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Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you,’ birds singing in the sycamore trees …
Dream a little dream of me.
Tim looks between Lucy and Rosalind as the inmate stops singing. He can feel how his jaw is set, almost as tightly as his hand where it rests around the end of his baton.
Lucy is standing almost perfectly still, tears brimming in her eyes. There’s an almost indiscernible twitch to her eyebrows, and regardless of what Rosalind had tried to suggest earlier, Tim knows he has to step in.
“Knock it off,” he orders.
Mercifully, Rosalind listens. She keeps talking, though, taunting them with vague half-details about Armstrong and whatever he’s doing to Nolan. Tim keeps it as short as he can, gets enough information that he can pass something on to Angela and all but pushes Lucy out of the cell block ahead of him.
He calls Lopez on their way out of the prison, shoves his phone back into his pocket as they reclaim their weapons from processing and push back through the front doors.
Lucy still hasn’t said two words since Rosalind started messing with her head. She’s not even trying to convince him that Nolan has to be innocent, like she has been since dispatch sent them over to Harper’s house.
On a good day, Tim would be worried about her being this quiet. Today, he’s downright terrified.
When they get to the shop, he stops at the corner of the bumper and waits for Lucy to turn around. She does, like he’d known she would, when she realized that he wasn’t getting in the car. She stops too, looking up at him quizzically.
Tim steps forward, stopping just a couple of feet from Lucy and studying her face. Her eyes are still watery, looking back and forth like she’s waiting for someone to pop out from around a corner.
“Chen,” Tim calls for her attention, keeping his voice low enough that he won’t risk sounding like a threat. “You alright?”
“You alright?” Tim’s voice is quiet, gentle, so unlike the way he usually treats her at work. It reminds her of … of everything, of the barrel and the hospital and the way he’d talked to her in the gym after her second shift back.
(What is it with them and second shifts? First, he gets shot on her second shift ever, then he waits until the end of her second shift back to tell her that he believes in her.)
It’s more than Lucy can handle. She’s still reeling from the flashback just a few minutes ago, the way the prison walls had felt like they were shrinking in until she had to bend her knees up and tuck her head in so she’d fit alongside the darkness. Rationally, she’d known that she was safe, that Tim wouldn’t let Rosalind lay a finger on her, even if the bars of her cell weren’t in the way. But that hadn’t been enough to stop the way the panic took the breath from her lungs for a few moments, seconds that felt like eternities back underground.
Between everything that had just happened with Rosalind and the way Tim is looking at her, like he’s worried that she’s going to disappear, Lucy feels the façade slipping. She keeps hold of it as long as she can, biting her lip and squaring her shoulders against the weight of the world bearing down.
But she can’t hold on forever. She can’t even hold on long enough to get home tonight and curl up in her bed. She knows it’s coming, can feel the lump rising up in her throat before she coughs around it and the floodgates open.
Then she’s standing in the parking lot of a federal penitentiary, two feet from her training officer, sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of a shift.
And for what? Because Rosalind sang a few words at her?
She knows it shouldn’t be that big a deal, knows rationally that Rosalind can’t get to her out here. But still, the tears flow freely, no matter how hard she squeezes her eyes closed. She can still feel the hot trails burning down her cheeks, even if she can’t see how everything around her has gone blurry.
Lucy sucks in a shaky breath, sniffling before her nose can start to drip. She can’t remember the last time she’d cried like this, probably not since that first night she was home from the hospital and Jackson had to come lay in bed with her so she could calm down enough to sleep. And even then, she doesn’t remember it hurting this much, even with the bruises that littered her body.
But her chest is too tight, the bulletproof vest pushing too hard against her skin. She can feel every inch of the duty belt around her waist, squeezing her hips. It’s too hot, too itchy, too tight, too much in a thousand different ways, and she can’t do a thing about it.
The next thing she knows, there’s something even tighter taking hold. But she’s not afraid of it, not this time. It’s a new feeling, totally foreign, but she still knows what it is right away.
There are strong arms wrapping around her shoulders, pulling her in until her cheek is pressed up against scratchy polyester fabric. Tim’s nametag is cold against her skin, the edge of his bodycam digging into the tip of her nose until she turns her head just far enough that she can bury her face in his chest. The Kevlar gets in the way, adds bulk that keeps her from sinking completely into the hold, but it’s the most comfort she’s felt in the day and a half since she curled up behind Jackson on the couch, mourning Chris’ death together.
Tim adjusts his hold on her, tightening his hands around her biceps and propping his chin on top of her head. The sobs keep wracking through her body, strong enough that she’s shaking in Tim’s arms. She’s gasping for breath, trying to find comfort in his scent, how it’s nothing like the barrel was. Everything about this moment is warmer, gentler, softer than anything Caleb had put her through.
There’s no way Rosalind could have predicted this, no way she could have cut under Lucy’s skin with how perfectly she fits in Tim’s embrace, even around their uniforms.
The though makes another sob catch in her throat, and Lucy’s arms tighten around Tim’s middle, clinging to the comfort he provides.
Lucy sobs again, louder than the last several cries have been, and Tim’s heart cracks. He sides one hand up and down her arm, relishing in the inches of skin at the edge of her sleeve. She’s warm, so much warmer than she’d been the last time he’d held her, the sun pounding down on the desert. It’s just one more confirmation that she’s alive.
She’s shaking in his arms, almost hard enough to rattle his jaw on top of her head. Tim squeezes her a little tighter, running his free hand up and down her back. He doesn’t say anything; there aren’t words for everything he’s trying to tell her. All he can do is shift Lucy against his chest, crouch down just far enough to make up for the height difference between them.
He presses his face into her neck, can feel her tears running down his own cheek. The collar of his undershirt catches them, but not before they can sear into his skin.
How could Rosalind do this to her? Has she not been through enough the last few months? Tim had seen the video, first as part of the investigation and again later, several times, alone in the evidence room. He remembers watching her fight, scream, beat her fists against the top of the barrel until she’d worn herself out. He’d watched her cry, made out the tear streaks on her face, knows how it had felt for the hours that he’d had to wonder if he’d ever see her again. And he'd watched her sing to herself; in what she’d thought were her last moments, with her last breaths, she’d sang, tried to soothe herself the only way she knew how.
And after all of that, as if that hadn’t been enough, Rosalind had to rub in it, flaunt that she’d seen the video feed, drag all of that back up for Lucy to think about, on top of everything else they’re up against today.
Lucy’s fingers flex against the small of his back, and Tim squeezes her arm softly in return. Her sobs sound louder from the new position, the shaking almost violent as she tries to control her breathing. Tim inhales deep and steady and waits for Lucy to match him.
Finally, just when he’s started to lose track of how long they’ve been standing here, Lucy calms down. The shaking fades into a gentle tremble, then stops entirely. She’s still crying, but the gut-wrenching sobs have stopped and he can feel her shoulders start to relax.
Tim holds on, doesn't pull away or try to look at Lucy or do anything other than slide his face back up to press against the top of her head. He loosens his arms enough that Lucy can move a little bit, shift her limbs around as she settles back into reality.
Eventually, she drops her arms from around his waist. Tim gives into the urge to press a gentle kiss against the top of her head as she steps back, relishing in how easily she accepts the silent reassurance.
He fishes a clean tissue out of his pocket and passes it to her, looking away when she smiles gratefully at him. He stares at the prison over Lucy’s shoulder while she cleans herself up, gives her as much privacy as he can, given that they’re still standing in the parking lot. When Lucy sniffles and whispers, “OK,” he finally looks at her again.
“Good to get back out there?” Tim asks, even though he knows what her answer will be. She smiles and rolls her shoulders. It’s a strong act, but he knows her well enough to know that she’s got to be exhausted, completely worn out from the last 45 minutes of their day. Still, he doesn’t argue when she nods.
“Yeah.” Lucy takes a deep breath and Tim steps around her to open the passenger door of the shop before he walks around to the driver’s side.
“Let’s go,” he says, turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the parking spot. “C’mon, we’ll stop for coffee on the way. My treat.”