A/N: Please be aware that there are non-graphic discussions in this story of previous physical abuse that happened to a major character, who was a minor at the time.

There was more traffic at 6:30am on a Thursday morning even during Christmas week than there was at 2 o'clock in the morning. Exhausted by the lack of sleep and the emotionally exhausting conversation with Kenny, Kateri collapsed into bed almost immediately after returning to her apartment. It was nearly 1pm when she woke again. She lay in bed for several minutes after waking up, idly and blearily watching the dust motes dancing in the thin shafts of rain-dampened sunlight that crept in through the gaps in the curtains. She knew what she needed to do—text Clinton and finally explain why she had been struggling since her kidnapping and Kenny's injury. She knew what she needed to do. Actually, convincing herself to do it was another matter entirely. Her phone lay on her bedside table within easy arm's reach, but she couldn't make herself text her partner yet.

I know I told Kenny I'd text Clinton and talk to him.

But …

As much as she told herself that being abused was not a shameful secret, as much as she tried to internalize her teammates' counters to her feelings about being the weak link of the team, protecting herself had become a necessary skill a long ago. Nobody had helped. Nobody had seen when she and Nicky and the other children had been beaten at that foster home, or if they had seen, they had not seen, not understood, or not cared. Some thought we were just being disciplined because we were 'trouble.' Learning how to conceal the emotional and mental pain and hide the physical marks had become a fact of life, horrifying despite its uses once she became an undercover operative with Organized Crime a decade later. Her time with Organized Crime had not helped her learn how to reveal those hidden parts of herself, either.

It was hard to make herself vulnerable like she had been this morning in the dark, revealing to Kenny that she had been abused as a child.

On top of that, part of her recoiled from making herself more of a burden on her partner. He had had his own family things to deal with, and adding more of her own truckload of issues to that … it would only make Clinton worry about her even more.

I don't want to be a burden.

It had been over two-and-a-half years since she had joined the team, but Kateri still occasionally felt like she had sometimes in the good foster homes. It was the same "When am I going to put a foot wrong and all this goes wrong?" feeling.

I know intellectually that's ridiculous.

But undoing years of mental conditioning were hard to break.

(So was undoing the protective instinct to flinch when anyone, especially men, tried to touch her.)

I know they'd never hurt me, especially Clinton.

But …

There had been a time when hands coming toward her usually preceded a punch or a slap or a fist going for her hair.

And conditioning was hard to break.

Even years after the last person had ever laid a hand on her.

It was so much easier to pull the skeletons out of the closest than to stuff them back inside.

A handful of nights could undo years of work, could catapult her back into the past of memory and reactions.

"You're not okay. We can see it. You aren't sleeping. Things that have never bothered you before nearly send you into a panic. You flinch when we touch you, even when Clinton touches you. You flinch when we reach toward you."

Kenny's words from the morning came back to her with vivid clarity.

"You're not okay. We can see it."

"You flinch when we touch you, even when Clinton touches you."

"He might want to talk. You're his partner. He takes it personally if you don't get home in one piece, and it was too close to you not getting home at all."

Kateri scrubbed her hands across her face, trying to decide what to do.

Kenny's probably going to ask you next time you see him.

That wasn't enough to prod her into doing something she didn't want to do, but …

"He might want to talk."

Her teammates had been nothing but kind to her in the wake of her kidnapping with offers of food and company and open ears if she wanted to talk. Which I usually don't. Clinton had spent several nights on her couch when she was especially struggling a lot and couldn't bear the thought of being alone even inside her small apartment.

Try being kidnapped to make you paranoid!

Some of those first nights, every creak of her old building sounded like danger approaching.

Sometimes I wish I had a dog.

Then there was the rampant claustrophobia.

Not that I have the space or the time to care for one properly.

Half of Kateri did not want to burden her partner with more of her issues, and the other half of her felt that she owed him some sort of an explanation. After all he had done for her since her kidnapping, after all he had done for her since she had joined the team, I could, at least, explain why I keep flinching, that it's not personal, that he didn't do anything, that none of 'em did.

(Clinton was already adjusting his behavior, hesitating sometimes before he touched her and always telegraphing his move clearly before he actually did touch her.)

I don't want him to think it's anything against him … or the others.

It's me.

"You flinch when we touch you, even when Clinton touches you."

Just do it.

Before she could lose the nerve, Kateri pushed herself upright in bed, made a face at the wrinkled mess her day-clothes had turned into after she had slept in them—though what'd you expect after just collapsing into bed?—and grabbed for her phone. There was an unread message from Kenny from several hours earlier waiting when she opened her texting app.

She thumbed into their thread.

*You make it home safe?*

Kenny had sent at 6:52. They knew about how long it
took on average to get from one of their places to the other.

*Yep." Kateri had sent back a few minutes later, having felt her
phone buzz as she pulled into her apartment parking lot. *Just got
home. Thanks for listening. Going to go try and get some sleep.*

*Always." The word was followed by a thumb's up
emoji. The message had come in just after 7am and
was the last she had seen before going to bed.

The unread message was from just past 9am.

*Am always here if you need me. I can only partially

understand what you're going through, but I know it's
rough. Sometimes you have to take things a day at a time.
Sometimes an hour at a time.*

An hour at a time. Those are the really bad days.

*Thanks,* Kateri replied. *Off to text Clinton.*

A second later there was a typing bubble. Kenny was awake.

His reply: a thumbs up emoji.

Kateri backed out of her texting thread with Kenny and went to the one she and her partner shared. She stared at the keyboard on her screen for a moment, feeling the same doubts from earlier. Just do it. She started typing.

*Are you busy?*

After the past month, what do you really expect him to say but "no"? Kateri wondered the moment after her finger had pressed send. This is Clinton we're talking about!

When there was no immediate typing bubble, she put her phone aside and got up from bed. Make sure it's not on silent! It took only seconds to make her bed into a semblance of neatness, and then she started changing into unwrinkled clothes. There was no way she was going out or meeting anyone looking like she had slept in her clothes.

And once again I'm back to wearing long sleeves all the time.

As a child, it had been to hide the multi-colored bruises that littered her skin. Now it was to hide the scars that encircled each wrist like a bracelet. Her frantic, concerted efforts to free herself from those ropes had torn up her arms like a severe case of rope burn. Weeks later, the deep wounds had healed, though they were still more sensitive, but had left behind ugly scars that would attract unwanted attention if visible.

I don't want to see them either!

Kateri's phone buzzed with an incoming text as she pulled a brown turtleneck over her head. Just a second. It took only moments to finish dressing except for socks and boots. She grabbed her phone off her bedside table and sat down on the edge of her bed.

*No. What do you need? Am in Queens currently,* Clinton had answered.

I should have considered that you could've been with your family.

*Can we talk?*

*In-person.*

*Sure? Where? One of our places?*

*Only spitting here. With coat and umbrella, we could take a walk.*

A walk sounded like a nice idea. It was a little chilly—low 50s—but as antsy and as on-edge as Kateri was feeling at that moment, she figured that her claustrophobia might appreciate not having to have another difficult conversation indoors.

*Walk if you don't mind.*

*Sure. Come on over whenever you want.*

*You remember my address?*

*I do. I'll text when I'm leaving.*

*Should take me about half an hour.*

Clinton either had radar geared to her presence or had been watching for her since he was waiting on the front-step of his apartment complex when Kateri arrived. And I'm a few minutes earlier than I expected, too. His greatcoat was buttoned up to his chin, and a black umbrella kept off the light drizzle.

"I would ask how you were…" her partner began, stepping forward to cover her with the umbrella, "but…"

"You can tell by looking at me?" Kateri replied bluntly before giving a rueful grin. "I've been better."

"It's been a month," Clinton noted dryly. He stepped around her so that he was on the street side of the sidewalk. His voice gentled. "Let's walk, kid."

Kateri had only a passing familiarity with her partner's neighborhood, and she was quite happy to let him lead the way, guiding them toward wherever he thought would make a reasonable walk even in the drizzle. She tucked her hands into the pockets of her jacket, slightly wishing that she had gone for full gloves, not fingerless ones that gave her better dexterity. Her attention, as she walked, was more on the sidewalk than the trees, the brick buildings, or the route they were taking.

Clinton let the silence linger for several minutes, easily matching her pace, waiting for her to talk when she was ready to. When she almost tripped on a raised piece of sidewalk, he silently offered his elbow and then let them keep walking in peace.

"I was talking to Kenny this morning. Our bouts of insomnia aligned," Kateri slowly began.

Again.

"We got talking about the past month and … everything."

The whole convoluted mess.

My head hasn't been this messed up since I finally got out of Organized Crime.

As bad as she had known things to be, sometimes it was hard to see exactly how toxic an environment was until you got out of it.

"I know the last month has been extremely hard for you," Clinton noted cautiously. "Your kidnapping case and Kenny's injury was a perfect storm of a situation. I'm happy to listen, but you don't owe me an explanation."

For you with me being disappeared and for everyone else … with everything.

"I know that. I just … You do deserve one, though. My behavior … I've been all over the place since it all. It affects you in the field without me there, and …" Her voice trailed off.

"You were drugged, kidnapped, and then held in a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You have PTSS. Yes, you're struggling, and yes, I'm … we're all concerned about you," Clinton replied. "Frankly, it would be more concerning if you were over the whole situation quickly."

True.

Compartmentalizing isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Normal people don't not react to getting drugged and kidnapped by a nut-job.

Trying to bury all the pain and the negative feelings inside could help temporally, but then that hurt and those feelings could fester and never heal.

You have to deal with things sooner or later. That was easier to say than to do, though.

"Well, yes, but …" Kateri paused. Trying to actually get the words out was hard. "Just that isn't it. I know … Kenny … he told me a few details about what happened while I was gone, about … him … and he … Kenny, that is, was saying how worried you all have been with how I've been acting, and …" Her words came out in a rush. (She looked up in time to see her partner's face spasm momentarily.)

"Take a breath, kid!" Clinton slowed their pace. "Take your time. We've got all the time we need."

I wish I'd met you a long time before I actually did.

Kateri took a deep huffed breath. "Carter didn't have a chance to hurt me because you found me before he could. But between my rampant claustrophobia and … other things, the whole situation plus what happened with Kenny has just dumped me back into a dark place."

Keep it together.

Abuse with all the mental scars and patterns of learned behavior was not like a physical injury. It never healed completely to be thought about only on rare occasions ever again. Yes, some memories could fade a little, be dulled a little with time, but others remained razor sharp and crystal clear, preserving some of the worst moments of your life in techno-color … forever.

Things could get better with time and temporal and spatial distance from the ones who hurt you. But then, a situation like this could happen and reopen all the closets and dump out all those skeletons with all those memories and all those instincts. For Kateri, there had been a time when a loud noise behind her or a hand coming toward her preceded pain. It was not that she was afraid her teammates would ever hurt her—far from it!—but years of instinct, when brought to the surface, were hard to undo … unlearn.

She paused, took another breath, and then forced herself to continue before she could lose her nerve. "What I'm trying to say and doing a very bad job of … is that … I was abused as a child. Physically, verbally, emotionally, whatever. Never sexually, thank God."

You have to specify in our line of work.

"I'd wondered," Clinton replied softly. "You have some similar tells to some of my great-uncles' kids. The schools messed them all up." The schools could only refer to the Residential Schools.

Kateri flinched, her hand spasming against her partner's elbow. Minefields of trauma wrapped up with those d**ned places.

"One of my foster homes about three years after my parents died. The father was a … brute." That was the only reasonably descriptive word that she could think of to describe him without resorting to profanity.

"How long?"

"About three years. It wasn't the same house as the one with the foster brother that made me claustrophobic."

Now it was Clinton who muttered a choice curse.

"If I could bury those three years of my life in a deep, dark hole never to be brought to mind again," said Kateri, "I would. Gladly. But deep-seated trauma doesn't work like that."

And somehow, I manage to sound like one of my previous therapists.

"I know I flinch, I jump with you and the others," she plowed on, "but it's not that I'm afraid of any of you. Yes, Kenny can be large and intimidating when in a mood, and yes, Jess sometimes has a … temper, but it's all so different from back then or even from how toxic my old team in Organized Crime was."

"Instincts three hard years in the making are hard to undo, especially when pulled back to the forefront after this past month." Clinton summarized.

"Yeah." Kateri blinked away a few tears and scrubbed at her eyes with one gloved hand. "It's just a bloody mess."

"So what can we do to help make this period easier?" her partner asked. "Because leaving you isolated in your own little bubble is not an option."

To go right along with the memories of being locked in my room without supper after getting beaten, yeah, that would go wonderfully.

I'd be touch-starved on top of … traumatized … kinda.

Kateri gave a wry snort. "Uhhh … Don't come up behind me. I know you're like a ninja sometimes and the others, too, but if you surprise me, I'm also guaranteed to jump right now. Don't reach out to touch me if you in my peripheral vision. You don't necessarily have to telegraph every move you make, but fast movements are likely to make me flinch. And I know if something goes bad in the field, all this goes out the window."

Hand coming toward you fast usually preceded a punch or a slap.

Pandering to my issues if we need to hit the deck … not gonna end well.

"Anything else?" Clinton asked. "I noticed that you've been shifting your seats some to keep your back toward a wall."

Or towards you. Same effect.

Just like when I first joined the team. Well, the back to the wall part.

"Nobody can sneak up on me if my back's to a wall," she replied simply. "Anything else … uh … Don't yell … at me, even if you—you generally—are trying to get my attention. After this past month—things will get better and normal things won't be potential triggers—but for now, yelling makes my hind-brain think that I did something wrong, and yelling usually preceded …" Her voice trailed off.

"A beating?" Clinton's voice was tight with anger.

Kateri only nodded.

"What happened to him, that foster-father of yours? Is he in prison?"

"Not as far as I know," she replied, face spasming for a moment. "He was very well off, good connections in the community. We were the poor, misbehaving … hooligans who needed a 'firm hand' to get shaped up into 'fine, outstanding members of society.'" Her voice was mocking. "Either nobody saw or passed everything off as accidents or as 'discipline.'"

Not even after Nicky.

(Granted between the flu and the severe concussion, her memories of those last few days at that foster home were … rather fuzzy.)

At least I got outta there then.

"I'm sorry for what you had to go through," her partner said simply. "It wasn't right, and none of it was your fault."

"I know that now, and thank you," Kateri replied, giving him a small but sincere smile. "I don't like telling people all this generally, but you … deserved … ought maybe? … I wanted you to know, to explain things."

"Thank you for trusting me."

By that time Kateri and Clinton had made their way out of the residential neighborhood and onto a block with small shops.

"There's a coffee shop nearby. Why don't we get something warm and then we can head back?" he suggested.

"Fine by me."