CRACKS IN HER ARMOR
CHAPTER SIX: LASTING EFFECTS
xXxXx
Friday evening, 8:37 P.M.
Ingrid stood in front of the stove waiting for the kettle to whistle. She pulled Fillmore's jacket closed around her, grateful he let her wear it home. She'd lied when she told him she didn't have a spare change of clothes in her locker. They all did, as patrolling the school often meant they were either cleaning up – or, in Fillmore's case, causing – a mess or two. She felt guilty at first for the little white lie.
But when she was still shivering nine hours and a boiling hot shower later, the guilt shook right off. His jacket was warmer than it looked. It was sherpa-lined and soft from years of wear and a dark, deep blue color she didn't detest. And, of course, it was his, which came with its own wave of warmth, especially in his absence.
Ingrid pulled the frayed cuffs of the sleeves over her sore hands, brought them up to her face, and inhaled. It smelled like his own mixture of cologne and boy. If she were honest with herself, she wished he was here. The house was cold and empty, and her father wouldn't be back from his conference until tomorrow afternoon. And, as well as she hid it from the rest of the team… Nathan Bridges' threats had rattled her.
She massaged her bruised wrists, using the dull pain to remind herself that it was all over. Her words had gotten through Nathan's stubborn façade. Once he saw Eden, it all clicked and he was nothing short of remorseful. Hurst and Sorin turned over all the dirt they had on their targets. Maverick Mathers was at the local police station being questioned by detectives.
But she could still feel Nathan's hands. Still smell his breath on her face.
I know a few guys who'd love to get their hands on—
A high pitched whistle startled her from her thoughts. Ingrid huffed in frustration. The case was over. The danger was long gone. You need to relax, Third. Wiping the moisture from her eyes with Fillmore's sleeve, she took the kettle off the stove and carefully poured the boiling water into an awaiting mug.
Ingrid Third didn't cry. She didn't need anyone else's presence to soothe her. She'd always been a loner… that is, until Cornelius Fillmore came along.
He had a knack for worming is way into places he wasn't initially invited; like her life. Her heart. Before him, her hard outer shell had been impenetrable. He softened her; made her whole. She used to be so headstrong and independent. But after years of him sticking by her side even when she didn't want him there… she grew to need him there.
And at this very moment… she wanted him there.
A lone tear trickled down her cheek as longing twisted her heart into knots. She set the kettle down with a clatter and wiped her eyes again with a defeated groan. It made her feel weak to need him as much as she did, but for lack of a better term, he was her… person. She felt safe with him, even in the midst of danger. But she couldn't be near him no matter how much she wanted to be.
Upon hearing about their son's injuries, Karim dragged Fillmore to the emergency room to get checked out. Better safe than sorry, he'd said, and, of course, Ingrid agreed. Fillmore had been unconscious for a long time. He texted her two hours ago to tell her he was waiting on a CT before he could be discharged, which assuaged her worry. As far as she knew, he was still there waiting.
So, swallowing herself in his jacket and curling up in bed would have to be the next best thing. She swirled the mesh tea strainer around the mug before pulling it out and letting it drip. She's made it through a million nights alone – she could survive one more.
Ingrid cleared her throat, which was still hoarse from almost being strangled earlier in the day. She grabbed the bottle of honey and squeezed just enough on her teaspoon and stirred it in.
Maybe we oughta show 'em what it feels like.
Don't fucking touch her!
She shivered and covered her eyes, desperate to stop the replay in her head. Her cursed photographic memory would never be able to unsee it, but she sure could use a break for the night. "Stop," she begged aloud. "Just stop already."
He took two fistfuls of her shirt and ripped it right down the middle.
He pressed two hard fingers into the center of her exposed chest, right above her racing heart.
The back door swung open, and Ingrid jumped back with a shout.
"Easy, mama," Fillmore said, hands raised in surrender, "it's only me!"
"Siddhartha, Fillmore," she exclaimed, her voice cracking. Ingrid placed a hand over her heart, a rush of emotions flooding her. Fear, anger, embarrassment. Relief. He chuckled at her absurd twist on a swear word as she exhaled, "What the hell's wrong with the front door? Or with, I don't know—" she put her hands on her hips and shot him a half-hearted glare, "—knocking?"
"I wasn't sure if you were awake," he explained, shutting and locking the door behind him. Noticing her frazzled hair and her flushed cheeks, he took a cautious step towards her. "Are you okay?"
.
"Aside from the heart attack you just gave me, yes," she snapped, her voice gravelly. "I'm peachy."
Beside himself, he chuckled and leaned against the counter. "For the least peachy person I know, you've sure said that a lot today."
"Please, don't remind me," she groaned. Desperate to change the subject, she asked, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he drawled, setting a brown paper bag on the counter by her kettle and crossed his arms. She double taked; she hadn't noticed it in his hands. He continued, "aside from the concussion and some bruises, I've got a clean bill of health. Can't sleep for more than an hour at a time tonight though, so..." He trailed off and gave her a half-hearted thumbs up.
Her eyes furrowed, her expression twisting into one of confusion. "Then, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be home resting?"
An uncharacteristically sheepish grin appeared on her partner's lips. "I don't know, I guess…" He shrugged, rubbing the back of his injured bald head. "…I know your dad's outta town 'til tomorrow and I figured…" he paused, contemplating his words carefully, "…well, more like hoped you wouldn't mind the company after a day like today… you know?"
Ingrid's heart skipped a beat. He had no idea just how much she was craving his company. That was another thing Cornelius Fillmore had a knack for: knowing exactly what she was thinking without having to voice it (or what she needed without ever having to ask). She willed the tears burning in her eyes to dry up and she inhaled sharply. "It depends on what's in that bag."
Fillmore smirked, unrolled the top of the bag, and wafted the scent over. Upon inhaling the delicious smell of Joelle's famous chocolate chip cookies, Ingrid's eyes fluttered closed with an audible mmm. She snatched the bag from him and peered inside, her mouth watering at the sight of the gooey cookies inside. "Fresh from my mom's kitchen," he told her.
"Fresh?" Ingrid looked up from the bag – which was still warm – with an eyebrow raised. "It's almost 9 p.m."
"You know my mom. She bakes when she's stressed," he answered with a shrug.
"Well—" she wheezed, but quickly cleared her throat to continue, "—I guess I'll have to let you stay. Especially if it entails cookies."
Fillmore cringed at the sound. "Damn, mama, you sound awful." He brought his hands up to both sides of her neck. "You sure you don't need to get checked out?" he asked, gently lifting her chin with his thumbs to get a better look. A subtle hand-shaped bruise had formed around her throat – at first glance, he'd thought it was a shadow – and much to his dismay, his hand fit perfectly in its outline. He brushed his thumbs across her jawline before pulling his hands away. They weren't the same hands that created the bruise, but he couldn't stomach the comparison. His mind flashed to that moment he looked up and saw her – his partner and best friend, who he was supposed to protect – struggling in the perp's hands. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides.
"No, I'm fine. A cup of tea, and I'll be right as rain," Ingrid reassured him. She picked up the mug with her free hand and took a sip of her tea for emphasis. "See? Much better."
"Whatever you say, partner." He released her, but his eyes lingered on the bruise scabbed over her pale cheek. He saw her covering her eyes when he walked in, and they were slightly bloodshot. She'd been crying, or at least trying not to.
It disturbed him to see her in such a vulnerable place. He'd shrugged it off after Eden had disclosed the bullying and harassment to them. Her statement had upset him too, but looking back, he realized it had a greater effect on Ingrid than she let on. She was quiet the entire trek to the greenhouse, which was unusual. They always engaged in pre-chase banter; it was part of the thrill. Fillmore had made a mental note to question her about it once the case was over… and then it all fell apart. They didn't have the chance to talk afterwards.
He just hoped she hadn't, too (fallen apart, that is). It was partly why he'd convinced his mom to drop him off so late at night – he needed to know what had bothered her so much, and if she was doing okay. He'd never heard her voice waver the way it did in those moments immediately following their captivity. Never seen her body language so timid. She did an excellent job masking it once Anza and Tehama rushed in, but he could see right through her.
She was frightened. In Fillmore's many years of knowing her, he knew of nothing thatfrightened Ingrid Third. Not a threat, not a perp. She didn't need fear; or, more accurately, didn't find it useful. In a bind or the threat of danger, her skill, knowledge, instinct, and her partner were all she needed. Only one of which failed her today, and he'd have to live with that guilt. But the least he could do was be there for her in the fallout, whether she asked him to be or not.
Ingrid was the first to break eye contact, the pregnant silence too loud for comfort. She could hear the wheels turning in his mind, see the concerned curiosity in his eyes. It made her want to tell him everything – from the twisted beginning to the dreadful end – but her stomach flipped at the thought. She'd never told anyone before… how would she even start?
She cleared her throat and pushed off the counter, desperate for a distraction. "I guess nothing beats kicking off a three-day weekend with an all-nighter," she blurted, handing him the bag of sweets before grabbing her steaming mug. "I don't know about you, but I could use a movie marathon," she added and disappeared through the doorway.
"I thought you'd never ask," he replied. He grabbed a water bottle off the counter and followed her up to her room, hatching a plan to get her open up on the way.
xXxXx
thank you guys for reading! let me know what you think :)
and just a pre-warning: all the mature content is in the next chapter. I'll have a more specific content warning at the beginning of the chapter. definitely read with caution if you have any history of PTSD or violence/abuse in your past.
take care of yourselves.
ellameno