Hi there, sorry to keep you waiting for so long. Writing this chapter was a nerve-wracking and energy-sapping experience. There may or may not have been tiny little meltdowns involved here, and it's only thanks to Floopdeedoopdee's unwavering support that this is already finished. Without her, this would still be in the fledging stage.
Tissue warning applies, as usual. I hope you 'enjoy' this one.
"Boss, we have a name." Those five words had been what Voight had wanted to hear ever since the team sans Lindsay and Halstead had reconvened in the bullpen, bringing one another up to speed about their respective leads – or lack thereof. Erin had yet to call from the hospital, which led them to assume that their victim was either still unconscious or at the very least unresponsive. The three young officers had been equally unsuccessful, having gotten nothing from the scene either. There were no witnesses, and no one had noticed any suspicious activities. And while the crime lab had gathered possible evidence, given the vast amount of hair samples alone – after all, the gym showers were used by roughly a hundred students if not more every day – it was unlikely that they would get anything conclusive off those.
In the end, the only solid lead to go on was the pixelated still that the currently sleeping Intelligence member had pulled off a surveillance feed earlier, along with his suspicions that the perp might be an employee of the school. So, they had no other choice but to combine their efforts and all concentrate on the same task of identifying the perp. Something that proved as boon since it got them results in just under an hour. Listening to Burgess and Atwater rattle off information about their suspect sounded like music to the sergeant's ears, so when the youngsters' presentation came to an end a few minutes later, he felt generous to hand out rare praise for a job well done. After all, they had all been beyond frustrated with how dragging their investigation had been going thus far.
"Alright, I'll confirm with Halstead. If this is the guy he saw, we'll grab him up," he surmised, then instructed, "get ready. We're rolling out in ten." The officers wasted no time grabbing their coats and heading for the back exit. However, before Voight could execute his plans, the ringing of his phone interrupted, making him grunt in irritation. "Make that fifteen," he grumbled, causing Ruzek to halt his steps as he passed them, but the older man merely shooed him off with a motion of the hand as he accepted the call. Al studied him as his expression darkened with every passing second as he listened to the caller, furrowing his brows in question but Hank didn't elaborate anything, merely hung up with short instructions before he snatched the offender's close-up from the board.
Stalking to his office, he rapped on the door twice in quick succession, then entered, slowing his steps momentarily as he realized that his youngest detective was awake. Huddled on the couch, his legs folded beneath him and a blanket draped over his shoulders, he was cradling Trudy's thermos in both hands. While his skin was less translucent than before, it was still too pale, and a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead indicated that he was likely running a fever. An hour of sleep had done nothing to get rid of the lines of sickness and exhaustion, nevertheless the Intelligence leader was satisfied to note that Halstead was no longer shivering. Courtesy of Platt's provided hot beverage, he presumed.
Despite his poor health, he was alert as ever, glancing up at Hank as soon as he walked into the private quarters. "Did you ID him yet?" was Jay's impromptu question before Voight even had the chance to open his mouth. The older man huffed an amused breath and let his twinkling eyes wander to Trudy perching on one of the office chairs and to O lingering in the doorway to his left. The query didn't surprise him in the slightest; in fact, he had expected it. After all, they were aware of their protégé's ardent zeal to serve justice. But as admirable as his sense of obligation was, it had never been as blatant as it was now that it came with a noble willingness to waive his own health in favor of others.
Instead of answering his detective, the Intelligence leader locked eyes with Platt once more, inquiring about her findings with a miniscule inward dip of his right eyebrow. Her greenish-brown orbs glossed over with deep concern as she shook her head just a fraction, leading Hank to conclude that whatever her research had revealed, it had been even worse than they had first believed. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed for the unoccupied office chair and turned it around so that it was facing Halstead. As he sat, he unhinged his jaw and scratched the side of his mouth with his index finger before focusing his attention back on the task at hand.
"We did," he replied at last, taking in Jay's intent gaze. "Mitchell Sherburne. Teaches PE at West Garfield, just recently transferred from Michigan a month ago." He paused for a moment, letting the information sink in. "So, your hunch to look into employees was right," Voight praised, a proud smile playing on his lips. The former ranger's reaction was a doubtful grimace and an uneasy flush of his ears, and not for the first time the sergeant noticed how uncomfortable the younger man was whenever someone hailed him with compliments. Ignoring it for now, he stated, "the team is getting ready to grab him up, but I need to be sure that this is the guy you saw fleeing the scene."
As Hank handed the picture of their suspect to the brunette, Jay barely even took a glimpse before bursting out, "that's him. That's the scum who escaped from the gym." In belated realization, he faltered, worrying his bottom lip, and furrowing his brows as he corrected himself quietly, "whom I let escape," his voice thick with self-loathing. Voight shook his head, ready to argue that this wasn't his fault, but the soldier didn't leave him any room to do so. Driven by a sudden rush of adrenaline, Halstead untangled his limbs from the blanket and planted them on the floor, already pushing himself into a standing position, thrusting his now empty mug towards a dumbstruck Platt. Neither the Intelligence leader nor Olinsky made a move, so he asked in exasperated bewilderment, "what are we waiting for? Let's go."
However, the seasoned investigators remained rooted to their spots, the sergeant on his chair, Al guarding the door, and Trudy watching the spiel wordlessly from where she was sitting. The silence dragged on, and the former ranger's glances between Hank and O became increasingly impatient and nervous. Huffing in frustration, he prepared to force his way past the dark-haired detective when his boss' gravelly voice stopped him. "Hold on, Jay." The man briefly contemplated physically pulling him back but thought better of it. "You're not coming with." Halstead arched his eyebrows and opened his mouth to protest, but Voight merely raised his hand, placating with his open palm, establishing, "it's not up for debate." He scrutinized his subordinate closely, observing as blazing fury over being benched slowly morphed into wide-eyed fear. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the kid's insecurities over potentially losing his job crept in once again.
Reining in his own anger towards anyone who had ever contributed to the young man's self-doubt, including himself, he pressed his lips together and worked his jaw as he rose to his feet. "You're not coming with us because you're needed elsewhere," he expanded calmly, holding the brunette's gaze, unblinking. Jay knitted his forehead, not following, so the sergeant explained, "Erin called. Flynn is awake but refusing the medical exam. Apparently keeps talking about the man who saved him." If anything, the detective looked even more confused, uncertainty lingering in his Maui blue orbs, and Hank's heart clenched at his protégé's inability to see the good he had done, was doing every single day. "You, kid. He's asking for you," he clarified affectionately. It earned him an owlish blink, the blatant diffidence never ceasing from the soldier's expression.
Voight suppressed a sigh before setting out his plans. "I want you at the hospital," he declared, softening his gaze. "I know this is a lot to ask, but Flynn seems to trust you. If anyone has a chance at talking to him, getting him to follow through with an exam, it's going to be you." Studying the former ranger closely, he gaged his reaction. Jay's facial features were tightly wound and he hugged himself protectively, fingernails digging into his sides, flaring a rare self-doubt in the Intelligence leader for ever thinking that this might be a good idea. Sending Halstead to Med and having him face their victim would undoubtedly add to his youngest detective's freshly rediscovered trauma. "Hey," he called softly, "it's okay. We'll find another way…"
"No," Jay intercepted vehemently. Squaring his shoulders, he stipulated with strong conviction, "I'll go." His voice was hoarse and stuffy but no less resolute while his eyes were filled with unparalleled obstinacy. The detective's remarkable perseverance was amongst the traits that the sergeant admired most about him, however, they were also the ones he'd always been most worried about because they always broadcasted the young man's absent sense of self-preservation and his blatant disregard of his own needs. The tottering "I have to" that slipped past Halstead's lips brought the point home in a particularly cruel way.
Hank held the brunette's gaze for a while longer for the Maui blue orbs were the only part in his entire demeanor that contradicted his dogged determination. They were practically begging with him, betraying his lack of confidence should he not be given the opportunity to prove his worth. Knowing that despite his sickness and exhaustion there was no way to persuade the former ranger otherwise, Voight approved with a nod. "Take Trudy," he instructed, glancing at the woman, waiting for her to acknowledge the friendly request. From the corner of his eye, he saw the defiant protest in Jay's expression, could almost hear it too, but he cut in before his protégé could even open his mouth. "I know you can do this by yourself," he assured him, "but you don't have to, and you're not going to. You're not alone anymore, kid." He would do anything to protect him from further harm, but the soldier's stubbornness was infinite and there was no way to sway him once his mind was set on something. Sending someone with his physically and emotionally drained detective was the least he could do.
Jay's breath hitched momentarily, overwhelmed by the care and consideration handed out to him, the seemingly unconditional support he was getting from the three seasoned cops. He kept waiting for the other shoe drop; as far as he knew, there were always ulterior motives involved. But he wisely clamped his mouth shut for now, well aware that in spite of the Intelligence leader's temporary belief that he was capable of doing this, he knew he needed a safety blanket to fall back on, so he relented. Noting his acceptance, Trudy rose to her feet and nudged him towards the door with a quiet "c'mon," Al stepping aside to allow them to leave. Olinsky and Voight watched their retreating backs, sharing a fleeting sorrowful look, both equally afraid to find out what this would do to their protégé.
…
The ten-minute ride from the twenty-first district to Chicago Med was oppressively silent. On the outside, Halstead appeared calm, but Platt knew that inside he was bustling with anxiety over the imminent meeting with Flynn. It was practically blasting through the car vents, bouncing off the inside of the car body and permeating the air in the vehicle, dulled only by the kid's persistent sickness and overall bone-weary exhaustion.
Jay didn't say anything, but he didn't have to for Trudy to know that he probably felt utterly depleted, both physically and mentally. The mere fact that he'd wordlessly handed her the keys to his beloved truck and planted himself in the passenger seat had been proof of how desperately he needed a break from everything; after all he never gave up an opportunity to drive. And whilst the desk sergeant was sure that giving up this ounce of control was probably more of a way to allow himself a small reprieve to rustle up the energy for what was undoubtedly going to be a nail-biting, nerve-splitting, and strength-sapping conversation, her occasional side glances told her that he was likely physically unfit to drive at this point. Because the way the young detective alternated between pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging his temples to keep a thrumming headache from crossing into that perilous migraine battlefield.
When the desk sergeant swerved into the hospital parking lot, the former ranger's eyes were closed, fine lines of pain around them. She turned off the engine, waited a minute for him to notice, only addressing him when he remained oblivious to their arrival. "Jay?" He hummed sluggishly, blinking and squinting as the bright daylight peppered his skull with invisible nails. "We're here," she disclosed quietly, observing as he scrubbed a hand over his face and pushed himself upright with a pained grunt as it brought a wave of dizziness. Nevertheless, he unclasped the seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only halting his movements when Platt placed a hand on his forearm. "Hey, if you need a few minutes, or if you need anything for that headache, just say the word. We don't have to rush," she reminded him, already knowing he would refuse.
Hence, she wasn't surprised by Jay's soft shake of his head and the fleeting smile as he rasped, "thanks, but I'm good." He wasn't, not by a long shot, that was for sure. But as tempting as her offer sounded, waiting would only increase his nervousness, whereas painkillers would tamper with his ability to function and think clearly. Trudy got that, thus refrained from pressing the issue, however, the doubtful expression and deep concern remained etched on her features. The brunette was incredibly touched because it was something he wasn't used to at all. "I…I'll be fine, Sarge. Really," he assured her, once again stunning her with his unremitting attention to her needs. Platt still wasn't convinced but let it slide, knowing she wouldn't change his mind anyway; the kid was just too conscientious for his own good.
Crossing the lot and entering the Emergency Department, they found Maggie already waiting for them since Lindsay had already given her the heads-up on their arrival before she herself had left to assist with Sherburne's arrest. She was holding a tablet as well as a clipboard with an assortment of legal and consent forms, but Jay was distracted by the seemingly inconspicuous flat white cardboard box tugged under one of her arms. Even though the label was obscured by her petrol scrubs, the young detective immediately recognized it for what it was. He shuddered, was barely able to tear his gaze away from it but forced himself to look up at Lockwood instead. As their eyes met, she gave him an empathetic, frank-hearted smile, one that reached all the way to her warm black eyes, conveyed a sincerity that he almost couldn't handle. "This way," she directed, businesslike yet sympathetic, motioning for the two cops to follow her with a slight incline of her head.
She led them down a narrow quiet side wing of the ED, and Halstead couldn't help but silently approve of the mindful choice when they had picked a room for Flynn. What the boy needed right now wasn't the buzzing hustle and bustle of the reception and entrance area of the busiest emergency room in the city, but safety and privacy. While the huge glass fronts didn't provide either, at least the opaque ceiling-to-floor curtains did, and those were closed all the way except for a hand's breadth gap. Maggie slowed her steps and turned around to face her companions just out of sight of the room's occupants – or so she thought.
Because just as she was about to clue Jay and Trudy in on the situation, the drapes were pushed aside just a fraction, then the door opened. A diminutive strawberry-blond woman came rushing out of the room, a spindly man slipping into the hallway behind her at a slower, timider pace but none of them paid him much attention as the female approached the trio in a frenzy. She came to a halt directly in front of Halstead, ignoring the other two as she pierced him with kohl-smudged eyes. Obviously, she had been crying. "You're the officer who saved our boy?" she asked urgently and slightly desperate, not even bothering with the preamble of a greeting.
Her directness momentarily stumped the former ranger into speechlessness. "I, uh…" he stuttered. Opening and closing his mouth a few times he fished for a proper reply. A simple yes didn't seem appropriate, after all, he hadn't saved Flynn. Far from it, really. Saving someone implied preventing an attack or at least parts of it, but that hadn't been the case here. By the time he'd entered the gym, scared Sherburne away, and reached the teenager's side, the damage had already been done. So no, he hadn't saved the boy. Much rather he had failed him. He wanted to be honest to his mother, but he couldn't bring himself to inflict even more pain on this devastated woman. Looking into her hopeful expression, he cleared his throat, "I found him." His voice was raw and scratchy, betraying his sickness and emotionality. Belatedly remembering his manners, he extended his hand to properly introduce himself. "Detective Jay Hal-…"
"Halstead, yes, we know," she finished for him, elaborating upon noticing his bewildered expression. "Detective Lindsay told us." She clasped his appendage in a surprisingly strong hold, stronger than what one would expect from someone as petite as her and wouldn't let go until she noticed his discomfort at the prolonged touch. "I'm sorry," she apologized, abashed as she withdrew hastily. He merely shook his head, letting her know she shouldn't be. "I'm just…" she trailed off, then sucked in a breath before she changed the topic. "Thank you. For saving Flynn, and for coming here," she sniffled at last. "Flynn, he… he woke up earlier, utterly terrified… wouldn't talk, wouldn't let anyone touch him, not even… not even me, his mother." Her breath hitched, voice cracking. "We don't know what to do," she sobbed, putting a hand in front of her mouth as tears leaked from her eyes.
The lanky man, presumably Mr. Baker, Flynn's father, came up to her from behind and gently wrapped the distressed woman in his arms, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly. Since she was unable to continue, he took over for her in a husky baritone. "Flynn won't talk to us, but he keeps mumbling the same thing, like a mantra, keeps asking 'where is he?' and 'I want him, I want the man who saved me.' He didn't say anything else, doesn't even acknowledge that we're here, it's like we're not even here, like he doesn't even want us here." The redhaired man nearly choked on his own words, but his frustration, his fear was palpable, erupting in a tiny explosion a second later, "Goddammit, he's our son, he…" Jay immediately felt guilty, blamed himself, his meager existence for this father's immense pain. It was obvious that he cared about his son, wanted to be there for his kid in any way possible.
"We want to help him," Mrs. Baker spoke again, "but he won't let us. Won't let the doctors and nurses help him either, refuses to be examined," she explained, licking salty liquid off her lips. "That's so important, though. We tried to explain that to him. The doctors and nurses tried, and Detective Lindsay tried too. But Flynn won't listen to us, to them," she rambled on. Searching her husband's eyes in a silent question, she waited for an approving nod before she addressed Halstead again. "We know this is a lot to ask, but… we were wondering if… Since Flynn has been asking for you, we were hoping that maybe you could try to convince him to get an exam?" The former ranger gulped. "You're his hero, his savior," Jay grimaced, dismayed by the moniker. "Maybe he'll listen to you, maybe you can get through to him? Please!"
Mrs. Baker's desperate plea, her sublime hopeful eyes, her readiness to entrust him, a perfect stranger, with her son with such unquestioning confidence were almost too much for him. He was no hero, no savior, not even a good person. He was a coward, a failure, a monstrosity, and he always would be, so why would they want him here? Why would they want him anywhere near their only child? More importantly: why would Flynn want him here? Why would Flynn ask, no, vehemently beg to see him? How did he know who had rescued him anyway, hadn't he been unconscious the entire time? It made no sense, no sense at all! None of this did.
Jay wanted to say that to the parents, wanted to deny their request and stay as far away from this decent loving family and their innocent child before he inflicted even more damage, even more pain. But he couldn't find the strength to tell them off.
Letting his eyes flicker towards the room, the brunette's gaze locked onto Flynn's huddled figure. A tiny bundle wrapped in a too thin blanket, barely even taking up a quarter of the hospital bed, with legs hugged close to his chest and his back pressed against the headboard. However, what made him come to a standstill was the way the boy laid at a slight angle. He'd done that. Right after, he had done that. Scooting all the way into the farthest corner of his bunk at night, making himself impossibly small. Stuffing balled-up fists underneath his thighs to avoid his tender bottom from touching the solid surface of the chair and relieve it from the blistering pain. Jay instinctively clenched his glutes, squirming away from the intruding memory but it wouldn't let up.
After that first time, that initial, in retrospect harmless scare he had curled himself up like a hedgehog to protect himself from everything and everyone without the aid of quills. Just like those innocent little gnawers, he had allowed himself to be lulled into false security only to end up as roadkill, laying forgotten at the curb. He had suffered the same fate because there was no one to shield him from those speeding trucks, no one to guide him to safety, and because he was too afraid to ask the few select passersby for help, so they had marched on, barely even paying heed to him. He couldn't help but wonder, if he had worked up the courage to address them only to be neglected by those he trusted enough to reach out to, how distraught and shattered would he have been?
There was no way he could put Flynn through that. There was no way in hell he would let him down, not now, not ever. So, he replied in the only way that he could, by breathing a cautious "I-I can try" to the waiting parents, deliberately not phrasing it as a promise that he might not be able to keep, even if 'trying' in his head always translated into 'must succeed'. Anything less was unacceptable. Anything less and he would carry the guilt for the rest of his life. Not that he didn't do that anyway.
Careful to dodge any more eye contact with the Bakers and ignoring their chorused thankyous, he shuffled towards the glass door in a trancelike state. He caught movement from his peripheral vision, felt more than saw Trudy inch just a tad closer, not crowding but close enough to exude a grain of strength and support. Her silent inquiry, her unspoken offer to go with him hung in the air between them and Jay found himself deeply touched by her protectiveness, was equally grateful that Voight had insisted for her to accompany him to the hospital. But apart from the fact that he didn't deserve either of them, this was something he needed to do alone.
Shaking his head just a fraction, the former ranger flashed his gratitude with a twitch of a single muscle in his cheek, presaging the ghost of a smile. Without another word or even so much as a glance, Halstead slipped through the open crack of the door, a strong magnetic force pulling him inside. His steps stuttered to a halt as he got a clearer picture of the thirteen-year-old. Flynn's reddish-brown curls were plastered to his skull, matted with soap residue and God knew what else. The bruise on the corner of his mouth had darkened into a bluish tint, new finger-shaped marks that hadn't been visible earlier now lining his jaw as well. But the most painful marks of them all were the crusts of red and white on his chin.
Jay's eyelids drooped in a pained frown and he couldn't help but gasp an agonizing "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry!" He could barely stand to look at the dried smears for they were a painful reminder of his failure to reach the teenager in time. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to tear his gaze away for that very same reason, his guilty conscience punishing him for his contributary negligence. He'd sworn to protect the citizens of Chicago but had failed to fulfill his duty as a police officer, and now, now Flynn was paying the ultimate price for his incompetence. It wasn't fair! Why hadn't he been there faster? Entered that fucking gym a few minutes earlier? He could have prevented this, should have prevented it! So, why hadn't he? "I need to make this right." But how? "What can I do to make this right?" he uttered despairingly to himself, nearly choking on the words.
Engrossed in his self-contempt, he barely noticed that the thirteen-year-old had raised his head. Deep green eyes stared at him, wide-eyed, immediately glossing over as they locked onto the detective. "You came." If it hadn't been for his acute ears, Halstead would have missed the youth's incredibly wispy assertion. It was barely louder than a whisper yet holding so many emotions: wonder and admiration, but also a great amount of disbelief and a smidgen of fear. Fear that maybe his hero wasn't really here, was just a mirage, procured in vain hope that his fervent wish to see him would come to life. Jay saw it in those watery depths that Flynn fully expected him to disappear again. He knew the anguish all too well; it was such a familiar pain and looking at the ginger it felt so awfully fresh in his mind once more.
While he was aware that the boy's circumstances were different, and that he wasn't even remotely to the kid what his mom had been to him, the threat of losing the grasp on reality, of losing himself in the abysmal pits of those terrifying memories and phantom sensations certainly was. And those were almost as petrifying as the traumatizing experience itself. If not more so because at least the dreadful event was just a snapshot, limited in time. But the memories? The sensations? Those remained, were a souvenir, a keepsake, a setline that would allow him to roam for a while only to remind him whenever he strayed too far that he would never ever be free with a single deliberate tug on the leash.
"They want to do this kit thing." The teenager's frail voice interrupted his torturing thoughts. His words were sluggish and slurred, speaking seeming to cause him immense discomfort, and the detective couldn't help but flash back to his younger self. Swollen lips hurt. Sore gums hurt. Scratchy throat hurt. His teeth, his jaw, his whole damn mouth hurt. Jay swallowed past the growing lump and in a sick and twisted quirk of fate that hurt too. He winced. "But I-I don't…" Flynn stammered, trailing off before diverging, "w-what… what would they d-do?" and realization hit the former ranger right then what the boy was talking about.
A wave of dizziness swept over him, head reeling. He closed his eyes but that only aggravated the vertigo, so he blinked them open again. Feeling weak, he staggered the remaining steps towards the bed and grabbed the frame for support. "Um, uh… they, um…" he stammered, tightening his grip on the footboard with trembling hands. "They would ask you questions first, about…about what he did, where he tou–…" the rest of the word slurred in a hiccup, "hurt you." The former ranger took a shaky breath. "They would swab the areas for…um… e-evidence that he… that was left behind." He couldn't help but glance at Flynn's chin, at the milky speckles, tried to convince himself they weren't there, willed them to be just grains of dust clinging to his own lashes. So, he fluttered his eyelids, hoping to clear his vision. But it was in vain; the white stains remained, tainting the smooth prepubescent skin. In his desperation he forced himself to block it out and focus on the red instead. "They'd also take blood…" he diverted, the very same draining from his face. The mere reason for the blood work, of those particularly horrifying repercussions cut off the circulation to his brain, making him incredibly lightheaded, "to check for things."
Jay's legs wobbled and he flexed every single muscle in his body to stay upright. The teenager's voice, fragile like Dresden china, annihilated the effort though. "Do I have to?" Halstead forced himself to look at the scared kid, his own facial features scrunching up in sync with their respective clenching hands, his around the bed frame, Flynn's bunching up the hospital blanket as he hugged it even closer to his chest. "I-I don't want them to… to…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. But he didn't have to, the implications loud and clear. Unexpected bumps, brushes, and touches, most of them harmless in nature, making him jump out of his skin, sometimes lash out in self-defense. An arctic shiver ran down his spine. "Did you…did you have one?"
Halstead froze in shock, the question pouring over him like an ice bucket. His knees buckled beneath him, and he had to shift more weight onto his hands and arms as he clung to the bed frame for dear life. "W-what?" he squeaked breathily, inhales and exhales coming in shallow, rapid wheezes which didn't seem to supply his starved lungs with enough oxygen. But he couldn't bother with that right now, only cared about one thing: Flynn knew. The young detective was dead-certain that he hadn't said anything, had no idea how and when he could possibly have given the thirteen-year-old the reason to suspect anything. And he couldn't help but already kick himself for doing so, because the last thing he wanted was for the boy's hours-old trauma to be shadowed by someone else's from nearly two decades ago.
Before he could think of a way to controvert his own experiences, the teenager broke through his fog, providing him with an answer to his probing questions. "When you saved me," he started quietly, and Jay noticed the absence of the earlier vibrato in his nevertheless feeble voice, "I heard you. You were talking to me a-and you said…" Flynn paused, pushing himself into a slightly more upright position, mindful not to jostle his sore backside too much. "You said we're gonna be fine. You said, we'll get through…this," he continued, putting emphasis on the plural pronouns. The former ranger stared at him dumbfounded, head swimming. He had said that? But he hadn't even been aware, had only just remembered in Voight's office… hadn't he? "I-it… you know… it happened to you too," the boy stated, adding a hesitant "right?"
The fine tremor in his arms, a constant companion at this point, transformed into a full-body quake. Unable to hold himself up any longer, the former ranger groped along the bed railing, staggering unsteadily to the head of the bed to lower himself onto the plastic chair that the teenager's parents had abandoned there. He made it just as his legs folded beneath him, practically collapsing onto the seat. For a second, he didn't dare move. He didn't dare take a breath either, much less speak. Instead, he closed his eyes, just for a second, just long enough to get his bearings but the panic already reared its ugly head.
It was the sound of rustling sheets that compelled him to open them again, and he did it not a moment too soon because had he not seen the small hand landing on his wrist, he would have flinched and potentially flailed around. But as it was, he merely tensed under the initial brush of the cold and clammy appendage on his skin. The touch was shaky and shy, gentle yet powerful, and even though Jay was taken aback by the commiseration handed out by a beyond traumatized boy, what really did him in was the familiar black sleeve peeking out where the limb snaked out from under the blanket. He knew that sleeve, knew it all too well for it belonged to his favorite sweater, the one he always snuggled in when he needed just a little extra comfort and warmth. To see Flynn seeking the same solace from his beloved jacket…
Tears of overwhelm sprung to his eyes as he lifted them to meet the teenager's, which were still locked onto him, brimming with sympathy and sadness. Although it wasn't needed anymore, Halstead offered a tiny jerky nod, confirming what the kid already knew, and he could barely suppress the sobby hiccup as frail fingers circled around his wrist and squeezed softly before Flynn repeated his inquiry. "So, um… did you? Have a… a kit?"
Jay averted his gaze. He couldn't bear to look at the sparkles of hope and admiration shimmering through in the kid's expression any longer, the absolute faith from a boy who looked up to him of all people for guidance and wisdom. However, as much as he wanted to, he couldn't provide either. "I, uh… um, no. No, I didn't," he admitted in shame, wishing he had done something, fought back, told someone. "I-I… didn't have that option." Beckett's threats to tell his parents about the bruises. Bruises from his father's beatings, harmless in comparison but such a powerful weapon to hold over him, to rein him in, almost as if his Coach had known. Weekly reminders during PE class to keep quiet, and raunchy comments whispered when the rest of class wasn't within hearing range. Creepy winks. Lascivious grins. Fleeting brushes and gropes of his behind when none of the other students were looking. His panic, his terror, his fervent wish for it to stop, for someone to just make it all stop.
"If you had…the option, I mean," Flynn dragged him out of the pits of his memories yet again, insecurity creeping into his tone once more, "would you have d-done it?" Jay blinked. Would he? He'd like to think that yes, given the opportunity he wouldn't have hesitated for a second to do what was necessary to get fool-proof evidence and that scum of a Coach behind bars. But that was just the proud and fearless cop in him talking, not the quiet and frightened prepubescent child he had been all those years ago.
Besides, he would have had to tell someone first and telling someone would have only made everything else worse. Who would he have told anyway? He had been a shy kid, a loner, no friends. The closest thing to a friend had been his mom. Frankly, she had been the only one he had ever wanted to spill his deepest darkest secrets to, but by ill luck, she had also been the one he had tried so hard to protect. She'd already been worried enough about how reticent and withdrawn he had become. Had she known about the atrocities that had really been going on in his life, she would have worried herself sick way beyond how ill she already had been. Jay, as much as he had wanted to confide in her, couldn't have put her through even more pain, couldn't have risked potentially shortening her life expectancy even more, even if it was by just one day.
Jay's eyes watered, a single tear bore its way out of one of them, but he swore that it would be the only one he allowed to slip in front of Flynn. Little did he know. Reminding himself yet again that this wasn't about him, he gulped down his grief and forced himself to answer the teenager's earlier question. "I, um…" he stammered, grasping for words because the irrefutable truth was, he wasn't that brave, not even remotely; never had been, never would be. And the former ranger couldn't pretend to be the paragon the boy saw in him. Unable to lie to the boy, he settled on side-stepping with a heartfelt, "I don't know," not quite conceding defeat but not shamming either.
Unsurprisingly, his words didn't provide the kid with the reassurance he had hoped for, became apparent when the hand resting on the detective's forearm started to shake, flaring Jay with immense guilt over causing him additional discomfort. Twisting his arm around a bit, he enclosed Flynn's smaller wrist with his own fingers, mirroring the adolescent's gesture. "I-I know this is scary. I know you are scared," he paused, realizing that he needed to be honest here. Throatily he admitted, "I would be too." Not just would be. He was. And not only was he scared; he was terrified. A thirty-year-old trapped in the mind of a defenseless thirteen-year-old, just as lost as the boy laying in the bed.
How was he supposed to encourage him to let them do a procedure that would put him right back to the horrible thing done to him just a few hours ago? The answer was simple: he couldn't. Just as he couldn't square it with his conscience to convince the youth to do something that he himself was incapable of, something that went so against his moral sense, even if it was his duty. Even if it meant, he would lose his job. "I-if you don't want to do the…" he gulped, "to be examined, that is fine. No one's going to force you." He would make sure of that. And wasn't that the perfect way to chicken out of his responsibilities? Halstead held Flynn's gaze steady, resisting the urge to flicker much less close his eyes. "No one's going to think any less of you," he assured the teenager with settled conviction, wishing he would believe the same thing about himself, too. "Your mom, your dad… they will support your decision, no matter what." At least that had been his impression of the Bakers earlier. "So will I. Whatever you need, I'm here."
For an agonizingly long minute the hospital room was cast in silence, the only sounds being the child's shaky inhales as well as the detective's wheezes. At last, Flynn hiccupped a stuffy "you" to which Jay creased his forehead in confusion. "I-I'll do it, the… the kit. But only if you stay." Steamrolled by the proposal, the former ranger's breath hitched, abused abdominal muscles cramping excruciatingly until he gulped down a raspy inhale. It triggered a small spasm of coughing which he tried to stifle, the effort weakening his already exhausted body. For a moment, his firm grip on the boy's forearm slackened, his clammy palm threatening to slip from the smooth skin. But the smaller appendage held on even tighter, though whether it was to reassure the adult or because he was afraid to lose their physical link, Halstead wasn't sure. Presumably, a little bit of both. "Please, will you stay with me?"
Upon hearing the despairing plea in the kid's fractured and watery voice, the detective barely got a word out, but once he did, his reply was just as brimmed with emotion, strangled, and broken. "If that's what you want." Inhales and exhales came in shallow uneven gasps, an invisible claw squeezing and constructing his airways, but just like before, the teenager managed to snatch him out of his funk. Turning further onto his side as he propped himself into a semi-sitting position, he slipped his free hand into the detective's, palm facing palm and fingers hooking into one another. Jay followed his example by covering Flynn's other appendage with his own unoccupied hand, thumb brushing over the pulse point on the inside of the wrist. The mesh of fingers created an indestructible link of mutual understanding and the comfort that they would get through this somehow. Together.
Stay safe!