Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

It starts with noises during roll call.

Normally, roll call is quiet, the calmest part of her day by far. She knows she’ll get her ass handed to her eight or nine different times by lunch, so she values this time to just… listen. Be. Exist. Not worry about whatever horrors her T.O. is going to undoubtedly put her through. Yesterday, it was fifty pushups for every minor traffic infraction she let slide; she learned her lesson after two rounds of dropping to the ground, the Los Angeles concrete burning her palms.

Lucy grips her pen tighter as another muffled sneeze echoes behind her, followed by a symphony of sniffles. Okay. Come on. They’re all adults here. If you’re under the weather, stay home. The only people who have a lot – or really anything – to lose are her, Nolan, and Jackson because they’re rookies, and rookies don’t get sick days. Whoever is making all these annoying sounds in a not very big room really needs to re-evaluate his or her life because seriously.

Sergeant Grey dismisses them.

There’s yet another sneeze. And another.

And another.

Lucy gets to her feet without a word to Nolan or Jackson, pulse pounding with anticipation to get the hell out of here. She doesn’t want to catch whatever this is. She grabs the rifles and war bags without a second thought, making her way to the shop. She’s settling everything in its place and getting ready to hop in the passenger seat when she hears it.

More sniffling.

She cringes, turning around on her heels in time to see Officer Bradford sneeze into the crook of his elbow.

Great.

“Bless you, sir,” she says, on the verge of irritation, but also with some pity in her voice.

Because, honestly, Officer Bradford looks kinda like shit with bloodshot, drooping eyes, flushed cheeks, and a comically red nose. A tissue box tucked beneath his arm, he slides into the driver’s seat wordlessly, turning on the shop and cranking up the AC.

Lucy balks. According to Tim Bradford standards, the air conditioner can’t be touched until after the heat of the day spikes, so around two PM, or if the internal temperature of the shop reaches 90 degrees organically. Right now, it’s barely seven and not even 80 outside. But if she so much as thinks about turning on the air, Bradford glares at her with his stupid eagle eyes like he can read her mind. Huh. It must be nice to get to do whatever you want whenever you want, even if it is in direct violation of your own rules.

“Get in, Boot.”

Ew. His voice sounds all snotty and deep.

This is gonna be a long day.

She almost runs back inside to grab some hand sanitizer and maybe a mask, but she doesn’t. Can’t. Isn’t really in the mood to be on his bad side so early in the day, even if he is a walking contagion. Lucy sighs and gets in the shop. Bradford sneezes the moment she shuts the door. It’s wet and sounds painful. She tries to ignore the sympathy that seems be crawling up her throat, threatening to lodge itself out in the open. First, he gets shot and then this. He hasn’t even been back from medical leave for a week yet. Has already pushed himself to the breaking point by instigating fights and punching walls and ripping open his wound more than once.

“Are you okay to drive, sir?”

Bradford rips the box of tissues open like a wild animal and grabs a handful. “I’m fine.”

He blows his nose. She winces.

“Are you sure? Because this doesn’t seem like a very safe way to operate a motor vehicle.”

Bradford puts the shop in reverse. He’s on the road in seconds.

Lucy rolls her eyes. Whatever.

Less than fifteen minutes into their patrol, Tim is almost through the box and is driving like a granny. He wipes at his nose and sniffles. He nearly rearends a red Subaru. He groans and puts a hand on his side, palpating it before he sneezes again.

“Sir, with all due respect, but if you’re this sick, you shouldn’t be driving.”

“Not sick, Boot,” Tim grumbles. “Just allergies.”

Lucy blinks. “I’m not sure that makes this any better. You can’t go a minute without sneezing, which impairs your vision, which impairs your ability to make split second decisions, which puts us at a high likelihood of being involved in a cr –”

Bradford stomps on the brake.

The same red Subaru comes rapidly into view.

Lucy swears her heart stops.

“Okay. That’s it. Pull over.”

“You don’t get to make the decisions, Boot.”

“Too bad. I’m making this one,” she says. “There’s a gas station to your right.”

Bradford must’ve run out of tissues because he wipes this latest issue of Snot Magazine on the back of his hand. Gross. But he pulls into the gas station parking lot without another word. Lucy swears his eyes are already halfway closed before the shop is even in park.

“I’m going to go grab some more Kleenex. You stay here and try not to drown in your own mucus. When I get back, you better be in the passenger seat.”

She swears Bradford sticks his tongue out at her. Valid response. But still.

Lucy heads inside. She turns her head in time to see Bradford opening the driver door and nearly spilling out onto the pavement.

She wastes no time gathering supplies. She grabs two boxes of tissues, three packets of Benadryl, and a bottle of Gatorade. There’s no way she’s spending the rest of her twelve hour shift with Sneezy McSneezerson without any type of relief. With any luck, it’ll knock him out, and she can study her rook book while he, for once, says nothing to her about anything.

Bradford is using what looks like a receipt to wipe his nose when she gets back to the shop.

She hands him the first box, already opened. He digs in, presses a wad underneath the trouble area, and sneezes again. She frowns as he blinks, shaking his head back and forth as if trying to lessen the pressure. His eyes are almost entirely red, blood vessels undoubtedly blown. Lucy watches him bury his face in the tissues, sniffing and sneezing like rapid fire.

“Here. Take these,” she commands, handing the pill packet and Gatorade over.

Bradford looks at it. Really looks at it.

“’s Benadryl,” he rasps.

“It’ll help. Maybe you’ll even stop sneezing.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t take it. Makes me tired.”

“Well, your sneezing is making me tired.”

“No,” he says. She swears he almost sounds… pouty. “It’ll make me fall asleep.”

She gets it. They’re on shift. He’s her T.O. and is responsible for her. She can’t take calls by herself yet. Can’t even make basic traffic stops without his approval.

“I’ll cover for you,” she tells him simply.

Bradford sneezes. “How’re you gonna do that?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets.”

He rolls his eyes. He opens the pill packet and swallows both with a swig of Gatorade. He hunkers down in the passenger seat, arms crossed as he shivers slightly in the air conditioning.

“Thanks,” he grumbles.

Lucy puts the shop in drive.

She’s barely on the road for five minutes before Bradford’s chin tilts toward his chest, snoring instead of sneezing.

II.

It’s raining.

Thunder rolls overhead.

Lucy knocks on the door for the third time.

She waits another minute and raises her fist again. Her hair is starting to get wet. She hates it.

But the door opens, revealing a shirtless and sleepy Tim Bradford. His eyebrows are furrowed. He looks mad.

“Are you mad?” Lucy asks, clutching the brown paper bag. It nearly disintegrates in her grasp.

Tim blinks. “What’re you doing here, Boot?”

His voice is scratchy, thick with congestion.

“Can I come in?”

Tim lets out a sigh, but gestures for her to enter anyway.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she says.

It’s stupid. She knows it’s stupid. It’s not like she’s ever been to her T.O.’s house before. This is a big risk. But Tim just got out of the hospital two days ago after severe anaphylactic shock to a mystery vaccine after being coughed on by a highly contagious man who bled out right in front of him. She hasn’t seen him in a week. It felt weird. Feels weird. To leave this alone, to leave him alone, after the mandated quarantine didn’t sit right with her.

She finds her way to the kitchen, settling the paper bag on a spotless counter.

“I brought you some staples. Figured you didn’t have time to go shopping.”

She unloads eggs, wheat bread, peanut butter, noodles, ground beef, and apples.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“I know. But I wanted to.”

Lucy turns around. Tim’s wrestling with a t-shirt when she sees it. Them. The blotches. They’re red and angry. Some of them are bleeding. The blotches coat his arms, his cheeks, his neck. Fingernail marks ghost his skin, leaving tracers of his movements. He smooths down the t-shirt – blue and oversized – and stares at the floor instead of looking at her.

This isn’t Tim Bradford.

No, this is the shell of her T.O., likely a crab shell because he’s pretty crabby most of the time. But this shell is quiet, hands tucked into sweatpants pockets and feet bare on the vinyl, obviously not expecting or used to having visitors.

“Have you taken anything for those?” she asks, motioning to, well, everywhere.

Tim holds out his left arm slightly and looks at it. Sluggish.

Did she wake him up?

She’s almost positive she did, especially with how long it took him to answer the door.

But Tim shakes his head. “It’s hives. Leftover from the reaction. They… They gave me this calamine lotion, but it’s sticky and feels gross.”

“You should really put some of it on. You’ll scar if you keep scratching like that.”

He shrugs. His eyes aren’t focusing right.

She remembers that look.

“Benadryl?” she asks.

Tim blinks. Nods. Blinks again. “A lot of it.”

She chuckles, just a little bit. “Do I need to be worried?”

But Tim doesn’t answer.

Lucy frowns. She puts the cold groceries in the tidy refrigerator and rounds the island to where she’s face to face with him, breathing in the smell of his cinnamon cologne. Between the hives and the congestion and the evident exhaustion, she isn’t sure how she’s supposed to react. He’s her T.O. and has only been that for six months, but six months is a long time to share a shop with someone. Tim isn’t usually… like this.

And she feels totally unprepared. Out of depth. Left in the dark.

If she’s being honest, she’s more scared of Tim Bradford than she is of Officer Tim Bradford.

He’s human. Not a robot or a machine or a soldier.

“Tim?”

“Hmm?” He sways in place.

“Do I need to be worried?” she repeats. “About the Benadryl?”

He shakes his head. “No. Big dose. S’posed to help.”

“Is it helping?”

“Dunno.”

“How about you go lay back down, okay? I’m sorry I woke you up.”

Tim scratches the back of his head. Moves to scratch his forearm and then his chin. “Wasn’t asleep. Can’t sleep.”

She frowns. Fights the urge to swat his hand but also to hold it close. “How about I help? Are you okay with that?”

Tim nods.

She doesn’t know this house, doesn’t really know this man standing in front of her, but she pulls him along anyway.

Lucy finds the bathroom. Finds the medicated calamine-like lotion and extra strength Benadryl prescribed to Timothy M. Bradford. She wonders idly what the ‘M’ stands for. Michael? Matthew? Mark? Or something more out there like Milo or Maverick? Finds a contact lens case, contact solution, and a pair of espresso-colored frames she only mildly freaks out about. Finds that the bottle of anti-itch cream hasn’t even been opened yet. She’s sure they slathered it on him while he was in the hospital, and that’s how he knows what it feels like. Sticky and gross. Hmm. She settles Tim, very very out of it Tim, onto the closed toilet seat and reads the instructions.

“Where are you itchiest?” she asks.

Tim laughs. It’s small and quiet.

“I guess that’s not a fair question, is it?”

She unscrews the cap, plops the pink gel onto her fingers, and approaches him like she’d approach a stray cat in need of food.

“I’m gonna rub this on your neck. Maybe those spots on your cheek too. You’ve got a lot of them there that are really red.”

She does. Tim flinches at first.

But then he wordlessly lifts his shirt. Lucy rubs the ointment in on his back and chest. She’s careful of the scar on his left side, the one he got on her second day. She’s careful of all the scars she finds riddling his skin.

“That should do it,” she says. Her voice shakes a little. She washes her hands and notes that her fingers are trembling, screaming with intimacy.

She really hopes he doesn’t remember this.

Can’t imagine what might happen if he does.

Because he’s her T.O., and she’s his rookie, and that… this…

This was nothing.

Nothing at all.

“Need to take your contacts out before you fall asleep?”

Tim startles at that. As if he’s been seen. Too seen. But then he shakes his head.

“You sure? You’re supposed to so you can prevent infections.”

“Not wearing them,” he mumbles, hauling himself to his feet. “Too itchy.”

So he’s just been blind the whole time.

Great.

Maybe he won’t recognize her.

Tim makes his way down the hall without another word. Lucy follows close behind, spotting him in case he stumbles. He falls onto bed on his belly, yanking a pillow to his face and holding onto it tightly, bare feet dangling over the end of the mattress. Lucy turns on the fan by the TV, knowing the hives are probably still hot and irritated.

“Thanks, Lucy…” he murmurs.

She barely hears it.

And now she’s been seen too. Too seen.

“Goodnight, Tim,” she whispers.

She tiptoes back the way she came from and heads out into the rain.

III.

The party is supposed to be fun.

But, as Lucy stands in the corner of the ballroom, off to the side and out of the way, she notes this is decidedly not fun.

Anxiety coils around her muscles like a snake, squeezing and twisting. Refusing to let go. She swears the air in here is poisonous and riddled with carbon dioxide. She grips her wine glass tightly; her fingers turn a dull shade of red. She watches her friends dance and laugh, some wearing silly 2020 glasses and others donning those weird hates she only ever sees on New Year’s Eve. It’s almost 10:30. The new year is close, but not close enough.

Maybe she’ll get lucky and can leave 2019 behind her for good.

At the very least, she’d love to forget the last month.

She gently traces her fingers over her side, where she’s been branded for life.

And she thinks of the barrel.

Thinks about running out of oxygen one agonizing millisecond at a time.

Thinks about screaming and thrashing and praying and hoping and all the things she’ll never get to experience because she’s here. She’s here, and she’s dying, and soon she’ll be nothing but a memory.

A memory.

That’s all this is.

She breathes.

She made it out alive.

But part of her is still locked inside that barrel, unraveling.

She isn’t sure the missing pieces will ever be recovered.

Lucy shudders, exhaling shakily as the party goes on without her.

She should go.

Yeah.

She should leave.

It doesn’t matter that she got here an hour ago. It doesn’t matter that Jackson is owning the dance floor, glow sticks everywhere. It doesn’t matter that –

“You okay?”

She turns around to see her T.O. standing with his hands in his slacks pockets, studying her closely with his big blue eyes.

“Um… Yeah. I’m fine.” She tucks a stray stand of hair behind her ears and clears her throat. “I’m good.”

Tim nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You leaving?”

“I think so,” she says honestly. “This is just…”

“Overwhelming?”

“Exactly.”

Tim nods again. “I agree. It’s very loud in here.”

“Yeah, this isn’t exactly your scene.”

“I’m more of a in bed by ten kind of guy.”

She chuckles. “I’ve seen it. Your grump level goes up dramatically when we work nights.”

He rolls his eyes. “Have you at least eaten? I hear the food’s good.”

“Have you?” she asks. She doesn’t know why her voice sounds small and questioning, but she hates it.

Tim shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “Want to grab something?”

There’s a brief silence, and then Lucy nods. “Sure.”

He leads the way to the buffet, Lucy following close behind him. They bypass their drunken friends and coworkers. At one point, Smitty accidentally knocks into her. She’s grateful that she put her wine down, but she’s even more grateful that Tim is there to catch her and keep her from falling. His touch is tender but strong.

And she remembers being pulled out of the barrel.

Collapsing into Tim’s embrace.

Crying in his arms as he rocked her back and forth.

The ghost of his lips on her forehead.

And how he stayed by her side the entire time, never once abandoning her.

She shakes it off. It’s the only thing she can do to stop her cheeks from reddening beyond the point of no return.  

Lucy fills her plate with Mongolian barbeque, stir fry vegetables, and egg rolls. She watches as Tim grabs the same foods, along with a small bowl of fruit salad. He turns around to make sure she’s still with him before he heads to an empty table.

“Any drink requests?” he asks as Lucy takes a seat.

“Rum and Coke?”

“Coming right up.”

She watches him walk away. She doesn’t mean to, not really, but it happens regardless.

She also watches him return with two smaller glasses balanced in one hand and a bigger glass in the other.

“Water?” she teases. “What a square.”

Tim rolls his eyes. He places one small glass and the water in front of her.

They settle into a comfortable silence. It’s as peaceful as it can be at a New Year’s Eve party in a ballroom filled with cops. She starts with tiny bites, unsure if the food will agree with her. But Tim’s right. It’s really good. Savory and tangy and fulfilling. Before she knows it, her plate is close to empty, random snap peas and garlic noodles the only survivors.

But then she looks at Tim.

He’s spearing a piece of pineapple with his fork.

But he doesn’t seem… like himself.

She watches his movements slow. Watches as he swallows almost convulsively. Watches as sweat beads on his forehead. Watches as a splotch of red appears on his neck, nearly hidden by stubble and the particularly bad lighting.

“Tim?”

He drops his fork.

And wheezes.

He gets to his feet, swaying and stumbling, and starts to make his way out of the ballroom.

Lucy follows, heart swimming somewhere near her toes.

As soon as Tim’s in the hallway, he sinks against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him.  

“Hey, what’s going on? Was it something you ate?”

Tim coughs. Tries to clear his throat. “Strawberry.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t see you eat any strawberries,” she says, voice borderline frantic. “Wait. Are you allergic to strawberries? Tim, this is really something you should’ve told me – ”

She watches Tim yank an EpiPen from his slacks pocket, hands shaking as he breathes raggedly. Lucy feels every muscle in her body tense up. Feels the air around her thicken like molasses. Feels fright in such a tangible sense that it makes her want to jump out of her own skin.

But she grabs the EpiPen anyway.

She jabs it into his thigh without a second thought, sitting down and guiding his left leg until it’s safely in her lap so she can massage the medicine around.

Work faster. Work faster so he doesn’t pass out.

Tim’s head falls back against the wall. His breaths come out in quick wheezes. But they do eventually slow down. She spies the hives that have taken residence on his neck and forearms. A couple dot his cheeks. He scratches at his neck, stopping to rub his throat every few seconds. He’s trembling hard but makes no efforts to move, not when everything is so volatile.

“I’m gonna call 911, okay?” she says.

Tim nods. His eyes are bloodshot and drooping, the rest of his face pinched.

She does. The dispatcher wants her to stay on the phone until they arrive. Instead, she wraps her arm around Tim and pulls him close. His head lulls on her shoulder. Sweat and the floor wrinkle her dress, but all she can think about is Tim.

The ambulance arrives.

Their coworkers and friends watch as Tim is loaded into the back on a stretcher, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose for safe measure.

Lucy follows close behind, driving like a lunatic as Jackson and Nolan sit stiffly in her car. She knows it’s likely Sergeant Grey and Angela and maybe even Harper are doing the same thing. As much as Tim likes to be the alpha male, he does have good people in his corner.

The hospital is a blur on New Years Eve. There are too many people with too much going on.

By the time she’s finally escorted to Tim’s room, it’s 12:01.

“Happy New Year,” she says quietly as knocks briefly on the door.

Tim’s sitting up on the mattress, legs dangling over the side. His clothes rest in a pile at the end. He doesn’t say anything, just gives her a brief, shy smile before he stares at the ground. His short hair sticks up in tufts, and his arms are covered in blotches slathered in the signature calamine-like lotion. He looks absolutely wrecked in every sense of the word.

Lucy grabs a chair from the corner, pulling it over so their knees touch when she sits.

“So, strawberries, huh?” she asks.

Tim nods. “Yep. Strawberries.”

“Were you ever gonna tell me, or was I just gonna have to find you passed out from a strawberry-related incident?”

He picks at a fraying edge of the thin blue blanket. “To be fair, I thought it was irrelevant. I always avoid them. Didn’t think it would ever come up because I’m careful.”

“Apparently not that careful,” she points out.

Tim rolls his eyes. “Cross-contamination is not my fault. Whoever made that fruit salad must’ve cut strawberries too and didn’t wash the knife in between.”

“Don’t you think it’d be helpful though if someone knew about your allergy?” she asks. “Like maybe you’re partner?”

“You’re my boot, Chen. Not my partner.”

She knocks into his knee with hers and smiles when he rolls his eyes, this time with his whole head.

“I’m just saying I can help. I can keep an EpiPen on me in case there’s any random killer strawberries on the streets. I’ll make sure to avoid eating them too when we’re together.”

“You don’t have to do that. It’s not that bad.”

She blinks. “It looks pretty bad to me.”

“I mean I can be in the same room with them. I just can’t consume them without…”

“Nearly dying?” she finishes.

“It was minor anaphylaxis. They only make you call 911 after you use an EpiPen to make sure the reaction doesn’t return.”

Lucy sighs. “You still should’ve told me.”

To her surprise, Tim nods. “Yeah. I know that now,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Lucy pats his knee. “It’s okay. No more hiding things. Deal?”

“Deal.”

"Anything else you're allergic to? So I can keep watch?" 

"Penicillin and most trees."

"Of course you're allergic to most trees, but not all of them," she says. "Okay, so I'll be on tree and antibiotic lookout, and I'll make sure you never accidentally consume another strawberry again."

Tim shrugs, a small smile on his lips. "If that's what you want to do." 

“It is. When are they letting you out of here?”

Tim shrugs. “Hopefully soon.”

“I’ll wait with you until you’re discharged.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Lucy settles further into the chair.

There are worst ways to spend New Year’s Day.

Chapter Text

IV.

Spring has sprung, and so have Tim’s seasonal allergies.

With the trees in bloom, pollen dusts their shop every single shift, a thick layer of yellowish white whose only real goal in life seems to be to make her T.O. sneeze relentlessly, blow his nose a hundred thousand times, scratch his eyes and ears, and clear his throat convulsively. It’s a vicious cycle that presented itself in early March. But now it’s mid-April, and Lucy swears the symptoms keep getting worse instead of better, despite the precautions she’s been taking.

For starters, she has a stock of Kleenex from Costco that she stores in their war bags, which has turned out to be an absolute necessity. She buys the fragrance-free lotion kind, and Tim usually goes through at least two boxes per day. She keeps anti-itch cream – a brand he doesn’t find sticky and gross – on standby for when he starts to claw at his skin in desperation. She has cooling eyedrops in the glovebox and always puts them on personal when Tim has to use them so he can take his contacts out. She’s also well-equipped with Zyrtec and Claritin; Benadryl is a no-go during shift, making him too exhausted and unfocused on the job. She doesn’t know how his other rookies dealt with this, but she spends a majority of her time at work alongside him, and she’d rather not have both of them miserable if she can help it at all.

So, yes, she’s a little more prepared than she was at the beginning of this allergy journey.

Until today.

They’re chasing a carjacking suspect through an area littered with Tim’s mortal enemy – trees. Tim tackles the suspect from behind hard, landing awkwardly with his upper half in a bush and his lower half on the grass. He cuffs the perp and recites his rights with no hesitation. They’re about to begin the walk back to the shop when Tim sneezes.

A puff of yellowish white dusts poofs out into the air.

And that’s when Lucy sees it.

Her T.O. is covered in pollen from the chest up.

It litters his uniform, sticking to his skin and hair and eyebrows and –

Oh god.

It’s everywhere.

Tim blinks. Sneezes again. Looks down at himself.

Lucy takes the suspect from him, eyes wide and internally preparing for what’s about to happen.

“Uh, Lucy –” Tim manages before another sneeze cuts him off.

Then there’s another.

And another.

And, of course, another.

Tim doubles over. Snot pours from his nose. He starts wheezing.

“Let’s get him to the shop first. Then we can deal with this,” she says, trying to hide the frantic energy building inside her. It feels like an explosion went off in her chest, enveloping her fully and scorching her insides. Because this is bad. Very bad. And it’s not a situation she feels prepared for. Tim melts down if there’s a hint of pollen in the air, but now he’s covered in it, and there’s no way it isn’t up his nose or in his eyes and probably even in his ears at this point.

Lucy hauls ass up the hill with the suspect in tow. She turns on the engine and air conditioning so they guy doesn’t complain of cruel and unusual punishment when they get back to the station. She shuts the door and makes sure everything is secure before she turns around.

Tim’s eyes, cheeks, and nose are a little swollen. The entire surface of his face looks blotchy, red and irritated. He sneezes in rapid fire succession, wiping the mucus on his pollen-saturated arm.

“Take your shirt off,” she instructs. “I’m gonna get you something to wipe off your face and… everywhere else.”

She watches as Tim removes his duty belt and unbuttons his uniform top, throwing it to the side before she opens the shop trunk, leaving him in his vest and white undershirt. She grabs the towel she keeps in case it rains, a bottle of water, and the navy LAPD t-shirt that’s folded up in the pocket of his war bag. She dowses the towel in water, wishing it was cold instead of almost uncomfortably warm, and hands it over to Tim, who is sneezing so forcefully she fears it may knock him unconscious.

“Wipe yourself off the best you can, and take off the vest and shirt. You’ve got a backup you can wear.”

Tim, more frantically than she’s ever seen him, starts to do as he’s told. The vest and shirt come off. Pollen flies in each direction as he scrubs his hair and face. He takes an extra long time finding parts of the towel that aren’t contaminated so he can clean off his arms and hands, but the attempts are futile. He’s an actual, literal mess. The pollens seems to have colonized and multiplied, completely taking over and forcing him to sneeze more times in a row than she thought was possible. They’re starting to sound ragged and painful.

And then his nose starts to bleed.

Pressure. It’s from the pressure. She’s sure of it.

Lucy jumps into action, grabbing her spare t-shirt and holding it to Tim’s nose while he tries to stop sneezing.

“Think we should go to the ER?” she asks.

She’s being serious. She’s knows it’s allergies, but this isn’t good.

There’s no way Tim can make it through the rest of shift like this.

He shakes his head. For a brief moment, there aren’t more sneezes, just loud sniffles.

“No,” he mumbles. Except it sounds like ‘doh,’ and she has to fight from laughing.

Or crying.

She isn’t sure which.

It’s awful and horrible that her T.O. fell into a bush smothered in the one thing she thinks he’s more allergic to than anything else.

But it’s also a little funny too.

Okay. No. Push that down. It’s not funny. It’s…

“I need to shower,” Tim grates out. “Get this shit off of me.”

Lucy nods. Her breathing shifts when Tim’s hand lands on top of hers, further pushing the t-shirt in place against his nose.

“Are you sure?”

He nods.

“Okay. Shower at the station. I’ll tell Grey you need to go home after.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I don’t need to go home.”

Lucy scoffs. “Yeah right. If you think this reaction is over, you’re so wrong. It’s probably just getting started. Doesn’t being at home in bed highly under the influence of Benadryl sound great compared to this?”

He sniffs. His eyes are almost comically red, a stark contrast against the deep blue she often finds herself getting lost in.

(She didn’t just think that.)

“It does sound nice,” he murmurs.

They wait for a few minutes, their hands on each other’s as Tim’s nose stops bleeding and starts clogging with snot instead.

Tim gets to his feet, out of breath as he takes measured steps to the passenger seat of the shop.

Lucy drives them back to the station and processes their suspect while Tim briefs Grey and takes a much-needed shower.

By the time she sees him again, his eyes are nearly swollen shut. She isn’t sure if it’s from allergies or exhaustion, but she guesses it’s both.

His hair still damp, he’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed into the hoodie pouch. He sneezes, sniffles, coughs, and scratches at his eyes all within the span of fifteen chaotic seconds. It’s hard to watch.

“Heading home?” she asks, leaning against the counter in the intake room.

Tim nods.

“Need a ride?”

Another nod. “Yes please.”

“I’ll go ask Grey. I’m sure he’ll say it’s fine.”

Tim itches his neck. He’s still tearing at it when Lucy returns from her brief conversation, which consisted of Sergeant Grey telling Lucy to make sure he takes it easy and has someone monitor him for an adverse reaction for the next 24 hours.

Lucy grabs his hand and forces it down to his side. “Stop that. You’re gonna scar.”

Tim grumbles something under his breath.

“Let’s get you home, okay?”

Later on, Tim’s tucked safely into bed, buried in a tissue volcano with a double dose of Benadryl coursing through his veins as he snores the rest of the day away.

Lucy stays close by, just in case.

V.

She watches as Tim rubs at his right ear for the tenth time in as many minutes. Watches as his face scrunches, his lips turned downward. Watches as he tugs the blanket up over his chest only to push it down moments later, huffing and fidgeting on the couch. Watches as he alternates between placing his socked feet on her thigh and huddling himself into a ball. Watches as his interest in The Great British Bake Off rapidly dissolves.

“Hey,” she says, reaching out to pat his ankle. “You okay?”

And she pretends not to be offended when he flinches beneath her touch.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Convincing. Wanna try that again?”

Tim lets out a long sigh. “Ear hurts.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Think it’s from that foot pursuit earlier?”

Foot pursuits in the middle of a December rain aren’t exactly known for being pleasant. By the time the suspect was apprehended, Tim was drenched to the bone and bleeding from taking an elbow to the mouth. When she caught up with him at the end of shift, she found out he hadn’t even had a chance to change into dry clothes, and the blood was only gone because he got trapped out in the rain again during multiple stops for broken traffic signals.

Tim shrugs. “Was hurting before that. Maybe it made it worse.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I swear you should get that tattooed on your forehead.”

Tim rolls his eyes. He swings his legs over the side of the couch and sits up, only to immediately put his head in his hands.

Lucy’s stomach drops as he scoots over beside him and rubs soothing circles on his back. He feels a little warm beneath her touch. Not enough to be worried about, but enough to keep an eye on. “Dizzy?” she asks.

He nods. She notes the way his Adams apple bobs up and down repeatedly.

“Come here,” she beckons, gently grabbing his sweatshirt-covered arm and pulling him close to her, mindful of how unsteady he seems even while remaining still. Tim buries his face into the crook of her neck and curls into her, allowing her to wrap him up in a warm embrace. His edges are softer now than ever, thanks to her amazing ability at wearing down all the sharp sides over the years, leaving behind the cuddly side of Tim Bradford just for her and her only.

They stay like this until Lucy feels him fall asleep, mouth parted slightly against her skin. She admires the twinkling glow from the Christmas tree, the one he was adamant about being symmetrically perfect before they left the lot with it, and inhales the scent of his citrus shampoo with a quiet hum. His house is peacefully warm with Kojo close by on the floor, lying on his back with his paws in the air. She presses a kiss to Tim’s temple and holds onto him tighter, promising herself she’ll wake up in half an hour to cook them dinner.

Of course that doesn’t happen though.

Because by the time she does wake up, it’s past one AM, and Tim’s running a fever. She can feel it burning through her pajamas. She gets to her feet, speed walks to the bathroom, and emerges with a thermometer in tow. Tim lies down in her spot, shivering and hissing as she swipes the device across his forehead. He tugs at his ear restlessly.

102.

Well, that came on fast.

She runs her fingers through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. “Urgent care time?”

Tim shakes his head. He doesn’t remove his hand from where it’s covering up his right ear. “It’s cold,” is all he says, face pinched into a pout.

“Antibiotics will make you feel better faster,” she reasons.

Another shake of the head.

But Lucy gets her way regardless because of course she does. This is important. His fever being this high this quickly isn’t a great sign. She knows if they wait until morning – actual morning when the sun rises, that is – Tim will feel even worse. He’s always harder to handle when he doesn’t feel the best, and she doubts this occurrence will be the exception to the facts.

Which is how they end up at a 24-hour urgent care at 1:45 AM.

Tim, thankfully, is seen within minutes.

“Any allergies?” a nurse asks.

Lucy almost laughs.

Any time she’s asked that question, she flashes back to dozens of battles with Tim’s various forms of allergies.

“Penicillin,” she says. “Strawberries. Bad seasonal allergies. He’s seeing a specialist.”

“Got it. No Penicillin or any members of the Penicillin family, just in case.”

Tim is listless and only stops rubbing his ear when the doctor has to use the otoscope.

“Right ear is fully involved. Left ear is a little swollen.”

Lucy rubs his back as the doctor writes a prescription, eager to get out of here. Judging by the way Tim fidgets with the zipper of his coat, tugging it up and down with one hand as the other massages his sore ear, she figures he’s wiped and ready to do the same. She doesn’t know exactly how long he’s been dealing with the pain because he’s most stubborn man in existence, but she does know he isn’t a fan of doctors. So when they let him go with just a piece of paper instead of jabbing him with needles, she notes the look of relief in his eyes and smiles sadly.

She gets the prescription – Azithromycin - filled at the all-day pharmacy across the street from urgent care. Tim falls asleep with the side of his head pushed against the window. He doesn’t stir until Lucy coaxes him out of her car, where she has to keep him from faceplanting into the wet grass. She gets him inside and situated on the couch, not wanting to risk traveling to the bedroom when he’s a trembling mess. He bundles himself in a blanket and presses a pillow to his ear.

“I’ve got some antibiotics and Tylenol for you,” she says.

Tim downs the pills with a quick swig of water. Heat from the fever rolls off of him in waves.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Lucy whispers.

Tim does so wordlessly.

And she must fall asleep too because she wakes up in the in the plushy armchair to Tim tugging at her shirtsleeve like a cranky toddler.

She inhales sharply, pulse thudding in her veins. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Pretty sure this isn’t s’posed to happen,” Tim says. His voice is raspy and quiet.

“What isn’t supposed to happen?” Lucy asks.

She gets to her feet and fumbles for the light switch.

And she gasps when she takes in the sight of her boyfriend.

Tim’s face is covered in a blistery rash, alarmingly sweaty and flushed. His ears are so red they’re almost purple. Sweatshirt missing, he shows his arms to Lucy, facing his forearms outward. They’re covered in the same painful looking rash. She sees the hint of blotches spreading from his neck to under his oversized t-shirt. In fact, it looks like every surface of his body might be suffering from the same awful fate.

“I don’t understand this,” Lucy says, trying to keep her voice calm and level. Tim’s already sick and now there’s this, and she really doesn’t want to overwhelm him anymore than he already is. “I triple checked with the pharmacist that what they were giving you wasn’t related to Penicillin at all.”

“I feel really gross,” Tim tells her.

The whites of his eyes are beet red and shiny.

“I know, honey. Does anything hurt?”

“Ears. Throat’s itchy.”

She sighs. “Did you eat anything while I was asleep?”

He shakes his head.

“Your foot chase earlier was on the street?”

“Yeah. No trees.”

She runs a hand through her hair.

Just when she thought she had all of Tim’s allergies at least mostly under control. They can’t control the awful springtime hay fever completely, but they’ve gotten fairly close with the bi-weekly allergy shots.

She doesn’t like this, the unexpectedness of it. She likes to be prepared. She likes to have a plan.

But it doesn’t matter. It definitely doesn’t matter to Tim, who is alternating between scratching his arms and his neck.

His allergies don’t work on her timetable.

Never have and apparently never will.

“I think you’re having a reaction to the antibiotics. It can’t be the Tylenol; you take that all the time.”

Tim rolls his eyes. Signature Bradford move. “Fuck.”

“Yep. ‘Fuck’ indeed,” Lucy says softly. “Ready to go back to urgent care?”

He shakes his head, shoulders slouched. “I don’t have a choice.”

Luckily (or unluckily), they take one look at Tim and usher him to an exam room without even having him sign in. He gets a new dose of antibiotics that they start on the spot in case anything else goes wrong, a breathing treatment, and an injection for the rash. Lucy does the honors of rubbing anti-itch cream onto the worst spots that don’t clear up with the shot.

By the time they leave urgent care for the second time that day, Tim is shivering relentlessly, at the end of his rope. He’s malleable and compliant in the worst ways possible; this isn’t the Tim she knows, but it’s the one she gets until she puts him to bed. She strips him down to his boxers, and he climbs underneath the covers, both relishing in the coolness from the sheets against his hot, irritated skin and the warmth that he must finally be feeling for the first time in hours.

She lies down next to him and wraps him up in her arms, pressing kisses wherever she can reach.

Tim koalas around her and snores loudly in her ear.

She doesn’t mind.

+I.

The food truck park is oddly quiet for a Friday afternoon.

Usually, finding a table is a chore, but today might just be her lucky day.

It’s been decent so far. She’s riding solo; doing things on her own always gives her a fresh perspective, both about the job and about life. She’s been primarily focusing on assisting neighborhoods, trying to be the positive police influence she knows LA needs, especially right now. The wildfires decimated a lot of communities. She doesn’t like to think about it in too much detail, the memories still fresh in her mind, reminders of what she could’ve lost.

She grabs a table with Nolan and Celina. They nominate Nolan to buy them lunch as a joke, but of course he does it anyway because he’s Nolan. She’s in the middle of enjoying her watermelon salad when Tim and Miles show up. She nearly ducks her head when Tim gives her a terse nod and faint, almost imperceptible smile, but she returns it instead. They’ve been in a strange place lately, especially after Tim’s admission that he still loves her.

By ‘strange place,’ she means they haven’t been talking.

Lucy doesn’t know what to say.

She’s trying to get her priorities straight. Becoming a sergeant is now more on the radar than ever. She feels fueled by her goals, her mission clearer since lying under that fire blanket with Tim’s arms wrapped securely around her, shielding her from the flames. Her career needs to be her focus. It’s been too long since she’s felt this energy burning inside of her, eager to make a difference and learn and grow and become the best police officer she can be. She lost sight of that for a while, enthralled in her personal relationships.

Not anymore.

She watches Tim sit down with some sort of salad, Miles animatedly telling his T.O. some story. Probably either about football or Texas. When she was a rookie, there is no way in hell Tim would openly eat lunch with just her. But this version of her former T.O. honestly doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t look like he’s listening to a word Miles is saying, but he also isn’t ripping his head off or forcing him to do pushups for boldly assuming he was worthy enough to sit with him.

This is not the Tim Bradford she’s used to.

Vaguely, she finds herself a little jealous of the less than harsh treatment Miles is receiving.

But she also knows Tim’s not the same man either. He’s changed fundamentally at his core, which, in turn, will obviously affect how he handles the job and the people around him. She knows he still goes to therapy, both personal sessions and to a veteran’s support group twice a month. It’s making a difference. He’s not as volatile. He’s less likely to break apart at the seams. He is still straightforward and to the point, but the sharp edge of anger and frustration has been replaced with understanding and even a hint of compassion.

Lucy glances down at her food. She isn’t hungry anymore.

She’s throwing away her trash when Miles approaches her, worry plastered all over his face.

“You gotta help me, Officer Chen! Something’s wrong with Sergeant Bradford.”

Her stomach immediately shrivels.

She races over to the table to find Tim swallowing over and over again, trying to clear his throat. He rubs at his neck, already starting to break out in a rash, and makes futile attempts to cough into a balled fist.

“Is he choking? I can do the Heimlich,” Miles says, voice shaking.

“No. That’s not it,” she says. She pulls out the EpiPen she keeps in her duty belt on the lefthand side; she knows right where to find it. “Did he eat something with strawberries?”

“Strawberries? No. It’s… Uh, it’s a salad. A salad with mango… something. I can’t remember what exactly, but I can go ask,” he offers.

Celina and Nolan surround them now. She can hear Nolan calling for an ambulance. She can hear Celina trying to talk to her too, but all Lucy sees is Tim. All she can focus on is the way his breathing is morphing into raggedy wheezes. All she can focus on is how his chest rises and falls at an abnormally fast pace. All she can focus on is the hives and rash appearing on his skin, blossoming from his neck to his cheeks to his forearms to underneath his uniform.

“You know the drill, right, Tim?” Lucy asks, holding the EpiPen for him to see.

A frantic nod.

She plunges the EpiPen into Tim’s thigh muscle.

She drops to her knee and starts to massage the area, spreading the medicine around.

She listens to sirens approaching, the echo of footsteps hitting the pavement, the way Nolan and Celina and Miles and the food truck staff are panicking around her.

For once, she doesn’t feel herself stricken with fear.

She’s done this before. She’s been here before. She’s aware of what to do.

Tim coughs, and Lucy rubs his back. His skin burns beneath his uniform. She unbuttons the top and removes that and the vest, leaving him sweating through his undershirt. She knows this, knows these reactions like the back of her hand because she has to. Because she wants to. Because Tim’s a massive part of her life, and, honestly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Because she loves him.

She loves him too.

Okay. No. Stop.

This is not the right time.

The paramedics arrive. They place an oxygen mask over Tim’s mouth and nose and a pulse oximeter on his index finger. They inject him with more epinephrine and an antihistamine to stop the worst of the itching. He walks to the ambulance on his own, murmuring about not being an invalid, but Lucy takes that – that classic Tim attitude – as a good sign. He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be exhausted for the next couple days; he always is. But he’s going –

“Want to ride with him?” the paramedic asks. Lucy recognizes her from other calls.

Lucy shuffles her feet, clasping her hands together to wring her fingers. “Yeah. Sure.” She approaches the vehicle with her stomach swimming somewhere near her toes. Tim sits up against a stretcher, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling. “Got room for one more?”

He looks at her. Really looks at her.

But then he smiles.

It’s so soft and faint Lucy barely sees it.

“Always,” he says. His voice is hoarse.

She sits down on the bench beside him.

Without hesitation, Tim reaches out for her hand.

Lucy bites her bottom lip.

She takes Tim’s hand. Runs her thumb over his knuckles. Tries to slow her heartbeat down.

“There were strawberry seeds in the mango puree,” the paramedic announces. “Enough to give you a reaction. The shop owner apologizes. He feels terrible.”

Lucy’s eyebrows furrow. “Did you tell him about your allergy?”

Tim looks down and shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything.

Lucy rolls her eyes. “Tim,” she says, voice stern and strict. “You have to tell everyone about it. Even if you think you’re eating something safe.”

Tim sighs. He sinks further into the stretcher. The paramedic places a flat pillow behind his head.

The ride to the hospital is quiet. Lucy doesn’t let go of his hand.

He’s settled in the ER for monitoring, a precaution in case the reaction returns. A nurse says he can leave in the next few hours if everything looks good. Until then, they’ll keep him on supplemental oxygen and pump him with antihistamines to lessen the more extreme symptoms.

Lucy watches as Tim curls on his right side, careful of the IV. His eyes are bloodshot and droopy. It’s a classic ‘Tim needs a nap’ look, one she’s used to but hasn’t seen in a while.

“Go to sleep,” she whispers. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Tension rises in the air like baked bread.

“You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to,” she says. “I already cleared it with Grey. Plus, it’ll give me some time to study for the sergeant’s exam.”

Tim nods. He doesn’t say anything.

He looks small like this. Young. Scared.

Lucy tugs a thin blanket up over his shoulders.

“Rest, Tim,” she says softly. “And I’m ordering all your food for you from now on. No questions asked.”

He chuckles.

She soothes her fingers through his hair just once. Briefly. He shivers at her touch. 

“I’ll be right here when you wake up.”