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“Where do you think you’re going?”
They’re not two steps away from the club when it starts, some guy who’d been eyeing them up the whole night following them. T.K. groans, sharing a look with Carlos; it’s their first joint night off in weeks, and the last thing they need is something ruining it. They keep walking, trying to get to the car before anything else happens, but the guy who followed them clearly speeds up, catching T.K. by the shoulder.
T.K. clenches his jaw and bunches his hands into fists, ignoring a soft “Don’t,” from Carlos as he shoves the man’s hand away and turns to face him. He’s at least three inches taller than T.K. and jacked, but they could take him, if they had to.
“What’s your problem, man?” T.K. asks, trying to keep the challenge out of his voice.
The guy shrugs, far too nonchalant. “No problem,” he says. “Just thought you should know, we don’t want your kind around here. It upsets some people, you understand.”
T.K. scoffs. “Whatever, man.”
And he’s ready to let it go - really, he is. Comments like that were a dime a dozen in New York, and he learned a long time ago how to brush them off. But then the guy grabs him again, and T.K. just reacts. Before he can really process anything, the guy is staggering back with a hand to his cheek, and there’s an ache in his knuckles where they connected.
Carlos is staring at him in horror, his hand shifting towards his badge, but he doesn’t get a chance to pull it out. They’re suddenly surrounded, four other men - the first guy’s friends, T.K. would guess - appearing from what seems like nowhere. They seize T.K. and Carlos, and drag them into a nearby alley, and - fuck.
This isn’t good.
Two of the men hold Carlos, preventing him from getting near his badge, whilst the other two slam T.K. into the wall. He groans, stars exploding in his vision, as blood begins to drip down his face, though T.K. can’t tell where it’s coming from. He tries to struggle, but his attackers are strong and, disoriented as he is, he can’t get free. There’s a scuffle off to the side, then the distinct sound of Carlos grunting in pain. T.K. strains to get away, but he’s just shoved back into the wall and all strength leaves him.
“You know, I was prepared to let you off with a warning,” the first guy whispers, his breath tickling the back of T.K.’s neck. “But then you hit me. For that, we’re going to let your boyfriend watch as we ruin that pretty face of yours. How’s that sound?”
T.K. doesn’t catch what he says next, but he gets the message soon enough. The men holding him pull him away from the wall, spinning him to face the one he punched. He smiles dangerously, then slams his fist into T.K.s face, sending him to the ground.
T.K. groans, trying to push himself upright, but before he can do so blows start raining down from every angle, and it’s all he can do to bring his arms up to protect his face. He’s not sure how long the onslaught continues for, his back and chest on fire from the abuse, but it stops as quickly as it started, the sound of a siren accompanied by yelling coming from somewhere to the side, Carlos’s voice rising above the rest.
There’s a few seconds of blissful silence before arms are on him again. T.K. tries to fight against them, but then a familiar voice joins them.
“Hey! Hey, calm down. Calm down, it’s just me,” Carlos says, and T.K. sags against him. Carlos gives him a minute, then puts a hand on T.K.’s back. “Can you stand?”
T.K. nods, then tries to push himself up, only for his arms to give out underneath him. In any other circumstance, it would be funny, and he can imagine the look on Carlos’s face right now. But it hurts to laugh, so he settles for a weak smile before trying to get up again.
He hears Carlos sigh, but he helps T.K. anyway, resigned to T.K.’s stubbornness at this point. He sways dangerously once he’s on his feet, only upright thanks to Carlos’s arms around him.
“Easy there, tiger,” Carlos says, and T.K. doesn’t even have the energy to protest the nickname. “Let’s get you to a hospital.”
“No,” he mumbles, but Carlos either doesn’t hear or doesn’t listen, half-carrying, half-dragging him to the car. T.K. lets him, figuring they can hash this out once he doesn’t have to focus on not faceplanting concrete.
Getting into the car is not a quick or easy process, and T.K. has to swallow a moan as he slumps into the passenger seat. But they manage, and he makes an attempt at sitting up as Carlos slides into the driver’s side.
“My dad can’t know about this,” he says. Carlos looks at him, disbelief written across his face. “I’ll go to the hospital with you, but you have to promise me that he won’t find out.”
“T.K.-”
“Please?” he interrupts, pleading with wide eyes. “He’s got enough on his plate right now; this is the last thing he needs.”
Carlos sighs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Fine,” he says eventually. “He won’t hear it from me. But, T.K., he’s going to find out sooner or later, whether you like it or not. You should tell him.”
T.K. doesn’t respond. He’s got a lot of practice hiding secrets from his dad; it’s not something he’s proud of, but one more can’t hurt. He closes his eyes and leans back in the seat, breathing carefully as the pain really begins to set in. But when a few minutes pass, and the car still hasn’t started, he cracks them open again to look at Carlos.
Carlos has a hand on his abdomen, and there are tight lines of pain around his eyes, blood beading where his lip has split. T.K. immediately feels guilty for not checking on him sooner, and forces himself upright to lay a hand on his thigh.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks. “You don’t have to drive, we can get a cab.”
“No, I’m good. Nothing frozen peas and some sleep can’t fix.” Carlos attempts to smile, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. “Just give me a second.”
T.K. purses his lips, but doesn’t push, knowing it would get them nowhere. In the end, it’s more like three minutes, but soon enough the car rumbles to life, and T.K. lets his eyes drift close, giving in to exhaustion.
For once in his life, he’s blessed with some good luck. Somehow, nothing’s broken, and he’s got a day off for the day of bedrest the doctor ordered. Technically, she told him to give it at the very least two days, but T.K. knows that if he’s going to keep it a secret from his dad, he’s going to have to go in tomorrow. It’s fine, though; he’s feeling better even now.
He spends the day at Carlos’s, though Carlos himself had to go in today. He’d be sticking to desk work, telling T.K. that even if he wanted to forget the whole incident, he couldn’t. They’d both gotten good looks at their attackers, and Carlos is a cop, but he’d promised to keep T.K.’s name out of it so Owen didn’t find out.
He hadn’t looked happy about it when he left, but T.K. can live with that. His dad has dealt with too much of T.K.’s shit before; there’s no need to distract him with something he’s perfectly capable of handling on his own.
He knows his job isn’t exactly conducive to hiding a situation like this, but he’s stocked up on ibuprofen, and it really doesn’t hurt all that much. He’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine.
He slips out of Carlos’s house early the next morning, wanting to avoid an argument about T.K. going into work today. He has to go, and he’d rather not do it on a bad note. Besides, he’s only a little stiff, and that’ll go away once he’s moving.
He’s managed to cover up the black eye pretty well, and the cut on his cheek and split lip are easy to explain away.
“Some drunk asshole at the club the other night decided to take a swing,” he says when asked, a smirk at the ready. “He barely even touched me before Carlos had him pinned.”
The team grin at that, making all the stock jokes, and T.K. ignores the looks he gets from his dad and Paul. It’s not like he told them a complete lie; the guy was drunk. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t the truth either.
And it really doesn’t matter, in the end. It’s a light day, and they’ve only had three calls by the end of the shift. None of them are particularly difficult, and no one is any the wiser about the other night.
But T.K.’s body is beginning to protest, so he hangs back in the showers until after the others have left. He pulls his jeans on, stifling a groan, then goes to inspect himself in the mirror.
It doesn’t look good, and T.K.’s almost surprised himself. His chest and torso is a patchwork of bruising of all colours, and he’d guess his back is the same, only it hurts too much to twist round to check. He pokes at his split lip, wincing at the sting, then sighs.
Only, the sigh turns into a cough, which turns into T.K. holding himself up on the counter as pain flares up across his entire body. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice the door opening or the sound of footsteps approaching until they’re directly behind him.
“What the fuck, dude?”
T.K. jumps, turning to see Mateo staring at him with a mix of horror and concern on his face. “It’s nothing,” he tries, going to grab his shirt from where it’s hanging, but Mateo’s still staring.
“Who - I mean, how - I mean -” Mateo’s hands flail as he struggles for the words. “What the fuck?”
“Look, Mateo, it’s nothing, I swear. Don’t tell -”
The door bangs open again, and Judd walks in. “What the hell is taking so damn long, Probie -”
He stops short as he catches sight of T.K. and Mateo, T.K.’s shirt still hanging open, revealing the full extent of his bruising. Unlike Mateo, Judd just looks pissed, and T.K. can’t really blame him.
“Your boy’s waiting for you, T.K.,” he says, voice carefully controlled. “And, if I had to guess, I’d say this is why he’s not looking too happy.”
T.K. glances between the two of them, Mateo almost scared, Judd stony-faced, then decides against saying anything. He buttons his shirt up quickly, avoiding meeting their gaze, and tries to slip past them, but Judd stands in his way. T.K. just looks at him, and something in his expression causes Judd to relent, moving to let him pass.
He avoids the rest of the crew as he heads to where Carlos is, a nervousness beginning to form in his gut. He hadn’t exactly been straight with him about coming in today, and he knows it was a mistake the second he gets in the car. The ride back to Carlos’s place is spent in dead silence, but the dam breaks as soon as the house door shuts behind them.
“What the hell, T.K.?” Carlos yells, hands coming to rest on his hips. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about my job,” T.K. shouts back, suddenly equally furious. “You know, that thing I need to earn a living?”
“And how are you going to do that if you end up killing yourself?” Carlos stops abruptly, regret all over his face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have -”
“It’s okay.” T.K. walks over to him, taking Carlos’s hands in his own. “I know it was stupid to go in today, but I just… My dad has to deal with cancer, and he still manages to do his job fine. If I can’t handle a few bruises, what does that make me?”
Carlos shakes his head. “T.K… Your dad knows what he’s doing. And I’m not saying you don’t, but… You know our jobs are dangerous, right? And if we aren’t at our best, people could get hurt.”
“I know.”
“I get it, cariño, okay? I know you want to help people, but you can’t help them unless you help yourself first.” Carlos closes his eyes and presses his forehead against T.K.’s, pulling him close. T.K. leans into it, comforted by the feel of Carlos’s body against his.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he means it. “I didn’t want to make a big deal about it. But I’m pretty sure my dad knows by now anyway; Judd and Mateo saw everything.”
As if on cue, there’s a knock at the door, and T.K. knows instinctively who’s behind it. They separate, Carlos giving him a small smile before going to open the door.
“Officer Reyes,” his dad greets, but he’s looking at T.K., something unreadable in his eyes. Carlos shifts awkwardly, glancing between the two of them.
“I can give you guys some space, if you want,” he offers, but Owen shakes his head.
“No, I think it’s best if you stay,” he says, entering the house. Then, to T.K., “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
T.K. grimaces, barely able to hold his dad’s gaze. “Judd told you?”
“The probie did, actually, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s nothing, Dad,” T.K. says, unable to stop the lie from leaving his mouth. “Just -”
“From what Mateo told me, it doesn’t sound like ‘just’ anything.” Owen’s expression is hard, but his voice betrays concern. T.K. feels sick with guilt, and looks to Carlos, silently pleading for help.
“We got jumped,” Carlos says, and T.K.’s never been more thankful. “Couple of nights ago. Some assholes didn’t like us being there together.”
Owen’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “And neither of you thought to tell me about this?”
Carlos stutters as he tries to think of a response, but T.K. cuts him off.
“I asked him not to, Dad,” he explains. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, in that case,” Owen scoffs, but his face has softened somewhat. He sighs. “Son… You can’t hide these kinds of things from me. Because I’m your father, yes, but also because I’m your captain. You can’t be on the job with injuries like those.”
“I know,” T.K. says, only just about refraining from rolling his eyes. “I’ve already had all that from Carlos.”
“Really?” Owen’s gaze goes to Carlos, as though reappraising him. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
Carlos makes a noise akin to choking, and T.K. grins as an honest-to-god blush begins to stain his cheeks. The moment doesn’t last long, though, his smile fading as he looks back to his dad. He doesn’t look angry anymore, but there’s a weariness to his expression - exactly the kind of thing T.K. had wanted to avoid.
“I know you meant well,” he says eventually. “But, T.K., you can’t be afraid of talking to me. I know I’ve got a lot going on right now, but you’re still my kid. I need to know when something happens.”
T.K. nods, and Owen smiles. “And I don’t want to see you in the firehouse for the rest of the week.”
He laughs despite himself and, as his dad hugs him, he knows one thing with absolute clarity.
He’s going to be just okay.