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I.
Despite Tim declaring paintball to be amateur hour when they first frequented Rustic Ranch, the other players have given them a run for their money on more than a handful of occasions over the past few months. Tim still denies playing for fun, claiming the sport helps keep his reflexes sharp, but Lucy's seen the wide, uncomplicated grin he sometimes forgets to hide upon taking off his protective mask—she knows he's having a blast, however vociferously he denies it.
That said, she gets why paintball is often incorporated into military and police training; it's great for strategy and teamwork, not to mention cultivating the important art of camouflage. And ever since she was tattooed by a sadist who etched her day of death into her skin, it's basically the only thing in her life that helps her forget about reality.
--
Beside her, Tim tilts his paintball gun and fires. The projectile flies upward, arcs like a football, and descends squarely onto their unfortunate target's back.
"Yeah," he growls triumphantly through his teeth, and Lucy does her best to ignore the sound's physical effect on her body.
She's not especially successful.
--
They're out for drinks, the whole pack of them—all three rookies and their T.O.s—and Jackson elbowing her in the side would feel more playful than painful but for the fact that he'd inadvertently hit the bullseye of her rapidly blossoming bruise. She hides her gasp with a cough that doesn't fool anybody, and Harper frowns at her.
"You OK there, Chen?"
"Yup," Lucy manages. "Just a sore spot from paintball."
Nolan raises an eyebrow. "You and Tim are still doing that?"
"Yeah," she says a little self-consciously, and Tim gets a pinched look on his face that means he doesn't want to talk about it.
"It's a good training exercise," he tells the group brusquely. "Helps the boot learn tactical maneuvers in the field."
"Maybe I should start going with you guys," Jackson muses aloud.
Amid the susurrus of agreement, Lucy tries to figure out why she's instantly opposed to the idea.
II.
Lucy's feeling confident the day of their firearms requalification, confident setting foot onto the grounds of the Shadow Hills Shooting Range, confident in discharging her weapon—but if you asked if she could beat Tim or Harper, she would have confidently said no. And yet…
"Finishing first with the most hits, fastest time, and tightest grouping: Officer Chen." Sergeant Grey gives her a nod. "Congrats, you are the new Mid-Wilshire shooting champ."
She wouldn't be able to stop smiling if you paid her, and while Tim doesn't compliment her directly, he collects his winnings from Harper and Stanton with a glint in his eye that speaks volumes.
"There might actually be something to this paintball thing," Harper mutters, handing over a crisp $20 bill and looking none too pleased about it.
"Or I'm just a better T.O. than you are," Tim retorts smoothly.
Lucy and Harper make the same face.
--
"Do I get a trophy?"
Tim's driving, per usual, and Lucy can't stop talking about being dubbed the Mid-Wilshire shooting champ. Although they're not even an hour into their shift, she's fairly positive his glare count has already reached the double digits.
"Relax; your millennial's showing. You had a few good shots."
"You wish you were a millennial," she counters under her breath, eliciting what may be glare No. 11 before continuing at a normal volume, "Don't be salty because you got second place."
"I have never been salty in my life," Tim says mildly, and her mouth actually drops open. Has he met himself?
"Plus," she forges ahead, "you won 40 bucks. I should get a cut of that; I did all the work."
"Not happening," he assures her swiftly. "But as your T.O., your successes are my successes, so you should be thanking me for training you so well."
Honestly, the mental gymnastics he performs on the regular without breaking a sweat… he'd make it to the Olympics, easy.
"OK," she replies with a chuckle, deciding to let him have this one. "Paintball tonight?"
"Damn straight."
--
When the girl at the register inquires whether they want to save 15 percent by buying an annual Rustic Ranch membership rather than paying month to month, Lucy figures Tim will decline—after all, she won't be his rookie for much longer. You could knock her over with a feather when he says Sure and reaches for his money clip.
--
Register Girl—whose name tag reads Emily—regards the two of them curiously while she waits for the terminal to process Tim's card.
"So, how long have you two been together?"
Lucy doesn't think she could describe the look on Tim's face if her life depended on it. His expression reminds her of a television screen between frequencies, with competing reactions jostling for space.
"About a year," she answers nonchalantly, mostly to see Tim's reaction. Even though his eyebrows shoot up, he ultimately elects to stay silent in favor of affixing her with a steely, unblinking glare.
--
"Chen, why in the hell would you say that?"
They're gearing up for the next game, sneaking up a hill to start off on high ground—Tim's tried and true tactical advantage. His gaze is trained forward, and he asks the question almost soundlessly out of one corner of his mouth.
"Throwing you off your game is fun for me," she asserts airily, and he narrows his eyes but keeps his focus.
III.
One of Lucy's favorite meditations involves placing herself in a memory and engaging her senses one by one until she's soothed. She figures she's supposed to imagine herself picnicking under a tree or something, a gentle breeze whispering through her hair as the sun dances warmly across her skin, and yet more often than not, she thinks of paintball—the mad rush for cover, the adrenaline burst of taking someone out with a satisfying thunk.
Although it sounds ridiculous, being at Rustic Ranch—somewhere she regularly gets shot with colored pellets—actually makes her feel safe. Of course, if her time on the force has taught her anything, it's that solace can be found in the strangest of not only places, but faces.
--
"Hey, you guys nailed it today," Emily comments as they hand over their gear at the end of the night. She gestures behind her. "I was watching on the cameras."
"Thanks!" Lucy replies warmly, and Tim rolls his eyes.
"I set her up for success," he propounds, and, God, he's so full of it. Lucy doesn't mind, though, simply grins and keeps quiet; she figures he's compensating for the impromptu one-armed hug he'd given her after their last round, the clipped Nice job he'd murmured in her ear.
"Legit," Emily continues, swiping Tim's membership card, "I feel like you're the paintball power couple of Rustic Ranch."
When Lucy glances at him, he returns her gaze balefully; she'd honestly forgotten that she'd led Emily to believe they're an item, and she gets the sense that he doesn't appreciate the reminder.
"Well, we're honored," she says a little awkwardly, and Emily snorts.
"Just kiss him, God; I've never met a couple so opposed to PDA."
"I'm not opposed," Tim protests, looking haughty, then falls silent when Lucy touches his arm.
"He's old-fashioned like that," she explains hastily, pretending not to notice his increasing resemblance to the emoji with smoke coming out of its nose.
--
They barely get outside before Tim hisses, "This has gone far enough, OK? I shouldn't have allowed it in the first place, and that's on me."
"It's someone at paintball, Tim; she's not gonna call the Chief of Police. Why do you care so much?"
He stares at her incredulously. "You're my subordinate. Even the appearance of impropriety is enough, Lucy; you know that."
She bites her lip. He's right, she does know, and she's not sure why it stings so much to hear it.
"I get it, it's just… paintball's my…" She really doesn't want to cry at Rustic Ranch, of all places, and yet she feels powerless to stop the tears rapidly welling up in her eyes.
His expression is equal parts aggrieved and mortified. "Chen, don't–"
"Paintball's my oasis, kind of," she blurts out. "Nobody here knows that I– They don't know about my Day of Death, or about Jackson, or…" She shakes her head. "Sometimes I need to be someplace where people don't know."
In lieu of delivering the cutting retort that she's anticipating, Tim says quietly, "So it's an escape for you. A way to get out of your head."
It isn't clear whether he's asking or telling her, but he's correct regardless.
"Yeah," she confirms, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "And I'm sorry for lying. I guess it felt empowering to be able to control the narrative for once, you know? To make someone think something's my reality when it isn't."
He gazes at her thoughtfully for a few moments. "First of all," he begins, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips, "you're going to be a great undercover agent."
She laughs in surprise. "Thank you."
"And second, I get it." He huffs out a sigh. "I did something similar after I joined the military—told my buddies my dad was real proud of me, wrote to me weekly, went to all my games as a kid. It was… easier."
Lucy sniffs. "I'm sorry," she repeats, both for lying and for Tim's childhood; while he rarely discusses it, she knows it didn't much resemble the rosy picture he'd painted.
He clears his throat. "It's fine if you don't want to set Emily straight. You're right, she's just someone at paintball. If it's helping you feel more in control…"
She shakes her head, more at herself than at Tim. "I'm in a really weird place right now," she admits, and she thinks she can detect the tiniest hint of compassion on his face.
"At least you're not there alone."
IV.
"Hey…" Lucy begins cautiously as they drive down Wilshire. She's been Tim's aide for about a week now, and although he'd never admit it, she's pretty sure they both think it's working out well. "Do you think we should quit paintball?"
Tim looks at her askance. "Why?"
"I don't know, I'm not your rookie anymore, and you're a sergeant, and I'm your aide, and I was thinking about what you said…"
"You love paintball." He shrugs. "And we still have to train. Being my go-fer's a very important job, Chen—you shouldn't take it lightly."
"Aide," she corrects reflexively, and then smiles.
--
When they get invited to compete in Rustic Ranch's yearly paintball tournament, it's kind of embarrassing how pumped Lucy is. She mentions it to Tamara no fewer than three times before the girl rolls her eyes and implores, "Please make out with Officer Zaddy already."
"Oh my God," Lucy replies, scandalized. "You sound like Emily."
"Who?"
"This girl at–"
"Let me take a wild guess: paintball?"
She doesn't dignify Tamara with a response.
--
There's paint in her hair from where a fellow player narrowly missed her, and she thought she'd got it all out until she climbs into the shop the following morning and the first thing Tim says is Jesus.
"Should we let him take the wheel today?" she quips, and he gives no indication of having heard her, which is par for the course.
"You look like you're about to go to a Hannah Montana concert," he informs her archly.
She sighs and flips open the passenger visor. "OK, well, Miley hasn't performed as Hannah in, like, a decade."
"Who's Miley?"
She frowns at her reflection, honestly unsure if he's kidding. "Wow, that's a definite pink streak."
"May I?"
She says Yeah as a reflex, not quite realizing what she's agreeing to—and before she can think any more about it, Tim's rough, warm fingertips are suddenly touching her cheek. She holds her breath while he tucks the offending strand behind her ear and doesn't exhale until he's finished.
--
"No mercy," Tim growls, and Lucy has to fight not to shiver; it's the big day, the day of the tournament, and she needs to focus, damn it. "You ready?"
She nods at him. They're crouched low on the hillside, coiled like springs, and there's no one else she trusts like this, nobody better to help her wipe the floor with any player foolhardy enough to go up against them.
"On me. …Go."
--
"Wait, what?" Tim asks, and Lucy's glad he did, because she can't make sense of what she's seeing. "Did we win?"
She squints at the leaderboard by the register, letting the numbers wash over her for a second as she absorbs what they mean. "Oh my God, we won."
Bursting with jubilation, she turns to him breathlessly, and when he pulls her into his arms, he almost sweeps her off her feet. They kiss like it's inevitable, at once surprising and foretold, and her head is spinning from the barrage of sensations—strong arms and soft lips and the exquisite press of his body, fated and firm.
"Finally," Emily murmurs from behind the counter, and Lucy laughs against Tim's mouth.