the rest of her relationship with Street falls away. But he gives her an easy, dimpled smile and sips his own wine, swallowing. 

“I know; I wanted to. And I figured it had to be some kind of fate if both of our schedules managed to line up for it.” 

Her laugh bounces off the large windows that overlook the city, and the flames from the small candle on the table catch the gold in her eyes. 

“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad they did. This is nice. This—this whole month has been really nice.” She tries to look down until the blush passes, but he brushes a hand across her elbow. 

“For me, too. I love you.” 

So maybe it’s only been a month since they got together. Maybe, in another case, it would be presumptuous. But the words roll off his tongue and push straight through her chest into her heart, ricocheting through her until she echoes them. 

“I love you, too.” 

“Are we all done here?” A new voice cuts in, a brown-haired twenty-something looking between them and then down at their mostly-empty plates. The air crackles with electricity that he only manages to subdue, not to break. Street glances at both their plates and throws a quick look to Chris, getting a nod. 

“Yeah, I think we are, thank you.” 

“Of course. Would you like a dessert menu?” 

“Yes, please,” Chris answers immediately, and her hand not in Street’s grabs for it right away. The waiter stacks their plates and leaves with a promise to return shortly, but she’s too lost in the idea of chocolate lava cake and crème brûlée. 

“See something that sounds good?” Street asks with a laugh at her facial expression when she remembers that he’s across from her. She takes a deep breath and gives the menu a final once over, and then hands it to him. 

“Dark chocolate and raspberry torte. We can split it.” 

It sounds unconvincing to her own ears, and he doesn’t take the bait. 

“Every time we do that, I seem to lose. Besides, the tiramisu has my name on it.” 

She rolls her eyes but can’t deny the accusation. The waiter returns for their order, and soon after sets two expertly arranged plates of goodness in front of them. With a small piece of cake on her spoon, she lifts it across the table. 

“Cheers,” she smiles wide. All around them, Los Angeles is spinning with life, but all that matters is what’s spinning in-between them. Street gets a bit of tiramisu on his spoon, raising it to hers. 

“Cheers, Chris. Happy Anniversary.”

Three months. 

After the joy that was their first month anniversary, Chris wants to make their three-month just as special. Part of it feels funny, still, to put so much stock in just a few months, but another part of her gets butterflies in her stomach and a blush on her cheeks when she thinks about him, so she indulges. 

He deserves it, anyway. 

Cassandra, a volunteer she’s come to work closely with at the safe house, relieves her a few hours earlier than normal, with a sweet smile and wishes for a nice evening. Thanking her, Chris gets in her truck and checks her watch. Four more hours until Street gets home. 

The store is thankfully empty when she goes to grab a few last minute items, and even traffic doesn’t seem as heavy as it normally does. Bags in hand, she unlocks her apartment door, and can’t stop herself from smiling as she takes in how he’s come to permeate the space even though they don’t yet live together. She has to stop herself before she goes down the rabbit hole of what it’ll be like to live together. How much she wants to.

Three months , she thinks. Who would’ve thought . 

Shaking it off before she loses track of time again, and dumping the bags on the kitchen counter, Chris changes into leggings and an old sweatshirt to prepare everything. She grabs a sleek black box from the closet, one tied with a burgundy ribbon, that’s been hidden just out of sight for a few weeks now, and sets it on the coffee table. A notepad is there, too, something she chalks up to her previous self looking out for her, and she scrawls out her list. 

• Flowers
• Strawberries
• Shower
• Dinner

The flowers are easy: cut off the ends, stick them in a vase. Stick the vase next to the box, and forgets about it. 

Turning to the strawberries, she rinses and dries them all, and melts down three bowls of chocolate in the microwave. Her playlist is soft throughout the apartment as she goes about it all, an ease to her movements as she dips each bright berry and sets them on a lined cookie sheet. It’s fun to get lost in the repetition of it, and she smiles at the thought of how Street’s going to react. She knows he thinks she doesn’t listen when he makes his offhand comments during baking shows. After they’re all coated, she lets them set for a few minutes in the fridge, then drizzles opposite kinds of chocolate on top. Satisfied with her work, she moves them into an empty container once filled with Annie’s cookies, and leaves them be. 

She’s never been one to believe in perfect, but it’s shaping up like that. 

Until her phone rings the second she steps out of the shower. Street’s name and picture comes across the foggy screen. Her first feeling, always, is relief. If he’s calling her, he’s alive. But his voice sounds harried, and he rushes into an apology.

“We need to get these guys tonight. We’re waiting on the warrant. I probably won’t be home until nine-thirty or ten.”

“It’s fine,” she calms him, mentally rearranging her time clock. “We can have dinner later. Don’t worry about it, just stay safe. Tell the rest of the team that, too.”

“Have I told you I love you lately?”

Checking the time, Chris grins as if he can see it. 

“About twelve hours ago. I love you, too.” 

He says it back and the call ends, Deacon’s voice just able to be heard yelling his name as it does. Sighing, she sets her phone back down and finishes drying off, going into her room.

As much as she’d love to put her leggings back on, she looks through her closet until she finds the blue jeans and silky black top she’s been planning on wearing for too many days now. She does leave the shirt off in favor of his sweatshirt in case of a spill or stain when she’s cooking, but the jeans fit like a glove and feel just as good. The memory of the last time she wore them plays like a movie.

One hand in her hair and the other toying with the button and zipper until he could slide his fingers beneath the denim. Red lipstick on his shirt collar. A bruise from his mouth splashed across her collarbones. How easily he makes her fall apart.

A shiver runs through her as the memory grows until it’s all encompassing, but the grumble of her stomach brings Chris back to herself. Since she needs to push dinner back, she grabs a granola bar and a protein shake. The strawberries are also calling her name, and she debates how what Street won’t know won’t hurt him, but she closes the fridge again. 

She relaxes for a while, her stomach finally quiet, and then busies herself with doing her makeup. The clock is reading eight and the sun is almost finished setting when she decides to start dinner. Recipes and ingredients ready, she takes a deep breath and gets to it. 

The smell of sautéed garlic and browned butter is enough to make her salivate right off the bat. She tosses in the breadcrumbs to toast, and then puts the whole thing in a small container for later, and turns to the chicken. She gets so into the process that she almost misses her phone buzzing an hour later. It’s almost nine thirty, and she mentally crosses her fingers as she taps at the phone with her elbow so nothing from her hands gets on the screen. 

Closer to eleven. I’m sorry, Babe. 

It’s too late to not put the chicken and asparagus out in the oven, but Chris is undeterred in making their anniversary special. She lets out a soft sight, but texts back that she’ll wait up and grabs a bag of chips. 

Half an hour later, the most delicious smelling dinner is resting on her stove with a box of tin foil to cover it once it’s cooled a little, courtesy of Hondo’s last minute advice. With the oven off, she goes back to the couch and curls up under the throw blanket he insists on leaving out. Between that and the sweatshirt, she’s enveloped by the sultry, grounded scent she’s come to know solely as his. 

Despite her best efforts, her eyes grow heavy as the minute hand passes eleven, and then eleven fifteen. It’s quarter til midnight when she can’t hold them open anymore.

Street closes the door as softly as he can, but winces when it still sounds like it’s as loud as a bomb in her otherwise quiet apartment. His heart sinks as he sees the food that’s gone cold on the stove, and follows his ears to the TV, an old remodeling show playing. 

Sighing, he walks to the living room to turn it off, but stops at the sight on top of the couch. Chris is curled up under the blanket, her head pillowed on her arm, and he can just see the light blue of her jeans peeking out. He’s flooded with the memory of the last time she wore him, but it’s cut short as he notices the vase of flowers and the box next to it. He smiles, sneaking a picture and setting his backpack down. 

“Chris, Baby,” he whispers, shaking her shoulder. A groggy grumble escapes her, his smile growing. 

“Mm, what? What time’s’it?” Her fingers twist in the warm blanket, wanting to snuggle further under it but impeded by his hand. 

“Just after twelve thirty. I’m so sorry I’m so late, Babe, things just kept getting worse the deeper we dug. Why don’t you head to bed, I’ll be there in a few.”

Coming to, Chris murmurs something into the pillow that sounds suspiciously like:

“You’re late.”

“I know,” Street sighs, squeezing her hand. “I’m sorry. Everything looks delicious. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

He sounds worried, and it sends a shockwave through her heart. She squeezes back as the rest of her sleep falls away, and gives him a small smile, sitting up. His sweatshirt bunches around her hips.

“Hi,” she says, and he lets out a laugh of disbelief. 

“Hi. I’m so —”

“Sorry, I know,” she waves him off, eyes floating around the apartment, grimacing when she sees she forgot to cover the food. But then she looks back at him, and those butterflies roar to life. Her lips fit perfectly against his, her nose sliding alongside his when she pulls back.

“I’m not mad. I’m starving, but we can reheat it. C’mon, go change, it’ll be like fifteen minutes.” 

“Chris,” Street’s unsure of what to say, his heart turning over in his chest. “Are you sure?” 

“Sure that I’d rather celebrate our three-month anniversary a few hours late than not at all? Yes. Go!” She insists, and shoves lightly as his chest. He does, but not before stealing another lingering kiss. 

Once she hears the bedroom door close and the shower start, she sneaks in to grab her top and hurries back to the kitchen. The flowers find their rightful place on the dining room table while she waits for the oven to heat up enough for her to get the food warm again. Reaching for the wine in the fridge, she eyes the strawberries, and smirks. 

Street’s footfalls breaks the silence twenty minutes later, a button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone giving her a peak of his collarbone, and something in his hand. He stops when he sees the lines of her shoulders and chests that go uncovered by the top, mesmerized by how his thoughts play off reality.

“It’ll just be a few more minutes before it’s warm.” Chris pulls him from his mind and smiles at him. 

“Good,” he steps up to her, eyeing her crossed legs on the dining room chair. “Enough time for you to open this, then.” 

A large, wrapped square appears in the hand he had behind his back. A sleek gold bow catches the dim light above the table, and she feels the stiffness of whatever’s underneath when she takes it from him. She takes a sip of her drink and then sets both the glass and the gift on the table to go get his. 

“You, first,” she grins. “Happy anniversary.”

Shaking his head, he can’t believe how he got so lucky. He takes the box carefully, feeling the rush up his spine when his skin brushes against hers, followed immediately by the sensual feel of the ribbon. The bow comes undone easily, the lid lifting to reveal matching tissue paper that he moves out the way. 

He knows what it is the moment he feels the cool leather underneath his palms. A pristine new jacket, extra padding sewn into the shoulders and elbows, and he’s like a kid on Christmas with how fast he whips it around to try it on.

“This is incredible, Chris.” He grins, flexing his fists as if they were around his bike handlebars, registering how the fabric bends around his body protectively. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she grins softly. “I’m sorry you got stuck at work.”

“Well,” he smirks, and carefully folds the jacket back up. “That didn’t stop me from having time to get you something. Your turn.” 

She pulls her lips together and grabs for the present, finding the seam of the wrapping. In the back of her mind, she wonders when he did have the time to wrap it, but that just makes the butterflies in her stomach louder. The paper crinkles as it falls away to reveal another layer of clear plastic, this one covering a signed The Smiths vinyl. Her jaw drops, one hand holding the record while a finger traces over the cover like she can’t quite believe what she’s holding. 

“Oh my God, Street,” she exhales. Her head shakes small in disbelief, but he just smiles and steadies her with a hand on either side of her face. The chemical vanilla of her lip gloss transfers onto his lips when he kisses her. 

“Happy anniversary.” 

Her phone alarm rings, and she moves to set the vinyl down, but he stops her. 

“Let me. You’ve done more than enough, and I was the one who was five hours late.”

“Okay,” she nods. Looking down at the vinyl feels surreal, and, gently, she sets it on top of his present to carry them both to the coffee table where they’ll be safe. She turns around to two full plates awaiting her at the table, and he pulls out her chair for good measure. 

“This looks incredible, Chris,” he reaches over to squeeze her hand again before digging in, both of their hungers ready to riot if they go unfed a minute longer. Only their chewing fills the air until their bodies catch up to the food, and then she smirks at him. 

“What?” Street asks. 

“You haven’t even seen dessert.” 

He feels his jeans grow tighter, his eyes glancing down to where he can just the silver button sitting at her waist. A button, he’s learned, that’s easy enough to undo with one hand. 

“Well,” he takes a sip to cool himself down, runs a hand over his thigh. “Care to enlighten me, Chris?”

She feigns thinking on it, and then stacks their dishes onto the counter and smoothly grabs the tin from the fridge on her way back to the table. His lap makes the perfect seat, one of her arms around his neck and one of his bracketing her torso as she pops the lid off the strawberries and takes on by the stem. 

“Open up.”

Six months.

Between twelve-hour shifts exposed to the worst dangers that life has to offer and often being the first point of medical care for new arrivals at the safe house, the stress that both Chris and Street face in their daily lives is enough to take a toll on anyone. It’s not surprising when colds quickly turn into infections that keep them knocked out for an entire weekend as their bodies work overtime to recover. 

It is surprising when their six-month anniversary plans are derailed not by any of those things, but by a good old-fashioned case of getting caught in the rain. 

Neither are concerned in the moment—they walk up to her apartment, make quick work of the groceries, and dry off. Chris finishes the laundry while Street loads the dishwasher, and a few hours later they’re driving to the house for pizza and a movie with Luca. She blames the harsh cough that overtakes her the minute she gets off his bike on the wind, and assures Luca that the sneeze immediately following her hug is nothing. 

But halfway through the movie, Street starts sniffling, too. Luca notices how both of their usual tans have gone pale when he side-eyes them, a thin sheen of sweat over Street’s forehead like he’s clammy. Even Duke, who usually saddles up to Chris as if he doesn’t weigh seventy pounds, is instead curled up on his bed. 

His breaking point is when they sneeze at the same time. Standing and pausing the movie in one swift motion, he crosses to the hallway in three steps. Their tired brains take too long to catch up, faces now flush with confusion. 

“You’re sick. Both of you. Out.” 

Chris and Street share a glance, and she sighs, but the room spins when she leans forward to contradict him. She does anyway. 

“Luca, it’s nothing.” 

“No,” he says immediately, eyes like fire as he looks between the pair, one hand coming up to cover his own mouth and nose. “It’s a cold. Or enough of one that you’ll give it to me if you haven’t already, and I don’t feel like being sick. So, as much as I love you both, go back to Chris’s apartment. You can even take the leftovers.” 

Street rolls his eyes, but he can’t deny that the thought of face planting into Chris’s bed for a lifetime of sleep sounds incredible. Shrugging, he stands and grabs her hand, unable to feel the slight heat of it when his own is running the same temperature. They head to the door, and Luca backs up towards the kitchen as they do. His eyes never waver as they take turns steadying the other to get their shoes on, and Street grabs both their jackets off the hooks. 

“Leftovers are all yours, we brought my bike.” Street says with a half-cocked smile. Luca grumbles something neither catch. With his hand on her back, Chris heads out into the night, and they’re just about to put their helmets on when Luca’s voice rings out. 

“Have a happy anniversary tomorrow!”

A sharp alarm wakes both of them promptly at seven the next morning. Reaching out a blind hand, Street hits the stop button with all too much force, and tosses his phone somewhere on the ground. He’s just come to enough to start registering the achiness in his back and shoulders and how his head is full of cotton. He wants to bury his face in Chris’s back to block it out. 

“No,” she mumbles, shouldering him off the moment he wraps his arm around her torso. “Too hot.”

“Are you kidding? It’s freezing.” He throws back, sitting up against the headboard. His voice sounds like he swallowed sand. Turning over, Chris sees his heavenly green eyes covered in a layer of glassiness. Or maybe she sees them through the glassiness of her own, she doesn’t know. A groan escapes when she pushes herself into a sitting position, muscles protesting any movement, but she bites back another to raise her arm and set the back of her hand against his cheek. 

“Shit,” she sighs, and they both realize how congested she sounds, too. “We owe Luca an apology.” 

“Whatever,” he mumbles, but the unrelenting pull of sleep is already tugging at him for a second time. Quickly, he tosses the covers over—Chris pushing them down to her knees when they land on her—and goes to the bathroom. She winces preemptively when he hacks, but then all she hears is the slamming of cabinets and the sink running. He returns a minute later with a small, plastic medicine cup full of something purple, holding the water out of her reach when she grabs at that first.

“Meds first. Water after.” 

Quips come to mind about how he isn’t a doctor, but they die on her tongue when her head starts to pound like a drum. Scrunching her nose, she takes the medicine like a shot, and downs the entire glass of water until the bitter taste is cleared from her throat. 

“You took some?” She asks, slow eyes following him as he goes back to his side of the bed. 

“Mmhmm,” he nods. His body sinks into the mattress like a cloud, relief flooding his veins at not having to exert any more effort. He finds her hand on top of the covers and brings it to his lips for a dry kiss. “Sleep now. Love you.” 

Yawning, Chris stays on her side facing him, while he’s on his back. As close as she wants to be, she knows any more contact will be like the sun against her skin. She squeezes his hand., unsure if he’s already fallen asleep as their heavy breathing fills the air in an unfortunate symphony. 

“Love you, too.” 

They lose the day to more rounds of medicine, delivered soup, and sleep.

One year.

There’s no late case. No illness. No anything beyond their hotel room with a beautiful view of the mountains, and room service, and a bottle of champagne to ring in their first anniversary.

(It’s decided after their ten-month anniversary is drawn awry by a last minute babysitting favor from Chris’s cousin.

“Maybe it was fate,” Chris murmurs once her nephews are sound asleep in the guest room. Toys are strewn across the floor, a plastic gun that Street picks up and sets on the coffee table before handing her a glass of water and piling up next to her. “Our first anniversary.” 

“Maybe,” he shrugs with a yawn. “You know, no one can bug us if I request the time off now, and we go somewhere with no cell service.”

“Jim Street,” she smirks, curling her fingers into the neckline of his shirt as she smuggles close, on the edge of sleep. “You know the way to my heart.”)

So their small bags are tucked neatly in the corner, toiletries sprawled over the bathroom sink. The bathtub is big enough for two, Chris’s mind stirring up thoughts the second she lays eyes on it. The complementary bubble bath. The jets. 

“Hey, Babe,” she calls, and walks back into the main suite. “What time are our dinner reservations for?”

“Eight. What’s up?”

She traces over his face. His eyes are bright, lips a rosy pink, and it’s too easy to picture what she knows lies beneath the leather jacket and Henley shirt. 

“I was just wondering,” she bites her bottom lip, gaze fiery with lust as she approaches him. Her fingers dance up the buttons of his shirt, his body still underneath hers, obedient to her command. “That’s plenty of time.” She purrs.

By the time the clock reads seven fifteen, they have to make do with a shower, instead.

“Reservations for two, under Street.” Chris tells the host. She feels Street’s eyes on the back of her head and her lips twist into a smile. For as comforting his hand on her shoulder always was in the field, giving her two, it feels even safer feathering against the small of her back as the host leads them through the restaurant to their table. 

“Your server will be over shortly,” the host leaves them with a smile and menus. “Enjoy.”

Chris wakes to a cold bed. Her hand reaches out to where his warm body should be, but finds only the sheets. She kicks them down around her ankles and rolls over until she can reach his button down in a pile on the floor, pulling it over her shoulders and breathing in his scent. The small coffee maker is set for her, and she makes quick work of brewing a cup and sliding her feet into the lush slippers before joining him on the balcony with a smile. 

“It’s early.” She murmurs into the steam rising from the mug. Street glances over at her, love swirling in his eyes, and then back out to the dusty orange sunrise just appearing over the mountains. He pats the cushion next to him and wraps his arm around her when she joins him, her legs curled up to the side. 

“I know.” He matches the softness of her tone. “My body clock is set even without the alarm. But it’s nice, quiet.” 

“Yeah, it is.” She smiles into another sip of coffee, and her body sinks deeper into his. The quiet rustle of leaves in the wind is the only other sign of life as the rich greens gradually lighten with the growing sunlight. She’s comfortable leaning against him, her voice low. 

“It’s hard to believe where we were this time a year ago.” 

Street takes a moment to remember, and then kisses her hairline, right at her temple. 

“I know.” 

Even now, a year in, they don’t talk about the strenuous emotions that built like a wave between them during her last days on Twenty Squad. All the fears and worries came crashing down so quickly in his living room, they seemed negligible in their newfound light of one another. Still, it’s a hard thing to forget. 

“I’m really glad you were okay. I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Babe. And I’ve got all day to show you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Chris exhales, leaning forward to put down her mug. His shirt rides up onto her thighs when she straddles him, the fabric of the robe he’s wearing just rough enough on her exposed skin to send a signal through the rest of her. He gives her the same grin he did the first morning after, soft and warm and happy , and just arrogant enough as he teased her by drawing lines on her hip underneath the covers. His fingers flex into her back. Their eyes find the other’s lips. The sun rises.

“Yeah.”

Bonus: One Year Wedding Anniversary.

Sometimes, after all the work and the harsh days are said and done, it’s beautiful how life settles. 

There are plants on the kitchen windowsill and a dog bed in the living room, too many toys on the floor around it. A collection of signed vinyls that break up the pictures that line the hallway, and a well-loved leather jacket on the hook next to the front door. Coffee brewing into a mug and pancakes bubbling in a pan. 

Calls to old friends and family—questions over what to get the other. If they even should. 

“Annie and I spent our first anniversary painting the nursery.” 

“I got your Uncle Sarzo a gold pen. He used it so sign his first construction contract later that year. He flew my Abuela in from Colombia.” 

“Nothing is going to top those skydiving tickets I got her.” “Only because she got to push you out of the plane.” 

Her footsteps carry down the hallway, each step slow so she can take in the life she still can’t quite believe they’ve built from the studs up. Sunlight streams in, catching the angles of him perfectly, as she enters the kitchen and he flips a pancake onto a plate. 

“Perfect timing, Alonso.” He leans in front of the coffee maker before she can reach for it, a goofy smile until she appeases him with a chaste kiss. 

“Special pancakes?” 

“Special day.” Street winks, his eyes glued to the rings on her left hand. 

She grins, gratefully accepting the plate, and waits for him to join her at the table to dig in.