Chapter Text
“Lana, it’s me.”
‘No fucking shit Sherlock’, she thought with an irritated click of her tongue and impressively sarky roll of her eyes, leaving the lit-up phone on the cluttered counter top as she moved to the large American fridge and reached for one of the last few green bottles remaining in her somewhat depleted reserve. The voicemail message continued to drone on in the background, it’s tinny sound creating an almost monotonous soundscape as the tedious male voice rambled on in his dull tone, the woman’s high features creasing into an expression of frustration as the minutes passed. She deftly removed the cap of the bottle, chucking the red metal lid in the vague direction of her sink before taking a long, impatient swig of the drink, resembling a long-lost explorer in some distant scorching desert who was finally consuming liquid for the first time in months. A bead of condensation trickled slowly down the stem of her beer, dropping onto the tanned skin of the woman’s cheek, and continuing on its journey south, Lana either oblivious or unbothered as she gave no visible reaction.
“I.. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be alone or if you’d be at your parents – but if you want me too, I can be there in ten. Or you could come back here, to ours? I’m here for you, Lana, I just want you to know that.”
Urgh, had his voice always sounded like a bothersome whiny child or was it simply the ill-advised combination of a vast amount of alcohol consumed on an empty stomach and a really shit day that was making her more sensitive than normal? Either way, she truly could not think of anything worse than having to listen to the odious droning in person – in fact, right now, she would much rather chop her arm off with a rusty scalpel in some 127hours style endeavour than spend a minute in the company of Thomas Youngblood. Her boyfriend. God, the thought was enough to make her want to run to the toilet and toss the remaining limited contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl, gut turning itself into complicated knots at the mere reminder that somehow, at some point, she had unconsciously allowed the mind numbingly dull man to hitch his wagon to her horse. Okay, okay, maybe that was unnecessarily mean. Sometimes, she theorised, he could be relatively tolerable, borderline interesting and on very rare occasions funny. The trouble was that on a daily basis he oozed the charisma and charm of a stick and didn’t seem to understand, nor want to understand, anything about Lana that wasn’t work related, to do with him or their relationship. Any time she mentioned the forces, the years spent in camo fighting for her country, the memories she had of Nut and the rest of their platoon, he would roll his eyes or groan in annoyance (on a few particularly knobby moments, he had even slammed his hand on the table or sofa arm, moaning that “this isn’t fucking Afghanistan Lana, put a sock in it” before turning back to watch Antiques Roadshow or whatever other mindless crap people with no personality enjoyed consuming). As such, she had begun to create a very distinct line of separation between the different parts of her life – there was work, there was her family, there was Nut and of course, there was Thom – and she was careful to ensure they didn’t blur, that things were kept detached from one another. The only exception perhaps was Nut and work, the camaraderie that she shared with the lads at work being incredibly similar to that she had enjoyed with her comrades in the force, and she was grateful for that because it meant she could let her walls down a little and be herself. Their banter was almost identical to that of army life, perhaps because so many of them were vets themselves, and it was as comforting as sliding your feet into your favourite slippers, a familiar environment that soothed her anxieties and lifted her mood.
She wasn’t a relationship guru by any means, preferring the ease of casual flings to hardcore committed bonds, but she was pretty sure that it was the bare minimum to have some degree of interest in your partner’s life, the things they liked and what made them ‘them’. But then, that would mean she had to wake up and smell the coffee, acknowledging that this was not a relationship she wanted nor needed, that they were about as compatible as chalk and cheese – hell it was safe to say that she had more chemistry with the sodding bomb robot than she did with Thom. Even without the current madness and pure shitstorm that was her life, that just sounded like far too much stress and angst and work to cope with right now, and so she opted for the easy option of closing her eyes and pretending she did not see. She could hear Nut’s voice now, see the shake of his head as she ignored the huge red flags and pretended that she didn’t want to punch the cop in the throat 90% of the time. “Denial isn’t healthy, Wash.” He would say, and often had done when the two were in the van or out on the road together, and she would roll her eyes, tell him to jog on and ignore his comments because she did not want to lift that rug up just yet.
“Anyway, I’ll leave you be – you know where I am. I love you Lana.”
At least she could take some comfort from the fact that he wouldn’t be popping by unannounced to suffocate her with his vanilla personality and stomach-churning attempts at comforting affection – man she really needed to get out of this one, didn’t she? Ignoring the declaration of endearment at the end, preferring to pretend that the sound of the l word didn’t make her want to puke or run for the hills, she promptly deleted the voicemail and, after a moment’s thought, chucked the phone onto the coffee table before her as she sank onto her worn leather sofa, eyes closing as she drained half her bottle in a single go. The modest, somewhat messy flat was suddenly thrown into an almost overwhelming silence, the stale air no longer punctuated by monotonous droning or the goosebump raising beeps that signalled the start and end of each voicemail. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind the quiet, embraced it almost. The solitude meant that she could finally let her walls down and relax (because when you worked in a career such as she did, there were very few moments when you could actually switch off and merely exist), could be Lana without fear of comment or observation. But today the silence was suffocating, threatening to take over her thoughts and airways until she was scratching at her throat for air and willing for some distraction to save her. Without a diversion to occupy her, the thoughts she’d fought valiantly to keep at bay for the last few hours were free to snake forward and inundate every fibre of her being, replaying the day’s events over and over and over again like some sort of depraved torture film.
The phone call.
The sickening realisation that her worst fears were true.
The longest drive of her life from the dingy pool bar to a football field on the outskirts of town.
The relief that Billy wasn’t the mastermind of some horrifying terrorist attack.
The subsequent anger that her stupid sodding little brother had got mixed up in this shit.
The solace that she would be there soon, and her team would be able to help him.
The confusion over the timer and what exactly they were facing.
The realisation that this was a clever decoy, and that the car was the bomb.
And then, the explosion.
The ear-splitting bang. The putrid smell. The unmissable ball of flame and fire.
The realisation that she had failed again. Had killed someone again. Had lost someone close to her again.
“FUCK!” The word sounded strangled to her ears, voice hoarse from hours of crying and yelling and screaming in vain, and she threw the empty bottle across the room in a futile attempt to stop the heart-breaking montage from continuing, to stop the haunting images from swirling in her mind. The glass shattered upon impact, spraying green shards around the lounge, and depositing the few remaining drops of amber liquid onto the paint. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Dropping her head into her hands, Lana’s shoulders heaved, and her toned frame shook but the tears were hot and silent, sobs mute as she tried to come to terms with exactly what had happened. It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real.
She had been around death for most of her life, it wasn’t new or scary to her – she constantly, almost daily, stared it in the eye and told him to fuck off. Every day in the forces she had seen it up close and personal, had witnessed her friends and colleagues and family blown to pieces or cut down with a single well-timed bullet. But this, this was a different feeling altogether. This was cutting her deep in a way she wasn’t accustomed too, and she felt as though the walls were closing in on her and she didn’t know how to prevent it. First Nut, now Billy. Who else was she going to lose before this fucking mess was over?
She couldn’t do this. She could not sit here in this flat alone with only her thoughts and regrets and pity for company. Equally, she couldn’t ring Thom and ask to come over or for him to come here. She couldn’t even text Karl, the guy who perhaps understood her better than most people given their shared experiences and common ground, because he wouldn’t understand this, wouldn’t understand why she was blaming herself. And quite frankly, she could not be bothered to deal with his flirting and not so subtle attempts to shag her. She had avoided his calls and texts all day, her mind focused on other things when she left him in the alley to find Billy, and she couldn’t find it in her to care even slightly for his fragile male ego right now. Her brother had just been murdered in a bloody explosion and there he was texting her every five minutes about coming over later and sodding pool cues – like, read the fucking room man?!
God, she really was becoming a bitter spinster, wasn’t she? Stuck her alone with only her pathetic sense to keep her warm because the only people left in her life would either make things unbelievably worse and/or make it about themselves. What a sorry bloody excuse of a person she was. At least Nut would have made her laugh, would crack some of his utterly horrendous jokes and be happy enough to get rat arsed with her without passing judgement on coping mechanisms or whether it would be ‘healthy’. But nope, she didn’t even have him anymore – because she had killed him already. Another empty space at the pitiful table that she called her close circle.
Her phone suddenly chimed, the annoyingly perky sound cutting through the black swirls of self-loathing and pity and utter self-deprecation she currently sat in, and she briefly considered ignoring it (or at the very least, throwing it to a similar fate as her poor drink a few moments ago). It sounded once again, the text alert prompting her to groan in sheer frustration as she reached out blindly in the vague direction of the table, knocking over some innocuous detritus in her attempts to locate the noise’s source before her long slender figures finally landed upon the cool glass. She half expected it to be another wounded text from Karl or even a missed call from Thom again because he was never good at taking a hint (maybe that was a common trait for men, the sheer inability to see what was going on right in front of them), and thus was somewhat surprised, shocked even, to see that the brightly lit screen was flashing with a text from Sarah.
Sarah was a detective with the Met, someone that she’d had the pleasure of working with on numerous occasions in the past when their paths crossed on a particular case, and the women had bonded somewhat over their shared alienation by many members of their departments – it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, being a woman in a typically male dominated industry, even more so when you chose to investigate homicides or dispose of bombs, and it was oddly comforting to have an ally. One of the rare cops that Lana didn’t want to smack, DC Weitzmann had a wicked sense of humour and penchant for adventure that was shared by the short haired woman, and the two had spent more than their fair share of nights drinking and eating Chinese food together, swapping tales until the early hours of the morning. However, a year ago the detective had been assigned to a case that saw her jetting off to Japan at short notice, and Lana had simply assumed that the woman was still out there, given that she hadn’t seen her around. Then again, given that 99% of the people she saw were either bomb disposal experts, bomb makers or bomb wearers, that couldn’t exactly be described as a massive shock.
“Heard what happened, shit. Hope you’re okay, here if you need me. S x”
Brevity was always something that Lana admired and appreciated in her close friends, and the older woman was no exception – the two often laughing at their shared dislike of the unnecessary fluff and, for lack of a better word, bullshitting that many of their colleagues opted for, especially when someone of high ranking was in attendance. Neither were fans of spouting 100 words when 10 would do, and for some reason, the two brief sentences meant more to the short haired expo than if she’d received a lengthy essay. Despite the fact that she had received dozens of similarly thoughtful texts and messages, most sharing the same sort of well-meant sympathy and dreaded clichés, there was something oddly touching about the fact that Sarah had taken the time to reach out.
“R u back in the UK? Can I come over?”
Lana wasn’t sure why she had sent that, why she had even replied to Sarah when she hadn’t even deigned to look at the countless other almost identical messages filling her inbox, and if her mental capacities weren’t currently being pickled in a mixture of alcohol and grief, that she might have wondered if there was some reason why the older woman had piqued her attention so instantaneously. However, right now she wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t consciously analysing the pros and cons of each decision she made, and so she barely gave it another thought as she quickly typed out the message and clicked send before she could have a chance to regret or delete the text.
Almost instantly, her phone lit up with a response from the other woman and Lana wasted no time in jumping to her feet, slipping on a pair of air forces as she shuffled towards the door, grabbing her keys on the way. Again, the logical side of the army vet perhaps should have considered just why she had got an answer so soon, questioned whether the detective was sat around hoping for a reply or maybe even wanting to see the bomb expo officer? But this wasn’t a time for careful analysis or thoughtful consideration of what exactly was going on here.
“Yes.”
“Jesus, you look like absolute shite.” The familiar Scottish accent greeted her before she’d even opened the slight wrought iron gate that separated the dwelling from the pavement, it’s owner clearly having been keeping an eye out for the Uber from the moment that she had told Lana to come over. A brightly lit hallway made the petite woman seem almost angelic, her delicate frame leaning against the frame of the open front door, arms crossed against the soft grey fabric of her long sleeved jumper in a lame attempt to protect her from the surprisingly brisk evening air – not that the weather could be blamed, it was a standing joke between the two that Sarah would feel the cold even if it was a scorching summer’s day, and Lana found it oddly reassuring to see that some things were still the same, despite the craziness that might have occurred since they last interacted.
“Charming, you can fuck off back to Asia if that’s how you greet your friends.” Lana retaliated, rolling her eyes with such fervour it was a wonder they stayed in their sockets, closing the gate briskly behind her as she slowly made her way up the crazy block paving path between two neat strips of surprisingly well-maintained lawn. Well, smack her ass and call her Susan, she had never once considered her friend as being anything of a modern Alan Titchmarsh, figuring that Sarah’s skills did not reside within the horticulturalist sphere, but given the evidence, it seemed as though she had misjudged the older woman. Either that or the detective knew an excellent gardener because this front lawn looked like something out of Stepford Wives, not a dwelling in south London.
Rolling her eyes in bemused fondness, Sarah watched as the woman approached, her piercing brown eyes noting that chiselled features seemed almost gaunt, that tanned skin appeared almost ghostlike and the tell-tale red cheeks and bloodshot eyes of someone who had cried more than once today. Despite the cold breeze, the short haired woman was dressed in a pair of slim fitting tracksuit bottoms and a tight grey vest top, the outline of taut muscles visible beneath the thin fabric as toned biceps flexed almost unconsciously as the expo officer came to a halt in front of the door step. She scuffed her trainers on the concrete, seeming more awkward than Sarah could remember, and the older detective wondered if she was regretting coming to see her after all. Jokes and quips aside, Lana really did look like shit and the Scot wondered if anyone had realised just how much the strong woman was struggling – the trouble with being a female in an industry like theirs, was that you often felt forced to conceal any and all emotions for fear of being demoted or seen as weak, both of which were essentially career enders, and so when events like this happened, people seemed to forget they were human beings and not actually unfeeling robots.
“God it’s a wonder I came back at all with welcome committees like this.” Sarah replied, sticking her tongue out at the younger woman before she pulled Lana in for a quick hug, the height difference surprisingly subtle given the fact that the Scot was stood on the raised stoop, slender arms wrapping around a lithe frame in a way that conveyed all the thoughts she wasn’t sure how to verbalise. After all, what do you say to someone who has gone through some of the worst experiences a person could endure, concluding in witnessing the graphic, brutal, senseless murder of her brother?
After a few beats, the smaller of the two pulled back and turned on her heel, stepping back into the warmth of the house as she signalled for Lana to follow her down towards the kitchen at the bottom of the hall, figuring they could both do with a drink before they did anything else. Lana hesitated for a second, her brain temporarily scrambled by the unexpected physical contact – and yet, the hug, though brief (which she was grateful for because she absolutely would not have been able to keep her composure if it had lasted a beat or two longer) was more comforting than she could have imagined, and she realised that she had needed it more than she could verbalise. Regaining her capabilities, the short haired woman quickly entered the property, closing and locking the door behind her before kicking her shoes off, padding down the wooden flooring in the direction of the retreating Scot.
“I’d offer you a cuppa, but I think we both need something less middle-aged tonight.” Sarah’s voice was slightly muffled as she shrugged, her head hidden behind the door of the obscenely large fridge, the sight of which was oddly bemusing to the slender brunette as she settled against the counter opposite. A few moments later the detective emerged from behind the oversized appliance, a couple of Peroni’s clutched within her tiny hands, and made quick work of removing the lids, dropping the tiny metal caps into the neat recycling bin near the back door (a stark contrast to the careless manner that Lana had discarded of her own a few hours ago) before offering one chilled bottle to the other woman.
It was a hardly known secret that this particular brand was the Army vet’s favourite, and Sarah was acutely embarrassed of the fact that she now kept a permanent supply of the Italian lager in her house on the off chance that Lana would stop by. She wasn’t quite sure when it had started, whether she had even twigged that she was subconsciously memorising details about the younger woman until it would be too humiliating to admit. And yet, she couldn’t find it in her to regret any of those decisions when it came to situations like this, the look of surprise mixed with unbridled delight that Lana gave as she was handed her favourite beverage more than made up for the red face that Sarah got whenever she topped up her stock or saw the trademark logo when she opened her fridge. It was almost as though the short haired woman was in disbelief that anyone would pay enough attention to her to realise that this was her chosen drink, let alone remember to get some in when she was coming over – after all, Thom had been dating her for a few years now and was still adamant that she was a Fosters girl, always brandishing the god-awful blue cans and expecting her to bend over backwards in gratitude.
“Thanks.” Accepting the proffered bottle with a small nod, Lana took a long sip of the chilled beer and gave a satisfied sigh, the amber liquid soothing her soul in a manner that her therapist would deem concerning – though the vet was convinced that she couldn’t do anything that the woman wouldn’t disapprove off, so fuck her and fuck the shrink bullshit too. Both women were happy enough to drink from their respective bottles in a companionable silence for a few moments, the distant sound of a tv playing to itself in the other room forming a comfortable soundscape as the two leant against opposite counter tops.
One of the things that she appreciated about her friendship with Sarah was that the woman never seemed offended or perturbed when silence fell amongst them, the lack of sound easy and relaxed rather than a strained atmosphere, and Lana was grateful tonight more than ever for that. She didn’t want inane chatter. She didn’t need it. And Sarah respected that, understood it, gave it her without hesitation.
After a little while, the Scot broke the peaceful tranquillity that had descended upon her neat little kitchen, placing her two thirds full bottle on the counter next to her before turning to face Lana squarely once more, concern evident upon her delicate features. “Feel free to chuck that at my head because I’m pretty sure you’re sick of being asked this, but how are you doing Wash?” As she spoke, she signalled slightly to the green glass held within the brunette’s tanned digits, her voice wavering in an uncharacteristic manner as she tried to navigate the potentially rocky waters, determined to check in with her friend but simultaneously not wishing to cause further distress.
There was a pregnant beat, the older woman staring at the suddenly downturned face of her friend and colleague in barely concealed concern, not pushing for an answer immediately but noting that Lana was staring at her sock clad feet with interest as though she’d never seen the things before, blue orbs fixating on the hole growing over one big toe, the torn material revealing a red painted nail.
“I failed him.” Lana paused, voice breaking with a heart wrenching sob as she furiously wiped a salty tear from where it had begun to roll down her cheek. “He trusted me to help him, and I didn’t and now he’s gone, and I can never say sorry or make it up to him.” As she finally lifted her gaze to meet the warm brown ones opposite, her usually piercing eyes seemed cloudy with unspilled tears, shoulders shaking as she tried to hold everything in before she gasped, suddenly wrapped in a tight embrace by the smaller woman.
She hadn’t even realised that Sarah had moved until she felt tiny arms envelop her, the scent of the detective’s coconut shampoo bizarrely comforting as Lana nestled into her neck, tears rolling freely down her face and onto the top of the other woman. Normally, she didn’t like physical contact, preferred to maintain a healthy distance than be suffocated by cloying embraces, but in this moment, the sensation of being held in such a soothing manner felt like the next best thing to sliced bread, the younger woman quickly returning the hug as she clutched her closer still.
They remained like that for a little while. Sarah simply holding Lana close, providing the woman with a safe place to break down and feel her emotions (no matter how raw, how back breaking, how downright devastating they might be) and occasionally whispering nonsensical things into the tousled brunette locks tickling her throat. The younger woman didn’t speak, sobbing relentlessly into the warm frame as she slowly turned the soft grey material dark with spilled salty tears. “It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have done anything to help him – I know that’s hard, and it sucks, and it probably doesn’t feel like that right now, but I promise you Lana that you did everything that you could.” Her voice was soft, gentle almost, as she murmured the words, not quite sure if she was saying the right thing (or even if there was such a thing when it came to situations like this, how do you say sorry your best mate and brother both got blown up in front of you?). It was just an unbelievably shit situation for anyone to be in, let alone the battle ready and scarred brunette before her, and Sarah knew she’d give her left tit to make things even a little bit better for the woman. And why was that? Because, deep down, past layers of defences and privacy and borderline insecurity, the Scot actually cared more than she cared to admit for the complicated veteran.
The sound of a car horn honking in the street outside cut through the tangible atmosphere in the kitchen, causing both women to jump apart in surprise as if they’d been shocked with some invisible cattle prod, a certain degree of reluctance displayed by both woman (fleeting, but there nonetheless) as they pulled apart. Lana’s beautiful features decorated with tear stains, the short haired woman snuffling in an unfairly adorable manner as she wiped the remaining droplets from her cheeks, chiselled face creasing into a childlike sheepish expression as she caught sight of the wet patch that now decorated Sarah’s top.
“Your shirt-”
“I didn’t mean to-”
They both stopped themselves as soon as they realised that they weren’t the only one speaking, their comments overlapping as they stared at each other for a beat or two before bursting into laughter, the heightened situation suddenly making them both easily amused and giggly. Lana signalled for Sarah to continue, taking a long drink from the forgotten beer so that she wouldn’t cut the poor woman off again.
“Pfft, I’ll send you the dry cleaners bill.” The petite Scot quipped, her tongue peaking out from between full lips as she shrugged carelessly, certain that the admission that she would happily ruin all of her clothes if it meant helping ease the pain clearly felt by the younger woman would go down about as well as a lead balloon. She stepped back slightly, not quite wanting to leave the proximity of the bomb expo officer for some inexplicable reason but also acutely aware of overcrowding the clearly sensitive woman.
“Glad to see your stint abroad hasn’t curbed your lavish lifestyle.” Grateful for the fact that Sarah didn’t want to analyse their hug or her breakdown in mind numbing detail, Lana leapt on the chance to return to their usual light hearted discourse, waggling her shaped brows as the other woman flipped her a signal that was decidedly un-PC. Her voice was shaky, cheeks flushed and blue eyes shiny from the somewhat unexpected outburst, but she surprisingly looked a little less like an extra from Shaun of the Dead and more like a member of the living. “Seriously though, thank you Sar, for letting me come over and for what you said and just for being there yanno.” She trailed off towards the end of the unusually passionate and emotional speech, the tips of her visible ears flushing beetroot red as she dropped her gaze once more to sock clad feet, scuffing them against the immaculate floor of the kitchen (she absolutely could not do this in her own flat, less risk standing in some long-forgotten spillage) before consuming a third of her beer in a single gulp as if that would prevent her from saying anything else.
“I told you, I’m here for you, ya idiot. You don’t have to thank me.” Sarah’s voice was soft, her gentle face open and genuine as she watched the other woman.
“No I do, I really do.” Lana almost whispered in response, piercing blue eyes staring into deep brown before the slender brunette falteringly reached out a tanned hand to cup the surprisingly warm cheek of the older woman, searching Sarah’s face for a pregnant beat or two before she leant in and pressed the lightest of kisses against full lips. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun, a blink and you’ll miss it scenario, but the air was unmistakeably thicker as the two separated, leaving the Scot staring at Lana in an unreadable mix of surprise and something else.
“Lana, I..” She went to speak, unsure of what had just happened yet at the same time unexplainably delighted that it had, torn between brushing it off to save any awkwardness or embarrassment for her friend but also wanting to acknowledge it because hell it’s not everyday that a hot ass woman kisses you. But before she could continue her internal spiral nor say another word, she found herself being pulled in for a second kiss, this time the embrace was longer and full of so many unspoken thoughts and needs, two sets of eyes fluttering close as Sarah unconsciously moved to hold defined hips.
When the need for oxygen outgrew the need to continue kissing, the two reluctantly pulled apart, their foreheads touching as if neither could face being completely separated while they got their breathes back, panting slightly into the otherwise peaceful room. As they did, Sarah frantically, desperately even, searched her friend’s face for any sign or clue or hint that this was not something she would regret in the morning, that it was a combination of grief and alcohol that caused her to kiss her and not actually genuine desire. The Scot wasn’t sure what would be worse, the sinking disappointment that Lana didn’t want to kiss her or the relief that she wasn’t potentially taking advantage of a broken woman.
“Sarah, I want this. I want you.” Lana whispered, seeming to sense the other woman was spiralling and knowing exactly what she was thinking, quickly halting that strain of worry from growing any further – if she wasn’t so grateful for that quality in their current predicament, the Scot would have made some dig at the fact that the bomb officer always seemed to bloody know what she was thinking. “I.. I need to feel something.. anything.. please. I need you.”
God, how could she resist that? Any doubts or aversions she might have had quickly dissipated as she looked into those rich blue eyes, wondering if Lana knew the effect that she had on the tiny Scot, and as the taller brunette once again moved to hold her close, lips closing in on the waiting mouth of Sarah, she quickly realised that she was putty in the woman’s hands.
It might not go down in history as being the most romantic of statements, unable to hold a shadow to the delights of Mr Lurrrrve himself, the notorious Willy Shake, but to the utterly captivated detective, it might as well have been straight from Cupid’s mouth.