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streakyglasses · 4 months

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to love me so (i got you, babe)

From an anon prompt I got a while back: Chris and Street working through an unplanned, positive pregnancy test.

TW: referenced child abuse, referenced sexual assault (neither overly graphic), anxiety, concerns about disapproving families.

Read on ao3, ffn, or below the cut.

Two blue lines stare Chris in the face. Two.

She’s faced gunmen and bombs and poison, and none of that was as terrifying as the air in her bathroom right now. Her blood rushes past her ears, her lungs strain against her ribs to try to expand, and her brain freezes.

“Fuck,” she chokes out. The vanity is cold where her fingers claw at it, gripping so tight her knuckles turn white as her knees threaten to buckle on her.

Fuck.

Her mind spins as every day from the past two months replays in her mind. Every birth control pill. Every night, and afternoon, and morning with Street comes screaming back to her in technicolor. Where it would normally be comforting, now it feels like she’s searching for what went wrong. Like trying to find the missing piece that caused a car crash while she’s standing in the wreckage.

Sweat breaks out on the back of her neck, a shiver running up her spine, and the familiar pull of her stomach bottoming out sends her crashing to her knees in front of the toilet before she can think. The small breakfast she had, the near-constant queasiness that she’s felt since Monday making it difficult to eat much of anything, comes back up. Her body heaves until her throat feels like razor blades. She groans once it’s all over, letting her head rest against the cool of the closed toilet lid while her heart stops racing.

Peeling herself off the floor is a monumental task. She’s dizzy, the edges of her vision blurring when she gets to her feet, and she waits for it to clear before she opens the bathroom door. Her bedroom feels unfamiliar in a way it never has before as she grabs a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt and turns back to the shower. It’s as hot as she can stand it in an effort to cut through some of the—whatever—she’s feeling.

As awful as her apartment feels, the notion of going out into the world like this feels even more dangerous. Knowing the TV won’t help and it will be hours before Street gets home, she closes her bedroom blinds and slides under the covers as her mind keeps spinning.

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She planned to get up before Street got home. To make dinner or fold laundry and create some semblance of normalcy. But it’s easy to lose track of time and it isn’t until Street’s warm hand rests on her shoulder that she even realizes the day has gone by. Turning on her back with a groan, she sees his eyebrows crease with concern.

“Hey, Babe. Are you still feeling sick? You could’ve called and I would’ve come home. It might be time to go to Urgent Care and see if they can give you something?”

Sterile white walls and blue latex gloves pop into her brain. Then ultrasounds and doctor’s appointments and a barrage of other scenes that she’s just barely able to keep at bay. She shakes her head to clear them as much as to answer him.

This isn’t how she wanted to do this.

“I’m fine. Change, I’ll make dinner,” she mumbles, desperate for some control. His wrinkles grow deeper but he doesn’t fight her on it. She sits up and slides out of bed, not looking back on her way down the hall though she can feel his eyes dead center between her shoulder blades.

Dinner is the leftovers that she made last night that she didn’t want any of, and she still doesn’t. The chicken sizzles in the pan as the veggies heat up. When Street reemerges, he sees her sipping ginger ale and tapping on the counter in an uneven rhythm. He gets down two plates and two glasses of water even though he isn’t sure she’s hungry, milling around because if he sits down the only thing he’ll do is stare at her. To curb his concern, she cuts one of the chicken breasts in half and takes a small serving of broccoli, but it mostly ends up pushed around her plate while she listens to him recount his day.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks again, putting the dishes in the dishwasher and glancing at her in his periphery.

“We need to talk.” Chris says, her voice gravelly. She can’t look at him and keeps her eyes fixed on the stove where her reflection blurs out of focus. When he fills her vision, face more worried than before, her stomach drops again and she stands. Jerking her head, he follows without a word to her bathroom. She picks something up before he can see what it is, her face pale under the white light.

“I realized today,” she starts, almost whispering and eyes down, “that I’m late. Between that and the—”

Heart beating against her chest, Chris has to stop and remind herself to breathe. She risks a look at Street and can tell he isn’t quite with her. Her need to be on the same page trumps context, and she holds out the test to him, tucked into a plastic bag.

“I’m pregnant.”

Her teeth cut into her bottom lip and she doesn’t breathe as she waits for his answer. He takes the plastic bag from her and looks at the lines like he doesn’t quite believe they’re there. Every nerve in his body turns over, but when he looks at her face and sees the uncertainty in her features, everything stops.

“Are you okay?”

She doesn’t know what she expects, some knee-jerk reaction of how he feels, but it isn’t that. Tears rush to her eyes once the question lands, and Street drops the plastic on the vanity to hold her instead, his hand tangling in her hair and his soft voice reaching her ear while hot tears soak into the collar of his shirt.

“I’m here,” he tries to soothe her, pressing a kiss to the side of her head. His instinct is screaming to tell her it will be okay, but he doesn’t know that, his mind starting to spin with more questions and what-ifs. All he can do is promise her his life, so he does. “I’m right here.”

Finally in his arms, Chris feels safer than she has all day. Street knowing is a huge relief despite whatever might come next. She snakes a hand from around his back up to her cheek to wipe away some of her tears, leaving her face red and puffy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, unsure if it's for her reaction, or the whole thing, and still unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know—”

“Hey, no,” he stops her immediately, but gently. He pulls back enough to cradle her face in his hand, heart breaking at the sight of her.

“You’re not alone. We’re gonna figure this out. I’m sure your head’s been going all day?” Chris nods small, Street repeating the action, and he catches her eyes again.

“Why don’t I make some tea and we can throw something on TV for a little bit? Try to give your mind a break. We can talk about it more later, or tomorrow.”

It’s out of her nature, all of her instincts screaming to find a solution immediately, but the exhaustion in her bones is a surefire sign that he’s right so she agrees. He takes a step back and she splashes water on her face enough to get rid of the film of tears, and then follows him down the hallway.

Street feels like he’s existing outside himself as he goes around her kitchen to make tea. Her kitchen. Because they haven’t moved in together yet. Because they’ve hardly been dating for half a year. They haven’t even talked about moving in together. Haven’t talked about the future very much at all. He hasn’t even thought to talk about children.

“Calm down,” he murmurs to himself, quiet so she can’t hear, trying to get a hold of his brain. Glancing over, he sees the tension in her shoulders and jaw as she stares at the TV, and takes a deep breath. He finishes the tea and puts extra honey in hers. When he sits next to her, he gives her a gentle smile, and she whispers her thanks.

His mind continues to turn as they settle on a remodeling show. It’s easy enough to pay attention to without actually absorbing anything, and he feels the weight of her head on his shoulder a few minutes into it. Wanting to be as close as she does, his arm wraps around her until her soft skin contrasts the cool leather against his skin. Her hands find his other to hold on his lap a few minutes later, voice not directed towards him when she speaks, but the living room as a whole.

“This is your decision, too,” she says, an edge he can’t read to her otherwise flat voice—the tone he’s only heard her use when she’s scared. “I need you to know that.” Holding in a sigh, he squeezes her hand and kisses her head.

“Thank you. Do you want to talk now?”

Exhausted, she shakes her head and settles back into him and the couch, making herself as small as she can.

“No, I just wanted you to know. Before anything.”

“Okay,” he says as lightly as he can. “We’re gonna get through this, Chris.”

“Okay,” she whispers, unable to look up from the circular stain on her coffee table. The drone of the TV eventually lulls her into enough of a sense of calm to go to bed. Street’s barely a step behind her.

She doesn’t look at herself too closely as she gets ready for bed and waits for him to get comfortable under the covers before she turns the light out and burrows next to him. He’s surprised when she lies her head on his chest. Though he usually wakes up with an arm over her stomach or their ankles locked, she’s rarely this affectionate when they’re trying to fall asleep. Still, he welcomes the weight.

“I can hear you thinking,” she murmurs against the cotton of his t-shirt. Leaning into her, he presses a kiss to her head and takes a deep breath.

“Only ever about you. I love you.”

Despite the fear that’s running through her veins and the way her hand keeps unconsciously finding her lower abdomen and making her flinch, she relaxes.

“I love you, too.”

She’s asleep not soon after. He’s glad for it, because it gives his mind plenty of room to race without extra attention. The edges of her bedroom are visible through the darkness until they morph into his childhood room and he closes his eyes against the pervasive, painful memories.

More crop up. Ones he thought he’d long forgotten about. The scent of beer and cigarette smoke and a hot hand wrapped around his lanky arm tight enough to leave a ring of bruises. Of a hushed conversation between his parents that quickly turned into a screaming match he had no choice but to listen to: wanting another baby, not wanting another baby. His father’s enraged voice screaming he never wanted the kid they do have.

Foster homes. Foster homes and group homes filled with tiny voices and angry teenagers and not enough food or time to go around. A vow he made to himself, when he doesn’t remember, that he’d never do to a kid what was done to him. And the paralyzing fear that the part of his father that he’s sure exists in him somewhere will jump out on its own one day, and who all will be left in the fallout.

Sighing, Street carefully slides out from under Chris to cross back into the bathroom. He rubs at his face under the too-bright lighting until he only sees his current self and opens her cabinet to pull out a small orange bottle of tiny white pills.

Take twice a day as needed.

It’s now, he thinks, if there was ever a time to need them.

He turns back to the bedroom and can just see her sleeping form in the light that floods out. He doesn’t know if it’s the sight of her or a placebo effect that seems to immediately make his heart calm down. It’s a conversation that has to be had, but not in the middle of the night. Not when he can get back under the covers and pull her close and, for all intents, it’s still just the two of them. He does.

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Chris is awoken by a bout of nausea that sends her careening over Street and towards the bathroom. There’s little in her stomach to actually come up, but the more she thinks about what position she’s in, the worse her anxiety gets and she heaves more violently. It feels like she’s being ripped in half.

He follows her as quickly as can. The sight of her from the bathroom doorway, so opposite of the previous night, freezes him in his own worry. A choked sob escaping snaps him from his mind and he rushes to her side. His hands are warm but shaky where they hold her shoulders steady and rub circles on her back.

“You’re okay, I’m right here,” he tries to soothe her. When he brushes back her sweaty hair from her forehead, though, all Chris can picture is more mornings like this—for the next however many months. A hospital bed and a swollen stomach and a tiny, crying human that’s going to need things from her she’s not at all aware of or prepared to give. Things she’s not sure that she has in the first place. Street’s laugh as he chases a nameless toddler around an apartment messy with toys. Probably some spilled out next to his SWAT backpack that she’ll watch rush out the door every morning, straight towards imminent danger.

Bile burns her throat as she wiggles out of Street’s grip and away from his voice to white-knuckle the porcelain even harder instead. Taking the hint but not willing to leave her, he sits back on his heels and watches her shoulders shake for what seems like hours. When the attack ends and she’s left feeling her own hot breath on her face, she’s exhausted. She spits into the bowl and leans back against the wall.

“So much for calming down,” she hiccups, trying to cut through the tension. Opening her eyes she sees Street’s lips pressed together, his fists clenched to keep his own anxiety from spewing out.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises, standing and handing her a shot of mouthwash followed by a glass of water. She swishes it around her mouth until the feeling of what just happened is only a memory. Looking up towards his hazel eyes, he’s holding a hand out for her, and she smiles tiredly when she takes it and he pulls her into a hug. Everything settles around them again as they sway on the tile.

“Breakfast?” He murmurs a few minutes later.

For the first time in days the mention of food makes her aware of just how ravenous her body is. She nods against him and then turns towards the sink to splash her face.

“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to eat. But yes, please.”

“Eggs and fruit?” His eyes search her face for any discomfort for uncertainty, but there’s none and she agrees, following him towards the kitchen.

Breakfast is an easy affair, if quieter than normal. She turns on the TV to let something fill the space and starts cutting fruit while he cooks the eggs. They sit at the dining room table, her foot brushing up against his leg every few minutes, eyes meeting but never lingering. When all that’s left are crumbs and thin trails of yellow yolk over their plates, she speaks up.

“You go first.”

Street’s breath catches and his eyes jump to hers.

“What?”

“Go first,” she encourages him. “I—this is your decision, too. It’ll make me feel better knowing however you feel about what you want to do. Please?”

Raising his eyebrows, he can count on one hand the amount of times she’s been so vulnerable, even since they’ve been together. His mind grasps for a place to start as anxiety courses through him, The only thing he can think to do is push his plate to the side and reach across the gray wood to take her hand.

“I never thought I’d be in a position to want kids.”

It comes out before he can think it through, but at least it’s out. He can’t look at her and keeps his focus on their intertwined fingers as more pours from him that he didn’t realize he’d internalized so deeply.

“If there’s one person I would have a kid with, it would be you.”

Chris sucks in a sharp breath. In his periphery, he sees her nod to keep going, and reminds himself that they’re in this together.

“But I can’t imagine my life, our life, with a child, either. I promised myself I’d never hurt a kid, not after everything… you know.”

On a shaking exhale, he squeezes her hand tighter. Tears come to his eyes that he doesn’t try to wipe away. It’s so still, the air between them, so quiet. Fragile. He’s always been more fragile than he’s let on. Covered it up with leather and motorcycles and walking out of explosions. But sitting across from Chris with the circumstances that are in front of them, he feels stripped beyond all of those defenses. Just a fragile, scared kid himself.

“I don’t,” he sighs, slowly bringing their gazes together and seeing the emotions etched across her face. “I don’t want to live every day of my life scared that I’ll turn into my dad and do something I’ll never forgive myself for. If having a kid means running the risk of becoming like him, or hurting you, or myself, that’s not a risk I want to take.”

His words land and her jaw clenches as she tries to digest them all. With his other hand, he finally dries the tears that fell, wishing her to say something soon. Another moment passes. She memorizes the wood grain and hears his fears echo in her own mind.

“I agree,” she whispers. She gazes up at him even as terror seizes her blood in her veins, trying to lose herself in them so she won’t panic again.

“I don’t want this. Not right now, at least.”

For Street, it’s a relief. But he looks at her again and it’s clear there’s a lot more weight on her shoulders. He cocks his head in a silent question and his heart skips when her hand stars to shake in his. Her thoughts collide with reality and fly from her mouth almost too fast for him to make sense of them, only worsened by how unsteady her voice is.

“But if—when—if we’re not. We can’t tell my family.”

She covers her mouth to try to stifle her cries and screws her eyes shut like plunging herself into darkness will make it all go away somehow. With the same urgency from barely an hour ago, he lets her go to move around the table and wrap her in his arms. She pushes her chair back to give him the space and barely moves again as he tangles his hand in her hair and starts to whisper in her ear. His guts are spinning too fast, the heaviness of the realization paired with the need to comfort her all overwhelming.

“Okay. Shh, Chris. That’s okay. It’s just us right now. No one needs to know anything.”

Her tears don’t last long, a momentary whirlwind that she manages to knock herself out of before it gets anymore out of hand than it already has. Pulling back, she coughs roughly and shakes her head to clear away the last of the episode. His hand catches her face and brushes over her cheekbone. He doesn’t have to vocalize the question for her to nod and them to move to the cough.

He waits for her to get comfortable before lying next to her so they’re on their sides and facing one another, observing the ropes of tension running through and determined to help unwind them. She lies between him and the back of the couch, kept safe from the world through his body crowding hers in the way only he can, and still make her feel like she can breathe. She stares at his jaw.

“I don’t know where to start,” she whispers. He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead and feels her hot exhale on his neck. “I don’t know when.”

“Not your fault,” he counters, features soft. “Whatever or however this happened, we’re in it together.”

His words are like a balm and her lips quirk up small. Able to set her cacophony of feelings to the side over how they got here in the first place, she shifts back to where Street’s already been for hours.

“My mom sucked, too. Bad. I swore off kids the day she died and haven’t thought about it since. It’s just my family, and the team… as ridiculous as that is.”

He thinks he knows where she’s headed, but he doesn’t interrupt aside from telling her that nothing she’s feeling is ridiculous. She sets her ear over his heart to hear it beat and focuses on the feel of the couch against her bare legs.

“Aunt Helena and Uncle Sarzo,” she starts with a sigh, “they love me, but it would be a lot for them to have to process. A lot of the rest of my family wouldn’t approve, and Deac and Annie, too, I—”

Groaning, Chris squeezes her eyes shut again and wishes she could just say what’s firing around her brain and cutting off the blood flow to her heart.

“My family is so important to me, and I don’t want to hurt the people I love with this decision. But I can’t do it. We’re more important to me,” she finally gets out. Street understands all that goes unsaid.

“The one thing I’ve always admired about you is how yourself you are, Chris.” He says, hearkening back years with his words and his hand splayed over her back. “I know how much your people mean to you, but this is our business. No one else’s. That’s okay.”

“That’s not all,” she interrupts, still in her head even as it processes what he said and lets his words calm her. He looks down at her, but she’s staring into his chest. He tightens his grip, determined to hold it together when she sighs with more exhaustion than she should ever feel again.

“It’s my body.” She finally whispers, then buries her face in his chest and breathes in his scent as deeply as she can until it blocks out the awful memories clawing at her throat.

“It’s your body,” he affirms gently, rubbing up and down her back as she speaks even softer.

“A lot of people have had control of my body when I didn’t want them to.”

Street feels his heart crack and tells himself he needs to keep his breathing even and his hands steady where they are. He presses ever closer, like he can shelter her from the darkness of the world forever from where they are on the couch, and feels her chest as it rises and falls.

“I want control over myself—I need it. And I’m scared that if we tell people, even after it’s done, they’ll—say things. Try to exercise control over us, the decision we made, my body.”

Blowing out a slow breath, he pulls the unfolded blanket off the back of the couch so they’re covered, and buries his face in her hair. He doesn’t say anything and feels her arms come around him, too. Time slows as they hold one another. He thinks he feels their heartbeats sync, and breathes her in deeper.

“Thank you,” she murmurs against him a few moments later, comforted by everything familiar about him. He nods against her and kisses the top of her head, not yet pulling back to meet her eyes, but speaking low enough his breath just brushes against her ear.

“This is our choice, and you’re in control. We don’t have to tell anyone. And if you, or we, ever decide to, I will do everything in my power to make sure no one says anything about what we chose and we did.”

He feels her smile against him, but her tone isn’t as sure. She sounds tired when she speaks.

“You can’t make sure of that. It’s always going to be more on me than you.”

“I know,” he agrees, voice sad, but unwavering. “But I can make it clear that we did this together from start to end. That we made the best decision for us, not just you.”

She closes any of the remaining space between them. He holds her tighter, his tone softening.

“But we don’t have to worry about that right now, because we don’t need to tell anyone anything. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She guides his head down enough for their foreheads to touch and opens her eyes into his. His irises are a deep, mesmerizing web of colors that sparkle even with barely any light around them. “I love you.” “I love you, too,” he grins small, then kisses her. His hand runs through her hair. “We can go wherever we need to later, or tomorrow. Whatever you want.”

Her eyes narrow with a minute shake of her head.

“You don’t have to come.”

“Together, Chris,” Street says. “Start to end. If you want me there, I’m there.”

Her hand brushes against her stomach again, but this time it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. It feels like things will be okay. Eventually. As long as they’re together.

“I want you there,” she says, not a trace of doubt in her words amidst her lingering concerns over what there will entail. His lips are soft and easy when they find hers, his thumb grazing over her cheekbone and their eyes locked. With the blanket cocooning them and his cologne hanging in the air she breathes, Chris is fairly certain they’re the only two people in the world. He senses her fragile calm and kisses her again. She’s certain she never wants that to change.

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*i know this isn't going to be everyone's cup of tea. i personally love stris with non-biological kids, but pregnancy/birth is very different, and i have a hard time finding my/their characterization in that situation. but not ever saying never, either! all that's to say, i appreciate the reads/tags/reblogs/asks (please let me know your thoughts! i love to talk about their characters and this show so much) esp. on a fic like this!!