6am:
As usual, her alarm goes off early. She stretches from where she’d been curled on her side on the bunk, her hand on her gun under her pillow, and then sits up. She tucks the holster back where it goes, and swings down, landing lightly on her feet. There is no need to change – she wasn’t sleeping anyway, thus never got undressed. It’s another in a long series of nights where she forces herself to make an appearance, yet never manages to sleep.
This time, however on her way out of the room, she grabs her bag. If she can manage it – it’s the last time she’ll spend any time in that room – not even to pretend to sleep any longer.
7 am:
After a stop in the kitchen for breakfast, the wayward kin is at the station by 7am. This time, when she hits the locker room, she simply changes. In a few hours she has every intention of being in the comfort of her own home. After she changes, she packs up the things stashed in her locker so that it’s easier to grab later. She’s at her desk by 7:15.
9:15am:
She checks her messages, answers some, puts off others, and continues to work. Finn does the first of what will be numerous checks on her through their shift.
“You look… better. Sorta.”
“Makes one of us. Anticipating a solid 8 hours of sleep, soon.”
“…ok. Get something to help you sleep?”
Let’s go with that. “…yeah.”
“Bout fuckin’ time, Iz.”
“Don’t you have fuckin’ work to do?”
“Yes ma’am.”
He grasps her shoulder lightly as he moves past, and she lifts a hand to capture his and return the squeeze. Unspoken, the friendship and the bond of brotherhood in so many ways. His relief is clear. She wonders that it’s so evident that shes got something to look forward to. Usually she hides better than this. But then again – usually she’s not a face full of fantastically fading bruises, either.
Noon:
She pokes her head into Sarge’s office…
“Got something to help me sleep.”
“Bout fucking time, Montoya.”
“Can I take some time to..”
“Get the hell outa my station. We’ll call if we need you.” Unspoken the assurance there will be no such call. Not tonight. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“Just mind what I said.”
“Handlin’ it. If that report on the Bronzeville shooting comes in..”
“Get.”
“Gettin’.”
12:30pm:
For the first time in a week, she pulls into her parking spot at 420 E. Fullerton, and kills the engine. She wastes no time, grabs her bag and briefcase, and heads inside. The doorman looks at her in surprise, and when she glares at him, simply hands her the mail that’s piled up in her absence. She bypasses the elevator and takes the stairs.
She always takes the stairs.
1 pm:
Everything is put away, and shes finally changed out of her work clothing, for the first time in forever. Boxers, a tank top, with a silken robe tossed at the foot of her bed, and at long last, Izzy Montoya crawls between the blankets of her own bed, and finally sleeps – the sleep of the truly exhausted, with the relief of one finally getting something she desperately needs.
9pm:
Her alarm goes off, and for once, she’s not cursing it’s very existence. She feels… amazing, to tell the truth, despite her injuries. Relaxed, content, and pampered by the softness of her own sheets, the comfort and relaxation of being safe in her own home. She languishes about in her bed, enjoying the simple fact that she can, and then takes the edge off another itch – all in the name of stress relief. Or something.
10pm:
Showered, she orders takeout – because she can’t cook worth shit, and everything in her fridge is a disturbing shade of science experiment – and falls back into the corner of her comfortable couch, xbox controller in hand, and soon she’s losing herself in the game. Nothing says relaxation like zombie killing…
It doesn’t escape her notice that the controller is still warm, or when she hops up to get her dinner, she doesn’t miss the bottle and shot glass set up either. It causes her to grin as she pours herself a shot, lifts it in a silent toast to her unseen protector and visitor, before tipping it back, and returning to her place on the couch, and the zombies that need destroyed.
11:45pm:
Belly full, clean, rested, she arrives at the brotherhood. She takes the time to finish off her cigarette, before she grabs her briefcase and laptop, and heads inside to take her place at the back table. No whiskey tonight. Just beer and paperwork. Always paperwork.
4am:
Relocated to the common room upstairs. She will not force herself into that room tonight. She will not force herself into that room ever again.
6am:
Her alarm goes off….
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.