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Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER ONE: A FORTRESS OF FILES

xXxXx

Thursday night, 6:30 P.M.

“Disco.”

Ingrid looked up from her piles of paperwork and school records at the sound of her partner’s signature “a-ha”. They’d been stuck in the School Archives for hours. The sun inched closer and closer to the horizon, casting an orange glow onto the carpeted floor. She dropped what was in her hands and arched her back in a stretch. “What did you find?”

Fillmore handed her a lone sheet of paper. “The smoking gun.” She skimmed the incident record, committing it to memory as he stood up and stretched. “Who has two thumbs and is the greatest detective of all time?” He pointed his thumbs at himself with a cocky smirk. “This guy.”

She scoffed. “Slow down, World’s Greatest Detective. This doesn’t prove anything,” she told him, waving the paper in the air.

“Yeah, it does. It proves me right. You and I caught Kranchez tryna swap a bunch of championship trophies with fakes. According to that—” He pointed at the paper in her hands. “—sheet of paper, two weeks after getting busted, he got caught with phony ballots for the Student Council election. This proves he has the means and the know-how to rig those kids’ science projects at the Fair.”

“That’s fairly convincing, Fillmore,” Ingrid interjected with a shake of her head, “but what about motive? Opportunity?”

“You know those trophies he was tryna swipe?” Fillmore asked, handing her the case file. “The kids whose projects got sabotaged, they were on those teams.”

Ingrid skimmed the file with a sigh. “That’s circumstantial at best, Fillmore,” she explained, shaking her head once more. “It’s too broad; it could just be a coincidence, and the Student Council is going to want more. Like, why those kids? Those teams?” She leaned over and grabbed another stack of manila folders. “We did full background on each team member; there’s barely any overlap with Kranchez.”

Why do I gotta do all the work?” he joked with a huff, prompting Ingrid to roll her eyes. As if she hadn’t poured through double the amount of paperwork he had today. He sifted through a pile of papers on his left, before ripping one out with an a-ha! and handing it to her. “See?”

She swiped it from his hands, scanning it carefully. It was a disturbance report from last month: Kranchez stormed into an unsuspecting classroom and screamed at Carina Sanders for allegedly talking to another guy, who just-so-happened to be Student Council Secretary Oliver Reagan.

“Jealousy as motive?”

Fillmore threw out his hands. “Oldest, most reliable motive in the book.”

Ingrid sighed. She wanted to believe him. Because he was right; jealousy was almost always the motive, but there simply wasn’t enough to back it up this time. “I don’t know, Fillmore. Project-rigging is a pretty deep stretch from counterfeiting, even for someone with a broken heart.”

Her partner shrugged. “He could’ve swapped the real projects with fakes.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me that he created four exact replicas and somehow managed to replace all of them before the opening ceremony without anybody noticing?”

He glowered at her. “You’re just tryna shoot me down ‘cause you want the ‘greatest detective’ crown,” Fillmore teased with a cocky smirk, to which she rolled her eyes. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the stack. “Too bad, mama. Not gonna happen.”

She nodded. “I think it is, actually. Because you’re missing one key piece of information.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Oh, really? What might that be?”

She tossed back Kranchez’s file. “After getting caught with the phony tallies, his parents sent him to reform school…” She trailed off as Fillmore flipped open the folder and gaped. “…in Olympia,” she finished, crossing her arms. 

“Dawg…” Fillmore grumbled under his breath. He cupped his hand over his mouth as he read over the file. “Someone’s tryna frame him.” 

“I think we need to consider it,” Ingrid confirmed with a nod. “They might be using his past as a smokescreen to hide behind. He’s the perfect fall guy.”

He wagged a finger, finally catching up with her train of thought. “But they hadn’t expected him to get shipped outta state.”

Ingrid wagged a finger back at him. “Exactly. And, honestly…” she trailed off, spreading out the pile of papers in front of her in a half-circle. “…I’m wondering if we’re not looking at a team, here.”

Fillmore’s eyebrows shot up. “A whole team?”

“Yeah…” Ingrid’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the pictures of the victims and their ruined projects. She looked between them all, their names and faces and histories all unwinding far enough for her photographic memory to make a new connection. “Kranchez—” she tapped his picture, “—has a motive to come after Oliver Reagan—” she tapped his picture, “—for talking up his girlfriend, but zero opportunity. Marvin Hurst—” she tapped his picture, “—has motive to come after Candace Brightley—” she tapped her picture, “—but according to the cameras, he hadn’t come anywhere near her or her project the entire Fair.”

A lightbulb went off above Fillmore’s head. “But,” he cut in, “Tehama flagged him as suspicious on the security cams, because he was lingering by Reagan’s project for a little longer than most, especially for someone he doesn’t otherwise cross paths with.” Ingrid nodded, a satisfied smile appearing on her lips. “You think all the victim’s enemies banded together to sabotage their projects while establishing solid alibis for everyone we’d consider obvious suspects.”

Ingrid nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

Fillmore whistled in awe. “Damn. That’s smart.”

Ingrid clicked her tongue and held up her thumbs. “But who has two thumbs and is way smarter?” Fillmore grinned, shaking his head at her. She wagged her thumbs at herself. “This girl.”

Fillmore let out a hearty laugh. “Not so fast, Smarty Pants,” he warned, scooting closer to get a better look at the files in front of her. “Every ring has a ringleader. The question remains—” He gestured to the pictures beneath his hands. “—who is theirs? And who exactly is in on it? I mean, some of these guys have multiple enemies. How can we be sure who’s involved and who’s not?”

Ingrid hmmed, pursing her lips and glancing over the piles in front of her. “Good point…”

“I don’t know about you, but all these stacks are kinda distracting,” he said, standing up and motioning to the piles and piles of paperwork around them. “I think we need to put these up and weed through the possible suspects as we go.”

She looked around and shrugged. “I don’t know, I like having them stacked all around. It’s like an impenetrable fortress.”

“Of course, you do,” he teased, rolling his eyes at her as he stretched. "If you insist on doing it your way, you’re on your own. My eyes are crossin’ something fierce.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes for effect.

She waved him off. “Yeah, you can head out. I’m sure your mom’s serving dinner soon, anyhow.”

The moment that statement left her mouth, his stomach growled. “Right on cue,” he chuckled, patting his empty stomach for emphasis. “You sure you’re good sorting through this mess on your own?”

“Yeah, Dad’s in Minneapolis at some teacher’s conference this weekend, so I’ve got all night. And I’ll work faster without hearing ‘my back hurts’ all night,” she mocked.

He chuckled, but otherwise ignored her jab. He jerked his thumb behind him towards the door. “You can come with if you want. It’s chili night, and you know my mom; she always makes way too much.”

“Nah, but thanks. Dad left money for takeout. So,” she drawled, “I’m thinking—”

“Takeout from Egg Rollery?”

Ingrid blushed. “Am I that predictable?”

“That, you are,” her partner confirmed with a wink. Ingrid averted her gaze, her red lips forming a bashful smile. “Call me if you need to talk anything out, or if you change your mind about dinner. You’ve got the keys to lock up, right?”

“Sure do,” she said, lifting the keys in question up in the air and spinning them around her finger. “Late.”

“Late.”

As the Archives door swung shut behind her partner, she sighed. Finally, peace and quiet. She loved working with Fillmore, but he got bored easily. Especially with the tedious tasks like paperwork which, quite frankly, was seventy percent of their job. He became annoying after a couple hours of sifting through records.

She stood up and tossed her backpack onto the table. Now that he was gone, she could do things her way. From her backpack, she pulled out sticky notes, headphones, and her Sharpies before turning back around and eying the stacks on stacks of files they’d accumulated.

She smirked, tossed the supplies down on the floor, and cracked her knuckles. Time to get to work.

xXxXx

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER TWO: WILD THEORIES

xXxXx

Friday morning, 8:18 A.M.

“All right, quiet down, people,” Vallejo called from the front of the room, effectively blanketing the Safety Patrol Headquarters in silence. “We’ve got an update on the Science Fair case, so listen up.”

Ingrid nodded at the commissioner as he stepped aside, giving her and her partner the room. “As you can see,” she began, gesturing to the many pictures hanging on the white board behind her, “we’ve come up with multiple possible suspects for each victim. We've connected each one through past relationships, altercations, or on camera lingering near their projects. With how many we have, we believe that some of the suspects, if not all, may be working as a team.”

Beside her, Fillmore chimed in. “Half of these guys don’t have any disciplinary history, so we don’t have enough background information to rule any of them out conclusively. We’re gonna need your help narrowing the suspect pool down.”

O’Farrell raised his hand. “How do you know it was a team?”

“At first, it was just a theory,” Ingrid answered. “But as of this morning, Tehama’s forensics report confirmed that every project was uniquely tampered with.”

The budding forensics expert smirked at the girl-genius, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a wink. “You’re welcome.” Ingrid bowed her head in response.

Fillmore continued. “Considering how many projects were targeted, and that no one person could be directly connected to any one sabotage, it’s the only conclusion we could draw. One person can’t be in four places at once.”

“For example,” Ingrid pointed at the two middle pictures in the bottom row. “We know that Eden Sharp and Nathan Bridges are a couple based on their social media profiles. These two share three classes with—” She followed the red line with her finger up to a picture in the second row, “—Maverick Mathers, whose dry ice experiment was sabotaged first to provide the perfect cover for all the other projects to be ruined. Eden wasn’t at the Fair, but Nathan was seen by witnesses hovering around Ezra Shatner’s popcorn machine slash… robot…” Her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to find the right words. She looked to her partner for help. “…thing?”

Fillmore shrugged, then carried on. “We know Marvin Hurst was skipped over for Aero-Club President, which he claims Candace Brightley, whose self-piloting drone chased people from the auditorium, ‘stole’ out from under him. He avoided her the entire Fair, but the cameras put him near Oliver Reagan’s beetle farms right before the fog took over.”

Vallejo tapped his chin. “So, you think a bunch of kids linked up and conspired to take down each other’s enemies?”

Ingrid and Fillmore nodded in unison. “Exactly,” Fillmore said.

Anza whistled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his hands behind his head. “That’s pretty clever.”

“Very,” Ingrid said. “So clever, we can’t pinpoint exactly who banded together, who the ringleader is, or even how they all cross paths.”

O’Farrell’s raised his hand once more. “I know Maverick from photography class. He’s a big ladies’ man. I heard him bragging a few weeks ago about standing Eden up at the arcade.”

“That is exactly what we’re looking for,” Ingrid praised as Fillmore grabbed a marker and jotted it down beneath his name and picture. “Anything that connects any of them and could give us motive and opportunity.” 

Vallejo clapped his hands and stepped forward. “Start digging, people. Principal Appleton and the Student Council are chomping at the bit to get this resolved. Let’s give ‘em what they want.”

Friday morning, 10:16 A.M.

The conference room had cleared, leaving Fillmore, Ingrid, Anza, and Vallejo alone to pour over the information the squad gathered. Eight pictures remained on the board: four victims, four perpetrators.

Ingrid tapped her chin with her marker, eyes fixed on the board as she rambled off what they discovered. “So, we now know that Maverick did in fact stand up Eden last month. There are other rumors as to what unfolded after, but nothing we can confirm. According to the ever-reliant rumor mill, Candace did screw Marvin over to get her new position by tarnishing his reputation. Nathan used to be friends with Oliver who took credit for one of Nathan’s projects, and Sorin was suspended from school when Ezra copied one of his midterm papers. It ruined his perfect record and his internship due to his alleged ‘moral clause violation’.”

Fillmore leaned against the table behind her, pointing at each corresponding picture as he spoke. “So, considering all their backgrounds and extra curriculars, we think Sorin is the one who turned Maverick’s experiment into a super-powered fogger. Nathan overloaded Ezra’s robot with a computer virus to start the popcorn avalanche. Marvin knocked over Oliver’s exotic beetle farm, and Eden must’ve hacked into Candace’s drone. She wasn’t seen at the fair, so Karen and O’Farrell are checking the surrounding areas to try and find her.”

“Sounds like a lotta speculation to me,” Anza said, leaning back in his swivel chair and kicking his feet up on the table. “Not to play the devil’s advocate here, but we don’t actually have proof yet.”

“He’s got a point, guys,” Vallejo agreed, scratching the top of his head. “We’ve got no idea how these four could’ve come into contact, or who put them into contact with each other.”

“Fear not, Fearless Leader,” Fillmore reassured Vallejo, who scowled at him. “Once we bring ‘em all in, they’ll rat on each other. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Anza scoffed. “You sound pretty confident for a guy who has nothing but a big head to back up his wild theory.”

Fillmore nudged Ingrid in the arm. “Technically, it’s her big-headed wild theory.”

She shrugged. “I stand by it,” she replied, not taking her eyes off the board. “But they’re right, Fillmore. We need proof or a confession. And I think—” She tapped Eden’s picture before turning to face the group. “—she’s our best shot. She’s been hurt and humiliated by this Maverick guy. We bring her in, hail him as our poor, innocent victim, and she won’t be able to hold back.”

Vallejo nodded his approval. “Do it.”

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR  

CHAPTER THREE: THE REAL VICTIM

xXxXx

Friday morning, 11:28 A.M.

Exasperated, Fillmore fell against the back of his chair. “I don’t have all day, Sharp. Either you can rot in ISS for the rest of the semester, or you can tell me everything.” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Like why on Earth you’d sabotage a bunch of innocent kids’ projects.”

The girl at the table scoffed, rolled her olive green eyes, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t call them ‘innocent’,” she muttered, glaring at the wall opposite the officer.

He angled an ear towards her. “Sorry, what was that? I couldn’t hear you underneath the obvious grudge you’re holding.”

“So, I don’t feel bad a few pricks got what they deserved,” Eden said and threw her hands up, the gothic bangles jangling against her wrists as she did so. “Big deal! How does that make me a suspect? I wasn’t even there.”

Fillmore wagged his finger at her. “Now, that’s your first lie.” He stood up and circled the room, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows. “We’ve got you on camera in the computer lab at the exact time Candace Brightley’s drone started swan-diving innocent bystanders.”

Eden’s pierced nostrils flared. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize using a school computer for homework after hours was a crime.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, stopping behind her before adding, “but using school property to hack and sabotage other student’s work is.”

She scoffed, shaking her head at the two-way mirror. “You can’t prove anything.”

Making eye contact with her in the two-way mirror, he leaned over her shoulder, and growled in her ear, “Wanna bet?” Eden gulped as he leaned in closer. “We’ve got one of the best computer gurus in the school going through the keystroke orders right now. So, if there’s any chance he’ll find a trace of you on the computer in question, now’s the time to come clean.”

She shrugged, pulling her artificial black hair over her shoulder. “There’s nothing to come clean about,” she insisted, twirling a strand with a ringed finger.

“That’s your second lie.” Fillmore sauntered out from behind her and to the interrogation room door, falling against it with a soft thump.

“I’m not lying,” she growled through gritted teeth and glared over at him.

“Then prove it.” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, then crossed one leg over the other. “If you really are innocent, that should be easy.”

But, after a moment of silence, Eden huffed and averted her gaze to the window on her right. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

“You’re right,” Fillmore agreed as someone knocked on the door at his back, “you don’t. But you know what they say: the first rat gets the cheese.” She raised one of her pierced brows at his riddle as he pushed off the door and cracked it open to reveal his partner. “What is it?”

“You can wrap it up in here,” Ingrid said, her tone hushed, but loud enough for Eden to catch. Ingrid dragged a polished finger underneath her eye. “Bridges is singing like a canary.” Eden’s eyes widened like saucers.

“Good, ‘cause she’s not giving me anything, and I’m starving,” Fillmore replied, patting his empty stomach for emphasis. “What’s for lunch?”

“Rumor has it, Vallejo ordered pizza. Fellini’s.”

Fillmore grinned. “Nice.”

“You dragged Nathan in here?” Eden blurted, sitting up straighter in her seat.

“Yeah,” Ingrid answered and Fillmore opened the door wider for her to enter. She held up a stack of student files and added, “so’s the rest of your little crew. It won’t be long until their stories match up and you’re going down for conspiracy, malicious misconduct, and project tampering.” She slapped the files down on the table with a flourish as the door shut with a slam. Eden jumped at the abrupt sounds. Ingrid sat down in the vacant chair across from her and crossed her legs. “Not to mention the very impressive hack job. Takes skill to hijack a sophisticated remote device like that.”

Eden’s eyes darted between the three files in front of her until her eyes landed on that of her boyfriend’s on top – Nathan Bridges. His boyish picture smiled up at her and she bit her lip. “Nathan had nothing to do with this.”

“So he says,” Ingrid replied. “He’s pinning it all on you.”

Eden shook her head, her heavily-lined eyes squeezing shut. “No, no he wouldn’t.”

“He would. And he is.”

The girl opened her eyes and glared at the officer in front of her. “You’re a liar.”

Ingrid shrugged. “Believe what you want. Doesn’t change the truth.”

“You don’t know the truth,” Eden seethed.

“Then enlighten us,” Fillmore interjected, leaning on the table next to his partner, who kept her electric green eyes on the troubled girl in front of them. “Tell us your side. ‘Cause from where we’re standing, it looks like you and your boyfriend teamed up to target a bunch of innocent kids—”

Eden burst into a fit of incredulous laughter. “Oh, believe me, they are far from innocent,” she interrupted, jaw trembling and rubbing her hands against her thighs.

Ingrid tilted her head at the girl’s sudden change in demeanor. “How so?”

Eden sucked in the side of her cheek and shook her head, staring back out the window. “Like you’d do anything about it,” she spat before sneering at Ingrid with glassy eyes. “Like you’d even care.”

Ingrid’s heart sank as their eyes met. That was genuine hurt on her face. She mentally flipped through the contents of Eden’s records: she’d been a star student three months ago. Straight A’s, a star in the computer science department, perfect attendance. The alt/emo look, the slipping grades and attendance… all that was relatively new.

And indicative of something going horribly wrong in her life. Having gone through a similar spiral long before moving to X, Ingrid got the sinking feeling that there was a lot more to Eden’s story than she originally anticipated. “Try me,” she countered, softening her voice to reassure the girl it was safe to open up.But Eden shook her head at the officer, her leg bouncing repeatedly underneath the table. She bit her lip to maintain her silence.

Fillmore tapped Ingrid on the shoulder. “We’re wasting our time, Third,” he scooped up the files and pulled Ingrid’s chair out for her as she stood up. “We’ve got real victims to take care of.”

A tear fell from Eden’s eye and trailed down her pale cheek. “You wouldn’t know a real victim if she was standing right in front of you.”

“Oh, you think you’re the victim here?”

She shoved the table and stood up, shouting, “You’re goddamn right I am!” in his face. Fillmore stood his ground, nose-to-nose with the trembling teen. Ingrid watched the drama unfold with an inquisitive grimace. The tears flowed freely down the girl’s face, and despite the outburst of aggression, the vein popping out of her forehead told Ingrid that Eden was struggling to hold it all in.

That she’d been struggling for a long time.

Ingrid stepped around the jostled table and approached Eden carefully, stopping just close enough to hear the girl choking back a sob. “Tell us, Eden,” Ingrid implored gently, pulling her chair close to her and motioning for her to sit.

Eden finally broke Fillmore’s gaze, which had softened significantly. They’d expected their subtle jabs about “innocence” would prompt an arrogant, I-did-it-and-I’m-proud-of-it response, not… this. If she was the real victim here… it sickened him to think about.

Eden wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her shaking hand. Lips trembling, she gulped and did as Ingrid asked. She collapsed into the chair and held her face in her hands, sobs wracking her small frame.

The partners shared a dismal glance as the girl broke down between them. That one glance was all it took for them to come to the same conclusion: Maverick did more than stand her up. Fillmore handed Ingrid the files and crouched in front of Eden, placing a comforting hand on her knee.

“What did Maverick do to you, Eden?”

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER FOUR: RECIPES FOR DISASTER

xXxXx

Friday afternoon, 12:15 P.M.

Ingrid exited the interrogation room with Fillmore following behind her. He shut the door and, on cue, they both released a deep breath.

“Wow,” Ingrid whispered, leaning back against the door.

“Yeah,” was Fillmore’s quiet reply as he fell back on the doorframe beside her.

The silence sat thickly between them as the new information settled in. Ingrid’s stomach churned, and she gulped down a lump of bile crawling up her throat.

“Whose plan was that again?” she asked, even though they both knew the answer.

Fillmore looked down at her, his eyes dark and sympathetic. “We couldn’t have known, mama. She never reported any of that. Nobody did.”

“It doesn’t make me feel less culpable.”

Fillmore sighed, letting that hang in the air before adding, “Jar.” Ingrid glared up at him, but he simply shrugged. “You know the rules,” he said, pointing to the jar on Tehama’s desk with his signature cocky-Fillmore smirk. The original label read “swear jar,” but after a long and aggravating stakeout with swapped partners, Anza created a second label with a Post-It: “‘Ingrid used a big word nobody knows’ jar”. 

She grumbled while pulling out a crumpled wad of singles from her back pocket. “If this is your attempt to lighten the mood,” she pointed at him with a dollar bill, “you’re going to hell.”

“You’re the one lying about Vallejo getting pizza,” he retorted as Ingrid crossed the room to put the dollar in the jar, “which was just cruel, considering we both had to skip lunch.” Ingrid rolled her eyes at him as they both approached the conference room. “You owe me a meat lover’s.”

She ignored him, Eden’s statement weighing too heavily on her mind. She wouldn’t admit it aloud to her partner, but Eden’s story hit far-too close to home. Because years and years ago, it had been her own: an all-too eager boy, an all-too hesitant girl, raging hormones, and social media. It was a recipe for disaster.

A recipe Ingrid was all-too familiar with.

Fillmore raised an eyebrow at her silence but didn’t push her. The atmosphere in Interrogation One had grown thick fast. Almost suffocating. He’d heard whispers in the halls about some pictures going around, but he hadn’t known what kind. He never saw them, and never thought to look deeper into it. Guilt settled like a rock in his gut as Eden told her tale to him and his partner. Maybe he could’ve helped her; maybe prevented the whole Fair fiasco from ever happening.

But it was too late now. He couldn’t focus on the could’ves and should’ves. Only on justice. He beat Ingrid to the door of the conference room and opened it for her. She slipped inside and found Vallejo, Tehama, and Anton Perez, a sophomore officer Anza had taken under his wing last year.

“Hey, you two,” Tehama greeted after gulping down a bite of her lunch. “She confess?”

Fillmore sighed, shutting the door behind them. “And then some.” Ingrid rushed over to a vacant chair and sat in it. She folded one leg beneath her and hugged the other close to her chest, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

The other officers looked between the two of them curiously, but Vallejo was the first to address it. He lifted his hands and asked, “Either of you gonna enlighten us?”

Fillmore looked down at his partner, who kept her gaze fixed on the array of photos and documents spread out on the table before her. She bit her bottom lip and picked at the frayed fabric of her black jeans and shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to repeat it without her voice cracking.

Fillmore took a deep breath before explaining. “Apparently, Maverick didn’t just stand her up last month. After a few weeks of casual dating, she refused to sleep with him, so he leaked a bunch of…” he paused as he searched for the right word, “…personal photos of her. Along with her phone number.”

Three jaws hit the floor, and Ingrid’s heart jumped into her throat. She gulped it back down.

“How come she never reported it?” Perez asked.

“She didn’t think it was safe to,” Ingrid chimed in, her skin crawling with every word she muttered. She crossed her arms to keep from shuddering. “Ever since, she’s been getting anonymous messages requesting more photos, calling her things like ‘whore’, ‘slut’. Some even threatened her.”

Vallejo rubbed a hand over his head and muttered under his breath. “We have to report this to Appleton ASAP. Verbal threats and lewd pictures circulating the school? We might need to involve the police.”

Perez nodded. “I’m on it.” As he promptly exited the room, the remaining officers stood in silence for a moment.

Ingrid’s heart, pounding like a drum, sank into her stomach. Twenty-four hours ago, this was a case of collective sabotage. There was no other reason to believe it was anything more than kids wanting to cause a little mayhem. But it was much deeper now, much worse.

Almost justifiable.

Vallejo cleared his throat. “Did she give up her crew?”

Fillmore nodded. “Sure did. Ingrid was spot on.” Ingrid gulped. Not quite, she thought. She was miles off base on Eden’s motive. “Eden programed the virus that made the robot malfunction and she hacked into the drone. Sorin has the background in chem and made the alterations to the other projects.”

“So, Nathan and Eden were the masterminds,” Tehama clarified while Vallejo shuffled some papers, “Hurst was the muscle, and Sorin was the mad scientist.”

“Bingo.”

“Marvin Hurst is in P.E. with Sanderson,” Vallejo said, eyes skimming the sheet in front of him, “Sorin has A.P. Calculus with Cornwall, and Nathan’s got free period this hour.” He looked up at Fillmore and Ingrid. “Did Eden happen to tell you where he might be?”

“He likes to hit the greenhouse when he’s stressed,” Fillmore answered. “Helps him clear his head.”

Vallejo pointed at Fillmore and Ingrid, who stood up from her seat, with the sheet of paper. “You two go grab him.” He then pointed at Karen. “Tehama, you and Anza track down Hurst. I’ll send Perez and Gibson after Sorin when he gets back with the principal.”

“What about Eden?” Ingrid asked, leaning on the table with her knuckles.

“Appleton and I will talk to her when he gets here,” Vallejo reassured her.

But that answer wasn’t good enough. “You’re not gonna throw the book at her, are you?” she continued, gesturing towards the interrogation rooms. “I think what she’s been through is punishment enough.” 

“I understand that,” Vallejo replied with a sympathetic nod, “but you know that’s not our call.”

Rage simmered in her veins. “Vallejo, that—”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Third,” the Commissioner interrupted sternly before waving them out. “Now, go pick ‘em all up.”

“You got it, boss,” Tehama said, standing up and rushing from the room to grab her partner.

But Ingrid remained firmly planted, her knuckles white against the tabletop. She glowered at their boss, who matched her glare with his own.

“Now, Third,” he ordered, all-too used to raising his voice at this particular duo.

Fillmore stepped up behind Ingrid and grabbed her by the arm. She turned and shot him the sharpest glare she could muster and saw the same look in his dark eyes. Anger. Determination. Understanding.

His jaw set, he jerked his head towards the door. “C’mon, Ing,” he murmured, and pulled gently at her arm.

She took a deep breath to calm herself before yanking her arm out of his grip and pushing past him. A wary silence fell across the office as she stomped towards the exit, her fury palpable like smoke in the air. She snatched an orange belt from the rack by the exit, then shoved the door to HQ out of her way.

Vengeful tears burned in her eyes as she stormed down the halls of X High School, her combat boots echoing off the linoleum floor. How could people do something so terrible? Ingrid could think of nothing deserving of that kind of vicious treatment. That look on Eden’s face as she finally disclosed everything she endured in the last few weeks… the betrayal, the humiliation, the fear… The relief that someone was finally listening, and she didn’t have to keep it a secret anymore.

Ingrid shuddered. Photographic memory or not, she would never forget that chilling look.

Her partner fell into step beside her. She unclenched her fists and inhaled sharply – she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. She half expected to hear one of his famous, “it’s all part of the job, you can’t blame yourself” speeches, but Fillmore made no effort to rectify her anger. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, taking in his taught shoulders, his balled fists, his determined glare.

No wonder he didn’t bother talking her down: he was just as angry.

“She just wanted it to stop, Fillmore,” she blurted, tightening her grip on the orange belt in her fist.

Fillmore sighed. “I know,” he muttered his agreement under his breath.

She gulped down the lump forming in her throat. Fillmore had no idea just how much Ingrid understood why Eden did what she did. For Ingrid, it was so long ago, but it still wasn’t something she could talk about. She was relieved Eden could, no matter how much hearing it nauseated Ingrid, or how vividly it made her remember. And she knew if Maverick had done it to Eden, he would do it to someone else.

Unless somebody stopped him.

“We gotta take him down,” she determined as they approached the exit doors.

Fillmore finally looked down at her and she met his determined eyes with her own. He held up his fist, his orange belt dangling from it. “Damn right, we do.”

She bumped her fist against his. Together, they put their belts on and pushed through the doors, heading straight for the greenhouse.

xXxXx

Friday afternoon, 12:29 P.M.

Fillmore and Ingrid approached the greenhouse. The last botany class ended before lunch, so it should be empty, but they were no less careful. Fillmore swung the door open quietly and took a cautious step inside. He looked around and, seeing no immediate danger, he crept inside and Ingrid followed behind him.

She took in all the greenery around her, the walls lined with hanging baskets full of plants. An oblong table split the entryway in half, creating two paths. Ingrid looked at her partner, who pointed two fingers at his eyes, then directed them to his right. She nodded and did the same, except pointing to her left. Ingrid stepped forward, keeping her eyes peeled for any sudden movements.

The entryway was narrow but opened up wide once one passed the threshold. Aisles and aisles of shelves and troughs loaded with exotic and local flora awaited them. Taking in her surroundings, Ingrid forgot how huge this place was. She approached the bend, preparing to veer left before a sound caught her attention. She trained her ear, focusing on the noise, when she noticed Fillmore about to call out.

Ingrid exhaled with a sharp hiss, effectively stopping him from doing so. He raised an eyebrow at her over the table of blooming magnolias, prompting her to tap her ear and point in the direction of the noise. Fillmore stood still, opting to wait for her signal before he took another step.

She listened carefully. Although she was too far away to single out specific words, she could hear multiple distinct voices. Three to be exact. They must all be here. 

Three to two? She didn’t like those odds.

She looked over at her partner and held up three fingers. He jerked his head back towards the entrance. Wait for back up? he mouthed, to which she nodded. They both backed up but Ingrid kicked an unsuspecting flowerpot sitting on the ground. The ceramic pot clattered against the concrete floor, the sound echoing off the glass walls. She cringed as it reached her ears, like nails on a chalkboard.

Fillmore swore under his breath as she mouthed an apology. “Nathan Bridges,” he shouted. “Safety Patrol. If you’re in here, come on out! We just wanna talk!”

Ingrid scoffed, taking a cautious step forward. “Yeah,” she mocked quietly, “they always fall for that.” 

Fillmore rolled his eyes at her as they advanced together, step by step. After all these years, they always fell effortlessly in sync during a chase. For the most part, that is. Ingrid heard footsteps rapidly approaching and she froze, but Fillmore didn’t.

“Fillmore, wait—”

But her warning came too late. He rounded the corner and was thrown full force to the floor. She tried to rush to his aid as he tussled with the attacker on the floor, but felt strong arms grab her from behind. She threw her head back, aiming for the assailant’s nose. She felt it make contact with the back of her skill but to her disappointment, he only clung tighter.

“You’re gonna pay for that, belt,” he spat in her ear and lifted her up off the ground, feet dangling in the air.

“Let go of me!” she barked, wildly kicking her feet. She hoped her steel toes would come in contact with something she could push off of, or someone’s face. Whichever she could hit first, but her flailing feet only met air.

Meanwhile, Fillmore struggled to gain control of the perp on the ground. Both of them had landed a few successful punches, but neither surrendered control. Fillmore grabbed the boy by the collar and rolled until the momentum landed him on top. Before the perp could react, Fillmore wound his fist back to land another blow but the other perp shouting caught his attention.

Nathan Bridges had gotten to Ingrid. He had one arm around her stomach holding her up from the ground, and the other clamped around her neck. Fillmore froze.

“You make one wrong move and she pays,” he snarled, blood pouring from his nose and onto Ingrid’s shoulder. Fillmore’s eyes narrowed at the perp, his blood boiling as he watched his partner struggle in the perp’s massive grip.

But, despite the murderous anger raging through his veins, he lowered his fist and got up from the floor. Stars appeared at the corner of Ingrid’s eyes as the perp’s grip on her tightened, and she let out a strangled gasp, which only fueled his fury. “Let her go,” Fillmore growled through gritted teeth. “Like I said, we just wanna talk.”

Marvin Hurst pulled himself up and spat at the floor. “I don’t think so,” he replied, before swinging something at Fillmore’s head and everything went dark.

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER FIVE: FEEDING FURY

xXxXx

Friday afternoon, 12:52 P.M.

His head throbbed in his skull. Fillmore hadn’t taken a hit like that in a while. Not since the summer he spent at the Krav Maga studio. He groaned and peeled his eyes open, stars littering his blurry vision.

“Fillmore?” Ingrid’s hushed voice met his ears.

He sniffed, rapidly blinking to clear his sight. Where was she? Where were they? It was clear they weren’t in the greenhouse anymore. They were somewhere darker, colder. He shivered, then shook his head to reorient himself.

“The hell’d he hit me with?” Fillmore muttered as the room spun. “A fuckin’ anvil?” He tried to bring his hand up to put pressure against his pounding head but realized his hands were bound behind his back.

“Flowerpot,” Ingrid’s hoarse voice answered through an exhale. She was relieved that Fillmore was finally awake. Ingrid was far from a panicky person, but he’d been unconscious for a long time… which left her alone with their captors for much longer than she’d like to be. Once the two partners were subdued and no longer deemed a threat, they hadn’t paid her much attention, (which she was thankful for) but she knew it wouldn’t last. They’d stepped out to sweep the perimeter and find out “just how fucked” they were (Marvin’s words, not hers) and she knew they’d come back with a plan; either to turn themselves in, or make the two officers’ days much, much worse.

And now that Fillmore’s awake, she no longer had to face them alone.

Fillmore’s eyes shot open at her answer and he yanked at his restraints, which didn’t budge an inch. The stainless steel cuffs around his wrists clanged against the metal pole sandwiched between his and his partners’ backs. “I’ve been trying that for the last twenty minutes,” she told him. “It’s no use. They’re real cuffs.”

“Since when did perps start using actual handcuffs?” he whispered and continued to struggle behind her. “We don’t even use actual handcuffs. How is that fair?” Ingrid sighed but it came out more like a wheeze. At this, Fillmore paused, recalling the moments that led them here. The last thing he remembered was seeing her in the clutches of a guy twice her size, his meaty hand squeezing her throat. He grimaced – did he hurt her after he lost consciousness? He turned his head as far as he could to try and catch a glimpse of her. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” Ingrid answered, but she was clearly lying. She cleared her throat, but didn’t do much – her voice remained scratchy, like she’d been coughing a lot. She turned her head, their temples briefly touching. “You?”

He scoffed before refocusing on the task at hand. If he worried too much about Ingrid, he’d never be able to get them outta here. “Never better,” he answered.

Ingrid tsked. “So, we’re both liars?”

“And not very good ones.” He felt around for the bobby pin at his belt, more thankful than ever for his paranoid tendencies. After a few moments of feeling around for it, he located it at the small of his back and pulled it out. Maneuvering it between his fingers, he pushed himself up and pressed his back flat against the pole to give himself more leverage. “Where are we?” he asked, unaware of the fact he’d accidentally pinned Ingrid’s hands beneath his backside and the post.

“The garden shed,” she answered. Her face flushed, her brows furrowing as she tried to pull her hands out from underneath him. “Do you mind?”

“Shit, sorry.” But he didn’t free her hands.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get us out of here. What are you doing?” he asked, his voice dripping sarcasm. His fingers were fumbling. He pushed himself further up the pole and off the floor, finally getting off her hands. He swore with frustration. “I can’t reach the lock on my cuffs.”

“With what? Your nonexistent fingernails?”

“Nah, I keep a bobby pin in my belt in case of emergencies,” he explained with a grunt of effort.

Ingrid blinked. How hadn’t she thought of that? “Fillmore, that’s genius.”

She could practically feel the smug look on his face. “You can thank me later.” He went quiet for a moment before he swore again, and something bounced off her back.

“Please don’t tell me you just dropped it.”

“I didn’t just drop it,” he lied. “It… kinda sprung.”

“When we get out of here, I’m going to kill you.”

“Wait, I got it.”

The door to the shed swung open and Ingrid inadvertently jumped while Fillmore dropped back to the floor to avoid suspicion. Ingrid stifled a groan as the three perps filed in, her heart pumping. Here we go, she thought, forcing all the intrusive and unhelpful worries from her mind. Now that Fillmore was conscious and alert, it was time to focus on getting out of here.

“There are belts everywhere, Nate,” Marvin Hurst said shutting the door behind them. “We should’ve just turned ourselves in.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather go down fighting the belts than bend over for them,” Nathan retorted, swiping at the dried blood under his now-crooked nose and glaring at the officers on the floor. Fillmore shot him an ice cold glare in return. The perp’s glare deepened. “What’re you looking at?”

“A couple of idiots,” Fillmore quipped.

Adrenaline racing through her veins, Ingrid tapped his hand with the back of her fingers. “Don’t,” she warned under her breath.

Fillmore gulped down a follow-up insult. She’s right, he thought bitterly, don’t make this any worse than it already is. So, he bit his tongue to keep from engaging further and returned his attention to the handcuffs.

“You guys, this wasn’t the plan.” Sorin, the smallest of the three, cowered in the corner cleaning his glasses. “We were supposed to air all their dirty laundry, not take officers hostage. This has gotten way out of hand.”

“No,” Nathan shouted at him. The smaller student flinched, as did Ingrid. She prayed none of them noticed. “Those ‘officers’ were supposed to do their jobs and dig it all up themselves so those assholes pay for what they did. We led them right to the real bad guys and they’re still not chasing after them!” He turned to glare at Ingrid. “It’s not right!”

The unmitigated malice in his dark eyes unsettled her. She gulped, heart pounding harder against her chest as he stomped towards her.

“Maybe we oughta show ‘em what it feels like,” he growled, closing the short space between them and pulling Ingrid up by the collar. She cried out in a mixture of surprise and pain as her back scraped against the rusty metal. He ripped her orange belt off with one hard jerk and discarded it on the floor. “Maybe take some pictures of our own. I know a few guys who’d love to get their hands on pictures of a pretty belt in distress. Or rather, undress.” He took two fistfuls of her shirt and ripped it down the middle in one fluid motion.

Ingrid’s breath caught as long-buried memories flashed before her eyes, shivering as the cool air hit her freshly exposed skin. His hands all over her, lips traveling down her body. The pictures, everywhere—

Ingrid bit the inside of her cheek to bring herself back to the here-and-now. You cannot show him fear, she reminded herself, matching his salacious gaze with a bold glare. She set her jaw to keep it from trembling. Nathan grinned down at her and said, “Maybe that’ll make ‘em do something about it.” 

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Fillmore bellowed, rabidly fighting his restraints. But all he could do was listen to Nathan’s threats and try to break free in time to stop him. His protests mixed with those of the other two, all begging him to stop.

But Ingrid Third doesn’t beg.

“Go ahead,” she snapped, squaring her shoulders in spite of her trembling hands. She balled them into fists to make it less noticeable. “Stoop to Maverick’s level. You’ll get all the justice reserved for both of you, and he’ll get away scot-free.”

Nathan snarled, looming over her. “Don’t you dare compare me to that prick.”

She angled her chin up and matched his malicious scowl with her own. “Then don’t become him.” He huffed in response, his nostrils flaring. A silent stare-down ensued. She was acutely aware of how closely her almost-bare chest was to his; with every controlled breath she took to keep her steel resolve intact, her breasts brushed against his. But she refused to break eye contact, no matter how pungent the musty aroma of sweat mixed with his cologne was. She would not gag, would not shake. Would not falter. Not even when he pressed himself flat against her and the tips of their noses brushed against each other.

Ingrid Third doesn’t break.  

She could headbutt him. She could put her combat boots to good use and stomp on his toes, or knee him in the groin. But it would only make him angrier, and he was angry enough. She needed to deescalate the situation and gain his trust, not feed is fury (however righteous it may be). As much as she would rather establish dominance over him in the moment, it would prove counterproductive in the long term. He was the aggressor.

She needed to be smarter.

Marvin stepped closer to them. “This isn’t what Eden wanted, man. She just wanted someone to listen. She doesn’t want it happening to anyone else, not even a belt.”

Nathan snapped on him. “Who’s side are you on?”

“Eden’s,” Ingrid interjected. When his steely gaze flew back down to her, she continued before he could get a word in. “We have proof, Nathan. We have the texts. We have the pictures.” His bottom lip twitched with the ghost of a frown. “She’s in there talking to the principal and the Safety Patrol Commissioner right now.”

He scoffed. “And what the hell are they gonna do? Suspend her for taking matters into her own hands? Expel her? She’s been punished enough!”

Ingrid couldn’t agree more. “Not if I can do anything about it,” she answered with a shake of her head. “But I can’t do that without your help.” At that, his eyes flickered with something akin to confusion and hope. She was getting through to him. “What he did was a crime, a real crime. With your help, Appleton won’t just expel him. Maverick could be looking at prison time.”

Nathan was taken aback – so much so, he took an actual step back from her.

She turned to Marvin. “And we know Candace sabotaged your campaign for Aero-Club President. If you can give us the proof, we can dethrone her.” Marvin’s eyes lit up, and she looked over at Sorin, still cowering in the corner. “And Sorin, if you can help us prove that you had nothing to do with Ezra’s plagiarism, we can put in a good word for you at the University. Maybe get your internship back.”

His mouth formed a small ‘o’. “Y-You can do that?”

She nodded. “But not without your help,” she repeated.  

Fillmore’s lock-picking process was taking far too long. From the angle he was sitting at, he couldn’t see what Nathan was doing to Ingrid behind him. He could feel her clenched hands trembling against the metal just above his head and it was making focusing on getting free much more difficult. All he wanted to do was get up and wring that asshole’s neck.

“And you have to let us go, man,” Fillmore blurted, unable to keep his mouth shut. From his aggravated tone, Ingrid could tell he was still struggling with the cuffs. She needed to buy him more time.

“He’s right,” she agreed. “Holding safety patrol officers hostage doesn’t look good on you. No matter the circumstances.”

Nathan shook his head. “Nah. Nah, no deal,” he argued, wagging a finger in her face. “Before I let you belts go—” He pressed two hard fingers into the center of her exposed chest, right above her racing heart. “—I need a guarantee.”

Marvin threw his hands up. “Are you serious, man? Weren’t you listening? They wanna help us. Help Eden!”

“Bullshit. They’re not gonna go up against such ‘highly regarded members’ of the student government.” Nathan pinched Ingrid’s chin and moved in close, his lips brushing hers with every word that left them. She gulped at their proximity, her mouth bone dry and her heart plunging into her stomach. “They’re just trying to save their own sorry asses.”

Finally free of the cuffs, Fillmore shot up from the ground and rushed Nathan, shoving him against the nearest wall. Ingrid jumped with a gasp at the abrupt explosion of activity. Objects clattered from the shelves Fillmore shoved the boy into and fell to the ground around them.

But the commotion was over in seconds. Fillmore let the teen drop to the floor in a heap – with one well-placed punch, he’d fallen unconscious. He stood over him, panting, fists clenched, waiting for a sign that the boy was faking it. The teen remained still.

Fillmore looked over at the other two boys who were frozen in place. Would he go after one of them next? “Which one of you has the keys?” he asked between haggard breaths. Sorin pointed at Hurst, who immediately pulled the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to the officer. Fillmore caught them with ease, then pointed to the door. “You say this area’s crawling with belts?” Hurst nodded, to which Fillmore jerked his head to the side. “Go find one. And if you’re thinking about running from ‘em? Take some friendly advice—” Fillmore shook his head, “—don’t.”

The two perps scurried out, not needing to be told twice. And by the time Fillmore had turned around to his partner, she’d visibly deflated with relief. A thousand terrifying scenarios had crossed her mind throughout the entirety of their captivity. With Fillmore unconscious, she had plenty of time to agonize over what the boys planned to do to them. The partners had been through a lot during their time on the patrol, but they’d never been held against their will like that.

And with Fillmore unconscious, she was at their mercy.

She thanked her lucky stars that the boys had been otherwise occupied until Fillmore woke up. It hadn’t seemed possible that they’d do anything more than keep them locked up for a while, not until Nathan had ripped her shirt open. She shuddered at the prospect. “That could’ve been worse,” she thought aloud, wary of Fillmore’s quiet behavior. She’d expected him to shout, to fight some more.

But after ridding his other wrist of its dangling cuff, he rushed over to free her, his tone and demeanor both deceptively calm. “I’d rather not think about how,” he said, making a fast job of unlocking her restraints. She’d rather not, either. He tossed them to the floor before facing her. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” she repeated, although her body was wracked with chills. They both knew it wasn’t that cold, as it was only early September and autumn hadn’t fully set in yet. But unlike Fillmore, clad in his favorite jacket, all she had on was a thin black-and-grey raglan with sleeves that hardly reached past her elbows. And now, with the front ripped open down well-past her chest, it offered no protection from the elements – or from wandering eyes. 

Her cheeks flushed and, with her eyes now involuntarily watering, she refused to meet his concerned gaze. Instead, she turned her focus to her throbbing wrists, rubbed raw from pulling against the too-tight handcuffs. She brought her shaking hands up to cover herself as intrusive pictures from the past flickered through her mind – crumpled blankets, greedy hands, clammy skin, the flash of a camera. The rush of fear. Fillmore unzipped his jacket and draped it over her shoulders as she shook the memories away.

Ingrid mumbled her thanks, eternally grateful for their excellent silent communication skills as she pulled her arms through the sleeves with a shiver. It was soaked with his body heat, something she didn’t seem to have enough of at the moment. All of her own had rushed to her cheeks when Nathan exposed her to the cold, stuffy room.

Fillmore lifted her chin up with his index finger, tilting her head to get a better look at the bruise forming on her cheekbone. “You sure?” he murmured, his thumb tracing her jaw.        

She gulped at the tenderness in which he looked after her, wincing at the soreness in her throat as she did so. “Yeah,” she reassured him, zipping up the jacket. To lighten the dismal mood, she added, “I’m not the one who fainted.” Palm flat against his bicep, she playfully shoved him out of her personal space. As thankful as she was for the rescue, the physical contact and proximity made her skin crawl.

“Whoa, ‘fainted’?” Fillmore scoffed and he flattened his hand against his chest. “Girls faint. Guys get knocked out.”

“By flowers? Not hardly,” Ingrid teased, to which he chuckled. She ran an unsteady hand through her raven hair before gesturing outside. “You really trust them to get help?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s not like we don’t know where they live.” He eyed her up and down once more. “Are you sure you’re—”  

Just outside the shed, they heard Anza’s voice calling out their names, effectively interrupting him. Seconds later, he and Tehama flung open the door and rushed inside with worried looks on their faces. “Are you guys okay?” Karen asked, bewildered at their surroundings.

“We are,” Fillmore answered, then pointed down to Nathan, still unconscious on the floor. “But he might need an ice pack.”

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER SIX: LASTING EFFECTS

xXxXx

Friday evening, 8:37 P.M.

Ingrid stood in front of the stove waiting for the kettle to whistle. She pulled Fillmore’s jacket closed around her, grateful he let her wear it home. She’d lied when she told him she didn’t have a spare change of clothes in her locker. They all did, as patrolling the school often meant they were either cleaning up – or, in Fillmore’s case, causing – a mess or two. She felt guilty at first for the little white lie.

But when she was still shivering nine hours and a boiling hot shower later, the guilt shook right off. His jacket was warmer than it looked. It was sherpa-lined and soft from years of wear and a dark, deep blue color she didn’t detest. And, of course, it was his, which came with its own wave of warmth, especially in his absence.  

Ingrid pulled the frayed cuffs of the sleeves over her sore hands, brought them up to her face, and inhaled. It smelled like his own mixture of cologne and boy. If she were honest with herself, she wished he was here. The house was cold and empty, and her father wouldn’t be back from his conference until tomorrow afternoon. And, as well as she hid it from the rest of the team… Nathan Bridges’ threats had rattled her.

She massaged her bruised wrists, using the dull pain to remind herself that it was all over. Her words had gotten through Nathan’s stubborn façade. Once he saw Eden, it all clicked and he was nothing short of remorseful. Hurst and Sorin turned over all the dirt they had on their targets. Maverick Mathers was at the local police station being questioned by detectives.

But she could still feel Nathan’s hands. Still smell his breath on her face.

I know a few guys who’d love to get their hands on—

A high pitched whistle startled her from her thoughts. Ingrid huffed in frustration. The case was over. The danger was long gone. You need to relax, Third. Wiping the moisture from her eyes with Fillmore’s sleeve, she took the kettle off the stove and carefully poured the boiling water into an awaiting mug.

Ingrid Third didn’t cry. She didn’t need anyone else’s presence to soothe her. She’d always been a loner… that is, until Cornelius Fillmore came along.

He had a knack for worming is way into places he wasn’t initially invited; like her life. Her heart. Before him, her hard outer shell had been impenetrable. He softened her; made her whole. She used to be so headstrong and independent. But after years of him sticking by her side even when she didn’t want him there… she grew to need him there.

And at this very moment… she wanted him there.

A lone tear trickled down her cheek as longing twisted her heart into knots. She set the kettle down with a clatter and wiped her eyes again with a defeated groan. It made her feel weak to need him as much as she did, but for lack of a better term, he was her… person. She felt safe with him, even in the midst of danger. But she couldn’t be near him no matter how much she wanted to be.

Upon hearing about their son’s injuries, Karim dragged Fillmore to the emergency room to get checked out. Better safe than sorry, he’d said, and, of course, Ingrid agreed. Fillmore had been unconscious for a long time. He texted her two hours ago to tell her he was waiting on a CT before he could be discharged, which assuaged her worry. As far as she knew, he was still there waiting.

So, swallowing herself in his jacket and curling up in bed would have to be the next best thing. She swirled the mesh tea strainer around the mug before pulling it out and letting it drip. She’s made it through a million nights alone – she could survive one more.

Ingrid cleared her throat, which was still hoarse from almost being strangled earlier in the day. She grabbed the bottle of honey and squeezed just enough on her teaspoon and stirred it in.

Maybe we oughta show ‘em what it feels like.

Don’t fucking touch her!

She shivered and covered her eyes, desperate to stop the replay in her head. Her cursed photographic memory would never be able to unsee it, but she sure could use a break for the night. “Stop,” she begged aloud. “Just stop already.”

He took two fistfuls of her shirt and ripped it right down the middle.

He pressed two hard fingers into the center of her exposed chest, right above her racing heart.

The back door swung open, and Ingrid jumped back with a shout.

“Easy, mama,” Fillmore said, hands raised in surrender, “it’s only me!”

“Siddhartha, Fillmore,” she exclaimed, her voice cracking. Ingrid placed a hand over her heart, a rush of emotions flooding her. Fear, anger, embarrassment. Relief. He chuckled at her absurd twist on a swear word as she exhaled, “What the hell’s wrong with the front door? Or with, I don’t know—” she put her hands on her hips and shot him a half-hearted glare, “—knocking?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were awake,” he explained, shutting and locking the door behind him. Noticing her frazzled hair and her flushed cheeks, he took a cautious step towards her. “Are you okay?”

“Aside from the heart attack you just gave me, yes,” she snapped, her voice gravelly. “I’m peachy.”

Beside himself, he chuckled and leaned against the counter. “For the least peachy person I know, you’ve sure said that a lot today.”

“Please, don’t remind me,” she groaned. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he drawled, setting a brown paper bag on the counter by her kettle and crossed his arms. She double taked; she hadn’t noticed it in his hands. He continued, “aside from the concussion and some bruises, I’ve got a clean bill of health. Can’t sleep for more than an hour at a time tonight though, so...” He trailed off and gave her a half-hearted thumbs up.

Her eyes furrowed, her expression twisting into one of confusion. “Then, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home resting?”

An uncharacteristically sheepish grin appeared on her partner’s lips. “I don’t know, I guess…” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his injured bald head. “…I know your dad’s outta town ‘til tomorrow and I figured…” he paused, contemplating his words carefully, “…well, more like hoped you wouldn’t mind the company after a day like today… you know?”

Ingrid’s heart skipped a beat. He had no idea just how much she was craving his company. That was another thing Cornelius Fillmore had a knack for: knowing exactly what she was thinking without having to voice it (or what she needed without ever having to ask). She willed the tears burning in her eyes to dry up and she inhaled sharply. “It depends on what’s in that bag.”

Fillmore smirked, unrolled the top of the bag, and wafted the scent over. Upon inhaling the delicious smell of Joelle’s famous chocolate chip cookies, Ingrid’s eyes fluttered closed with an audible mmm. She snatched the bag from him and peered inside, her mouth watering at the sight of the gooey cookies inside. “Fresh from my mom’s kitchen,” he told her.

“Fresh?” Ingrid looked up from the bag – which was still warm – with an eyebrow raised. “It’s almost 9 p.m.”

“You know my mom. She bakes when she’s stressed,” he answered with a shrug.

“Well—” she wheezed, but quickly cleared her throat to continue, “—I guess I’ll have to let you stay. Especially if it entails cookies.”

Fillmore cringed at the sound. “Damn, mama, you sound awful.” He brought his hands up to both sides of her neck. “You sure you don’t need to get checked out?” he asked, gently lifting her chin with his thumbs to get a better look. A subtle hand-shaped bruise had formed around her throat – at first glance, he’d thought it was a shadow – and much to his dismay, his hand fit perfectly in its outline. He brushed his thumbs across her jawline before pulling his hands away. They weren’t the same hands that created the bruise, but he couldn’t stomach the comparison. His mind flashed to that moment he looked up and saw her – his partner and best friend, who he was supposed to protect – struggling in the perp’s hands. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.

“No, I’m fine. A cup of tea, and I’ll be right as rain,” Ingrid reassured him. She picked up the mug with her free hand and took a sip of her tea for emphasis. “See? Much better.”

“Whatever you say, partner.” He released her, but his eyes lingered on the bruise scabbed over her pale cheek. He saw her covering her eyes when he walked in, and they were slightly bloodshot. She’d been crying, or at least trying not to.

It disturbed him to see her in such a vulnerable place. He’d shrugged it off after Eden had disclosed the bullying and harassment to them. Her statement had upset him too, but looking back, he realized it had a greater effect on Ingrid than she let on. She was quiet the entire trek to the greenhouse, which was unusual. They always engaged in pre-chase banter; it was part of the thrill. Fillmore had made a mental note to question her about it once the case was over… and then it all fell apart. They didn’t have the chance to talk afterwards.

He just hoped she hadn’t, too (fallen apart, that is). It was partly why he’d convinced his mom to drop him off so late at night – he needed to know what had bothered her so much, and if she was doing okay. He’d never heard her voice waver the way it did in those moments immediately following their captivity. Never seen her body language so timid. She did an excellent job masking it once Anza and Tehama rushed in, but he could see right through her.

She was frightened. In Fillmore’s many years of knowing her, he knew of nothing that frightened Ingrid Third. Not a threat, not a perp. She didn’t need fear; or, more accurately, didn’t find it useful. In a bind or the threat of danger, her skill, knowledge, instinct, and her partner were all she needed. Only one of which failed her today, and he’d have to live with that guilt. But the least he could do was be there for her in the fallout, whether she asked him to be or not.

Ingrid was the first to break eye contact, the pregnant silence too loud for comfort. She could hear the wheels turning in his mind, see the concerned curiosity in his eyes. It made her want to tell him everything – from the twisted beginning to the dreadful end – but her stomach flipped at the thought. She’d never told anyone before… how would she even start?

She cleared her throat and pushed off the counter, desperate for a distraction. “I guess nothing beats kicking off a three-day weekend with an all-nighter,” she blurted, handing him the bag of sweets before grabbing her steaming mug. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a movie marathon,” she added and disappeared through the doorway.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he replied. He grabbed a water bottle off the counter and followed her up to her room, hatching a plan to get her open up on the way. 

xXxXx

thank you guys for reading! let me know what you think :)

and just a pre-warning: all the mature content is in the next chapter. I’ll have a more specific content warning at the beginning of the chapter. definitely read with caution if you have any history of PTSD or violence/abuse in your past.

take care of yourselves.

ellameno

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER SEVEN: SURRENDER THE TRUTH

xXxXx

Friday evening, 11:52 P.M.

The last few hours had been full of snacks, their favorite TV shows, and light-hearted conversation. In the spirit of keeping her concussed partner awake and lucid as much as possible, Ingrid brewed coffee for Fillmore and switched to green tea for herself.

They were currently lounging on her bed watching Fillmore’s favorite episode of Rick and Morty. He cackled at whatever inappropriate joke Rick made, but Ingrid wasn’t paying attention. She detested the show, but she wasn’t the one who needed to stay awake, so she let him watch in peace. Pen in one hand and mug in the other, she opted to curl up in her black faux fur blanket and focus on her book of word puzzles.

Well, focus wasn’t the correct word. She couldn’t focus and had only completed three puzzles in the last thirty minutes. On a good day, she could finish four times that amount in that period of time. On a bad day, maybe half of that number. What kind of day did that make today?

The worst, she lamented with a gulp. She rapidly clicked the pen open and closed as she tried desperately to keep her emotions from resurfacing. Three hours ago, she was practically begging the universe to bring her partner back to her side, and the universe had obliged. But now a part of her wished she was alone so she could release all the anguish churning inside of her.

“So, are we just not gonna talk about today?” Fillmore asked abruptly, breaking her fickle concentration.

She stopped clicking her pen and gulped. “I’d rather not, actually,” she answered, her stomach somersaulting. She didn’t take her eyes off her puzzle, even as the letters started blurring together.

“Why not?” he pressed, muting the TV and turning to look at her.

Ingrid let her eyelids fall shut with a sigh. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. “It’s late, Fillmore.”

“I’ve got all night, remember?” He threw his hands up. “Doctor’s orders.”

She shook her head and glared at the wall in front of them. When Cornelius Fillmore set his mind something, he was like a dog with a bone. And for whatever reason, he was determined to have this conversation. He’s not gonna let it go, Third, she thought to herself. She bit back a yawn, suddenly feeling too tired to push back. Might as well humor him. “Okay, fine,” she said, dread coursing through her. She flipped the puzzle book shut and set it on her nightstand. “Talk.”

“You first.”

“You started it,” she argued, shooting him a tired glare. “You talk first.”

He shook his head. “I want you to start.”

“Why?”

He nodded at the puzzle book. “You’ve been staring at the same page for, like, ten minutes. Something’s obviously on your mind.”

She scoffed, reverting her gaze back to the wall. “For the ‘world’s greatest detective’, it certainly shouldn’t be rocket science,” she answered, words dripping with sarcasm. “You should surrender the title.”

He rolled his eyes. She always tried to scare him off with insults when he brought up a hard subject. She was more predictable than she’d care to admit, but he wouldn’t be deterred. “You’ve been quiet,” he continued, “even before what went down in the shed.”

“It was a rough case, Fillmore,” she offered with an indifferent shrug. She stirred her tea with her spoon and watched the loose leaves swirl. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

Fillmore decided to cut to the chase. “What was it about Eden’s disclosure that set you off?”  

Ingrid froze, her stirring (and her heart) coming to an abrupt halt. Just the topic – and the prying question – she was hoping to avoid. She gazed deep into her drink, searching for an answer in the loose tea leaves.

She could lie to him. You should lie to him, she thought. At least, the part of her that wanted to keep it all buried did. It was a secret she’d harbored for a long time, and for that very reason – a long time had passed. And it wasn’t exactly good down-time conversation; not unless she wanted to bring the conversation down. Oh, that sounds like fun. Kinda like that time my old boyfriend took naked pictures of me and sent them to his friends for street cred. Good times.

Her family never talked about it. Once her father found out, he shipped her off to Nepal while he coordinated the family’s next move. She didn’t talk about it much to the guidance counselor at her new school either. More like couldn’t. It was still too fresh, too overwhelming to wrap her young, genius mind around.

So, she just… never did.

“Ingrid?” Fillmore’s soft voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked over at him, eyes wide and glassy. He’d turned to face her, one arm resting across the headboard behind her. “What was it?” he asked again, less demanding this time.

Ingrid eyed him up and down, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling. “I just…” she started, but her heart clogged up her throat. She sank farther back into her pillows, trying to gulp it back down. She swallowed again but her sore throat continued to tighten.

Fillmore watched his best friend struggle to open up with sympathetic eyes. Much like Eden’s story, he knew that there was more to Ingrid’s than met the eye. It pained him that she wouldn’t let him in, even after all this time. She hardly ever talked about her past, save for the key points – her mother leaving, all the moves, her juvenile record. But she never went into great detail. Anytime he could pry information out of her, she always kept it brief. After all these years, he knew it wasn’t personal. Her need for privacy was one of the many things that made Ingrid, Ingrid.

But he wanted her to trust him unconditionally. With everything. All the little details she kept hidden from everyone else. He wanted her to have a safe place to lay her armor down, and he wanted to be that place. That person.

“You know you can tell me anything, mama,” he murmured, hoping it would be the reassurance she needed to let whatever it was go.

Ingrid’s composure melted in the form of fresh tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away just in time for a lone tear to trickle down her bruised cheek, just out of his view. She should lie… but she didn’t want to. She didn’t need to, not to Fillmore.

She needed to surrender the truth.

“I just—” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat for the umpteenth time, angrily swiping at the tears on her cheek with her free hand. “I know how she feels, is all,” she blurted before the tears could take over.

Fillmore’s eyes scrunched together. “How so?”

She shook her head and bit down hard on her tongue, resisting the urge to snap at him, Do I really need to spell it out for you, World’s Greatest Detective? He didn’t know. How could he know? Just tell him, Third. Just tell him.

“I had this, um…” she pondered her next words carefully. She lifted her free hand in air quotes, “‘boyfriend’, I guess, just before I came to X Middle. I was twelve. He was… sixteen.”

Fillmore’s eyebrows shot up. “Sixteen?”

Ingrid sighed. This sounds awful out loud, she lamented as a fierce blush burned her cheeks. “Yeah, I was in a really bad place after my mom left and I had…” she cringed before continuing, “developed early. So, I liked to try and pass as older than I was, and I was really good at it.” The tale was pouring out of her now, her bottom lip was actively trembling.

Fillmore was flabbergasted. The only boyfriend he knew about was the Mathlete their freshman year. The relationship lasted only two weeks. (Apparently, it only took that long for her to discover he was very, very gay – something even he hadn’t realized yet.) Needless to say, they parted ways amicably. In fact, they still talked. Hearing that there was someone before Artie… it rocked him. “Did Ariella know?” Fillmore dumbly asked. “Your dad?”

“Oh, of course not. Are you kidding?” she answered with a rapid shake of her head. She’d gripped the mug tightly in her hands which were starting to shake. “They had no clue.”

“What the hell happened?” he asked incredulously.

She set the ceramic mug on top of her puzzle book, then pulled the sleeves of Fillmore’s jacket over her shaking hands as she debated on how to answer. Oh, god, it’s going to disgust him, she thought as she cracked her knuckles.

“I… thought we were in love,” she told him, staring down at her lap. “And we… well…” she trailed off.  

Fillmore filled in the blanks. “You slept together.”

Ingrid’s eyes fluttered closed in shame, her stomach churning, but she nodded. “A lot.” Fillmore swore under his breath, rubbing a hand over his head. But, wait, there’s more, the voice in her head said. She sank further into her pillows. “And every time we’d finish he would… take pictures of me. Said I was his ‘muse’. What he didn’t say was that—” she gulped, “—I was his friends’ muses, too.”

Fillmore’s jaw hit the floor. “He sent them to his friends? You’re shitting me.”

Ingrid chuckled, wiping the moisture from her blushing cheeks. “I wish,” she croaked.

“And he didn’t know your real age?”

She shrugged, still staring down at her lap. “He suspected. But he didn’t know until after someone sent the pictures to my father, who got the cops involved.”

Fillmore’s head spun. It was a lot to take in. It all made sense though; how still she’d been during Eden’s disclosure, how attentive. How quiet she’d been afterwards. “Please tell me they arrested the guy.” Ingrid shook her head, her chapped lips forming a straight line. If it had been possible, Fillmore’s jaw would’ve fallen further. “What?”

She fidgeted in place, the physical discomfort too much to bear. Ingrid decided it would be best to finish quickly, get it over with. She rambled on: “He was a year shy meeting the stat-rape requirements, so the ADA couldn’t charge him. My dad fought to at least get him on a child porn charge, but nothing stuck. So, he packed me up and shipped me off to Nepal while he and Ariella packed up the house to move. Again.” She paused to take a breath, and when Fillmore remained silent, she continued. “It worked out for the best, anyway. I didn’t want him in jail, I mean, the sex was consensual.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Fillmore interrupted with a firm shake of his head.

She scoffed and crossed her arms, keeping her gaze fixed on the wall across from her. “You sound like my father.”

“Well, he’s right.” Fillmore crossed his legs and let his hands fall into his lap. “That guy took advantage of you.”

Ingrid shook her head. “He loved me.”

“No, he didn’t,” Fillmore argued carefully. Ingrid shut her eyes tight, fresh tears cascading freely down her face. “And I think, deep down, you know that.”

She gulped down a sob. As always, he was right. Ingrid did know that. She spent the following four years trying to convince herself (and everyone else) otherwise and burying it in the back of her mind when she couldn’t. She knew what he did was wrong.

She knew what she did was wrong.

Ingrid cleared her throat, which had gone bone-dry, and abruptly stood up. “Yeah, so, it just—with my photographic memory, it brought up a lot, you know?” she explained, pulling the hem of his jacket down over her butt and straightening her leggings. “And it obviously didn’t help getting stripped in front of four different guys. But it’s not like I was fully naked, so, not a big deal. I’ve dealt with worse.”

Fillmore reached for her hand. “Ingrid—”

She pulled it out of reach, snatched her mug, and beelined for the door. “More coffee?” she asked, rushing out before he could answer.

By the time Ingrid had descended the stairs, she was failing to fight the sobs scouring her throat. Telling Fillmore was a mistake. He’d never see her the same again, never be able to look at her without knowing. She dropped the mug on the counter with a clatter. Now he saw her as she saw herself: used up, disgusting. Dirty.

Images of the texts on Eden’s phone passed through her mind. fuck u whore, dont take n00ds if u dont want us to see em. Ingrid’s stomach lurched, and a hand flew over her mouth. 10/10 would gangbang. dont be a fkn rat, or youll really be srry.

Nathan’s threats echoed in her head. I know a few guys who’d love to get their hands on a pretty belt in undress. Ingrid shuddered, a strangled cry escaping between her fingers.

Shawn’s face flashed before her eyes. Don’t cry, babydoll. Just relax, and this won’t hurt.

She gagged and rushed over to the sink.

Chapter Text

CRACKS IN HER ARMOR

CHAPTER EIGHT: COLLATERAL DAMAGE

xXxXx

Upstairs, Fillmore sat astonished on the bed, unsure if he should follow his partner. Ingrid’s always had nerves of steel, was always tougher than nails.

But her stone-cold exterior had cracked.

She’d done an excellent job pretending she was fine when the other patrollers showed up to the shed, but it didn’t fool him. Not when he heard the fear in her skillfully steady voice as she talked Nathan down. Not when she wouldn’t meet Fillmore’s eyes immediately after; wouldn’t raise her voice above a murmur.

In retrospect, the complex gravity of the situation left him speechless. How Ingrid could keep a level head while Nathan threatened to do to her what Maverick did to Eden… what Ingrid’s previous “boyfriend” had already done to her in the past. It amazed him. Even at her weakest, she was still so incredibly strong; her armor well-worn.

Fillmore removed his glasses and ran a hand over his face as he heard a loud clatter come from downstairs. Without hesitation, he put his glasses back on and rushed down to her. He knew she probably needed some space, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her sustaining another injury on his watch. By the time he raced into the kitchen, she was dry heaving into the sink.

He froze in the doorway, hesitant to step in. She was clearly distraught, but she always retreated internally when things got bad. She never looked for a shoulder to cry on. She only ever sought comfort in herself.

He was suddenly desperate to change that.

Against his better judgment, he crossed the floor and stood at her side. He whispered her name as he approached so as not to startle her. The sight before him made his heart ache. Ingrid gasped for air between heaving sobs, but she didn’t push him away like he expected her to. She brought her hands up to cover her face, and for the first time, he saw the angry bruises circling both her wrists. He winced – they looked far worse than his, and very deep.

“Breathe, mama,” he ordered gently as he turned the cold water on for her. She reached for the running water with quaking hands, and he held her hair back as she splashed it on her face.

Just breathe, babydoll, Shawn moaned in her ear as he pushed himself inside of her, and this won’t hurt.

Ingrid shook her head at the memory, hot tears spilling from her eyes. It did hurt, then and now. And as time went on, she only felt worse, almost like she was suffocating. Not even almost; she was suffocating. She clawed at her throat, air escaping her as she felt his hands traverse her body, his breath hot against her neck.

Fillmore felt helpless as she fell apart before him, the glazed-over look in her eyes a tell-tale sign that she was losing herself in a memory. It didn’t happen often—at least, Fillmore didn’t see it happen often. Once in a blue moon, he’d catch her staring right through her computer screen, fingers hovering above her keyboard. Her eyes glazed over, oblivious to the world, her thoughts far away. Once while scaling a mountain of paperwork, he noticed her slow to a stop; holding a sheet of paper midair in one hand, eyes fixed on it like a deer in headlights.

“You find something?” he asked her when she didn’t resume her paper-pushing, but she didn’t answer. Her eyes were transfixed on the page before her, unblinking, unaware. He raised an eyebrow. “Ingrid?”

A pregnant pause passed between them before Ingrid sat up straight with a sharp inhale. She squeezed her eyes shut before rapidly blinking herself back into reality. It took another split second for her to realize he was talking to her - she turned to look at him. “What?”

He raised the other brow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she answered with a quick nod. His eyebrows furrowed – he didn’t believe her. She gave him her most reassuring smile. “Intrusive memories. Nothing relevant.”  

Fillmore hmmed. “That happen a lot?”

Ingrid shrugged and returned her attention to the pile of paperwork before her. “Their timing is inconvenient, at most.” She shot him a stern side-eye. “No big.” He knew better than to question her when she had that look on her face. So, he lifted his hands in surrender and just like that, the topic was dropped.

Now, months later, he wondered how often her photographic memory turned on her this way and he’d been none the wiser. How many times had it brought the world to a halt around her, and she had to plaster on a brave face just to get through the day?

How could he help it start spinning again?

He seized her hand in his. “Come here, mama, sit down,” Fillmore guided her over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair which she collapsed on. “Mama, look at me.” He gripped her by the shoulders, prompting her to look at him, but her eyes were fixed on some place far away. He cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheekbones, trying to bring her down to earth. “Don’t look through me, mama. Look at me, right at me.”

Fillmore’s voice cut through the echo of Shawn’s moans. Ingrid focused on it, the fog that had spread across her vision thinning out as she settled on his silhouette in front of her. Fillmore, she realized. He was blurry, but he was there. She whispered his name and the fog continued to dissipate.

“That’s my girl,” he praised softly, a smile spreading across his face. “Now, breathe in deep through your nose, okay? Like this.” He flared his nostrils and breathed in deeply, puffing his chest out. She did her best to mimic him in her frantic state. He nodded at her. “Good, now, let it out nice and slow,” he exhaled through pursed lips, “like you’re blowing me a kiss.”

She complied the best she could with her whole body shaking like it was, her exhales more like forceful sobs. But Fillmore repeated the exercise until she calmed down considerably which, to Ingrid, felt like hours. Hours of reliving the worst nights of her life. Hours of feeling Shawn’s greedy lips all over her. Fillmore rubbed her upper arms as the panic attack subsided, muttering things like, “I’m right here,” “you’re safe, mama.”

Ingrid sank into the wooden chair. She didn’t feel safe; she felt exposed, filthy. The kind that couldn’t be scrubbed away in the shower. She could feel Fillmore’s eyes boring holes in her, Nathan’s—no, Shawn’s hands all over her. Their breath on her face. Their stench in her nose.

She shrank out of Fillmore’s comforting grasp, suddenly desperate to retreat into the darkest corner she could find. “I-I know this was a lot, um—” she began, but her coarse voice wavered. She sniffed, wiped her nose, and stood up. “—you don’t-you don’t have to stay,” she told her partner between shallow breaths. Her head spun at the sudden movement, but she steadied herself on the kitchen table.

Fillmore stood up along with her but kept his distance. He wanted to stay close in case she collapsed again while still respecting her obvious desire for space. He shook his head at her and said, “Don’t do that.”

She scoffed and pressed a clammy hand against her forehead. She blinked rapidly at the table to try and restore her vision. “Do what?”

“Push me away,” he answered. Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut – that’s exactly what she wanted to do. He knew her too well. “Yeah, it’s a lot to process,” he admitted, leaning on the table to fight the urge to step closer, “but you’re not gonna scare me off, Ingrid. Honestly, I’m glad you told me. It explains a lot about you. How private you are…” She dropped her hand and risked a glance at him; his eyes stormed with sincerity, not pity like she’d expected. “How strong you are.”

She looked down at the floor, shaking her head. She felt the exact opposite: weak and pitiful. She couldn’t stand to look at him in the state she was in. She was supposed to be his strong, steady, reliable partner. Not the terrified, whimpering little girl she used to be. She thought she’d gotten over it, moved on. Grown up. Apparently not, she thought, her knees wobbling along with the rest of her. She swore under her breath.

Watching her withdraw, Fillmore could tell she didn’t want to be seen or touched. But he needed to look in her eyes when he said this. He needed her to hear him. So, he placed the tip of his finger under her chin and lifted her face up to his. The light in her bright green eyes had dimmed, which nearly broke his heart to witness. He dried a tear lingering on her cheek before letting his hand fall.

“You are a survivor, Ingrid,” he murmured. He expected her to avert her gaze, but she didn’t, so he continued, “And there is nothing shameful about that.”

Ingrid never saw herself like that; only as a victim, which pained her to admit. No one ever referred to her as anything but, and it was strange to hear him do so. “Most people don’t call me a survivor,” she muttered after a gulp. “They call me a victim.” She winced, the word sour on her tongue.

Fillmore offered his hand to her along with a soft smile. “Most people don’t know you like I do.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on her chapped lips. He had a point. Even with all her secrets, he still knew her better than most; saw sides of her that she wouldn’t dare reveal to anyone else. She seized his outstretched hand with her own, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze with a smile to match.

“I’m just sorry you didn’t get justice,” he said, running his thumb across her knuckles. “If anybody deserves it, it’s you.” Ingrid shrugged, her lips forming a straight line as she failed to come up with something to say. She didn’t necessarily feel that the system had failed her in the past. She accepted the outcome without much thought, relieved that she wouldn’t have to testify and relive it over and over again. Her photographic memory did that enough. “If you wanted, I’m sure you could press charges against Nathan.”

Ingrid shook her head vigorously. “He wasn’t gonna follow through, Fillmore. He was just angry, and rightfully so.”

“I’m not talking about what he might or might not’ve done, Ingrid.” He grabbed her other hand and held them both up. She shivered as his fingers caressed the angry purple bruises around her wrists, but she didn’t pull away, not even as the goosebumps rippled across her sensitive skin. “I’m talking about what he did do to you. To your hands, your neck, your shirt. All of that was assault.”

“I know that Fillmore,” she admitted, “but Shawn is the one who belongs behind bars, not Nathan. Nathan was collateral damage.” She shrugged up him. “And so were we.”

Fillmore raised an eyebrow. “Shawn?”

Ingrid closed her eyes, internally swearing at the slip. “I… I meant Maverick,” she corrected. “Shawn was…”

Fillmore didn’t push her to answer. He could put one and two together. “Him.”

She nodded, looking right through his chest and to the wall behind him. Ingrid could feel the exhaustion setting in, her bones quaking with effort from keeping her body upright. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take when he blurted,

“I was so scared in that shed.”

She brought her attention back to him and she could see guilt in his eyes. Her eyebrows furrowed, prompting him to continue.

“You know, just hearing his threats and not being able to tell if he was acting them out or just talking a big game…” It was his turn to hide from her curious eyes, choosing instead to look down at their interlocked hands. “I couldn’t get outta those cuffs fast enough.”

Her heart fell. She hadn’t thought about the effect today’s events might’ve had on him. As a martial arts expert and former delinquent, Fillmore was the bad boy of the Safety Patrol. No one crossed him. But underneath his tough guy exterior, everyone knew he was a good guy. Chivalrous, charming, sweet, and most of all, protective. She couldn’t imagine how completely helpless he must’ve felt being physically unable to defend her. 

“I’m…” Fillmore couldn’t decide what to say next, the guilt weighing him down. He wanted to apologize, swear it would never happen again, or that if he’d known everything, he would’ve fought them off harder. And saying sorry didn’t feel quite big enough to cover it, but he didn’t know what else to say. “Ingrid, I’m so—”

Before he could finish, she closed the gap between them. She stood on her tiptoes and circled her arms around his neck, effectively stunning him into silence. Ingrid never initiated a hug. Fillmore was the touchy-feely one, always wrapping her up in hugs and throwing his arm around her shoulders to make her uncomfortable (all in good fun, of course).

And he was not gonna take it for granted. Once the initial shock wore off, he returned the gesture. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her deeper into him.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Fillmore,” she whispered before letting out a short chuckle. “I had it handled.”

He laughed into her hair. “Damn right, you did. I was impressed,” he affirmed, pressing his fingers into her sides. “I’m always impressed by you.”

“Even right now?” she asked, her meek voice muffled by his shoulder. “Post-meltdown?”

He mhmmed into her neck, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her back. “Especially now.”

Ingrid squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping. How he could witness her completely shattering and still see her the way he always did; as an equal. As her friend. She squeezed him tighter, warmth finally returning to her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered tearfully, her heart catching in her throat.

“You never have to thank me, mama,” he murmured directly into her ear, squeezing her back. “We all gotta let our burdens down sometimes. I’m just honored you’re letting me carry some of it for you. Lord knows it’s gotta be heavy to carry on your own.”

His words enveloped her, sending relief coursing through her body. With the exhaustion threatening to pull her back to the ground, Ingrid released him and dropped to her feet, keeping her face hidden against him. Her hands and forehead both flat against his chest, she breathed his statement in. Words couldn’t accurately convey how grateful she was for him at this moment. For his presence, his warmth, his friendship. She’d always been so afraid to let him all the way in; afraid that he’d judge her every fault, every mistake. Every crack in her armor.

But she finally did. And here he was, not leaving her behind to pick up the pieces on her own… but holding her together.

He tucked her hair behind her ears, cupped her face in his hands, and placed a tender, lingering kiss against her hairline. She bit her lip and held her breath, savoring this display of affection. It wasn’t often that she felt this comfortable with physical touch beyond handshakes or fist bumps – Fillmore was almost always the exception to the rule. He leaned his forehead against hers and, when she finally opened her eyes, his were gazing down at her adoringly.

An emotional smile adorned her lips, an identical one appearing on his.

“Can we please change the show upstairs?” she begged. Fillmore pulled away and burst into laughter. Her heart sank at the sudden separation, but she continued, “I know it’s your favorite, but it makes me want to eat glass.”

He threw his arm around her and pulled her into his side, tucking her safely underneath his shoulder. “We can watch anything you want, mama,” he said as they started their journey back upstairs.

“There’s a new documentary about the Aztecs on the History Channel,” she suggested, knowing full-well it would be torture for him.  

He hesitated. “Okay, anything but that.”