Saved
by Miss Shannon
A/N: I've been playing with this idea in my mind for a while, but just now it wanted out. Strange things happen when your muse has been absent for weeks. As I have several multi-chapter fics going, this is going to be standalone for now. Maybe I'll develop it into something more fleshed-out once I have finished the others. Who knows... I hope you enjoy!
Los Angeles, California - 1999
The uniformed officer who is guiding the scene rolls his eyes at the sight of her, unable to hide his disdain from the Internal Affairs person. Sharon Raydor doesn't usually mind those blatant displays of contempt and even today she manages a sardonic little smile as she ducks under the crime scene tape that the young man holds up for her out of habit rather than courtesy. Her limbs feel heavy as she straightens up and for a moment she wonders whether she is coming down with something. She almost chuckles when the flash of realization comes. Of course she isn't. She is perfectly fine, at least physically.
Eyes follow her as she makes her way towards the old warehouse, the colorful graffities adorning its crumbly walls the only splashes of color in the otherwise dull environment. It is a rainy day, the sky hung with heavy clouds that are threatening to release cascades of rain onto everyone who isn't quick enough to run for shelter. She is eager to get this matter over with so she can return home, to get away from the rain and to pick up her children. Strangely, it is almost a relief to think that she is truly a single mother now. Not that she hasn't been for months with Jack so busy struggling with his addictions to alcohol, gambling and power.
She feels cold inside as she remembers the scene in their bedroom, his suitcase open on the bed, Jack flitting back and forth at a dazzling speed between closets and drawers, carrying armful of clothes and discarding them into the single piece of luggage. The garments fall at random and Sharon remembers wondering how he wants to fit them all inside, for Jack is not neat. She hugs herself, only parts of his lamentations penetrating the fog in her mind. He has said it all before, after all, she thinks. Too much pressure from her. She is no fun, she is holding him back. He loves her, yes, very much, but he can't take her constant criticism. Didn't she use to be so much more fun? Sharon has long since given up trying to explain to him that they have two small children sleeping in their bedrooms just next door. A seven year old girl and a ten year old son as well as a demanding job don't leave much time for the kind of fun he has in mind. She has spent so much time under the delusion that Jack is proud of her for making lieutenant and being expected to succeed the head of department a few years from now. Only during their latest fight she has allowed herself to realize that he envies her for the success he doesn't have the stamina to achieve.
Jack is smart, she thinks, her heels clicking on the old concrete. She looks down at the many cracks and fractures, the sight reminding her of her marriage. He has a brilliant legal mind, but he doesn't put it to good use. He also used to be funny, but he is not anymore in a way other than being a caricature of himself. She reaches the warehouse and pauses. Jack may be gone, but there is no excuse for not doing her job right. An officer has shot a raging drug addict and she is here to investigate. The door is open and even though the daylight outside is not exactly dazzling, she needs a moment to adjust her eyes to the gloominess inside. She is startled when someone addresses her, the familiar voice making her shoulders drop in near-defeat.
"Well, well. If that isn't Lieutenant Prim and Proper. Congratulations on the promotion." Lieutenant Provenza has never been subtle and she hasn't expected him to be now. She schools her features, straightening her shoulders.
"Lieutenant," her voice sounds snide with an edge it does not usually possess. "How lovely to see you here. I will take your statement in a minute even though waiting to have one of our lovely conversations pains me, but I am afraid I will have to talk to Sergeant Simmons first." Provenza huffs and puffs, but leads her to the back of the room. She notices the stench now. Urine, vomit, something sweet that is probably rotten food. She can feel the concrete ground trembling faintly with the vibrations of a subway train in the distance. The room is wide, she now recognizes, its glass windows shattered and debris strewn across the expanse of the floor.
"He is over there with Flynn." Provenza points out the pair with a dismissive wave of his hand and then shuffles off, grumbling under his breath. Sharon tries to breathe through her mouth. She has been unable to eat all day, worrying about the inevitable conversation she is to have with her children later on, and her empty stomach doesn't appreciate the sickening smells around her.
She puts her hands in the pockets of her trenchcoat both for comfort and in an effort to appear nonchalant to the people waiting for her a few steps ahead. Flynn is a troublemaker, but he is not as bad as Provenza. She has noticed that his eyes always linger on her legs a little longer than is appropriate and she is fully prepared to use that misplaced attraction to her advantage if need be.
"Gentlemen," she greets them, peeking at the body on the floor a few feet behind them, the glistening pool of blood appearing almost black in the dim light.
"Lieutenant Raydor, what a nice surprise." Andy Flynn gives her a dark grin, biting his tooth pick with flourish. "Simmons is still a little shaken up." She looks past him to the pale young man who has his head between his knees where he is sitting on a pile of old crates that look in danger of collapsing pretty soon. He is taking deep breaths, his body trembling, and she decides to indeed give him a minute.
"The weapon?" She holds out her hand then feels the weight of the gun in her palm as Flynn hands it to her, sliding it into an evidence bag. "So the victim-" She catches Flynn's exasperated little sigh at the term, but resumes regardless of it. "came charging at Simmons. What was he so upset about?"
"Yeah, about that..." Flynn finally takes his toothpick out of his mouth and gestures towards a pile of mattresses in the far corner of the room. She adjusts her glasses and finds that the window above it has been covered with an old moth-eaten blanket. "There is a girl over there. Probably in her late teens, early twenties. Looks like an OD. Probably crack or heroine."
Sharon exhales softy, closing her eyes briefly. A tragedy like this is the last thing she needs.
"I'll give you the grand tour!" Flynn makes a wide gesture with his arm and leads her away from Simmons and the body. She throws a casual look over her shoulder, satisfied to see Provenza approaching. The lieutenant might be grumpy, but he won't temper with evidence. The smells get more overwhelming as they approach and her stomach flips, her own disgust mirrored in Flynn's eyes. The young woman has dirty-blonde hair and a thin, haggard body. She is on her back, half-covered by a duvet without a cover, adorned with stains whose origins Sharon doesn't dare consider. She is wearing a grey tank top that used to be white and is now stained with vomit. Her eyes are dull, staring at the ceiling, unseeing.
"Simmons is Narcotics. So it was a regular drug bust?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Provenza and I were the closest unit. We responded to his distress call and arrived just in time to hear the shot."
"Right," Sharon murmurs. The upside of working in FID is that the bodies she is faced with are usually fresh and so is this one, but the smell is getting to her. Her focus is split, her mind going back to Jack's departure, the way he closed the door behind him so decisively that he might as well have closed the proverbial one, too. Sharon's marriage is over and here she is, standing over the dead body of a young girl whose life has gone horribly awry. It fills her with so much sadness that she has to swallow back tears.
She opens her mouth to address Flynn again when they both freeze then whirl around towards the source of the noise that startled them both. Behind another stack of crates, she hears a rustling and draws her weapon the same moment that Flynn does, slowly creeping towards it. It is ridiculous really, she thinks briefly, as whoever is hiding there must have heard their previous conversation. Maybe it is a rat, she wonders. Maybe she and Flynn will even share a shaky laugh once they have peaked around the corner.
But they don't laugh. Flynn willingly takes her gun that she holds out for him as she crouches down to be on eye-level with the small terrified boy who is clutching a tatty blanket adorned with happy green ducks. He has the same dirty blonde hair she has seen on the dead woman and his eyes, though full of the pain and therefore alive and vibrant, look just like hers, too.
"Hey," she says softly, not yet reaching out her hand for him although she suddenly aches to. "Are you okay?"
The small boy retreats farther into the shadows, his small knuckles white from the firm grip he has on his blanket. Sharon's heart breaks for the little boy who can't be much older than three years. She thinks back to Ricky at this age, a bright, happy toddler who spent most of his days singing or yelling and keeping her on her toes.
"I'm Sharon." She keeps her voice low. She hears Flynn's steps retreat, glad that he understands without having to be told. "You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm here to help you." The boy looks doubtful, but she can tell that his resolve is melting. The allure of a protective figure is just too strong to ignore. She takes off her glasses to appear less threatening and has to blink to sharpen her vision.
Andy returns, silently handing her a blanket. She gives him a grateful smile and looks at the toddler who is wearing only shorts and a t-shirt, his bare feet black from the grimy floor. For a brief moment, unspeakable anger flares up inside her and she isn't so sure whether it is just directed at people who run themselves into the ground and allow their children to suffer along with them or whether her disappointment in Jack also plays its part. It probably does, she digresses, slowing reaching out her hand.
"You must be cold, honey," she says. "There is nothing to be afraid of. Why don't you come here so I can warm you up." She runs her hand along the blanket. "It is really soft, so don't worry." She smiles warmly in order to reassure the child. Something changes in the boy's expression and he runs towards her with shaky, uncoordinated steps. She welcomes him into her arms, wrapping the blanket around him at once, Flynn's relieved sigh in her ears.
"Now, that's better. We'll get you warmed up, okay? Lieutenant, could you get a soda or some tea? He feels so cold and we don't know when he has last eaten."
"Yeah, of course." Flynn has lost his cocky attitude and his face has adopted a serious expression. Her resident troublemaker is truly affected and she is glad to see that he cares.
She gets up and holds the boy against her chest, gently stroking his soft hair and whispering words of comfort. He still holds on to the blanket but his grip has loosened.
"Would it be okay if we stepped outside for a moment?" she asks him softly, receiving the tiniest of nods. She tries to walk smoothly on her high heels, gently guiding his head to her shoulder as they walk past the bodies.
The fresh air outside is a relief and so is the fact that she can sit down, the child still in her lap. She can smell the rain that has not yet begun to fall. Flynn hands her a can of orange soda and she opens it for the child who begins drinking it greedily.
"I'll see whether I can find him something to eat." Flynn walks off again and she adjusts the blanket around the small boy, stroking his hair. He is still very tense but he is beginning to relax and she is sure that the shock is going to wear off soon to give way to desperate tears of horror. Before that happens, she has one last thing to ask him.
"Honey," she whispers, looking into troubled blue eyes. "What's your name?"
He hesitates before he answers her, both of his hands closed around the can he is trying to balance. He says only one word.
"Rusty."
Los Feliz, California - 2012
Sharon runs her hand through her hair in an exasperated gesture, wondering why she is doing this to herself. And now of all moments - but weirdly, tidying up and rearranging things always calms her. Working on her closet, however, might not have been the brightest idea as all the clothes strewn over the bed never cease to remind her of the day Jack left her. She smiles despite herself as she spots the box in the back of the closet. She leans in and pulls it out, sitting back on her heels to open the lid and inspect its contents that she knows by heart. Another, more lasting smile appears on her face when she takes out Ricky's first teddy bear and Katies first ballet shoes, so worn although she grew out of them so quickly. And then she sees the blanket, the cartoon ducks blinking happily at her. It has been washed so many times, she thinks, but it was so loved that she never dared suggest that they throw it away.
There are footsteps behind her and her son appears in the doorway, his too-long hair hanging in his eyes.
"Mom, I can't believe you're doing this now."
She rolls her eyes. "It calms me."
Rusty walks over to her bed and carefully sets a pile of cashmere sweaters aside to be able to sit down. He watches her replace the blanket, not commenting on it. All of her kids know that she is horribly sentimental and they have long since lost interest in teasing her about it. She sits on the floor, wraps her arms around her knees and rests her chin on top of them.
"Am I doing the right thing?" she asks him, searching for reassurance in his bright eyes.
"Mom, you can't honestly ask me that," Rusty says. "Dad's had enough trouble with the guys in his division when you made Captain and he didn't. They won't give him the time of day when you're his - and their - new boss now."
Sharon sighs. "I am the Wicked Witch from FID," she agrees.
"Ah, come on!" Rusty rolls his eyes, every bit the teenager again. "They'll be okay with it, I'm sure. And if they're not, Dad and Uncle Louie will have their asses."
"Rusty, language," Sharon admonishes, but her kid just rolls his eyes again.
"Tidy up, Dad wants to go out for dinner."
Sharon sighs as she gets to her feet, turning to the box behind her to push it back into the closet. Rusty pauses in the doorway and smiles to himself. He doesn't remember much from his early years, but he does remember clutching his favorite blanket and being held tightly in Sharon Raydor's arms, thinking that whatever else may happen, he has been saved.
The End