Chapter Text
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
She washed her face, her eyes squeezed shut out of necessity to keep the soap from running into them, but the simplest of tasks that she had mastered in childhood was now proving nearly impossible.
“You’re okay.”
She willed his voice into her head again, letting it circulate, hoping it would take the edge off, and for a brief few seconds, it did…until her fingertips reached her right cheekbone. She winced at the sudden contact of her own touch and the sting of her face wash. Ordinarily, she would have scoffed at the “gentle” label on the bottle.
Ordinarily.
“You’re okay.”
It was going to bruise now. It was the first sensation she had felt waking up; the second if she counted the first breath she took, which she technically didn’t remember. She only remembered what happened after her eyes snapped open, like they were doing now. Only this time, she was alone in her bathroom and feeling the after effects- rather than the acute sensation- from having been pressed up against Tim Bradford’s badge so hard that it marked her skin. The initial discomfort had vanished so quickly because she had realized she was in Tim’s arms and not only did that mean she wasn’t dead, but- even better- that she wasn’t alone either.
She was drying her face and reaching for her night moisturizer now, her movements frenetic, almost bordering on manic. By the time she finished brushing her teeth, her hands were shaking violently.
Just like when he pulled me out.
She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood.
“Ja-Jackson…?” She called out, but her voice was barely a whimper, nor would it have mattered if she had yelled anyway. Jackson had been called away to deal with a family emergency on his mother’s side and wouldn’t be back for another week. Her assurances to him before he had hastily packed his bags echoed back to her now.
“I’m fine now. Just go. If I need anything, I know who to call.”
She gave up on her fourth attempt to screw the cap back on the tube of toothpaste and sank to the floor in front of the sink in defeat.
You’re okay.
This time, it was her own inner voice consoling her, rather than her T.O.’s.
She managed to back herself up against the tub, its smooth edge providing cold relief, grounding her momentarily as the coolness seeped through her black, sleeveless pajama top. She watched idly as a curtain of her own hair fell forward and framed her face while she struggled to control her breathing, and silently praised whatever higher power was out there that she had psychologists for parents and knew what box breathing was.
You’re okay.
She had just been released. She should be further along in her progress than this; there was no way she could afford to go into a panic attack now and risk having to go back. Her ribs were still sore and slightly cracked, thanks to the pressure of Tim’s CPR. She cringed realizing she might still need help wrapping them before she went to bed. At the very least, she needed to ice them. She had barely gotten through her shower.
And her wrists itched every single time she so much as glanced at them.
You’re okay.
There was no way she was calling her parents. She knew she would have to tell them eventually. Thankfully, the press hadn’t been there to pick up on any of what had transpired, so the only footage would be every officer’s body cameras. If any media got wind of what happened now that it was over, the LAPD’s media consultant would handle it. She wouldn’t be named.
Now that it was over.
She managed to stand up, haltingly at first the way a baby foal tries to stand bow-legged behind its mother for protection, surmising that no one was here to protect her now. She felt her way along the patch of cool, olive green tile between the edge of the shower wall and the sink, the latter of which she grabbed onto like a lifeline to prevent from falling. Her hands were buzzing and she at least had the wherewithal to know she couldn’t risk fainting and hitting her head on porcelain. She had almost died once not even forty-eight hours ago.
“You’re okay.”
This time, it was his voice again while she screwed up what little momentum she had left and all but launched herself into a half-standing mode and out the bathroom door, limping along somewhere between a half-jog and stagger to her bedroom, her mind honing in on her phone from its resting place in the middle of her bed.
“I’m here. I’m right here.”
She felt the bruise on her right cheek again. It was going to take awhile to heal but she found herself not wanting it to because it was the first real assurance that she had been found after all and that she was never going back into the barrel. Her parents would notice- it was best if she told them before she saw them. But she couldn’t call them now when she was breaking down.
“I’m here.”
She didn’t remember picking up her phone but when she looked down, the screen was showing ‘Tim Bradford,’ and was already dialing out.
“You’re okay. I’m here.”
The same feeling of relief that had washed over when she had heard her T.O. gasp after he breathed life back into her less than forty-eight hours ago flooded her body a second time when she heard his voice groggily answer in the present.
“Hey, Lucy?”
“I know who to call.”
She was wracked with guilt for waking him but he was on the phone now and she couldn’t very well sit in silence or hang up on him.
“Lucy, is that you? Did you mean to call me or did you just-”
She didn’t recognize the primal high-pitched cry that came out as hers until she heard the all-too-familiar brashness of Tim Bradford’s tone respond.
“Okay, hang tight and try to unlock your door for me, okay? I’m on my way.”
No. No, I’m fine, I don’t know why I called you.
But the words wouldn’t come out.
She tried in vain one more time to tell him it was fine- that they could just talk for a few minutes.
But the line went dead.