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Tim’s wardrobe was objectively boring.
Lucy had decided that long before she moved in. Long before they broke up.
Actually, come to think of it, she’d probably decided that somewhere between the second and third time she saw Tim Bradford out of uniform.
He owns about seventeen shirts that are all the same shade of black, and eight more that are the same shade of navy. There’s like, two or three green t-shirts somewhere. A couple henleys. A series of white shirts for work.
Those all lay folded in the first drawer of his (their) dresser. The dresser he now split exactly halfway with her. (He drew a chalk line in the base of each of drawer after measuring them. She’d just rolled her eyes.)
Despite Tim’s clear aversion to colour, he’d allowed her to (mostly) whatever wanted to his wardrobe. It’s our space, Lucy, he’d insisted. Not just his. Ours.
She loved hearing him say ours. It was one of the things she loved most about living with Tim. It somehow made it feel real. She shared a life and a love and a relationship with this man that looked at her like she’d hung the stars. She knew that, of course. She knew that what they had was rare and very coveted and so undeniably, intensely them.
But Lucy was a very, very sentimental person. She’d collected a myriad of things of the years that she was absolutely never going to use again, despite her insistence that she absolutely would and that she would take up thirteen different hobbies just so ensure that these things she’d found, relics of times already passed.
Tim teased her about it relentlessly, especially while they were unpacking. Actually, no, he hadn’t, because he’d been so set on making sure she was comfortable and okay not just in his (their!) house, but their relationship, like he was worried she was going to turn around one day and tell him she’d made a mistake, she didn’t love him anymore, and she didn’t want to live with him. She’d brought it up after the fourth day he’d been walking on eggshells around her, trying not to ask too much, trying not to take up too much space. She had told him that she wanted to live with the man she’d fallen in love with, the one who sometimes said the wrong thing and teased her relentlessly and wasn’t eloquent, but rather, direct, blunt and honest. She had told him she loved him exactly as he was. That she would remind him of that every moment of every day if that’s what he needed. And she had stuck true to that. He’d promised to try not to hide from her. He’d stuck true to that, too, especially when he’d subsequently lifted her on to the kitchen bench like she weighed morning and kissed her like he was starving. (He’d insisted afterward that he actually was, and they had to stop because he was hungry, and they both needed fuel for later.) He had resumed teasing her approximately two minutes and thirty eight seconds after that. Thank the lord.
But the point of that was that seeing their house, their bed, their clothes, their dog, their kitchen…it gave her a permanence to what they’d built that she didn’t quite have before. And that filled her with a warmth that she couldn’t quite explain. (She’d never admit this to him, but occasionally she called things his just so he’d correct her. She still didn’t think he’d figured it out.)
(He definitely had figured it out.)
Lucy had since made it her personal mission to fill Tim’s wardrobe with colour. Not only from her own clothes, but his, too.
She’d dragged him to the shopping centre by his house that she loved and dragged him to every time they’d stayed over at his the first time they’d dated. (In saying that, they didn’t stay at his a lot. Despite the fact that Tim had a whole house and Lucy had an apartment and a roommate, for some reason, he’d wound up at her apartment most nights (and mornings), and he still didn’t quite know how that had happened.)
So, when Lucy had moved in, the first place she’d dragged him to was the shopping centre, approximately a week after they’d moved in. Lucy was off night shift, and they finally had a moment to themselves. And because he loved her (and was physically incapable of saying no to her), he’d agreed, and gone with her.
She hadn’t quite started on her war with Tim’s wardrobe by then. Her colour war had begun elsewhere, you see. First, with Tim’s sheet sets. (“Why do you have three identical sets of sheets, Tim?” She’d asked. He’d shrugged. “Efficiency.”)
So, that day, they’d bought two additional sheet sets. One that was blue and white with tiny flowers all over it, and another that was burnt orange. (She liked orange, okay?)
She’d asked him that night if he was bothered by her changes to the house. He’d simply gathered her in his arms, kissed her, and whispered that he loves her much more than he hated her decor choices.
She’d slapped him pretty hard for that one.
He’d laughed nonetheless, and she found out he was joking a moment later when he had to reassure her twice (six times) that he did actually like her decor.
Since then, she’d pretty much won the colour war.
The sheets.
The towels.
Even the fruit bowl was more colourful than it was before.
(She can’t quite remember if he even had a fruit bowl before they started dating again. Who knows.)
The photos they took.
The books on the shelves.
The pillows on the bed. (Decorative pillows were, in fact, necessary, she’d insisted.)
The blanket on the couch.
Tim now had a yellow toothbrush. (He literally refused to admit that to anyone.)
(Although, when was the colour of your toothbrush coming up in conversation?).
But she still hadn’t won the wardrobe colour war.
No matter what she did, his side of the wardrobe remained stubbornly black and navy.
It was better, but it definitely wasn’t what she’d call colourful.
So, one night, when she’d gone to a bar and had about seven too many tequila shots, she decided, along with Angela, Nyla and Celina, that she was going to win this colour war.
No matter what it took.
(She had, in fact, revealed her master plan to him when he picked her up from the bar at midnight that night. She had absolutely no recollection of any of it. She had apparently been so stumbling drunk he had lifted her up and carried her and her shoes out to the car, and then spent the next hour with her on the bathroom floor as she vomited everything she’d eaten in the last twenty four hours up. And then helped her into her pyjamas, did his best to get her makeup off - at the very least, her foundation, lipstick and mascara - tucked her into bed, despite her apparently wanting to jump him and trying every chance she got, placing a glass of water and an aspirin on her bedside table. Tim was the sweetest.)
(That part just hadn’t quite been part of the plan.)
The only problem was, she didn’t actually remember any of the plan. Tim had, begrudgingly, repeated the parts of it she’d told him that night, but it was all complete nonsense.
(Maybe she shouldn’t get so drunk. She is thirty-three after all. And she and Tim are probably going to get married soon. Maybe try have a baby soon. She definitely needs to be sober for that part. She needs to be sober for that conversation, firstly.)
So, she devised a new plan.
Strategically drag Tim out shopping.
Strategically place items into their basket.
Strategically offer to pay for them, knowing full well he wouldn’t accept.
Strategically make him wear them.
Strategy was important here.
The colour war sat in the back of her mind for the next week.
That was because the next week was the busiest week she’s ever had in her life. (Including that one week in college where she had, like, seven exams in four days.)
(Maybe it wasn’t seven. It was just a lot.)
There were three hostage situations. Three.
(There were barely enough hostages in Los Angeles, let alone in Mid-Wilshire, to cover that many hostage situations, she recalled thinking grimly.)
She had covered Watch Commander twice, because Tim had been assigned to other cases that Grey was overseeing and had specifically asked for him.
Good practice, he’d said.
So, when she finally gained enough energy to move her body, let alone think about the colour war, it was when she had opened their wardrobe one morning to get changed.
She reached for a hoodie. Tim’s, obviously.
Black.
Okay. Recalculate.
Another one.
Navy.
An academy long sleeve.
Navy.
A thick henley she’d ‘borrowed’ ages ago because it was so comfy.
Navy.
She looked from her side of the wardrobe.
To his.
Shit.
What she had seemingly failed to factor into her colour war calculations was just how many of Tim’s clothes she had stolen over the years they’d been together. (They might be boring, but they were much comfier than anything she owned, okay?)
It was at this moment that her boyfriend decided to come up behind her, apparently having become psychic overnight and reading her thoughts.
He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.
She didn’t react. She was too focused on the fact that her boyfriend, the one who was currently holding her, had ruined the colour palette of her wardrobe.
It was like he knew.
He chuckled, and leaned forward, lips next to her ear as he whispered, “I’m winning.”
He stepped away from her as she whipped round to face him, her jaw dropped.
Damn you, Tim Bradford.