Work Text:
The bullpen at Mid-Wilshire was loud. Not the bad kind of loud—Miles had been here fourteen months now, long enough to know the difference. The bad kind meant shouting and running and that specific tension that made your back teeth hurt, the kind that had you reaching for your vest before you even knew why.
This was just the regular kind. Phones ringing, printers jammed, someone's radio crackling with dispatch in the background. The hum of forty people all trying to do forty different things at once, and the noise of it all just became background after a while, became the sound of the place breathing.
Miles was at his desk, hunched over a stack of paperwork that seemed to multiply when he wasn't looking. He'd been here long enough that the station felt familiar now—the good coffee was in the second break room, the bad coffee was in the first, and Grey's office door was always closed when you needed him most.
Long enough that he knew most people's names without checking, knew who to avoid before their first coffee of the day, knew that Nolan would always have an extra pen and Harper would always pretend she didn't. Long enough that he'd stopped feeling like the new guy and started feeling like just another face in the chaos.
Fourteen months was enough time to learn a lot of things. Like which vending machine actually had the good snacks. Like how to tell when Grey was about to lose his temper based on how tight his jaw was. Like the fact that Celina Juarez kept crystals in her desk drawer and genuinely believed they helped with case clearance rates.
And like the fact that something was going on with Watch Commander Bradford and Sergeant Chen.
Miles had noticed it pretty early on, actually. Maybe his second month. He'd been walking to briefing, still new enough that he got lost sometimes, and he'd turned a corner and seen them standing together by the board. Close. Too close for just coworkers. Bradford had been saying something, his voice low, and Chen had been looking up at him with this expression that Miles couldn't quite name at the time. Soft. Open. Like she was seeing something no one else got to see.
He'd backed away quietly and taken a different route to briefing, and he'd never mentioned it to anyone.
But he'd kept noticing. Little things. The way Chen always grabbed an extra coffee on her way to morning briefing. The way she'd set it on the edge of Bradford's desk without looking, without stopping, without acknowledging it at all. The way he'd drink it without thanking her, because apparently that was just normal.
The way they stood together at the board during briefings, close enough that Miles could feel it from the back of the room, close enough that it should have been unprofessional but somehow just looked like them.
The way Bradford looked at her. That was the main thing. The way his eyes found her automatically, every time she walked into a room, like his attention was on a string and she was pulling it without even trying. The way something in his face shifted when she spoke—not much, just a fraction, just enough. The way he'd watch her during roll call, during arrests, during those quiet moments when no one was supposed to be watching anyone.
Miles had noticed. He'd noticed a lot of things over fourteen months.
He just hadn't asked.
Because what were you supposed to ask? Hey, is there something going on between you and my sergeant? To Bradford? The man who had made him redo a single report six times last month and still hadn't looked satisfied? The man who could silence a room just by walking into it, who looked at people like he was calculating exactly how long it would take to defeat them in hand-to-hand combat?
Absolutely not. You didn't ask Bradford personal questions. You didn't ask Bradford anything that wasn't directly related to work. That was survival instinct.
And you definitely didn't ask Chen. She was his sergeant. She was nice—really nice, actually, nicer than she had any obligation to be—but she was also his superior officer. You don't ask your sergeant about her personal life. That's like asking a bear if you can borrow its cave. Technically possible. Practically suicide.
So he'd noticed. And he'd wondered. And he'd kept his mouth shut.
Which is why, on this particular Tuesday morning, he was completely, catastrophically unprepared.
The bullpen was its usual chaotic self. Somewhere behind him, a phone was ringing for the fourth time without anyone answering it. To his left, someone was arguing about a misplaced evidence log. To his right, Celina was humming something that might have been a song and might have been a spell, honestly with her it was hard to tell.
Miles was deep in the trenches of a use-of-force report that seemed determined to defeat him. He'd rewritten the same paragraph three times. It still sounded wrong. The words kept coming out either too clinical or too casual, and he was starting to suspect that the department's reporting system was actually designed by someone who hated cops and wanted them to suffer.
He didn't hear her approach. That was the thing about Sergeant Chen—she moved like she'd learned how to be quiet without meaning to, like she'd spent years training herself not to draw attention unless she wanted it.
One moment Miles was alone with his terrible report, and the next she was just there, leaning against the corner of his cubicle like she'd been there the whole time, arms crossed loosely, head tilted slightly, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Hey, Penn."
He looked up. She looked... relaxed. That was the first thing he noticed. Not the usual sergeant look, the one that said she had seventeen things to do and twelve people to manage and no time for anyone's nonsense. Not the tired look, the one that meant she'd been up all night on a case and was running on caffeine and spite. This was different.
This was the look of someone carrying a pleasant secret, someone who kept almost smiling for no reason, someone whose eyes had a warmth to them that wasn't usually there during shift.
"Quick question," she said.
Miles grunted, which was about as much as he could manage while also trying to remember where he'd filed the Martinez paperwork. "If it's about my report, I'm almost done. I know it's late. Bradford’s gonna kill me. I've made peace with it."
She laughed at that, just a small one, a quiet huff of amusement that made her shoulders relax further. "It's not about the report."
"Then what?"
"Are you bringing a date?"
Miles blinked at her. Not because the question was strange—people asked about dates all the time, it was normal workplace small talk. But something in her voice. Something light and casual and almost anticipatory, like the answer was obvious and she was just confirming something she already knew.
"A date to what?" he asked.
"To the wedding?"
Miles just looked at her. His pen was still in his hand, hovering over the paper. The word he'd been about to write sat unfinished in his brain, waiting patiently while he processed.
"What wedding?" he said.
The silence that followed made him sit up straighter.
Sergeant Chen was staring at him. Not in a bad way—just staring, her head tilted further now, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement. Like he'd just told her the sky was green and she was waiting for the punchline. Like she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.
"Okay," she said slowly. "Very funny. You're really going to make me say it?"
Miles felt the first prickle of uncertainty. The sense that he was missing something obvious, something everyone else already knew. The sense that he'd walked into a room halfway through a conversation and everyone was waiting for him to catch up.
"Say what?" he asked. "Whose wedding?"
She blinked at him. Once. Twice. And then her face changed—confusion melting into realization, realization blooming into something that looked dangerously like delight.
Her eyes got wider. Her mouth curved into a slow grin that Miles had learned to fear over fourteen months. The Chen grin. The one that meant someone was about to have a very bad day, and that someone was very likely him.
"Wait." She held up a hand, palm out, like she needed a moment to process. "Wait wait wait."
Miles set his pen down. Turned in his chair to face her fully. "What?"
"You don't know?"
"Know what?"
She turned away from him—just slightly, just enough to project her voice into the bullpen without actually raising it. "HE DOESN'T KNOW!!"
The words landed like a bomb.
At the desk next to him, Celina Juarez made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes went wide, and for a second Miles thought she might actually start crying with joy right there at her desk. Her crystals caught the fluorescent light and glinted like they were in on the joke.
John Nolan, mid-sip of his ever-present travel mug, lowered it slowly. His expression shifted into something deeply familiar—the look of a man who had been exactly where Miles was right now and remembered it vividly. There was sympathy there. There was also a lot of amusement. Nolan's eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they did when he was trying very hard not to laugh.
Nyla Harper, who had been walking through on her way somewhere else, stopped dead in her tracks. She turned. She looked at Miles. She looked at Lucy. And then a slow, predatory smile spread across her face, the kind of smile that made Miles want to check his pockets for his wallet and his weapon and maybe his whole identity.
"There's no way," Harper said. Her voice was flat, disbelieving, but her eyes were sparkling.
Miles stood up. He didn't remember deciding to stand up. He was just suddenly standing, his chair rolling backward behind him and bumping into the desk behind his, his hands half-raised like he was surrendering to something he didn't understand yet.
"Someone," he said, his voice coming out slightly higher than usual, slightly more desperate than he'd intended, "needs to talk right now. Right now. Or I am walking into traffic. I will do it. I have good insurance. I'm not afraid."
Sergeant Chen was grinning now. Full-on grinning, like this was the best thing that had happened to her all week, like his confusion was a gift she hadn't known she wanted.
"Miles," she said, and her voice was warm, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse because it meant she was enjoying this, "I'm asking if you're bringing a date to mine and Tim's wedding."
Miles stared at her.
The words processed slowly, one at a time, like his brain was trying to translate a foreign language without a dictionary.
Mine and Tim's.
Wedding.
Tim's.
As in Tim Bradford. Watch Commander Tim Bradford. The man who had made him redo a single report six times last month and still hadn't been happy about it. The man who could silence a room just by walking into it, who looked at people like he was calculating exactly how long it would take to defeat them in hand-to-hand combat.
The man who, as far as Miles had been able to tell in fourteen months, possessed approximately three facial expressions and none of them were traditionally considered warm or inviting.
That Tim.
"Yours and Tim's," Miles repeated. His voice was flat. Hollow. The voice of a man whose brain was temporarily offline.
Lucy nodded, still smiling. "Yeah."
"Tim Bradford."
"That's the one."
"Watch Commander Tim Bradford."
"He prefers just Tim at home, but yes. At home. Where we live. Together. With our dog."
Miles opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.
"You're marrying him," he finally managed. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact that his brain was still refusing to accept.
"That's usually what a wedding means, yeah."
"You're marrying Watch Commander Bradford."
"Still yes."
"THE Watch Commander Bradford. The one who—" Miles gestured vaguely, his hand flapping in a way that was meant to convey everything. The intensity. The glares. The way he'd made Miles rewrite that report six times and then looked at the seventh draft like it had personally offended him. The way he could make grown adults cry with nothing but a disappointed stare. That man. That specific man. Getting married. To her.
Lucy's grin somehow got wider. "The very same."
Miles turned to Nolan, who was still standing there with his coffee mug, watching the scene unfold like it was his favorite show. Like he'd paid for a ticket and gotten front-row seats.
"You knew," Miles said. It wasn't a question.
Nolan had the decency to look slightly guilty. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Bailey and I planned half the wedding."
Miles whipped around to Harper. "You knew?"
Harper shrugged, completely unbothered by his distress. She leaned against the nearest desk, arms crossed, clearly settling in for the show. "Bridesmaid."
Miles whipped around to Celina. "Don't you dare tell me—"
"Bridesmaid," Celina confirmed, beaming. She pressed both hands to her heart. "I manifested it. I have a whole section of my vision board dedicated to Chenford. It's very comprehensive. There's glitter."
Miles made a sound that wasn't quite words. He turned back to Lucy, his hands still half-raised, his brain still buffering, his entire sense of reality gently tilting on its axis.
"How long?" he asked. "How long has this been a thing? Because I've been here fourteen months. Fourteen months. And I'm just now finding out that our Watch Commander—" he lowered his voice instinctively, glancing toward Bradford's office, "—has a personal life? With our sergeant? OUR sergeant? The one who signs my overtime?"
Lucy's expression softened just slightly. Some of the teasing amusement faded, replaced by something warmer. More genuine. "We've been together for a while. Couple years now. Engaged for six months."
"Six months," Miles repeated faintly. The number didn't make sense. Eight months was a long time. Eight months was enough time for people to mention things. For someone to say something. For a casual comment to slip out during briefing or roll call or one of those interminable department meetings where everyone was half-asleep anyway.
"We sent save-the-dates," Lucy said. "Little magnets. Picture of us with our dog. They went out to everyone."
Miles just stared at her. The pieces were slowly clicking together in his brain, forming a picture he couldn't quite believe. "The magnet," he said slowly. "On my fridge. With you and him and the fluffy dog."
"That's the one."
"I thought that was just... a cute photo. Of you. And him. And a dog. I thought you were just... sharing your life. With magnets. Like people do. With cute photos of themselves."
Behind him, Harper made a sound that was dangerously close to respect. "That's almost impressive," she said. "Fourteen months and he never once asked. Never once wondered. Just accepted the magnet and moved on with his life."
"I didn't think I COULD ask," Miles said, spinning back to face her. His voice was climbing higher again, but he couldn't stop it. "You can't just walk up to Watch Commander Bradford and say 'hey sir, are you banging my sergeant?' That's not a conversation that ends well for anyone. That's not a conversation that ends with me still employed."
Lucy burst out laughing. Actually laughing, loud and bright, the kind of laugh that made people turn and look from across the bullpen. It was the kind of laugh that came from somewhere real, somewhere genuine, and it made her whole face light up.
"Please," she said, still laughing, "please never say 'banging' in reference to us again. That's a rule now. New rule. Effective immediately."
"Noted," Miles said quickly.
"But also," she continued, catching her breath, "you could have just asked me. I'm approachable. I don't bite."
"You're my sergeant!"
"And also a person. With a personal life. That I'm happy to talk about with people who are curious."
Miles shook his head, running both hands through his hair until it stood up in all directions. He needed a minute. He needed five minutes. He needed to sit down and process the fact that the two most terrifying people at Mid-Wilshire were apparently in love and getting married and had been for years without him noticing.
He sat down. His chair was still rolled back from when he'd stood up, so he mostly just landed on the floor with a thump that jarred his tailbone, but he recovered quickly and pulled himself into his actual seat with as much dignity as he could muster.
Lucy was still watching him, warm and amused. She didn't look like she was going anywhere. She'd settled more firmly against his cubicle, one ankle crossed over the other, clearly prepared to stay until his crisis was resolved.
"The wedding's in three weeks," she said. "You're invited. Plus one if you want."
Miles looked up at her from his chair. "Three weeks."
"Three weeks."
"And you're just now—"
"I thought you knew! Everyone knows! The magnets went out months ago. I've mentioned the wedding in briefings. I literally stood up in front of the whole department and asked people to RSVP by the end of the month."
Miles blinked at her. "I thought you were talking about... I don't know. Some other wedding. A friend's wedding. Someone else's wedding."
"Why would I be asking people about RSVPs for someone else's wedding during roll call?"
"I don't know! I didn't think about it! I wasn't taking notes!"
Lucy laughed again, softer this time. "Well now you know. So. Date or no date?"
Miles opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, something shifted in the bullpen.
It was subtle. The kind of thing you only noticed if you'd been watching for it, and Miles had been watching for fourteen months without even realizing what he was watching. The noise level dropped slightly. Conversations paused. People straightened up just a fraction.
Watch Commander Tim Bradford had walked in.
He crossed the bullpen with that same rigid posture, that same unreadable face, that same energy of a man who had never been late to anything in his life and never would be. He moved like he owned the place, which technically he kind of did, or at least he owned the part of it that involved telling everyone else what to do.
He was holding two coffees.
Miles watched him cross the room. Watched him weave through desks and past conversations without acknowledging any of them. Watched him stop at Lucy's desk—not at his office, at HER desk, the one in the sergeant's area—and set one of the coffees down carefully, precisely, right next to her keyboard.
Lucy hadn't even looked up. She was still leaning against Miles's cubicle, still watching him with that amused expression. But she'd seen. She knew.
"They were out of the good creamer in the first break room," Bradford said quietly. His voice was low, meant just for her, but the bullpen was quiet enough now that Miles could hear every word. "Had to go to the second one."
Lucy smiled. Not the teasing grin she'd been giving Miles, but something smaller. Softer. More private. "You're my favorite person," she said.
Bradford's face did something. Not much—just a tiny shift around his mouth, the barest softening around his eyes. But Miles had been watching this man for fourteen months, had studied his expressions like a survival manual, and he recognized it now.
That was a smile. That was Tim Bradford smiling at his fiancée.
"Briefing in ten," Bradford said. Then he turned and walked toward his office, coffee in hand, not looking back.
Lucy straightened up, stretched slightly, and wandered back to her desk. She picked up the coffee he'd left for her, took a sip, and made a small satisfied sound that meant he'd gotten it right. That he always got it right.
Miles watched her. Watched Bradford's retreating back. Watched Nolan hide a smile behind his mug, watched Harper roll her eyes fondly, watched Celina press both hands to her heart like she was witnessing something sacred.
"I don't understand," Miles said. His voice was quiet now. Almost awed. "I don't understand any of this."
Lucy turned back to him, still holding her coffee, still smiling that soft private smile. "What's to understand? He brought me coffee. He does that. Every morning."
"He went to the SECOND break room. For CREAMER. The second break room is all the way across the station."
"He likes taking care of things. Taking care of me. It's his love language."
Miles stared at her. "His love language is suffering for coffee? Walking across the entire building because the first break room ran out of the good stuff?"
Lucy laughed again, that bright laugh that made people turn. "His love language is showing up. Every time. In every way. It's not about the coffee. It's about knowing that I like the good creamer and making sure I have it even when it's inconvenient. It's about paying attention to the little things and then doing something about them. He's the most reliable person I've ever met, and I get to marry him in three weeks."
She said it like she still couldn't quite believe it. Like it was still sinking in, even after all this time, even after years together and eight months engaged. Like she looked at Tim Bradford and still saw something that surprised her.
Miles felt something shift in his chest. Something that might have been understanding. Might have been acceptance. Might have been the realization that he'd been watching the wrong thing all along—not looking for proof of something happening, but missing the proof of something real.
"So you're really happy," he said. It wasn't a question.
Lucy's face softened. "Really happy. Stupid happy. The kind of happy I didn't think was real before I met him."
Miles nodded slowly. Looked down at his desk. Looked back up at her.
"I don't have a plus one," he said.
"Then bring yourself. You're enough."
"That's disgustingly sweet."
"I know. The wedding's gonna be full of that kind of thing. Angela's his best woman, so there'll also be chaos and probably at least one story that should have stayed buried, but mostly it's gonna be disgustingly sweet. Fair warning."
Miles's brain hiccuped. "Angela's his WHAT?"
Lucy grinned. "Best woman. Lopez. She's been planning the bachelor party for months. I've heard rumors. I'm concerned."
From somewhere behind him, Miles heard Harper mutter something about a mechanical bull and a hotel suite and a list of rules that Lopez had apparently already broken. He decided immediately that he didn't want to know more. Some things were better left mysterious.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be there. No date. Just me. Alone. Processing all of this."
"Good." Lucy pushed off from his cubicle, ready to head to briefing. She took another sip of her coffee. "Oh, and Miles?"
"Yeah?"
"Welcome to the family. We're weird, we're loud, and we're obsessed with each other. You'll fit right in."
She walked away, coffee in hand, leaving Miles sitting at his desk with his paperwork and his slowly rebooting brain and the lingering sense that he'd missed something important for fourteen months but had finally, finally caught up.
Celina leaned over from her desk. "That went better than I expected. I thought there might be more screaming."
Miles turned to her. "You knew the whole time. The entire time I've been here, you knew."
"Of course I knew. I have a vision board. It's very detailed. I've been tracking their relationship milestones for years."
"Years," Miles repeated faintly.
"You should see the section on the proposal. I predicted the location within a mile radius."
Miles put his head in his hands. His report was still unfinished. His brain was still processing. His entire understanding of Mid-Wilshire had been gently turned inside out in the span of ten minutes.
But he was smiling. Just a little. Just enough.
Fifteen minutes later, briefing started.
Miles filed in with everyone else, found his usual spot in the back, and watched Watch Commander Bradford take his place at the front of the room. Watched Sergeant Chen settle into her seat in the second row, her coffee still in hand. Watched Bradford's eyes find her automatically, just for a second, just long enough, before he started talking about patrol zones and crime stats and all the normal Tuesday things that had nothing to do with love or weddings or creamer.
And Miles understood.
This was what it looked like. Love. Real love. The kind that survived everything. The kind that showed up every day with coffee and creamer and didn't need to say anything about it. The kind that stood close at briefings and found each other in crowded rooms and built a life together without making a big production out of it.
He looked around the room. At Nolan, nodding along to Bradford's words, already knowing everything. At Harper, pretending to be bored but watching with something soft in her eyes. At Celina, practically glowing with the satisfaction of her vision board coming true. At all the other faces, familiar after fourteen months, people who had known this whole time and just... accepted it. Because that's what you did with Chenford. You accepted it. You celebrated it. You bought magnets for your fridge and didn't think twice.
The briefing ended. People filed out. Bradford headed for his office. Chen headed for the door, coffee cup empty now, ready for whatever the day threw at her.
She passed Miles's desk on her way out.
"Penn," she said, just a nod, just acknowledgment.
"Sergeant Chen," he said.
She paused. Looked back at him. "You okay? Fully processed?"
"I'm getting there."
"Good. You've got three weeks. Plenty of time to freak out again before the actual wedding."
"I'm looking forward to it."
She grinned. Walked away.
And Miles sat at his desk, surrounded by the chaos of Mid-Wilshire, and thought about weddings and coffee and the way love looked when you finally knew what you were seeing.
He had three weeks. He needed to find a suit.