Archive of Our Own

It’s Street who finds her. 

He rushes into the warehouse, and there she is: curled up on the floor, her entire back exposed to him, unmoving. Her bra straps are slid down her arms, jeans and underwear halfway down her hips, and his mind short-circuits at the bruising around her wrists.

He needs to get to her, but he can’t move. His hands flex frantically as energy hotter than the sun pounds through his veins. He’s sure she knows it was the FBI Agent who sold her out, and, not for the first time, Street wants to kill him. 

Instead, he brings a shaking hand to the mic button on his chest, and talks in a low voice. 

“26-David. I found her. Going to assess breathing now. Alert medical but do not approach.” 

He hopes his tone conveys enough of a warning to keep them all back, and he hopes that she’s receptive to him as he slowly gets closer. 

There’s a blanket on a shelf a few feet from her, just out of her reach like one last, sadistic twist of the knife from the bastards who hurt her. But Street doesn’t have the time to differentiate between that and any other covering—not when he can hear her involuntary whimpers to the cold seeping through the floor and into her bones. Swallowing, he picks up the blanket and drapes it carefully over her, and then walks to her front and kneels. 

He’s able to hold in his gasp at the sight of her, but he’s sure the sound of his heart breaking is audible. Empty brown eyes, ones so usually full of fire, stare into the distance. Dried blood crusts around the cut on her forehead. The pressure of tears comes to the back of his eyes but he doesn’t dare let himself get emotional. Her numb voice catches his attention before he can even think of what to say. 

“It was Agent Carter. He’s working with Malos Dorados.” 

“We know,” Street whispers. His mind spins as he takes her in completely, wishing there was anything more he could do. 

“Five men. Carter and four mid-level cartel members. No Jorge.” 

She sounds like she’s been repeating it to herself all night so she wouldn’t forget. The words are stunted, her breaths clipped, and the relief of being found isn’t near enough to break down the wall she constructed for her own survival. 

“Okay,” he nods, “do you know how long you’ve been here?” 

“Barely an hour. La Brea Shipyard.” 

“Can you walk?” 

The undercurrent of pain thrumming through her is all that registers. She shakes her head, the sunlight catching her sharp bones. 

“They knelt on my left ankle. Heard a pop.” 

Taking another second to collect himself, he feels his hand wishing to reach out and run down her face. To push her hair back from her forehead and help her sit up so they can go back to HQ and run drills like they would any other Sunday. But it’s not any other Sunday, and he’s known it wouldn’t be for hours now. 

“Medical’s on their way. You want them to come in here, or I can carry you out?” 

“In here.” She says, with the most force of anything she’s said so far. But, like a flower in October, the power wilts away and she contracts into herself. “I don’t want them to touch me.” 

“Then they won’t.” Street promises. And he knows he’ll do whatever he needs to keep that promise. Glancing down, a few of her fingers are just peeking out under the blanket, curling upward. He breathes out. “Is it okay if I touch you?” 

Eyes scanning the little she can see, still not processing the gray wall in front of her, she nods. She’s never seen Street be so patient in his life, and there’s a safety in his caring that she trusts even now. It chips at her defenses, her breaths barely staying steady. 

“Yes.” 

He doesn’t let the relief show on his face, but it’s palpable in his voice when he radios to let the medics through as soon as possible. No words come to him, so he brushes the side of his hand against hers. She continues to stare through him until the sound of wheels and loud voices makes her flinch. Standing, Street stops the two paramedics with a hand. 

“31-year-old female. Responsive, probable ankle fracture, but does not want to be touched by paramedics. Is that gurney locked?” 

“Yeah, yes, Sir.” 

Nodding, he gets back down to Chris, and runs a soft hand over her shoulder, over the blanket, to flutter her eyes back to his. 

“Medics are here. Is it okay if I pick you up?” 

“Yeah.” 

She doesn’t move. Carefully, the eyes of the paramedics piercing into him, he walks around to her back and, after making sure the blanket is tucked securely around her, positions his arms under her thighs and back. It’s barely a few feet to the gurney but he wants to jostle her as little as possible. Despite his best effort, he sees her jaw clench and her eyes shut in pain. His stomach flips upside down. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. She shakes her head small against his shoulder, not opening her eyes until she feels the soft mat underneath her. The way the paramedics are looking at her makes her  heart speed up and her pulse race, so she finds Street’s eyes and only focuses on them. 

“Can you guys give us a second to get settled?” He tells them more than asks them, and waits until they’re back by the door to talk. “Do you feel comfortable if they put the ankle and waist straps on?” 

Gripping her thumbs to keep her hands from shaking, Chris tries not to think of the feeling of rough, thick ropes tied tight around her wrists. 

“Over the blanket.” 

“Okay. Is it okay if I adjust the blanket?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” 

He hears the tears in her voice and gives her a small smile. Being careful not to touch her skin or expose anything else, he gently pulls the blanket out where it’s underneath her, and adjusts it further over her front, all the way up to her shoulders. The deep green makes her skin look even more pale, his chest aching. 

“They’re going to ask for an arm out to take your vitals.” 

His voice is soft, knowing how delicate the situation is, and she hates that he’s right but she nods. The fabric pulls on her bare skin, and her shoulder aches as she moves it into the air. They both pretend not to notice her shiver. Once she’s settled, he closes the clips over her ankles and across her hips, but leaves them loose. The paramedics start to walk over again, clearly set on getting them out of there soon, and he rests his hand near hers. 

“The team’s gonna be waiting, do you want to see them? You don’t have to.” 

“I do,” she exhales, but the thought of being taken in the ambulance, alone, is heart-stopping. “Will you come with me?” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“We need to go.” A paramedic interrupts them. Street looks to Chris, who nods and then lies her head back and closes her eyes, swallowing. She jolts with the feeling of the gurney moving, her hand fishing around until it knocks against Street’s, and she intertwines their fingers in a vice grip. 

Her headache grows from a roll to a roar underneath the bright sun. Distant sounds of traffic only add to the pounding. When the sunlight finally gives way to the shadow of the ambulance, Street softly squeezes her hand and she opens her eyes to the relieved, but concerned faces of the team. 

“We know it was Carter,” Hondo starts, to the chagrin of the paramedics. “Is there anything else you can tell us?” 

She traces their gazes with hers and searches her mind for what she remembers. The pain is the first thing that comes screaming back, followed by the fear, and then the details. 

“Five of them, including Carter,” she repeats. “No Jorge. They mentioned taking the girls they already had to a club. Chains… something?” 

“No Chains,” Tan fills in, and the irony makes her feel sick. 

“Yeah. And they were talking to someone in Guatemala. Moving girls between La Brea and West Side Shipyards. I don’t know how many more there are now.”

“I know this is a lot, Chris,” Hondo continues, catching one of the paramedics exiting the cab in the corner of his eye, and closing the circle tighter. “But did they say anything about Jorge?” 

“Carter said you guys were on a wild goose chase. That’s all I remember before they knocked me out.” 

“Alright. We’ll keep you two in the loop, and get your bag and some clothes to the hospital as soon as we can.” 

They take a step back before the paramedics have to interrupt again, and she nods to let them rest gentle hands on her shoulders as they lift her up and roll her in. She’s exhausted but knows she won’t be allowed any lasting rest until after the hours to come at the hospital, and manages the slightest quirk of her lips to try to reassure the team. Still, it’s a relief when they close the doors and she doesn’t have to exert any more effort. 

“I need to take your vitals, Ma’am.” 

The paramedic’s voice is calm but Chris jerks away from her hand when she tries to get her other arm from underneath the blanket. Street makes quick work of shooing her away and fixing the fabric. He finds Chris’s gaze, their breaths syncing, and waits for her nod. 

“I got it.” He glares at the paramedic. “You can count her breathing and take her temp.” 

Chris doesn’t have it in her to care about how displeased the paramedic is. Street’s fingers travel from between hers to her inner wrist, and she tries to find comfort in the pressure of his familiar touch. 

It’s gone too soon, replaced by the cold, plastic blood pressure cuff that she grimaces against. 

“Just a few seconds,” Street murmurs, smiling when she looks at him unenthused. It’s the first sense of normalcy, of safety, she’s had in days, and she holds onto it while he undoes the velcro. “A little high, but I think we can manage.” 

“Her temp is low,” the medic cuts in, earning a look from both of them. “But I’m not concerned. But I do have to take a better look at that head wound and run concussion protocol.”

Begrudgingly, Chris tucks her arm back under the blanket and gives Street her other hand. He takes it in both of his, trying to give her some of his warmth. 

“How much longer until we’re at the hospital?” She asks, voice raspy.

“About ten minutes. They’re prepped for you with a response team and a private room.” 

“Then just leave dressing my head wound, they’re going to want pictures.” 

Street’s not convinced it isn’t to keep their hands off her, but he can’t blame her and he doesn’t argue. The paramedic agrees, only after looking at it closely to make sure nothing needs to be debrided. 

“Looks like it could be a mild concussion, also. They’ll confirm and get you proper aftercare instructions at the hospital.” 

Murmuring her thanks, Chris closes her eyes and tries to relax for the last few minutes she can. She focuses on Street’s hand in hers and the unspoken promise that her team is going to find these men. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps holding her. 

“We’re here.” She lets out a small groan at the paramedic’s words, not at all prepared for the group of people that are going to be just outside the ambulance. Surprisingly, it’s only two young women in lilac scrubs. Aside from unlocking the wheels and helping get her down, the paramedics let the nurses take over from there. 

“I’m Violet, that’s Maggie.” One of the nurses says, a brunette with kind, bright eyes, already scanning Chris for any signs of dangerous injury. “Can you tell us your name?” 

“Chris.” 

“Great, Chris. We’re going to take you back right away, and Dr. Sloan will take great care of you. We’ll be in the room only if you need us, and we can call an advocate for you, if you want one.” 

“No, I’m fine. Street?” She tugs his hand when he doesn’t answer right away, his own thoughts running far and fast. “You’ll stay?” 

“Absolutely.” He manages, but his mouth feels dry as a desert. Taking a deep breath, he reminds himself that the only important thing right now is her. He can sort through his jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions later with Wendy.

Violet and Maggie nod at one another, and then push open another door to a small room. The lights are dimmed, a large paper covering the floor on the other side of the bed, and nausea bubbles in Chris’s stomach. She’s known this is coming, she’s seen countless victims through this, but now that it’s here, her face goes pale and her breathing speeds up.

“Chris?” Street softly tries to get her attention. Their eyes meet, but hers aren’t focused. He drops her hand to touch her shoulder instead, leaning forward until they’re at eye-level. “You don’t have to do this.” 

The change in sensation helps, but she knows his words aren’t true. Even if she didn’t want to, there’s evidence— she’s evidence . The thought makes her fight her body for breath, her head shaking rapidly. 

“Yes, I do. Where’s the doctor?”

If it’s happening, she wants it over quickly. 

“Let's get you on the bed and then we can grab her. Your ankle is injured, right?” Maggie says.

“Yeah.” 

“Sir, if you can step back for just one second,” Violet asks, and Street does it even though he doesn’t want to. They get her from the gurney into the bed without any trouble, and she immediately takes his hand once she’s moved, and then Violet stays to hook her up to a pulse ox and make sure she’s settled while Maggie grabs the doctor. Once she’s in the room, they leave, and Chris swallows knowing, every second, it’s getting closer. 

“I’m going to be right here the entire time.” Street promises her. She finds his gaze and nods under the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Stay by her side, he does. He turns to the back when the nurses help her undress onto the collection sheet, and has to wait outside when she goes up for imaging, but the moment she calls his name, he’s there. 

His hand becomes her lifeline as Dr. Sloan walks through the kit, with the first stop being a forensic photographer joining them to get pictures of her cuts and bruises. 

“Any other major injuries?” She asks, gently as she can. But Chris can’t get any sound past her lips, relying solely on a shake of her head and the look on her face to make it stop. 

“Alright, Chris,” Dr. Sloan waits for the photographer to leave the room to speak. “I’m going to explain everything I’m doing, every step of the way. We can stop at any point, for however long you need, and you can refuse any part of this exam.” 

“You don’t have to explain. I’m a cop, I’m familiar with the exam and its purpose.” Street’s astounded by how she sounds like herself, even as her voice goes hoarse from emotion and exhaustion. He looks to the doctor just in time to see her nod. 

“Okay. If it’s alright, I’m going to start with combing your hair.”

Somewhere between early morning and late afternoon, someone brings her backpack and a car to the hospital. Violet knocks gently, her kind voice announcing what she has before dropping it just inside the room. 

“We’re almost done,” Dr. Sloan tells her after the interruption, Chris nodding listlessly in response. The sharp pinch of the needle drawing her blood is nothing compared to what’s going on in her mind, and she barely winces. A gauze pad is taped down, warm fingers making sure it’s on securely, and Dr. Sloan gives her a small, sad grin. 

“I’ll have Violent bring crutches. You can shower here, if you want, and we can get you some food. It’ll take the pharmacy a while to fill the prescriptions I’m writing you, so I’ll ask the lab to rush your blood tests to rule out as many concerns over STIs as we can.” 

“Okay.” 

Street hears the catch in her voice, his own heart stopping at the full weight of the reality they’re now living in. He knows she’s strong, but he also knows there’s only so much she can take; that she’s already taken more than anyone should ever have to. Dr. Sloan excuses herself, leaving them in the thick silence, and for the second time today Chris speaks first. 

“Can I stay at the house until this is over?” 

Her asking is a surprise, but he was going to offer if she didn’t, and he nods. 

“Yeah, as long as you need.” 

“Thanks.” She looks down at her hands so she misses how he’s looking at her, until there’s another knock on the door.

“I’ve got your crutches, Chris. Do you want to shower?”

“Yeah, please.” 

Violet walks over, helping Chris adjust the crutches to where she needs them and then hobble to the bathroom. Every step is exhausting and painful, and she glances back at Street from the doorway. 

“Can you grab my clothes, please?”

It knocks him from his stupor. The pair goes into the bathroom and he hears the shower running, and grabs her bag. Rifling through it feels odd, invasive, but he finds some leggings and an LAPD hoodie, and hands both of them to Violet before zipping her backpack up and not looking at it again. He listens for any extra sound, but only hears the water, and he sighs when he sits back down. 

Phone pinging, he pulls it out and an entirely new, terrible feeling overcomes him.

‘ Need you and Chris back at HQ once she’s discharged.’ 

He chews on his lip and debates how he’ll tell her, or what he can do to give her more time to rest. No good answer comes to him, and he instead focuses on straightening the thin blankets they had to keep bringing because of how much she was shivering. The blank walls of the hospital room feel eerily close to the warehouse. Shaking the thought away, he feels the urge to get out of the room just before it turns into panic, and he runs to the vending machine to grab them both a Gatorade and snack, hoping to be back before she’s done. 

They end up with two candy bars and two bags of chips. He waits for her to be done to take first pick, although he opens the orange Gatorade and leaves her the red, gulping down most of it in one go. Shooting off a text to Hondo that it’ll be a little while yet, his body settles into the uncomfortable chair and tries not to picture what he knows happened to her. The shower stops just a few minutes later and Chris emerges in the clothes he handed her, crutches under her arms, looking worse for wear but no less like herself. Spying the snacks on the table brings a small smile to her lips. 

“Let me just redo your bandage, and then I’ll leave you two,” Violet promises. Her nimble fingers remove and replace the gauze, jotting down a quick note in her chart, and she reminds them that they’ll have her results and meds as soon as possible. Chris nods, but deflates the second the door clicks shut. 

Street knows better than to ask her if she’s okay, so he pushes the small table of food towards her without a word, raising his eyebrows when she looks between him and it. After a long moment, she sighs and picks up the dark chocolate bar and a bag of pretzels. His grin sends warmth through her that her body is desperately craving and, while she knows it’s not her fault, making the choice gives her enough autonomy to chase away the feeling that she’s done something wrong. She works on the chocolate while he tears into the chips, both washing down bites with Gatorade and waiting for the other to break the silence. 

When it becomes clear she isn’t going to, and he has nothing left to justify his quiet, he spits it out in a soft voice.

“Hondo needs us back at HQ once they discharge you.” 

The thought of going there, seeing everyone, is beyond exhausting, but not unexpected. She nods. 

“Okay, I’m not surprised. Did he tell you anything else?” 

“Carter’s in custody,” he sighs, his hand inching ever closer to hers. “They’re using him to keep the line open and tracking every Malos Dorados communication.” 

“At HQ?” 

Her voice wavers, and he closes the small space to cover her hand with his, holding her gaze steady. 

“You won’t see him. I promise.”

If he were anyone else, she wouldn’t trust it. But it’s Street. At the very least, she trusts that him and the team will do everything in their power to keep their paths from crossing. She tells herself to let that be enough. 

“Okay. Thank you, and thank you for staying. I should’ve said it earlier. You’re—I appreciate it. Everything.” 

“Thank you for trusting me, Chris. I’m so sorry that we didn’t figure it out earlier.” 

“Not your fault.” She shakes her head, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her free arm around them, her elbow twinging with pain from where they drew blood. Briefly, she thinks that she shouldn’t even be telling him this before she gives her official statement and talks to Wendy, but the weight on her chest is too heavy that, if she doesn’t, it’ll crush her. It takes her a minute to find the words, and they come out scratchy. “I don’t know when you guys did, but even if it was earlier, it probably still would’ve happened. They… took their time.”

Downing the last of her Gatorade breaks up some of the dryness in her throat, but she still picks at her nails and is having trouble looking at him. His chest feels like it’s been blown open. 

“Can I give you a hug?” He whispers. Her eyes flick to his, sad and light, and she reaches out for him. 

Holding her is an indescribable feeling. It always has been, but even more so now, and he buries his face in her hair to memorize the feel of her. Her arms are tight around his shoulders, her face in his neck, and he braces himself for tears that don’t come while trying to keep his own at bay. Now that she’s surrounded by his touch, it registers how it’s the only thing that’s kept her together, and she’s grateful that he’s the one who found her. The only sound that permeates the room is their measured breathing and the occasional shifting of fabric. 

A quick knock parts them, but his hands run down her arms and linger near her fingers, and his eyes don’t leave her face as she turns to Dr. Sloan. The clock shows an hour has passed, but all the calm she’d built up in his arms dissipates the moment she meets eyes with the white coat with a stack of papers and prescription bags in her hand. 

“It’s all good news, Chris,” Dr. Sloan says right away, and Chris appreciates her cutting to the chase since it takes away half her panic. “Every panel we ran was negative. We do ask that you come back in three weeks, three months, and six months for follow-up testing, and I always recommend continual testing every six weeks just to be safe until you’re certain there are no concerns. There are some meds in here that are for post-exposure, just in case. I also recommend that you take a pregnancy test within the next few days, and have a few on hand. I noted that we administered the emergency contraceptive at the end of your exam, but, again, best to be safe.” 

“Okay.” She gets out, struggling to digest the iceberg of information thrown at her. Dr. Sloan takes a moment to double-check her discharge papers and reorganize the bags, speaking again after Chris has collected herself. 

“You’ve got an antibiotic, pain meds, and anti-inflammatories. Lots of rest and lots of ice, not a lot of screen time or anything else that requires intense concentration. There are resources here that you can call anytime, or call the hospital. Do you have any questions?” 

“No. Thank you.” 

Dr. Sloan sees herself out with two handshakes and a kind smile. Maggie slides into her place, undoing the last of the monitors she’s connected to. 

“There’s still time for me to grab you food, if you want?” 

“It’s okay. I’ll eat at home, but thank you.” 

“Okay; then you’re all set. We’re here if you need anything at all.” 

They wait for her to leave to toss the bottles and the papers into Chris’s backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he holds her crutches out for her, and hovers his hand over her lower back as they make their way to the parking lot. While the sun is up, she wants nothing more than to sleep for the foreseeable future, her body leaking the little energy she has. 

“I’ll get the car and be right around.” She lets him go with a nod, the wall cold through her hoodie and soothing against the back of her head. 

Almost there. She tells herself. Almost there.

Back at HQ, Chris safe in Wendy’s office, Street’s breathing echoes off the metal tables and cabinets in the kitchen, and his heartbeat resounds in his ears. Any emotional stability he has left is beginning to dissolve, all his effort reserved for keeping it intact as long as he can spent. He white-knuckles the edge of the table he’s sitting at, ignoring the footsteps he hears 

“How’re you holding up?” Hondo, evidently. Looking up, Street sees the same maze of emotions he’s feeling reflected in Hondo’s eyes, and he sighs. 

“Holding it together. You get anything from Carter?”

“We’re trying to arrange a meet between him and Malos Dorados for this week. We just need word on what night Jorge will be there.”

“And if he doesn’t show?” 

“Then we keep looking. We have IDs on everyone involved in what happened to Chris. Even if we don’t get Jorge, they’re looking at hard time, and one of them will flip.”

Downing the last of his water, Street crunches the bottle in his hands, and shakes his head. 

“That’s good, I guess.” 

“It is good, Street.”

“It’s the least we can do!” He explodes, hand smacking against the table and stool screeching backwards. The exertion is exhausting, shock at his outburst filling him, and he finds Hondo eyeing him carefully in the aftermath. He runs his tongue along his teeth to try to quell his panic, telling himself to keep it together even as the fire in his stomach burns him up from the inside. His voice cracks, the truth spilling through anyway in a defeated whisper. “This is our fault; we didn’t have her six. She got hurt because of it. I don’t know how we get past that.” 

“We just do, Street,” Hondo doesn’t miss a beat, his eyes certain as ever. “We’re going to talk about it, when everyone’s ready, and we’ll work through it like we always have. This feels bad for all of us, and it’s up to all of us to fix it, not just you.” 

He almost hates how easily Hondo’s words slip under his skin and calm him down when he wants rage to be the answer to his confusion. His hands don’t look like his own when he drops his gaze, and he realizes that the next thing he needs to do is set up a session with Wendy. 

“Listen,” Street starts again, voice heavy and eyes slow to drag back to Hondo’s. “She asked to stay at the house until this is over. I’m sure she’s going to want to head out once she’s debriefed, but she’s got a concussion.” 

“You want to drive her?” 

“Keep me on call, I don’t care, but you guys managed while I was at the hospital.” 

Raising his eyebrows, he hopes his face is calm enough to wipe the critical expression off Hondo’s face. The air stretches between them as they each wait for the other to blink, and, eventually, Hondo does. 

“Alright,” he agrees, Street relaxing as soon as he hears it. “But you are going to have to stay on call, and we might need Chris back here at some point, too, so stay by your phone.” 

“Of course. Thank you, Hondo.” 

Street turns on his heel before Hondo can catch him in another tangled web of distress. While HQ has never been inviting, its overwhelming gray walls are more imposing than ever before. Other officers hurry by, heads buried in their iPads or deep in conversations that he only catches pieces of. The chance that Chris will want to be alone keeps him from changing, but he parks himself on the bench in the locker room to wait for her, staring at the C. Alonso on her locker.

Chris can count on one hand the times she’s been as drained as she is right now. Her irritation that someone’s in the locker room dissipates when she sees it’s Street, and he looks up at her with a small smile, clearly looking her over. Metal runs parallel to her legs, her weight slightly forward on the crutches.

“Hey.” 

“Hey. You, uh, you okay?” 

His tone tells her he knows the answer to the question, but she bites anyway. 

“As I can be. Wendy helped.” 

“Good. You want to get out of here?” 

“Yeah,” she breathes out, opening her locker and grabbing her phone while Street gets her bag for what feels like the millionth time. “I really do. My phone’s dead, can you call me an Uber? I’ll pay you back.” 

“Chris,” he pulls her eyes to his, and tries not to glance at the bandage on her forehead. It’s easy only because the look on her face is so devastating. Pushing through his sinking heart, he smiles, hoping it evens everything out. “You’re not getting an Uber. I can drive you, or I can call Annie or your family?” 

“You.” She says immediately. “They’ll ask about what happened. Here.” Her truck key is cool in his closed palm, silence falling as she looks around the locker room. She nods that she’s ready, and he follows her lead to the motor pool. 

“Do you want to swing by your apartment?” 

Head turning against the passenger headrest, avoiding looking into the sun at all costs, she taps her fingers on her thighs. The shower at the hospital helped, but even that is beginning to feel uncomfortable on her skin compared to her usual products. And she knows she’ll sleep better in actual pajamas, if she’s able to sleep at all. 

“Yeah, we should.”

Coming to the gate, he flicks on his left turn signal and makes his way to her apartment, avoiding all the potholes. She digs her keys out of her bag once they’re in the parking garage, her insides going stony in the name of self-preservation when he slips them into his pocket. Street opens her door, holding her crutches out for her, and she holds onto them to slide off the leather seat onto the pavement. 

“It’ll just take me a few minutes.” She tells him, and he shrugs to tell her that it doesn’t matter how long it takes. Clothes are thrown from her drawer towards her bed, and then stuffed unceremoniously into a duffel bag. Between 24-hour shifts as they tried to track Malos Dorados, to the two nights in the hotel undercover with Carter, and finally the shipping yard, her toiletries are all dry as a bone. She tosses them on top after making sure they’re closed tight, and zips all the pockets closed once she tears her phone charger out of the wall by her bed. 

“Street?” 

“Ready?” 

“Just the bag. Sorry you have to carry everything.” 

Everything is too raw to figure out if she’s trying to make a joke, or genuinely sorry, or somewhere in-between. 

“Practice for groceries.” He shoots back, playing the former. It wins him a tired smile. All concept of time has left her, making it that much more unsettling that the sun has started to by the time they get back to her truck. The road noise is enough to start brewing a headache between her eyes, her fists clenched in her lap as she prays for them to get to the house as soon as possible. Street sees it in his periphery but doesn’t say anything, just focuses on how much he can speed without getting pulled over.

“We’re here,” he says, softly, after cutting the engine. “I’ll grab your crutches, get the door, and then come back out for the bags. Sound good?” 

“What?” She blinks her eyes open, clear she’s missed something with how he’s looking at her, but all she can think about is resting. Thinking about lying down makes her want to that much more, a small whine escaping when she remembers she has to crutch up their front porch. He gives her a sympathetic look, and makes quick work of getting her out of the truck so she can get inside. Walking ahead, Street unlocks the door and pushes Duke back to keep him from jumping on her. 

“Thanks.” 

“I can bring your bag to my room, if you want to shower and then change in there. And then we’ll get your ankle up with some ice.” 

“Yeah,” she nods at him, memorizing the new lines on his face that she doesn’t remember seeing the last time they grabbed a beer. Was it just a week ago they did that? Clearing her throat, she looks down the hallway and starts her slow descent, Duke taking careful steps behind her, and pushes the door open. 

Street’s room is a mix of navy blues and grays when she turns on the overhead light; small but cozy. A few small pictures of him and Nate, or Buck, and the team line the space, accenting the dark furniture. She smiles at how the whole room emanates his easy energy, and, despite her better judgements, sits on the edge of his bed. 

The second his mattress settles, it’s like her body realizes where she is, and her mind realizes that it’s finally, actually quiet, and any last energy she had falls away like it was never there. She has the wherewithal to lie her crutches along the side of the bed, between the bed frame and a soft rug, and then her body floats backwards and lands on top of his warm comforter. She can’t help herself from breathing in his scent. Stretching out feels heavenly before she curls onto her side on instinct, one arm underneath the pillows and the other tucked by her chest. Duke walks around the bed and hops up, too, and she listens to him circle a few times before plopping next to her. His head is a welcome weight against her back. 

She’s asleep not a minute later.

Early evening air swirls around Street but does nothing to temper the rushing winds in his head or his heart. Taking the deepest breath he can, he lets Hondo’s words play back like a record until they have the same effect they did in the kitchen. His only true solace is knowing that Chris is a short walk away, and he tells himself to take the moment to get it together before he goes back inside. 

Once he’s certain his feet are on the ground, he grabs her bags from the backseat and locks her truck. Inside is quiet, not even Duke’s pattering around to be heard, and his brow furrows as he starts towards his room. He can see the light pouring through the crack in his door into the hallway the closer he gets, but still hears nothing. Gingerly, he opens it further, and takes in Chris’s face, barely visible from beneath her hair. 

“Chris?” He whispers, gently coming closer to reveal her sleeping peacefully, a hand twisted in his comforter. His heart swells at the sight. After setting her bags on the floor, he grabs an extra blanket from his closet and lays it over her. She sighs softly and shifts just so, Duke going with her, and he can’t help how long he watches her chest rise and fall. Each breath is a reminder of the possibility that things will be okay again, a hope he desperately needs, and one he wants to give back to her however he can. Only when his stomach grumbles does he grab sweats and t-shirt from his drawer and turn off the light off, but he leaves the door cracked. 

We’re here. Chris is resting. Anything I can do? Street texts Hondo.

Nothing right now, Kid, we’ve almost got a meet set up for Tuesday. We’ll keep you updated, and you do the same.

Dinner passes, a covered plate in the fridge for whenever she’s hungry, and then it dips from early evening to the passing hours of night, midnight coming and going. Street gives up trying to read almost immediately, instead staring at the clock or his phone. He debates waking her for meds, but he can only imagine how much she’s gone through, and the last thing he wants is to bring her back to a reality that’s worse than whatever she’s dreaming about. 

He’s woken up some time later by a cold, wet something pushing against the palm of his hand. Lights streak in his groggy vision, all of him disoriented by the thickness of the air that’s only tangible in the late, lost hours of night. But he feels the push again, more insistent, and peels his eyes open to find Duke in front of him with a worried expression on his face. 

“What’s wrong?” He grumbles out, rolling his neck that’s gone stiff, and Duke wastes no time in turning back towards the hallway. His wagging tail keeps hitting Street’s knees, knocking the rest of his sleepiness away. A feeling of dread curdles Street in the stomach like the world’s titling off its axis once he’s alert, and he stands to follow wherever Duke leads. The bedroom door is opened wider than he left it, his only comfort knowing Duke did that and it falls away as pained whimpers reach his ears. 

Hallway light illuminates Chris’s face just enough to see tear tracks running down her cheeks, and her hands twisted in the blanket on top of her. Sliding around Duke, Street’s heart pounds as he gets into the bedroom and kneels by her side, hands on the edge of the bed but not touching her. More tension lines her face up close, the whimpers morphing into pleas for whatever, whoever , is hurting her to stop. 

Street has to blink the red out of his eyes before he opens his mouth. His voice is soft, gentle, but it shakes.

“Chris? Hey, Chris, you’re safe. C’mon, wake up for me. You’re at the house with me and Duke.” 

Coming to is like swimming through molasses, but Street’s voice helps break the surface tension she’s trapped under. She opens her eyes slow, too many emotions for him to catch them all running over her face, before more tears line her lower lashes. If it weren’t for his face directly in her line of vision, she’s sure the unfamiliar room would’ve sent her into a tailspin. But he is, looking just as concerned as he’s been all day, and she buries her face in his pillow as the first sob wracks her frame. 

“ Oh ,” he whispers, the world stopping. He sets his palm flat on the bed because hers starts to search for it, his breath catching when she interlaces their fingers like an anchor, but he doesn’t give himself any time to let it linger. “We’re at the house. You’re safe.” 

She gives a jerky nod, but the physical sensations don’t leave her as easily. Knives pierce her skull and a dull, throbbing ache from being shoved around and manhandled leaves no inch of her body untouched. The pressure is finally too much for the wall of numbness she’s managed to hold up all day, creating wide, deep fissures that her entire soul pours through in every heaving breath. Adjusting his hand so he can hold her just as tight, Street sits next to the bed. He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t try to get any closer, and listens until her heart has wrung itself out. 

She feels no better once she has.

“I’m sorry,” she half-murmurs, half-slurs against the wet pillowcase. Sitting up is dizzying, but she does, using her free hand to brush her hair away from where it sticks to her cheeks. More aware of herself and her shaking and his soft, worried eyes, she winces, a cough pushing out of her. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep in here.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles, a bandage over a bullet hole but still soothing her like a swaddle. “You and Duke looked comfortable.” His thumb runs over her knuckles, eyes catching his alarm clock. “It’s after two, a little late for dinner and early for breakfast, but perfect time for a mix of whatever junk food I’ve got in the cabinets?” 

Her stomach grumbles on cue, his soft laugh as warm around her as his blanket. 

“That sounds good. Let me change, I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Do you want to shower?” 

“No,” Chris sighs, too tired to even consider the possibility anymore. “I’d love some ice for my foot, though.” 

“You got it.” Patting her hand, he grabs the pillows from the other side of his bed so she can prop her ankle on them, and leaves her with Duke to change. The end table lamps provide a soft glow as he piles the pillows on the couch before looting the kitchen cabinets for anything good he can find. He hears her crutches and Duke’s paws pattering and closes the freezer, too, ice cream and ice pack in hand. 

Catching her eyes as she turns the corner, she huffs a laugh at the sight of his arms full of chip bags and fruit snacks and whatever else. While she’d love to help, her body resists anything more strenuous than lowering itself onto the couch cushions and taking her brace off. Her plan to stretch her leg out next to her is immediately thwarted by a twinge in her hip. 

“What’s wrong?” Street asks, setting down the food and holding his hands out if she needs them. Shaking her head, Chris says nothing, and pulls the table closer to layer on the pillows and then her ankle. It’s a nasty mix of purples and blue, the worst of it so dark it’s almost black. He pops the lid off the cookies and cream and hands it to her with a spoon, hurrying back to the kitchen for a hand towel to wrap around the ice pack. The cold stings for just a second before it soothes her. 

“That okay?” 

“Yeah,” she nods. “Sit?” 

She jostles as the couch dips but holds back her groan in favor of shoving a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. The sugary cold coats her tongue and grounds her until he gets settled, the brush of their arms enough to make her feel like herself for the first time in days. 

“Do you want to watch something?” He asks, struggling not to look at her as closely as he wants to. Shrugging, Chris pulls the spoon out of her mouth and shoves it into the top of the pint. Even the arcade machine is unplugged, leaving them only in the glow of any hallway light that filters in. Her nails are sore from where she’s picked at them, and she presses them into the ice cream container. He catches it in his periphery, but only takes another measured breath. 

“Sure.” She says, after another minute. “Nothing too—too much?” 

“How about Bake Off?” 

“The Christmas ones?” 

His heart almost stops. 

(The memory of the first, and last, time they watched those episodes is a former contender for the most emotionally confused he’s felt about her. Losing Nate hurt the little Christmas spirit he had, and being unsure of his relationship with Chris in the wake of his time undercover delivered the killing blow. It wasn’t until she asked if he was coming to her family dinner for the holiday that things started to turn around. 

“I understand if you’re not up to it. If you want, I can come over earlier that day? Or the 26th. Whatever you want.”

He agreed, needing a reminder of the goodness in the world. And, though he could see from Helena and Sarzo’s glances that they picked up on the somber tone, they had enough grace not to mention it. He gave them the tightest hugs when he left, following Chris to her truck. 

“Do you want to come in? ” He broached, unsure of where they were but desperate for her. “I know it’s late, but they just dropped some Christmas specials of Bake Off?” 

Her cab was akin to a kiln, and her words were powerful enough to fortify his strength or shatter him into ashes. Thoughts of what’s truly important burst through her head. His plea to be normal, and the hole in her heart that’s perfectly the shape of him. 

“Sure.” She smiled at him. 

The rest of their drive was silent, and getting to his empty house felt like crossing an imaginary line back to what they were that she wished she’d never even drawn. Duke pattered up to them, happily distracted by Chris as Street got snacks and drinks. Everything was so fragile, but in a new way, a good way. With each glance, Chris resigned herself to nurturing the small flame between them, not realizing how cold she’d been when it was gone.)

How fragile does she feel right now, Street wonders, knowing it can’t be good. Sparing her another concerned glance, he grabs the remote and turns the volume down before whatever channel Luca left on can blast them both ten feet backwards. The show is in his recently watched, an odd perk of rarely having time to himself to watch it, and he clicks on one of the specials they’ve seen, an appreciation for the familiar.

Chris’s stomach is full after a few bites of ice cream. She passes the container to Street without a word, her foot making it hard enough to do anything and only compiled with how tired she is, and starts to pay attention to the narrator. He pops the lid on and lets it sit on the table, and hands her a water bottle before she has to ask. Even with the volume on low, the start of the theme song and the brightness of the screen makes her wince. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling up the settings to make it duller, and lowering the volume even more. He thinks she says not to worry about it. They get halfway through until he can’t ignore her slight shivering any longer, reaching underneath the table and pulling out a blanket for the third time today. 

“How’s your foot?” 

“Better. I think it’s okay to let it sit a while.” 

Nodding, he swaps the towel for the blanket, and gives her space to get adjusted underneath it while he tosses the ice pack back in the freezer. He can just make her out form across the living room. She looks more subdued than he’s ever seen and it kills him. The TV’s glow highlights the bandage on her forehead and the ghost of bruises that he knows are there, but are lost underneath her clothes or the blanket. His instincts spin trying to preempt whatever she might need or want. 

“Street?” She cuts his thoughts off, missing his warmth and his steadiness. Like a moth to a flame, he hurries back to her side and relaxes onto the couch. He’s content to be there with her, not pushing anything, but is pleasantly surprised when she tosses the rest of the blanket over his lap so they’re both underneath it, thighs once again brushing. Her sigh is full of rage and sadness, neither of which she has the wherewithal to deal with, and she allows herself the comfort of leaning her head on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even move until she’s settled where she wants to be, and hopes that his heartbeat is steady. 

The second episode is finishing by the time the memories start to catch up with her. 

It’s a dance she’s used to, one she’s spent years honing her skills to be able to not give any attention, but now it’s devolved. The voices are new, Agent Carter’s sticking out above the rest like a screeching in her ear, and the putrid smells are back in a way she hasn’t experienced since she was fourteen. Letting it all play out in her head is excruciating, but manageable enough, until she feels the weight. 

It’s not real , she thinks, not comforted by the fact that it’s not real now , but it was some 24 hours ago. Your meds are wearing off . And it’s true. She could crutch to the counter for another dose, or ask Street to get it for her, but the thought of breaking their mutual plane is harrowing, and no medicine in the world could break the rip current that is her blood rushing underneath her veins. 

“Street?” She gets out, needing to bring it up before he notices something’s wrong. 

“Yeah?” 

“Will you hold me?” 

He recognizes her tone like an electric shock to the heart. One often found in his own words when he was young and tired from what the world had put him through, and one often ignored by that same world. Briefly, he thinks of everything he knows about Chris, and wonders about her childhood beyond what she’s told him. Everything but the need to give her the same kind of rest that he never got, and she probably didn’t either, falls away. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, carefully shifting so that he’s close enough to lay an arm over her shoulders without her having to move her foot. Cheery music from the show fades into the buzz of her mind while her body twists so it’s angled closer to his. Feeling her good leg bend and straighten a few times, he takes the hint with the shifting of the blanket to set his free hand on her bare knee, closer to her calf than her thigh. 

Their breathing settles, Chris hopeful that it will be enough of a distraction to make the memories skirt, but it isn’t two minutes before heavy pants and low grunts make their way into her ears from the inside out, overtaking the dialogue. Her fists clench and fingers twist in the front pocket of her hoodie, but pain also proves useless. Her voice is sharper, but quieter when she speaks again. 

“Tighter?”

He nods, flexing his fingers to get more of her shoulder in his grip, and pulls her closer. As gingerly as she can, she bends her bad leg so his hand slides up to the middle of her thigh. Her skin is cool underneath his touch, her shallow breath catching as she turns all her attention to him. 

“Chris?” Street whispers, staring to loosen his hands until she shakes her head and a noise of protest escapes. His heart races as his worries explode that he’s hurting her, but her eyes are shut so his attempts to catch them are fruitless. A sinking feeling hits him when he realizes that all he wants is to see her eyes. It’s like his mind is the arcade machine, bouncing around too many thoughts and feelings in search of what—he doesn’t know. But they light him up and blood rushes past his ears as he hones in on only her. If he didn’t have to take his hands off her to do it, he’d shut off the TV. Anything she needs to get her to look at him.

“Tighter. Please . You’re not going to hurt me.” She presses through grit teeth, cutting off his thoughts where they stand. “Not more than they already did.”

He’s lost count of how many times his heart has broken today. Her words only send another crack running through it, an avalanche waiting to happen. Swallowing, he adjusts his grip so it’s as tight as he can stand. His fingers dig into her shoulder and thigh, pulling her ever closer until there are no gaps between the line of his body and hers. She forces herself to focus on the weight of his arms where they lie across her. Trying—for normalcy—to go back to the television screen, it’s nothing but a wash of too-bright scenes that make her head hurt. Too exhausted to think about it, her head turns to bury itself in his chest until darkness overtakes her. The same scent from the bedroom fills her nostrils like another part of the symphony of him. His breath, his touch, his smell. The first time all day she feels like she can breathe. 

A hand snakes out of her hoodie pocket to his shoulder. Nails make pinpoints in his flesh, sending flares of pain through him, but she’s clinging to him and he isn’t going to make her stop. 

And then it all crumbles. 

Hot tears join the fray, but it’s not frantic sobs like from before. She barely even makes a noise as exhaustion wraps around her and pushes her emotions through their release. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against her head, feeling how his breath moves her hair just so. 

“I know,” she murmurs, voice higher than he’s ever heard it. High with heartbreaking, stomach-aching pain. He blinks away his tears, and pulls her impossibly closer.

The first pale purple fog of morning is just settling onto the Earth when Chris opens her eyes. Her head is pounding, eyes puffy, and there’s an insistent tugging at her ankle. For a moment, she doesn’t remember, and then she sighs as it all comes back. 

Sitting up, determined to block it out, she takes in the melting ice cream and still-open chips from the night before and spies the ‘Are you still watching?’ on the television. She clears her throat and sighs again, hand blindly grasping around the couch cushions for the remote until she hits something else. 

“Mm,” Street groans at the intrusion, groggy as he comes to. But her eyes are the first thing he sees when he opens his, and his body slams upwards as the puzzle comes into focus. “Chris, hey.” 

“Hi,” she says small, unsure of what to do, but compelled by a force deep in her gut not to move. Her eyes fall to the dark green blanket still tangled around his feet and half-covering her thigh. Like he isn’t sure what he’s seeing is real, he reaches out a careful hand to touch her forearm, convincing himself she’s solid. His touch pulls her gaze, but he looks around the room now, unable to remember when they went from awake to sleeping. 

“Are you okay?” he asks more than the one question in the newborn daylight, their soft eyes meeting. She gives him the smallest flash of a sad, fragile smile, and moves so that their hands are back on the couch, easily held in the others. 

“No. Not for a while,” her gaze falls with a shake of her head that hides her face behind her hair. Steel memories play slow and distorted in her mind. Curling his fingers up, he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. 

She looks at him, and they fade enough that she can breathe. Pressing at his chest until they’re both lying down again, she faces him, the blanket covering them up to their shoulders and their connected hands resting on their hips; his thumb sweeps over hers.

“I will be.”