Work Text:
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Some will say it was Yajnavalkya, others will cry Copernicus, but according to Lucy's high school experience the earliest recorded instance of someone proposing that perhaps the earth travels around the sun—heliocentrism—rather than the sun around the earth—geocentrism—was a man called Aristarchus of Samos in references from other scholars of his time. For centuries, the idea of heliocentrism was considered preposterous. Today, what with all the fancy technologies operated and space expeditions by humans, most everyone who believes in science agrees that the earth rotates around the sun. It's so common, in fact, that it is how we measure our years.
Naturally, the earth also rotates. There are two different lengths of days produced by this rotation depending on whether one uses the sun or distant stars as their reference point: solar days and sidereal days. Lucy doesn't remember the exact distinctions between the two, but she does know that solar days are longer than sidereal days. She also knows that the earth rotates slower or quicker depending on a number of different factors, and that due to this scientists will occasionally add or take away seconds.
All this to say, days on planet Earth aren't always the exact same length. Some are shorter, some are longer.
This morning, so far, is setting up for the rest of the day to become the longest day in all of recorded human history.
A suit-wearing man with light brown hair walking into the café as she leaves gives her a weird look at the hushed "Fuck!" she mutters upon actually looking at her receipt and seeing what lunch cost her, not just what she convinced herself it cost because she felt guilty eating from a vendor when she is actively going through an expensive legal process. She ignores him, because no one should give men the time of day.
Divorces are exhausting.
"Control, four-Lincoln-two-hundred, I'm back from my code seven, going ten-eight," Lucy puts her radio back in the clip she keeps attached to her belt as she tosses her empty takeout cup in a nearby trash can, filling her newly-hand with her pepper spray as a reminder to write herself a note to order more once she's back in the shop— her current one is expired and its spray game is now far too weak to be useful against a suspect. Dispatch repeats her status for logging purposes, though the words of the guy on the other end are cut off as a yawn splits Lucy's jaw in half.
Divorces are exhausting.
Her phone's ringtone sings as she pulls the door to her shop fully open—she curses herself for not having closed it all the way, a rookie mistake indeed—and slumps in the seat…. the seat, which is much further back than she usually puts it. Lower, too— what the fuck is going on? It must be a prank, she decides. Probably Thorsen. She notices as she gets back out of the shop that the keys are in the cup holder, too. Wow. She really needs to get her sleep schedule back under control.
She answers her phone, places it on speaker, and sets it down on the seat alongside her expired pepper spray canister while she readjusts everything, "Hi, this is Detective Lucy Chen, who am I speaking to?"
A rage-inducingly familiar voice whines, "Lucy, baby, it's me—"
"Oh, fuck off," she growls, taking her phone and mounting it on the dashboard, pepper spray in the cup holder as she closes the doors, buckles herself in, scans her key FOB (which she apparently left in the second cup holder like an idiot) and pulls out into the road, "all contact is supposed to go through our lawyers. You know that."
"Listen," he sniffles in a wavering voice, "I'm just letting you know that Phoebe ate twelve cups of confectioner's sugar by accident and I'm taking her to the vet. I'm really worried she's gonna die!"
He proceeds to lament at length the tale of woe that has befallen their shared feline, crying as he mourns his failed sugar cookies. She would like very much to know why he needed twelve cups of confectioner's sugar in a recipe for the dough alone, but ultimately decides that the less she knows, the better. In Lucy's head, she would like to say: "If our goddamn cat dies, I'm going to hunt you down and shove my baton so far up your ass that you choke on it, you absolute dented tuba of a human!" Yet in reality, it's something more like—
"Hey!"
Lucy hadn't yet said anything and feels rather affronted that he chose to interrupt her. Is it that he's incredibly unintelligent or that he knows her well enough to react to her insults before they've left her mouth? She shudders to think it could be the second option. No, he's just stupid.
Back to reality: nothing else is said beyond that singular word.
Lucy's temples throb. "Chris?"
He blows his nose loudly, the sound carrying through the phone with no distortion whatsoever. "What?"
"Was that you?"
"Was what me?"
She doesn't have the mental bandwidth to deal with him anymore right now. "Never mind, I've gotta go. Text me about Phoebe." Lucy spits, ending the call and forcing herself to relax just a smidge. She should head to the home of the next witness in the new cartel murder case she'd been gifted by Nyla as a congratulatory gift.
It would be incredibly helpful to know the witness's address, though. A quick self-pat-down reveals no sign of her notebook and the glove compartment is no more helpful— she really hopes it was simply forgotten at the station and not lost somewhere; that would be a terrible thing to have happen her first week as a detective, much worse the first day.
Lucy next tries putting in the Mobile Data Terminal's password so that she can get the address from her inbox… and is blocked? The password is apparently incorrect, which doesn't make any sense. It's the shop password. The whole computer shuts down. A security measure, most likely.
Well, fuck. She doesn't want to drive around without access to her inbox, so she pulls into a parking lot and stops while she grabs the shop radio. "Control, four-Adam-two-hundred, I'm having issues with my MDT in that my password doesn't seem to work. Please advise."
"Hey!"
It sounds closer this time. She must be going crazy.
There is no reply from Dispatch, so she tries again.
"Control, four-Adam-two-hundred, advise?"
…and again. "Control, four Ada-"
"We heard you… ma'am… but we're not quite sure who you are. You're using the incorrect call-sign for your shop radio, and the vehicle you are in was logged out this morning by Sergeant Bradford."
Lucy squints, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I don't know what you're talking about."
There's a few heartbeats of silence. "Ma'am, what's your badge number? We'll need you to identify yourself so we can confirm that you're a police officer."
"Excuse m-"
"Sorry for the trouble, ma'am." She's cut off.
What?
What?
Lucy scoffs, shaking her head as she presses the button atop the shop radio once more, "Control, fo-"
The radio falls out of her hand, disengaging the microphone as a man wearing a suit rips the door open and screams, "Get out of my shop!"
Not to be outdone, Lucy yells, "Who are you?!" and grabs her pepper spray from the cup holder, aiming right for his eyes. As his hands come up to shield his the sensitive flesh there, the motion reveals a police badge on his hip. At least it makes clear why he seems to think this—but the LAPD's patrol vehicles are identical throughout the same makes and models, and this one is most definitely hers—is his shop. She only feels a little bad for pepper-spraying him.
The man yells, "You stole my shop!" Pulling his blazer off as his skin grows bright red and he blinks rapidly.
Lucy would offer to help him, but she doesn't really want to. Guy should be grateful her pepper spray was expired. She does put the canister back in the cup holder, though. He's learned his lesson.
"This is my shop," she insists as she subtly reaches for the dial atop the radio on her belt should it become necessary to publicize this interaction, or at least make sure someone at Dispatch hears her, "this is my shop."
"No it isn't, you stole it!"
"What are you talking about?"
"You stole my shop."
"No, I didn't!"
He sighs, hands on his hips as he walks back a few steps and takes some exaggerated breaths.
"You a cop?" The man asks wearily.
"Yes," Lucy answers with great apprehension, keeping her hands close to her belt in case she needs to reach anything, "Detective. Central."
He gives her an odd look but introduces himself, too. "I'm a sergeant, Mid-Wilshire. Now tell me, does this shop's MDT display a Central shop's home screen? Your logo, coat of arms, whatever?"
"I-"
"No! It doesn't!" He cries, visibly exasperated. "This is my shop!"
She grabs the MDT and turns it toward him, ensuring the fully black screen is on display, "This does not have a Mid-Wilshire screen or whatever it is you're looking for." She knows it's her shop, but simply telling the guy that doesn't seem like it's going to get them very far. "How would I steal your shop?"
The sergeant reaches in rather rudely and snatches the key FOB. "I… forgot this in the cup holder."
"Oh, yeah," Lucy scoffs, "sure you did. Now give me my key back."
She reaches for him, for the FOB in his hands, and he jumps nearly eight feet back. "No, this is my shop."
They go back and forth for a minute or two before he seemingly concedes… until he doesn't.
"Look, just trust me," he shakes his head, "hit the MDT's screen with the butt of your fist."
Deciding she has nothing to lose with the thing being broken, she does what he says. And to her immense surprise, it flickers on… only to display a loading screen that most certainly is not her station's.
Oh dear god. Could she be charged with theft of a police vehicle? Your honour, I didn't steal the vehicle, I just got into a shop that wasn't mine and drove it away. Yeah, like that would hold up in court. Her only comfort in this scenario is the knowledge that Chris would not be the ADA assigned to the case.
Lucy bursts into teary laughter.
"Why are you laughing?" The sergeant grumbles, "It's really not that funny."
She sniffs, wiping away the tears that have escaped the corners of her eyes, "Oh, I swear. All our shops look the same. This has to be an at least somewhat regular occurrence, right?"
"It's really not. How the hell did you not notice that this isn't your shop?"
"I don't fucking know!"
"Yeah, there's one other thing. You said you're a detective, right?" She nods and he appears to bite back a smile as he leans against the open door, "Then why were you driving a patrol vehicle?"
Lucy looks away, to her expired pepper spray and stops breathing, brain freezing as she processes.
"Oh, my god," she says faintly, bringing her hands up to her face to cover her nose and mouth, "I was driving an unmarked. Because I'm a detective."
He begins, "How the fuck did y-" and she tunes him out, contemplating her screwup. "…and how do you just forget that you don't drive a patrol vehicle?!"
Sheepishly, face burning, Lucy looks up to the sergeant. "I am so sorry," she tells him quietly, "it's literally my first day as a detective, plus I'm getting divorced and my stupid husband—ex-husband—he might have killed our cat-"
"Respectfully, I don't give a shit. Now, I haven't run that fast in a decade, my legs are very sore, and I'd really like my shop back. Can you please get out?"
Internally, she is beyond relieved that this didn't turn into a mugging situation, that she wasn't attacked and the most grateful that he doesn't seem to want to call this in or make a big deal out of it. People at the station would have been understanding, she knows, but they're already giving her a wide berth out of pity for her ongoing divorce proceedings; she really doesn't need them to have another reason. Sergeant Porter had personally spent hours off-duty with her to help her get her ready for this job, and Lucy doesn't want to disappoint the woman or make her look bad.
On that note, there's also the obvious fact of this being her first day working as a member of the Los Angeles Detective Bureau… she doesn't want her new supervisor to have an excuse to take this away from her. The detective-sergeant isn't unkind, but she knows the woman can and will fire her just to save face. At least she won't be made to run laps like she was as a rookie—
Hold on a second. His legs are sore?
"Wait," Lucy grins and holds up her right hand for him to stop, "did you seriously chase a moving vehicle for like, three and a half blocks?"
He exhales with a single laugh and shakes his head, "I did run all that way, but I didn't chase you the whole time. Dispatch called my cell when you tried logging into the MDT with the wrong information and gave them the wrong call-sign, so I got live location updates from them while you drove. Even tried yelling at you a couple times when I would start catching up to you but you must not have heard me. Plus, there's ashes in the back."
"Ashes?!"
"Yeah," he scratches the back of his neck and gestures to the trunk, "I had court today and got a call afterwards that my father's ashes were ready to be picked up. I had just put them in the lockbox and was going into the café to grab a coffee when out of the corner of my eye, I saw my shop leaving without me."
"The crematory's by the café?" Her brow furrows. "Wouldn't that be... unhygienic?"
"Apparently not," he deadpans.
"Oh my god," she laughs, "well, makes sense why my login didn't work."
It's silent for a little while as they stare into each other's eyes, neither of them sure what to say next.
"So, I'm Tim Bradford," he introduces himself.
She smiles and holds out her arm. "Lucy Chen, and it's lovely to meet you," Lucy replies as they shake hands. The thing is, she doesn't have the willpower to withdraw; and it doesn't look like he does, either.
It ends up being her who takes her hand back, adjusting her top as she clears her throat, "Uh, would you mind getting in and I'll drive back to the café so we can each get our vehicles back?"
"No!"
"Oh," the sting of rejection burns in Lucy's throat and she moves her gaze elsewhere, "um…"
Tim sighs. "No, I meant that as like, I want to drive."
The sting dissipates and is replaced with relief.
"Shit, of course," she mumbles, unbuckling herself and gathering her paltry belongings before stepping out of the shop. The motion brings her far closer to him than she'd predicted, her right foot landing between both of his and their bodies pressed together in certain places. She watches as his lips part ever-so-slightly, finding his right hand and sliding the key FOB into his palm, closing his fingers over the little piece of plastic and metal.
Tim's features grow larger in her vision and then she can feel his breath warming her skin—
A small ding! from her phone has them stepping apart with red faces; him to the driver's seat, and her rounding the front of the shop to sit in the passenger's seat.
"Wow," he says incredulously, getting back out and reaching for the gears to adjust his seat, "Are you three feet tall or something?"
"Shut up!"
Tim puts the shop into drive once they're both buckled in, rubs at his eyes and curses under his breath.
"I think your pepper spray is expired, by the way," he says dryly, "it didn't do jack shit."
"I know!" Lucy exclaims, "That's why I had it out already. It was to remind me to order a new one."
They talk mindlessly about mundane topics as they drive, falling silent once more when he puts the shop in park at the café.
She doesn't want to get out.
Lucy gathers herself and steps out of the shop, about to close the door when Tim calls after her.
"Wait," he says a little louder than he needs to, "I- I just, uh, I was…"
She watches him with eyebrows raised, amused, as he flounders for words and trails off.
"We're both adults, Tim," Lucy shakes her head, fighting the curving of her lips upward, "I've been separated from my husband for eight months, our divorce is set to be finalized next week, and from the way you were looking at me I'm going to assume you're single. Just ask me out."
She watches as he shuts the engine off, putting the FOB in his pocket this time. Tim rounds the front of the vehicle just as she had and comes to stand in front of her again; not as close as before—decorum in a public place—but close enough that she can feel the heat of his body.
Looking him up and down takes too much of her attention to notice him putting his right hand on her left bicep, but she certainly pays attention as it slides up, up, and he hooks his pointer finger under her jaw.
"So," he murmurs, gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back to her eyes, "do you want to get dinner with me sometime?"
She swallows.
"Yeah," Lucy says, a little breathless, "I do."
He doesn't break eye contact as he retrieves a business card from the inside of his blazer with his left hand, sliding it into the front right pocket of her slacks.
"May I?" Tim asks in a low voice, brushing Lucy's lower lip with his thumb as he looks at her like he wants to be on his knees for her.
She nods, but he tilts his head at her, so she finds the breath to speak.
"Yes."
And then he's covering her lips with his own.
I hope this day goes on forever, Lucy thinks as she kisses him back.
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