Work Text:
Amy Santiago doesn’t cry at work.
She doesn’t even feel at work — not in a way that slows her down. She organizes. Streamlines. Problem-solves. Her brain is a never-ending filing cabinet, folders color-coded and alphabetized.
It’s not just about being composed — it’s about being useful. Being the person people lean on. She’s built an entire identity out of keeping things running even when everything else is falling apart. Organizing chaos. Channeling her anxiety into lists, binders, protocols.
Feelings are meant to be filed.
That’s what she tells herself at 9:08 a.m., standing in the briefing room while Jake reads out details of their latest case and Rosa scribbles notes with laser focus.
Emotions are post-it notes: acknowledged, catalogued, then stored for later.
Except, today, her filing system is failing her.
The post-its are starting to bleed.
⸻
The case isn’t special, not on the surface.
It’s not a serial, not a kidnapping. It’s not the kind of thing you read about in The Times. But something about it sinks into Amy’s ribs and refuses to let go.
A young female corrections officer at Queensboro. Twenty-seven. Two years in. Assigned to a new block after the last woman in her role filed a complaint against the warden.
The victim’s statement is… hard.
She talks about being watched. Tracked. Intimidated. Her locker reassigned. Her shifts lengthened. Her access cards malfunctioning. Her body no longer hers. Not in an overt way. But in the way someone can put their boot on your back and pretend it’s not there.
She says the warden made her kneel on the concrete floor of his office once, said it was a “respect exercise.”
“It wasn’t sexual,” she says. “It was something else.”
Amy hears the tape three times.
She still can’t name what rises in her throat.
He didn’t touch her.
So they’re not calling it assault. Not technically.
But Amy knows what it is.
And more importantly — she knows what it does.
⸻
Rosa hasn’t said much all morning. She’s working the case with Jake, her voice steady but clipped. Her notes are meticulous. Her posture is flawless. To anyone else, she looks fine.
Amy knows better. She sees the tension in Rosa’s jaw. The way her fingers flex slightly before opening a folder.
Amy wants to help. Wants to be her anchor.
So she smiles when Rosa glances her way.
“I’m good,” she says.
And Rosa nods, but her eyes linger a beat too long.
Like maybe she knows better too.
⸻
By noon, Amy’s chest is tight.
By two, her hands are trembling.
She goes over her notes again, tells herself she just needs food. Or air. Or time.
But nothing helps. Not the ginger tea Boyle brings her. Not Jake’s story about getting his tie caught in the water cooler. Not even Rosa gently pressing her shoulder in passing.
If anything, that only makes it worse.
Because Rosa already has trauma. Rosa is the one who deserves care.
Amy is just… empathizing too hard.
Right?
Except now her throat feels like it’s closing.
And she’s dizzy.
And she can’t stop picturing Rosa in a uniform that didn’t fit her, sitting in a cell with cold floors and eyes on her back, always watching.
⸻
She tries to ride it out at her desk.
Fails.
Then tries the bathroom.
Fails harder.
——
Amy doesn’t remember deciding to take the stairs.
One second she’s at her desk, staring at the corner of her monitor like the right angle might give her clarity, and the next she’s standing halfway up the stairwell, gripping the railing so tightly her knuckles ache.
Each step feels heavier than the last. Her body knows something’s wrong, even if she doesn’t have the vocabulary for it yet.
She’s halfway to the roof before she realizes she forgot to bring her phone.
Or her badge.
Or a single coherent thought.
All she knows is that she needs space.
Air.
Distance.
Her hand shakes as she pushes the door open. The metal handle is cold, but the rooftop air slaps her with heat — the kind that bakes concrete and reflects off windows like light from a magnifying glass.
The brightness stuns her.
It’s too much. Everything is.
She stumbles out and presses herself against the far wall. Her back hits warm brick. She leans her forehead to the stone, eyes squeezed shut.
Breathe.
That’s what they always say.
In for four, hold for four, out for four.
She inhales. The breath stutters halfway down. Her chest tightens. She tries again — faster this time, desperate. But nothing sticks. Her lungs won’t cooperate.
Her hands clutch at the front of her shirt.
Her pulse is hammering, way too fast. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth. Her vision edges with static.
This isn’t adrenaline. This isn’t nerves.
This is something else.
This is panic.
She slides down the wall without meaning to. Her legs fold under her, knees pressed to her chest.
She’s shaking now.
Like, whole-body shaking.
Muscles fluttering under her skin.
Her jaw aches from clenching. Her stomach churns. Her breath is coming in short, gulping gasps — too fast, she thinks, too shallow.
Oh God. I’m panicking. I’m panicking and I can’t stop.
A high-pitched ringing starts in her ears. Her skin goes numb in places — her fingertips, her lips. Her hands twitch. Her heart lurches in her chest like it’s trying to escape.
She tries grounding.
Tries to name five things she can see.
The sky.
The ledge.
The emergency light by the door.
Her shoes.
The shadow of her body shaking on the ground.
It doesn’t help.
Everything blurs. The light looks wrong. Too sharp. Too close.
I’m not safe, her body screams, even though her mind is trying to tell her otherwise.
Her thoughts are slamming into each other now — fragmented, staccato.
You’re fine — you’re overreacting — you’re weak — she was the one who went through it —
Rosa.
Rosa’s face flashes in her mind like a camera bulb — bruised, tear-streaked, vulnerable in Amy’s arms in the alley behind Shaw’s just a few weeks ago. Rosa’s voice: I was assaulted.
Amy’s stomach flips. She sees Rosa kneeling on cold concrete. Alone. Terrified.
She sees Rosa’s hands trembling in the backseat of her car.
The blankness in her eyes after the closet incident.
The unspoken grief Rosa tried so hard to file away — and how Amy never knew where to put it.
Now she can’t stop seeing it.
Can’t stop feeling it.
Her breath hitches violently.
“I can’t,” she gasps aloud. “I can’t, I can’t—”
She wants to run. Wants to scream. Wants to crawl out of her own skin.
But she can’t move.
So she curls in tighter. Clutches at her sides.
Please, she thinks. Please stop.
No one’s here.
And that, somehow, is the worst part.
⸻
She doesn’t hear the door open.
Only hears it click softly behind her.
“Amy?”
Terry.
His voice cuts through the ringing like a low hum beneath static. It’s calm. Real. Human.
She can’t answer. But something in her moves. Not her body — not yet. Just the part of her that knows: you’re not alone anymore.
Terry doesn’t rush. Doesn’t ask anything else.
She hears his footsteps approach — slow and steady. Like he’s stepping into sacred space.
He kneels beside her, not touching her yet.
“I’m here,” he says gently. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”
Amy tries. Her throat spasms.
“It’s okay,” Terry says again, softer now. “Don’t force it. You’re safe. Nothing’s hurting you right now.”
Her breath keeps catching. She gasps once, a sound halfway to a sob, and he moves a little closer.
“Match me,” he says. “You don’t have to get it right. Just try.”
He inhales, slowly.
Amy tries to follow. Fails.
She lets out a sound — something wounded, humiliated. “I c-can’t—”
“You can,” Terry says. “But even if you can’t right now, it’s okay. It’ll pass.”
Her vision’s swimming. Her whole body aches.
“I didn’t want her to know,” she whispers. “I didn’t want her to see me like this.”
“I know,” Terry says. “But she loves you.”
Amy’s chest seizes. She drops her head into her hands.
“I’m supposed to be the strong one,” she sobs.
“You are.”
“No,” she gasps. “I can’t breathe.”
Terry’s voice is like bedrock. “You can. Just stay with me.”
She tries again.
In.
Out.
Too fast.
Too tight.
⸻
She chokes on another breath. “She’s been through so much. I didn’t want to make her carry my reaction on top of hers.”
Terry gently rubs her shoulder. “Rosa wants to be there for you. Let her.”
Amy breaks into full sobs.
And Terry, softly and efficiently, pulls out his phone.
“Rosa. Roof. Now.”
———
Rosa doesn’t ask questions.
When Terry calls and says “Amy. Roof. It’s bad,” she doesn’t pause to clarify. Doesn’t ask who else is there. Doesn’t even hang up properly — just shoves the phone in her pocket and starts running.
Every stair is a blur. Her boots hit concrete like gunshots. She takes them two at a time.
By the time she hits the rooftop door, her pulse is pounding in her ears.
She pushes it open and steps into the blinding afternoon light.
And stops.
Amy’s on the ground.
Pressed into the far wall, her legs pulled up, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to keep from vanishing.
Her hair’s stuck to her face with sweat. Her shoulders are shaking. Her hands twitch where they’re clutched in her lap.
Terry is kneeling beside her, murmuring something low. Calming. But his eyes flick up when he sees Rosa.
And Rosa doesn’t need words.
She knows this look. Has worn this look.
And now Amy’s wearing it — the collapse beneath the armor. The unraveling you try to fight until you can’t anymore.
Her body moves before her mind does.
She’s already crossing the rooftop, fast but measured, every part of her screaming Don’t startle her. Don’t overwhelm her. Just get to her.
She drops to her knees without a word.
And Amy looks up.
Her eyes are glassy. Her cheeks streaked with tears. Her mouth open like she’s still trying to pull in air that won’t come.
And Rosa’s chest aches at the sight of her.
Not because she’s never seen Amy cry.
But because Amy tried to hide this from her.
And she understands why.
Amy sobs when she sees her. A sound so small and broken Rosa almost misses it.
“I’m sorry,” Amy gasps. “I didn’t—I didn’t want you to—”
“Shh.”
Rosa doesn’t let her finish. She just gathers her close. Moves slowly, deliberately, making sure Amy can feel each inch of contact.
One arm around her shoulders. One hand at the back of her head.
Amy folds into her like she’s collapsing inward.
“I’m here,” Rosa says softly. “I’ve got you. Just breathe with me.”
Amy shakes her head. “I can’t—”
“You can. You will. You’re safe. Right here. With me.”
Terry gently rises, steps away. Rosa barely notices.
All she sees is Amy — her Amy — crumbling, panicking, still trying to apologize.
“I didn’t want to make it about me,” Amy says, sobbing into her collar. “It was your thing. I didn’t want to… take up space.”
Rosa leans her forehead to Amy’s. Her voice stays calm. “You didn’t take anything.”
Amy gasps. “I kept thinking about you. About what they did. I—I couldn’t stop seeing it. And I couldn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to be another thing you had to hold.”
“You’re not.”
Amy trembles harder. “I felt so helpless.”
Rosa tightens her grip. “I know.”
“I wanted to be the strong one.”
“You are.”
“But I’m not right now.”
Rosa’s voice breaks a little. “You don’t have to be.”
Amy clutches the back of Rosa’s jacket like it’s the only solid thing in the world.
Rosa keeps whispering.
“You held me when I broke down, remember?”
Amy nods against her chest.
“This is just me holding you.”
Amy sobs again — harder, messier now. The kind that doesn’t care who hears. The kind that’s been held in for too long.
Rosa strokes her hair. “That’s it. Let it out.”
They stay like that for a long time.
Amy pressed into Rosa’s chest, crying out weeks of swallowed fear.
Rosa doesn’t try to fix it.
She just stays.
Quiet. Steady.
Unmoving.
⸻
Eventually, Amy’s breathing slows.
Not because she’s calm. But because her body’s finally exhausted itself.
Her fingers are still curled in Rosa’s shirt. Her voice is hoarse.
“I thought if I cracked, I’d lose the right to help you,” she whispers.
Rosa pulls back just far enough to look her in the eyes.
“Amy,” she says softly. “You showing me this doesn’t make you less strong. It makes you real. And I trust real people way more than perfect ones.”
Amy looks down.
Her lip trembles.
“I didn’t want to be another burden.”
“You’re not a burden. You’re my partner.”
Amy’s throat works. “You mean that?”
“Of course I do.”
Rosa leans forward and presses her forehead to Amy’s again.
They stay like that, breathing each other in, the warmth of the sun on their skin, the worst of the storm passing.
⸻
When Amy finally speaks again, her voice is fragile.
“Can we go home?”
Rosa nods. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”