Okay, Eric Russo? Legend…
As usual, this is unbeta'ed so any and all mistakes are my own. A mahoosive thank you to everyone who favorited, followed and reviewed - 127 followers and 163 reviews! I still can't quite believe it...
This one's a bit more Chloe-centric. I hope it was worth the wait.
A/N: 02/05/16 - updated chapter so reposted. Sorry...
Did you ever have one of those days where you wish you'd just called in sick and spent the day curled up with the comforter pulled up over your head? Well, today is turning out to be one of them.
It all starts when my alarm goes off a mere two and a half hours after I fell into bed face-first, still fully clothed. I wake feeling like I've just come off a weeklong bender and sit with my legs dangling over the side of the bed, head buried in my hands, until my second, 'emergency' alarm goes off; yawning, I bat my hand in the general direction of the 'stop' button until the incessant beeping ceases and then push myself up to fumble for work-appropriate underwear on the way to the bathroom.
In the shower, I turn the hot tap up as high as I can stand and spend a blissfully steamy two minutes letting the almost scalding water run down over my neck and shoulders. Afterwards, when I'm dry and wrapped up in a fluffy oversized towel, I wipe away a patch of condensation and peer critically at my reflection in the mirror. It's not a pretty sight; the bruising around my eye may have finally faded to the point where I can show my face in public without scaring young children, but the bag underneath is a masterpiece worthy of Vuitton and not far off in terms of color, either.
And, as if looking like I've aged ten years overnight wasn't bad enough, I go to squeeze a blob of toothpaste into my mouth to clean my teeth and spot what looks like it could be a monster cold sore developing along my bottom lip.
Sighing, I duck my head to spit and when I plunk my toothbrush back in the cup, it's with just a little bit more force than necessary. I'm already getting the feeling that it's going to be 'one of those' days so I decide to forgo my usual concealer-and-mascara routine in favor of going au natural for once and then set to work dividing my already-unruly hair into three sections so I can pull it back into a braid out of the way.
My new look causes a few raised eyebrows in the staffroom when I wander in after collecting my keys and radio from Christina at the front desk. I've been buddied up with Mike again and I find him lounging on one of the long couches in the corner by the kitchenette area. Yesterday we fell into a wonderfully snarky back-and-forth that generally consisted of him saying something vaguely insulting about my hair or my accent and me firing right back at him with something equally as acerbic, and it just kind of stuck – by the time we stopped for lunch it felt like we'd been partners or, at least, friends from the get-go.
Grinning up at me as I motion for him to move his booted feet off the chair, Mike quips, "Halloween's not 'til the end of next month," and then he groans dramatically when my elbow purposely finds its way into his ribs a few seconds later.
"Serves you right," I mutter, reaching for the newspaper that's been abandoned on the coffee table in front of us. "And just so we're clear," I continue, opening the front page of the paper. "I may look like Casper the Friendly Ghost right now, but tomorrow I'll be back to my normal gorgeous self and you'll still look like that."
"Ouch." Mike mimes stabbing himself through the heart, pulling down the top of my paper so I don't miss a single moment of the continued feigned heartache and, smirking, he chuckles when I snatch the page away to carefully smooth the crinkled sheet out over the top of my thigh.
"You're incorrigible," I grumble as I stand to deposit the paper back on the table where I found it.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"That's because it is." Flopping back into my seat, I tip my head back and press my fingers into my eyes. "Wake me up when its time to go start prep, will you?" I request, slouching down in my chair.
"Hot date last night?" my partner asks, a suggestive smirk in his voice.
"What do you think?"
Mike snorts and just like that, the tension is broken. "You've got ten minutes before we need to go," he says, pulling the worn cushion out from behind his back and proffering it to me like it were a cache of jewels or perhaps a ream of fine, raw silk. He waggles his eyebrows and then laughs outright when I grab the cushion and use it to swat him over the head. Then, faking annoyance, he grumbles, "Don't think I'm sharing my lunch with you after this," as I proceed to drape my legs over the tops of his and lie back against the arm of the couch with my eyes closed.
In the end, we don't make it as far as lunch.
We're on our way to a call about a month-old baby boy found unresponsive in his crib when things go from meh to seriously fucked up. The light has gone from green to red by the time the traffic in front of us moves aside so I ease my way out into the intersection in the hope that someone will stop to let us through. Even though we're coming through on lights and sirens, the onus is still on me to make sure it's safe for us to go and I lean forwards over the steering wheel to get a better view of the road ahead as I wait.
"Clear my side," Mike reports, holding up a hand in thanks when the traffic slows to let us out. Checking my own side, I see that the silver Civic on my left is hanging back and start to pull out into the junction. All is well until a gray Nissan Qashquai with blacked-out windows doesn't brake in time and smashes into the Civic just as we're passing in front of it.
My eyes widen in horror as the Civic is shoved forwards and spins around, and I don't know why, but I stamp on the accelerator in an attempt to get the rig out of the path of the out-of-control car. It's stupid, really, because the rig makes my old Camry look like a super car in terms of acceleration, and all I manage to do is send us careering headfirst into the guardrail meant to protect pedestrians standing on the sidewalk from exactly this kind of thing; the bus comes crunching to a sudden halt and I smack the side of my head on the A-pillar as I'm thrown forwards in my seat while Mike ends up sprawled across the center console, where he lies motionless for what feels like an eternity.
"Oh, God…"
Panicking, I reach over to shake my partner's shoulder but stop myself when he groans and starts to gather his arms beneath himself. He gingerly rubs at his chest where his seatbelt locked into place over his collarbone before tentatively asking, "Did we hit them?"
Nodding, I let out a strangled whimper in place of the emphatic 'fuck' I usually reserve for moments such as these because, well... fuck doesn't really do the horrible sick feeling that's almost suffocating me any justice. I'm absolutely terrified that I've seriously injured someone and I can't help but let out the gasping sob that's been bubbling up in my chest when I catch sight of someone trying to smash the driver's side window of the crumpled Civic out of the corner of my eye.
I'm supposed to help people, not hurt them.
Forcing myself to calm the fuck down, I whip around to fumble with my seatbelt and then jerk back when I come face-to-face with a concerned-looking Mike. He grabs my hand before I can feel for the button to unclip it and then peers at me critically, his eyes skirting over what I'm assuming must either be a mark or a lump on my forehead from my little encounter with the doorframe. "You're bleeding."
Frowning, I run my fingers over the skin above my eyebrow and, sure enough, they come away tacky with blood. It stings like a bitch and I bite my lip as I shake my head to stave off the tears I can feel building behind my eyelids; blinking rapidly, I insist, "I'm fine, I'll sort it later," and then go to pull away.
"Chloe, stop…" Mike yanks me back when I twist to undo my belt and that's when I snap: "I have to go help!" I yell, unsuccessfully trying to yank my arm away so I can go and at least try to make myself useful. But Mike shakes his head.
"No, you stay here. I'll go," he says, undoing his seatbelt. "Radio control and tell them to send another unit to that call in our place, okay?"
I must nod because he slips out of the cab and disappears around the back of the rig, and I'm left to contact the control room back at the depot. I can barely get the words out when the dispatcher tells me to go ahead with my message, I'm shaking so violently, and it takes the guy on the end of the line a good minute to make any sense of what I'm babbling about once he's dispatched a second crew to the job we were en-route to. Before clicking off, he assures me that both HPD and our watch commander are en-route, and promises to send another bus just in case.
"ETA is 4 minutes," he tells me around the click of his fingers on his keyboard. "Call me straight back if you need additional units or if anything changes."
Blotting at the still oozing cut on my forehead with my shirtsleeve, I drop the radio handset onto the bench seat and then turn to fumble with my seatbelt until it pops out the clip with a quiet snick. Feeling for the door handle, I frown when the door refuses to budge; growling in frustration, I ram my shoulder against the sill over and over again until my shoulder throbs sharply. It's no use, though – the door is stuck fast and I'm forced to clamber awkwardly over the center console to escape through the passenger-side of the cab.
Outside, I walk in increasingly frantic circles until I spot Mike kneeling down in the open doorway of the totaled Civic and I breathe an almighty sigh of relief when I realize that the elderly female driver is conscious and talking, and appears to be relatively unharmed – a miracle, given the state her car is in. The Qashqai is in a similar condition, it's front end completely destroyed where it hit the Civic head-on at speed.
The rig hasn't fared much better if we're being totally honest; the driver's side has taken the brunt of the impact and the cabin door and wheel arch are both buckled beyond repair. The front bumper's been torn off, too, and debris from all three vehicles has been left scattered across the width of the junction, leaving me to pick my way through twisted scraps of metal and shards of glass as I hurry over to join my partner by the mangled Civic.
There are sirens wailing in the distance as I crouch down beside Mike and it's not long before we're being told to move aside to let two of our colleagues check out the Civic driver; ushering us towards the curb at the back of the black-and-white cruiser, the older of the two uniforms presses a navy HPD windbreaker into my hands and motions for me to drape it over my quaking shoulders before joining his partner taping off the road behind the wrecked Qashqai, and I tug the borrowed jacket tightly around myself as I sink down onto the sidewalk next to Mike, who bumps his shoulder against mine.
I have to bite my lip hard to stop myself bursting into tears at what was meant to be a supportive gesture. It's irrational, I know, but I'm absolutely terrified that the watch commander is going to fire me on the spot and Mike's face creases into a frown when he catches me swiping at a traitorous stray tear; pulling me into tight hug, he mutters, "You did everything by the book. Shit just happens sometimes, got it?"
"Yeah." Nodding against his shirt, I swipe at my face one more time for good measure and then pull away, mumbling, "I'm good. Thanks."
"Good," Mike says, pointing to a silver Ford Explorer that's pulling in across the street. "'Cause the Brass just pulled up. Stick to the facts when you talk to them, okay? And don't let them intimidate you - you didn't do anything wrong."
Because we were on a blue light run at the time of the collision, both Mike and I immediately pulled off our shift and taken back to the depot to be interviewed by HPD, our watch commanders and station commander, and both of their immediate supervisors; we're separated and ushered into two different conference rooms at the back of the control center, and I sit in anxious silence until my watch commander comes in to talk to me a little over twenty minutes later.
Unexpectedly, he's alone and the older man's face is almost impossible to read as he comes into the room, and closes the door with a quiet snick. I keep my gaze locked firmly on my hands as my CO tells me that senior command is waiting on HPD reviewing the traffic cam footage of the incident before decide what action, if any, to take. My breath catches in my chest and I don't even bother trying to hold back the tears when Bravis tells me that I'm being suspended with immediate effect.
"It's standard procedure," he explains as I stare at him in shock. "As soon as you're cleared, you'll be fully reinstated."
"Could I be looking at charges?" I manage to stutter, staring at the watch commander in shock at the mention of possible disciplinary and-slash-or legal action.
Sighing, Bravis rubs a hand through his short graying hair before standing and pushing his seat back under the table. "That's not for me to decide," he says, patting my shoulder sympathetically as he passes my chair. Continuing on to the door, he pauses with a hand on the handle but this time there's nothing compassionate in his voice when he tells me, "You can go once you've spoken to HPD. Make sure to hand in your ID and swipe card before you leave."
My interview with HPD is both physically and mentally draining, and by the time the aging detective declares there to be no more questions, I'm just about ready to lay my head down on the table and cry myself to sleep right there where I'm sitting. In fact, if it wasn't for Mike appearing seemingly out of nowhere and then physically pulling me up out of my chair, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what I would have done; hauling me upright and then giving me a nudge towards the door, Mike steers me towards the break room where he deposits me onto one of the sofas with a gentle push before holding his hand out for my keys and radio.
When he reappears a few minutes later, he's got my bag slung over his shoulder and my sneakers are dangling from his hand. He's silent as we walk side-by-side along the corridor towards reception, and once he's handed over my equipment to Christina, who takes it all without a word, he steers me outside, where we stand in the shade of one of the tall palms that line the sidewalk at the front of the depot.
Placing my shoes in my bag, Mike pulls a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter out of his knee pocket and lights up, leaning back against the stucco wall as he watches me stare past the chain-link fence surrounding depot. There are planes taxiing up and down the runway behind us and I follow the path of numerous Hawaiian Airlines jets until they disappear behind an angry-looking bank of clouds while, beside me, Mike blows out ring after ring of smoke before stubbing his cigarette out against the wall.
"C'mon, I'll give you a ride home," he says, flicking the butt into the ashtray by the door. Pushing away from the wall, he readjusts my bag on his shoulder and goes to lead the way to his car, and I have to grab onto his sleeve to stop him. Offering him a weak smile, I hold my hand out for my bag.
"Actually, I think I'm going to head over to Kings for a bit. I promised my friend I'd stop by after work, so…" I trail off, letting the 'I'll have plenty of time to visit them now' I know we're both thinking go unsaid as Mike clears his throat awkwardly.
"Well, you might want to clean up a bit before you go," he says eventually, shrugging my bag down off of his shoulder. Holding it out for me to take, he uses his free hand to indicate my soiled shirt and the area around my eye before pulling a 'yikes' face, and I let out an indignant 'Hey!' as I lean over to thump him on the arm.
I stop off at the market on my way to visit Steve and on a whim, I toss a couple of magazines into my cart along with the requisite hospital gift bag stuff – fruit and nuts, candy, a disposable razor, etc. Then I add wine, two jumbo bags of Doritos, baby wipes and a tube of concealer before making my way to the checkout.
Back in the car, I strip off my bloodied uniform shirt (thankfully, my undershirt appears to be stain-free) and use my fingers to dab concealer over the red mark on my forehead until it's no longer noticeable. I do the same with the dark circles under my eyes, blending and re-applying until they disappear and I no longer look like I've been crying. I figure that Steve and I have enough to talk about without adding my most recent woes to the mix.
At Kings, the lady at the information desk points me towards the third floor and I slump against the wall of the elevator, which sounds as though it could possibly be on its last legs. It lurches to a stop after what has to be the slowest climb in the history of mankind and I make a break for it before the door has fully opened, just on the off-chance that it might rise up and join the list of things currently trying to make my life a living hell.
According to the map in the lift lobby, Steve's room is on the smaller of the two wards on this floor and I rub sanitizer gel into my hands while I wait for someone at the nurses' station to buzz me in through the door. Once inside, I swing the carrier bag containing Steve's gifts back and forth as I walk along the corridor checking for the right room. I'm actually kind of looking forwards to seeing him but whether or not that feeling will be reciprocated, I don't really know. Hopefully it will be.
I find Steve's just around the corner from the nurses' station and, squaring my shoulders, I plaster a smile on my face and then reach for the door handle, only to drop it like a hot stone when I feel it turn in my hand. Startled, I step back as the door is pulled open and a pretty brunette in a white naval uniform steps out into the corridor.
"Uh, hi… Can I help you?" she asks, smiling at me expectantly even as my eyes automatically flick to the nametag above her right breast pocket (Rollins) and two gold braided stripes on her shoulders. If I remember correctly, two stripes means she's a senior lieutenant - the grade below the Lieutenant Commander position Steve holds – and I immediately wonder if I've maybe put my foot in it by not knocking.
"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" I motion between the lieutenant and Steve's room. "Because I can come back later…"
Thankfully, the lieutenant shakes her head. "Steve owes me dinner for helping out with a case a few weeks back. I was hoping to collect," she says by way of explanation as she closes the door to the former SEAL's room behind her. Striding further into the hallway, she adds, "Steve's doctor came by a couple of minutes ago – I thought I'd give them a little privacy. Hopefully they won't be too long."
Looking back over my shoulder at Steve's room, I hesitate before reluctantly joining Super SEAL's lieutenant friend on the bench against the back wall. Truth be told, her being her has kinda thrown me for six, and the knot of what had been hopeful anticipation now feels like a lump of lead sitting heavily at the bottom of my stomach. It's almost as if I'm unconsciously feeling threatened by her presence. Or jealous...Which is ridiculous, right?
Right?
Shuffling awkwardly in my seat, I surreptitiously glance sideways at the lieutenant. It's a mistake because Lieutenant Rollins isn't just 'pretty'. No siree, she's gorgeous – stunning, even - with big brown eyes and cheekbones a supermodel would be proud of. And – and – she's absolutely tiny, too. I feel like the Stay Puft marshmallow guy out of Ghostbusters sitting next to her in my clumpy Magnum boots and baggy unisex cargo pants.
Of all the days to go make-up free, I had to choose the day Steve's beautiful, kick-ass Navy Lieutenant friend… yeah, let's go with friend… decided to drop in for a visit.
Sighing, I drop my gaze back to the floor and then blush furiously when I realize that my attempt at subtly giving Steve's friend the once-over was actually anything but. Flustered, I clear my throat and fidget with the handle of my plastic carrier bag while I try to think of something to cover my little indiscretion - cue what my mom likes to call 'a senior moment'; all I manage to come up with is, 'So, how do you and Steve know each other?' and I cringe internally when I hear how forced it sounds. But if the lieutenant notices, she's, thankfully, too polite to say anything.
"We met at Annapolis," she offers instead, referring to the Naval academy in Maryland. "And we served together for a while. I'm Catherine, by the way."
"Chloe."
"The medic." It's a statement rather than a query and when I raise a questioning eyebrow in her direction, Catherine smiles. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Really? I haven't heard a thing about you…"
As soon as it's out there, I grimace, silently ruing my sudden lack of brain-to-mouth filter. I'm normally pretty good at catching any gaffes before they're put out there where they can't be taken back, but this time… Oopsies…
"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me," I mutter, my cheeks growing hot as Catherine eyes me guardedly from the other end of the bench. Biting down hard on the inside of my lip, I make a tactical decision; bending down to grab my bag, I stand and wave off Catherine's gratuitous (and, not to mention, undeserved) requests that I should stay, insisting, "No, I should go," as I start towards the exit.
Pausing in front of the lieutenant, I mumble, "Sorry, again," before walking away, cringing at the way the plastic bag containing Steve's stuff rustles loudly as it bounces off the side of my thigh with every step. I can feel Catherine's eyes boring into the back of my head along the length of the corridor and I keep my gaze straight ahead until I come to the door leading out into the elevator lobby.
Thankfully, the elevator car is empty when it finally arrives and once the doors have inched their way shut, I lean my forehead against the cool metal wall, and let out a low groan. I stay that way until the little bell sounds to signal that we've finally arrived at the ground floor and when the doors slowly start to creak their way open again I reluctantly push myself upright.
Outside, the sun has disappeared behind the angry-looking black clouds from earlier and the wind has picked up, turning what had been a mild, tropical breeze into a cold wind that causes gooseflesh to erupt over my bare arms; shivering, I curl in on myself as I hurry along the sidewalk towards the parking lot, visions of spending the rest of the afternoon curled up on the couch with a good book and a much-needed glass of wine going a little way towards lifting my spirits.
I'm halfway to my car when someone behind me calls out my name and I turn almost automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear when the brewing stormy wind whips it from my braid. It's Danny, looking almost unrecognizable in his off-duty uniform of jeans and a gray t-shirt, and I hug my arms to my body as he crosses over the road to meet me.
"I didn't think we'd see you until tonight," he says as he greets me with a hug and I hum vaguely in reply, scared that if I even try to explain why I'm here in the middle of the day, I'll end up a hysterical, blubbering mess. Plus, there's no way my cheap, supermarket concealer will be able to stand up to the tsunami of tears so yeah...
It's around now that I realize I've been clinging onto Danny for a lot longer than your standard hug permits and I pull back as though I've been burned, mumbling yet another apology as Danny cocks his head to one side and gazes at me critically; it's unnerving, the way his blue eyes almost seem to bore into my soul and I look away, fidgeting with the handle on my plastic bag until I can't stand it anymore.
"What?"
"Something's different," he says eventually, motioning towards me with one hand. But whatever it is, he doesn't get a chance to say because my cell phone starts to ring; startled, I frantically dig it out of my pocket in case its work calling and then frown when I see my parents' home number flashing up on the illuminated screen.
We have a standing arrangement where I text them my shifts for the week every Saturday so they know when will be a good time to call (this is definitely not one of them), so all I can think is that my mom has somehow found out about my suspension and is either calling to A, try to persuade me to move back home or B, ream me out. Or both.
I may be twenty-five and living four thousand miles away from home but that hasn't stopped my mom scolding me like an errant teenager when I do something wrong. Now, don't get me wrong – I love my mother dearly but sometimes she can be overbearing to the point where I can't take it anymore and snap, and I grimace at the sudden memory of one particularly furious argument that ended in a full-blown screaming match on the front lawn as I let my thumb hover uncertainly over the 'accept' icon.
"Are you gonna answer that?" Danny asks, pointing at the still-ringing handset and, shaking my head, I shove my phone back in my pocket where it continues to vibrate until my voicemail eventually kicks in.
"No. I'll call back when I get home." This way, I'll have some time to prepare myself for what I'm sure will be an argument that rivals Lawn-gate. Or, at least, that's what I tell myself as I turn to leave. "Tell Steve I'll call him later?" I ask and Danny nods.
"Sure. Now c'mere," he says, motioning for me to come closer before wrapping me up in another hug. This time I remember to let go before it becomes awkward and then it's my turn to nod when Danny asks, "See you tomorrow?"
"Definitely," I tell him with a small smile. "You and Mary Ann are going to need all the help you can get once Steve decides he wants to go home." Funnily enough, Danny doesn't disagree with me.
At home, I lock the front door behind me and then slump back against it while I try to figure out what to do with myself since Katie won't be back for a couple of hours yet. Between me and you, the bottles of wine I bought when I stopped at the market have been calling my name since I spotted them sitting on the shelf in front of me, so that's where I decide to start – by grabbing a glass and a corkscrew and heading for the bathroom, where I run a bath so hot it turns my skin pink within a minute of getting in.
I sit with my knees pulled up to my chest, contemplating everything from my waning relationship with Steve to my upcoming dental hygienist appointment and by the time I feel ready to get out, the water has long since gone cold. Even so, the bathroom is small enough to still be humid and I sigh when I look in the fuggy mirror to find that the few sections of hair that have managed to escape from my braid have exploded into a mass of unruly curls reminiscent of a blond version of Carrot Top.
Admitting defeat, I push the stubborn stray locks back off my face and hold them in place with an elastic headband before changing into my tattiest pair of jammies and heading back along the hall to my room, where I crawl into bed and sit with my tablet balanced against my bent knees, headphones in, until Katie pops her head around my door a few hours later.
"Your brother's on the phone," she says, looking surprised to see me even as she holds out the portable handset. "He says it's important."
Frowning, I push back my comforter and scramble to the edge of the mattress to take it from her. I can count the number of times Jack's called me on one hand so I'm unsure what to expect as I raise the handset to my ear.
"Hello?"
Never one to back down from a fight, Jack's straight in there without even so much as a 'hi, how're you doing, sis? Long time, no speak'. "Tell me something," my brother demands in a broad, Midwestern drawl that makes me feel a little homesick. "What's the point of having a cellphone if you never answer the goddamn thing? I've been trying to get hold of you all afternoon."
A quick glance around the room confirms that my cellphone isn't sitting on my nightstand where I usually leave it. I must have left it in the car in my rush to get inside and I make a mental note to go grab in once I've finished talking to Jack on the off chance that HPD has managed to clear me of any wrongdoing already.
"'Never' is a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?" I mutter mulishly, folding my legs under myself as my brother sighs noisily on the other end of the line. Honestly, the way he's going on, you'd think I'd done it deliberately just to annoy him and I force myself to take a calming breath before I open my mouth again. But even so, what comes out sounds defensive and hostile. "What do you want, Jack?"
"It's mom, Chlo," he says and that, right there, is when my world shatters into a million pieces. Jack doesn't elaborate, but then he doesn't have to. As soon as he mentions Mom, I know exactly why he's calling and I bite down on my lip as my eyes fill with tears for the nth time today. It doesn't work, though, and I end up sobbing hysterically when the reality of the situation hits me like a freight train, dropping the house phone to bury my head in my hands.
Cancer.
That pesky little lump my mother mentioned oh-so-casually the last time we spoke is cancerous.