Safe To Say That I'll Never Recover From Charlie Lastra

safe to say that I'll never recover from charlie lastra

Tranquility

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: Discussion of abortion

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Aaron wants to call her, wants to drive over to her apartment to make sure she’s safe, that she's doing as ok as she can be after the last few days. But he doesn’t think she wants to hear from him, the text he had sent remained unanswered, not even an acknowledgement sent back in his direction.

It had been the first real test of the separation of their personal and their work lives, the first time since they’d started dating after Colorado. The almost physical pain he felt at hearing her getting hurt and not being able to do anything about it made him re-evaluate his feelings for his now girlfriend. It had taken him longer to work up the courage to ask her out than he would have liked, a smile on her face and a “took you long enough” on her lips after he finally cracked after the Viper case. The sight of her in that dress was too much for him to bear.

Aaron couldn’t help but feel that he had failed the test, at least in her eyes. He was by the book, she knew that, that had already bent the rules a little for her anyway, letting her chase a lead over Matthew’s death that he was sure was nothing at first. The sight of her distressed and wet from the rain was hard to take, her usually carefully constructed persona she wore at work like a mask cracked, a bit of the Emily he got to see outside of the office peeking through. He hadn’t been able to reach for her, to hold her like he wanted to, all too aware of their surroundings, no one but the team aware of the shift in their relationship, so he’d done what he could. He had to draw the line somewhere, even for her, even though he’d tear his heart out of his chest if she asked him to.

It was hers to do as she wished with anyway.

He keeps himself busy, doing unnecessary chores around his apartment, his phone in his pocket in case she contacts him. He isn’t sure how long he has been home when there’s a tentative knock on the door. He frowns, wondering who it could be at this late hour, and when he sees it's her through the peephole he almost rips the door off its hinges to let her in.

The sight of her makes his chest ache, she’s upset, clearly not trying to cover it from him. Devastation splashed across her face like a morose painting. She’s clearly soaked to the bone, melting snowflakes in her hair and on her shoulders, a shiver passing through her that he doubts she’s noticed.

What catches his attention the most is the blood just below her nose, dried to her skin, as brightly coloured as her grief.

“Em,” he breathes out, ushering her into his apartment, wincing at the cool, wet, feel of her coat, “you could have used your key.”

He isn’t sure why it’s his first thought, why that is the first thing he says to her, but it makes one corner of her lips twitch in a smile.

“I don’t have anything with me.” She chokes out, and her voice cracks. “I didn’t…I didn’t want to be alone.”

“You can always come here.” He says, undoing her coat buttons and easing it off of her, quickly hooking it up with his, “now, let's warm you up.”

He leads her over to the couch, grabbing the blanket he kept over the back of it as he goes. He remembers the last time she’d been here, only days ago, sat next to him and wrapped up in the same blanket, complaining that just because he was always warm didn’t mean he had to keep his apartment cold. The touch of the fleecy material against his skin brings the memory back to life, like she was permeated in everything in his life, not just on his very being. He sits her down and wraps it around her, making sure it was tight around her shoulders, determined she didn’t lose any more body heat.

“I’ll get the blanket all wet,” she says, her teeth chattering slightly, the cold really settling in now she was indoors, “it will get ruined.”

“I don’t care about that,” he replies, barely taking his eyes off of her as he grabs a paper towel from the kitchen, wetting it under the sink as he joins her again, sitting on the coffee table in front of her, “all I care about is you.”

He half expects a retort, a comment that he had a funny way of showing it, but he knows it won't come. That despite her earlier anger at him she understood the position he was in, that he truly had done all he could for her and more.

He knows Strauss will have something to say when she finds out he’d called the Vatican.

He’s gentle as he reaches out for her, his hand cupping her chin as he reaches out and wipes the blood away from her face.

“Want to talk about it?” He asks, disposing of the paper towel next to him on the table.

“Yes.” She replies, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

“Ok, we can do that,” his hand slips to cup her cheek, this thumb delicate against her skin, stroking where dimples would show when she smiled at him, “do you want to eat?” She shakes her head in response to that. He nods and he stands up, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he does, taking her hands and encouraging her to stand too. “You go have a shower, ok? I’ll make you some tea, meet you in bed.”

She smiles tightly at him in response, and she leans up to kiss his cheek, her lips cold against his skin, and she moves away towards his bedroom.

Aaron releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he watches her walk away. He checks the door is locked before he heads to bed for the evening, and brushes past her still soaked coat as he does. He knows it won’t be dry by morning, that despite a number of her belongings making it over to his apartment this was the only outerwear she had here, so he decides to put it in the dryer.

He checks the pockets on the short walk to the laundry room, a habit he had picked up due to Jack often leaving small toys in his pants, and he freezes when he pulls out a folded-up photograph. He unfolds it and is greeted by a picture of a young Emily, a boy on each side of her that he would put money on being Matthew and John. Aaron sighs as he puts the coat in the dryer and turns it on, the photo still in his hand.

His mind whirls with what could have happened, what had made the three happy teenagers in the picture fall apart into whatever mess this last case had been. He sets it aside, making a mental note to wipe the dried blood off of it in the morning, and heads to the kitchen to make her the tea.

He might not be able to stop a teenage Emily from going through whatever clearly had happened, but he would do his best to make sure his Emily, the one currently in his shower, felt better. ___

Despite the hot shower, Emily swears she doesn’t feel any warmer as she steps out of it, immediately folding herself into one of the fluffy towels Aaron kept in the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror, wiping away some of the steam to see her own reflection properly, how tired she looked coming across even in the slightly distorted image. She sighs, drying herself off quickly and pulling on a pair of Aaron’s sweatpants and one of his sweatshirts. She had her own clothes her, her own toiletries in his shower, but she needed the extra comfort, the feeling of him wrapping around her.

It’s why she’d used his body wash instead of her own, as if she thought the scent of him on her very skin could undo years of heartache.

She didn’t have to tell him. She knew that. That as her boss he didn’t need to know what had pushed her over the edge with this case, what had driven her usual professionalism away.

But she wanted to tell her boyfriend.

Wanted him to know this deeply guarded part of herself that now the only other person alive who knew it existed was John.

She just hoped he didn’t judge her for it, although Aaron had never given her any belief that he truly would.

She walks out of the bathroom to find him already in bed, on the side designated as his, and he smiles reassuringly at her, his eyebrow raised when he takes in her appearance.

“Sorry for borrowing your clothes,” she says, knowing he liked it. That she could convince him of just about anything sat on one of their kitchen counters wearing nothing but one of his button-downs.

“Don’t be,” he says, pulling the covers down for her to climb in next to him, “you look great in them.”

She gets into bed, immediately snuggling up to his side, the warmth she’d been craving immediately starting to seep from him into her. They silently settle further into the bed, and she ends up with her face pressing into his chest, her arm and leg slung over him as she tries to get as close as possible. He wraps her up in his arms, one slipping under her, both of them on his side of the bed, and the other cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her still wet hair.

“I want to tell you,” she says, her cheek against the thin material of his t-shirt, his heartbeat underneath soothing her, “but I’m worried it might change how you think of me.”

“Nothing could ever do that, Em,” he says, kissing her forehead, “nothing.”

She smiles sadly, not knowing if that was strictly true. Having to physically shake her head to get rid of thoughts of the smell of smoke and danger, both interchangeable to her now, and a pair of ice-blue eyes that haunted nightmares she occasionally had to lie to Aaron about.

This, however, she was sure he was right about.

“When I was…” she starts, having to blow out a shaky breath, closing her eyes briefly to steady herself before she begins again, “when I was 15 my mother got stationed in Rome. That's where I met Matthew and John. I didn’t make friends that easily and with them, it felt different,” she swallows thickly, and focuses on the feeling of his hand in her hair, his fingers delicate against her scalp, “and I so badly wanted to keep what I found that I, well I was 15 so I did just about anything.” She half expects him to interrupt her, to cut her off like Dave had earlier, but he doesn’t. He’s figured it out if the way he tightens his hold on her is anything to go by, but he remains silent, lets her go at her pace. “And I got pregnant.”

Even now she could still remember the choking fear she’d felt when the tests came back positive, the way she’d had to press her hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying too loudly. It felt like it was yesterday, not half her life ago.

“I got an abortion.” She says simply, waiting for a reaction that doesn’t come before she carries on. “Matthew helped me,” she says her fingers playing with a loose thread on Aaron’s shirt, “he found the clinic and everything. Held my hand,” she chuckles mirthlessly, “He saved me and I couldn’t do the same for him. I let him down.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, finally interrupting her, and he kisses her forehead again, “that’s not true. You got justice for him, that’s what matters.”

She nods against him, not sure if she agrees, but she can’t bring herself to look at him yet, not sure what she’ll find in his eyes.

“Was Matthew…”

“The father? No. It was John. He freaked out when I told him. Yelled at me. Said it was my fault.” She feels his arms tighten around her, and she doesn’t have to look up to know he’s scowling. Anger directed toward the man whose life they had just saved. “I stopped being angry about that a long time ago. He was a kid too.”

“He got to walk away though,” Aaron says, his lips against her forehead. He’d walked away then, and he’d do it this time too. As sure a sign as any that Emily needed to know the universe wasn’t fair.

“Yeah,” she breathes out, “he did.”

They lapse into silence again for a moment before he speaks again, a tone she recognises from countless interrogations in his voice.

“I wish you’d told me before,” he says, his hand trailing through her hair, “I would have given Father Silvano five more minutes with him.”

She laughs, the first joy she’d felt in days flooding through her chest, releasing the first knot caused by the news of Matthew’s death. She pulls back and looks up at him, their eyes meeting, and she feels relief. Nothing in his eyes except the love she always saw, the love neither of them had said out loud yet but knew was there. She reaches up to cup his cheek.

“No, you wouldn’t have, because you’re a good man,” she says, her thumb running back and forth over his stubble, the scratch against her skin grounding, “it’s one of the many, many reasons I keep you around.”

He kisses her properly then, his lips warm against hers, and she shifts so they can look at each other properly.

“Thank you for not…well for not judging me.” She says, more of a shake to her voice than she would like. “No one knows except for Matthew and John,” she frowns slightly, “just John now.”

“Your mother?”

She shakes her head. “God no, she would have locked me up in a convent somewhere. I would have been made to give the baby away.” She smiles sadly at him. “It’s not what I wanted.”

He nods in understanding and cups her cheek, making sure she’s looking at him before he speaks.

“You’re the bravest person I know, sweetheart,” he says, stroking her jawline, “even back then. You were 15 years old and you did the only thing she could.”

She smiles shakily at him, and breathes out, the sound catching on a sob, “I’m sorry I made the last few days so difficult.”

He shakes his head at her before leaning his forehead against hers. “Don’t worry about it, I’m just glad you’re ok.”

“You’re here,” she says, her hand reaching out for him, landing at his neck, “of course I am.”

He kisses her, and she wonders if it’s so he doesn’t tell her that he loves her, a pointed effort that she wouldn’t remember it being linked to this. She’s grateful for it, wants it to be something just for them.

They wordlessly settle into their usual sleeping positions, his chest against her back, and she feels the most content she has in days. She replays the conversation over in her head again, his acceptance of her and her past another cornerstone of their relationship that they had built. She furrows her brow slightly, something occurring to her that she had missed before. Another step in the direction she hoped they’d never stop walking, a nickname slipping free from him in a way she didn’t think even he had noticed.

“Aaron?” She asks quietly, wanting to bring some of their usual playfulness back, something she wasn’t sure how she ever lived without.

“Yes, Em?”

“Did you call me sweetheart?”

-x-

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kinqslcys

2 years ago