I'm beyond tired right now, thus unable to write any lengthy, inspirational author's notes at this stage of sleepiness. Just one thing I wanted to point out for those of you who read and enjoyed my story 'Chuckles': there's a part in here that vaguely ties the 'Pandora's Box' series with that story if you squint. You'll know what I mean when you get there.
Also, once again huge shoutout to Floopdeedoopdee for her support!
Never in her entire career had Trudy been so nervous to open a file.
Over the course of twenty-three years, she had been writing and reading a lot of reports. In the past decade, the focus had shifted more onto the latter; reviewing, correcting, and processing all the paperwork submitted by the officers of the twenty-first district was the part of her job as desk sergeant that took up most of her time, after all. Thus, she was accustomed to reading gory details of hundreds if not thousands of disturbing cases. Whether it was straight-forward hit and runs or assault and battery, whether it was brutalizing homicides or execution-style serial murders, heartbreaking domestic abuse or humiliating violent sexual assault cases. Platt had read them all, and she'd seen her fair share as well. With time she had become blunt – not numb because that would imply that she no longer cared, but she did care, and she cared a whole lot – to all the barbarous cruelties humankind had to offer. Though how those were human, or kind was highly questionable.
However, she had the niggling feeling that none of those would prepare her for the folder with the single sheet of paper mocking her from Hank's desk. Not so much because of the words written on it in ink, but because of what the information would disclose about Jay. The whiteboard and Voight's vague recollection were enough for her to presume that whatever had happened to Flynn Baker was extremely personal for Chuckles as well. Reading it would feel like an invasion of his privacy, something that the kid valued and sacred above all else. Trudy didn't know if she really wanted to violate something that was so, in all sense of the word, intimate. It didn't matter that the Intelligence leader had granted her permission to read the incident report on Flynn. It didn't matter that she would have to read it in due time, anyway, once the case was closed and she had to file the paperwork. It still didn't seem right, felt like a betrayal because she didn't have Halstead's consent. Shouldn't it be his decision who was made privy to the sensitive information in there, and not superior? Then again, she had to remind herself that no matter how many similarities this case might bear for him, in the end it wasn't a report on Jay but on the victim.
No more than five minutes had passed since she had entered the small office, yet her conscience had been going back and forth on that debate for what seemed more like twenty. She'd tried to distract herself with other things in the meantime, postponing the inevitable.
Watching the former ranger in his sleep had come naturally to her. As soon as she caught a glimpse of the persistent tremors that apparently still hadn't ceased since she'd seen the kid downstairs earlier, she had sprung straight into mom mode. Whilst she approved of the fact that the thin, clammy t-shirt underneath the lent fleece jacket ad interim had been replaced by three layers of warmer clothing, the quivers were still cause for concern and required intervention. A swift visual sweep of the office had yielded a soft woolen blanket in a rack in the far corner of the room, and she had wasted no time bringing it over to cover the shivering man. She'd draped the comforter over Jay's shoulder, stuffed overhanging ends as close to his frame as possible without fortuitously waking him up in the process. For a moment she'd been afraid that she might have done just that when he'd shifted slightly under the sudden weight. But instead of getting more restless, Chuckles had merely grasped the soft material and tugged it all the way under his chin, pulling it even tighter around him. Seeing the brunette relax afterwards was a gratifying and heartwarming testament that he felt safe, intuitively trusted whoever was with him right this instance. Touching as it was, it robbed Trudy of any other excuses to procrastinate looking at that taunting report.
If she were fully honest with herself, her curiosity was strong, stronger than her confliction and fear, and it would win sooner or later. She wanted to know what Jay had been through, wanted a better understanding of who he was or much rather what had made him into such a compassionate, considerate, and courageous young detective. She wanted to know where his unremitting resilience, his assiduous integrity, his infinite gallantry, but frankly also the undercurrent of radical vulnerability and insecurity derived from. As much as it rankled her, the file would most likely provide her with answers. Maybe not all of them, but some, at least to a degree.
Quelling an audible sigh, Platt rounded the sturdy desk and lowered herself into the swivel chair, adjusting her position until she found one that was semi-comfortable. Her left hand slowly opened the folder, the right pulled it closer to the edge of the table. She briefly closed her eyes, inhaled and exhaled, then zeroed in on the sheet. Her experienced eye found the critical section on the standard issue form almost immediately. It took five seconds for her to get through the vivid descriptions of Flynn's condition when Jay had found him, and she instantly wished she hadn't read them at all. The mere thought of her Chuckles having gone through something that even remotely compared to those very graphic imageries made her heart constrict and her blood curdle.
Trudy lifted her gaze from the paper to study the sleeping figure on the couch. As still as the former ranger was right now, he looked anything but blissful. Even from across the office she could see the perennial emotional pain and mental exhaustion in Jay's face: the tiny worry lines on his forehead forming a leftist sharp triangle above his eyebrows, the bags and shadows around his eyes, the almost painfully strained muscles of his neck. She'd noticed them before, many times, but it was only under the light of those newest discoveries that she realized they'd always been there, a constant marker marring his otherwise boyish features. Even his posture, the way he curled into himself so self-protectively, made himself a, for an adult, impossibly tiny bundle spoke of a perpetual loneliness. She understood now why Voight assumed their protégé had been on his own – it practically radiated off the kid – and why he and Al had been so adamant that the young detective shouldn't wake up to an empty office.
However, the pressing question of where the excruciating desolation had its roots remained. Essentially, it was what Hank wanted her to figure out, but Trudy had to admit that she was at a loss where to start looking.
Back when Halstead had first joined Intelligence, she had done an extensive background check on him, intrigued by the many dichotomies in his personality. She'd found a lot about his impressive accomplishments both in the Rangers and the police force, but personal information had been hard to find. Even four years later she basically knew nothing about Chuckles' family, his childhood, or even what he did for recreational purposes. Recent discoveries brought it home rather painfully just how closed off and secluded the kid really was. Platt mentally kicked herself for not making more of an effort to dig deeper into the strata of his personal life back when she had done her initial research because it became more and more apparent that those held the most crucial information, and quite possibly the answers to all the obscurities surrounding him as well.
Logging into the system on Voight's computer, she recapped the dribs and drabs she did know. Flynn's case had severely triggered Jay, and although his familiar appearance would be enough to explain that, the desk sergeant couldn't help but think that it wasn't that but much rather the combination with how and where the assault had taken place. Thus, looking into the young detective's schools seemed like as good a place to start as any. Trudy knew that Halstead had attended the De La Salle Institute on a full scholarship, but his records showed nothing out of the ordinary aside from his exemplary scholastic achievements. Which led her to believe that things must have gone downhill before that. Lo and behold, as she delved into his records at St. Gabriel Catholic School, she dug up gold:
Jay had transferred from public school to St. Gabe in sixth grade. Lauded for being a straight A student, he had set a perfect attendance, never missing a single day of school. That was until the last leg of his second year there. His grades had suddenly slipped – not overly so but enough to drop to a B average on his report card – and he had suddenly started skipping his PE classes, strangely enough his PE classes only, for the rest of the school year. Around the same time, a handful of accusations and claims had been made about him attacking fellow students out of the blue for no apparent reason. The alleged attacks had later turned out to be harmless, mere defensive pushes and shoves, but since the school pursued a strict no violence policy those had nearly gotten him expelled. Inexplicably, the principal had abstained from expulsion due to extenuating circumstances, allowing Halstead to stay on the condition that he followed regulations to a T from then on, maintained his attendance and grades as well. Unsurprisingly, the teenager had done his bidding, but Platt wondered at what cost.
For school authorities it might have looked like he'd merely been on a minute rebellion, but to Trudy the momentary blunder was a desperate cry for help. After all, a model student such as Jay wouldn't have acted out so abruptly and in such a targeted way unless he had a valid reason for it. It was heart-wrenching that no-one had picked up on what had been right under their noses, that nobody had considered it strange that the kid stayed away from just one class, and one specific class only. She might be going out on a limb, but she would bet her entire savings that her Chuckles had been assaulted by none other than his PE teacher. Because what other explanation was there for him to skip PE if it weren't to avoid his perpetrator?
Platt wanted to get her hands on that fleabag of a coach and kick him in the dick so hard so many times that the scum wished he'd castrated himself instead of sticking it anywhere near an innocent kid. She wanted to strangle every single one of the teaching staff for failing to protect a student under their watch from harm. And she wanted to shake some sense into his parents as well. Why hadn't they noticed something so terrible was going on in their own child's life? Why hadn't they seen how much their son was hurting? Why hadn't they been alarmed? Why hadn't they been there for him? Wasn't it their Goddamn duty?
She was so furious on Jay's behalf that she nearly missed the nebulous justification given in those records, the reference to extenuating circumstances that weren't specified or elaborated on. But then it hit her like a freight train, reminded her of unintentional slip-ups and en-passant comments made by bystanders, which each on their own were single isolated pencil strokes on a sheet of paper, but in correlation to one another and in context with everything else she had learnt it sketched a still raw but nevertheless coherent picture: The young detective's declaration that he had no beneficiaries. Olinsky's deduction after a rough case that the kid had lost his mother young. Will's heated revelation to a fellow doctor at Molly's one night that his mother had died of cancer when he started pre-med.
Unfortunately, none of those colored in the drawing, and the appropriate colors were hard to come by. Thus, the desk sergeant would have to do more prodding. While cancer implied medical treatment and therefore medical records, those were under lock and key for confidentiality reasons. However, Trudy noticed an exponential increase in medical expenses starting at the beginning of 1999, plateauing sometime in fall that year before coming to an abrupt stop in early summer 2000. A death certificate and an obituary confirmed Siobhan Halstead's passing around that time. That had been roughly a year after Jay's grades and attendance had taken a plunge. By implication, it was a moral certainty that the mitigating circumstances that the authorities at St. Gabe had appealed to must have been his mom's diagnosis. Which meant, when that pedophile shitshow went down, another fiasco clusterfuck had already been underway.
They said, 'when it rains it pours,' but for thirteen-year-old Jay the saying had been a grand understatement. It hadn't rained, it hadn't poured, it had pelted down. And he hadn't even had a raincoat or an umbrella to shield himself because as the hailing monsoon had whipped him, a hurricane had swept through and ripped that last layer of protection, his mom, away from him, too. How had Chuckles survived that? How had this traumatized, terrified, lonely child become such a kind-hearted, caring, decorous adult? How was he still standing? How was he even functioning?
Eyes misted with unshed tears, and Platt didn't even bother wiping them away. She was too lost in thought, trying to imagine how Halstead had dealt with the grief of one misfortune stacked upon one or who knew how many more preexisting tribulations. Her respect, her admiration, her awe for this young man had always been strong, but with everything she had just learned, it reached impossible heights. The kid's resilience was other-worldly.
Movement and stifled whimpers from the couch caught her attention, effectively bringing her out of her ruminations. She glanced up. Chuckles' facial features were twisted in a frightful grimace, and he compressed his lips, grinding his teeth hard into them whilst turning his head into the crook of his armpit as if cowering away from something, someone… Claws grabbed his chin, fingers digging into the crevice of his jaw joints, forcing him to open his mouth… His right fist clenched and unclenched around the hem of the blanket, his left palm pushing against the sofa contemporarily, convinced it was an invisible aggressor… His small hands swatted aimlessly in hopes of getting him off, alas, his lank arms inflicted no harm on the steeled muscle… As he grew more and more restless, his lower limbs followed the motion of scrambling away… He slipped on the wet tiles, knee crashing agonizingly onto the unforgiving stone slabs, and blinded by pain he couldn't get his footing again, so he… dug his heels into the padding and regressed until his spine melted into the backrest of the couch… Meaty hands yanked at his ankle when he couldn't go any further, flipped him onto his belly like a ragdoll, the massive frame pinning him down, slamming into… Jay's back arched off the furniture, fully expecting the dreaded ripping and sizzling sensation.
But it never came. Instead, Jay woke with a jolt and a weird reverse squeak, a strangled, choking sound produced not by forcing air out but much rather sucking it into his lungs through constricted airways. No scream. He never screamed after those night terrors, couldn't risk disturbing his mom's much-needed slumber. He'd done it once, and she'd been so utterly horrified by his guttural cry then that she nearly tripped over her intravenous line in her haste to get to him. A vow had been made then that he wouldn't ever scare her like that again because he couldn't have her risk hurting herself just because she was worried about him. There was no need to worry. After all, it was just dreams, he was having. Just dreams, right? So, he stifled the sobs, thrashed his legs just as quietly in his desperate attempt to free himself from the restraining comforter, growing more and more frantic when his uncoordinated moves brought no success. Yet, as he throttled another looming yelp, currents of tears and snot sent him into a hacking coughing fit.
Platt was by his side in no time, efficient flicks of the wrist freeing him of the bunched-up blanket around his feet before hauling the agitated man into a hug. The former ranger stiffened immediately, quivering in what she could only decipher as panic-stricken fear. Belatedly realizing how petrifying unexpected touches must be for the traumatized kid, especially after a nightmare, Trudy let go instantly. Covering her mouth with one hand as she realized her mistake, she gasped, "my God," words muffled in the hollow of her palm. "I'm so terribly sorry, Jay. I shouldn't have…" She didn't get any farther, her apology interrupted when she felt strong, muscular arms wrap her in in a gentle embrace, the anxious quakes decidedly absent.
It was Halstead's croaky yet unbelievably soft "just a bad dream, mom, it's okay," that shellshocked the desk sergeant int her own momentary paralysis. Not because it was obvious that he hadn't fully emerged from his nightmare, was apparently still stuck in his thirteen-year-old mindset, but because the way he enveloped her, the tenderness circumspection, the sudden absence of his anxious quakes, made it obvious that it wasn't meant for his solace but for hers. Or much rather his mother's. And judging by the practiced ease it was far from the first one.
Floored by the clandestine overpowering altruism lying in there, she shook her head. "No," she protested vehemently, "no, Jay, it's not okay!" Her tone rose to a strained, even higher pitch, "you're not supposed to comfort me!" At that, the kid deflated like a sliced bicycle tire, shoulders sagging and head ducking as he pulled back carefully. His face scrunched up in a hurt, insecure expression before it morphed into one of wide-eyed mortification when he became fully aware of his actions. Embarrassed, he dragged his upper lip between his teeth and gulped as he tried to put some distance between them.
Trudy wouldn't let him, though. "Oh, come here, ya big dork!" she sighed, rolling her eyes in fake exasperation, though a liberal amount of affection contradicted it. "You're not supposed to comfort me. It's the other way around," she clarified, trying to sound tough but her voice was shaky with emotion. How foreign a concept that seemed to be for Chuckles was evident in his genuine bewilderment and hesitation. Platt's insides tied themselves in knots again. Mentally recapping everything she'd found in her research brought home that even immediately after going through his personal traumatizing nightmare, Jay seemed to have selflessly neglected his own need for consolation in favor of being strong for everyone else. He shouldn't have had to back then, shouldn't have too now either. It was about time he understood that. So, when she noticed his hesitation, his reticence to move, she repeated softly, "come here, Chuckles," already pulling him back into her arms.
She wasted no time giving him the mother of all bear hugs, somehow bone-crushing yet light as a thistledown, neither oppressive nor desultory, it lasted just the right amount of time, too. Easing her hold on him just as he started to shift in her arms, she extended just one more squeeze, almost as an afterthought, her mouth an inch away from his ear as she whispered, "from now on, whenever you need a hug, you come to me, you hear me?" Trudy watched him blush, a childlike grateful smile playing on his lips as he gave her a timid nod. "Good," she said, satisfied, she procured the patiently waiting thermos from the desk and pressed it into his hands. "Now drink."
As always: stay safe, stay strong, stay healthy!