Chapter Thirteen

In the darkness of Jay's living room, Imogen found herself transfixed on two screens. His TV, at least 72 inches, provided her a distraction as the NHL Network replayed a Blackhawks-Blues game from earlier that night. The Hawks trailed by two. As the analysts dragged on, she tried to focus on the beautiful melody of skates and sticks gliding across the sheet of ice.

On her laptop, she scrolled through Zillow listings. Chicago always had apartments for rent. It shouldn't have been difficult, but as she sat cross legged on the couch in the quiet dark of Jay's living room she found herself struggling. She didn't want to move. Imogen didn't mind Jay's occasional nightmare or the way he couldn't remember to put the cap of his toothpaste back on.

But she couldn't ask him to make this forever. Besides, there were a few cute apartments in her price range. It could be a good project. Imogen pushed away the nausea that threatened to creep back again and focused on the smooth, slightly warm metal beneath her fingertips as she scrolled and scrolled again.

Her stomach growled. Not many places stayed up to midnight. Jay had offered to drive the twenty minutes to Bob & Edith's Diner for take out. They'd closed their case a few hours ago. Ruzek had insisted on a night at Molly's afterwards to celebrate the successful end to her first case in Intelligence, so she'd not gotten back until 11:30, a little over half an hour ago. It had given her plenty of time to think.

A muffle cheer sounded from the TV. Imogen glanced up. The Blackhawks had scored. She couldn't help but smirk as she watched a replay of Patrick Kane's goal. Two goal leads were the worst leads in hockey.

Imogen paused her apartment search. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply in through her nose as she tried to recall the scents and sounds inside the United Center. She'd gone to several hockey games at the Blackhawks' arena over the years. Some she'd saved up for on her own, a couple others were sponsored by the CPD. She, Jay, and a few others from Organized Crime had been gifted tickets in the 2011 season after the Cup win in 2010. Imogen opened her eyes. She had pictures of that game somewhere.

Her boxes had taken up permanent residence in a hall closet. Pulling out the one she'd relabeled as "After College," Imogen dragged it to the couch and ignored her laptop. It didn't take long to find the handcrafted, less than professional quality scrapbook she knew held the photos.

Jay had thought it was stupid, creating a Chicago Blackhawks scrapbook. But as Imogen ran her hand over the red, black, and white cover, she had to disagree. Look at how happy that 26 year old version had been. Imogen smiled back at the picture of herself: Stanley Cup toque, Bobby Hull jersey, black jeans, black boots, and in her red gloved hands, two clear plastic cups of golden-colored beer. Silhouetted against the white ice and sparse crowd of pre-game warmups, she couldn't remember if Jay or one of their friends had been the one to take the picture.

Page after page of 25 years of photos, some developed from the disposable cameras of her childhood, others printed from cell phone cameras, followed. She and her mom used to go to at least one game a year. As Imogen flipped through the scrapbook, she teared up. Her mom was the reason she had ignored Jay's teasing over the project. Imogen wished her mom had lived to celebrate the 2010 cup.

She paused half way through. Imogen sniffed back the remnants of tears. They tasted salty even as she started smiling down at the current two page spread. Black marker on red construction paper provided some context, though she hardly needed it. She remembered that game. January 16, 2008. Blackhawks vs Blues. Final score: 6-1. A victory for the good guys.

For Christmas that year, the first since her mother had passed away, Imogen had treated herself to three tickets. Jay took no effort to convince to go. They'd just graduated from the Academy together and were on cloud nine. But Will declined at the last minute, offering some half assed excuse about how he'd been offered some important before the semester fellowship day and would be heading back to med school early. So Imogen had invited Mouse.

The click of a lock and slight squeak of hinges brought Imogen back to reality. She stood up from the couch. Leaving the scrapbook next to her laptop, she joined Jay at his table.

"I'm starving," he said.

She hummed in agreement, grabbing paper plates for both and a glass of water for herself. "You can say that again."

Neither spoke over dinner. Imogen guessed Jay felt as tired as she did. They kept the lights relatively low. Bob and Edith's waffles always tasted good, somehow even moreso after midnight than any other time of day, something she's learned years ago. Her gaze jumped to Jay's tired expression as he shoveled pancakes into his mouth. Buttermilk, with bacon but no whipped cream if they were doing take out. It would always melt before he could eat it. Imogen had sat through too many meals where he complained about that for her to ever forget.

"What?"

She focused again. He'd caught her staring. "Nothing." After another bite and a disbelieving frown from Jay, she smirked. Imogen put down her fork. Half covering her mouth as she chewed, she said, "Same order?"

"What's wrong with my order?" he said. "It's a good order."

Imogen waved him off. "Never said it wasn't."

With a scoff, he went back to eating. Not for the first time since coming home did Imogen find herself watching his movements. Every mannerism, every moment that the light caught his green eyes, it made it easier to breathe. The same butterflies she had in her stomach in senior year of high school, the same wave of relief and warmth at the end of long days on patrol, she felt them now. She felt them every time she sat in the same room as Jay Halstead. She didn't want a different apartment. She wanted this one.

"Remember that Hawks game me, you, and Mouse went to in '08?"

He looked up again, finishing his last few bites of pancakes. "Yeah."

Imogen pushed away from the table and went to grab the scrapbook. When she got back, Jay instantly laughed. Warmth filled her chest. He remembered it. She opened the page with the photos from the January game.

"We look like literal children," Imogen said. Crazy how much younger and carefree they both looked even just ten years prior. "How many beers did you have that night? Wasn't it like six?"

Jay scoffed. "Mouse had six. I only had four."

There were a couple of photos with all three of them. She was always sandwiched between them, standing only about an inch shorter than Mouse but a few below Jay. Every single picture they all had drinks in hand and smiles on their faces. That had been a good day.

"Hey, speaking of Mouse," she said, "when did he work with CPD?" Imogen left the scrapbook with Jay as she started throwing away the trash from dinner. "I saw him in that photo at your desk."

"He worked as a civilian for a couple years around 2014, 2015."

She turned back to Jay. The shift in his tone surprised her. There was an edge there, and based on the way he avoided eye contact and instead focused on the photos in her scrapbook, whatever had happened in those couple of years hadn't ended well.

"What's he up to these days?" she said.

Jay closed the scrapbook. "He left." When he turned to face her, she could see the way his hands tightened when he crossed his arms. "Signed back up with the Rangers. Last I heard he was fine."

Imogen frowned. While Jay had known him far longer and had a bond far deeper, she'd been there when Mouse had started slipping further and further away from Jay into reckless behavior. "You two don't talk?"

"He left," Jay said. He tried to sound matter of fact, tried to hide the pain in the simple statement. "He had a job to do."

But Imogen knew him better than that. Every word took a bit more effort to get out. He didn't look at her. Trash in hand, he walked away.

"Okay, but even if he redeployed he could still send you updates."

Jay froze in his step for a briefest of moments. But he recovered quickly. "I don't know, Imogen."

"I can't believe he hasn't sent—"

"Well you didn't!"

Imogen flinched back as Jay spun around. A shock of cold ran down her spine at his words. Imogen didn't know what to say. They were past this?

"I had a job, Jay."

"Yeah. And so did he," Jay said, voice still tight and louder than she guessed their neighbors would've wanted. "At least he said he was leaving."

"That's not fair!"

"Whatever."

Imogen couldn't breathe. The cold down her spine had quickly been overtaken by the heat in her chest and face. She glared at him. Neither of them moved. She couldn't respond though. She wanted to yell back at him. It wasn't anything new. She could dish it out as well as she could take it. Imogen wasn't in the business of letting others slander her.

Unfortunately, Jay was right. Even the words left unsaid rang true in her mind. Mouse had cared enough to tell Jay. Imogen could've found a way to let him know. Imogen could've come home sooner. The pain in her chest spread to her stomach. Jay had hit the nail on the head and he didn't even know just how right he was.

"I'm going to take a shower," she said. "Maybe it'll give us both time to cool off."

Jay almost stopped her. But he didn't. With a frown, Imogen turned away from the common area and headed back to the bedroom. The door shut in the silence of 1AM with a definitive click.

Her tears started falling before she even managed to change. Imogen couldn't bring herself to look in a mirror at her weeping face so she just sat half changed at the foot of the bed by the light of a lamp. Her shirt, balled up on the floor, had been the only thing she'd managed to strip off.

Imogen didn't know how long she'd sat there without a shirt on staring off into space. It had to have been some time, as her tears had dried. But when the bedroom door opened and Jay walked in frowning, she tried to straighten up.

"Listen, I'm—"

But she cut him off. "You don't need to apologize, Jay. You're right." She stood up and glanced around, trying to find her shirt.

He still stood just past the door. "No, I need to. I'm sorry. You didn't—"

Imogen looked up at him. He'd stopped mid sentence, staring at her abdomen. Her hand went to the area of her right side that she knew he must've been looking at. Bumpy and then unnaturally smooth skin in three different places brought back nothing but memories of agonizing pain.

"What the hell happened?"

Imogen closed her eyes against the tears starting up again. She remembered flashes. There had been a routine drug deal at the place she was working as a late night waitress undercover. Her backup stayed outside, as always. She remembered furious shouts, then several pops from several guns. Somehow she'd found herself on the ground.

Blood is supposed to stay inside the body. Imogen remembered more about her confusion at the way it seeped past her trembling hand and out onto the floor than she remembered about the bullets themselves.

Imogen felt two warm, slightly calloused hands on her body, one on either arm. Moments later she found herself back on the edge of the bed, Jay crouching in front of her. Was that fear in his eyes? She took a shaky breath.

"Uh." She scrunched up her face, trying to clear her mind. "Uh, it's mostly a blur."

Jay didn't budge. His right hand remained around her arm in a firm grip, but he did cover his mouth, briefly, with his left. No words cut through his shock.

"Three bullets, two went straight through. Pretty nasty," she said. Imogen pushed down the tears. She began to count the number of items on the dresser behind Jay. Counting always helped. "Doctors determined they needed to remove my right kidney in addition to repairing part of the gallbladder and stomach—"

"Jesus Christ."

Imogen refocused when she felt Jay's hand on her cheek, brushing away the strands of her hair that had been plastered to her face from her crying. He still crouched in front of her. For a moment, she remembered years ago, a different time when she'd been more used to tears. She'd just turned 18. Her graduation party had ended a couple hours before. And it'd just been her, sobbing, next to Jay on her back porch steps. The only time she'd ever kissed him, and he had to leave for training in a matter of weeks. Timing's a bitch.

"When was this?" Jay said.

Imogen glanced back at him again. She frowned. "About a year ago. I ended up on medical leave for months." She closed her eyes. She didn't remember getting shot but she did remember the one thought that had run through her mind on repeat as she'd layed on the ground in her own blood. "They said if if had taken another five minutes to get help, I could've died."

Jay's free hand went to his mouth again. Even in the low light of the singular lamp, he looked paler than normal. But he never moved his other hand, offering Imogen a way to ground herself.

Imogen closed her eyes. "When I was on the ground, I realized I didn't care if I died, Jay. I was already dead to anyone that mattered." She let out a shaky breath. "So when I did get better, I took the Chicago job." she looked at him, her eyes beginning to sting and blur. "Jay, you're all I have left. I'm the one who needs to apologize, not you."

She shuddered. Imogen stood up from the bed as she wiped her tears. But Jay stopped her. No one had held her hand in years. As a burning warmth filled her face, she looked up at him. Imogen stopped breathing. He stood so close now, she could smell his cologne.

"Jay."

Every time since June of 2017 that Imogen had run her fingers over the three healed bullet wounds, she'd felt nothing but pain and regret. But as Jay pulled her closer, and she felt one hand settle in the curve of her back near the exit wounds, the anguish evaporated. Kissing him felt like being eighteen again. It didn't matter how many years had passed. It didn't matter how many scars now covered her body. Or his for that matter. It just felt right.

She only broke the kiss so she could breathe. Imogen let out a tiny laugh amidst her gasping, more from surprise than anything else. Then she found him again. As they stayed locked together, Imogen barely registered the way Jay grasped at her clothes or her at his. Heat flushed her face and ears and she just acted on instinct.

Instinct had never let her down before. So she responded in kind, and allowed herself to be eighteen again. Only this time she didn't let the bitch called timing get between her and the warm body of Jay Halstead.

Author's Note:

Thank you for everyone who's reading this work with me! I'm so grateful for every reader, reviewer, and voter. You make my day.

Do you guys want Mouse to make an appearance in this fic? Would you want it to be as a permanent fixture, or more of a guest appearance?

Thanks again!

J