Work Text:
She can’t stop watching it.
The video plays on a loop in front of her, fingers shaking on the mousepad. Her breath comes out in spurts, eyes locked on a twenty-seven year old her, her voice echoing out of the computer speakers.
A knock rattles the door, but she doesn’t move.
She can’t.
Stars shining bright above you….
Night breezes seem to whisper, “I love you,”...
Birds singing in the sycamore tree….
“Lucy?”
She can hear voices through the glass, but they sound like they’re underwater.
The door swings open, and she can hear Tamara’s voice behind her.
“I called Tim.” She says, coming into view in front of her. “He said he’ll meet you here or at home.” She pauses. “You’ve been in here a while. I was getting worried.”
“I’m fine.” She replies. “I’m sorry.” She turns, standing on shaky legs.
“Don’t be.” Tamara says. “Let’s go home? I’ll tell him to meet us there.”
She nods, Tamara’s arm wrapping around her shoulders as they make their way to the parking garage.
She’s exhausted by the time they make it to her apartment. They meet Tim in the hallway, no words spoken between them as Tamara unlocks the door, dropping Lucy’s keys in the basket and flicking on the lights before silently disappearing into her room.
Tim shuts the door behind them as she drops her bag on the floor, eyes following as he moves around the counter, hand outstretching toward her. She takes a step towards him and he pulls her in, hand resting on the back of her head as hers rests on his chest. It’s not until he rocks them to the side that she finally breaks down, tears soaking his shirt, and his hands switch, thumb running against her back as his lips land on the top of her head.
“It’s okay.” He whispers. “You’re okay.”
She shakes her head, and he pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, fingers reaching up to brush hair off her forehead. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know.” She says, fingers clutching his shirt. “I — have you seen it?”
“Seen what?”
“The video.”
Dream a little dream of me…
Say nighty-night and kiss me…
“Yes.” He admits, fingers running through her hair. “I have.” His lips press against her head once more. “Tamara said you watched it.”
“Yeah.”
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me…
While I’m alone, as blue as can be…
Dream a little dream of me…
“You don’t have to testify.” He says gently. “Tell Sanford to forget about it.”
“I’d like to tell Sanford a few things.” She mumbles, and his brows furrow.
“Something happen today?” He asks, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her to a seat at the counter. She watches as he moves around her kitchen, taking down her favorite mug before he’s opening her cabinet and starting the kettle.
“He’s just - such an ass.” She rests her elbows on the counter, a small smile on her lips as he opens her drawer of takeout menus. “I’m in the mood for some italian, if you’re ordering.”
“Caruso’s?” He closes the drawer as the kettle shuts off, pouring hot water into the mug. “The usual?”
“Please.”
He slides the mug across the counter to her, and she mumbles a quiet ‘thank you,’ watching as his forearms rest against the counter. “I’m gonna see if Tamara wants anything.” He says, hand tapping the counter as he stands. “And then I want you to tell me what made Sanford such an ass.”
She nods, taking a sip from the mug, focusing on the warmth that spreads through her. Her mind drifts back to the video, to the desert.
The wooden chair in her back.
The sting of the tattoo needle.
“Luce.”
“I’m okay.” She replies, as if on autopilot, blinking until she can make out Tim sitting next to her. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” His hand rests on her arm, a small smile on his lips. “What did Sanford do? Tamara hinted at something he said, but she said it wasn’t her place to tell me.”
Dream a little dream of me…
“He sang it.” She lets out, gaze fixing on the mug in front of her. “I needed a break during trial prep, so we went to the break room. I’m talking to Tamara, he’s making coffee, and —”
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me…
While I’m alone, as blue as can be…
“And he just - he started singing.”
“In front of you?” Tim asks, and she could feel the anger coming off his body in waves. “I knew he was an ass, but I didn’t think he was stupid —”
“It’s fine.” She whispers. “I don’t want to focus on it more.”
“You’re okay?” His thumb draws circles on her arm. “I can punch him in the face if you want.”
She lets out a small laugh. “Not necessary. I need him for trial tomorrow.” Her hand rests on top of his. “I’m okay.”
She was so not okay.
She was sure a good meal and a hot shower would fix her — even a little sexy time — but nothing worked.
She tosses in bed again, gaze flicking to the clock at her side.
1:04.
She really needed to get some sleep.
So she closes her eyes once more, focusing on the feeling of Tim’s chest rising and falling below her, his hand on her waist.
She was safe here. Everything was fine.
Metal clangs above her.
Digs into her back.
She jolts up in bed, breathing ragged, his hand falling from her waist. He stirs at the movement, but she slips out of bed undetected, making a home on the couch.
At least if she wasn’t going to get any sleep, he could.
Morning comes, and she somehow ends up back in bed, Tim’s arms wrapped around her shoulders as he holds her, a kiss on her head as he leaves for work.
“Just say the word.” He whispers, fingers brushing hair out of her face. “I’ll call in sick.”
“I’ll be okay.” She replies, hoping her words sound believable to him. “I’ll have Tamara.”
It’s 7am when she finally decides it’s time to get up and get ready, long skirt swishing around her ankles as she searches for her ring.
She slips on one of Tim’s zip-ups for good measure.
It’s a quiet ride to the courthouse, and she can’t seem to catch her breath once they get there.
She sits in the lobby of the courthouse, legs shaking as she tries to take deep breaths. Tamara’s on her right, going on and on about the latest ClipTalk trend. She knows Tamara is trying to calm her, but moments of the last few years flip through her vision.
Her fingers move to her right side, and Tamara’s hand lands on her shoulder.
“It’ll be fine.” She says, an air of positivity around her. “You can still back out —”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I’ll be good.”
“He said you can call him.” Tamara says softly. “He’ll 10-6 personal so he could be with you.”
So everyone else in the station knows she can’t handle testifying? No thanks.
“It’s not like that.” Tamara adds, as if reading her mind. “This isn’t just a case you worked on —”
“You sound just like him.” She mumbles, hand rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m fine.” She repeats. “Just want to get this over with.” She swallows. “Most of Rosalind’s victims are dead. I survived. I want to do this. I’m fortunate to be able to do so.”
“Okay. But just say the word, and I’ll create a diversion so we can go.”
She smiles, nudging her shoulder, taking a steadying breath as someone pokes out and calls her name.
“Thank you for doing this, Lucy.” Chris begins, and she fidgets, sleeves pulled over her hands. “Can you start by explaining how you met Caleb Wright?”
Pace yourself. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.
“I met him at a bar.” She begins, palms sweaty. “Las Torres.”
Caleb, from the bar last night.
“He showed up the next day at the station. Gave me his number.”
If you ever feel like waiting in vain for a drink, give me a call.
“You met Rosalind Dyer the same day, correct?” Chris asks.
“Yes. We were, um, assigned to her protection detail. In Griffith Park.”
“Did you have any reason to believe he was working with Rosalind Dyer at the time you met him?” Chris continues, but his voice sounds far away.
It’s been an awful day. Can’t I just enjoy a cute puppy?
“No.”
“Can you tell us about your abduction?”
Are you saying she was tattooed right before she died?
What’s DOD?
Day of Death.
“Yeah. I, um —”
So, as my training officer, you’re telling me I should go get a drink?
Maybe even with another human.
“I met him for drinks at Las Torres, around 8:30.”
“On December 8th.”
“Yes.” She swallows. “I had a couple drinks.”
I should call an Uber.
If you can’t tell, I had a really good time.
“He walked me out to the alley behind the bar. That’s where we parked.”
Might make this next part a little easier.
The car beeps.
A trunk pops open.
“He had drugged me.”
You put something in my drink.
Sh, sh, sh.
A hand covers her mouth.
She pulls at the neck of her shirt.
“Take your time, Lucy.” Chris says, coming back into focus. “As much as you need.”
She nods, eyes locking on Tamara, just for a minute.
She gives her a small thumbs up.
“He shoved me into the trunk of his car.” Her voice comes out quiet. “I woke up in a house.”
The tattoo needle buzzes, sun shining into her eyes.
“Caleb Wright was tattooing my Day of Death into my skin.”
You know what it is?
Tell me.
“When I woke up again, my wrists and ankles were duct taped to a wooden chair.”
Oh hey, you’re up.
Dust tickles her throat.
Gravel digs into her hands.
“I, um —” She clears her throat, gaze flicking to Chris in front of her.
To Tamara.
“He chatted. Seemed to be proud of what he was doing —”
There’s a knife in her back.
Hand on her mouth.
You were just a happy opportunity.
“He mentioned Rosalind Dyer —”
I don’t know what Rosalind sees in the guy.
The carpet in the trunk scratches her back.
The lid clangs above her.
She clears her throat again. She suddenly feels like she can’t breathe. “I’m sorry I —”
His smile flashes across her vision.
No. He’s dead.
“I’m sorry, I need —” She can’t get the words out.
Her throat was closing.
She hears the thump of a gavel, sees people move around the courtroom.
Feels a hand on her arm, but she can’t breathe.
“Lucy.” Tamara. “Hey, are you okay?”
“Mm.”
“They took a five minute break. Do you wanna —”
“No.”
She closes her eyes, hand landing on her chest. “I’m - I’m okay.”
“You’re not a good liar.” Tamara replies. “And you don’t have to be. Okay, I mean.”
“Hm.” Her gaze fixes on the clock on the back wall.
12:06.
Tim would be on his lunch break.
“He already texted me three times.” She says, as if reading her mind. “Asking if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.” She repeats.
“Not convincing.”
Zip ties slice against her wrists.
“I can’t lie to him.” Tamara says, leaning against the wood in front of her. “I can tell him to meet us somewhere after. If you want.”
“Okay.” She whispers, watching the second hand tick by. “That’s fine.”
Footsteps echo in the courtroom.
“Lucy, are you ready to keep going?” Chris. “We can stop —”
“No. We can keep going.”
Are you going to bury me in Rosalind’s third unmarked grave?
She hears Tamara’s footsteps grow faint, sees her in the stands. Chris stands in front of her, waiting for the rest of the courtroom to be ready. He clears his throat.
“So, you wake up in a house. Caleb Wright is in front of you, and he mentions Rosalind Dyer.”
Why are you doing this?
“Yes.”
“By name?”
“Yes. I - I think so.”
We’re equals.
“Then what happened?”
I’m gonna enjoy this. More than I thought I would.
“I broke free of the chair.”
Duct tape scrapes her wrists.
“I punched him.”
Her knuckles sting.
“And I ran.”
Nothing but desert.
“I tripped, on a wire.”
Gravel digs into her hands.
Into her cheeks.
Into her stomach.
Her eyes burn.
“He sprayed me with pepper spray, I think. I couldn’t see, but I - I just started swinging.”
His knee lands in her stomach.
She’s tossed across the gravel.
A foot collides with her head.
Rocks dig into her back as he drags her.
“Um —” She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. Nails dig into her palms. “He - Caleb - made me walk a little while, to the top of a hill. He zip tied my wrists to my belt.”
A knife digs into her back.
If I get that away from you, it’s going right in your brain.
“When we got to the top, there was a barrel.” Bile rises in her throat. “And a hole.”
You’re not gonna ruin this moment for me.
I’m not getting in there.
“He pulled out a gun. It was either get shot, or get in the barrel.”
Get in the barrel.
“I dropped my ring, hoping it would help.” She holds up her hand, fingers shaking, before she drops it back down in her lap. “And I - I got in.”
You’re gonna be dead long before I am.
“There was a camera in the lid.”
“For Rosalind?” Chris asks.
The lid clangs above her.
The earth shifts.
“He didn’t say that.” She lets out. “But Rosalind Dyer mentioned she saw it.”
You think the camera in the barrel was for Caleb?
“So the lid comes down on the barrel. There’s a camera. Then what?”
“He pushed it into the hole. And buried it.”
Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
“He buried me alive.” Her voice breaks.
“How did you get free?”
“I don’t know.” She whispers, feeling wetness on her cheeks. “The LAPD found me. I was —”
Dead.
She can’t bring herself to say the word.
Papers shuffle in front of her. “It says here that Sergeant Tim Bradford was the one to find you. Does that sound accurate?”
“Yes. He’s the one who gave me my ring back.”
It was the first day of the rest of your life, Officer Chen. And no one can take that away from you.
She wipes at her face, gaze landing on Chris as he shuffles through papers. “Okay, so after —” He looks down at his notes. “Seargeant Tim Bradford resuscitates you —”
Tim.
Her chest constricts.
“You were taken to the hospital. You didn’t see Rosalind Dyer until —” He pauses once more. “A year later?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Lucy.” He says, a smile on his face.
Her skin crawls.
As the other attorney approaches the bench, she closes her eyes, taking a steadying breath.
She was fine.
“Did you ever hear Caleb talking to Rosalind on the phone?” He starts.
“Mm. No.”
“Did he talk about her as if they were frequently communicating?”
“No.”
She thinks of all the crime scene photos laid out in front of her.
Of the barrel.
“So how can you be sure he was working with her?”
“Because she told me herself when I visited her in prison. She repeated the song I sang in the barrel —”
Stars shining bright above you…
“How - how would she know that if her and Caleb weren’t in communication?”
Zip ties flash in front of her.
Her shoulder hits metal.
“Ms. Chen.”
She blinks.
“I’m sorry.” Her hands shake in her lap. “Did you say something?”
Chris puts down his pen. Tamara shifts in her seat.
The attorney in front of her clears his throat. “So this is all speculation?” He asks, and she pulls at her sleeves. “There is no definitive proof that Caleb Wright was working with my client, Rosalind Dyer?”
“I don’t know what kind of proof you’re looking for.” She replies. “You have the prison camera. He - he wrote down things she told him. There’s documentation that connects them - how —” She shakes her head, hand drifting to her side. “It’s not like I was wearing a wire.”
Her foot catches, and she flies across the gravel.
Pepper spray burns her eyes.
“So you admit —” He continues, “That any and all proof that the defense has is speculative?”
“Objection.” Chris calls out.
“Sustained.”
The attorney steps back. “That’s all I have for Ms. Chen.”
She stands on shaky legs, repeating to herself over and over that she needs to keep her composure until she’s out.
She can hear footsteps behind her, and she stops in the lobby, the weight on her shoulders finally too much to bear.
She senses him before Tamara even says his name.
Quiet sobs escape her as his arm wraps around her chest, gently pulling her against his chest as his lips press against her temple.
“You’re okay.” He whispers as her hands come up to touch his arm. “Everything’s okay.”
“You’re here.” She chokes out, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I — you —”
“Tamara said you could use a little extra support.” He murmurs. “Let’s go home, yeah?”
She nods, allowing him to guide her outside, taking in the fresh air. “How did you —”
“Lopez dropped me off.” He explains, and she lets him guide her into the passenger seat. His hand rests on her knee as Tamara climbs in the backseat, before pulling out of the lot. “I’m proud of you.” He says, thumb running across her kneecap. “That takes a lot of bravery to do.”
“I don’t feel very brave.” She whispers.
Despite the evidence literally tattooed on your side, you don’t think you’re dying today.
After Sergeant Tim Bradford resuscitates you —
“You saved me.” She says, hand resting on top of his.
“We all did.” His gaze flicks to hers, just for a minute, before looking back at the road.
Have you been here all night?
No.
“It was you.” She repeats.
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.
“Chris said you resuscitated her.” Tamara explains from the backseat.
“Yeah, well, that’s what happened.” He answers in reply, and she gives his hand a gentle squeeze. He turns, lips upturning. “Hungry?”
“Starving.” Tamara answers for her. “Can we grab something on the way home?”
You know what I really wanna eat right now?
“Yeah, what do you want?” Tim asks, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “We can hit up the drive thru on the way.” His eyes flick to Lucy. “Want anything?”
“Veggie burger?” She pulls a knee up to her chest.
“And fries and extra pickles. Got it.”
You know me so well.
Too well.
The rest of the day is pretty mellow. They stay in, watching reruns of old movies neither of them are paying much attention to, all while she tries to pretend like she’s not avoiding the darkness night will bring.
Tamara goes out to a friend’s house, and she falls into bed with Tim.
Everything is good.
It’s 2:30 when she gets up again, throat dry. Quietly, she ventures into the kitchen, grabbing a cup and putting it on the counter.
He’s there.
Knife in hand, he’s coming right for her.
She can’t go back in there.
She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.
She screams.
Doors fly open, objects clatter, and she backs up until she hits the wall.
Or metal.
Oh god, she’s already inside.
She sinks down to the ground, words passing through her lips that she can barely hear.
She sees a gun, feels a hand on her shoulder, and braces herself.
“Luce.”
Caleb had Tim’s voice. Why did he have his voice? Why —
“Luce. Hey.”
She blinks.
It’s Tim in front of her, tucking his gun into the back of his pants before his hands are resting on her knees. “Are you hurt?” He asks, concern etched into his features.
Her eyes flick to the clock.
2:54.
“Lucy.” His voice is pained, thumbs running over the tops of her knees. “I need you to talk to me.”
She opens her mouth, but the only sound that comes out is a whimper.
“Are you hurt?” He asks again, hands moving to her shoulders, her arms.
She shakes her head slowly, bile climbing up her throat.
“Did you see —“
“Oh - Tamara —“ Was she hurt? Was she —
“She’s okay.” He says gently. “She’s at a friend’s tonight. Just texted a little while ago that she was going to sleep.” He intertwines his hands with hers. “Did you see someone?” He asks, eyes scanning around the apartment. “Was someone here?”
“I thought I —“ She swallows. “Caleb.”
“He’s dead, honey.” Fingers brush against her temple. “A bad dream.”
She shakes her head. “I —”
“How about this?” He holds out his hands to help her up, and she grabs on, allowing him to tug her to a standing position. An arm wraps around her waist. “I’ll check the apartment, okay? Just to be sure.”
“Okay.” She hates how useless she feels, how stupid.
His lips land on her temple. “Go in your room. I’ll be right there.”
She obliges, sitting on the edge of her bed, head bent forward as her hands rest on the back of her neck. It’s two minutes until he’s back, gun on her dresser as he sits down next to her. “All clear.” His hand lands on her back, his other falling on her shoulder. “You’re so tense.” He whispers. “Here, sit up.”
She sits up, and he turns her, hands on her shoulders. “Breathe in. Slow.”She takes a deep breath in, and his hand moves to the center of her shoulder blades. “And hold. And breathe out.” She follows, his hand slowly rubbing her back. “Good.”
After a minute, he leans forward, a kiss landing on the top of her head. “You’re safe here.” He whispers. “Always safe with me.”