Deep End - Sam, Lara POLICE AU - SFW
Because it's about time I wrote an AU. It's also about time I wrote third person.
Completed in 210 minutes (when I should have been working on commissions T_T)
When the call patched through, Constable Croft had been in the middle of unbuckling and unfastening all the various pieces of her uniform, and had just reached her heavy, uncomfortable belt. She'd been fantasising about the point where she got to take the blasted thing off all evening, and the time had finally come when she heard the static from a speaker.
Her shoulder radio – now actually on her chair and not her shoulder – hissed and then a familiar voice with a thick, familiar accent said, "Four-oh-one, we've got reports of an incident on the M3 South Western Causeway, do you copy?"
He had to be kidding. Croft groaned, arms flopping by her side as she abandoned her belt buckle. Of course they had an incident there right now. It was miles out and the middle of the bloody night. She leant over to the radio and pressed transmit. "No, I don't bloody copy, Roth," she said into radio. "I've just finished a double-shift. Tell Traffic to get it."
He didn't seem fazed. "It's a jumper on the bridge, there," he said, and the word immediately made Lara's stomach flutter. "So, should I kindly ask whoever it is to schedule his suicide attempt for a more convenient time?"
How about a time when I've had sleep and I'm not all by myself? Croft thought, frozen. "Can you ask one of the seniors from North East?"
"Come on, Lara," Roth said. "The poor man'll be long gone and buried by the time they arrive at the scene."
Croft stared at the radio, trying to think of another reason she couldn't go.
Roth had been working with her long enough to know what that silence meant. "You'll be fine," he assured her. "He's probably just looking for an excuse to climb back over, anyway. Trust me, if he'd wanted to do it he'd have done it by now."
Croft drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking down at the chair beside her locker and all the pieces of her uniform laid out on it. Tentatively, she pressed the button again, "Well, I think you should have called North East."
He laughed, the bastard. "I put you in this role for a reason, Lara," he told her. "But it certainly wasn't because of your self-confidence. You'll be fine."
Croft didn't say anything to that. She just began, piece-by-piece strap, to reluctantly fasten and layer all the parts of her uniform back onto herself. Most of it was useless, really; she was in Community Support and not in the business of arresting or shooting people. Still, policy dictated she dress exactly the same as warranted officers.
…Even when she was just going to be leaning over a bridge and telling some poor man that his wife would forgive him, or that he'd get another job soon and his children were still proud of him, or whatever comforting phrase she'd take straight out of the training manual to try and stop him from jumping. God.
She sighed at the mirror again, and then headed out to her car. The M3 Causeway was a fair way out, but at least at this time of night there was no traffic.
It actually took several laps of the bridge for Croft to figure out where the reported jumper actually was; and it was only because there was a faint shadow against the lights of a shopping centre in the background that she even found the person. Hoping she wouldn't royally bollocks this up, she pulled the car over, switched the lights on, and then walked over towards the shadow.
She'd been rehearsing the lines from training, when she spotted the hand curled around the railing in the headlights.
It was small, and the fingernails were painted bright red.
She stopped for a second, staring at it. It wasn't a jilted husband or a fired businessman at all. When she got to the railing and leant over it, she saw it was actually a young Asian woman – early twenties, maybe? – with a really edgy haircut, the shortest possible legal dress, and tear-smeared make-up all down her face. She was crouched on the other side of the railing and was really tiny, really pretty, and really crying. Deep, soul-wracking, hopeless sobs.
And yet, she hadn't jumped.
Croft panicked for a moment. She had no idea what to say to this woman.
The movement startled the woman a little, and as she turned her head towards Croft, her stilettos slipped a bit on the steel pylon. Reflexively, Croft grabbed her hand on the railing.
The woman looked at it, and then at Croft, and then closed her eyes. "What are you doing here?" she asked, as if the police showing up at her public suicide attempt was annoying and unusual. She had an American accent, and she smelt like a mixture of expensive wine and French perfume.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," Croft said, and tried to force a warm smile. "What's your name?" She hoped she didn't sound as nervous as she felt.
She woman sighed. "Does that even matter?" she asked flatly. "I mean, it's three am, I bet you'd prefer I'd just have done it by now so the paramedics would be scraping me off the highway down there and you could sign something off and go home to bed." Croft felt a twinge of guilt. She had thought something along those lines a moment ago… The woman looked down at the road below. "Maybe I should just do it…"
Taking a sharp breath, Croft tightened her grip on the woman's hand. "Please, let me help you back over instead. Believe me, I'd much rather that than anything else."
The woman didn't make any sort of move to let go and fall, though. She just kept staring downwards; a tear rolled off her cheek and they both watched it fall and disappear onto the motorway. Croft swallowed. She didn't want this poor girl to follow. She should say something else, shouldn't she?
"I'm Constable Croft," was what ended up coming out of her mouth. "Lara, really. And I'd shake your hand, but, well…" She smiled wryly down at her hands: they were gripping the woman's wrists. No sooner had she done that, though, she felt ridiculous for trying to make light of a very serious situation.
The woman looked back up at her, surprised. "I can't believe you just tried to joke with me," she said, but seemed to appreciate it, anyway. "Do they teach you that in Cop School? Joke with people who are about to kill themselves, it'll lighten the mood?"
Croft winced. She'd already buggered this up already, hadn't she? "No…" Croft said, sighing, "I just have naturally bad judgement about things like this."
The woman was smiling properly now. "Great, I'm being talked down by a dork in a uniform. Are you even strong enough to stop me if I do actually decide to jump?"
That, Croft had something to comment on. "Actually, I'm pretty strong," she paused, realising how that sounded, "by the way, that is not an invitation to test my strength."
The woman watched her for a second, relaxing a little. "Sam," she said. "You asked my name before? It's Sam. Sam Nishimura." Croft couldn't help but recognise it, and Sam noticed. Any trace of that smile disappeared and she said, "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The Samantha Nishimura. Drunken, slutty, party-girl daughter to the Benevolent Supreme Media Moghul Toru Nishimura."
That hadn't been exactly what Croft had been thinking. She'd been thinking that Sam's name was Japanese, and that once upon a time, she'd been fascinated with Japanese history. A long time ago.
In remembering that, though, Croft had been silent.
Sam interpreted the silence in completely the wrong way, and her face just completely closed up. "Fuck," she said, scrunching her face up. "Fuck. I'm such an idiot. Fuck, why did I tell you that?"
Croft shook her head. "No, no, you've misunderstood, I was just thinking that–"
"—that you'll make a fortune when The Sun interviews you about this later?" Sam interrupted her. It sounded like something she might have said before many times. "Yeah, I know how it goes. Well, why don't you give them a real story, then? Tell them I'm pregnant to Prince Harry or something and my father went nuts about it so I killed myself—"
"—Sam, I—"
"—I'll be so mangled by the cars all driving over me that no one will even know you're lying and—"
"—Sam, stop, that's not what I—"
"—they'll think the Sam Nishimura was just some messed-up, pregnant, alcoholic—"
This time, Croft interrupted her, loudly enough to speak over her."Actually, I was thinking how awful it must be to have to introduce myself like that," she said. "Like you just did. To someone who hasn't met me before."
That silenced Sam. She didn't speak for a few seconds, she just looked back down at the road far below.
"Today, I bought champagne," she murmured. It was hard for Croft to hear her over the motorway below. "I just went into a liquor store and picked up a bottle and gave it to the guy on the register, and I was like, 'Hey, just this, thanks!', and it wasn't like he actually said anything, but the way he looked at me…" She shook her head tightly. "I smashed it on the floor right there in front of him, just like he probably expected me to. I smashed a bottle in a store in front of a zillion people because someone looked at me funny. I'm a head case. Just ask The Sun."
Everyone knew The Sun was rubbish. "No one believes that tripe, Sam."
Sam laughed once. "And yet, guys on registers in stores still look at me like I could be about to get wasted and dance topless on the counter. And the worst thing is, I probably would," she said, as if that was the worst thing someone could do.
"And so what?" Croft asked. "There's nothing wrong with that. I saw a lot worse when I was bartending, and all the girls who did it always ended up being really lovely."
Sam looked surprised by that, surprised enough to forget briefly about the champagne bottle. "You were a bartender? Like, you actually took that job and not, like, sewing doilies for High Tea parties or something?"
Croft wasn't sure how to answer that. "Uh, yes?" She paused. "What do you mean 'sewing doilies'?"
Sam laughed a bit. "You know, you seem totally uptight and proper, not the kind of person who becomes a bartender and parties with drunk people for a living."
"Well, I didn't really party for a living," Croft corrected her. "I poured drinks for the people partying and tried to make sure the place didn't get too smashed up."
Sam's face fell. "Oh, right. Of course you did," she said. When Croft prompted her, she shook her head. Eventually, she said, "For a second I thought…" She pressed her lips together. "Never mind."
Croft squeezed her hand. "You thought…?"
Sam shook her head again as if to refuse to answer, but then she answered, anyway. "Well, look at you, you know? I'm an idiot. Of course you don't party."
Croft didn't follow. "I'm sorry?"
Sam rolled her eyes in exasperation at having to spell it out. "You don't get drunk and do stupid crap, do you? You're out here at three am in your freshly pressed uniform trying to stop the people who do get drunk and do stupid crap from killing themselves, and then you go home and hang it up in your closet. I bet your parents are so proud. I bet your father doesn't fucking sell you out to the press and ship you off to foreign countries because of how bad you are, does he?"
Croft opened her mouth, and then closed it. "He's dead."
Sam looked taken aback. "Oh." After that, it looked like she didn't know what to say. A silence stretched between them.
Croft felt that creeping panic of not being sure what to do return; the only thing she was sure of was that she really wanted this poor girl over the railing and not about to jump onto a motorway. "Come on, let me help you climb over," she suggested. "I'm not going to tell The Sun. I'll even put in my report that you didn't say who you were. I'm happy to do that for you, if you'll just climb over."
Sam watched her carefully for a few moments. Her eyes were swimming with tears again, and when she spoke, she sounded exhausted. "I wish I could believe that."
"That I won't tell the Sun?"
Sam shrugged. Another tear rolled down her cheek as she closed her eyes again for a second. "'I'm happy to do that for you'," she repeated, and then shook her head. She was still looking down at the road. It made Croft nervous. "Just go arrest drug dealers or something. Leave me here to figure out how to not to screw up this one thing."
Croft tried to keep her voice calm, like they'd told her in training. "Sam, I know you must be feeling quite—"
"Yeah, yeah, I bet it says that in the manual or whatever," she said dismissively. "I bet it's going to be really annoying to fill in all the paperwork after I jump, right? Or maybe the paramedics do that when I'm DOA?"
"Sam, that's not it at all. It actually does matter to me if you're—"
"Stop it!" she hissed, Croft's calm voice bothering her for some reason. "Stop it, okay? Stop this 'I'll help you' crap, I know you're just doing your job." She went to wrench her hand out from under Croft's, but, just as Croft had said, she was strong. "Just let go already!"
That only made Croft grip her wrists more tightly. "No, I'm not going to do that!"
Sam began to use her weight to try and pull away. "Just go away!" she said managing to get one hand free and leaning precariously over the motorway, "Just go home to your warm bed and your quiet life and your steady job and your fucking High Tea and doilies and stop pretending that it matters to you whether or not some stupid drunken daughter of Nishi-what's-his-name jumps off a bridge at three am onto—"
Croft couldn't remember making a decision to do it; but she did, anyway. With the free hand, she dug in one of her many utility pockets in the high visibility vest, and before she'd had a chance to think anything over, she'd slapped a handcuff around Sam's wrist. Then, almost in slow motion, they both watched her fasten the other end around her own wrist.
That wasn't in the manual.
The protests died on Sam's lips as they both stared down at the handcuffs. Then, making sure Sam saw her do it, Croft held up the key and lobbed it across the asphalt towards the flashing patrol car.
They both watched it dive under the headlights, and listening to it clink along the road.
Croft swallowed, turning back to Sam. "There," she said definitively, trying to hide her shaking voice. "Please don't jump."
Sam just gaped at her, stunned. After a few seconds, she said quietly, "But you could have just put the other end on the railing…"
"Yes, I could have."
"…But you didn't."
Croft shook her head. "Now do you believe me?"
Sam closed her jaw and turned her body back towards the railing. Standing properly face-to-face, Croft realised that if Sam hadn't had those heels on, they'd both be the same height. They were probably the same age, too, or close to it. But they'd obviously lead lives that were so very, very different.
Sam's eyes dipped to the railing. There was resignation in her voice. "I'm a bit drunk," she confessed, patting the steel. "Can you help me?"
Croft did, gripping those slender arms and that tiny waist and helping the shaking girl back onto the road side of the barrier. She wavered on those party heels and Croft would have liked to let her sit in the patrol car with a blanket around her shoulders, but due to the fact they were handcuffed together, they both had to crawl around on the road looking for the blasted key.
"Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time," Croft confessed, blinded by the headlights and feeling along the cool, wet asphalt.
She could hear Sam laughing. "Hey, I'm here, aren't I?"
When they'd found the key and unlocked the cuffs, Sam circled her wrist, wincing. There was a red line on it. Croft felt a bit guilty about that. "Sorry, I'm actually not meant to latch them that tightly."
"Yeah, you're a bad cop," Sam said dryly, but she was still laughing.
From there, Croft would have normally taken the person back to the station to make sure they were linked in with psych services and support, or maybe even taken them to hospital… but she couldn't do any of that unless she was going to ID Sam. And since she wasn't going to do that, she should really just dismiss her. She didn't, though. Instead, she was just standing there, oh-so-professionally, wondering what on earth was supposed to happen now.
When Sam stopped laughing, Croft realised she'd just been standing there, staring at the other girl in awkward silence.
Sam seemed to find it charming rather than horribly amateur, though. "Should I, like, let you go save some more lives or something?"
Croft somehow pulled herself together. "I was actually off duty when I took this call."
That struck home for Sam. "Oh…" she said as she let that sink in. After a moment, she added, "So, you're just going home now?" When Croft confirmed that with a nod, Sam made a face. "Okay, is it, like, really messed up if I offer to buy you dinner? You know, since you're definitely, definitely not going to put any of this in a report?"
Croft scrunched her eyes shut. "Oh, god," she said, exhaling. She was hungry, and this woman didn't seem like she'd be the worst type of company, and it wasn't like she hadn't broken every other rule… "You're going to get me fired."
Sam laughed at that, but as her laugh tapered off and they climbed into the patrol car, she had a thoughtful look about her. "This isn't part of your job, is it?"
Croft made a very firm noise. "Handcuffing suicidal women and then accepting their grateful dinner invitations? I should think not."
Sam smiled ear-to-ear at her as she wiped her cheeks on a tissue. "Just checking," she told Croft as they pulled out from the edge of the bridge and went to look for the smallest, dodgiest, darkest little restaurant where no one spoken English and no one would have read The Sun.
Just as she'd promised, the report Croft handed to Roth the following day stated that she'd dispatched but had arrived at the bridge to find no one there. He listened to her recount that, read the report twice and rubber stamped it. "I took the odometer reading out of the car myself," he said before he handed it back to her.
She made a face, sucking air through her teeth. "Sorry, I keep forgetting about that with the new forms. I'll get it right next time."
He nodded, and then he watched her for a second. "Oh, and I like your new perfume."
Perfume? "I don't…?"
"It makes the patrol car smell very nice."
In the second it took Croft to panic, he was already laughing. "Go home, get some sleep," he told her, putting a warm hand on her shoulder and not probing further. As Croft left, she spotted him seated at his desk with a big, proud smile on his face. She left with one, too.