Hi. I exist. And though some unfortunate events I am no longer playing soccer, you get to see me prove that fact more often than normal this year. Assuming AP Lit doesn't fuck with that. Anyway. Please review and enjoy.
Frances- When It Comes To Us
Warnings: mention of abuse
Jay's P.O.V.
It's been five weeks since she gave me the letter. A little over a month since Erin Lindsay walked into my hospital room after my last impromptu surgery and handed me her version of a surprise.
Yesterday marked the two month anniversary of me getting shot. Today (technically this morning) would mark the first time I woke up, and four days from now while have been two months after I actually woke up.
Eight weeks since the shit show that was a normal tuesday and turned into something more along the lines of an unintentional act of war. Unintentional being a relative term, as being shot by a Rider while playing cop has...unpredictable consequences.
For example: Intelligence being exposed to and driven to pursue the largest criminal organization that has ever existed. Why? Because I couldn't have the thought to remember to address all of my assailants before celebrating.
But its Intelligence. And they are the most overprotective mother hens to ever walk this earth.
No joke, I have never ever had so much food in my apartment at one time. Burgess enlisted both Platt and Gabriella Dawson's help and there like three lasagna's in my fridge right now because they heard I liked it and all three of them had their own ideas on how to cook it. Which meant I came home from the hospital with rows and rows of perfectly cut and portions baked noodles in little tupperwares that where different colors so I'd now the which lasana came from which batch and would promptly tell them which I prefered.
Something I intend on never doing for fear it sparks another round of intense cooking.
Still. They also put them in container so that way (and I'm quoting this) I 'wouldn't have to strain myself just to make lunch.'
And, because they didn't believe me when I said I was completely fine to be by myself, for the first week I got a nearly constant stream of 'are you okay's from nearly every member. Someone would inevitably stop by near lunch time or more likely, randomly and without notice, just to make sure I didn't kill myself getting in the shower.
Which I almost did the second day home, but I made a point of not telling anyone that.
I hit physical therapy everyday, go in ready and pumped, leave so exhausted that it's a damn good thing my team insists on shuttling me around, because I'd be likely to fall asleep at the wheel.
And there's another mile stone. I got my license back last week. Which is great, I don't have to try and walk five miles to get milk. But anything past that and somehow, one of the team is sitting there in a car ready to take me where ever. It is insufferably annoying, especially since I'm trying to get my independence back. Hence why going home was a big thing. Also why not having to get checked on by a mobile nurse or whatever you call them was a big thing.
I can do things now. Walk, stand, sleep on someplace other than my back. All fantastic progressions of mine. Things are going well.
Eight weeks. I have been home for three of them.
And I am losing my freakin mind.
There's nothing to do. I've watched every movie in my collection, caught up on Suits and Blue Bloods, exhausted my netflix queue, (which included a Sherlock and supernatural day) and cleaned every fucking crack of my apartment. I told myself it was to find where Erin hide all my case files, but honestly, I'm pretty sure I was just that desperate.
See there's only so many times you can be told to just 'relax and rest' before you start completely ignoring it in favor of general motion and challenge. Then again, I am a cop. A Ranger. A lieutenant that never gets to retire. A soldier and by definition, a spy.
So it's either find something better to do than browse curtains online, or face certain facts.
Like how no one, not even Erin or Mouse, will tell me how the case is going. Which means either it's really bad, and they don't want me near it because they think I'm in danger, or it's not going at all, and they simply have no leads but don't want to tell me to my face that they don't even know the name of my shooter.
But it's the Riders. It could be both, neither, or either. They are quite capable of disappearing without a trace yet are more than eager to inflict maximum punishment to any cop they deam worthy of the time.
So no one will let me work. Which means I'm stuck worrying about them constantly and if I'm being honest it terrifies me that one day Erin won't walk through that door. That something will happen, something I could've seen and stopped, something I could have saved them from. But since I wasn't there….
The raid was all over the news. No names were spoken and the chief of police gave a statement and worked through a lengthy press conference. The public's questions to the many ambulances and police transports were sated as they were informed about over thirty offenders being put into cuffs. One thing led to another and suddenly crack houses all over the city were being raided, many taking in over a quarter million in drugs and cash. Cells were filled, trial held and every single person arrested got no bail.
A victory, if one wanted a bright side. I didn't want a bright side, I wanted to help. Last week though, I came to very depressing realization that even if say, I wrangled one person into letting me see the case, the rest of them would converge on me with a resounding 'NO' before I could even step foot into the precinct.
Conclusion: Work, is a lost cause until I get the fit for duty thingy from my PT guy. Well, girl. It this lady who's in her seventies and who I think invented have the shit she makes me do. She also, has such a no bullshit attitude that stems from an uncanny ability to win any argument and use sarcasm about as much as the average person breathes.
I told Erin it was her future self. She hit me.
Point of the story here, is that since I can't work, can't sit around doing nothing all day but watching TV and worrying, the logical motive would be to find something else all together to get my mind onto a completely different set of problems.
The letter.
She gave it to me the day after I was self promoted to the happiest man in the world (for about two minutes until I fell asleep). I small gesture of trust and respect, as she could have easily found it earlier and opened it just so that she wouldn't have to ask me. Instead she just simply handed it to me along with a plate of non hospital food for breakfast. Not a word said, and I just tucked it underneath me leg for further inspection.
Over a month later, and it still sits, sealed and slightly wrinkled from being folded and moved so much. Only for the first time since I got back, it sits on the coffee table in front of me, not hidden behind a picture of Will and I.
I don't want to lose another brother. I can't.
The return address is machine printed, slapped on there crookedly by some machine or other.
My name however, is hand printed.
'To Second Lieutenant Jay Halstead.'
Second Lieutenant. It is then, from some place higher than Fort Benning and much higher than Rock Island. But it is more discreet, I suppose to send it through the proper channels. People would be suspicious should a man in a black suit and sunglasses waltz into the precinct just to hand me a letter.
Sending a piece of paper, however outdated now, is still policy. You can't hack a pulverized tree. That's why only certain things go into letters, say, things that are too important to send in encrypted email. Or perhaps somewhere along the line someone said 'hey maybe death notification shouldn't be sent by something as impersonal as an email.' Online messaging is for getting alerted that Macy's is have its christmas sale before halloween, not being informed you best friend is dead.
There are other things it could be. It's not a recall, they don't have the audacity to try that. To try to pull me back into the service now….nobody's that suicidal.
Because while there are six people ready kidnap me and move to a different country just to keep me from going, I know of another five that would make heads roll before it even came to that.
As I am not being called back and not technically on active duty, there is no real need to send me a notice as such to give that kind of information. That leaves pretty slim pickins for what could be written down.
I am not an optimistic person by any means, but I understand the concept of living life its fullest. You can only almost die so many times before 'fuck it' becomes your daily moto.
Somehow, though, I am still staring at this folded piece of paper. Yet to pick it up. It's been three hours and I'm ninety percent sure if I don't start answering my texts, that group of mother hens down at the twenty first will turn into a pack of rather savagely possessive wolves and knock my door down to kill whoevers trying to hurt me.
I made a resolve though, that the only thing I would be doing if I moved was to open that fucking envelope.
My butt is going numb from sitting on the floor for so long. Despite all my staring, the envelope has yet to burst into flames and disappear from my life.
You know what isn't helping though, is that little voice telling me that if one of my team were dead say, I'd have missed the funeral. Missed the chance to pay proper respects, to have shown I cared.
What fun my conscious is.
My phone buzzes again, somebodys calling me. I tell my conscious to shut up and reach for the envelope with a huff, hands trembling with sudden adrenaline and possible pure nerves. I rip it open, the flimsy paper casing being thrown somewhere as I shakily unfold the letter itself.
I don't read, I skim, searching for the name of the one who didn't make it home, praying desperately that it isn't her, can't be her, all while hating myself for wanting it to be anyone else.
I can't find it. Nothing is capitalized, no rank italicized. There is no name.
There's also no condolences either. Not even a signature. Just two sentences.
"Referred through the internal infrastructure of the United States Armed Forces and as sole possible known contact, Lieutenant halstead has been selected as the only possible source for reception upon relief of : Alpha Unit 54; Kandahar/Ghazni and surrounding provinces. Arrival is estimated for Fifteen hundred hours, Tuesday, at O'Hare International Airport."
My phone keeps ringing. Rather absently I snag it from the floor beside me hit answer.
"You better have a damn good reason for not answering me the last ten times I called because if you don't, I'm going to personally rip you a new one for scaring me."
"Yeah." I manage, barely hearing what she said and not really caring.
"Yeah you have a reason?"
"Not any more." I manage, registering how monotone my voice it. There's a pause, followed by some muffled conversation on the other end of the line.
"What do you mean? Are you okay? Did something happen?" She gets more frantic as she talks and I'm very aware that she probably thought I feel down some stairs or something. Or my back suddenly gave out and I couldn't get to my phone (that one actually happened but she doesn't know about it.)
"I opened the letter." My voice still lacks tone and I can't stop reading the words over and over again. Those few words stand out dramatically, burning into my retinas. "Reception upon relief."
Erin tells someone to stop the car and then there's the sound of a door closing.
"Do you need me there?" Her voice is much softer, caring and compassionate and scared for me. She's not stupid either, she knew what could've been in that envelope. She tried to convince me other wise, saying that they would've sent someone to tell me in person. Really should learn to listen to her more often.
"No." I say, suddenly overcome with the insuppressible urge to smile, and the grin that must be across my face right now probably looks psychotic.
"Are you sure?! If...if its bad I don't want you to be alone-I can be there in five-"
"Erin." I whisper. "It not bad. Nobody's dead."The letter flutters to the ground and I press my free hand to my mouth in an attempt to not start laughing hysterically. I lean back against the couch and smile at the the ceiling.
"Jay...I don't understand."
"They're coming home Erin. My, uh, my team. From Afghanistan. They're coming home." I remember the date on the envelope, when it was shipped and strategically sent. I think of the estimated time of arrival.
They walked off that plane right around the time three bullets were pushing their way through my body.
"Actually they're already here." I add.
"In Chicago?"
"Yes." I breath, barely able to comprehend what all this means for me.
"Wow, that's...great Jay. I'm happy for you." There's a small note of uncertainty in her voice, even though I can tell she's sure I'm close to them.
"Yeah." I manage, emotions suddenly surging in my chest making my eyes water.
"I gotta go back to work okay, I'll try to come home early so we can talk more."
"Okay."
"Okay. Text me your preference, I'll pick up chinese." There's some more muffled chatter followed by a quick "Gotta go bye!" that ends the conversation. The phone drops to my lap and I try to force my breathing to slow.
They're coming home.
Erin's P.O.V.
Just tell him Erin you've been dancing around this for weeks.
I glance at the clock, marking the time. Only Dawson and Al still remain in the bullpen, catching up on a little paperwork before heading out. I told Jay I'd be home early, yet I've managed to plow through a solid five days of paperwork and am officially all caught up. As in 'there is nothing left for me to do to stall so I don't have to go home' caught up. I even cleaned out my desk.
It was about the time he got out of the hospital that I realized my mistake. It's probably the most common situation one could ever get in when keeping a secret- you realize you should tell them you know, but you wait too long and now you're afraid if you tell them they'll be more angry for not telling you sooner rather than the actual thing you weren't telling them.
For example: I know about Jay's past...and he didn't tell me. So for the first few weeks I thought it was good, until I realized how unfair it was to him that he didn't know that I was aware of this huge part of him.
Which means, I need to tell him. And I've needed to tell him for a long time now but it...it just never got there. Even though we sleep in the same bed and basically live in Jay's too small apartment, rarely do I come home to see him with actual energy. In fact half the time I've walked in ready to tell him only to find him zonked out on the couch with the hockey came blaring while he drools on my favorite blanket.
But now they're coming home. Or, since that letter was received two months ago, they are home. So he needs to know, that I know.
Seeing how important his past and his family is to Jay, we can just say I am very scared as to his reaction.
Jay wouldn't hurt me. Intentionally, I know he'll never lay a finger on me. Not because he won't ever get mad enough to, in fact I'm sure I'll fuck up at some point that would make even the best of men seriously consider beating me across the room. Accept when that time comes, I don't think he'd physically be able to. No matter how mad he gets, I honestly don't believe he has it in him to hit me.
It's an interesting certainty, just as interesting as the way I firmly believe he will never trust me again after this.
It's not fair though. Everyone knows my past it seems, or at least a lot of it, and I hate it. I hate that I'm always open in front of him, like a used book read to many times to be interesting anymore. I'm always open, and he's always shut. Where my past bleeds from me, his shrouds him in darkness, keeping him hidden and alone.
I have a goal though. I'll tell him and then I'll leave because he'll want space, a whole country of it, but I refuse to let him be the one that runs.
Because Will isn't here anymore and he won't be on good terms with Mouse, which leaves Voight or Al, neither of which will be home and are therefore inaccessible to Jay.
I have my plan. I have my exit strategy. I am in every sense of the word 'prepared'.
He won't hurt me. But he might leave me.
I can convince myself the latter is the reason why I'm afraid.
...
I watch him as he gets out of the shower, steps careful and stiff. He crosses the hall and I hear the sound of drawers opening and closing followed by some funny little grunts as (I assume) he fumbles with putting his clothes on. Finally he steps out into the hallway, walking to join me in my kitchen.
"Whats wrong with you?" He asks, rubbing the towel in his hair haphazardly, so when he removes it the dark curls flop every which way.
I still haven't moved from my chair. The chair I promptly planted myself in the second I dropped the chinese food on the counter.
Large chicken noodle soup, orange chicken, white rice, beef lo mein, two egg rolls and extra duck sauce- you're order comes to the most terrifying dinner in the history of humanity.
"Erin?"
"I know." The words blurt out of my mouth, unstoppable, the only way they could. The only way this can happen. Because if I stop now, this is never coming out. My hands are cold and sweaty as they grip the edge of the seat, because Jay hates those ones with the hard wooden arm rests.
I never knew someone's heart could possibly beat this loud.
"I'm sorry?"
"I know about your dad. And I know about Rachel." His eyes darken when I say her name, as if it holds power and by using I've called upon this presence that demands to be involved.
My chest feels tight. The air is much to thick to breathe.
"You don't know anything-"
"I know she saved you life. I know that's how you met, and that you were only seven years old. I know that you didn't always live in Chicago, and you didn't always know Will was your brother."
I stand from my chair for some reason. That move wasn't in my plan. I sit, I'm calm, I tell him what happened and my voice does not sound terrified and I do not start panicking and making decisions like such that made me get up. Because then the reason is something terribly irrational like 'if you stand up it's easier to run and running means safety and safety means survival.'
"I know that the reason you dad doesn't love you weren't his. And that your real father made you believe you were a mista-"
"Enough." The word stops me in my tracks. Realization flows over me, making me realize what I just did.
Tell him I know about his past- yes.
Throw it back in his face without warning-not really on my list.
What the hell is the matter with me? I just brought up a past that he would have me believe didn't exist and I expected this evening to go how?!
Forgiveness is the farthest thing from his mind right now.
His eyes are a almost pitch black, his face a storm of emotion and anger that makes him look downright terrifying. And that's when it hits. When It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea who he really is.
What really happened to him in afghanistan. Why he really left Miami.
Why he chose Chicago to come home to.
"Who told you?" His voice is solid and cold as ice, making the room feel like someone dropped us into the arctic. I swallow, pressing against the edge of the counter. My heart has transformed into a jackhammer, slamming away in my chest, making my skin feel cold while my blood is hot.
"Mouse." I curse my voice for shaking. I keep telling myself he won't hurt me, that I know him, I love him.
Do you though? Do you really know him?
My breath hitches tellingly and my hands won't stop shaking as he looks at me, completely unreadable.
This is it. This is the part where he explodes and I get the brunt of his well deserved anger. If I was in his shoes, and this was my past, I'd already be screaming.
And then-
Then he sighs and drops his head, tossing the towel into a hamper of dirty clothes I have yet to do. He raises his head like he's a thousand years older and drops into a chair.
I manage to blink once or twice, mind processing the actions but not seeing them. Or the otherway around, I don't know. Either way, my body is still prime for a fight, adrenaline being the hormone that's making my body prepare to sprint across the room and out the door in flight.
Typical human reactions for a typical situation. The only thing atypical are the factors.
My past and his made two people not so different on the inside. At least not as different as our outer shells may dare to illustrate. And rules in this relationship go both ways.
We don't run. And we don't hide.
"I'm sorry." I whisper, sliding into a more relaxed stance. My knuckles ache as blood resumes flowing through the capillaries and my legs are allowed to relax into a more slouched position.
"Me too."
"For what?" He smirks softly.
"For scaring you." I blink, blood rushing to my cheeks in embarrassment. I realize how I must have
looked, backed into the counter like that. Its safe to assume he picked up on my panicked breathing, which he mistook as fear. Just as he assumed it was fear of him that made my feet post themselves as if at a running block.
I blink, long and hard while pushing out a breath with equal effort to calm myself further.
"I wasn't...scared of you." Reopening my eyes I meet his. Its funny how they still look dark, but I can see color in them. The lighting is weird, as only the one lamp in the kitchen is on.
However right now, the self loathing and guilt that flashes in them is not my imagination. I shake my head then walk to sit next to him, scooting closer a little.
"I was afraid of losing you."
He takes a deep breath- to protest, I assume -but I cut him off.
"No really Jay. I am sorry. I didn't mean to ambush you like that, but I've known...and every day I woke up it felt like I was betraying you and today, when you told me about your team...I just...you needed to know that I know, and I understand if you're mad at me." I bit my lip hard, then push the next words out.
"I can call Al, he can come over if you want some space from me or something-" I'm cut off by a pair of lips on mine. I stare at him, shocked and confused beyond reason. He gives a soft huff when I don't kiss back, although it sounds pretty amused.
"You were rambling." Like that's a good explanation.
"I….you mean your not mad at me?"
"Not mad enough to want you to leave your own apartment." My heart sinks to my toes.
'Of course he's mad, come on Erin, just because he's not yelling doesn't mean he isn't okay with all this. You sure as hell wouldn't be.'
I'd be at a bar taking shots right now so that shows who's the calm one in this relationship.
"Jay…"
"No just hear me out…" He takes a deep breath, like he's forcing himself to calm down. "I'm angry, yes. But not at you, and certainly not for you wanting to know more about me. I mean let's face it, I was never exactly...forthcoming. You didn't even know I had a brother until…" He swallows, grief flashing across his face at the mention of Will. It's been a year now, and he still has trouble saying his name.
"I'm hurt...because you didn't think you could talk to me about it." He glances at me. "I'm not going to hurt you Erin." Jay's voice is so soft and gentle and pained that it makes me want to go jump off a bridge. Shame flits through me at my reaction. At my thoughts. I knew for certain he'd never trust me again, that he'd be gone from my life in a spiral of anger and hurt. I had come to that conclusion with tangible (emotionally fabricated) fact.
I just forgot to consider that he loves me too. And a man who would carry me up four flights of stairs because my feet hurt from wearing heels for an hour wouldn't just start screaming at me for caring about him.
And he knew it, he thought I was scared of him, of what he'd do. What does that say to him. That I don't trust him? That I assume the worst and am paranoid?
That I thought he was going to hit me?
I tangle a hand in my hair, willing myself not to cry. Why am I always so heartless?
"How long have you known?"
"Greg told me the day you woke up." He pauses.
"Four months?!"
"I-...yeah." I sniff, pulling my legs up onto the chair to hug to my chest. I won't cry. I don't get to cry. Not after how I acted and what I did and what I'm doing.
"I'm gonna kill him." He growls. I blink, still so confused.
"Wait...your mad at Mouse, not me?" He clenches his jaw, but doesn't respond.
"Jay, I asked him to."
"It doesn't matter!" My body jerks at the sudden volume change, his yell full of anger I've only seen directed towards criminals. Ah so that's where the emotion sits. Right below the surface.
"It wasn't his place to say anything!"
"Hey, he didn't tell me everything okay?! Hell I was slightly annoyed by the way he skimmed over everything!" He stands abruptly.
"It doesn't change the fact that the words came out of his mouth! Don't you get it Erin?! I wanted to be the one to tell you because I wanted to get there on our own terms. I didn't want you to find out while I was lying unconscious in a hospital bed!"
"Well I'm sorry it didn't turn out how you envisioned in your head, but it had been a rough couple of days for us, so maybe, we needed something else to think about besides the fact that you almost died!"
It is literally so quiet I can hear my neighbor two floors up unlocking her door.
Jay's hands are white knuckled in fists on top of the table he leans on. He blows out a breath, closes his eyes and forces them to relax. Reopening his eyes he stares, unseeing at the wall.
"I didn't want anyone else to tell you, because they wouldn't be able to tell you all of it. They wouldn't be able to tell you what I felt, what I still feel, or what I saw. They weren't me, and it's my past, so how could they tell it right?"
I stare at him, struggling to grip my thoughts.
"Okay." I whisper.
"Okay, you want to tell it right? Fine." I fold my ankles across from each other, ignoring my rumbling stomach to get situated in the hard wooden chair.
"Then tell me." I take a deep breath, finding my courage.
"Tell me about your past Jay."
Mwahaha! The cliffhangers return! Actually that was pretty weenie. So maybe more like a small ledge. About two feet off the ground. Still. We've hit the point. The clashing of two realities...or three depending on your view.
Anyway, I know that was boring, but it needed to happen. Hopefully you enjoyed my little clues..;D and hopefully you found them all. So open the floodgates! Let me hear your theories, the things you liked, what you want to see...I might just manage to prove you right!
DAT REVIEW BOX THOUGH! SO FINE AND NICE! LOOK AT IT ALL WHITE AND PRISTINE AND READY FOR WORDS TO BE TYPED IN IT!
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