Work Text:
MJ doesn't tell the therapist about the dreams.
She doesn't tell him much of anything, really.
Instead she breezes through each session as the model patient, expressing just enough emotion to assure him that she's capable of it. After she's repeated the right words enough times, he signs off on her return and wishes her luck.
Back to work, like nothing happened. Just what she wanted.
So what if her heart pounds every time she walks alone to her car? So what if she can't breathe during the five seconds it takes her to unlock her front door? Whose business is it if she wakes up five times a night to make sure the door is locked? After all, it was ten times a night for the first few weeks after the Foley incident, so isn't that good progress? Soon, it will be three times, then one, and then she'll make it through the night.
She's always prided herself on being self-sufficient. That, and her strong stomach. Crime scene photos never haunted her dreams. Now the sound of a slamming door or a backfiring car has her reaching for the nearest wastebasket for a dry heave, if she's lucky.
But work is a comfort, as always. The guys don't treat her any differently, as she'd feared they might. Everyone is on board with her mission to move on.
And sure, the thought has occurred to her more than once that maybe she ought to talk to the one person who would actually understand what she's going through.
That, of course, is the one person she can't call.
Because, (a) Dr. Hudson has enough problems and doesn't need to be burdened with hers or even reminded of the Foley incident, given that she's probably never going to leave her house again, and (b) she already tried. No answer.
Besides, she's fine. The doctor said so.
He would know, wouldn't he?
*
Weeks pass and the symptoms subside, to some extent.
Until she's looking around the apartment of some asshole who's under arrest for killing four college girls in three and a half weeks and she finds (1) a dog-eared paperback of Daryll Lee Cullum's book, with various passages highlighted and underlined, and (2) a stash of letters stuck in said book that are all signed by Cullum himself.
She barely makes it outside before her lunch hits the pavement.
So much for that strong stomach.
“Hey, I heard about what happened,” Nico says later, in passing. “You'd tell me if you were pregnant, right?”
“Don't see how that would be any of your business.” She doesn't look up from the report she's been trying to write for the last two and a half hours.
“You kidding? Who do you think's going to throw your baby shower?”
She thinks about it for a minute. “Jesus, that's depressing.”
“Don't change the subject,” he says. “What's the deal?”
She sighs and checks her watch. 5:00. Already starting to get dark outside. This is a bad idea, but she won't be able to sleep until she confirms it. Proof of life. She starts getting her things together to leave.
Nico looks wounded. “Excuse me for being concerned.”
“I'm not pregnant," she says. "I do have somewhere else to be. Nothing personal.”
“Sure, sure. Want some Pepto-Bismol?” he calls after her, but she doesn't turn around.
*
The woman who answers Helen's door says, “You're that detective--I remember seeing you on the news a while back.”
She nods, acknowledging that yes, she was once on the news. “I'm looking for Dr. Hudson. Is she here?”
The woman looks confused. “You don't know?”
She can hear her pulse pounding in her ears. “Is she all right?”
“As far as I know,” she says. “Wait here, I'll see if I can find it.” She closes the door just slightly. MJ shifts nervously in the hallway. This was such a bad idea. She'd rather endure a million slightly awkward conversations with Nico than stand in this hallway for five more seconds. 1, 2, 3, 4--
The woman returns and hands her a slip of paper. It's an address in San Luis Obispo.
“She asked us to forward any mail to this address. I wouldn't give it out to just anyone, I mean, but I remember the story about that guy, and what happened, so I'm sure it's OK to give it to you.” She sounds uncertain, as if she's trying to convince herself that this is the right thing to do. “This is OK, right?”
“Ask me later,” she says.
*
She had known the drive would take at least three hours, without any stops, but somehow she's taken by surprise when the clock reads 8:47 as she pulls up in front of Helen's house. Even if she just turns around without even going to the door, she won't get home until almost midnight.
This idea has officially gone all the way past bad to stupid.
“Proof of life,” she mutters, and heads for the door.
She rings the doorbell instead of knocking. More civilized or something. (And she'd like to make it through the evening without vomiting, almost vomiting, or wanting to vomit.)
“Who is it?” Helen calls.
“SFPD,” she answers. “Just want to ask you a couple of questions.”
Helen's face breaks into a smile as she opens the door. “Inspector Monahan. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She hesitates. There are questions she wants to ask that start with how and why, not to mention when, and she's tempted to just come out with the reason right here on Helen's doorstep. But Helen's smiling, and it could be dangerous to bring up Daryll Lee Cullum until she's determined just how fragile Helen's psyche really is at this point. “Just wanted to catch up. You know, been a while.”
Helen steps back, inviting her in. “I'm surprised it's taken you this long.”
My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. “Nice place.” It's a real house, outside of town, quiet. Too quiet for MJ's liking; there's a fence, but it's not nearly substantial enough to make any difference if someone wanted to get in. “I think you could fit my entire apartment in this living room. Of course, that was true of your old place, too.”
“I'm not complaining, but why are you really here?”
Not yet. “How are you doing?”
Helen sighs, perched on the arm of her clearly expensive new couch. “I'm fine. Really, truly. I go out every day. It's getting easier.”
MJ wants to ask: How about the drinking?
Instead, Helen asks, “How are you?”
“I'm good,” she says. “Back to work.”
“Awfully soon, don't you think?”
“No.” She shrugs. “I was going stir crazy.”
“I can imagine.” Helen goes to the kitchen and returns a few seconds later with a glass of water, which she hands to MJ. “You drove three hours to ask how I was doing? Like I said, I'm not complaining, but--”
“I presume you've heard something about the Herbert Walden arrest?”
Helen's smile fades. “Yes.”
“He'd been corresponding with Daryll Lee Cullum. Your name was mentioned... frequently."
“So you wanted to make sure I was still alive,” she says.
MJ studies her face. “I have to say, I expected more of a reaction.”
“Why? I am still alive.”
MJ sits on the couch opposite Helen and leans forward. “I'm sorry, but are you on any mind-altering substances right now? It seems like you aren't taking this seriously. Because if Cullum was corresponding with this asshole, there have to be others, and you're out here in the middle of nowhere, and that lady just handed me your address--”
“She must have thought you looked trustworthy.”
“She recognized me from the news.”
“Well, there you go,” Helen says. “You're not just anyone. And to answer your first question, yes.”
MJ realizes with a start that she's serious. She refrains from saying the first three things that spring to her mind, settling at last on, "Thought you were giving that up.”
“Unfortunately,” she says, “I don't feel comfortable explaining the details of my current state of mind to a law enforcement officer.”
“Jesus, Helen.” MJ checks her pupils. Awfully small. “Are you high?”
“I'd prefer not to incriminate myself, if you don't mind.”
“Is this your new coping mechanism?” MJ leans back. “Shit, maybe I should try it.”
“That's entrapment,” Helen says. “And, anyway, it's not even mine.”
“Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say.”
“I found Andy's stash during the move. I thought about keeping it to remember him by, but I figured he'd just tell me to use it if he was here.”
“You're probably right about that,” she says, and wonders, idly, whether Reuben ever smoked pot. Probably not.
“Of course, I must have forgotten that it's illegal,” Helen says lightly. “I guess I'll have to throw myself on your mercy.”
“I'm not a square,” she protests.
To her credit, Helen doesn't laugh.
Much.
*
“Are you all right?” Helen is staring at her rather intently.
“I don't feel any different,” she says. “Actually, I should probably get going, it got a little later than I thought.”
“You can't drive.” Now Helen is looking at her like she's an imbecile. “You're an officer of the law.”
“Oh. Right.”
“I'll make up the couch for you later,” Helen says, visibly relieved, as she settles on the floor. She stretches out a hand, inviting MJ to join her. They sit side by side, Mj's legs bent awkwardly underneath her; she isn't dressed for this, whatever it is.
“What am I doing?” She shakes her head. “I shouldn't be here.”
“It is odd,” Helen agrees. “But I do appreciate the concern.”
OK, maybe she's feeling slightly light-headed. “Why did you move without telling anyone? You should have notified the police department.”
“I did."
Of course. She'd been in such a hurry, she hadn't even bothered to check.
"While you were out." Helen doesn't apologize or even offer an explanation. Why should she?
“I should really get going, call a cab or something. This is incredibly inappropriate.” With that, she tries to stand up and make a graceful exit, but she doesn't quite make it off the floor.
Helen doesn't react to her attempted departure. "Don't be ridiculous.”
“Really,” she insists. "What do we know about each other? We shared something, a trauma, but that doesn't mean we're friends. I had a duty to make sure you hadn't received any threats, and you are clearly just fine, so how did I let myself get talked into this?"
"Are you finished? Jesus, you're even more intense when you're high. It's supposed to relax you, you know?"
"I'm not high."
Helen laughs. "How would you know?"
She can't argue with that.
"Anyway, to address your point, we did share a trauma, as you put it, but whatever we were or weren't before, we're certainly bound together now. And I don't buy that you're fine; it takes real work. You can't ignore it, or it'll just close in on you, until it's all you have. I should know, remember?"
"I saw a therapist for weeks."
"That's good," she says. "But it doesn't mean you're cured."
Her head feels like it's in a vise. She could pass out at any moment; there was something she wanted to say, but it's gone now. "I'm sorry I said we weren't friends. I liked you. Maybe not at first.”
“Past tense,” Helen observes.
Her mouth goes dry. “Present tense.”
“You are remarkably tense,” she agrees. “Are you still feeling all right?”
She thinks about it. Her hands are like ice. “It feels like all of my veins are tightening. Is that normal?”
Helen shrugs. “I'm hardly an expert. This is one crutch I never personally employed.”
She closes her eyes. What if it's not normal? What if she's having a bad reaction? What if she ends up in the hospital? She'll never hear the end of it. What if she's suspended? After everything she did to get back to work?
When she opens her eyes, Helen has crawled over and is peering directly at her, and her hands have landed lightly on MJ's shoulders. “Breathe,” she says, so MJ does.
Her veins seem to release in the spots where they connect, and she relaxes slightly. “This is my first time,” she explains.
“Could have fooled me.”
The dizziness is getting worse. Lack of circulation, maybe. She focuses on Helen. “Why aren't you worried about Walden?”
“I am worried,” she says. “I just can't let that rule my life anymore.” Her voice is low, as if she thinks someone might overhear.
She sighs. “That's very enlightened. Wish I could get there.”
“What did your therapist say?”
“That I was fine,” she says. “Which I am.”
“You know, they can't help you if you don't tell the truth.”
She decides to ignore the unsubtle implication. "It's nice here. I get why you left."
Helen sighs. "I haven't even been to the coast. Driving is... a challenge. I wasn't that good at it before, and I'm worse now."
She remembers what she wanted to say. "I'm sorry I said we weren't friends." Wait. She might have already said that.
“I'll survive somehow,” Helen says, helping her to her feet. "I always do."
*
She wakes up on the couch, with a ludicrously indulgent pillow under her head and an equally ludicrous blanket over her. She's not complaining.
She sits up, waiting for the headache to make itself known. Nothing. The room isn't even spinning. Huh.
Helen is clattering around in the kitchen. She resists the urge to wrap the blanket around her and instead straightens her work clothes before she rises.
"Good morning," she says, only slightly bleary.
"Did you sleep well?" Helen's standing at the stove, staring at a sizzling pan.
"Better than I have in a long--shit, what time is it?"
"Almost noon," she says. "I figured you probably needed the rest. The nightmares are--"
"I don't have nightmares. Can I use your telephone?"
"I called in for you." Like it's a perfectly normal thing to do.
"You did what?" Her stomach drops, though she's not sure why. Probably because she'll have to figure out how to explain that the second she gets back. Three hours on the road ought to be enough time. "What did you say?"
"I said you were sick. Whoever took the call said something about you throwing up at a crime scene yesterday. He said he hopes you feel better, and he's glad he doesn't have to throw a baby shower."
Nico. "Well, thank you, I guess."
"If you haven't noticed, I'm making breakfast. However, I make no representations or warranties about the quality of the food, except that it will be edible. I have to give myself some credit."
MJ sits down at the kitchen table. "Edible is good," she says. "My breakfast is usually a cup of coffee, maybe a Pop-Tart if I'm feeling decadent."
"It's a miracle you've lasted this long."
"I'll wash the dishes, but then I have to leave."
"They aren't expecting you at work," she points out.
"Really, I've Imposed on you long enough." Proof of life.
Without turning around, Helen makes a dismissive noise.
She has to admit that the prospect of returning to the city right this second is not actually all that appealing; the weather is nice, and she's well-rested for once, so why not stay a little longer? "Tell you what," she says. "I'll stay 'til sundown, but you have to do something for me."
Helen sets a plate in front of her. "You mean, besides opening my home to you, sharing my inherited stash, and making you an edible breakfast?"
"Yeah, besides all that." She's surprised to find that she's smiling. "Drive me to the beach."
Helen considers the offer. "Deal," she says. "But no backseat driving."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
*
It turns out that promise is harder to keep than anticipated. Luckily, the drive is short.
The marine layer is lingering; the beach is gray and chilly. The sand is full of rocks and tiny broken shells, so they keep their shoes on and head toward the water.
Helen loaned her a sweatshirt that almost comes to her knees, and a pair of leggings that are so scrunched up to accommodate the height disparity that she's quite sure the overall effect is comical, though Helen assured her she looked fine. She's grateful for the sweatshirt. The wind has picked up.
They stand there, staring at the ocean in silence, for what feels like an eternity, until MJ says, "I always feel so small, looking out there." She gestures at the horizon. "It feels like the city is a million miles away."
Beside her, Helen just nods, but after a while, she says, "You don't have to go back, you know. I mean," she adds quickly, "you could go anywhere, start over."
"Like you."
"Like me."
MJ steps forward, just slightly, and digs her shoes into the sand. "Look, I understand why you wanted to get out of the city, and I know this is the longest conversation we've ever had that wasn't at least partially about a killer, but--"
"Why did I leave without a word?"
MJ turns to face her, turning her back to the ocean. Helen looks uncomfortable. Maybe a little unnerved. Well, good; it's her turn.
"I don't actually know. It just felt like it was the right thing to do. I didn't want to bother you."
"You didn't want to bother me?" She almost laughs. "Come on, Doc, we both know that's a copout."
Helen steps closer. "What do you want me to say?" She's genuinely curious. "What's the right answer?"
"The one that's true," she says, but she wishes her voice didn't sound so uncertain.
"All right," Helen says. "That night is a long blur of pain and fear and panic, but there's one thing I remember very clearly, and that's when you were shot. At the time, of course, I didn't realize you were wearing a vest."
MJ is starting to wish she hadn't pushed for an answer. "OK," she says, "I get it. Bad memories."
"That's not it. What I felt was irrational, given that, as you say, we weren't exactly friends."
"I can't be sure, given the circumstances, but I think I apologized for that at least once."
Helen shrugs. "It wasn't entirely untrue. I had a deep respect for you, but it wasn't respect that I felt when I thought about--"
"You know I didn't actually die, right?"
"Down here, I can pretend that it never happened. San Francisco is a different world."
"Yeah," she agrees. "But it's my world. The job. I love it."
"Present tense," Helen observes.
She doesn't respond.
Helen finally says, "We should get going if you want to leave by sundown."
"Yeah," she says. The temperature is dropping. "There's just one more thing--"
"MJ," Helen says slowly, an entreaty or a warning, as she backs up to put some distance between them.
MJ follows her forward, but hesitates. She could stop now, part on decent terms, never come back. On the other hand, what does she really have to lose? She presses on: "If it wasn't respect, what was it?"
"It didn't seem like a particularly good idea to stick around and find out."
"I just wish you'd asked me," she says quietly.
"Why?"
MJ rolls her eyes. "See, if we'd been friends, maybe you would've known--"
Helen kisses her, long and deep and slow, like it's the only way to express something she's been trying and failing to say for a long, long time.
What can she do but kiss her back? The wind is so cold, the only practical response is to cling to someone for warmth.
"Sorry," Helen whispers. "I'm out of practice."
"I didn't notice," she says.
"My social skills have atrophied."
"Doc," she says. "I'm not complaining. I just wish we'd been doing this for weeks or months instead of minutes."
"Well, I thought you were a square." She looks at a point on the horizon over MJ's head. "Sun's going down."
"Trying to get rid of me?"
"Oh, are you going to stay the night?" Helen asks innocently.
"On one condition," she says. "I'm driving."
*
They spend the evening making out on the couch like teenagers, nothing below the waist. She tells herself it's respect for Helen's probable desire to take things slow that keeps them from going further, and not her own lack of nerve.
There'll be plenty of time for that. Right?
She passes out in Helen's arms a little after midnight.
For a second straight night, she doesn't get up once to check the locks.
*
In the morning, Helen's still there beside her, fast asleep.
She thinks about leaving. Going back to work, like nothing happened.
Sure, because that worked out so well last time.
Instead, she curls against Helen on the ridiculously expensive couch, still wearing her ridiculously oversized clothes, and tries to enjoy the moment without thinking about the future.
Or the past, for that matter.
*
She ends up taking an extended leave of absence. No one gives her any shit about it, which is a welcome surprise.
She goes back to the therapist and starts over.
Her trips to the coast get longer and her trips to the city get shorter.
At first, she only plans to take a few essentials to Helen's place, like clothes in her own size. A toothbrush. Some shoes.
After a few months, it stops making sense to pay rent for the sole purpose of storing her shitty furniture and some expired milk, so she gives her landlord notice and rents a storage locker. She should just sell the furniture, or take it to the dump, or set it on the curb, but she's sentimental sometimes. A little more often lately.
Also, nothing lasts forever.
Case in point: Nico helps her move her stuff into the locker and doesn't ask her any questions that start with why or how or when.
Afterward, they sit on the floor of her empty living room with a six-pack and a couple of burgers, MJ's promised form of reimbursement.
"So," he finally says. "You're really doing this. With her, of all people."
Here it comes. "I swear to God, if you say anything inappropriate--"
"Jesus, MJ. What kind of asshole do you think I am?"
"Should I answer that?"
He just shakes his head. "No, look, I wanted to be mad, and I'm not saying this whole thing doesn't make me question my masculinity a little--"
"Aw, come on," she says. "I can't be the first."
He doesn't dignify that with a response, which is probably for the best. "But honestly, you look happy, damn it. Like you've let go of something."
Now she doesn't know what to say. "Well... thanks, Nico."
"I just wish you would've let go of your crappy furniture. Think I saw a dead rat in that couch."
She shrugs. "What if it doesn't work out?"
"Oh, yeah, sure." He rolls his eyes. "Bet you'll be back here inside a month. I forgot, you move in with people at the drop of a hat, you really wear your heart on your sleeve."
She should probably say I'm sorry. Instead, she says, "Shut up."
He thinks about it for a minute.
"Of course, there's always the possibility that she'll kick you out. Can't say I'd blame her, you are kind of a pain in the ass."
She hits him.
"What? I said 'kind of.'"
*
The next morning, she turns in her keys.
She's halfway through the long drive to San Luis Obispo (home, she tries not to think) before she realizes it's the anniversary of the Foley incident.
Helen didn't mention it when they spoke on the phone before she left the city. She wonders if she should remind her.
Why?
The bastard died. They stopped him. They survived. What else is there to say?
But a year is progress. Shit, a year is a victory.
Of course, Helen would argue that she did it all backwards, and that moving in with someone is just about safety in numbers, not a sign of recovery--not that she's complaining, of course she's thrilled, but in a professional capacity, she has serious reservations about MJ's long-term well-being.
Yeah, they've had this conversation before. A few times.
She decides not to bring up Foley. No point in opening up old wounds.
But if they did have the argument--discussion--again, she'd tell Helen that she's fine.
And for the first time in, oh, about a year, it's actually true.
She has a feeling Helen might take some convincing.
That's okay. There'll be plenty of time for that.
She accelerates toward the coast.
Home.