unsolved ≫ jake peralta

VIII. ON THE LINE

Ivy sat with Peralta and Boyle in the break room, an untouched mug of black coffee sitting idly near her hand as it slowly went cold.

Captain Holt was in his office, where he had been for over forty minutes, discussing the case updates, and Ivy's conflict of interest, with Geoff Murray and, likely, other NYPD and FBI higher ups.

Ivy stared at the dark liquid in the mug, feeling nauseous, the same way she felt upon first seeing the locket. She felt further uneasy by the fact she'd had a panic attack for the first time in over a decade, on the job and in public. She wanted to do nothing more than to leave the precinct building, retreat to her rental apartment, and bury herself in the comfort of the overpriced sheets with a slew of takeout boxes around her.

Jake and Charles sat with her so she wouldn't be alone, discussing random topics, which they seemingly had a lot of, in an attempt to distract Ivy. Even though it wasn't working, she appreciated the gesture.

There was a knock at the door, and Sergeant Jeffords' bald head poked inside the break room. "Peralta, Boyle, Captain would like to see you."

Jake and Charles glanced uneasily at each other, and then offered sympathetic smiles to Ivy.

"It'll be fine," Peralta said, flashing an overly expressive smile.

Ivy knew it would not be fine. In her mind, she was already back at LaGuardia, waiting for a plane to take her back to Washington, where she'd likely end up on extended desk duty due to her anxiety attack, until they determined that she was mentally fit to return to duty.

Sergeant Jeffords sat in front of Ivy as Jake and Charles left, and she couldn't help but wonder if the nine-nine was afraid to leave her alone. Did they see her as some broken little girl, who could implode at any minute? Did everyone still see her as the fragile ten-year-old that discovered her aunt's murdered body?

Her parents, her mother, in particular, still blamed themselves for what happened. If only Vivienne had gone up to the door that day, instead of sending Ivy. If only their eldest daughter hadn't discovered her favorite aunt sprawled out on the kitchen floor with a halo of blood around her.

Ivy didn't blame them in the slightest, and she'd told them countless times. Still, the guilt was there, and she was fairly certain it was the reason she wasn't as close with her mother and father as her siblings were.

She still remembered it, every detail.

The feel of the daisy bouquet in her hand, the sound of her mary-janes squeaking on the linoleum. The excitement in her heart as she looked forward to a day with her aunt.

The metallic scent of the blood as it hit her nostrils, reminiscent of the time she'd gotten a bloody nose playing soccer. The contorted position of her aunt's body as it had fallen on the kitchen floor, in the most unnatural position Ivy had ever seen a human being. The blood ... so much of it. No longer red, the way she remembered it from the aforementioned nose bleed, but almost maroon. The way it had dried into her aunt's clothes, and crusted on the white tile floor.

She'd done everything in her power to push it from her mind, from the moment it had happened, but it'd never budged. After years of therapy, Ivy had simply learned to deal with it.

Dr. Taft told her that trauma affected people in millions of different ways. There was no right way to go through it.

Shit. Dr. Taft. Ivy would have to tell her what happened.