Chapter Text
It’s mid-morning when Jackson wheels Lucy out of the hospital, and the sun on her face feels almost foreign. There’s a bite in the chill breeze, but the sky is bright blue and the sunshine is full of promises. The scrapes on her chin and wrists sting when the wind hits them, but she appreciates the slight pain.
It means she’s alive enough to feel pain.
Yet, she can’t really appreciate the beauty of a mild December day.
Jackson doesn’t say much on the drive back to their apartment, and Lucy doesn’t fill the silence either. She watches the Christmas decorations already up, adorning stores and private homes, dim during daylight hours.
She’s so not in tune with the cheery Christmas atmosphere all around her.
Even her apartment feels somewhat foreign to her when her door opens into her open-plan kitchen and living room.
She remembers going to work, before knowing about Rosalind, with a certain contentment in her heart. Sure, she was a bit annoyed that her dating life was miserable, but the night with Jackson, John, and Armstrong had been pleasant, and she had enjoyed herself.
Her bedroom looks almost frozen in time when she steps foot there. There’s a discarded and slightly crumpled t-shirt on her chair, one she deemed too smelly to be good for another workday but okay for a quick errand, as well as a halfway-full hamper of clothes she never got around to washing. There’s jewelry on her desk and her boots slightly tilted in the corner, a scarf forgotten on her dresser that she had ditched before meeting Caleb at Las Torres.
It almost feels like when she visited her great aunt’s home after her funeral: she went there with her mom to help her pack, and it was a still life of someone who would never get back to those things.
Lucy wonders if part of her died in that barrel, too.
There’s a soft knock on her door that shifts her dangerous train of thought. Jackson peeks in, saving her from herself.
“Do you need anything? I’m home all day today. Day off.”
Lucy shakes her head. “I’m going to do some laundry,” she says, gathering her hospital bag and emptying the few clothes in her hamper. Nothing had been savaged from her kidnapping, and even if it had been, she would’ve burned them herself.
“What would you like for lunch? We can order in or…”
“A sandwich is fine. If we have any fillings left.”
“There should be some turkey and probably cheese. I’ll check,” Jackson says, clicking the door shut.
Lucy closes her eyes, sighing before she picks up her hamper and the detergent from her bathroom and makes her way to the basement, where the machines are. She’s happy the room is deserted, so she sits in the dim light of the high windows, lulled by the hum of the washers, staring at the peeling paint and the steel pipes, sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair.
People at the hospital and even her friends kept telling her how lucky she was to be okay, to have survived a serial killer. She wonders how she can be lucky when she had actually liked spending time with Caleb at the bar before he drugged her, when he had seemed an interesting person to get to know.
She clearly is a terrible judge of character. There’s proof on her skin.
She gasps as her hand touches the bandage on her side, and tears spring to her eyes. He branded her, and she’ll have the reminder for the rest of her life, visible tattoo or not. Even if she gets it removed, she’ll know forever where he had touched her while she was unconscious.
Before she makes herself throw up what little she has in her stomach, she shifts her thoughts to Tim, his tight face the first thing she saw when she woke up, and when she emerged from the barrel. His eyes, full of emotions, will remind her forever that she’s alive.
She’s lost in her thoughts for the whole washing cycle, pulled out only when the machine beeps, signaling it’s time to switch her clothes to the dryer. She mechanically does that, carefully checking that everything she has washed can be dried and doesn’t need to air-dry, then she starts the dryer, minus two blouses that she prefers to air-dry, which she puts on hangers and brings upstairs to her shower rod.
It’s wild how normal those routines are, how freaking domestic everything is.
Lucy looks at herself in the mirror for a split second, debating a shower, but then she remembers the unwanted tattoo on her skin. She already had a shower at the hospital anyway, when she was still a bit doped up from the drugs. She can smell like antiseptic and hospital for a bit longer.
Jackson beckons her to the kitchen and she leaves the room willingly. He has two identical plates with sandwiches cut into triangles and a bowl of carrot sticks, as well as a huge bag of chips for both of them.
“Is this good?” he asks, a small, tentative smile on his lips.
Lucy nods and sits beside him, taking the first bite. The whole wheat bread she usually loves tastes like cardboard, but she fakes a smile and chews through the first triangle, marginally feeling better that there’s the bite of the mustard to make her taste anything but the cardboard, the turkey and the cheese finally hitting her right when she was about to give up on flavor, though the crunch of the lettuce is wholly unsatisfying.
“I got some essential groceries yesterday when Nolan was visiting you, but is there anything you need?” Jackson asks, his eyes probing but not too sympathetic.
A time machine.
“No, I don’t think so. I can go get something tomorrow: I’m on medical leave for at least a week, and I need to go to therapy anyway.”
She needs to buy more ointment for the tattoo, but she’s not going to ask Jackson that. She’ll hash out the tattoo with her therapist, ask for her suggestions.
“Oh!” Jackson’s eyes widen. “LAPD-mandated?”
“Yes, but also my own therapist. I’ve been seeing Rosa since I started as a rookie; she knows me. I gotta check in with Grey if she makes the cut for LAPD-mandated therapy, too.”
“That would be good.”
“Do you go to therapy?” Lucy asks, but Jackson shakes his head. “Would you like a referral? Some cases are hard to let go of, and Rosa has always given me a great perspective on those.”
“I think I might need that, yeah. Thank you, Luce.”
She shares a small but genuine smile with Jackson. He is really holding it together, but she knows he’s not okay either. How can he be, after rescuing her from certain death? And caring about Jackson takes her mind off her own spiraling thoughts, so she’ll welcome the task if he lets her.
Jackson shifts the conversation to Top Chef episodes – shifting the mood, lightening her load – and she manages to finish even the second half of her sandwich and most of her carrots, much to Jackson’s delight.
They decide to save the chips for a Top Chef marathon, but while Jackson sets up the couch, she goes to retrieve and fold her laundry from the basement.
They spend the afternoon vegetating on the couch under a blanket, snacking on chips and drinking tea in their favorite mugs, her mind happily numbed by the recipes and the kitchen drama. Jackson keeps her there, even though he continues to text people updates. She even sees him update Ofc. Bradford once or twice, and she has no idea what to make of that.
What Lucy dreads is going to sleep, and for once she doesn’t refuse the sleep aids Grace prescribed her. She wants at least one night when everything feels normal and there are no nightmares.
She collapses quickly after swallowing the pill, and she welcomes the dark embrace of sleep.
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When she wakes up in the morning, she’s marginally rested, but she still feels numb.
She has a therapy session with Rosa mid-afternoon, but her morning is clear and she decides to go shopping.
She’s still drinking coffee in her pajamas when Jackson comes out of his bedroom, ready for work.
“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” he asks, his eyes scanning her.
“I am. I’m just going to the Trader Joe’s on Sunset then back home and then to therapy. Rosa’s office is two blocks from here, so I don’t even need to drive anywhere. I’ll be fine.”
Jackson takes a deep breath and studies her carefully, before his posture relaxes.
“Nolan and Harper have the night shift if you need anything this morning, okay?”
Lucy nods, appreciating the concern, yet feeling babied. “I’ll be okay. Go, before you’re late and Lopez has your head. Text me your shopping list if there’s anything you forgot to put in!”
The door clicks shut behind his back and the house plunges into an unexpected silence. Lucy closes her eyes for a second, listening to the traffic on the street in front of her building, the faint call of a child for their mother, and another baby crying. There’s life outside her apartment, unlike the void she could hear in the barrel, the silence of the isolated cabin where Caleb had taken her captive. The city and her apartment building buzz with life and people and normalcy, and she can let out a shaky exhale at the knowledge.
She put on a brave face for Jackson, but she hopes a trip to the supermarket won’t be too destabilizing, that the normalcy of the chore can settle her mind and her body.
She’s fighting this feeling of immense gratitude and energy for being alive, coexisting with the dread that she let her guard down, that she misjudged Caleb’s intentions and she betrayed all of the training and head-on-a-swivel mentality Tim had drilled into her from Day One.
Lucy has no idea how she can face the disappointment she’ll see on her TO’s face. She has no idea how she can face the disappointment on Tim’s face even less.
Ignoring her own feelings, she stuffs them in a box and grabs the shopping list from the fridge instead, together with the reusable shopping bags they have at the door. She had to be traumatized to finally remember them, apparently, because Jackson would always hound her about the stupid bags.
She walks to the supermarket, which is only a couple of blocks away, and she lets the morning sunlight beat on her face. It is not cold enough for a coat, but she’s comfortable in a thick hoodie and sweatpants. She might not be ready for a fashion red carpet, but she’s comfortable.
As she walks there, she imagines possible excuses she can use for the scrapes on her face, and she settles for her favorite by the time she reaches the parking lot: motorcycle accident. Face versus asphalt, not face versus desert gravel versus serial killer.
Lucy takes a deep breath before she spirals into a panic of her own doing, and crosses the sliding doors.
The supermarket buzzes with lights and colors and she smells fresh bread in the air. For once, it’s overwhelming in a good way, and she wants to thank whoever decided not to go grocery shopping, because the place is relatively empty. She can go around with her basket easily, and she can stroll aimlessly without a care.
She usually loves grocery runs, studying the fruits and vegetables, choosing the cuts of meat and the wedges of cheese, sneaking in her cart a couple of unhealthy snacks; today, she wants to keep things short and sweet, so she reads the items on her list and gets started.
Not even five minutes in, she hears: “Hi!” and her heart stops.
Her muscles lock, and she can hear her heartbeat in her ears as she whips around to spot any possible threat. Her hand goes to her hip, where her holster should be, and her whole body is on alert until her eyes settle on Nolan, his basket practically empty beside hers.
Lucy takes a deep breath and, after a long exhale, she can school her expression into something that resembles a smile.
“H-Hey, John,” she says, sounding somewhat okay, even if her shaky voice might betray her feelings.
“What a coincidence finding you here! Is this your usual hangout?” he asks, and Lucy hopes he’ll never pursue undercover work or they’ll blow his cover in a nanosecond.
She has no doubt Nolan would’ve been in bed, getting some sleep before his night shift, if Jackson hadn’t pushed him here, casually shopping at the same time and in the same place as her. It’s oddly sweet how big-brotherly they are acting toward her, and she decides to let it slide.
“I love this place. They’ve got some killer veggies and snacks,”
“Oh, yeah. That’s why I came all the way here,” Nolan fakes, and it almost puts a smile on Lucy’s face.
They walk down the dried fruit aisle in silence, side by side, and it’s relatively quiet for no more than a minute before Nolan asks: “How are you, Lucy?”
The way he looks at her is soft and concerned, and she hates that this is the default look from pretty much everyone except Bradford. His scowl will never be unwelcome after the Caleb ordeal.
“Every day I do my best to appreciate the fact that I’m alive,” she answers, and even chatty Nolan is taken aback for a moment by the honesty and the raw reply. She doesn’t regret it, though.
Nolan is a weird friend for her, because he knows intimate details about her that only a handful of people are privy to, secrets that they both hold from their unfortunate dating experience, though the embers of that have been cooled completely, especially now that Nolan is dating Dr. Sawyer. And Grace is a really nice match for him, they look good together.
“How are you, John?” she asks in return, winning a genuine smile from her friend.
“Quite appreciative of my life as well,” he mirrors her answer, tackling a big grin at the end of it, one that carries them from the dried fruits to the bread.
They’ve just passed the fourth kind of fancy bread rolls before she hears it.
Stars shining bright above you
Her feet refuse to move when her ears pick up the words.
Her fingers lock on the handle of the basket she’s carrying, her knuckles white. She is rooted near the crackers, unable to process anything else but the words being sung from the speakers, frozen like the fish fingers a couple of aisles down.
Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you
The voice is not the deep, rich one of Nina Simone that Lucy has always loved to listen and sing along to; no, this voice is much more high-pitched, less haunted. The melody is more acoustic and less jazzy, but it doesn’t stop Lucy from tasting the blood on the inside of her cheek and feel the phantom of dirt on her arms and legs. The cut on her face stings, sharp as if it were fresh and still ready to ooze blood. The skin on her wrists seems to be red and raw, as if the zip ties had just been broken.
Rationally, Lucy knows she’s in a supermarket and not in the desert, escaping from Caleb, but the temperature suddenly feels like it’s a hundred degrees, even though the sweat from the AC is cooling on her back.
Birds singin’ in the sycamore trees
Her lungs cannot fully inflate or deflate, and she’s gasping and panting, her legs giving out under her as she crouches between her shopping basket and loaves of whole wheat bread, curling up in a tight ball, trapped like in the barrel. The world is closing in on Lucy, and as much as she tries to count everything that she can see, touch, hear, smell, it’s hard not to mix the reality of the supermarket with the memories of captivity in her head.
It takes what feels like forever before Nolan notices that Lucy is not beside him anymore but, in reality, it might have been less than thirty seconds. Yet, Lucy is already on the floor, curled up into a ball and rocking herself slightly, trying to soothe her overactive brain.
He is quick to respond and crouch beside her, without touching her, but his presence brings a welcome change, even though it’s not enough to ground her.
“Lucy, stay with me,” he says, his voice the same calm, soothing one when he responds to a volatile call or a domestic dispute. Usually, he’s pretty good at talking people off ledges, but Lucy is not on a ledge, but trapped in a very small, suffocating metal container buried six feet under, and it will take more than a few words to dig her out of her mental shallow grave.
“Song,” she murmurs, unable to articulate more syllables without tasting sand and her throat feeling raw from the lack of oxygen and the extensive singing.
Nolan seems to clue in and jumps back to his feet, probably headed to the customer service desk and charming them into changing the radio station.
Dream a little dream of me
Her body is coiled tight, and the tension doesn’t snap when suddenly, all sound from the radio speakers ceases. Slowly, she tries to focus on other things she can hear: the beeping of the cashiers scanning the shopping and the rustling of paper bags, quiet chatter, the wheels of the baskets and the carts gliding on the smooth floors, the whooshing of the sliding doors opening and closing.
She opens her eyes and blinks away the fog, focusing on the packaging of the bread surrounding her, the reds and greens and browns, much different than the rusted metal of the barrel.
Before she can catalog more types of bread, her eyes lock with Jackson’s and she sees Tim standing next to him. The vice around her heart seems to loosen even further: they were not in the barrel with her, even though she has no idea how they could be standing in front of her in full uniform, ready to respond to a call.
Maybe she is their call. Maybe someone called the police on her crazy ass, scared she could hurt someone in her psychotic state. But Lucy is not worried about that, she’s worried about getting up from this cold floor and disappearing back home, followed by her own shame.
“Luce?” Jackson’s voice is not properly a question, but he clearly is treading carefully, maybe he’s even a little scared.
Lucy doesn’t reply, but she focuses on the clean scent of his cologne, familiar and homey as the younger officer crouches in front of her. It is familiar just as much as Tim’s smell, as her TO sits beside her, mirroring her pose with his legs bent and his elbows on his knees, though he’s clearly much more relaxed, his muscles not coiled tightly, but ready to intervene.
Jackson smells sweeter, rounder, but Tim’s scent reminds her of the biting winds on a beach surrounded by trees, of a forest mixing with the ocean, and its familiarity overpowers even the tempting smell of fresh, warm bread.
Lucy can flex her fingers then, curling them around her shins, holding on less tightly, feeling the soft material of her sweatpants under her fingertips. One of the shelves is digging uncomfortably into her spine, and her butt is chilly on the floor, but she reaches out to grasp Tim’s hand, and the man doesn’t back away.
Her breathing is less labored as she focuses on the soft, tiny circles he’s rubbing on the back of her hand, or the gentleness he’s using to trace her knuckles.
It could’ve been a minute or an hour before she stops tasting the desert in her mouth and oxygen fills her lungs fully.
She’s ready to just take a nap right there by the time her body has loosened enough to even think about standing. But Tim’s hand gently keeps her down, calm against the shelves of the bread aisle, grounding her.
Maybe it’s because his was the first familiar touch she had felt after the ordeal in the barrel, or maybe just because she’s so comfortable around him after spending so much time together on the job, but having Tim there is what rewires her brain into functioning again. She has never held his hand, but it doesn’t feel as foreign as she was expecting it to be.
Jackson is still kneeling in front of her, his eyes studying hers, careful concern clearly on display.
“What happened?” Jackson asks, and Lucy sighs loudly as Tim squeezes her hand one last time, then lets go.
She knows it would be totally unprofessional to reach out again, but most of her brain wants her to.
“I heard the song. On the radio,” Lucy says, her voice scratchy, but not panicked.
“Is this your first panic attack?” Tim asks, his brow furrowed in his confused TO fashion.
Lucy shakes her head. “I have tools to get through them, but I was caught completely off guard,” she admits, her cheeks burning as she stares at her knees.
“You know what works in case of more?” Tim continues, winning a nod from Lucy.
“I’m seeing Rosa later, I’ll talk to her about it,” Lucy says, then clarifies, “My therapist,” when she notices Tim’s confused expression.
“Good. I know what works for me, but I don’t know what works for you, Chen,” he adds, then his cheeks color at the admission that he sometimes has panic attacks, too.
She can’t help but look into Tim’s eyes, study his vulnerable expression, remind herself of the veteran of two tours in the desert behind his TO front, then she lets it go. She’s ashamed enough for the both of them anyway.
It’s Jackson who helps her to her feet, squeezing her bicep in silent support as she exhales shakily.
“Do you need a ride home?” Jackson asks, sharing a look with Nolan and Tim.
“I need to finish my shopping. And I know John will follow me home anyway,” she adds, winning a nervous chuckle from the older rookie.
“He’d better,” Jackson says, his smile tight and still nervous.
“I’m okay guys, really. Thank you for showing up,” she whispers the last part, still embarrassed, yet she only receives kind smiles in return. Even from Bradford, who apparently knows how to smile.
She watches the two cops return to patrol their sector and sighs in defeat. She really has a lot of things to discuss with her therapist.
Maybe she’ll have to book two-hour sessions next time.