Chapter Text
Annie really, really needs this cigarette. It's 2:56pm, Thursday. Her table's finally been bussed, finally, thank God, that shitty, rowdy group of kids really had made a mess AND had stiffed her on the tip. Of course, that's how it always went. Annie's tired and she's stressed, and she needs this cigarette.
It's been three days since the bus incident; three days since she's been, you know, traumatized. That's what the doctor at the emergency clinic she and Jack had been taken to, right after their subway crash, had called it. Traumatic event. Trauma symptoms. May experience: sudden and onset light headedness, shortness of breath, heart palpitations. He had handed her a pamphlet she'd half gotten through at this point about PTSD and CPTSD and the management of symptoms, with bullets on tips for grounding, resources for clinics specializing in treatment for post traumatic stress disorder, and other means of getting mental health access. She'd made a mental note to call the therapist he'd written, recommended, in the top right corner of the front page. And she would. Soon.
She remembers glancing at her chart, too, that day, and seeing Civilian Experiencing Post Traumatic Stress Following High Risk Terrorism Incident. Yeah, sure.
She wonders if Jack got the same note. Then, she realizes as she pulls out her lighter, that a SWAT officer most likely comes packaged with that after signing on to the job.
Jack. Annie lights, and takes a few long, swift drags, staring out into the dusty horizon, amber and smoky in the dry California sun.
He hasn't called, but it's only just Thursday, and that's what she had written on the note. Her dad has, though. Her dad, and her mom, they'd called frantically from Arizona, many times, after they'd seen the news. Annie's dad is a loud and somewhat nervous guy, and he gets on her nerves more often than not, but he means well. He'd said he'd take the first flight out that night to see her, and to please call them and tell them she was alright as soon as she got this message. She'd listened to all five on her answering machine after coming back to her own apartment from Jack's. Halfheartedly, she'd called him back, reassuring him that she was fine, that no, he didn't need to fly out, really, she was okay, and she'd come to see them soon, yes dad. And tell her brothers she was fine too, especially Jonathan. She didn't feel like hearing it from Jonathan. But no message from Jack, and no call that evening, either, nor the next.
Jack. She hasn't seen him since that night. Of course, she'd left his place pretty suddenly, and without much explanation, but it's still a hollowness without him all the same. She's tried not to think about him too often. Truthfully, in between all of the damn things she's just needed to process and do since, it's been a little easier not to, at least during the day. At least when she wasn't seeing their faces plastered, mushed up and together, kissing each other, in the newspaper, on the TV. She's stopped watching cable until at least 1am since Monday. Too high a chance she'd see them.
She's visited Sam in the hospital on Wednesday. He'd been in critical care; still is — but he's alive, and he would recover. He'd been awake and very touched to see her, smiling and sitting up, his weak 'hey, Annie' reminiscent of the mere days before in which she'd taken the 2525 bus into work. Annie's hasn't taken a bus since Monday, and she'd probably avoid them for a long time. She'd stayed off of the subway, too. In time, she'd probably be able to do it again, but for right now, it was one day at a time, one thing at a time, and being inside of a moving bus felt so unbearably burning and overwhelming; imagining it felt like the universe was closing in. One of her coworkers, Marina, had given her a ride to her shift yesterday; the same coworker who had also called her to ask if she needed her to take the rest of her shifts for the month? She'd be happy to split them up between her and Izzy, the other server that had just been hired. But no, Annie had said — she'd like to go back to work. It's better to just go back. She'd need to do it sometime, and she'd rather just do it now.
"Annie!"
"Shit," Annie mutters to herself, and she drops her cigarette, stepping on it quickly. She's not supposed to have been smoking back here; Shelly herself had already forbidden it, twice to Annie, specifically, anywhere on the premises. Which, Annie also thinks, is ridiculous, considering the line of work Shelly's gone into, managing a restaurant in LA — but whatever, she'll try to comply all the same. Unless table 23 is being unbearable at the end of an eight hour shift.
Turning on her heel, she's met not with Shelly, thankfully, but with one of the hostesses from up front.
"Yeah? Sorry, did I forget the check for table 7? I thought I brought it out."
"No, there's an officer at the front. He's asking for you? Said he knows you. I think he's the one from the bus . . . ?"
Annie's heart skips a beat; suddenly she's flushed and hot.
Jack.
She'd been trying not to get her hopes up, trying to tell herself that that night had been the one and only one; intense experiences did that to a person, even a person like Jack. Of course he couldn't keep her around in the end. But as she hurries back inside, and toward the front door, she's met with the unmistakably tall dark and handsome sight of Jack Traven — into focus he falls — and she finds herself almost wanting to swoon.
She stops in front of him instead; Jack smiles at her. He's holding a small bouquet of orange and yellow marigolds.
"Hey."
"Hi," Annie's beaming; she can feel it in her cheeks. "Sorry. I just got off," she says, because she doesn't know what else to say and she knows she's not exactly Cinderella, at least not going to the ball. Maybe she's got ashes on her hands, though.
Jack's eyes are full of light, though; he holds the flowers out to her, offering them.
"Don't know if you like flowers. But these, uh, looked like you. The ones you were wearing on your dress the other day."
Annie's so touched she can hardly speak at first; she takes them.
"Not usually." Her smile's so wide she thinks her cheeks might touch her eyes. "But I like these."
"I can't draw, so. Hope those are OK."
Annie does laugh at that, and she closes her eyes, scrunches her nose up because, God, he's so damn precious, it's almost unbearable. She kisses him on his cheek, which, she can feel, is hot, and it turns just slightly red after; perhaps because the other hostesses are still here with a few eyes on him. I know, Annie thinks; she knows how they feel. I know. Get a load of this guy, right?
"So. You ready, Annie?"
"Where are we going?" She asks, and then motions down to her server uniform, cigarette box visible from the front pocket of an apron tied around her middle. "I'm not dressed to go anywhere fancy."
"Oh, well, I just thought we could do something. Together. If you want. Since you're off."
And her note, he seems to want to say, but doesn't.
"Okay," Annie smiles. Jack seems relieved; his shoulders loosen at her response, and they start out of the doors together.
"What kind of food do you like? If you're hungry."
"I'm more of a Coors light kinda girl," Annie says. "Anything but Shelly's Seafood."
Jack smiles, nodding. "There's a bar near my place. Good fish and chips."
"Okay," she says again, and takes his hand.
Jack's opening the door to his Ford; he holds her hand, helps her step up and inside; it's a tall one for her. Annie settles in, placing the flowers in the backseat. At first, she doesn't speak; watches him turn the keys in the ignition, sits and breathes in, breathes out, because my God, she's been through so much and he's the only one that makes sense after all of it, and here he is. He's stayed.
"I should probably warn you, Officer — I'm not allowed to drive until 1995," she finally says, halfway down the highway. He glances aside; she raises both brows playfully at him. "Still want to stay?"
"Yes, ma'am," Jack's response is playful and he reaches for her hand; they hold each others as he drives, into their own night, their own corner of the universe, concessions made with each other, now and for the foreseeable future.
She's not used to this. She thinks, as she rubs the tops of his knuckles, resting on the gear as he drives. But she could be.