Archive of Our Own

1

Dedication and affection, to Tim, are quiet endeavors—things to maintain in the small in-betweens, rather than something to be shouted during key moments. To love, Tim thinks, is to do so shyly. Whispered confessions, fingers knotted together underneath satin sheets, cheeks tinged pink from too many seltzers—even though Tim would never admit outside of their home that he drank anything other than beer, let alone some fruity, bubbly drink—and lips tasting like strawberries and alcohol from Lucy, barely buzzed. 

Domesticity still feels flighty underneath his fingertips, but the sight of their belongings sitting beside each other on shelves adds stability. The abundance of throw blankets. Too many pillows. Soft edges tempering sharp corners, smoothing them into something you can hold without wincing. Without drawing blood. Without hurting. Tim is still learning how to be held closely, so used to being kept—and keeping—at arm’s length. And yet, Lucy’s hands work over him like uncontained clay, something to be molded into something beautiful. Sticky, uncooperative, and unwilling, determined to maintain ugly shape… but Lucy perseveres, holding tight, determined not to allow Tim to spin out completely. Guaranteeing certainty, just for him, just for them.

Love goes like this:

Remembering Lucy can only have one cup of fully caffeinated coffee, otherwise she’ll be jittery and anxious the rest of the day. Helping her hold her hair into separate portions when she’s braiding it before shift, because keeping her arms up above her head for too long reminds her of when she spent hours pounding on the lid of the barrel. Washing her thermos for her that she takes to work full of tea, because she never remembers, and one time he opened it to find the beginnings of mold creeping along the inside of the lid. Cleaning out her car each Sunday evening, because she mentioned one time that her car is her solace, and because Lucy Chen deserves to have a clean car. Picking up her favorite teriyaki-flavored pretzels from the gas station on Eldred Street, just to see her eyes light up when he comes back to the station, and to quell the misery of endless paperwork at the end of a shift.

Unlike Tim, however, Lucy does things loudly, with her tongue caught between her front teeth. Walking the line between professionalism and affection expertly, deftly using their colleagues as vehicles to propel her tactics forward with the sneaky cover of authority to make it seem believable.

Like using Penn and his southern-embued respect of authority, particularly feminine authority, when Tim is having a particularly bad day.

“Sir!” Penn calls, ambling into Tim’s office. Something in his hand, barely starting to crumple from his grip. “Sergeant Chen wanted me to bring this to you. Said it was urgent. Though I can’t be sure why it was so important, it needed to be done now, since patrol will be starting soon. Still, my mama always taught me to listen to the ladies, even if I—”

“Boot,” Tim interrupts, impatient. Quirks his eyebrow up, holds his hand out. Tim’s body language and the stripes on his short-sleeves communicate what he expects easily enough, without the requirement of verbal communication. Miles hands the paper over, quickly, before scurrying a few steps backward. He hesitates at the doorway of Tim’s office, clearly unsure what to do with himself.

“You’re dismissed, Boot.” Tim barks, “Go fetch the war bags for Officer Nolan and get to it. Unless you want to ride with Smitty instead.”

Miles is gone between blinks, practically sprinting away, desperate to escape such a nasty way to spend his Friday shift.

With him gone, Tim can exhale, the stiff authority settling between his shoulder blades, insistently nagging his looming headache forward, the expectations of everyone in Mid-Wilshire weighing down on him. Briefly, though, those demands bleed away as his eyes sweep over the note from Lucy. Her familiar cursive scrawl quirks his lips upwards, just barely.

LIBF Tim/Sergeant Bradford,

I’ve noticed, from across the bullpen, and during roll call, that you’re scowling more than usual. With this evidence, I’d like to propose a few different solutions we could attempt to experiment with to remedy your mood. Please circle the one you’d like to select and return by lunch!

1.) Have lunch together, wherever YOU choose!

2.) Go see a movie after work

3.) Have naked time tonight ;)

With love,

LIGF Lucy/Sergeant Chen <3

Amusement slips through his nose in a chuckle. Grabbing a pen from his desk, he deftly circles all three, adding on a sly note.

All three, separately today.

His feet carry him quickly towards the shops, knowing Lucy will be readying up for a ride alone today. He could just call her, but the excitement of seeing her before she slips from the station urges him forward instead. When he gets to her, she’s the last one readying up, evidently having dawdled, waiting for him to slip in and pass her note back. Expectant, knowing, certain of Tim, something he’s still getting used to. That reliance. 

Her eyes light up when she sees him, hand lowering from where it had been on the shop’s driver’s door handle. Instead, she raises it to her body cam and twists it off. Mischief builds in her face, lighting the tips of her ears red.

“Funny seeing you here,” she muses, hands coming to rest on her duty belt. Tim grins, stepping forward. Still aware of the setting, he maintains more distance than he would at home. Does not fully step into her space; he only allows the ends of his shoes to breach it. The rest of him rides the edge of her personal space—to onlookers, it would appear they’re having a private conversation, maybe standing so close to allow for low voices.

“Hmm,” Tim hums, considering his potential response as he reaches out, allowing the note to slip from his hands to hers. Their fingertips brush, the emerald nail polish she had manicured herself for their previous weekend date still clinging to her fingernails despite the acetone she had scrubbed across them. Flecks hanging near her cuticles. “Just needed to pass this back to a fellow sergeant.”

Her eyes dance across his addition to the words, reaction written in the way her head ducks to the right and her shoulders scrunch, a combo she does when she’s particularly giddy.

(This response is one reserved for Tim or Tim-adjacent things, of course. Like when he compliments her as Sergeant Bradford, or when he does get those teriyaki pretzels, or when his fingernails scratch her scalp just right when washing her hair in the shower.)

“See you at lunch?” She asks, grinning. Tim swears she must have stars inside her, burning bright. How else could she exude so much life and love?

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetpea.” His eyes sweep over her, drinking in the sight of Lucy before she dives into another day of policework. Holds her hostage for a moment longer, swallowing around the words that bubble up inside his throat. Watches the way her body responds to the pet name: eyes lighting up with affection, apples of her cheeks glowing ruby, posture straightening under the weight of the love he’s placed upon her shoulders in this moment. “Thank you for the note.”

She brushes their fingers together, briefly, an acknowledgment of the pet name, of its weight. I love you, her fingertips whisper against his. 

“Anytime.” She says, and means it.

2

Tim is still doing his best to overcome his disdain for UC work—particularly UC work involving Lucy.

Exposure therapy is the only way to overcome this, he knows, which is why he forces himself into the observation side of Lucy’s latest undercover mission. Set in New York, he lives inside his hotel room and a discreet red—well, somewhat. The paint is peeling off, and the rust is practically overtaking the car, but he thinks it used to be red—2009 Toyota Camry. They’ve set Lucy loose, under the disguise of Ava Shi, a poor college student who’s desperately trying to keep herself afloat amidst the looming costs of college tuition at NYU. The perfect victim of a predatory drug hustle. Tim does his best not to ruminate on how similar this feels to the undercover ops Isabel would dive into. The ones she didn’t return from.

“Ava, c’mon. Isaac won’t wait forever!” Someone’s voice buzzes through the wire Lucy’s wearing, filtering through Tim’s ears. Ava’s friend, Bea, is nagging her to go to a party. One Isaac Belvins should be at, a weasel inside of a bigger drug enterprise. One they’re hoping to cuff and sweat for details on his boss.

“Yeah, yeah, Bea. I know, I’m just nervous…” Lucy admits, swatting away the pulling hands of Bea. A bit of honesty sneaks through her tone, pulling on Tim’s heart. “What if he isn’t even there?”

“He will be,” Bea promises, checking the way her makeup looks in the reflection of her phone screen. “Isaac wouldn’t miss a party, not ever.”

His eyes follow her, run up and down through his binoculars, memorizing the way this identity hides in the difference between it and Lucy. Her posture is hunched, her eyebrows are manicured differently, and her lipstick choice is much brighter. She’s standing on the sidewalk outside of the dorm building she’s been living in for the past two weeks, dolled up for a college party, dressed scantily to blend in. Silver sparkly mini skirt, tight, cropped black tanktop, hair pulled into a high ponytail, with her waves tumbling down, down, down her back.

Ava Shi is very different than Lucy Chen, Tim decides. Lucy Chen does not wear silver. Lucy Chen wears gold. He knows this from looking at her jewelry, from her talking about skin undertones and how they guide her choice of metals, from perusing jewelers in search of a ring… Tim finds comfort in the differences, soaks them in, as a reminder that this will end and Lucy will return as herself.

“Okay, okay, let’s go. No time like the present.”

The code slips through, no time like the present—AKA, okay, let’s figure out if our target is coming out to play. Don’t let me die in there.

AKA, Tim, I’m trusting you.

He does not intend to betray that trust. Not again.

…

At least with a location to attend, Tim can be there in person. Closer to Lucy, rather than peeking through windshields and drinking her in from a distance. Here, he can be close. Not close enough to touch or speak, but close enough for him to always be in her peripheral vision. A reminder of his reliability.

I’m here, his presence promises. You aren’t alone.

Sipping the red solo cup in his hand, leaning against the far wall, he forces his eyes to dance around the room rather than solely lying on Lucy. His gaze can’t be too revealing of their familiarity. He’s dressed ridiculously, in khaki shorts and a stupid Hawaiian shirt, one with a pattern of margaritas and mojitos dancing across the turquoise fabric. He just knows that Lopez picked this outfit for him. Something so unlike him, under the disguise of “you can’t look like yourself, Bradford!”

Tim can’t spend too long internally complaining, though. Not when Lucy is so close to him. She’s dancing, swaying her hips and wrapping her arms around Bea. She looks, to an onlooker, completely in the moment. To Tim, though, he knows. He can tell from how her head keeps tilting this way and that, to allow her ears to pick up on sounds beyond the low bass of the song thumping through this frat house. It’s too risky to appear as Will in person, so close to the potential criminal, when Tim’s face has floated around social media already—both as Grumpy Cop and in the news as the new Watch Commander. So, he has to settle for sharing a room with Lucy for the first time in two weeks.

They orbit each other for hours, eyes sliding this way and that: both in the search for Isaac, and as a reminder that the other is still there. Tim feels like a dog, panting, whining, waiting for the attention he so desires. Loyal to a fault, clinging to the side of someone he adores. Praying that she can, for just a moment, spare him a glance. A touch. A smile. And, like a dog, he barks, snarls, and growls at anyone who gets too close. Cuts them apart with hackles raised and eyes sharper than the knife strapped to his bicep underneath his ridiculous shirt.

Celina, who had previously been scouting from within the frat house kitchen, slinks towards him. She fits the college girl vibe better than he does that frat boy aesthetic—clad in a mesh top with celestial drawings of moons and stars scattered across her top, black pants clinging to her legs. He briefly wonders how the hell she manages to walk so quietly in heels so tall.

“Any word of our friend?” she asks, red solo cup replaced with some strange fruity concoction contained within a clear plastic wine glass. He can smell the sugar from here.

“Nothing yet, no.” He replies, taking a swig of his beer. It’s warm and stale. A glance at his watch reveals the early hour: 3:24 am. “We may have to pull out for tonight.”

Celina, to her credit, does attempt to argue. “But, sir, what if—”

“No point in entertaining ‘what if’s, Juarez. Just slows you down.” He didn’t mean to sound so gruff, but the thought of abandoning Lucy when he was so close to releasing her from her assignment makes him feel bitter.

He regrets saying the words, the truth, but he knows he can’t wait around all night for someone who never intended to show up. The bags under Celina’s eyes are a clear indication of the exhaustion everyone on this op force must be feeling. She nods, and the relief is clear in her posture. So, with absolutely no haste, he discards his mostly full cup and wanders towards Lucy to give the discreet, code-laden heads up that they’re pulling out. 

As he nears, he carefully bumps his body against hers. “Sorry, there, just trying to get out and head home.”

“Oh,” she smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Clearly, Tim isn’t the only one less than enthused about the idea of leaving. “No worries… uh, nice shirt.”

He laughs, really does for the first time since this op started, and feels warmth hum inside him. She’s still here, still waiting, still willing to return.

…

With another week passing since their brief “reunion” at the frat party, Tim feels the edges of his sanity slipping through his fingers.

He knows she’s still with him, still there. Somewhere. But the space where she should be next to him grows colder, and the warmth she’s dipped him into is starting to cool. Lucy has softened him, completely changed the way he views himself, others, and the world, just by breathing life back into him. Before her, he’d thought his soul had dried up and died, transforming into something unrecognizable, scaring himself every time he looked into the mirror. At a certain point, he’d stopped bothering to look at all, too scared to look, too certain he would find echoes of Tom Bradford staring back, unrelenting.

“You are nothing like him.” She had told him once, wrapped in her arms, squeezing the broken parts of him back together. Her voice like thread, sewing up the open wounds inside of him, promising that he, too, can be whole again. The needle of her promises weaving in and out, in and out, in and out, until he started to believe the thought. Just a bit. Despite how fragile and raw it was.

In her absence, he finds himself drowning in an ocean of uncertainty once again. No life raft, no passengers alongside him, just the cold water and him desperately signaling SOS—begging to be helped. For someone to just meet him out there. It is in this panic that he digs through the bags he packed, seeking out the iPod she had recorded her voice on to help him study for the sergeant’s exam. The first thing he threw into his duffel bag when packing for the op. The thing that changed how he viewed her completely. The very thing that sparked in him the recognition that Lucy Chen was someone wholly different, someone unbelievably special.

The realization that someone as exceptional as Lucy Chen cared for him.

With four hours still until Lucy can check in—which means she’ll call, pretend he’s her boyfriend named Will, and he’ll bask in her voice the way a tree soaks up rain from damp soil. Greedy and unquenchable—he puts one earbud in and closes his eyes, pressing play on the recorder. Pointedly ignores how worn the button is from how many times he’s done this at different points in their relationship, how she’s always, even as his rookie, been his lifeline. 

“Hi Tim. Uh, this is Lucy. Obviously. I’m not sure how to start this, so I guess I’ll just… start with the truth. You retained things better when I read this to you in the shop while you were driving, which means you’re a kinesthetic learner. I talked to Isabel about it. It doesn’t make you any less smart; it’s just a difference in learning styles. So I thought, well, with everything you’ve done for me, I can try to… help you? Anyway, this is chapter one of Split Second Leadership: Leading Men In The Line Of Duty. I’ll do my best to keep anecdotes to myself, but no promises!”

Her voice floats around him like fog, surrounding him, blurring out the rest of the world. His dimly lit hotel room melts away, replaced by Lucy, by the voice she used to record an entire book just for him, just to ensure his success, just to help. At one point, early in their relationship as rookie and TO, he had thought her endless empathy and selflessness would get her killed—he steeled himself against the inevitable loss and held her at arm’s length, barking at her endlessly, demanding she shed her softness and turn to stone as he had. 

She didn’t, though, and if anything, his blistering harshness seemed to enhance her softness further. Her refusal to stoop as low as him, her priority to remain gentle, even in the face of chaos. 

It infuriated him. It terrified him.

Halfway through the first narrated chapter, his phone rings. Shrill through the reverie of Lucy’s voice flitting through the room, he leaps up, clicking the green button to accept the call faster than he thought possible.

“Hi, baby,” her voice, which he had just listened to, sounds different through his phone speaker than the iPod. Tinnier, farther away. Like she had him on speaker and set her phone across the room. A reminder of the distance between them right now. “Just checking in.”

“Hey,” he responds, drumming his fingers on his left knee and growing more and more aware of the space between him and Lucy. The discomfort. “How are you?”

“Bored.” She groans, and Tim can’t help but chuckle at the truth seeping into the word. This op had been slow, with little to no activity from the desired target, forcing Lucy to play the charade with practically no pay-off, without any idea when the ruse could be put to rest, and she could return to their comfortable bed back in LA.

“Mm, slow day?”

“Yeah, and…” Lucy trails off, breath blowing over the speaker, crackling the sound. “I miss you.”

An ache blooms inside his chest. “Is this Ava or Lucy speaking?”

“The second one.”

“I miss you too, sweetpea.” He falls back, lying against the cushiony mattress. The blanket, disturbed by his movement, flutters into the air and falls back against him, surrounding him in cottony white—a far cry from the familiarity of their bedding at home, which is earthy brown.

“I like it when you call me that.” Lucy admits, sounding bashful. He wonders if he’s blushing.

“Well, good news for you. I like calling you that.”

“Can you say it again?” She asks. “It makes me feel less homesick.”

Briefly, he feels concern for the cover she’s threatening to blow. Had they built in homesickness into Ava Shi’s personality? Maybe throwing himself into the frontlines of this op had condemned them both, made them both riskier and less safe. Would it have been better to let her be, to trust her alone? He got so used to always being her six, protecting her nearby, rather than from a distance. Less than a shout away, always, ready to back her up. Tim, as a singularity, melted away, morphing into something combined with Lucy. Tim and Lucy gave way to TimandLucy, a fused unit. Tied together by—well, he wasn’t sure. Fate? Maybe. He had never been religious, never sent prayers up to the heavens, never believed things “happen for a reason.” Until Lucy Chen walked into his life, until she looked him up and down, pulled his walls down brick by brick, and reminded him that there was a soul inside him somewhere.

Damaged, battered, bruised, and untrusting—but a soul nonetheless. A soul with a witness, now.

“Baby?” Lucy’s voice pulls him back, and he appreciates the way she avoids saying a name. Knowing she can’t say his, not wanting to taint their conversation with the reminder of their separate identities. The refusal to bring Will, the pretend boyfriend, into this very real, tangible conversation between Lucy and Tim.

“Sorry, sweetpea,” he soothes. “Stuck in my own head there. Why don’t you tell me about your day?”

3

September 26th comes in the form of a cloudy, foggy day. The air is surprisingly cool for a waning LA summer, an indication of the nearing autumn. A reprieve from the suffocating heat, a promise of kinder days for the officers at Mid-Wilshire. Birds chirp and caw, flying across the pale blue sky, a soothing gray overcasting the sun. There is the smell of rain on the horizon, fresh and cool. The wet drops will be thin and sprinkling: not oppressive, no. Cleansing, they will be. Breathe in the fresh air and consider how this might remind someone of an early morning before a school day. Mourning doves cooing. Possibilities lingering.

It is also the day Jackson West was murdered 5 years ago.

His body flopping into the back of a discreet car. Blood blooming across his back. Cocoa skin paling in death. Warm, kind, loving brown eyes dimming. The anxiety that Jackson always seemed to carry finally settled—wrongfully, of course. Nerves cut short. 

Other than December 9th, this day is undeniably the hardest one to navigate alongside Lucy. Grief is something Tim knows intimately, but to carry someone else’s, to manage it, is something entirely different than grappling with your own. Each year seems to be different. The first one, Tim remembers, before they were together, Lucy was surprisingly the same as she would’ve been any other day, aside from the endless fidgeting throughout the day. The second one, she took the day off.

(“I know it isn’t what he would’ve wanted,” Lucy had told him the next day, lips bitten raw, “but I couldn’t pretend again.”

“When people die, it becomes less about what they would’ve wanted, and more about what those still here need.” Tim had said, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

“What if all I need is him?” she had asked, face crumpling in the privacy of their shop. “I still don’t know how to do this without him. What if I never learn how to?”

Lucy had not complained or said anything when Grey had announced they would be riding together for “a reminder of what the rookie year is like” at roll call—a lousy excuse Grey had fabricated from a place of compassion.

Hesitating, Tim tried to find the right thing to say. If only Nolan had been there to offer his advice, something he never seemed to lack. Tim, knowing how distorting grief can be, relied on the truth instead. So, he said, “I don’t know, Chen. I’m sorry.”

Their shift was relatively quiet the rest of the day.)

The third: Lucy posted a picture of herself and Jackson together on Instagram, with a single yellow heart as the caption. The fourth, she cooked an extra plate of dinner, declaring it would be for Jackson, had he been there. The whole dinner, Tim did his best not to stare at the steaming plate of stir-fry, trying to ignore how the heat left the food the way it had left Jackson’s body. Still, he embraced how Lucy coped.

Tim, while she was in the shower, had discreetly dumped the untouched plate into the trash to protect her from the tears she would’ve cried doing so herself.

So, on the morning of the fifth anniversary, Tim handles Lucy gently. He does not remind her of the day, does not ask her how she is, because Tim knows with certainty that she already knew the moment her eyes opened. A grief still so raw, deeply ingrained in her soul. 

“What are you going to do today?” Tim asks, as they nurse their coffees before driving to work. An out, if she wants it.

“I’m…” she hesitates, running her fingertip along the rim of her coffee. Stares into it, as if she hopes to see Jackson there. “...gonna go to work? See if everyone wants to get drinks after shift?”

Her idea isn’t announced, just offered. Like she’s looking for reassurance that this is okay.

“Sure.” Is what Tim says, giving her the encouragement she’s seeking.

This is how they find themselves huddled together at a nearby cop bar after clocking out: Tim, Lucy, Nolan, and Lopez, tucked into a booth together in the back corner. The hanging light above their table is dimmer than the rest, the lightbulb clearly fading. The duller atmosphere is like the day’s weather, though, and a reminder of the shelter they all need. Tim and Lucy face the other two, their legs pressing together. Tim hopes he’s grounding Lucy with the touch, at least a little. He hopes she isn’t drifting in the empty, endless space of grief. 

Others are at the bar, too, but the quad stays together, separated from the rest of their colleagues. They seek refuge in each other. The music is at the perfect volume here, loud enough to give them privacy, quiet enough for them to hear each other still. 

“Five years.” Nolan rumbles as he leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. “It's been five years.”

Lucy traces a finger down the length of her beer bottle. “That's longer than he was actually an officer.”

The words land heavier than she intended. Tim shifts beside her.

Lopez’s eyes narrow. “Okay, first of all, we're not measuring impact in years served.”

“No—that’s, god. That's not what I meant. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Lopez sighs, relenting. Tim knows how important it is to her to protect Jackson's legacy—not just because she trained him, but because she loved him. Loves him, presently. Even with him gone. “But still.”

Nolan rescues her before she can dig herself deeper by saying, “Pretty sure Jackson was the fastest guy in the Academy.”

Lucy groans immediately, grumbling, “Oh god, don't remind me.”

Tim lifts an eyebrow. “You hated losing to him that much?”

“Yes.”

“You hate losing to anyone.”

“Also, yes.”

Lopez laughs. Lucy leans into Tim, head resting against his shoulder briefly until she shoots up again, finding something new to add. Tim thanks all the gods he doesn’t believe in that this is providing some comfort for her—the memory of Jackson, surrounding them inside a dim bar, with hazy lights and music pulsing around them.

“Do you know how annoying it is when somebody beats you while being nice about it? At least if he was cocky, I could've hated him.” Lucy shakes her head, picking at the label on her beer.

“Jackson didn't have a mean bone in his body,” Nolan says. “Well, except during the roundup.” He adds on.

They chuckle together. Tim remembers the very unsubtle brags Jackson had texted inside that group chat. The group chat they still have. The one Tim catches Lucy scrolling through sometimes, on the bad nights, when the grief rears its ugly head and suffocates her.

“He'd beat me by half a mile during our Wednesday workouts and then spend the rest of the run encouraging me.” Lucy shakes her head. “‘Come on, Lucy, you're doing great!’ I wasn't doing great. He’d lapped me.”

“Then he’d make us get Thai food after, as if mixing puking from exertion and spice wasn’t punishment.” Nolan recalls, running a hand down his face. Clearly, the memory is strong enough to recreate that nausea, if Nolan’s pale face is any indication.

“Nolan, the only reason you’re complaining is because you’re too white to handle any spice.” Lopez snarks, grinning to herself. Nolan, knowing his place, stays silent. Tim, also knowing his place—and remembering what spice can do to him—does the same.

Lucy grins over at him knowingly, and Tim can’t help but smile back.

Lopez takes a sip of her drink, smiling to herself. Then adds, “Kid loved spicy food.”

“That explains Jack,” Nolan says.

“Yeah, no kidding. I was pregnant and suddenly putting hot sauce on everything. Wesley thought I'd lost my mind.”

Tim snorts into his beer. “Wesley still thinks that.”

“Watch yourself, Bradford.” Lopez retorts, and Tim barely contains the grunt he nearly lets loose when he feels a certain pointed shoe connect with his shin intentionally. The conversation settles for a moment. Not uncomfortable, just full—of memories, words left unspoken, like they’re all pausing to give Jackson a chance to interject. When he doesn’t, and the bar noise fills the space instead, Tim peeks over at Lucy. Her cheeks are rosy, partially from the beer, partially from the blatant absence of Jackson. She’s nearly picked the label clean off her bottle when Lopez breaks the silence.

“I still think about that watch.”

Nolan's expression softens with recognition. “Oh, yeah… Plain Clothes Day. What a shift that was.”

Tim looks over at Lucy, raising his eyebrows. The Plain Clothes Day they’d spent together had been… eventful, to say the least. He still remembers the flush of pride she’d had across her face when he announced he would have to rewrite his initial evaluation. He remembers his own pride, barely tampered down.

“The day he was convinced he was finally going to impress his father,” Lopez adds, smiling again. Jackson had certainly had a one-track mind early on, with Commander West’s recognition being at the forefront.

Tim huffs a quiet laugh. “Kid spent the entire morning hoping for a major case.”

“And instead,” Nolan says, “he got stuck at the front desk. Which he considered a personal attack.”

“That sounds about right.” says Lucy.

A few chuckles circle the table. Half-hearted, but still trying. Lopez swirls the ice in her glass.

“That woman came in asking about her husband's belongings. She just wanted something of his. Anything.” Her smile grows faint. “Most people would've shrugged and moved on.”

“But not Jackson,” Lucy says.

“No, not Jackson,” Lopez echoes. “He spent hours tracking down anything he could for her. Found that broken watch… I still remember how proud he was when he looked back at me. Kid could’ve spent that time chasing arrests.”

“Or trying to impress Commander West.” Nolan offers.

“Instead,” Lopez says, “he sat with a grieving widow and made sure she got the last thing she had left of her husband. Listened to her story about a damn broken watch.”

The watch hadn’t been his assignment, it wasn't evidence, and it certainly wasn't going to earn him a glowing review from his father. It wasn't the kind of thing that got cops recognized for. Still, it was what Jackson had done.

Tim remembers the intense disdain he had initially felt towards Jackson, especially when he failed to perform during a shootout—remembers thinking he wasn’t worth the risk, more liability than person. He’d been so certain he would march right into Grey’s office and demand Jackson be washed out. Lopez had been the one to convince him otherwise. Jackson, admittedly, hadn’t been his rookie, but the fierce desire to protect Lopez had overrode that. He remembers being terrified of the potential harm Jackson could cause to his friend. He remembers hating him for that.

Tim also remembers how warmly Lucy had looked at him after she found out he had instead opted to help Jackson overcome that fear. The reminder that he could help instead of harm. The knowledge that he held more inside him than just a capacity for causing violence and hurting. Tim so desperately wanted to be kind. 

Looking over at Lucy, he feels himself softening. His sharp edges have sanded down so much thanks to her; he knows he can be gentle. Part of that tenderness started with Jackson. When Jackson had started, Tim had wondered how the hell someone so pathetic could come from the commanding and respectable Percy West. Tim sneered at him, at his fear, but failed to recognize what Jackson truly had. Skills could be taught, confidence could be taught, instinct could be taught—giving a damn could not. That was something Jackson had always done: cared.

Tim hadn’t appreciated that enough while he was alive.

The thought smarts, sharp and uninvited. Gone before he can do anything with it. Tim finds himself blinking quickly, clearing his throat, and throwing his bottle back to try to soothe the ache with alcohol. Lucy looks at him, eyebrows furrowing in concern. Without question, she puts her hand closer to his on the booth table, their pinkies interlocking. She gives him a squeeze, recentering him. The knot in his chest loosens just a bit.

Nolan raises his bottle. “To Jackson.”

Lopez lifts hers immediately. “To Jackson.”

“To Jackson.” Lucy echoes.

Tim picks up his beer with his free hand. For a second, he swears he can hear Jackson talking over all of them: too loud, too enthusiastic, incapable of letting anyone finish a story without correcting some detail. Demanding and relentless. The memory almost makes him smile.

“Officer West,” Tim corrects, as he clinks his bottle against theirs. Lucy glances at him, a soft smile lighting up her face, not because of the toast, but because of the title. Tim never used it casually. To him, Jackson had primarily been “Boot”—using his name was a respect he hardly deserved, or so Tim had thought. Now, Tim knows that Officer Jackson West had been the bravest of them all.

“To Officer West.” The group echoes. And somewhere, Jackson grins.

…

After they had all said their goodbyes and hugged each other tight—and after Tim’s single beer had been flushed out of his system due to multiple cups of water—Tim finds himself grateful for the comfortable space he and Lucy share inside his truck as they ride home. Quiet music floats through the vehicle, melodies licking at Tim and Lucy’s shared grief. 

“It’s 11:59,” Lucy whispers, making Tim look over. There, on the dash, the time reads. One more minute remains in the anniversary of the day they lost Jackson. The air suddenly feels heavy, like the world is holding its breath, desperate to hold onto the memory of the brown-eyed man.

“So it is.” Tim agrees, reaching a hand over to rest on Lucy’s knee. “So it is.”

Outside, streetlights fly by, briefly illuminating the truck before descending back into darkness over and over. Stars twinkle, the looming clouds of the day having disappeared, leaving the inky sky open to reveal all its brightness. The moon is full and large: brilliant and unrelenting in its pale beams. 

Nothing particularly eventful happens as the clock flips to midnight, as September 27th arrives unceremoniously. Lucy, though, lets out a shaky breath, and lays her hand on top of Tim’s. Five years have passed, and the wound is still profoundly raw, scabbing over just to be ripped open again each year. Not just on the anniversary, Tim knows, but in small moments, too. Like when their favorite show comes on TV, or when a song they sang together pops up, or when an old memory flashes on her phone, reading “6 years ago, today…”

The incessant reminder of time refusing to stand still.

“Five years and one day, now.” Tim says, squeezing Lucy’s knee. She doesn’t respond, just watches the minutes tick on the dashboard as they get closer and closer to home. The bustle of inner-city LA dies out, quieting to the suburban residential area, with cozy stillness surrounding them. 

At 12:16, Lucy whispers, “I miss him.”

“I know, sweetpea,” Tim whispers back, the clock ticking another minute. “I’m sorry.”

As Tim pulls his truck into their driveway, their darkened house awaiting them, Lucy wipes her eyes. He waits a second before pulling the key out of the ignition, giving her a moment to compose herself in the darkness before the overhead light comes on.

“Do you need a hug?” he asks.

Lucy shakes her head. “No,” she clears her throat, wipes her nose. Taps her phone screen to see the lockscreen of her and Jackson together, smiling. Hands posed in matching peace signs. “Yes, actually. Please.”

Wordlessly, Tim drops the keys into the cupholder and pulls Lucy to him. The center console digs into his side, but he ignores the discomfort. Revels in the warm embrace. Pulls Lucy closer, closer, closer, and kisses her forehead. He lets his lips linger there; a promise of lasting. A promise that she won’t shoulder this alone, not ever. Her arms curl around him, fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt. He doesn’t make mention of the way the front of his shirt is suddenly very damp, or how Lucy’s breathing has become shaky. He just holds her. 

Inside the darkened truck, with the crickets chirping outside, Tim thinks, Don’t worry, West. I’ll keep her safe for you.

4

As Watch Commander, his hours spent in the streets have seemed to dwindle more and more each day. With every moment that passes with him forcefully contained to his desk, he feels more akin to a wild animal than a man, feeling the jittery buzz of going stir crazy humming under his skin.

The budget audit Grey had told him to finish stares back at him, numbers blending fuzzily. To distract himself from that, he shifts to next month's schedule, trying to frame it as a puzzle rather than a chore. Seeing where he could fit him and Lucy together, barely intersecting, not enough to draw eyes from IA, just enough to let them clock in and out together. Enough to spare longing glances and small touches. Scheduling, while still mundane, is far better than budgeting—that is, until he tries adding Smitty to the schedule and finds himself blocked at every shift he tries to add the man to. Time off requests ding red across his screen, making him groan in frustration and want to shove the entire vending machine down Smitty’s throat.

A nasty headache starts to form between his eyes, his shoulders tightening, as the responsibilities of the shift pile on top of him. Grey had made it look so easy, and with Tim now at the helm, he fears he might let the Commander down. The impending sense of failure does not help his headache, nor do the unrelenting fluorescent overheads with their noisy buzzing. Not to mention, he has a call with the Mayor later that afternoon about James and Harper’s attempts at police reformation, which had tipped off the very white, very unimpressed-by-change man. 

Tim’s phone buzzing is a relief, even just for a moment, and the relief intensifies when he sees it’s Lucy calling.

“Hey,” he greets as he answers, smiling to himself.

“Hey, yourself,” Lucy says back. “I forgot my thermos in your truck this morning—any chance you could bring it to me?”

“Chen!” Tim admonishes jokingly, “Forgetfulness has no place in the LAPD.”

A snort carries through the speaker, then, “Is that a yes?”

“Yeah, sure. What sector are you in?”

“Two. Just had control radio in about a noise complaint on 4th. Jaurez is about to show us responding.”

From the background, Tim can hear her do just that, before calling out, “Hi, Sergeant Bradford!”

Ignoring Jaurez—with only a little guilt—Tim replies, “Alright, see you soon.”

He hits the red button as he hangs up, thrilled to be escaping the stuffy confines of the station. Some fresh air (and a look at Lucy) will clear his head, and might even make him look forward to the Mayor’s call.

Well, as magical as Lucy is, Tim doubts that’s possible… but he’ll settle for passable indifference over downright dread.

Tim doesn’t even bother to shut the lights off or close his computer; he just shuts the door to his office and hollers over at Harper, “I’m going to sector 2 for a bit. Don’t let Smitty into my office under any circumstances.”

Unimpressed by him, Harper’s only response is a thumbs-up and an eyebrow raise that communicates she very easily sees through his attempt at running from his responsibilities.

Once he’s grabbed Lucy’s thermos from his truck—and refilled it with hot coffee rather than lukewarm, nearing cold coffee—Tim slides into a shop, happy to feel the engine purr underneath him, basking in the LA noise floating through his open window. This sort of domesticity was exactly what Tim revels in, drinks it in greedily. The quiet, underlying intimacy they carry together despite their professional duties heals something inside him. Tim knows, for the first time, that he is both wanted and needed, not just when it’s convenient, not just when someone needs something. Always, undeniably, irrevocably.

The drive to 4th Street is relatively quick and easy, just under 10 minutes from the station. Tim does his best to enjoy the brief reprieve from his desk and lets his legs stretch out a bit in the footwell at a red light. The shift from the chaotic station to the quiet hum of his shop is much appreciated and gives him a chance to shed the stress he’d been feeling earlier.

Tim can hear the landlord yelling from a block away. By the time he parks just down the road from where Lucy and Juarez’s shop waits, lights flashing, the man still hasn’t calmed down. Despite knowing how well Lucy is trained—he’s the one who did it, after all—he can’t help but feel his chest tighten as he watches her handle the call. The landlord, a balding, cranky man dressed in a polo and khakis, is far from the worst or most intimidating person Lucy has faced, but Tim still has to wrestle with the innate desire to jump out of the shop and help her de-escalate. To avoid undermining her authority, Tim stays put, watching through the windshield.

Lucy stands on the sunlit sidewalk, a tiny force of nature sandwiched between a towering, furious landlord and a weeping tenant. Jaurez stands at her six, hands passively by her sides, and Tim briefly wonders if Lucy has taught Jaurez how to be at someone’s six: did she recount the same advice Tim gave, or does she have her own recommendations?

From this distance, Tim can’t hear her words, but he knows Lucy’s rhythm intimately after a year of riding together as she learned. He watches the tense, defensive line of her shoulders slowly drop. He watches her hands move—open palms, placating gestures—radiating a calm that seems entirely alien to the gruff exterior of Los Angeles. So hard, unrelenting, and unapologetic in its killer summer heats and nastily tough concrete, willing and able to tear anyone and anything apart. Despite this, Lucy’s tenderness remains.

A familiar, fierce wave of pride tightens in his chest, something deeper and much heavier beginning to uncoil inside Tim’s chest. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, mind drifting back into the dark of his upbringing, a stark contrast to the sunshine Lucy is enveloped in. Tim had learned at a young age that softness was not a virtue; it was a target on your back. Before 3rd grade, Tim hardened himself, stopped crying when he skinned his knees, didn’t mention hurt feelings, and stopped letting himself be a child. Stopped letting himself be human. In that house, kindness was an open invitation. His father would happily take it after one too many beers, gleefully delighting in letting his own nasty demons out for his family to see. Tim carried that armor he had crafted everywhere he went, threw himself into the Army, determined to plant himself somewhere he would never be able to remember or grieve that softness he had lost so young. He sharpened his edges until he was a man people feared to cross. Until he was hardly a man at all. More machine than person.

He believed kindness was a liability.

Then came Lucy Chen. 

Hopeful brown eyes looking back at him on her first day, ignited with a strange mixture of anxiety and excitement. Tim remembers being so bitterly jealous of the emotions she so easily threw around, as if they weren’t a weakness. As if they weren’t something he had lost long ago.

He watches her step closer to the shouting landlord, completely unfazed by his volume. She doesn’t use force, she refuses to rely on anger or intimidation. She uses her empathy as a shield. Even as the landlord rages on, Lucy maintains that quiet composure, the refusal to stoop low enough to shout. The denial to become someone cold. Tim lets out a quiet, uneven breath through his nose.

Lucy had spent months chipping away at Tim’s carefully crafted armor. She wasn’t deterred by his unrelenting demands, his Tim Tests, his calculating attempts to allow her to prove herself. She didn’t recognize these as cruelty—instead, she saw them for what they were. A plea. A request. A call out for someone, anyone, to recognize the humanity he still had underneath all the trauma. Slowly, carefully, Tim learned that he didn’t just have to protect Lucy—he could be protected. Lucy would cover him just as much as he would cover her, without a question, without wanting something in return. A feeling so completely foreign to him that the night he spent in the hospital after being shot, he wondered what the hell she could be conspiring. What were her motives here? Tim couldn’t let himself believe that Lucy had simply done it because she cared.

This feeling continued for months after. No matter how many times she saved him: with Isabel, with the kilo she convinced him to leave, with the jokes about bar tabs and stolen wallets, he still wondered what does she want?

She had wanted nothing, he slowly learned, despite his disbelief. She wanted to let him be kind. Without asking, she allowed him to feel soft. Not as a weakness, no, but as a strength.

Across the street, the dispute escalates. The landlord, so akin to Tom Bradford, shouts out some obscenity and swings at Lucy. Tim’s grip on his wheel tightens, but still, he stays. Determined to trust Lucy. In a blink, she had ducked, missing the landlord’s pitiful attempt, and had him down on his knees, cuffs slinging over his wrists. Juarez seizes the man from Lucy, shoving him hard enough to make him stumble as payback for swinging at her. Internally, Tim thanks Jaurez for doing so, appreciating how so many people flock to Lucy’s corner.

With the suspect taken care of, Lucy’s gaze turned toward her unit. Briefly, though, before her eyes roamed further, across the road, meeting Tim’s gaze inside his own shop. A knowing, brilliant smile broke across her face.

Tim feels the final piece of his rigid armor dissolve into the upholstery.

As Jaurez shuts the back door to Lucy’s shop and pivots to talk to the still-crying tenant, Lucy hurriedly walks across the street. The excitement is clear in her stride, moving her just a little too quickly to remain casual. Once she reaches him, Lucy leans against the driver’s door of Tim’s shop, a breathless but victorious smile on her face. “Sergeant Bradford,” she greets.

“Sergeant Chen,” he nods. “Resisting an executive officer… remind me, what penal code is that?”

Lucy scoffs, rolling her eyes. “69, sir.”

“That’s right.”

Tim wonders if this is how other couples flirt.

 Lucy’s voice breaks the thought. She says, “Tell me you brought it.”

“Just as you asked,” Tim says as he reaches into the passenger seat and holds up her thermos. 

“You are a lifesaver,” she sighs, taking it from his hand. Her fingers brush against his, and the sharp, professional edge she held on the sidewalk melts into something soft. Something reserved just for Tim. “That guy was a prick.”

Tim leans his arm against the open shop window, looking up at her as she takes a sip from her thermos, eyes closing blissfully as she realizes Tim refilled it with hot coffee. The smile on her lips says thank you already, but she still says it, the words soft and dripping with sugary affection.

“You’re welcome. Hey, you handled that guy perfectly. Didn't even need to raise your voice.”

Lucy’s smile widens, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I had a pretty good teacher.”

“Damn right you did,” Tim smirks, though he drops his voice to a lower, gentler register so Jaurez—who was jotting down the statement from the tenant from twenty yards away by Lucy’s shop—couldn't hear. “Get back to it, sweetpea. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork waiting for me.”

The nickname catches her off guard, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks. Tim delights in watching the reaction. She taps the side of his unit playfully. “Go back to your desk, Watch Commander. I’ll see you at home.”

Even as he leaves, the smile won’t leave his face. 10 minutes later, after dealing with LA traffic once again, and back at the station with his shop parked, his smile stays glued to his face. With some force, he manages to stifle his grin, schooling his face back into the stoic, hard expression everyone has come to expect.

Of course, back in his office, the smile resurfaces when his phone buzzes, reading: my coffee is delicious, and you’re officially the biggest softie ever. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me, Sergeant Bradford.

Suddenly, Tim is quite excited for the Mayor’s call, and absolutely not because it just so happens to be the last thing he’ll have to do before his shift is over.

5

The first drowsy thought that floats into Tim’s head is my legs are stiff, before his eyes even open. Birds are chirping outside their bedroom window, the one cracked just a bit to let in the cool early-morning breeze. It glides through the room, sweeping over Tim’s bare chest, raising goosebumps across his skin. The chill pulls him further out of the heavy hands of sleepiness, ushering his arm up to rub at his eyes before opening them once, twice, three times before they stop fluttering back shut.

He goes to stretch, only to realize something is preventing him from moving. Particularly, there are two somethings—one by his legs, one at his side. Peering down, he finds the culprit near his feet: Kojo, stretched vertically across his feet and up his calves, his head against Tim’s knees, tongue lolling out of his mouth in sleep.

The immovable object at his side makes him inhale sharply, a smile spreading across his face. It’s Lucy, of course, wonderful Lucy, sprawled across the bed. Her face is burrowed into his side, hair scattered across her shoulder and back. Her arm, wrapped over his torso like a seatbelt, buckling him in, clearly leaving no opening for him to wiggle out. Not that he would want to. She’s wearing her matching PJ set, the deep purple satin one with the button-up top and just barely too-small shorts, the color collecting the morning sunlight like liquid gold, spreading across the shiny fabric, illuminating Lucy even further. The top button of her top is undone, revealing the way her collarbones meet her chest, how the upper curve of her breasts swell down, down, down… Her measured breaths, consistent in their rhythm, remind him of the trust she has placed in him. She believed in Tim, allowed herself to sleep next to him, something he cherished.

All these years later, Tim is still learning how to be loved. Learning that he can be loved—should be loved. Lucy loves him proudly and without censorship, something he had never experienced before. He had thought love was something contained at home, left at the door when they left, something to be regathered after a long day. Instead, Lucy’s heart carried him everywhere, and now that he had tasted her adoration, he was fully addicted.

“Lucy,” he whispers, voice gravelly with sleep still. “Lucy, sweetie, are you awake?”

The noise leaving her body—more grunt than human language—communicated that she was, very clearly, not awake. Still, with the morning sun climbing higher into the sky, he felt the incessant itch to start their day together. Scootching forward just barely, he plants a kiss on her forehead, her hair falling slightly from the disturbance and tickling her face. Grumpily, she shifted her head so it lay on her pillow, face open. With no response emitted, he moved down her face, kissing down the bridge of her nose, the corners of her mouth, the apples of her cheeks, the space where her ear met her jaw.

Sleepily, lazily, her eyes fluttered once. “Mm,” is her response to his kisses. He raises an arm, the one not pinned under Lucy, and runs his hand up and down the length of the arm thrown over him. His touch is feathery light, teasing, and ticklish. Her shoulder twitches in response, nose scrunching.

“Lucy…” he draws out her name, a boyish giggle slipping from between his teeth. He moves forward again, pressing his lips to hers. Soft, delicate, warm—everything she’s made him become. No urgency, just a gentle pressure against her mouth. An invitation to another day together.

Lucy accepts in the form of opening eyes, squinting against the sunlight. Presses her mouth to his now, barely moving her mouth, lips still sealed shut. Sleepy promises, wrapped in drowsy smooches. Tim’s eyes slide shut automatically, the hand on her arm moving up to instead cup the back of her head, pulling her closer, applying more pressure to the kiss. He can feel her smile against his mouth, feel the moment her lips open slightly. Dreamy affection swoops into something heavier, something hotter. Arousal pools in Tim’s abdomen, pulls his hands down to the opening in her top, and urges his fingers to fiddle with the fabric there. Lucy’s mouth opens further, sighing into his mouth, the edge of her tongue sweeping along his lower lip.

Then, she pulls back, just barely, to put their foreheads together. “Good morning,” she greets, teasing. Tim’s brain sluggishly catches up, recognizes the loss of stimulation, and mourns it for just a moment before Lucy rubs their noses together, eliciting a rumbling chuckle. 

“Good morning to you, too.” 

His eyes sweep over her face; seeing it this close up is sweeter than any dessert. He can see every freckle, every smile line, every crinkle around her eye as she smiles back at him. She’s radiant, bathing him in honey-sweet light, illuminating every dark part of him and turning it anew. Lying next to him, her body parallel to his, he finds himself convinced that they would find each other in every life. He is certain his soul is familiar with hers, beyond this moment here, that they’ve shared whispers and touches before this. Something inside of him reaches out and can always rely on her reaching back. Delicious dependability, something he had never let himself even desire, now lay before him openly.

He wonders if this is how Orpheus felt, too—can now understand why the doomed man could not stop himself from looking back, why he needed to remind himself of Euridice. He finds himself looking back constantly throughout the day, in the form of radio check-ins, checking his phone (even though he knows no new notifications have come in) just to see the lock screen with Lucy there, when her hands curl around his bicep as they leave the station together… the steadiness of her presence centers him. How could he not look?

“Coffee?” she asks, big brown eyes sparkling in the way she knows he can never deny. 

“Mm, only for you.” He agrees, giving in to the temptation to kiss her again, just because there is nothing to stop him, because he can, so he does. Lucy, always there, always reaching. 

The only thing that pulls him out of bed is the knowledge that Lucy will make the incredibly endearing face she does whenever he makes something just right. Nose scrunched, eyes shut, a “thank you” written in the lines of her face. This is what he braves cold hardwood floors for, what he pulls espresso shots and steams milk for, because Tim Bradford is nothing if not completely enamored by Lucy Chen. 

“Hey, sweetpea?” he calls, voice floating through the house. “Do you want salted caramel or vanilla in your coffee?”

A pause before he response almost has him wondering if she fell back asleep. Then, “both?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he does exactly what she asks. His own coffee (espresso and milk, minus the sugary syrups) cools as he blends the flavors to meet Lucy's incessant sweet tooth. The cup is warm inside his hand, leaving his palm hot as he passes the mug of delicious java to Lucy. Kojo, disturbed by his movements as he left the bed, has curled up where Tim had lain, soaking up his residual body heat. The dog even has the audacity to lay his head on Tim’s pillow, completely unashamed of the drool he’s leaving on the pillowcase.

“Careful,” he warns as he hands Lucy the cup. “It’s hot.”

“What? You, or the coffee?”

Tim can feel the blood rush to his cheeks. He ducks his head and smiles into his shoulder as he settles into sitting on the edge of the bed. Lucy’s stretched out legs brush against his back, and he reaches back to put a hand on her blanket-clad shin. Comfortable silence hangs over them, only interrupted by the periodic slurps from him and Lucy, the scent of coffee wafting through the air. 

“It makes me happy when you call me sweetpea,” Lucy says, and Tim still finds himself impressed by the blatant honesty she provides with her emotions. The bravery she shows, to remain open and keep her heart proudly on her sleeve, makes him thrilled that he never hardened her as his rookie. Then, she adds, “It makes me feel loved.”

“You are loved, sweetpea.” Tim grins as the name pulls giggles out from Lucy, has a desire so intense to bottle the sound and keep it on a shelf for a rainy day. “Sweetpea, sweetpea, sweetpea.”

The kiss they share this time tastes of coffee and home. Warm, reliable reassurance. Gooey and melting. The keys they share on their separate key rings, both their shoes by the door, their dog snoozing next to them—all reminders of the future they’re building, the promises they’re making. For the first time in a long time, Tim feels the complete absence of fear. There is no room for that here. Not with Lucy. Not ever.

+1

Lucy has been missing for 9 hours now. 

The code request she’d responded to had seemed blandly unsuspicious—a domestic dispute in a poorer neighborhood, radioing in to confirm her arrival to Juarez’s request for backup and a supervisor on scene. Any time Lucy was out patrolling or beyond the four walls of Mid Wilshire’s home base, his ears became fine-tuned, seeking out the comfort of her voice. Because of this hyperfixation, Tim knew exactly how many minutes passed before he picked up his own radio and barked into the receiver.

39 minutes, to be specific.

“Officer Juarez, where’s my update?”

Silence settles around him. Then, “Tim, hey—”

“Lopez?” Fear licks at his palms, making them sweat. “What the hell is going on?”

“Things got—uh, got messed up. The scene has escalated. Jaurez and Chen aren’t here, but their duty belts and radios are. We’ve got a situation here that—well, we’ve got missing officers.”

Missing officers. 

Tim’s throat goes dry, the world tilting off-kilter.

Lucy is missing.

Right as he throws his police jacket on, ready to storm out of the building and fly to the scene, Lopez’s voice crackles through again. “Tim, don’t come here. You won’t help here at the scene; you’ve got to round up the troops at base and get a canvas going. I know—I know you want to be where she was, but—”

“Yeah, got it.” 

Tim knows the facts: each hour that passes lessens the chance she’ll be found—missing past 24 hours lessens the chance of finding her alive. Tim can’t focus on that, though, the thought of Lucy Chen being nothing but a corpse, somewhere dark, so he instead focuses on the procedures he must follow to please the brass and IA.

Tim refuses to think about statistics. Instead, he throws himself into procedure. Procedure is safe. Procedure is concrete. Procedure doesn't leave room for imagining Lucy cold and frightened somewhere… Or worse.

The bullpen becomes command central within the hour. The FBI sends officers to enlist their aid to the search. Patrol officers cycle in and out. Detectives commandeer desks. Phones ring incessantly. Whiteboards fill with names, addresses, timelines, and maps of the sector Lucy and Juarez had been in for the call. Tim stalks between them all, bristly and sharp. Tim clings to the anger he feels at the incompetence he sees, because anger is easier to grip than terror. Fear is slippery. Anger is solid.

Tim stays angry.

“Check the alley cameras again.” He barks, hands flexing and reclenching over and over again. If he were entirely present, he would be able to recognize the ache in his knuckles from doing so. Instead, he’s entirely focused on not sending his fist through the wall next to him.

“We already did, sir.” Penn replies, eyebrows scrunching together.

“Did I stutter, Penn?” he snaps, pausing his pacing to stare the man down. Refusing to look away. “I said check them again.”

Penn doesn’t argue, just does what he is told. Smartly does not mention how reviewing the same footage will do nothing to bring Lucy or Jaurez home. Nobody argues with him today. Not when his jaw has been clenched for nine straight hours. Not when every person in the station knows exactly who's missing. Juarez is one of theirs. Lucy is one of theirs.

But Lucy is his.

Tim’s chest tightens, and he forces himself to hold onto the semblance of strength he can gather from Sergeant Bradford, not Tim. Tim is panicking, screaming, slamming his fists against the wall, and crying. Sergeant Bradford can bring her home.

Tim glances at the clock. Nine and a half hours, now. Nine and a half hours since she'd radioed in. Nine and a half hours since he'd heard her voice. He remembers exactly what she'd sounded like. Calm. Professional. Completely unaware that thirty-nine minutes later he’d be demanding updates over the radio because something felt wrong. Something had felt wrong almost immediately.

The memory makes his stomach twist. He should have gone. He should have trusted his instincts. He should have—

“Tim.” Lopez’s voice cuts through his catastrophic train of thought. Tim looks up sharply. She’s watching him with an expression that’s equal parts concern and warning. “You need to eat something.”

Tim laughs once. It's not a pleasant sound. “I'm good.”

“You haven't moved from this room in nearly ten hours.”

“Lopez, I said I’m good.”

She studies him. Neither of them believes it. Across the room, Harper ends a phone call and immediately starts another. Penn is hunched over a map. Every available unit is searching. The entire department is searching. And somehow it still doesn't feel like enough.

Because Lucy is still missing. Because every lead they've gotten has dissolved into nothing. Because Tim knows exactly what kind of monsters exist in Los Angeles. He's arrested enough of them. He remembers Caleb Wright. Remembers the barrel. Remembers pushing his mouth onto Lucy’s and forcing oxygen back into her lungs. Remembers fucking begging the world just to let him have this one thing, just this one thing, I’ll do anything—

Remembers the terror he’d felt when she’d stayed unresponsive. Remembers the guttural sound that escaped him when she finally gasped.

The clock ticks over. Nine hours and forty minutes.

His pulse pounds harder.

Nine hours and forty-one minutes.

Forty-two.

Forty-three.

Unfiltered terror turns his veins icy. His iron grip on anger falters, slips, and Tim is left clutching the empty air of his fear. Unable to be contained. There is no miracle update, no shouts, no relief—just emptiness. The terrible absence Lucy has left is palpable: a physical thing manifested, turning the station darker. Her reliable reassurance, quiet strength, is missing, leaving officers frazzled.

What was the last thing he’d said to her, he wonders? Had it been something kind, something joking, some unimportant comment about chores?

He can’t remember.

Oh, god, he can’t remember.

Tim scrubs a hand over his face, and for one reckless second, he considers ignoring every order he's been given. He considers getting into a shop, driving, searching every fucking building in LA by himself, considers tearing the entire city apart to find Lucy. His Lucy. His baby. His sweetpea. It would accomplish nothing, he knows, but god, at least he would be moving. Standing here, completely useless, is torture. He wishes there was a force he could fight, a punch he could deflect, a face he could demolish.

The clock keeps ticking and, unwillingly, Tim remains. Standing in place. Useless. While Lucy remains somewhere he can't reach. People flutter around him, orders are shouted, patrol officers switch out, and yet. And yet. All eyes end up ghosting back to him, then guiltily looking away. He can imagine their thoughts, their pity, and he wants to puke.

Then, from the corner of the room, Grey yells, “We got something!”

Everyone looks up. The room freezes. Every conversation dies instantly. Tim is already moving before the words fully register.

“What?”

Grey glances over at Garza. Garza says the best words Tim has ever heard, he swears, when he says, “Cell tower ping. One of Juarez's devices came online for six seconds.” 

Hope is a dangerous thing. Like fear, it’s slippery, but hope is far more risky. Less likely to slip from your fingers, but god, it’s what will make your heart burst from your chest. It’ll consume you, and when it gets ripped away, when it inevitably falls apart, you’ll be left with nothing. Tim feels it anyway, overwhelmed by its intensity. By what it could mean.

“Where?” Nolan asks, hair rumpled and lines on his face haggard. Tim knows he isn’t the only one grappling with this, but still, the physical sight of someone else so torn up by Lucy’s disappearance makes him want to weep. She is so loved, he thinks, terribly, god, she is so loved.

Undeterred by the emotions flooding the room, Grey continues. "Industrial district. 20 minutes out.”

Tim is already grabbing his vest. Barking, “Let’s go.”

Grey steps into his path, and for one terrifying second, Tim thinks he's going to stop him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Grey is. He can’t imagine being contained here any longer, not when she might be so close. Instead, Grey simply holds his gaze.

“Let’s bring them home, Bradford.” Tim swallows hard; the lump in his throat feels like glass. The hope flaring in his chest is terrifying.

“Yeah,” he croaks, voice rough. More plea than real response. “That’s the plan.”

The ride out is agony. Lopez, Harper, and Grey had all demanded that he not drive, but Tim refused to give up the driver’s seat if he was truly driving to where Lucy was waiting. He refused to trust anyone else to bring him there. What felt like hundreds of sirens wailed through LA as a cacophony of police cars flooded the city, all funneling to the same place, determined to save two of their own. Determined to bring the suspect down. Determined to bring justice to their comrades. Lopez demanded that she ride with Tim, at least if he wouldn’t let her drive, which he did. Her presence inside the shop with him is the closest he’ll get to calming with Lucy still missing.

The city blurs outside, flying by in a mixture of blended colors and shapes. Streetlights, warehouses, cars pulled over to let the wailing cars fly by, chain link fences. Tim checks his watch as he pushes the gas pedal down further, then immediately regrets it. The weight of time had already been heavy, nearly oppressive, but now it’s suffocating as he realizes it’s now been ten hours and two minutes since Lucy Chen disappeared. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Lopez studies the tablet balanced on her knees.

“We don’t know if they’re still there,” Lopez says. Tim says nothing back. “We don’t even know if the phone was moved.” Nothing still. Lopez sighs, “Tim.”

“What?” he snaps, gripping the steering wheel hard as they fly through another red light. Lopez doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. She knows him too well to be shocked by his short temper now.

“I need you thinking clearly when we get there.” Lopez looks over at him, brown eyes sweeping across his face, searching for… something. 

“I am thinking clearly.” He says, dismissive.

“You haven’t blinked in three minutes.” She points out. Tim grunts, shaking his head, looks away from her prying gaze. Outside, the industrial district looms larger, with dark warehouses rising against the inky LA night sky, lights abandoned aside from the safety-enforced floodlights. Empty lots, large and open, welcome them. Shipping containers on all sides, abandoned buildings. Now that they’ve arrived, they’ve cut the sirens, and the silence is deafening.

This is the type of place cops find bodies.

The thought startles Tim, makes his stomach twist.

Not Lucy, he thinks, Not Lucy, not Lucy, not Lucy…

A mantra inside his head, repeating endlessly. He can’t tell if it’s the terror or the hope broadcasting it inside of him.

Across the radio, voices crackle.

“Perimeter units in position,” Harper’s voice crackles. “Nolan and Penn have secured the North entrance. Southern entrance is to be covered by Bradford and Lopez upon arrival. Control, how are we doing?”

“No visible movement at your location via pings.” Flores replies, voice crackling over the radio.

“No physical movement observed.” Nolan’s voice now, tight and wound. Tim grips his rifle tighter, eyes trained on the southern entrance. The checks should make him feel better, alleviate his stress, and help him recenter himself so he can be there for Lucy.

If she’s there, his brain unhelpfully chimes in. He shakes his head, erasing the thought. He always tells his fellow officers to ignore ‘what-ifs’ for the sake of reality, and he does the same now. Focuses on what is real and tangible.

The SUV slows, Lopez’s voice announces their arrival, and suddenly, there is chaos.

The quiet nighttime is shattered by the sound of boots hitting the ground, doors slamming, vests being adjusted, and guns being cocked. Tim steps into the cool nighttime air, the warehouse looming before them. Three stories high, graffiti sprayed across the front, shattered windows making the breeze howl as it floats through the building and back into the open air of the night. 

Grey and Garza spill out behind Tim and Lopez, their SUV skidding to a halt. With everyone on scene, they can finally move. Before, though, Grey raises his radio to his mouth, speaking to all units. But his eyes stay trained on Tim, intentional with its weight.

“Listen up,” he barks. “We have two missing officers potentially inside.”

Potentially. The word snaps into his ribs like a bullet. Sharp and sudden. Potentially means uncertainty, potentially means hope, potentially means anything.

“We proceed carefully. We do this by the book.” Grey continues. “We don’t know how many suspects are inside.” Grey’s eyes narrow at Tim, sharpening, eyebrow cocking. “Understood?”

Tim nods back, understanding. Hold it together, is what Grey’s gaze says. Tim clenches his jaw, turning away, facing back towards the building that may hold Lucy and Jaurez. A chorus and acknowledgments flood the radio back, but Tim barely registers them. His eyes remain fixed on the building: somewhere in there, maybe, potentially, Lucy.

The thought is unbearable. He remembers her this morning. She whined when their first alarm went off, pawing at Tim until he hit snooze—“Only once,” he had told her—and pulled her close for just a few more minutes. Laughing at something Juarez said in the bullpen, before leaving. Waving at Nolan, smiling. Alive. Safe. Happy. Bright.

“Bradford.” Grey’s voice breaks his thoughts, makes his head cock back, gaze landing on the Commander and Lopez, who are waiting expectantly. Garza hangs back. “Are you with me?”

Tim forces air back into his lungs. “Yes, sir.”

Grey, accepting this answer, barks, “Let’s move then.”

The team advances as a single unit despite being broken up across the perimeter. The advancement feels too slow, too careful, too calculated—but this is what Grey had challenged home with, he knows, so he relents. He follows slowly as the breach team reaches the entrance. The world quiets, focusing only on the battering ram meeting the rusted door, crushing it open and revealing the building's interior. Tim realizes his hands are shaking, just barely, but enough for him to curl his fingers around his rifle.

Please, he thinks. Fierce, sudden, as close to a prayer as Tim Bradford can get to one. Please let her be alive.

The warehouse is a maze. Teams split off, funneling down hallways that branch into offices that open into more hallways. Dilapidated and ruined, the floors and stairs are untrustworthy, getting a few curses out of the officers that are foolish enough to rush forward without checking the rotting wood and rusted metal. 

Every room they clear is empty. Every empty room they find dims the hope inside him, leaving him with nothing but that exhausting, slippery fear. 

“Clear!”

Another room.

“Clear.”

An office.

“Clear!”

The bathrooms.

“...Clear.”

The storage room.

Tim and Lopez are the ones to duck into the basement, half the stairs abruptly ending off, leaving a hefty drop to the darkness below. Tim doesn’t hesitate, just slings his rifle back onto his back with the strap and trusts the ground to meet him. 10 feet lower, it does, sending pain through his ankles. He hardly recognizes the feeling, just brings his rifle back into his hands. The flashlight beam atop the gun sends milky light through the dusty darkness, and Tim only waits there to ensure Lopez’s own jump into the darkness is successful.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing is down here, but then—

A sound. Soft, almost not there, whispers. “...help.” Tim freezes, ears straining, waiting. The noise repeats itself, just barely louder. “Help.”

A woman’s voice. Not Lucy. Juarez. The realization hits him immediately.

“Hey!” Lopez shouts, “hey, we got something!”

The pounding of boots draws nearer as Tim moves forward, coming to face a metal door at the end of a corridor. Locked.

“Move!” Someone shouts. Tim does. The battering ram comes forward. One hit, the door bends. Another hit, the lock cracks. A third hit, the frame splinters. A fourth, the door flies inward.

Tim is through the opening before the debris even settles, the room broadening in front of him. Empty, aside from a single hanging light that flickers, broken glass, the nasty smell of mildew, and two bodies. His brain processes Juarez first, tied to a support column, eyes bright with relief and tanned cheeks scabbed with red from scrapes. Bruised, terrified, but alive. 

Then his gaze shifts.

And the world stops.

Lucy.

She’s lying on the floor, motionless, turned away from Tim. Her arms are awkwardly twisted behind her back, splayed unnaturally. Her dark hair, greasy and knotted, spills over the dirty floor. One of her shoes is missing. There is a hole in her sock. And she isn’t moving.

She isn’t moving.

She isn’t moving.

Tim’s heart thunders to a stop. He feels the blood leave his face, flood to his chest, makes him let loose a terrible screech. Everything melts away: the officers, the voices, the room, the light, leaving only Lucy. Unmoving, still, lifeless Lucy. On the ground. So, so still. Too still.

No, no, no—

There's a roaring in his ears. A violent rushing sound. Like his body suddenly doesn't know how to function. His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. Everything else forgotten. His legs are moving before his brain catches up. Someone’s voice tries to reach through the cotton in his ears, but it sounds so muffled, he can’t understand a word they’re saying. Can’t tell who is speaking.

Lucy isn’t moving. He knows what bodies look like. He’s seen hundreds, from his time in the Army, with the LAPD, in Metro. The angle of her shoulders. The unnatural stillness. The way she’s splayed on her side. His mind has reached the conclusion before he can fully accept it.

He’s too late.

He failed her.

Ten hours and a heap of minutes, he’s too late.

Something inside his chest fractured, unfixable.

“Lucy.” The name barely leaves his throat, cracking and broken. No response. 

Something inside him rips, and tears, and cracks. A horrid, ragged thing. An unbearable wound opening in real time. Unfathomable grief and loss pull sounds out of him, things that don’t sound human. He doesn’t think he is human anymore, not after losing her. Every inch and shred of his humanity has died with her, leaving nothing but a feral, grieving animal. He drops to his knees beside her, his hands shaking violently, he reaches for her shoulder. He’s terrified of what he’ll find there, the truth, will be undeniable when he touches her cold body.

And yet, when his fingertips brush against her arm, it’s warm.

The thought barely registers. Warm. Then—

A breath. Small, tiny, shallow, but unmistakable. A breath.

She’s breathing. She’s alive. Lucy inhales, and Tim’s entire body locks. A sob tumbles out of his lips, raw and uncontained. She exhales then. Another breath. A sign of life. The force of his relief nearly knocks him over, nearly leaves him unconscious, but he instead clings to her skin, hand wrapping around her shoulder, shaking her.

“Lucy?” he whispers, allowing it to sound like a question rather than a statement. A call, a request, something someone could answer. When he speaks again, Sergeant Bradford is forgotten, leaving an unbearably vulnerable and raw man instead. He doesn’t even know if it’s Tim who speaks. It may just be a man whose heart is breaking. “Sweetpea…?”

The name shatters as it comes out, broken pieces splintering across the room, left fragmented at the feet of the other officers in the room. Small and lost, the sound of someone reaching into the dark, the sound of someone pleading, the sound of a prayer uttered by someone who’s already convinced it won’t be answered. Momentarily, for one terrible second, there is no response.

Then—Lucy shifts, just barely, but enough. A weak, involuntary movement, but god, it’s enough. The sound that leaves him is ugly: half sob, half gasp. The kind of sound dragged out of a terminally wounded animal. His forehead drops to her shoulder, relief crashing into him. It isn’t calm and warm; it’s sharp and overwhelming, drowning him, violent and overwhelming. So powerful it hurts. His trembling hands refuse to loosen their grip on her, so certain she’ll disappear. Lucy stirs again, groans, and inhales sharply. Tim moves his hand to cup her dirty face, thumb sweeping away some of the grime. Not checking, not searching for injuries, just touching. Just reveling in the warmth he can feel coming off her skin.

Lucy blinks slowly as consciousness comes back to her. Confusion is etched into her features, her eyebrows knitting together as her eyes squint.

“She probably has a concussion.” Someone whispers, far away. 

Her confusion melts away to recognition, gaze finding him immediately. Always him. Always reaching. Always waiting. Tim can’t speak; his throat is too tight, still overwhelmed by his relief. All he can do is stare, and Lucy—beautiful, stunning, wonderful Lucy—manages the smallest frown because she sees the devastation, the terror, etched into his face, still swimming in his eyes.

“Tim.” The name leaves her quietly, mostly air. His chest tightens, wound so tight he can barely breathe, the sound of her voice so beautiful. A voice he hadn’t heard in over ten hours. His hand remains against her cheek; he knows he should check her for injuries, establish her condition, but he can’t bear to tear himself away long enough. The training he relies on so much melts away, leaving only disbelief as he stares. “Hey,” she whispers.

“Hey,” The single syllable scrapes out of him. His hand trembles against her face, and of course, of course, she notices, her eyes flitting away from his eyes, then back. Understanding washes over her face. She can see the fear. So raw, left open and unhidden.

“Tim,” she repeats, this time like she’s comforting a scared animal. Behind them, someone says something about medics arriving. “You can hug me.” She whispers. And that’s all Tim needed. He scoops her up, arms wrapping around her desperately, crushing. He hears her sharp intake of breath, probably in pain, but she doesn’t tell him to let go. She hugs him back, albeit weaker than normal, and buries her face in his shoulder. Her hair smells dirty, but there, just barely, is the smallest trace of her coconut shampoo.

“Bradford,” someone says behind him. It’s Grey. “Bradford, son, the medics need access.”

He doesn’t sound impatient or annoyed. Sympathy is what his tone holds, and Tim drinks it in shamelessly. He squeezes Lucy one more time, presses a kiss to her forehead, and slowly, slowly lets go. “Okay,” he whispers, even though the loss of contact with her feels painful.

The medics begin working: checking vitals, examining injuries, asking questions. Lucy answers where she can. Her replies are short and fragmented, both from exhaustion and the likely concussion she has. Tim catches every wince, every hitch in her breathing, every sign of pain. It hurts to see her hurt, but he holds it gently, breathes it in as a relief. Pain means she’s alive.

The medic shines a light into her eyes. "Do you know where you are?"

“A warehouse,” Lucy grunts, squinting against the light.

“Good,” the medic replies, then turns off the flashlight. “What day is it?”

She answers correctly again, and Tim finally manages to take a full breath. The first one he’s had since entering the room—hell, since she went missing. His lungs expand, greedy for the air.

Then Lucy turns her head, just slightly, eyes searching. Looking for him. That tiny shift nearly rocks him back on his ass because she trusts him, without question. Wholeheartedly. She looked for him, found him, and immediately felt safer. The same way she always does. The same way she has for years. And all Tim can think about is how close he came to losing that forever.

The medic steps away to confer with his partner; Tim can hear the ambulance siren that will soon take her to Shaw Memorial. Knows he’ll be in the back of that ambulance whether they let him in willingly or if he has to fight.

“Tim, honey,” His eyes snap back to hers immediately, sees Lucy reaching for him. Slowly. Her wrists are red from the restraints, bruises blooming across her skin and face, and even still, she reaches. He’s there before she can fully extend her arms, closes his hands over hers, instantly. Lucy squeezes, gently, but with enough force to ground him. “I’m okay,” she whispers.

The words are simple, meaningless on their own, without context. Tim looks down at their joined hands, back to her, over her face, soaking her in. His throat works hard, swallowing. Once, twice, three times.

“I thought I lost you, sweetpea.” He manages, still terrified. Normally, he would pretend to be okay, always telling Lucy that he would manage his emotions so she could feel hers in the hard moments. With the needle, during various shootouts, with the barrel, all of it. Now, though, with the thought of her death still so close, so near he can nearly touch it, he can’t. “I was so scared, Lucy.”

For a second, neither of them speaks, the reality of the situation too big, too intense to put words to. They squeeze each other’s hands, relying on that physical grounding, as the rest of the officers bustle around them, as the medics prep the ambulance for Lucy. The warehouse hums around them, radios crackle, boots scrape against concrete, someone wheels equipment through the doorway. Tim hears all of it and none of it. Lucy's thumb brushes across his cheek: such a small thing, a simple touch.

“I'm here.” The words are quiet, small. Tim closes his eyes, lets them settle inside his chest, lets them lay a blanket over this thundering heart, and lets it finally come to an easier rest. His eyes open again, studies her face, takes in the bruises, the exhaustion, the cut by her temple—evidence of everything she’d endured while waiting for him to find her.

A fresh wave of guilt rises immediately, instantly, he knows he should’ve found her sooner. Ten hours was far too long; she could’ve been dead.

“Don't,” Lucy says, squeezing his hands again. Tim blinks, confused.

“What?” he asks.

Lucy is staring at him, looking through a magnifying glass, revealing all the things he keeps so deep inside. She knows him inside and out, for better or for worse.

“You've got that look,” she says, smiling when a weak huff escapes him.

“I don’t have a look.” He bites back, almost smiling. Almost.

“You found me,” she says, pausing. Allows the words to linger there, lets the weight of them hang in the air. She says them like they’re simple, obvious, like there was never a question of whether he would. “You found me again.”

Tim swallows, throat raw. “I was supposed to.”

“Even so,” she says, eyes sweeping over his face. “You did.”

He can’t bear her gaze, how she looks at him with so much adoration. He drops his gaze to their joined hands, to the bruises on her wrists, to the pulse fluttering beneath that bruised skin. The pulse means she’s still alive.

The panic recedes; logic floods back into his brain. He knows medics are waiting for statements, fellow officers needing statements for evidence, so they can track down whoever did this. Knows Jaurez is waiting, too. 

“There he is,” Lucy says, voice sounding teasing. She even manages a ghost of a smile.

Tim frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Sergeant Bradford is coming back,” she says. “Grumpy cop.”

The words should annoy him, but he laughs instead. Really laughs. He calms, heart slowing, brain reworking to calculate the situation. To ensure procedure is met and everything is taken care of. But not enough to let go, of course. His grip stays tight on her hands. His hand never leaves hers. Not when the medics lift her, not when they put her on a stretcher, not when they wheel her into the ambulance, not when the ambulance doors shut, not when they arrive at the hospital. Not for a second.

And when Lucy squeezes his fingers once, weak but deliberate.

I'm here.

The message passes between them without words.

This time, he believes it.

 Tim squeezes back.

You’re here, sweetpea.