Work Text:
The rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers is the only consistent sound inside the shop, beating steadily against the miserable downpour turning the streets of Los Angeles into a blurred mess of brake lights and slick asphalt.
Lucy presses her back flush against the passenger’s seat, trying to avoid any moment that may cause her uniform shirt to shift against her skin. Every time the fabric moves, a fresh wave of chills ripples down her arms. She’s freezing—absolutely freezing—in a way that has nothing to do with the cold and wet November weather outside.
Her head throbs with a heavy, rhythmic pulse right behind her eyes, her cheeks burn, and her throat feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper.
Just three more hours, she tells herself, hands curling into white-knuckled fists in her lap to keep them from trembling. Three hours, and then you can go home and sleep for the next forty-eight. Don’t give him a reason to think you’re weak.
Glancing to her left, Tim seems to be fully focused on the nearly invisible road ahead, so Lucy subtly reaches out with her left thumb, turning her climate control dial a quarter-inch to the right, desperate for a blast of hot air to warm her shaking body.
“Chen.”
Lucy freezes, startling at the sharp baritone of Tim’s voice, and she knows she’s been caught. She swallows hard against the pain in her throat, lifting her chin, careful not to look over at him.
“Yes, sir?” she says, aiming for a strength her voice just doesn’t possess today. The words rattle with the congestion clawing at her chest.
Tim makes no move to look at her, his hands steady on the steering wheel, but his brow furrows. “It’s sixty-four degrees outside, and you’ve bumped the heat up at least three times in the last hour. You’re gonna melt the dashboard, and the paperwork’s gonna be on you.”
“Sorry, sir,” Lucy mutters, in no state to put up a fight, tucking her chin into the collar of her shirt. She tries to regulate her breathing as she feels a cough tickling her throat, threatening to betray her cover. She clears her throat. “It just feels a bit drafty in here…you know, with the weather and all.”
“Right. The weather…” Tim grumbles, voice dripping with scepticism.
As they pull to a red light, Tim finally turns his head, his gaze sweeping over her with a clinical intensity that makes her want to squirm. He notes the slight tremor in her hands, the way her body seems to curl in on itself, and the unnatural, feverish flush of her cheeks, a stark contrast to the pallor of the rest of her skin.
He narrows his eyes, opening his mouth to say something, but before he can form the question, the radio crackles to life.
“All units be advised, we have a 211 in progress at the liquor store on La Brea and Wilshire. Suspect was seen fleeing via the back alley, male, wearing a dark hoodie and blue jeans.”
Tim shifts back into cop mode. He snatches the radio off the dash. “Control, this is 7-Adam-19, attach us to that call, we’re code three.” He barks into the mic as he slams his foot on the accelerator.
The sirens wail to life, drowning out the sound of the rain as the shop speeds forward. Lucy exhales a shaky breath, a mixture of relief and dread washing over her, as well as another, stronger wave of chills. She pushes down the nausea from the movement of the car and the realization that she’s about to chase a suspect through a literal deluge, and her body’s already running on fumes.
—
The foot chase is a chaotic blur of blinding water and slippery concrete. By the time Tim finally tackles the suspect and clicks the cuffs around the man’s wrists, the downpour has done its absolute worst.
They walk the suspect back to the shop parked at the end of the alley just as backup’s arriving to take him back to the station for processing. Lucy leans against the side of the car as Tim opens the trunk, completely numb. The rain has completely soaked through her wool uniform, and the weight of it hangs heavy on her tired body. She walks around the back to see Tim unbuttoning his uniform top, leaving him in only his t-shirt. He turns to her.
“Here, take that off. Hanging out in wet clothes will get you sick—oh, the irony. She nods, wordlessly peeling off her own top to find her white undershirt completely soaked through, clinging translucent against her skin. Lucy blushes even further at the sight of her dark gray bra completely visible through the fabric, nipples straining against the cups from the cold.
Tim clears his throat, averting his gaze as a flush trails up his neck. His shirt, fortunately, managed to stay mostly dry—having to ride next to Tim in a tight, see-through t-shirt, pretending not to notice is one more thing she didn’t need today.
As the other shop pulls away, the adrenaline that had been keeping her upright completely evaporates.
Her knees buckle slightly, and she has to grab onto the side of the trunk just to stay vertical. Her teeth are chattering so violently it’s audible against the sound of the storm, and the cold water against her hot skin causes her whole body to shake with uncontrollable tremors. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused as she stares down at the asphalt.
Tim turns back around after replacing his handcuffs, and the moment he sees her, his face morphs from discomfort to pure alarm.
“Jesus Christ, Chen.”
He shoves his war bag back into the trunk, crossing the space between them in one step. He presses the back of his hand against her forehead before snatching it back like it burned him. “You’re burning up. You’ve got to be running at least a hundred and two.”
“I’m… I’m f-fine, sir,” Lucy tries to choke out, but the words are mangled by her violent shivering. She tries to take a step back, but the movement only makes her head spin, the world around her tilting.
“Like hell you are,” he barks, his voice thick with anxiety.
He grabs her upper arm to steady her as he reaches back behind his war bag, rummaging around before pulling out his department-issued bomber jacket—thick and structured with ‘BRADFORD’ and his badge embroidered on the front, as well as his P3 stripes on the sleeves. He shakes out the dry fabric before draping it over her shaking shoulders.
“Put this on and get back in the car,” he instructs her. “We’re heading back to the station.”
She nods, pulling the heavy fabric around her as she stumbles around the side of the car, pulling the door open and collapsing into the passenger seat. She slides her arms into the sleeves and zips the jacket before resting her head against the window. For as cold as the rest of her is, her face feels like it’s melting, and the cold of the glass offers some relief.
Tim climbs back in after her, slamming his door and turning the key in the ignition. He glances over at her one more time as he cranks the temperature dial to maximum heat until the vents roar before pulling out onto the street.
—
The drive back to the station passes in a blur, the patter of rain and humming of the heat lulling Lucy into a daze. By the time Tim’s pulling into the Mid-Wilshire garage, she’s half-asleep.
“Chen. Hey. Wake up.” A voice grunts, much closer than usual.
Lucy blinks her eyes open, realizing that the car has stopped. Tim is already standing outside her open door, his large hand gripping her elbow to anchor her as she steps out of the shop. Her boots hit the concrete, but her knees instantly give way, threatening to pull her to the ground.
Before she can fall, Tim catches her against his side, arm locking around her waist to hold her weight.
“I’ve got you, just walk,” he commands quietly, tone soft in a way she’s never heard.
She can only nod, too exhausted to argue as he guides her through the sliding doors and down the hall to the bullpen. Walking through the station feels like stepping into a spotlight, voices lowering around her as they make their way towards the watch commander’s office.
Lucy is a walking anomaly. Stripped of her uniform top, she’s completely swallowed by the jacket. The hem hits the middle of her thighs, sleeves handing six inches past her fingertips. Between the size and the name stamped over her heart, there’s no question as to who it belongs to.
Every cop they pass by stares, eyes darting from Lucy’s flush face with wet baby hairs plastered to it to Tim’s fierce, dare-anyone-to-say-something scowl. His hand remains planted at the small of her back, steering her forward.
Leaning against one of the desks, Angela looks up from a stack of papers. Her eyes take in the scene in front of her—the tiny rookie drowning in her T.O.’s gear and Tim’s hyper-protective stance. A slow smirk spreads across her face. She tilts her head, tapping her pen against the wood.
“Nice jacket, Chen,” She quips. “Didn’t know you traded up.”
Lucy’s too delirious to process the underlying meaning, merely offering a weak glance, but it stops Tim in his tracks. He turns his head, fixing Angela with a glare that could burn through her skull.
“She’s running a high fever, Lopez. Get back to work,” he snaps, an embarrassed flush coloring his ears. He doesn’t give her another moment, pushing past the desk and guiding Lucy straight to Grey’s office. He knocks once, impatiently, before pushing the door open.
Sergeant Grey looks up from his computer, brow furrowing at the sudden intrusion. He takes in the sight of his toughest training officer practically carrying a half-conscious rookie who is wrapped up like a burrito in a jacket bearing the name ‘Bradford’.
For a second, Grey just stares, an expression of amusement mixed with concern forming on his face.
“Bradford,” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Care to explain why your rookie looks about a gust of wind away from falling over, and why she’s wearing your stripes?”
“Chen’s done for the day, sir,” Tim says flatly, cutting right to the chase. “Got drenched in a foot chase on Wilshire. Her uniform was completely compromised, she’s burning up with a fever, and she can barely stand on her own feet. I’m checking us out code seven so I can drive her home.”
Grey looks at Lucy, whose head has drifted to rest against Tim’s shoulder, eyes half-closed as she shivers beneath the jacket.
He sighs, shaking his head with a soft smile. “Go home, Officer Chen. That’s an order. Get some rest.” He shifts his gaze back to Tim, expression turning serious. “Make sure she actually stays put. I don’t want to see her back in this building until that fever is gone.”
“Understood, sir,” Tim mutters.
He turns them around, guiding her towards the locker room. Once they reach the door, he turns to face her. “Give me your duty belt, I’ll turn it in. Are you good to go change?” She nods, and Tim leaves her to it.
After returning their gear to the kit room, Tim returns to the locker room to find Lucy walking back out on shaky legs, in her civvies but still wrapped in his jacket. He smiles, despite himself, and a part of his brain he usually keeps turned off can’t help but think that it—his jacket, his stripes, his last name—looks good on her. He quickly shakes the thought away as he leads them out to the parking garage.
As they reach his truck, Lucy weakly reaches for the zipper of the jacket, clumsy fingers fumbling with the metal.
“Sir… let me… give you your jacket back,” she mumbles, voice raspy. “Protocol… can’t leave the station with it.”
“Screw protocol, Chen,” he says softly, opening the passenger door and helping her step up inside. “Keep it on. You’re still shaking.”
As he slams the door and walks around to the driver’s side, Lucy curls into the seat, burying her nose in the high collar of the jacket. It smells like Tim, and—is she crazy if she thinks it makes her feel a little better?
The two leave the station behind for the day, blissfully unaware that the entire station is buzzing about Tim Bradford letting his rookie wear his jacket.
—