Rook Book To Remember Me By

Strikes to Die By

Part 2 of Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: (FBI!)Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Months after you kissed Tim, you have to save him and yourself without letting your emotions get in the way. His past follows him to the FBI, and you must decide if you want to be part of his past or his future.

Warnings: angst, canon-typical content, violence, near-death experiences, fluff and banter, literary references and spoilers for Revival by Stephen King, canon-divergent Monica Stevens

Word Count: 10.6k+ words

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The air buzzes as a hooded figure walks through the dewy grass. Hair stands on end as the city seems to shake within itself. A door closes silently, and less than an hour later, the figure returns to the static-filled wilderness of Teague, Texas, leaving wreckage in his wake.

Quantico, Virginia

“That’s great, baby girl, but it’s too long,” Derek chides gently.

“No, it isn’t,” Penelope argues. “This is a correct sentence.”

Derek clicks his tongue, then straightens from Penelope’s side.

“Historically, the longest sentence ever printed was 823 words long,” Spencer interjects from his desk. “Victor Hugo put it in Les Misérables.”

“Well, I’m going to be more miserable if we don’t cut some words out of this,” Derek complains. “Where’s the bookworm?”

“Me?” you ask from Hotch’s doorway.

“No, Frankenstein,” he deadpans.

“Actually,” Spencer says, “Frankenstein is-“

“The doctor,” everyone in the BAU bullpen finishes together.

Spencer raises his hands in a dramatic surrender, and you heed Derek’s beckoning and walk to his desk. He points at his screen, and Penelope sighs as she pushes his chair back. You drop your chin forward to read the briefing on the screen and then look at Penelope with your brows furrowed.

“What’s the problem?” you inquire.

“It’s too long. That sentence takes up four lines!” Derek exclaims.

“It’s a report,” Hotch calls. “Not a contender for the Pulitzer.”

You shake your head at Derek’s dramatics, then point to an accurate but lengthy transition phrase. “Remove this, add a period, and fix the capitalization on the right side.”

Derek lifts his arms in victory as Penelope does as you instructed. She hums, pleased, and submits the report to Hotch.

“You’re the best reader in the world, sweetheart,” Derek tells you.

“Careful, Penelope’s right here,” you warn.

“We can share him,” she assures you. “For now.”

“Iceland is probably home to the best readers,” Spencer tells JJ. “They have the highest per capita book reading rate in the world and a literacy rate of about 99%.”

“I bet Iceland is quiet,” Derek muses. “What with all the reading, not so much time to talk.”

“Was that aimed at me?” Spencer replies.

“Conference room!” Hotch barks. “Now.”

You abandon your post beside Derek’s desk and follow him into the conference room. As you lower into your seat, Hotch leans over the table and puts the phone on speaker.

“SSA Hotchner,” he greets. “I have the BAU here with me.”

“Pleasure,” a man with a moderate thick southern accent says. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Neilson of Teague, Texas. This morning, we discovered a man dead in a hotel room.”

“Murdered?” JJ asks.

“We’re not sure,” he replies. “ME took a preliminary look and reckons the victim was electrocuted. But we’re having… We have reservations about actually entering the crime scene or moving the body.”

“Why?” Hotch says.

“The room is spotless. By which I mean, it’s too clean.”

“Do you have CSI photos? Any photos?” Spencer inquires.

“Emailing those now. Photographer got in and out pretty quickly, but the photos should show you how odd this seems. Even the vents are clean, as far back as you can see.”

Penelope types something on her laptop and then casts the images onto the large television screen behind Hotch. He steps out of the way and listens to Neilson’s account of the distressed 911 caller: a housekeeper who entered the room with a master key.

“It’s way too clean,” you murmur.

“That’s beyond what any hotel maid is trained to do,” Spencer adds.

“Or paid to do,” Derek says.

“Penelope, can you go back?” you request after she clicks another image.

You stand and round the table to view the wide-frame photo of the hotel room. There’s something off about it – even more than the cleanliness.

“Is there another picture of the nightstand?” you ask. “Closer?”

Penelope exits the full-screen view and scrolls through the files before she finds one. After it loads on the television, you point to the Bible on the nightstand.

“That should be in the drawer,” Hotch says. “Nielson will call back in a few minutes. I gave him the go ahead to have CSI process. I doubt there’s any physical evidence left to disturb.”

“The Bible should be in the drawer, yes,” you agree. “But that’s not what I noticed.”

“Is that bed frame waxed?” Derek interrupts, peering over your shoulder.

“You’d notice,” Penelope jokes.

“Hotch, I can call the cleaning staff to find out if there’s a reason the room is that level of clean.”

“Sure,” Hotch agrees. “Make sure you ask about the air vent, too.”

Derek salutes as he exits the conference room. After he leaves, you point to the Bible's top and bottom edges.

“The pages aren’t big enough,” you point out. “Whatever is in here, I don’t think it’s the Bible. I think it’s a paperback in a Bible binding.”

“Why would someone do that?” JJ asks. “Aside from the obvious.”

“In a scene this clean, it has to be a signature,” Hotch answers.

“We need to know what book it is,” you say.

Hotch calls Nielson back while you, Spencer, and JJ look through the rest of the pictures. It’s a weird scene, something you haven’t seen before, but it’s carefully constructed. As close to perfect as you’ve ever seen a criminal come.

“Hey, where’s your boyfriend?” JJ asks you.

You turn your head slowly, then scoff. “Tim is not my boyfriend.”

“No, they just use my office to makeout sometimes,” Penelope interrupts.

“That was one time,” you argue. “And we’ve barely seen each other since then.”

“Because he’s moving to the FBI and across the country,” JJ points out. “For you.”

“Not for me.”

“That’s not true,” Spencer states.

You, Penelope, and JJ turn toward him together. He shrugs and continues examining the photos. Spencer’s comment doesn’t change your mind, though. Tim Bradford is part of your life; you have feelings for each other, but it ends there. It has to.

“We would’ve done something already if we were going to,” you admit softly.

“You did. You pulled him out of the bullpen and into a rom-com worthy smooch fest,” Penelope says.

“Who did what?” Hotch asks as he returns.

“Uh, Spencer found a loose screw on the bed frame,” Penelope lies.

“No, I didn’t,” he defends, standing to his full height.

“Oh, then I misheard.”

“I’ll assume I did too, then,” Hotch deadpans. “CSI said you were right. It’s not a Bible. It’s an annotated copy of Stephen King’s Revival.”

You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fantastic.”

“That means something to you then,” Derek muses as he returns. “Hotel said there is absolutely no way their cleaning staff did that. Bonus, the hotel was closed for two weeks before it reopened four days ago, when our vic checked in.”

“Why was it closed?” Spencer asks.

“Let me guess. An ant infestation,” you say.

Derek’s brows raise as he begins to clap slowly.

“Revival is a nod to horror classics like Frankenstein and Lovecraft,” you begin. “It’s the story of a Methodist preacher who discovers ‘secret electricity’ that can heal people. Jacobs decides that it can take him into the afterlife and – as in most Stephen King novels – loses his mind in the process of trying to get there.”

“How do ants play into this?” Derek asks.

“How does murder play into this?” Hotch amends.

“Jacobs has an unhealthy obsession with Jamie, a boy he met while he was still a preacher, before his family died and his decline began. When they meet, Jamie is playing with toy soldiers on an ant hill. When they open the door into the afterlife, neither heaven nor hell greets them. Instead, it’s something called ‘The Null.’ Inside, ant-like creatures serve ‘Mother,’ who takes over dead bodies and uses them for her purpose: to bring more souls into The Null.”

“That answered half of the question.”

“Jacobs kills with electricity in his attempt to go to the afterlife.” You glance at the map showing Teague, Texas, and tilt your head. “Is the hotel the tallest building in the city?”

Penelope’s fingernails click against the keyboard for several seconds before she replies, “Tallest building, second tallest structure. There’s a decommissioned water tower that stands taller.”

“Why was it decommissioned?” Spencer asks.

Hotch raises the phone to his ear and raises his finger for Penelope to wait. A moment later, Deputy Sheriff Nielson is connected to the call and brought into the conversation.

“Why was the water tower decommissioned?” Spencer asks him.

“It was struck by lightning one time too many,” Nielson answers. “Teague is the lightning capital of the world, if you didn’t know, and over the years, we’ve had to learn to adapt to that.”

“Hotch,” you whisper.

He turns around, facing you with his back to the phone and the team.

“In the book, Jacobs goes to the tallest place he knows of, where’s there’s a big metal flagpole, and that’s where he makes his final kill.”

“You think this guy will do the same?”

“Without looking at his notes in the book, I can’t be absolutely sure, but if he has enough of an infatuation with the book and electricity to stage the scene like he did… it’s likely.”

Hotch nods once, then turns back toward the table. “Deputy Sheriff Nielson, our team is inbound. We’ll be there in a few hours to assist your department with the case.”

Nielson exhales, sounding like it would make him physically lighter. “I can’t thank you enough, SSA Hotchner. We’ll be waiting for you.”

Someone knocks on the open conference room door as you gather your things. You don’t look up until JJ elbows you in the ribs.

“I couldn’t help but overhear the last part,” Tim Bradford says, not even sparing a glance at you. “I can lead the tactical apprehension team.”

“I’ll work on finalizing the assignment,” Hotch agrees.

“We don’t need a tactical team,” you interject. “He’ll get spooked too easily for that.”

Tim keeps his eyes on Hotch, but you can see his jaw working as he tenses his facial muscles.

“All due respect,” Tim begins.

“No, Tim,” you snap, turning toward him quickly. “This is not a storm the castle operation. This guy isn’t limited to electricity, and he will kill anyone who gets in his way.”

Hotch looks between you and Tim and surveys his tight fists and your short breaths. The final decision is his, but he respects your opinion. Then, he remembers that Tim saved you and Spencer on his first day with the FBI. You bring different skills to the BAU, and he doesn’t know which he may need in the Lone Star State.

“Your team will accompany, Bradford,” Hotch agrees. “But you are on standby until further notice. You don’t say or do anything without my instruction, is that understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Tim agrees.

He leaves the conference room first, and you follow Hotch into his office and close the door.

“Hotch, I trust Tim,” you explain. “But if you want to solve this case without losing more lives, you need to tread lightly. If he gets to close, it’s over.”

Hotch nods once, and you step backward, preparing to leave.

“You said the guy in the book had an unhealthy obsession with someone,” Hotch remembers. “Think that affects our investigation in any way?”

You consider the possibility of a Jacobs and Jamie-type conspiracy. It wouldn’t shock you to learn that the killer wasn’t working alone, but something about the efficiency of this particular kill makes you think it was just one man: one man who could somehow control all of the variables in that hotel room.

“Not yet,” you answer carefully. “It took Jacobs a while to actually bring Jamie in as an adult. For this case, I’d say he’s more likely to recruit a former cell-mate or small-time criminal from his past to assist him in the big kill.”

“Victim?”

“There’s only one person in the world who knows that, and he won’t be in any mood to talk to us.”

“Penelope is looking into the town’s residents. If she finds anything, I’ll let you be the first to look.”

“Thank you, sir. Oh, and one more thing. The book isn’t just about faith and the nature of reality. It’s about addiction and morality. Drug addiction, healing addiction, someone turning away from God to make a deal with something worse than the Devil. Whoever this is, there’s more to him than meets the eye. We need to be careful.”

“We’re all coming back from this,” Hotch assures you. “We’re wheels up in twenty.”

Tim splashes water in his face, then grips the edges of the porcelain sink as it drips from his chin. He doesn’t look up in the mirror and doesn’t want to see anything except you. Since you walked into Mid-Wilshire nearly a decade after dropping out as a rookie, you have consumed Tim Bradford’s thoughts, his time, attention, and – most terrifyingly – his heart.

“Regretting arguing with her, aren’t you?”

Tim stands up at the sound of Derek’s voice. He snatches a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes his hands harshly, then wipes his face before he tosses it into the trash can.

“I didn’t come here for her,” Tim defends.

Derek smiles. “Nobody said you did. Nobody except you.”

“I’m not doing this with you.”

Tim begins to walk toward the door but stops when Derek says, “If you didn’t come for her, you need to tell her that.” Tim’s head turns toward his shoulder, so Derek continues, “Coming back into your life wasn’t easy for her, and don’t let her think there’s a spot in it for her if there isn’t.”

“I’d never lead her on.”

“Maybe not on purpose.”

Tim pushes the bathroom door open too hard and walks out.

“What’d the door do to you?” you question from the hallway, your go bag slung over your shoulder.

“It was in the way,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, they tend to do that.”

You look at each other silently for a moment, then speak simultaneously.

“No, go ahead,” Tim insists.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I overstepped earlier. The situation, this killer, it’s all very volatile and I don’t want to see anybody else get hurt.”

“I get it,” Tim responds. “And I’m sorry I stopped reaching out after I went back to LA.”

“It’s okay.” You smile and say, “A taste of my own medicine won’t kill me.”

“It was different.”

You nod, then lead Tim to the plane. It’s a few hours to Texas, and you have over 400 pages of literary research to review on the way. Plus, whatever fun facts Spencer can tell you about lightning.

Hotch’s phone rings as you begin your descent into Texas. He answers it, his brows pinching as he listens to the caller. Extending his hand, he says, “It’s for you.”

Tim glances at you as he takes Hotch’s phone. He introduces himself, then shifts so that his gaze is directly on you for the duration of the call.

“Where?” he asks after listening for several breaths. Then, he says, “Thanks… I’m not, but I can… I’ll let you know.”

He hangs up and returns Hotch’s phone, ignoring the intrigued looks from the rest of the BAU as he stands to speak to you.

“That was Angela,” he says. “Oscar filed a new residency and employment with his parole officer. Then, he got a new parole officer.”

“What are you saying? He moved counties?” you clarify.

“He moved states.”

Tim steps his right leg back into the aisle of the jet to address your team. He concludes, “He moved to Teague, Texas.”

“And you think this Oscar is our killer?” Hotch asks. He looks at you, but your eyes are on Tim.

“If Oscar is the Reverend Jacobs in this scheme, then he’d have another contact in California either with him or coming right behind him,” you point out.

“Or he is the co-conspirator,” Spencer adds.

“In either case, we’d have to comb through decades of Oscar’s criminal history," Hotch says. "Tim? Do you think he’s the mastermind or the recruit?”

“I think he’d used somebody long before he let himself be used,” Tim decides.

“I can’t imagine him being this cold-blooded, though,” you say. “He’s a narcissist, not a psychotic murderer trying to open the gates of Hell.”

“If he’s a narcissist and he found someone to look up to, it could get dangerous very quickly,” Spencer offers. “His narcissistic tendencies would return and likely be worsened. He’d…”

“Have a god complex?” Derek guesses.

“More or less, yes.”

“Then we need to find Oscar and find out what is going on,” Hotch instructs.

“I can do it,” Tim offers. “He knows me.”

Hotch looks at you, and you nod, which ends the discussion. Tim is running headfirst into danger for a case you didn’t even want him to work. It’s a very good thing he isn’t your boyfriend, you tell yourself, even as your hands shake at the mere thought of losing him.

Teague, Texas

“Deputy Sheriff Nielson, this is my team. Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau,” Hotch introduces before he gets to you.

You each shake the Deputy Sheriff’s hand before you enter an oversized office with a large wooden table centered inside. A cardboard box of evidence is on the table and two folders bearing the case number rest atop it. You expected as much - or as little - with such a pristine scene, but seeing how little you have to go on is disheartening.

“Are there any people in your jurisdiction that you think are capable of something like this?” Derek asks Nielson. “Any motive?”

Nielson taps the table in thought, then tips his head to the side. “Kid named Nicholas just got back from a stint in Texas State Pen. He started in high school, little things like petty theft and peepin’ tom charges and worked his way up to manslaughter. Thinks he’s hot stuff around here.”

“What’s Nicholas’ full name?” JJ asks. “We can run him through the federal database and work from there.”

“Hutchinson.”

You look away from the nearly empty evidence box. “Hutchinson? Do you know if he’s related to Oscar Hutchinson?”

“Sure, he mentioned a cousin named Oscar once or twice. Seemed close, but Oscar doesn’t live around here.”

“Wait, Oscar?” Derek repeats. “Oscar who-”

“Tim is going to see?” you finish, unlocking your phone to warn Tim. “Yeah, that Oscar.”

“I take it you have a profile, then?” Nielson asks Hotch.

“One better,” Hotch answers. “We have a suspect.”

You ignore their continued conversation as the phone rings.

“C’mon, Tim,” you mumble as the dial tone trills in your ear. The line finally connects, and you ask, “Tim? Tim, you there?”

“I haven’t seen your name in a while.”

You take in a sharp breath as you wave your hand toward JJ.

“I didn’t know Bradford had gotten his little rookie back.”

“What do you want, Oscar?” you demand.

Your words catch your teammates' attention far quicker than your actions, and Derek rushes to your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and lays his head atop yours to listen to your phone call.

“Oh, you misunderstand!” Oscar exclaims with a laugh. “This is about what I can do for you.”

“You know exactly what I’d like you to do,” you reply darkly.

“The BAU has jaded you, dear. Tim is perfectly safe. Aren’t you, Sergeant?”

“Everything is fine,” Tim calls. “Just like the last time we split duties.”

“That’s enough small talk,” Oscar interrupts. “I assume you know about my cousin, Nick.”

“No, I don’t.”

Oscar takes several breaths before he hums. “You’re a good liar. But you’re a better cop, so I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about. He was released from Texas State Penitentiary last week and then poof! he disappeared. He’s in Texas, you’re in Texas… you catching my drift?”

“He went missing?” you clarify. “Immediately after being released from prison?”

“There it is. You understand my concerns. Now, to give you a little incentive to release him unharmed, I’ll promise to keep Daddy Cop here unharmed.”

Tim makes a noise of protest, but there’s a roaring in your ears that you can’t ignore. You don't even notice Derek lift his head long enough to repeat Oscar's nickname for Tim.

“Oscar, have you read Stephen King?” you ask.

“No. Live enough horror and you don’t want to read it,” Oscar answers.

“I think your cousin is in danger,” you tell him, looking up at Derek.

“Well, that’s a new play.”

“Oscar, I’m not playing. We’re not here for you or your cousin, we’re here because someone was murdered last night.”

“Sure, because the LAPD cares about that.”

“I’m FBI now,” Tim corrects.

The line goes silent. Your heart races, pounding in your chest, and you prepare to run out of this station and look in every building in the county until you find Oscar and Tim.

“My plan may need some slight adjustments,” Oscar muses.

“Oscar, listen to me. Tell Tim what you know, let him come back to the station, and I promise you that we will find your cousin and get him home safely.”

“I’m not big on the first two points. I’ll tell your boy what I know, and then I leave him here. A baseless arrest is the last thing I need.”

“Oscar do not try to find Nick alone!” you implore. “Let us do this; there’s more at stake than you realize.”

“You have no idea.”

The line clicks, and you clasp your phone between both hands to keep yourself from throwing it at the wall. Derek rubs his hand along your back as he looks at Hotch.

“What can we do to help?” Nielson asks.

“He won’t hurt Tim,” you assure your team. “He’s full of himself, not stupid. Give him a few minutes, and if we haven’t heard back, I will hunt him down myself.”

“You said Nick is in danger,” JJ says. “What does that mean?”

You lean into Derek’s touch and explain, “I was looking at it backward. Nick isn’t Jamie, he’s Mary. He’s the sacrificial lamb. Whoever our killer is, he plans to offer Nick up for whatever his purpose is.”

“Picked the wrong state to deal in religious symbolism and the deadly sins,” Neilson murmurs. “Dallas SWAT, Texas Bureau of Investigations, and Fort Cavazos have teams on standby ready to assist you in any way you need.”

“Excellent,” Hotch responds. “Considering our tactical leader is currently being held hostage.”

You blow out an amused breath and argue, “I told you not to let him come.”

“What can we do while we wait?” Derek asks.

“Find out when the next lightning storm is,” Spencer answers.

“Yep, that’s all you, Pretty Boy, get to work.”

Spencer rolls his eyes but opens a laptop regardless. On the plane, he found out that the estimated time of death aligned perfectly with a cloud-to-ground lightning strike within a few miles of the city. Considering the killer’s infatuation with the book, you support the opinion he’ll time his next kill with another lightning storm.

“We also need to look for places he might choose to commit the murder,” you say. “Between the first mention of the ants and the ultimate sacrifice, Jacobs took more lives. Granted, some of them took a while. I… I don’t think he’ll take that route, actually.”

Your phone lights up, you answer it before the first ring ends, then place it on speaker.

“Hello?” Penelope asks.

“Oh, hey,” you greet, setting your phone on the table.

“Whoa, don’t sound so disappointed that it’s me,” she replies.

“Tim was abducted,” Spencer tells her. “We’re waiting for a call with his whereabouts.”

“Speaking of which,” JJ begins. “Is no one going to mention what Oscar called him?”

“It’s an inside joke,” you say. “What’s up, Garcia?”

“I got the property records for the land surrounding the old water tower,” she explains. “It’s on public land, but everything around it is private.”

“Right,” Nielson agrees. “You can’t get to it without going through someone’s yard now.”

“But, the lot east of the tower was just rented,” Penelope continues. “To Nicholas Hutchinson.”

“No way he can afford something like that fresh out of prison,” Derek argues.

You nod but then consider the idea of land plots. “How many acres?”

“Seven,” Penelope reads.

“Tim said that everything was fine, like the last time we split duties, right?” you ask.

“Yes,” Spencer answers. “Does that mean something to you?”

“Maybe,” you murmur. “He’s either giving us a clue or talking about something I don’t remember.”

“The last time you worked together was in LA,” Hotch reminds you.

You stare at the table, thinking. You spent most of that trip trying to separate your life and work from the past. It didn’t work, and you and Tim were held at gunpoint by a man trying to save you from everything except himself.

“We didn’t work together much,” you say. “I worked with Lucy, he went with Derek, and then we stayed together until we were in the townhouse with Riley.”

“No, you weren’t,” Hotch says.

You turn quickly, your brows raised.

“When we went to the last scene – the one where we found the novella about you – Tim was at the station. Pissed off enough that people stayed away from him, from what I’ve heard.”

“Whoa, watch your language Hotch,” Derek chides. “This is a work trip.”

“I’m still your boss, Morgan.”

“But a big teddy bear of a boss,” Penelope interjects.

“Regardless of who remembers what,” JJ says, “what does that mean to you?”

“I made him stay at the station,” you reply. “He was mad, obviously, but… he was fine. We thought I was in danger because I jumped the gun.”

“And we found two bodies,” Spencer mumbles.

Your breath catches, and you lock eyes with Derek before you look at JJ, then Hotch.

“What?” Spencer asks, looking up from the looping radar on his laptop.

“Hutchinson wouldn’t kill people right in front of Tim, would he?” JJ asks slowly.

“Deputy Sheriff,” you call, “have you had any double murders here recently?”

“No murders, no, but there was a car accident that killed two young girls about a week ago,” he replies. “Out on County Road 650.”

“Any structures near it?” Hotch asks.

“A couple outbuildings a few hundred feet from the curve where it happened.”

“Is there any way our abducted agent would know something had occurred there?”

“There’s a collection of flowers, stuffed animals, stuff like that. And… yeah, there’s a large picture of the girls, the family put it up.”

“We need to get out there, Hotch,” Derek urges.

“I’m going with you,” you say.

“How far is that from the water tower?” Spencer asks.

“A few miles,” Nielson replies. “Faster if you cut through a field.”

You slide your phone into your pocket and follow Derek and Hotch out of the police station. For the first time since you met Tim Bradford, your roles have reversed, and you may be the only thing standing between him and something he’ll never come back from. He’s saved you more than once, and you plan on returning the favor.

“Slow down,” Penelope instructs, her voice clear through Hotch’s speakers. “You’re approaching the curve where the accident happened.”

“Guys,” you say. “Oscar’s calling.”

Hotch slows, steering the SUV onto the grassy shoulder beside the road. He keeps his eyes up, but Derek turns in the passenger seat to watch you as you answer the call.

“You have one chance to save yourself, Oscar,” you remind him.

“He’s unharmed,” Oscar grumbles. “But I’d like to offer a trade.”

“We had a deal.”

“Yes, but this one involves a better outcome for me.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you where I am, and you can come get me and your boy. In exchange, I want to assist in the search for Nicholas.”

“And then you’re going to jail for abducting a federal agent,” Derek interjects.

“I’m not bartering with you,” Oscar replies.

You meet Hotch’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and when you exhale shakily, he nods.

“You’ve got a deal, Oscar. But you’re on thin ice,” you respond.

“Excellent, that’s where I do my best skating. We’re in some nasty barn off 650.”

Hotch pulls back onto the road, hitting his blinker to turn onto a dirt path that travels straight toward the outbuilding Nielson pointed them toward.

“We’re here,” you tell Oscar. “We’re coming in and you-”

“Better not have a weapon, yes, I know.”

Derek pulls the large sliding door open, and you enter behind Hotch, who raises his gun. Oscar lifts his hands lazily, and Tim stares at you from the back corner of the barn. You walk around Hotch and straight toward Tim.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching up to release the knotted rope holding his hands above his head.

“You can apologize later,” he replies. “Oscar’s not our guy.”

“We know. That’s what I was calling to tell you. I had it all wrong.”

“And now?”

You lift your brows quickly, silently acknowledging that you aren’t sure what you have now. You push higher onto your tiptoes before you stumble and place your hand on Tim’s chest to right yourself just as his hands fall from the pole above him. He catches you, his hands firm against your waist as you tip toward him. Looking into his eyes, you don’t move back. At least not until Derek clears his throat.

“Oscar has an idea of who might consider Nicholas as a perfect sacrifice,” Hotch says. “If you’re ready.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” you agree, stepping back.

As you exit the building, you notice the air is growing uncomfortably humid. With your hand against your forehead, you look up at the sky. Thick, dark clouds are gathering in the north, and the wind shifts to blow against your right side.

“There’s a storm coming,” you point out. “A bad one.”

“You think it’s time?” Derek inquires.

“Time for what?” Tim asks.

You drop your voice and say, “Whoever has Nic is going to kill him in some grand display.”

“Where?”

Shrugging, you admit, “Maybe the water tower, maybe somewhere else.”

Tim lifts his brows, then says, “Sounds like you need to do your job instead of worrying about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet you suffer me,” Tim deadpans. “Let’s go.”

“Without a solid lead, we’re going to have to split up,” Hotch explains back at the station. “There are three potential targets for the killing site. The water tower, the top of the hotel - again, or a barn out towards the lakes.”

“But there’s only five of us,” Spencer points out.

“Six,” Hotch corrects. “Bradford’s team was called up to Salt Lake City for a counterterrorism case, but he’s still here.”

“So, we’re sending two people out, so the lucky couple gets to fight a crazed psychopath who kills people with electricity,” Derek reiterates snappishly.

“During a lightning storm,” JJ adds.

“We really can’t narrow this down more?” you inquire. “What about the lead Oscar gave us? Lev Davids?”

“I’d recommend going that route,” Tim interrupts, entering the private office. “Oscar finally told me why he suspects Lev.”

“A criminal he looked up to?” you guess.

Tim nods, and his eyes remain locked on yours as he says, “Monica Stevens.”

The rest of your team turns to look at you, and you stand.

“Tim,” you begin. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Right, sorry, after your time. She’s a corrupt lawyer, she worked for Elijah Stone and Abril.”

“Now those names we know,” Derek announces, smiling again. “I’ll get Penelope on their trails, see what she can find.”

“We only have fifteen minutes before the storm is here,” Spencer says. “Not much time to find someone and get there. And if we’re wrong, we’ll be too late.”

“Then we split up, as planned,” Hotch replies. “If Garcia finds something or someone gets a better lead, we reconvene. For now, it’s our only choice.”

“Why don’t we ask Nielson for officers to help us?” JJ asks.

“We can, but they’re not trained in hostage negotiations and don’t understand the psychology of someone who would do this. There’s too much risk leading them in all the way.”

“We’ll take the water tower,” you say, walking toward Tim.

“I was going to send you with Derek,” Hotch argues.

“Send him with Spencer,” you suggest. “You know we can do this, Hotch. Besides, he may not even go to the water tower.”

Hotch sighs, shaking his head with a hand on his hip. He looks more like a father of five than someone leading a highly trained group of federal agents, but he trusts you. So, he lets you go.

“What are the chances we’re walking into the middle of a storm?” you ask, bracing yourself against the wind as you exit the station.

“You’re talking metaphorically, right?” Tim checks, opening the door for you. “This is going to be awful.”

“That’s not comforting!”

Tim prepares to close the door as he says, “It’s true.”

Your phone buzzes as Tim steers the car around a large rock. The water tower looms above you, tall and imposing against the dark storm clouds. Thunder rumbles in the distance, growing closer as the car shakes with its intensity.

“Garcia hacked into Stevens’ computer; Lev is planning to use the water tower,” you communicate. “She isn’t sure what their connection is or what Stevens’ motivation is for encouraging him to do this, but she’s still working.”

“We can’t wait,” Tim says, glancing at his watch. “The storm’s about to intensify.”

You reach for the door handle and say, “Then let’s do this.”

The wind closes the car door harder than you intended, and you draw your shoulders up, hoping Lev didn’t hear the noise. As you approach the water tower, you adjust your holster so your gun will be accessible even as you climb 150 feet into the air while the wind blows nearly 60 miles an hour.

“Any words of encouragement?” you ask Tim, looking up the metal ladder that seems to reach far past the clouds.

“The chance of tornadoes is low,” he replies over the wind.

Looking over your shoulder, you exclaim, “That is not encouraging! Or comforting!”

Tim lays his hand on your back, leans forward, and promises, “I’m right behind you.”

You nod, take a deep breath, and wrap your hands around the ladder rung. Tim boosts you slightly, and you can feel the metal shift in the wind. Climbing up, you remind yourself not to look down and keep moving as fast as possible without compromising your safety or Tim’s.

“Cavalry is here,” he says as you near the halfway point.

“I really hope they brought a sniper,” you grumble.

Lightning flashes brightly, striking nearly to the ground in the not-far distance, and you hold the ladder tighter as thunder follows it. You’re nearly out of time, and if Lev is ahead of schedule or planning for more lightning, you may be too late to save Nic. Worse, you realize, is that you may be unable to save yourself. Climbing onto a giant metal lightning conductor during a severe thunderstorm was a job requirement today, but it may not have been your best idea ever. You and Tim are on your own, and you have to save a life, keep yourselves safe, and then find a way off this tower before the storm worsens.

Nearing the top, you slow, attempting to gauge where Nic and Lev are. Before you can guess, you hear footsteps. Tim sees the shadow of someone approaching the ladder and climbs several rungs. His chest presses against your back as he wraps his arms around the side of the ladder. You trust him to hold your weight as you let go of the ladder and pull your gun from its holster.

“You need to go!” Lev yells.

“Not going to happen,” Tim replies. “Put your hands where we can see them, and this gets easier.”

“I have to finish! My mission is nearly complete!”

“Your mission?” you repeat. “Or Monica’s mission?”

Lev doesn’t reply, and his shadow remains in place.

“Don’t do this for someone who doesn’t care about you, Lev,” you implore. “There’s more in this world. There’s better people. You can have a life. But not if you do this.”

“You don’t know what I can have,” Lev argues.

He walks toward the top of the ladder, and you aim up and ahead of you before you pull the trigger. Lev drops to the metal balcony as the bullet whizzes by. It cracks loudly when it impacts the tank.

“Go, go,” Tim instructs in your ear.

You slide your gun into the holster quickly and pull yourself up the last few rungs. When you grip the handrail and spin onto the balcony, Lev is gone. Tim joins you, pulling his rifle off his back and into his hands. You duck when another lightning strike flashes, but you can’t focus on the storm now.

“The storm is coming from the north,” Tim reminds you, whispering as he leans toward you. “That means he’s probably on that side.”

You nod, looking over his shoulder quickly before you point toward the north, the opposite side of the tank. He gives you hand signals as the rumbling thunder softens. You will lead the way, and Tim will ensure Lev doesn’t sneak up behind you. It’s a dangerous game of cat and mouse you’re caught in. There is no choice but to play, however, and you distantly wonder if this is what Jamie felt like in the book. But Jamie didn’t have his own gun, you remember. Or Tim Bradford watching his six.

 The first raindrop landing on your cheek is an omen, a reminder that even when you get to the other side of the balcony, this is just beginning. As the sporadic drops become a steady downpour, you fight the urge to lower your gun and wipe your face. Tim moves silently behind you, and you wish you were back in Quantico. You wonder what you’d be feeling right now if you had just told you care about him when you had the chance. It’s gone now, and nothing you can do will change that. If you survive this storm, you’ll face Tim Bradford, unafraid and determined. The rain may saturate your clothes as you hear someone screaming in pure fear, but Tim has the unrivaled power to transform your life like heavy rain, cleansing and shaping you just by being near you.

“Steady,” Tim murmurs behind you.

He taps your left shoulder, and you look in that direction. Your eyes widen when you see the large metal pole extending from the side of the tower. It wasn’t in any of the pictures you reviewed of the city, so you know Lev is deviating from the book, no longer trusting nature to do the job for him unassisted.

“He’s scared,” you whisper.

“That’s not comforting,” Tim replies.

“Lev,” you call, pressing yourself against the tank. “Do you like Revival?”

“There has to be more,” he says, raising his voice over the rain. “This is only the beginning.”

“Did Monica promise you that?” Tim asks.

“This isn’t about her!” Lev screams. “It’s about me and what I deserve!”

“Life in prison?”

“No! Vindication!”

You glance at Tim, and his expression mirrors yours. Lev is having a mental breakdown, and you don’t have the time to pull him back to reality.

“Last chance to surrender,” Tim tells him. “If you don’t, we will drop you.”

Lev barks a laugh. “You’re too late!”

At the bottom of the water tower, Hotch looks up, covering his brow with his hand as he attempts to find you and Tim. Derek argues with Spencer about whether or not someone should go up after you, but JJ remains in the car.

“Garcia,” she greets when her phone rings.

“Monica was taken into custody,” Penelope says. “She alluded to the fact that Lev didn’t know the entire plan and that she intended for him to die on that tower too.”

“He’s just a pawn?” JJ clarifies.

“Something like that. The tower is a death trap.”

JJ ends the call and rushes out of the car. “Hotch!” she yells over the thunder. “Stevens expects Lev to die up there!”

“I’m going up,” Derek decides.

“No, you aren’t,” Hotch replies. He looks up again, rain falling on his face. “We’re too late to change anything.”

“Then we should at least warn them!”

“Are you crazy?” Spencer inquires. “Cell phone usage is inviting a lightning strike. At their altitude and the current barometric pressure, they’d die before the line connected.”

“We can’t just stand here!” Derek exclaims.

“I understand you care about her,” Hotch says. “We all do. But… Whatever happens now is in her hands.”

Derek steps toward Hotch with his hands fisted at his sides. “If she doesn’t come down, it’s on us.”

“And we’ll all have to live with that. If- If she doesn’t come down.”

Spencer ducks and Hotch turns toward him before something hits the ground. Derek glances toward the sky and then retrieves it. He holds up two cell phones before tapping the screens to wake them.

“Either they’re alive and taking precautions or Lev is crazier than we thought,” he muses.

“Crazy is a generic term,” Spencer points out.

“Which the FBI frowns upon,” Hotch continues. “But this psycho has two FBI agents up there in a deadly storm, so let’s make an exception, Reid.”

You shake your hand after tossing your phone over the railing. Your gun has metal in it, and your back is against a giant steel plate, but limiting the dangers on your person seemed like a good idea when Tim whispered the suggestion. Lightning strikes in a nearby field, and Tim turns toward you, pushing his arm over your torso. It won’t make a difference when the storm is directly above you. Yet, the idea that he’s still protecting you after everything you’ve done and said makes you wrap your hand around his forearm.

“Tim,” you murmur. “If we die up here, I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I don’t regret joining the FBI, but I do regret leaving you without an explanation.”

“I never blamed you,” Tim replies. “I- I still-”

“Don’t,” you interrupt. “We can’t change it.”

“But I can say it now.”

You look into Tim’s eyes, rain running down both your faces. If you weren’t in immediate peril and convinced today is the day you’ll die, you might find it somewhat romantic.

“Let’s finish this,” Tim whispers.

You nod and step forward, raising your gun toward Lev.

“Drop it!” you demand as he pulls a long chain toward the rail.

“Help!” someone calls, his voice muffled.

“Nic?” you ask.

He hums, and you lower to your knee, giving Tim a clear shot of Lev. Moving forward, low against the tank, you round the valves on the northwest bend in the balcony. Nic comes into view, and your heart drops. He is wrapped in chains, and secured to a metal chair against the side of the tank. The metal rod you saw earlier extends into the sky, anchored between Nic’s feet.

“What are you doing?!” Lev screams.

He pulls the chain tighter before he lunges toward you. Another loud thunderclap nearly drowns out Tim’s gunshot. You stand as the world seems to slow, reaching forward as Lev stumbles back. He topples over the balcony rail, and you are several inches short of catching him.

The chain stops unraveling, suspending Lev as he hangs from the tower. Tim pulls the strap on his rifle so it’s against his back once more before he pulls you away from the rail.

“We have to get the rod down!” he reminds you.

You nod, letting the rain wash away the guilt of not catching Lev. He had every chance to surrender, and he was going to hurt you. Tim did what he was supposed to do, exactly what you would have done.

You pull the rod at the base, and it slides up through the grating of the balcony with a sharp screech sound. Tim takes it from your hands, tipping it over the edge just before a nearby tree cracks, struck by lightning.

“We don’t have time to get him freed and down,” Tim points out.

“Go,” you implore, holding Tim’s wet vest. “I can free him, and we’ll hunker down. You can get down.”

“I’m not leaving you up here!”

“Tim, if one of us-”

Tim raises his hands to your face, holding you as his eyes bore into yours. “I’m not leaving you.”

You nod slowly, then step back and search for the end of the chain. The metal links are wet, your hands are wet, and the air turns eerily still and quiet as rolling thunder echoes against the metal.

“I can’t find it!” you exclaim, your hands pushed into the metal.

Tim stands above you, his legs against your back while he begins pulling the chains up over Nic’s head. “This is going to hurt,” he warns.

“I don’t care,” Nic replies through chattering teeth. “Just get me out of here, please.”

You shift to reach the loops around Nic’s legs. You don’t notice that the chains have been filed while you pull the tightened chains over his feet. Sharp points line the outermost links, and they dig into Nic’s skin and yours.

“Go, go,” Tim exclaims as he drops a heavy bundle of chains onto the balcony.

You stand as Nic does, and he limps past Tim as he moves toward the ladder. Rather than following, you’re distracted by a black shadow in the other direction.

“What are you doing?” Tim calls.

“There’s a rubber mat,” you reply.

Tim’s eyes widen as he calls Nic back, but you turn to look at the sky.

“Tim,” you say.

“Yeah, we’re coming.”

“No, it’s too quiet.”

Tim moves to your side as Nic stands atop the rubber mat. He follows your gaze, but there’s nothing to see besides fields, sparse houses over the land, and trees swaying in the wind.

“Please don’t be a tornado,” you say to the sky.

Tim grips your upper arms and steers you to the mat. On it, you have a better – though admittedly not great – chance of surviving a lightning strike. The insulation will help, but it may not be enough.

“It’s not big enough,” you realize as Tim stops.

He looks down at your feet and Nic’s. There isn’t room for him to join you on the safer material, so you step back onto the metal.

“Get on it,” Tim demands.

Shaking your head, you make up your mind. Wherever Tim is, that’s where you’ll be. He puts his hands on your waist and attempts to push you back. Your tears mix with the rain, but when you lay your hands on his chest, he hears your breath catch as you cry.

“I can’t do this,” you admit, gripping his shirt at his collar.

Tim hesitates, then turns so that you’re facing the mat. He steps back onto it, then pulls you forward. Against his chest, he directs your legs so that they’re bracketing his. Your left foot is between Tim’s, and your right is against the side of his boot. Nic shifts slightly to make room for you. Only then do you notice the blood.

“Nic, are you okay?” you ask.

He nods, then raises his hand to his neck. “It’s just a scratch. The chains,” he explains.

You glance at your hands and notice that they’re similarly marked. Holding tightly to Tim, you brace yourself as the tower sways gently in the strengthening wind. Tim glances at his watch and cradles your head against him.

“It’s here,” he murmurs.

Closing your eyes, you pretend that you and Tim are hugging for any other reason. Try to pretend that tomorrow is promised and that Tim will believe anything you confess.

“In the car,” Spencer demands. “It’s not safe out here.”

“JJ, call the fire department,” Hotch requests as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “We need them here as soon as the storm passes.”

“Do you think they’re okay?” Derek asks, glancing out the window at the man hanging from the tower.

“That’s not Tim,” Spencer reminds him. “Different build; it has to be Lev.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Derek’s phone rings, but he sends Penelope to voicemail. The car brightens with the next lightning strike, and the bright red flash at the water tower’s highest point isn’t promising.

JJ covers her mouth while Derek drops his head into his hands. Hotch sighs, looking at the wheel rather than the tower beside them.

You groan before you open your eyes. Tim’s hand moves slowly across your lower back as Nic mumbles.

“I feel like I’m buzzing,” you murmur.

“Storm’s moving,” Tim says. “Do we try to get down on our own or wait for the fire department?”

You look at Nic, the most injured member of your party.

“I’m ready to go,” he answers. “I don’t ever want to see another water tower.”

You smile as you stand straighter. Tim holds you steady as he taps his boot against the metal platform. Nothing happens, so he drops his hands to your hips as you step off the rubber.

Nic walks beside you, but as you near the ladder, he stops walking.

“I- I can’t feel my legs anymore,” he says.

His eyes roll back before he tips, losing consciousness. Tim catches him, lowering him gently to the balcony.

“I guess we’re waiting,” you mumble as you kneel beside him. “No burns. Indirect strike, I’d guess.”

“You can head down if you want to,” Tim tells you. “I’ll stay with him.”

“And I’ll stay with you.”

Tim nods. He offers his hand, and you squeeze it tightly as you move to sit. He sits beside you, and you lean against his shoulder.

“I want to tell you something,” you say. “But not now. I don’t want you to think that I’m just saying it because we could have died.”

“Will you answer a question?”

“Sure.”

“Was there ever a chance of starting something between us back in LA?”

You consider the question, rubbing your hands on your pants. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Ask me another question,” you request.

Tim notices your constant movement and lifts one of your hands. He brushes his finger along your wrist as he looks at the cuts and darkening bruises lining your skin.

“Why did you kiss me at the BAU?”

As you breathe together, the thunder grows quiet even as the sky remains dark and rain falls in steady sheets.

“I acted too fast,” you answer finally. “I tried to seize a second chance that I don’t think was there.”

“Is that why you stopped talking to me after?”

“It scared me,” you admit. “I messed up before. It kept me up at night for years, Tim.”

“Me too. But… Never mind.”

Your hand is still in Tim’s when you see first responder lights approaching. Some look like police, two or three firetrucks, and at least four ambulances.

“Care for a question?” you ask.

Tim smiles as he answers, “Sure.”

“Is there a chance of starting something between us now?”

Leaning forward, Tim looks into your eyes and says, “There never stopped being a chance after you came back.”

Smiling, you whisper, “I love you. I’ve loved you since I walked into Mid-Wilshire again.”

Before Tim can reply, a police cruiser siren sounds once. Derek speaks through the loudspeaker to threaten, “If you survived, I’m going to kill you.”

“What’s he going to do if we didn’t survive?” Tim asks.

“Kill Monica.”

Tim purses his lips and lifts one brow. “Might not be the worst thing.”

“Derek,” you groan. “Thank you for caring about me, but my head is throbbing, so could we save the lecture for later?”

He stops talking, and when you think he’s about to stomp his foot and start again, he wraps you in a hug.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, gorgeous,” he implores.

“I won’t,” you reply. “Although, it wasn’t on purpose this time.”

“Shh.” He tightens his grip on you, then steps back and salutes with a smile.

“Do you have a minute?” Hotch asks. “It’s not a lecture.”

You nod, then stand from your seat and join him at the back of the jet. Tim is in Los Angeles for a few days to work on the Monica case, and when he returns to Quantico, you have a lot to discuss. He isn’t aware of your new symptoms from being indirectly struck by lightning, but Spencer assured you they’re temporary.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks softly.

“I’m… almost fine,” you reply. “That was terrifying, but I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you know the bureau offers counseling if you need anything, and I’m here, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“What did you tell Bradford on that tower?”

Your eyes widen, and you search for the right words. “Just some shared history stuff.”

“You thought you were going to die. In that situation, people tend to say something they don’t mean or speak the truest statements in their lives.”

“Yeah,” you agree carefully. “Lots of confessions, real and imagined.”

“So,” Hotch continues, crossing his arms. “Which was yours?”

“You’re a profiler, you tell me.”

Hotch shakes his head at your smile but moves his arms to lay a hand on your shoulder.

“Be sure he meant what he said before you do anything you can’t take back,” he advises.

“You think he would speak emotionally?”

“In the right circumstances, we all can. Even a stoic like Bradford.”

“Are you speaking from experience, sir?”

“This is me giving you advice, not an interrogation, agent,” Hotch replies.

You nod, hiding your smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the advice.”

Hotch turns away, then looks over his shoulder. “One more thing. There’s a bet in the unit about whether or not you kissed up there, so maybe keep the specifics to yourself.”

“What do you think happened?” you ask.

“I know everything.”

“Even the art of romance?”

“I’m leaving now.”

You smile as you trail Hotch until you reach your seat. Derek watches you, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. JJ’s computer chimes before she tells you that Monica’s court date has been moved up.

“Bradford isn’t listed as testifying,” she adds.

“Is Lopez? Grey? Chen?”

“Yes, as well as Nolan and a few other officers from the division.”

“Then he’ll be there,” you reply. “Which means, Hotch, you may need someone to fill in for him and keep me safe.”

“You were a lot less reckless before daddy cop showed up,” Derek muses.

“Did you tell everybody about that?!” you exclaim.

He shrugs, practically admitting his guilt before he closes his eyes again. Tim texts you that he is staying in LA for a few more days. The following text, which says he’ll see you when he gets back, is the one that surprises you.

It’s just past 2 a.m. when someone knocks on your door. You roll over, pulling a pillow over your head. Unfortunately, the knocking doesn’t stop. You groan and retrieve your gun from your nightstand as you walk out of your room. At the door, you lean against it and press one eye to the peephole. Suddenly, as if you drank straight espresso, you’re wide awake and pulling the door open.

Tim’s hand raises to knock again, but he stops when you open the door and wrap him in a warm hug.

“Good morning,” he grunts as you collide with his chest.

“Morning,” you reply, your voice carrying traces of sleep.

Tim moves his right arm around your waist and carefully maneuvers back into your living room. He kicks the door closed behind him, drops his bag, and then notices your gun on the table by the door.

“Expecting someone else?” he asks, smiling.

“Not expecting anyone,” you reply, stepping back. Your hands remain on Tim's shoulders as you continue, “It’s a good surprise.”

“Sorry to wake you. I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“It’s fine. This one time.”

“How are you?” Tim asks, pushing your hair out of your face. He slides his fingers into your hair, pushing it up toward your roots gently. He watches your face as if he’s memorizing it, worshipping it. “Headaches gone?”

“How do you know about that?” you ask, tipping your head toward his hand. “Derek?”

“Spencer,” he corrects. “I got a lengthy message about letting you rest and not giving you a reason to be on your phone.”

“They’re good coworkers but they’re nosy.”

“They care about you.”

“Just them?”

Tim raises his other hand to your neck as he steps toward you. In the low light of your living room, only the streetlight outside illuminates your face and the space around you, and it’s as if you are the only people in the world. Tim looks at you like you alone matter. Like this moment is specially made for the two of you.

“They care about you,” Tim repeats. “I think I do a bit more than that.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” you say. “I… I know our relationship isn’t typical, but you deserved the truth.”

“I didn’t know, no, but I still would have fought for you. I didn’t know what I had until I lost it, and the decade I spent without you taught me that some things- that some people are worth fighting for.”

“You weren’t this nice to me as my TO,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over a scar on Tim’s neck.

He got it protecting you, although he yelled at you the entire time he was treated and bandaged. Tim shivers at your touch yet doesn’t shy away or attempt to hide behind the persona he wears to protect himself.

“What you said on the tower,” Tim says. “Ask me.”

“Do you love me?” you whisper.

“I fell in love with the idea of you the day we met,” he admits.

You recoil from his touch briefly, but he holds you close. “And then I realized that everything I felt, all of the bitterness and disappointment I associated with you, was because I wanted you, desired you, more than anything. I didn’t think I loved you because I’d never been in love like this before.”

“Do you love me?” you repeat, softer. As you step toward him, pressing your chests together, soft rain begins to fall outside.

“Yes,” Tim answers. “Of course I love you.”

His smile grows as you hug him. One arm wraps around your waist as the other remains in your hair, gently curling and uncurling his fingers. Using the hand in your hair, Tim tips your head so he can see your face. He leans forward and stops with a single breath between you.

“Who needs lightning when you’re here?” he jokes.

You roll your eyes and scoff. Before he says anything else, you move your arms over his shoulders and kiss Tim. It’s different than the kiss in Penelope’s office. This moment is slow, meaningful, and full of love, history, and new beginnings simultaneously. Tim lets his hand fall from your hair, trail over your side, and slip beneath your arm to hold your hip.

Tim takes slow steps to move you against the couch and then lifts you to sit on it. Once you settle, Tim breaks the kiss just long enough to take a breath, squeezing your hips as he breathes.

Diving back into you like you are oxygen at the bottom of the ocean or a safe haven in a lightning storm, Tim cradles your face in one hand as he splays his fingers across your back and holds you upright.

“Tim,” you say, repeating it several times before he presses his forehead against yours and lets you speak. “I meant what I said in the storm. That wasn’t my emotions. I’ve felt like this for a long time.”

Tim smiles. “Stop profiling this,” he grumbles before he lowers you onto the couch and hovers above you.

“There’s also a bet running about what we did on the tower.”

Tim lifts your head and moves your hair so it isn’t pulled or trapped beneath you. “Let them wonder,” he whispers before trailing kisses along your jaw and hairline.

“What have we got?” you ask as you enter the conference room.

“Wannabe Bonnie and Clyde,” Spencer answers.

You nod and sit beside Penelope, who narrows her eyes at you.

“What?” you whisper.

“You kissed daddy cop,” she accuses. Your brows raise, and she speaks up to add, “He came to see you as soon as he landed, didn’t he?!”

You look at Derek and mouth, You’re dead, but he smiles and blows you a kiss.

“In line with the theme,” Hotch says, drawing attention back to the case, “this couple is heavily armed.”

“Which our tactical sergeant would know something about,” Derek muses, smiling as he looks at the door.

You turn and see Tim standing in the doorway, wearing an FBI t-shirt.

“Thanks for coming, Bradford,” Hotch says. “We’re going to need backup for this one.”

“Of course, sir,” Tim replies.

After Hotch dismisses you, you wait until you’re alone in the room with Tim.

“Would telling them make the teasing stop?” he asks.

You lean against the table and cross your arms. “You’ve met them, right?”

“We could always pretend to hate each other.”

“Easier for you than me,” you argue.

Tim shakes his head as he takes your hand. He rubs his thumb over the nearly faded marks from the chains.

“We don’t have to tell them,” you say.

Tim’s brows raise as he asks, “You want to keep a secret from your team?”

“They’re outside the door.”

Tim glances toward the door as you stand from the table and pull it open, unsurprised when Derek stumbles inside as he tries to catch himself.

“Secret’s out,” you say flatly. “We good?”

“What about the bet?” Derek asks.

“Morgan,” Hotch warns.

“I mean, what bet? Who said anything about a bet?”

“My office is off limits,” Penelope says, pointing at you.

“Can we get back to work?” Tim asks.

“Excellent idea,” Hotch replies. Nobody moves, so he adds, “Now. Everybody.”

The room clears, and, this time, your team members return to their respective desks.

“Not you two,” Hotch says. “I had an idea to run past you.”

“Sure,” you answer, closing the door.

“Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Yes?” Tim presses.

“They’d be threatened by another couple.”

“Us?” you clarify, pointing between yourself and Tim.

“Only if it’s something you’d be comfortable with.”

You look at Tim, who tips his head toward you, giving you the final decision. It wouldn’t be much different than what you did in Los Angeles a few months ago or some of the lies you played into during your short time as a rookie. Besides, when else will you have a chance and an excuse to be that close while working?

You smile, and Hotch nods. “Pack your bags then,” he says. “You’re going back to California.”

Puppy

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x fem!reader Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: While you visit Tim at the station, you are too nice to a teenager he just arrested. To your boyfriend's exasperation, you pay the bail for the kid and cook him a warm dinner.

Warnings: don't think so, pure fluff, not proofread yet

Fluff Requested: Yes Words: 2.5k

GIF not mine, credits to the owner.

"So," Lucy began tentatively, stealing a glance at the sergeant. "I saw you the other day. Looking at those rings."

"Chen." Tim warned his aide.

"Are you proposing to Y/N?" she pressed, her excitement bubbling over.

"That's not your business."

But Lucy wasn't about to let it go. "Look," she said eagerly, "If you need help picking the ring, I can help. I can – I don't know, have a little talk, find out what kind of ring she wants."

"I've got this, thanks," his voice was tinged with a hint of annoyance.

"We both know you don't." Lucy leaned back, "An engagement ring is not just any jewelry she can hide in a closet if she doesn't like it."

"I think I know what she wants."

"Remember her birthday present?" she reminded him, earning an accusing glance from Tim. "Just saying. Please, at least consider it, for Y/N."

Lucy opened her mouth to say more, but Tim's eyes caught something up ahead. His expression shifted to one of relief, a welcome distraction from Lucy's insistence.

"Hold that thought."

She followed his gaze and saw a young boy attempting to break into a parked car. The kid couldn't have been more than fifteen, his hands fumbling nervously with the lock. Tim pulled the shop to a stop and got out, Lucy following closely behind.

"Dispatch, this is Sergeant Bradford. We've got a possible 459 in progress at the corner of 4th and Main."

"Hey! Step away from the car!" Tim called out, his voice authoritative.

The boy froze, his eyes wide with fear. He turned to run, but Lucy was already moving, cutting off his escape route. "It's okay," she said gently, her demeanor softening. "We're not here to hurt you."

Tim approached, his expression softening just a bit."What do you think you're doing?"

The boy stammered, "I—I wasn't going to steal it, I swear. I just... I need some money. My mom's sick, and we can't afford the meds."

The boy looked down at his feet and Lucy sighed, recognising the familiar signs of desperation. "Look, we can help you. But breaking into cars isn't the way to go."

"You need to come with us and tell us everything. We'll figure something out."

The shop was quiet except for the hum of the engine and the sound of Lucy's fingers tapping on her phone. Tim glanced over at her, his focus shifting between the road and his aide's ever-present curiosity.

"TouristPlanet says that Hawaii is number one for proposals," Lucy broke the silence, her eyes never leaving the phone.

"Chen, I don't need help. I've done it before, I know how it works," Tim replied, exasperated but with a hint of amusement.

Lucy ignored his brush-off. "Oh, but I love Y/N! I just want everything to be perfect for her. I mean, it's huge."

Tim sighed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "And you don't think I love her enough to make this special?"

"I didn't say that," Lucy replied quickly. "You've done it before, it's not a big deal for you. But it's her first proposal and she loves you."

"It is a big deal," Tim admitted, his voice softer now. "I think I love her even more than I loved Isabel back then. So it's more complicated now."

Lucy’s eyes widened in surprise, a soft smile spreading across her face. "You have a heart after all."

"Chen. Shut up." he shot her a warning sideways glance, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, sir."

As you step into the bustling station, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sugary donuts fills the air, mingling with the sound of urgent radio chatter and shuffling footsteps. You clutch the cardboard tray tighter, a smile playing on your lips as you navigate through the familiar chaos, scanning the faces for Tim's unmistakable handsomeness.

Not finding him among the desks, you make your way to Grey's office, offering a cheery wave before stepping inside.

"Morning, Sarge."

Grey glances up from his paperwork, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Y/N. Always a pleasure to have you around," he responds welcoming.

With a graceful motion, you offer him a cup of steaming coffee and gesture towards the assortment of donuts nestled in the box. The sergeant chuckles softly, accepting the offering with a nod of appreciation.

"Please do come more often," he jests, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"I'll keep that in mind," you reply playfully but your attention is elsewhere, your gaze still searching the room for that familiar figure. "You know where I can find Tim?"

With a knowing nod, Grey gestures for you to follow him as he leads the way towards the processing room. As you step inside, the atmosphere shifts from bustling activity to a more subdued intensity.

"Bradford. You have a visitor," Grey announces, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

Tim looks up from his paperwork, his gaze meeting yours, and a soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips. His gaze lifts, his expression softening at the sight of you standing there, a welcome interruption to the monotony of his day.

"Hey," he greets you, a flicker of surprise in his voice. "What are you doing here?"

You set the tray of treats down on a nearby table and close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace. "Hey handsome," you reply, your voice muffled against his chest. "You left early and I thought you could use some coffee."

Tim’s strong arms pulled you closer, the familiar scent of his cologne mingles with the coffee and donuts, grounding you in the moment. You feel his strong, warm body melting in your arms and the steady beat of his heart, a gentle reminders of how much you love him.

Pulling back slightly, you look up into his eyes, which are now filled with a gentle warmth that belies his grumpiness.Tim’s hand finds yours, giving it a gentle squeeze before he releases you.

"You’re a lifesaver."

Lucy wander into the room, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the treats. "Y/N, you spoil us," she teases, reaching for a donut.

Your eyes drift across the room, settling on a teenage boy obediently following an officer's commands, his shoulders slumped and eyes downcast. Concern wells up inside you.

"Tim," you ask softly, nodding towards the boy, "what's with the kid? What's he doing here?"

He glances over at the kid, his expression hardening. "Kid tried to break into a car. Said he needed the money to pay for his mom's meds."

Your heart aches at the sight of the innocent boy, his face etched with fear and worry. "What's going to happen to him?" you ask, your voice soft with concern.

Tim sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "He'll probably get away with bail. First offense, and the circumstances are... mitigating."

Moved by the boy’s plight, you make a decision. “Tim, can I have your card?” you ask, reaching out your hand.

Your boyfriend eyes you warily, his brow furrowing. "Why?"

"Just trust me."

He frowns but doesn't question your request further. He fishes a card from his pocket and hands it to you. As you reach for the box of donuts, his frown deepens.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" he asks, his voice rising with annoyance.

You stop to meet his gaze, "Trust me, please."

Tim watches you walk over to the boy and kneel down, his jaw tightening. "This is ridiculous," he mutters under his breath, his grumpiness evident as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"Can I have a minute with him?" you ask Lucy, who is in the midst of processing the boy.

Lucy looks over at Tim, seeking his approval. His eyes narrow, but he gives a curt nod, though his frustration is palpable. Lucy steps aside, joining your boyfriend as they watch you with a mix of curiosity and concern.

"Hi, there." you say softly, your voice kind and shooting, "I'm Y/N. What's your name?"

"Charlie."

"Well, Charlie, Sergeant Bradford told me you're in some kind of trouble." you say gently, your heart breaking at his situation.

The boy looks up at you, tears welling in his eyes. "I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I– I just want to help mom."

"I know, sweetheart. You hungry?" you ask, offering him a comforting smile.

Charlie nods, and you hand him the box full of donuts. His eyes widen in surprise and gratitude as he takes it.

You write your name and number on Tim's card and hand it to him. "It's gonna be okay for now. But if you have any other problems, please give us a call. If you don't want to talk to Bradford, you can call me, okay?"

"Thanks. I– I will," Charlie says, clutching the card like a lifeline.

"Where's your mom?" you ask, wanting to understand more about his situation.

"In hospital. She– uh, she has cancer and treatment is expensive."

"You stay with her at the hospital?" you ask gently, your mind already made up to help him.

Charlie nods, tears brimming in his eyes. Determined to do more, you know you'll pay his bail and offer any support you can.

Tim strides over, his expression a mix of annoyance and concern. His grumpiness, which had momentarily melted away, returns in full force. "Alright, that's enough," he says, his voice firm and edged with frustration. "We need to get things moving."

You stand up, giving Charlie one last reassuring smile. "Remember, call me if you need anything," you say before turning to Tim.

He looks at you, his irritation clear. "Y/N, you can't save everyone," he mutters, shaking his head. "This isn't your job."

You meet his gaze, "I know. But I can try to help one," you reply softly.

"You really shouldn't get involved like that," he says, his voice softer now, filled with concern.

"I know."

He sighs, reaching to take your hand into his. "But I love that about you. Just...promise me you'll be careful. For my sake."

You squeeze his hand, smiling warmly. "I promise."

The end of the shift greets Tim and Lucy walking towards their cars, the sky darkening with the onset of evening. The station is quieter now, the earlier hustle and bustle giving way to the calm of a winding-down day. He's itching to get home, to feel the warmth and comfort of your presence, to escape the relentless grind of the day.

"Hey, Tim," Lucy starts, glancing at him curiously. "Did you pay the bail for that Charlie boy we arrested this morning?"

Tim raises an eyebrow, surprised. "No, why?"

"Because someone did," Lucy explains, frowning. "I checked, and he doesn’t have any other family besides his mom. I can't figure out who would have done it."

His eyes narrow, and then it hits him. "I think I know who."

The drive home is a blur as he processes the day's events. When he finally steps through the front door, he’s greeted by the comforting aroma of dinner cooking and the sound of upbeat song playing in the background.

"Sweetheart, I'm home," he calls out, his voice echoing through the house.

You turn around, a bright smile on your face. "Hey, babe. Come, come. Dinner's almost ready."

Tim steps into the kitchen, and his eyes widen in pure shock as he spots Charlie sitting at the island, a plate of snacks in front of him.

"Y/N, a word," Tim says, his voice tight.

"Make yourself at home, Charlie. We'll be right back."

You give the kid a big smile while Tim forces a very strained one, then you follow him to the bedroom. He closes the door behind you with more force than necessary, his frustration evident.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Tim demands, his voice rising in anger.

"I know, I'm sorry. I should've talked to you. But I couldn't let him stay in jail. He's been sleeping in a hospital chair, Babe. God knows when it was the last time he had a proper, warm meal. There's no one to look after him."

Tim runs a hand through his hair, his anger barely contained. "I can't believe you did that. You’ve got ourselves a puppy," he mutters, his tone sharp.

"What?" you ask, confused.

"Nothing."

You place a gentle hand on his arm, your eyes pleading. "Tim, listen to me. This kid needs help. He's scared and alone. I couldn't just walk away."

You step even closer, wrapping your arms around his waist, feeling the tension in his muscles.

"You can't just bring home a stray. This is serious, Y/N. We're not a shelter."

"Charlie is not a stray, he needs help. His mom is in the hospital with cancer, and he's been trying to fend for himself," you explain, "We have the means to help him, at least for one night."

"This isn't just about money or means, Y/N. It's about safety and boundaries. We can't take in every kid with a sob story."

"I get that, but this isn't just any kid. You saw him today, baby. He's not a criminal; he's just a boy trying to help his mom," you argue, stepping closer to him. "We can't turn our backs on him."

Tim's frustration is simmering beneath the surface. "Damn it, Y/N. This is exactly why I worry about you. You have a big heart, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

You rested your head on his chest. "I know. But I can't just turn my back when someone needs help. I get involved because I care," you say softly, meeting his eyes, "And you care too, whether you want to admit it or not."

"I can't say no to you, can I?" he mutters, his voice a mix of exasperation and affection.

You smile up at him, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

Tim looks at you, his grumpiness warring with his love for you. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this," he sighs again, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you even closer, "Just one night," he says, "And then we figure out what to do next."

You nod, relief flooding through you. "I promise. Just one night."

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, his grumpiness is melting away, "You're impossible, you know that?" a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I know," you reply, smiling back at him. "But you love me anyway."

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Yeah, I do," he admits, his voice tender. "Now let's go see how our guest is doing."

Hook, Line, and NOPE!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Summary: Tim Bradford gets hooked on loving you, but you play hard to get. After you finally admit that you feel the same, everybody says he's sleeping with the enemy.

Warnings: angst, arguments, emotional vulnerabity, fear of intimacy?, brief violence, fluff and comfort!

Word Count: 4.4k+ words

Song List: NOPE! by New Rules & Hooked by Why Don't We

For @newobessionweekly! Sorry it took me so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy it, I'm glad you're back, and I wish you the best in all of your endeavors!!

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Surely you can see how this entire project is ludicrous.”

You tap your eraser against your notebook, looking at the lawyers sitting across from you, representing the Los Angeles Police Department. The meeting was supposed to be held after a public forum. Because the court of public opinion is rarely on the department’s side, you were called into an impromptu – and early – one-on-one with the police commissioner’s legal representation.

“How is attempting to mitigate the impact on public citizens and the local economy ludicrous, Mr. Evers?” you inquire. “As someone who lives in Los Angeles, I consider this decision quite sensible. Avoiding more construction, road closures, and drawn-out costs that will ultimately impact businesses and taxpayers is hardly a laughable matter.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Wesley defends. “Do you make it a point to disagree with the LAPD whenever possible?”

You smile then, leaning forward over a printed report. “Not all of its officers,” you confide. “Now, if you have no reasonable objections to our proposal, I suggest we reconvene at the planned time to discuss this in light of public opinion, rather than my apparently overly convoluted view.”

“You are not making friends in the department,” he says as he closes his leather-bound legal pad and stands. “There will come a time when you need their support.”

“And there will come a time when they’ll see that I am in fact on their side. Thank you for your time.”

As soon as the door closes behind Wesley Evers and the rest of the commissioner’s hand-picked team, you slouch in your chair and sigh.

“He’s going to tell his girlfriend everything you said,” the paralegal taking notes beside you murmurs.

“Well, as the heads of my fan club, I’d expect no less,” you reply lightly. “Thanks for your help preparing for this.”

“Any time. Sorry the LAPD doesn’t like you.”

“I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to do my job and do it well. Speaking of which, I’ve got a lunch meeting.”

“With whom?”

You tap your fingers to your lips like you’re keeping a secret. If you’re making enemies with local law enforcement, the least you can do is devote some of your free time to making it better.

“You look beautiful,” your lunch date says as he pulls your chair out for you.

You roll your eyes but feel your cheeks heat at his flattery. The man sitting across from you is undoubtedly on your string, and you pull it, even if you know this relationship will never be anything more than it is now. He says nice things to you, and sometimes, when you’re home alone after a long week of being told all of the reasons people don’t like you, it’s nice to think that he might like you – though, if he does, it’s different.

“Are you going to tell me why you wanted to meet today or should I guess?” he asks, sitting across from you.

“Well, you’ve never been one to give up before,” you muse.

“You had a meeting with Wesley.”

“I did.”

“How’d that go?”

“Imagine sitting at a table with twelve former arrests that hate you – some of them just on principle,” you begin. “But you have to be civil because it’s a work thing. That’s about how it went.”

“Well, you did slash the law enforcement budget.”

“Not by myself. And it wasn’t my first recommendation, but it’s what we had to do to ensure everything was able to get done for the year. I understand that I seem like the bad guy here. I’m on their side- your side, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

He hums, then reminds you, “We don’t all hate you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the exception.”

“Does that mean you’ve reconsidered my offer?”

You glance at him over the top of your menu. “I thought you were still mad about the flowers.”

“I got you flowers, you left them outside, they died. Flowers die, I got over it.”

“I just don’t get it,” you admit, setting the menu aside.

“I can explain it again. Unless you’re stalling, like I think you are.”

“You’re brave enough to chase what you want: promotions, people, possessions. I’m not.”

“Is that why you keep stopping this before we even start?” he challenges. “Why we’ll talk for hours one day, and the next you’re a ghost? Why you invite me over just to not be home?”

You raise your hand, silently begging him to stop. When he explains your actions this way, they sound much crueler than your intentions. Being surrounded by hostility at work has led you to build tall, nearly impenetrable walls around yourself. Sitting across from the one man you can see yourself having a future with threatens those walls. He’s been chipping away at them for months, finding the weak spots and being patient with you each time you suddenly pull back when you notice he’s gotten too close.

“I just…”

“You change your mind,” he finishes for you. “You change it like the clothes you’re in, but… I’m not giving up.”

You chew the inside of your lower lip as someone passes by your table. “Why?” you ask softly.

“Because I’ve got a suspicion that you feel it too. I know what you’re doing.”

Nodding, you remind him, “It’s not just me I’m protecting.”

At the end of your lunch, you walk back onto the streets of LA and wait awkwardly on the sidewalk.

“Think about it,” he encourages.

“I will.”

“Oh, one more thing.”

“Bye, Officer Bradford,” you say, turning to walk away from him.

“Hello!” Tim calls after you, trying to get your attention again.

“See you later!”

Four Months Later

“… T, U, V,” Lucy continues. She stops and shifts in the seat to ask, “Are you lying?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tim replies.

“There is no way your girlfriend’s name starts with X, Y, or Z. Is there?”

“Can we go back to when my personal life was off limits?”

“No. Now, tell me what your girlfriend’s name is.”

“Never said I had one.”

Lucy groans. She’s seen all the evidence that Tim has someone special in his life. He hasn’t eased up on the Tim tests or given her a break from his usual grumpy demeanor, but the little things are evident because she knows where to look.

“Bradford, Chen,” Wade radios. “Divert to the station. I’m putting you on detail at the rally this afternoon.”

“Copy that,” Tim replies.

“Is rally detail boring?” Lucy inquires.

“Depends on what exactly your post is,” Tim answers honestly. “Being a rookie, probably. It’s crowd babysitting more than anything.”

“Fantastic,” she deadpans.

“I’m about to cash in my pension,” Angela complains.

“Tell me about it,” Bishop agrees. “Does the mayor’s office care that crimes are still happening outside of his bubble?”

“He’s laughing at us. Making us guard his precious little troublemaker because he knows we don’t like her.”

“Why is that?” Nolan asks.

“She doesn’t like to help cops,” Jackson answers. “Will fund just about anything else, then gives us the leftovers. When it comes to budgeting and resources, we’re her last thought after her last thought.”

“So, she treats police needs like an afterthought?” Lucy clarifies. “And everyone on the force has a problem with her for that?”

“Not everyone,” Tim answers. “Form your own opinion, boot, don’t just listen to the jaded and the one repeating his father’s complaints.”

“It’s my opinion, too,” Jackson interjects.

“Wait,” Angela says, turning toward Tim. “Don’t tell me you buy into her I’m doing what I can, and I don’t like it either spiel.”

“I’m just saying that we have no way in knowing that she isn’t doing all she can. The police budget wasn’t good before she got the job, either. Useless to blame one person for the government’s fallacies.”

“What?” Bishop asks.

“You like her!” Angela accuses.

“Oh my gosh,” Lucy mumbles, her eyes widening. “It’s her isn’t it?!”

“She’s who?” Bishop demands.

“Focus on your assignment,” Tim barks.

“No,” Angela says. “Tim, do not tell me you have feelings for this girl.”

“And what if I did?” Tim challenges.

“Then I’d tell you it would never work.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Tim, I’m serious, don’t let this girl pull you in somehow. She’s the enemy.”

“The enemy? Lopez, she’s doing her job. People don’t like us for the same reason, does that make us the enemy?”

“That’s not what-“

“What about Evers? He the enemy?”

“Okay,” Bishop interrupts. “You’re getting defensive, stand down.”

Tim rolls his eyes and leads Lucy toward the stage. Angela and Bishop watch him go, convinced there is more to Tim’s response than simply respecting that you’re doing your job and not singling them out.

“We need to talk,” Bishop says, waiting outside the locker room.

“I don’t need an intervention,” Tim deadpans.

“But you need to hear this,” Angela replies. “We don’t like her. 90% of cops minimum don’t like the mayor’s golden girl.”

“Well, I’m in the percentage that doesn’t need your help.”

“Tim, she is younger than you, she works day in and day out to make our jobs harder. You are incredibly different people.”

“And you need to bring this back into the proper perspective,” Bishop adds. “Reality is, Bradford, that even if you do like this girl in a purely professional sense, she will betray that somehow.”

Tim clenches his jaw. “Reality is, Talia, that my life is absolutely none of your concern.”

“Not what you said last time you needed a favor.”

“The low blows make you feel better? Remind you that your family-“

“Stop,” Angela demands, stepping between Tim and Talia. “This isn’t about that. Tim, we’re just saying not to start something with this girl because it won’t end well.”

“I haven’t started anything,” Tim replies. “But if I wanted to, if I wanted to see where it would go, I would.”

Angela watches him, ignorant of their rookies listening in on the conversation.

“You did start something, didn’t you?” Nolan asks from around the corner.

“What do you want the hear?” Tim snaps, looking between the veteran and rookie officers surrounding him.

“The truth!” Lucy answers.

“Fine! Yes, I am dating her. It took me months to get her to the point where she wasn’t scared to let me in, and I’m not walking away from it – or her – because you all have chips on your shoulders.”

Angela shakes her head as she says, “You’re sleeping with the enemy here, Tim.”

“Yeah, because she has such a bad reputation. All of you, back off.”

“Or what?” Bishop challenges.

“You don’t want to fight me on this,” Tim explains lowly. “Now move.”

Bishop tilts her head to the side, then steps back. Tim exits the station with his shoulders drawn back and his hands curled into fists. You may be public enemy number one as far as officers from Mid-Wilshire are concerned, but that won’t change anything for Tim. To Tim, you’re the sweetest temptation, and the one he wouldn’t walk away from, even if he wasn’t completely and utterly hooked on you.

“Your girlfriend’s on TV,” Angela grumbles a few days after their unpropitious meeting.

Tim glances up at the television screen. You’re standing beside the mayor and the budgeting committee. Last week, the city planner's office introduced a petition to build a new and improved police facility near the station Tim is now standing in. It would provide room for additional personnel, new state-of-the-art security, and a training course specifically for tactical responses, including riot control and high-risk breaches.

As the mayor speaks and officers from across the city watch, Tim keeps his eyes on you. You look good in the dark blue blazer he helped you pick. Though he knows you’ll probably deliver a speech that will intensify the feelings of disdain local law enforcement holds for you, Tim has wildly differing thoughts about you.

“After many discussions with the board beside me and the experts in my own office,” the mayor says, “we have decided to delay the planning and construction of the new police station indefinitely.”

A collective groan of disappointment fills the bullpen around Tim. The mayor continues speaking, but Tim can’t hear him over the chatter echoing in the crowded room.

“What does this mean for us?” Lucy asks beside him.

“Nothing,” he answers.

“Just that we’ll still be stretched too thin and underprepared for tactical emergencies,” Jackson adds, his voice laced with loathing.

“Which is no different than now,” Tim reiterates. “Metro has operated with the current standard operating procedures for several years and it works. We have new shift rotations every other week. The brass will work around this, just like they always do.”

“They shouldn’t have to.”

“Tell Tim’s girlfriend that,” Angela interrupts.

Tim looks back to the screen, unsurprised to see that you’re now at the microphone, smiling even as you prepare to deliver the displeasing details of the proposal refusal.

“Good afternoon,” you greet. “On behalf of the mayor’s office, I would first like to thank the employees who worked on this project proposal and the officers who will someday benefit from it.”

“She’s so full of it,” someone yells as others boo.

“This is really who you want to be with?” Angela challenges Tim.

“You should try listening sometime, Lopez. It can be enlightening,” Tim replies. “Let’s go, boot. We’ve actually got work to do.”

“It is a question of money, yes,” you continue as Tim leaves. “But there is also a concern of bias and competency in planning and construction because of current contracts. Of course, the mayor agrees that the facility is needed, and he’s not denying that it will be provided to the LAPD, he has simply determined – with his advisors – that now is not the proper time to begin the undertaking of such a project.”

“There’s still time to dump her before this starts,” Bishop whispers.

“And there’s still a chance for you to remember who you’re talking to,” Tim replies.

“She’s going to get crucified,” Angela says. “You really want to be the officer she drags down with her?”

Tim shakes his head just before the door opens. You follow the mayor inside and sit at one of two tables on the stage. They’re arranged in a wide V-shape, with six chairs and six microphones at each. The rest of the room is filled with police and press, all heavily vetted and here for a specific reason. After the press conference yesterday, the law enforcement community voiced a public outcry, which led the police commissioner and numerous reporters to call for a town hall meeting with an audience of people who will be directly affected by the decision. And those who will paint you in the worst light possible to inform the public of the decision.

The first speaker in the line, an officer Tim recognizes but doesn’t know, directly addresses you. Tim notices your shoulders straighten as you nod.

“You’re the one that cut the police budget. Now that we’re down one more asset and assist, how does it feel to have less protection at your fingertips as a city employee?” he asks.

Several officers cheer, but Tim crosses his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. He and Lucy arrived early and are seated in the front row. You lock eyes with Tim briefly before you answer.

“As I explained yesterday, the budget does play a role in the city’s delay of building this facility,” you explain. “But there are other concerns.”

“Like what?” the officer asks.

“The city of Los Angeles is currently under contracts with specific architects and engineers. These craftsmen are undoubtedly talented, yet there have been questions of their focus and dedication in their trades.”

“Speak English!” someone yells.

You smile at that and continue, “The engineers we would have to hire to build something of this size are solely interested in the paycheck they would receive. The mayor is unwilling to compromise the integrity of the building, so he decided to wait. If we move forward now, the final result would not be the better building and better system you need.”

“And you know what we need,” a reporter jeers.

“More space and additional resources, amongst many other things. I’m not arguing that you have clear needs, I am simply stating that this isn’t the way to do it. Not if you want it done rightly.”

You watch the officer turn away from the mic stand. He slows by the second row of chairs, and your brows pinch as you watch him.

“How did you determine there’s bias?”

Tim turns when the question is asked, shaking his head when he sees Bishop standing at the microphone. She glares at you, but one of the mayor’s corporate lawyers leans forward to answer the question. As he discusses the audit his team completed, you look past Tim. He meets your eyes and lifts his hands from his lap in question.

Without responding to Tim, you turn and speak to a member of the mayor’s security detail. The man nods, looks past Tim, then steps behind the stage before disappearing from Tim’s view.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the mayor interrupts. “Today’s meeting is to discuss the postponement of this project. There is no room for blaming members of this committee or seeking answers to personal questions. Next speaker, please.”

Bishop rolls her eyes as she passes Tim, and he silently hopes that this doesn’t make you pull away from him again. If Tim is sleeping with the enemy, he won’t let the people on his side push you away, even if it means going against everything he’s supposed to believe in. You’ve got a habit of saying nope just because you are more comfortable hiding your feelings and saving yourself from being vulnerable with the wrong person. Tim knows he is the man you can be yourself with. Maybe the only one.

“That has no bearing on the need for more space,” you say, drawing Tim’s attention again. “Simply put, you’re getting the new station when it is fiscally and morally wise. And not a moment before, regardless of how much you need it, or think you need it.”

The crowd roars, booing and voicing baseless insults against you. You stand and walk off the stage while the mediator attempts to regain control of the room. There will be another meeting at the end of the week, and Tim wonders how many of these officers will be in attendance and how many will still be angry.

It’s Friday afternoon when a similar group convenes in the mayor’s office. There’s less press, and many of the officers in the room are high-ranking. Grey brought Tim, Angela, Bishop, and their rookies, stating that the rookies need exposure to the politics of policing and that the TOs are among his best officers. You smile at Tim when he enters but look away when you see the officers with him. Sergeant Grey has never been anything but civil with you, yet the complaints of his officers may have swayed him.

“Excuse me,” you whisper to a security guard behind you. “Is the man in the blue jacket an officer?”

He glances over the table and shrugs, then says, “Everyone was screened coming in, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” you reply, nodding as you face the crowd.

As the conversation – a polite term for the personal attacks and invasive questions – begins, you remain quiet. You look forward, unresponsive to the different officers raising concerns or voicing their opinions.

“Finally found her off switch, I see,” Bishop murmurs.

“She’s much more tolerable this way,” Jackson agrees.

“I don’t think she’s even listening,” Nolan points out.

“Neither are you,” Tim replies gruffly.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, distracted by your rigid posture and silence. Something is wrong. Whether someone in your office told you to stand down or you’re troubled by another instance, you’re not acting like yourself, and Tim hates it.

“Good afternoon,” a man says into the microphone.

Tim glances at him, wonders why he’s not in uniform, and then refocuses on you.

“The architect and engineer contracts are time-based, correct?” he inquires.

“Yes, sir,” the mayor replies.

“Then what makes you think the next crew to sign a two-year contract won’t have the same bias? The same obsession with being paid quickly rather than doing good work?”

“It’s not so much the contract as the ethics of the companies themselves. We’ve already begun the search for new firms and have found promising and talented teams we’re eager to begin working with.”

The man nods and returns to the back corner of the room, standing away from the rest of the crowd. After excusing yourself softly, you walk to the back of the room, heading toward the door. You’re on the same side of the room as Tim, but he can’t see you behind him.

While you approach the man in blue, he walks along the wall, nearing the front row. He’s getting too close to the mayor and too close to Tim, you think. You slow when he stops.

“Is your office prepared to provide additional resources to the stations in need while we wait for this building development to begin, Mr. Mayor?” Sergeant Grey asks.

The officers applaud his question, sharing their support of the idea. You don’t listen for the mayor’s reply as the man slips his hand beneath the back of his jacket and wraps his fingers around something.

“Quiet, please,” the mayor calls. “Thank you. And that’s an excellent question.”

“Officer Bradford,” the man says.

As Tim begins to turn, the man pulls his arm forward, and you don’t hesitate to surge forward. You tackle him to the floor, knocking his gun out of his hand and toward the stage. Officer Chen stands first, rushing to your side as she takes your position and handcuffs the armed man. The mayor is escorted off the stage by security, and you’re distantly aware of cameras flashing.

“Are you okay?” Tim asks, pulling you up to stand as his eyes search your face.

“I’m fine,” you reply. “Are you?”

Tim shakes his head, and you smile.

“I don’t even care if you’re gonna be the death of me,” Tim murmurs.

He leans toward you, holding your face between his hands, and kisses your forehead. You’re both ignorant of the people watching you until Lucy shoves the man against the wall, and someone clears their throat.

“I, uh,” Angela begins. “I think we owe you an apology.”

“Me or her?” Tim asks, squaring his shoulders as he steps to your side.

“Both.”

“She’s the one for you,” Bishop realizes aloud. “I couldn’t see that past my own feelings.”

“I’m sorry about the decision,” you offer. “I fought for you, but I couldn’t make it work.”

“Didn’t fight very hard then,” Jackson grumbles.

“Watch it, boot,” Tim warns.

“No, it’s okay,” you interject. “I could have done more; I won’t deny that. But I’m confident that the plans we’re working on now will be far better than what you could have gotten had I succeeded this time.”

“What do you see in Tim?” Lucy asks as two other officers escort the apprehended gunman out of the room.

You look at Tim, and your smile grows when you answer, “Someone who saw me, and didn’t give up when I thought I wasn’t worthy of being seen or loved.”

“Do you want me to call a paramedic or anything?” Nolan inquires.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Not every day the desk jockey gets to save her cop boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Angela begins, “what was that about, Timothy?”

Tim shrugs, bumping his arm against yours.

“I’m pretty sure that was Garrison Peters,” you say. “He works for one of the firms whose contract is about to expire and won’t see the station payday.”

“Which he’s mad about,” Bishop agrees. “But why Tim?”

“You said Garrison Peters?” Tim repeats. “Relation to Andrea?”

“Married, I think,” you answer.

“I arrested her for a RICO warrant. Lawyer argued she was obsessed with money and the jury indicted.”

“Hence why we didn’t want to use their firm!” you exclaim. “They’re corrupt!”

The five officers around you have different reactions to that revelation. Lucy says, “Oh,” and then grimaces. Angela and Bishop press their lips together and nod slowly. Jackson purses his lips but still looks like he’d rather hear it from someone who isn’t you. And Nolan mumbles something about contractors that you can’t decipher.

“Sorry,” Angela says first.

“I am too,” Bishop adds.

“Me, three,” Lucy offers.

“Sorry, and sorry again on behalf of… everybody,” Nolan says.

Jackson doesn’t apologize, but you smile at him regardless. “Thank you,” you reply.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers.

You rub his shoulder kindly before you drop your hand.

“I was supposed to have dinner with the mayor, but he’ll probably be in lockdown, if you’d like to join me,” you suggest.

“Absolutely not,” Tim interrupts. “You can all go home and plan better apologies. We’re going to dinner.”

“Tim,” Bishop says before he can leave. “You’re really good together.”

“I know.”

Tim leads you out of the room and interlaces his fingers with yours as he leads you to your office. He suggests a few restaurants worthy of his savior, but you don’t reply. In the privacy of your office, you sit against the corner of your desk and beckon him closer. You spread your hands over his chest when his legs hit your knees.

“That was terrifying,” you admit.

Tim sobers, lifting his hands to run his fingers along your forearms. “I’m sorry. I know that what you did was for me, but it was risky and reckless... I’m sorry it scared you.”

“What I did didn’t scare me. The idea of losing you did.”

Nodding, Tim drops his chin toward his chest and looks at you. “You saved my life. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“You saved mine first,” you whisper. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Tim replies, smiling brightly.

You scrunch your nose at his response, then murmur, “Nope.”

He scoffs, preparing to remind you that you’re together and you can’t push him away that easily. Before he can, you grip his shirt and pull him toward you, kissing him without a single thing between you. Tim Bradford is on your string, but you’re done pulling it because you’re hooked, too.

Rook Book

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!metro!reader

Summary: When you return to the Mid-Wilshire station for a Metro inspection, you don't expect to run into your former TO, Tim Bradford.

Warnings: fluff, brief angst, incorrect police procedures

Word Count: 2.4k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Boot, let’s go!” Tim urges. “You can talk to your friends later.”

“Good morning to you, too, Officer Bradford,” Lucy replies. “How’d you-“

“Shop.”

“I just-“

“Shop.”

Lucy sighs before walking away from Tim. She’s used to his grumpiness by now, but she can tell by his attitude that there will be a few Tim Tests today. The war bags are already in the trunk, so Lucy isn’t sure what the rush is.

✯✯✯✯✯

“It’s been a while,” Wade says as he shakes your hand.

“Too long,” you reply with a smile. “When my captain mentioned this, I knew I had to take the assignment.”

“So, what does Metro want with a station review? Isn’t that usually IA’s thing?”

“Typically, yes. I think my role here is best described as a scout. Cap wants some new blood and we’ve got a couple of Metro openings. We need the best, and for some reason, I get to choose them.”

“You’ve already chosen one, I’m sure.”

Wade smiles as you furrow your brows. He shakes his head and reaches for something on his desk.

“Who?” you ask.

“If you don’t know, I’m not telling you.”

Someone knocks on the door, and you turn around as Smitty steps inside.

“I thought you quit,” he says when he sees you.

“I think I know who I won’t be choosing,” you tell Wade.

He tosses you a set of keys and waves. You leave his office and glance around. The station hasn’t changed much since the last time you were there, but you’re sure the people have. As you walk through the bullpen, you see someone you recognize.

“Bradford?” you call.

Tim freezes at the sound of your voice. He hasn’t seen you in years, yet hearing his last name come out of your mouth takes him back to when he was a rookie. Walking several steps ahead of him, Lucy stops and turns at the call of Bradford’s name. She’s expecting to be held up for a minute or two, but when she sees Tim turn slowly toward you, she knows that it’s more than that.

“Hey,” Tim says.

When he sees your smile, he relaxes and steps toward you. You don’t miss his initial reaction, though, and it makes your smile grow.

“I did not think you’d still be here,” you begin. “Maybe I should’ve done a better job.”

Tim nods, and Lucy rushes to his side. She smiles and extends her hand toward you before she speaks.

“Hi, I’m Lucy, uh, Officer Chen. How do you know Officer Bradford?” she asks.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply before telling her your name. “And you are?”

“Oh, I’m Tim’s rookie.”

“You’re a TO?” you ask incredulously as you turn to look at Tim. “Seriously?”

“Lucy,” Tim begins, “this is my TO.”

Lucy’s jaw drops and you chuckle. Wade calls your name, and you look over your shoulder at him. After he beckons you to return to his office, you turn back to Tim.

“I’ll see you around,” you say.

“Why?” he inquires.

“Metro’s recruiting.”

Tim watches you go and doesn’t move until you’re out of his sight. His shoulders are tense, but there’s a small smile on his face that Lucy hasn’t seen before.

“You never mentioned her!” Lucy exclaims.

“Because she was my TO, not yours,” Tim argues.

“She doesn’t seem that much older than you.”

“I’m not that much older than you.”

Lucy raises her brows but remains silent this time.

“Our ages don’t matter. Aren’t you supposed to be in the shop?” Tim argues.

“Aren’t you?”

Tim tilts his head to the side, and Lucy decides this isn’t a battle worth fighting. She’ll ask about you later, anyway. After Lucy walks away, Tim glances towards Wade’s office once more. He remembers every moment he spent with you, and the memories are making it hard to focus.

“You drive,” Tim tells Lucy as he enters the garage area.

“Are you serious?”

“Am I ever unserious?”

Lucy nods and takes the keys from him. As she climbs into the driver’s seat, she realizes why he doesn’t want to drive. He can’t, for some reason.

“You had a crush on your TO,” she accuses quietly.

“Do you want me to quiz you on everything in the rook book?” Tim replies. “Because if you keep this up, that’s what you have to look forward to.”

“You don’t have one.”

“No, because I actually know everything in it. Now, you can pick. Be quiet and drive or I start asking questions about cavity search procedures.”

“I will be quiet and drive,” Lucy decides. “For now.”

Tim takes a deep breath as he remembers the rook book you kept with you when he was a boot. Every memory he has of you is good, and now he’s concerned that Lucy is right. Not that he did have a crush on you, he knows he did, but that he still does.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Bradford,” Wade calls over the radio. “I need you and Chen to return to the station.”

“Copy that,” Tim responds.

“What do you think that’s about?” Lucy asks.

“The Metro inspection.”

“I didn’t know about a Metro inspection.”

“I can tell you’re about to burst, so you can ask one question before we get back to the station,” Tim offers.

“Ooh! Wait, just one? How am I supposed to choose? Because I want to know about what kind of TO she was, but I also need to ask if she knows that you liked her.”

“Choose one.”

Lucy taps her fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before smiling. “Did she test you like you test me?”

“Are you asking if she had a version of Tim Tests?”

“Yes.”

Tim nods as he answers, “Yeah. She gave me tests. It’s one of the reasons I started doing Tim Tests. Practical knowledge and experience are important, but she’s the one who taught me that.”

“That’s so cute! You based your teaching style on your teacher crush.”

“Chen,” Tim warns.

“Okay, okay. Then did she quiz you on the rook book, too?”

Lucy knows she is pressing her luck with asking another question. Tim doesn’t answer, and as she nears the station, Lucy expects he’ll make her do pushups later.

“Yeah, she did. Always had a copy of the rook book with her. Sometimes, she’d read it while I drove around and would only talk to me to ask me questions.”

Lucy smiles to herself, now completely convinced that Tim had a crush on you. The way he talks about you and remembers you, though, makes her think those feelings may still be alive. Once the shop is parked at the station, Lucy decides to get to the bottom of Tim’s relationship with you, and if there isn’t one, she needs to make something happen.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Bradford, thanks for coming back so quickly,” Wade says. “Head into my office. Chen, I’ve got an assignment for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy replies.

“There’s a Metro inspection happening today, and I need you to take the Metro officer around, show her everything she needs to see, make introductions, whatever she asks.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucy tries to hide her smile because she suspects that you are the Metro officer she’s about to spend a bunch of time with. Maybe you’ll be more open than Tim. When you approach her with a smile, Lucy knows that her investigation of your relationships will be more fun than your inspection of the station.

“Officer Chen, sorry to pull you from patrol, but Sergeant Grey said you were one of the best,” you greet.

“No problem,” Lucy says. “And you can call me Lucy if you want.”

“Okay, Lucy, I would love a tour of Mid-Wilshire station. It’s been a long time since I was here, so walk me through like it’s my first time.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lucy turns and leads you toward the front desk, to start the tour as she would with a visitor.

“Lucy?” you ask. “What’s Tim like as a TO?”

“He’s great. I mean, he’s grumpy and has a ton of Tim Tests, but I like riding with him.”

“Tim Tests,” you murmur under your breath. “Cute.”

Lucy smiles at your reaction before she begins the tour. You don’t mention Tim again for a while, and Lucy thinks that you are too focused on your inspection to think about him. As you near the bullpen at the end of the tour, Tim is exiting Wade’s office.

“You abducted my boot for a personalized tour?” Tim asks you.

“Lucy mentioned Tim Tests,” you say, changing the subject. “Don’t tell me copied my rook book move, too.”

Tim rubs his thumb across his jaw before answering, “I didn’t.”

“He told me that you used to carry a rook book around and would ask him questions,” Lucy interjects. “I’m really glad he didn’t take that idea.”

You look at Tim with a smile as you ask, “That’s all you told her?”

Lucy looks back and forth between you and Tim, but neither of you seems to remember she’s there.

“The rook book wasn’t a rook book,” Tim says after a moment. “It was just a book that she put the cover on. Those days that she didn’t want to talk to me, she’d just read through our shift and ask me random questions to make it look like she was doing her job.”

“Yeah. Because I’m the one who had trouble doing my job,” you reply with a laugh.

Tim shakes his head, and Lucy suddenly feels the urge to interrupt before he says something out of line.

“How’s the inspection going?” he asks instead.

“How’d your meeting go?” you counter. “Because the inspection is just a cover and we both know it.”

“Cover for what?” Lucy asks.

“She’s recruiting for Metro,” Tim explains. “Looking for the best talent in our station to move to a new team.”

“We’ve got three openings,” you remind him. “Just think about it, okay?”

Tim looks toward Lucy, but you give him a knowing nod. Lucy feels lost like a kid listening to her parents talk about something she hasn’t experienced yet.

“Thanks for the tour, Officer Chen,” you say. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

You say bye to Tim before walking past him. His fingers flex at his side as you pass, close enough to touch. Tim closes his eyes for a moment before turning to Lucy.

“Let’s go. Patrol isn’t over yet,” he says.

“Are you sure you don’t want to grab a book first?” she responds. “I know, shop. I’m going.”

✯✯✯✯✯

After the day of your inspection, Lucy doesn’t hear your name again. Tim returns to his high-stress tests, driving, and random procedural questions. You clearly made an impact on Tim just by being near him, and as Lucy’s rookie exam gets closer, she wonders if Tim pushed you away.

“Can I ask a question?” Lucy asks.

“Depends. Is it about the exam? Because that’s all you should be concerned about,” Tim says.

“No. Well, sort of. Did your TO help you study?”

“Are we talking about my experience as a rookie or about my TO?”

“Your TO,” Lucy answers softly.

“Fine. Ask away.”

“Why hasn’t she been back?”

“She has a job. Metro is busy, so she doesn’t have a lot of time to make personal visits.”

“Did she offer you one of the positions?”

“She did.”

“And you didn’t take it? Why not?”

“Because you’re still a rookie. I have to get you through this.”

“You could’ve handed me off, that happens all the time. Did you say no because of her?”

“I didn’t say no, Chen. I said not yet.”

“Metro positions don’t open every day! You can’t throw away your career to drive me around for a few more months!”

“Lucy!” Tim yells. “Drop it.”

Lucy sits back and presses her lips together to stay quiet. Tim’s cell phone rings, and he glances at it before raising it to his ear.

“Hello?” Tim answers.

Lucy looks over in shock. Tim has never answered a personal call in the time they’ve been riding together. Whoever is on the other end speaks for a moment, and Tim listens intently.

“Got it… Yep, see you then.”

Tim ends the call and drops his phone to continue driving.

“Who was that?” Lucy asks.

Tim looks over but doesn’t answer. He says, “Read your rook book,” and keeps driving.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Officer Bradford,” you call as he and Lucy enter the station.

Tim leaves Lucy and walks to you. He stops beside Wade’s office and waits for you to begin. You told him on the phone to come straight to the station when his shift ended and he’s ready to know why. Nolan and Jackson enter behind Lucy and silence as they watch Tim talk to you.

“Who is that?” Nolan whispers.

“Tim’s TO,” Lucy answers.

“My captain wanted to call you, but I thought it would be better to tell you in person,” you begin. “You passed the Metro test, and your spot is waiting for you.”

Tim smiles, glad he has his back to the rookies. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything I haven’t done before.”

“Which is?”

“See potential in you.”

Tim nods and thanks you again. You look over his shoulder and the rookies look away quickly, but they’re less than stealthy and it is obvious they’re trying to listen in.

“Has Lucy been asking about me?” you ask.

“Nonstop. Don’t look so happy about it, though.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Mostly if I had a crush on you.”

“We both know you did,” you say.

Tim doesn’t argue, and your smile grows.

“I know you told her about my tests and the rookie book, but what else does she know?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s interesting. Because I don’t know any more than that and I’ve known you a whole lot longer.” You glance down at your Metro uniform before adding, “Oh, and my captain also said that Metro officers are allowed to have interpersonal relationships as long as they don’t interfere with work.”

Tim looks up quickly with wide eyes. You stifle a laugh, and he rolls his eyes.

“So… are you ready to admit you had a crush on me?” you ask.

“Something like that.”

You wave at Lucy and step away from Tim. He reaches an arm out to stop you, but you only wink at him before you continue walking.

“Are you going to do something this time?” Wade asks as he exits his office.

“We’ll see,” Tim answers. “Lucy has to pass the rookie exam first.”

“It looks like she just got herself a tutor.”

Tim turns and finds you and Lucy talking excitedly. You smile at him, and Tim feels like a boot again.

“This is gonna be fun,” Wade and Lucy say simultaneously.

Neither you nor Tim hear them, too busy looking at one another.

> part 2: Rook Book to Remember Me By

I have a (The rookie) Tim Bradford x shyreader request please?

Tim and shyreader just recently start dating and one time when Tim, shyreader and his cop friends are at a restaurant “Denny’s” (I always order pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausages with Coca Cola) and Tim cop friends are meeting shy!reader.

Tim is surprised when Lucy and shy!reader have secret new best friends handshake and everyone finds it cute while Tim is being sad and surprised puppy asking himself when did this happen. https://youtube.com/shorts/WUON5Q4HDuc?si=4cot1jSQiyi5F-zI

Such a cute request; thank you! 0.7k+ words of fluff (I couldn't figure out how to make it longer without it being super boring. I hope this is okay!)

Secret Relationships, Handshakes, and Pancakes

“It’s been a month,” Tim points out.

“Five weeks and two days,” you correct softly, looking at Tim’s hands rather than his face.

“That’s worse.”

You glance up at him, unsurprised to see that he’s looking directly at you. He hides his smile and lifts his brows.

“Breakfast with a few of my friends can’t be that bad,” he assures. “I don’t even like spending time with them, but I’m still going.”

You push your hand against Tim’s chest before you ask, “Will Lucy be there?”

“Yes,” Tim answers, wondering why you’d ask about her. He’s told you stories about all of them, but this is the big day (Angela’s words) when you finally meet them.

Nodding, you agree to go, then wrap your arms tightly around Tim’s waist. He uses your grip on him to get you out of the door and into his truck. It’s not that you don’t like spending time with Tim or don’t want to meet his friends, but it’s hard being around new people when you’re shy, and you don’t want to make a bad impression and lose Tim forever.

“It’ll be right out,” the waitress says after taking drink orders.

“Thanks,” you whisper to Tim.

“For what?” he replies, lifting his brows innocently like he doesn’t remember ordering for you.

“Tim!” Lucy calls as the door to the restaurant opens behind you.

You smile and turn, then stand and hug Lucy. She pulls back and offers her right hand, which you take in yours. Tim watches as you shake her hand, then flip your fingers to hold her wrist before sliding your palms against one another. Laughing as you hook your fingers with Lucy’s, then snap, you almost forget that other people are around.

“Um, excuse me?” Angela interjects as she stops beside you. “I want a handshake.”

“It’s reserved for best friends,” Lucy argues. She winks at you as she sits beside you.

Angela groans, then smiles and introduces herself and Wesley Evers. You shake their hands before you lower to your seat. Tim’s eyes are on you, but your neck is already warming, so you keep your gaze forward.

“I was under the impression we were all meeting you for the first time today,” Angela tells you, looking pointedly at Lucy.

“We met at the station,” Lucy explains. “I recognized her from one of Tim’s pictures.”

“When did you see my pictures?” Tim interrupts, momentarily distracted from his internal wondering of how you and Lucy hit it off so quickly.

“Anyway,” Lucy deflects, “Nolan is running a few minutes late, but he’ll be here soon.”

“Did you come up with the handshake yourself?” Wesley asks you.

“I did,” you answer softly. “But it was Lucy’s idea.”

“Were you on the clock?” Tim inquires over your head.

“No,” you and Lucy answer together.

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and looks down to ask, “How long have you been friends?”

“About a month,” Lucy answers.

Their conversation is interrupted by the waitress returning with drinks for the table. After Angela thanks Tim for remembering her favorite, Tim gently taps his elbow against your arm. You turn toward him and interlace your fingers beneath the table.

“So, while I was fighting to get you to talk to me, hold eye contact… you were hanging out with Lucy and making secret handshakes?” he accuses.

“Bet you’re wishing you’d picked up Nolan,” Wesley tells Lucy.

“Wasn’t the goal of breakfast to let us bond?” Lucy defends for you. “We just bonded early.”

“He’s mad that you stole his girlfriend’s limited attention,” Angela explains. She meets your eyes and smiles. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you promise. “Sorry I didn’t tell you, Tim.”

Tim sighs and murmurs, “I suppose there will be even more handshakes now.” As Angela cheers, he reaches across the table for a straw and uses his arm as cover to whisper, “I’m the only one who gets secret kisses, though.”

You nod, fighting the shy smile growing at his words.

“Hey, Nolan,” Wesley calls. “Lucky for you, no one else has to talk once John gets here.”

Tim takes your hand under the table, and as his thumb brushes over your knuckles, you know your relationship is better than all the secret handshakes in the world. But then he orders for you, and the women at the table act like it’s the sweetest thing anyone has done since Fitzwilliam Darcy walked to propose to Elizabeth Bennet. You turn to hide your face against his arm.

“Wait, handshakes?” Nolan exclaims a moment later. “I love handshakes!”

“No you don’t,” Tim warns, his hand warm against your back.

I had this dream where reader works as an emt firefighter and in her turnout jacket she's got a little stash of snacks where after an emergency she offers people snacks on the way back to the 118 station, and she always gives buck his favs bc they're in a secret relationship

Dunno I thought it was cute and sweet, like proper mom friend vibes

SPECIAL TREATMENT — E.BUCKLEY

you know buck well, and you pride yourself on it. and whilst you try to keep your adoration for him under wraps during shifts, he still gets a little bit of special treatment.

evan buckley x gn!reader | 1.3k | fluff | masterlist.

a/n - this is such a cute idea :(

The sirens wailed as the fire engine rumbled through the streets, red lights flashing against the sky. You sat in the back, your heart still racing from the adrenaline of the call.

It had been a tough one—a nasty car accident that had left both cars in a mangled heap. But everyone made it out okay, thank god, you weren’t sure you or anyone else in the team had the mental energy to deal with the aftermath of that today.

You leaned your head back against the seat, trying to catch your breath. The smell of smoke and sweat still clung to your skin, the weight of your turnout gear pressing heavily on your shoulders.

It wasn’t your first call of the night, and it wouldn’t be your last, but this one had taken its toll.

“Hey, you good?”

Buck’s voice cut through the noise of the engine, echoing in your headpiece. He was sitting next to you, his helmet resting on his lap, his blue eyes filled with concern. He’d seen the way you’d thrown yourself into the chaos of the scene—no hesitation, just action. It’s one of the things he admired about you. But you knew he also worried. You worried about him, too.

“Yeah,” you replied, offering him a small smile. “Just... long night.”

Buck nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned back to stare out the window.

The two of you were good at keeping up the act, at hiding what simmered beneath the surface, especially when you were surrounded by your crew. No one at the station knew about your relationship, and you both preferred it that way—for now anyway. It was easier to keep things separate, to focus on the job without worrying about what everyone else thought about the two of you abandoning your professionality to pursue a romantic relationship.

But still, you had your little moments.

As the engine slowed, winding through the LA streets back toward the firehouse, you felt the familiar weight of your turnout jacket shift. Your secret stash was in there, tucked away in a small interior pocket. After every call, it had become your little ritual—a way to ease the tension, to offer comfort in the smallest way possible.

Quietly, you reached into the pocket and pulled out a granola bar and a bag of Buck’s favorite pretzels. It had started as a joke between you two, a way to break the ice after long, stressful shifts. But now it was just, well, a part of your routine.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, holding the pretzels out toward him. He looked down, his eyes lighting up with that boyish grin you loved.

“Seriously?” He mouthed, trying not to let the others overhear.

You roll your eyes with an amused smile. “You know I always come prepared.”

Buck shook his head, chuckling under his breath as he took the bag from your hand. His fingers brushed against yours for just a second—too quick for anyone else to notice, but long enough to send a warm tingle up your arm.

“You spoil me,” he murmured, tearing open the bag and popping a pretzel into his mouth.

“Someone has to,” you shot back, leaning back against the seat again, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Can’t have you running on fumes.”

Buck glanced over at you, his gaze softening for a moment. “I think you just like having an excuse to feed me.”

You shrugged, playful. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know what you’re like when you get hangry.”

The engine finally pulled into the station, and as the others began to climb out, you slipped the granola bar into his hand before anyone could see. He caught your eye, his gratitude clear, and you gave him a quick wink before turning to help unload the equipment.

As the night wore on, the crew went about their usual post-call routine—checking equipment, cleaning up, and trying to unwind after the chaos. But your secret little exchange with Buck stayed with you.

It wasn’t a grand gesture or declaration of love—it was a granola bar and a packet of pretzels after a call— but it was something that meant you knew him, that you cared about him and his wellbeing.

And like knowing what snacks he liked after a tough call, he always made sure to walk on the side of the street closer to traffic when you grabbed coffee together on your days off, or guided you away from streetlamps you might bump into when you’re walking on your phone.

Inside the firehouse, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly as everyone filtered into the kitchen, grabbing water bottles and snacks from the fridge. You slipped in beside Buck, leaning against the counter while he made himself a quick sandwich.

“So,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, “does this mean I get special treatment forever?”

You gave him a sidelong glance, suppressing a smile. “Special treatment?”

He held up the empty pretzel bag with a grin. “Snacks after every call. Feels like I’m getting VIP service.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping him gently with your shoulder. “Only because you’re secretly my favourite.”

Buck leaned in just a fraction, head tilting in amusement. “I better be.”

His breath brushed against your ear, and for a split second, the world narrowed to just the two of you, the low hum of the kitchen fading into the background.

You fought the urge to kiss him right there, to let the rest of the crew in on what you’d been keeping to yourselves. But instead, you pulled away, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Don’t get cocky, Buckley.”

His laugh was soft, just for you. “Too late.”

“Fyi,” You turn to switch on the coffee machine, a fond smile on your face. “I have snacks for everyone, not just you,”

Buck gasps like he’s in a telanovela, a hand clapping into his chest. “Now that is betrayal,”

You roll your eyes with a laugh, full and hearty and exactly how Buck thinks you deserve to feel for the rest of your life.

“They’re your favourites though, so you can’t be mad at me,” You give him a smug smile, and he sighs.

He could never be mad at you. God just looking at your face has him feeling like he’s in heaven.

“I love you,”

Its a little brash for being stood in the middle of the fire station, but Buck didn’t mind, not when you looked like that. Like you held the whole world in those beautiful eyes and spoke nothing but poetry from your lips.

You laugh, a quick glance across the room for the presence of your coworkers before your response. “I love you too,”

No one else knew, and for now, that was fine.

You had your little rituals, your secret moments tucked away between emergency calls and late-night shifts.

It was enough for now—more than enough, really.

Because as long as you could offer him his favorite snacks after a tough night, as long as he could flash you that boyish grin and know you were there, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Father's Faults

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: Tim is distracted by his memories of his father, so you find an unprecedented way to keep him focused. After he lashes out at you for overstepping, he realizes that you understand and have your own memories to battle. Rather than bonding over that, you accept what's been between you since you first met.

Warnings: discussion of child abuse, domestic violence, Tim and r have a lot of childhood and job-related trauma, angst to fluff, confessions and kisses

Word Count: 3.8k+ words

A/N: @nevereclipse inspired this with magnificent ideas about Tim and a traumatized reader. I hope you like it!!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info

There’s a scuff in the dashboard of Tim’s shop. It’s been there for as long as you can remember, but there’s something different about it today. Tracing the ragged scrape marks with your eyes, you try to come up with a story about how it got there or an explanation for its appearance. Anything other than acknowledging the tense silence in the car or your partner's tight grip on the steering wheel.

“7-Adam-100,” dispatch radios, “there’s an active home invasion in your area.”

“7-Adam-100 responding,” Tim replies, dropping the radio after he finishes.

You don’t speak, opting to look out the window as Tim drives to the address with the blue lights spinning. Part of you feels like you should know what’s bothering Tim, but he’s not exactly easy to read, nor is he willing to admit that something is going on. So, until - or if - you can deduce what’s making him so distant and easily angered this week, you’ll give him the room and the quiet he clearly desires.

“Side gate is open,” Tim says as he parks beside the neighbor’s house. “We’ll use it for entry, split up and clear the house. I’ll go right.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, opening your door.

As you follow Tim through the gate and duck under windows lining the side of the house, you focus on the job. Tim’s back muscles are tense beneath his uniform, and if you aren’t careful, you’ll think about him and let your guard down. Entering the broken back door, you tap Tim’s shoulder before you turn left into a small dining area. With your gun raised, you move quickly but carefully through the room. A crash sounds down the hall, so you press your back to the wall and move toward the noise, keeping your steps light and breathing quiet.

Tim exits a door behind you, and you drop your gun as soon as you realize it’s him. Moving together, you prepare to enter the room where the intruder is shouting demands.

“On three,” Tim whispers, covering the door so you can enter. “One. Two. Three.”

He pushes the door open, stepping into the doorway as you move inside. 

“LAPD!” you announce. “Put your hands up!”

The large man - whose boot likely matches the shoe print on the back door - bares his teeth at you before he turns to the woman guarding her son. They’re both sporting bruises and a wound at the woman’s hairline drips blood down her cheek.

“Let me see your hands!” you demand, stepping toward the man.

Tim doesn’t move, his eyes bouncing between the suspect and the young boy cowering behind his mother.

“It’s my house,” the man says.

“Not anymore,” the woman interjects. “We have a restraining order.”

With his jaw clenched, Tim lowers his gun and steps forward. “Last chance. You walk out with us or you can keep being a coward and we’ll drag you out.”

The man sneers, turning toward Tim as he prepares to lunge. You holster your weapon quickly, pulling your taser out instead. Pointing it at the larger man’s chest, you shake your head.

“Is that your son?” you ask. “Do you really want him to remember you like this?”

He hesitates, then swings. Tim ducks out of his reach at the last second, and you depress the trigger on the taser, sending 1,500-volt pulses through his body as he folds in on himself and collapses.

Tim steps over the man’s leg to cuff him, and you set your taser down to approach the man’s son and his ex-wife. The boy clings to his mother but looks up at your shield with a small smile.

“We’re Code 4, need an RA at this location,” Tim alerts. “One in custody.”

“This card has my number on it,” you say, offering a large cardstock square to the woman before you. “There’s also a list of numbers on the back that can help support you during this time. The domestic violence hotline can give you information about keeping your address private and hopefully preventing something like this in the future.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “He just showed up out of nowhere.”

You pull a tissue off a nearby table and offer it to her, watching her son as she presses it to her bleeding forehead. The ambulance is only a few minutes away, but you kneel to check on the boy.

“Let’s go,” Tim murmurs, hauling the abusive father to his feet.

“I need an ambulance!” he moans. “She tased me.”

“You will be seen, but you’re trespassing.”

“I can’t walk,” he argues.

“Then I’ll drag you,” Tim snaps.

The man stands then, his head hanging toward his chest as he pulls his feet rather than taking normal steps. You notice that Tim has his hand on the handcuffs rather than the suspect’s arm. Tim's past, you remember. Tim has been in this situation before, he knows precisely what this mother and child are thinking, and that’s why he reacted like he did. There has to be more to it, though.

Tim is thinking about something and he endangers himself every time the thought surfaces.

“Bradford is all yours,” Angela says, shaking her head as she exits Wade’s office. “I know he’s going through some stuff, but how do you deal with him when he’s like this?”

“What’s he going through?” you ask, looking through the glass door.

“It’s almost the anniversary of his dad’s death,” she explains. “I understand being a little touchy, but-”

“We took a domestic call this morning,” you complain, pressing your thumb and forefingers against your eyes. “I didn’t realize the date. I should have told him to let someone else handle it.”

“He’s a cop, he can handle the job,” Angela assures you. She looks at Tim and sighs. “I just… none of us can get through to him. It’s like he’s holding himself hostage in his own memories.”

“I- I’ll see what I can do,” you offer.

“Don’t beat yourself up if he won’t talk. And don’t take anything he says this week personally.”

“You ready?” Tim asks, exiting Wade’s office.

“Yeah,” you answer, nodding to Angela as you follow Tim back to the shop. If he’s thinking about his dad too much, maybe you can give him something else to consider.

The corner store is silent as you walk down the center aisle. At midnight, the building is empty, the radio is off, and the cashier sits silently at the register, earbuds in as she stares at her phone. You should find the silence enjoyable after being yelled at by Tim four times in one night. Instead, it makes you uncomfortable, desperate for something to happen.

“Aha,” you murmur when you find the small selection of cleaning products.

It’s probably a bad idea, you think while you fill the small, handheld shopping basket with various items. You tried to get Tim’s mind off his dad, and their strained past, but none of your attempts were successful. He thought about you long enough to yell, accuse you of overstepping, and make vague threats to discourage you from attempting to make small talk with him. But even then, he retreated into his mind as soon as you agreed and fell quiet again.

“Uh,” the cashier mumbles when you place the basket on the counter. “Is this… you good?”

You look at the odd collection of items ranging from candy and a Dodgers sweatshirt to twine and a spray bottle, smiling. “Yeah.”

“Whatever you say.”

Tim glances at your bag as you place it on the floorboard of the shop but doesn’t say anything. You’ll let him reach his own conclusions about its contents for now. After double-checking with Angela this morning, you learned that there are two days until the actual anniversary of Tom Bradford’s death, and you plan to help Tim through the next forty-eight hours, no matter what it takes.

Now that you've been reminded of the date, it’s clear that Tim is thinking about his father. His tight jaw, distant stare, defiant act of threatening an abusive father, and how he stands at least a foot away from everyone, even if it’s someone he knows and trusts, it's all indicative of his trauma response. Thinking back to yesterday, you remember that he stiffened when you touched his back during calls, and it all begins to make sense.

Tim has a tell, you discover. When he’s thinking about his past, his nostrils flare. You will never admit to watching him that closely, especially not to someone like Angela or Nell, who are convinced you’re in love with him. Yet, you observed him enough yesterday afternoon and during roll call to confirm your suspicion. Even as you watch him now, his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, and his nostrils flare quickly.

“What’s your opinion on stop and frisk?” you inquire.

His hand relaxes as he furrows his brows and asks, “As a policing technique or in general?”

“Policing.”

“So, Terry stops. I think that if there’s reasonable suspicion and no bias it is a useful and protective tactic.”

“Interesting. How can you tell if there’s bias, though? And what makes suspicion reasonable?”

“What are you doing?” Tim asks.

“I’m making conversation, getting opinions, learning,” you list dramatically. “Is that so bad?”

“When we’re in this shop, we’re partners. I’m not your personal podcast.”

“That would actually be really nice,” you reply. “Anyone ever told you your voice is soothing?”

“Stop.”

“It’s just a question!”

“Stop.”

You lift your hands in surrender and turn into your seat properly again. Tim drives through a green light, sees a father walking his son into a playground, and the look returns. You sigh and pull your bag open.

“What was that?!” Tim exclaims, swerving slightly as his right hand raises to his face.

“It’s water,” you answer, shaking the spray bottle. “I need you focused. I can’t worry about you or we’ll both get killed.”

“Focused? I am your superior!” Tim argues as he wipes his hand on his pants.

“Then work with me,” you plead.

“What makes you think I’m unfocused?” he inquires.

“You’re thinking about other things. Just… keep your mind in this shop today, and I won’t spray you again.”

“If you like this job you won’t spray me again,” Tim amends.

“If that’s what you need to hear.”

“She bought Wesley a tie with lobsters on it,” Angela tells Nyla.

“My dad has a tie with fish,” Lucy says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You called?” you interrupt as you follow Tim to the detectives' desks.

“Yeah, we need you to run down a lead,” Nyla answers. “Unless you’d rather hear about Lucy’s dad’s ugly ties.”

“Hey, I chose some of those ties! Father’s Day is coming up if you want to know where I got them,” she offers.

“Oh, I already bought James a gift,” Nyla answers with faux disappointment.

“What lead?” Tim asks.

Standing behind Tim with one hand behind your back, you spray him without anyone noticing. He turns his head toward you, his eyes warning you to stop. You smile, nodding along with Nyla’s explanation.

“I am not a cat,” Tim whispers as you exit the station.

“Then take the hint,” you reply softly.

Nyla’s lead was indeed helpful, and you deliver a new suspect to the station before you return to patrol. In the shop, you hold the spray bottle in your lap as Tim drives. When you move your fingers toward the top, Tim slams on the brakes and snatches it out of your hand.

“You don’t get to decide what I think about!” he exclaims. “If you’re so worried that I can’t do this job right now, then get out and go back to the station.”

“Tim, that’s not what-”

“It is not your business,” he continues. Loudly. You flinch, but he's too mad to notice. “It is not your place to be my therapist and tell me to only think about good things or to stay in the moment. Whatever it is you think is on my mind is not worth this!”

You take several breaths, watching Tim’s chest heave.

“I know it’s almost the anniversary,” you say, forcing your voice to stay level as you press your palms against your thighs. “Your dad… he clearly got to you, your childhood affects you. And that’s okay. I’m not saying to forget everything or let those experiences become meaningless.”

“Then let it go.”

You look down at your hands as Tim drops the spray bottle beside your feet and begins driving again.

“I’m sorry,” you offer after several minutes. “It was affecting you, and I thought giving you something else to think about would help.”

“Not your call,” Tim grumbles.

Nodding, you locate the scuff on the dashboard, staring at it until your vision blurs. 

“How’d that mark get there?” you whisper.

“What?” Tim asks, glancing toward you. “I don’t know.”

“There were marks on my mom’s dash, too,” you say. “Nobody knew how they got there. Nothing we would admit while my dad was around, anyway.”

Tim’s eyes find you again, his gaze different. But you’re still looking at the scratched plastic.

“It was like a switch was flipped,” you confess. “One day, he was at a recital, cheering on his baby. And the next… there were marks on the dashboards and new scars that- that I didn’t ask for. So, I have an idea of how painful the memories can be, how far and how fast they can drag you under until it feels like you’re drowning. I went about it wrong, and I can see that now, so I’m sorry. But my intentions are still the same. I don’t want to sit by while a memory of being hurt keeps hurting you.”

Tim doesn’t reply as he shifts his eyes back to the road. You don’t watch him during the remainder of your shift to know if his nostrils flare or if his breathing returns to normal after his outburst. What you do know is that if Tim is willing to let himself be controlled by memories, you can’t stay close enough to watch it happen.

Scrolling through your notifications as you exit the station, you let your body run on autopilot as you make your way home. You’re nearly across the parking lot when someone says your name. You stop and look up, surprised to see Tim’s full attention on you.

“Lopez thinks you were flirting with me,” Tim says, leaning against the tailgate of his truck.

“When?” you ask. There are several feet between you, and you’d prefer to keep it that way.

“Well, she says it pretty often, but the spray bottle. She noticed that my back was wet, saw it in the shop, put it together.”

You nod, holding your phone with both hands so you don’t fidget and expose how uncomfortable you are.

“Could we talk?” Tim asks.

“Not if it’s about me flirting with you,” you reply lightly.

Tim’s lips quirk up. “No. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you flirt, and that wasn’t it.”

“Then, what do you want to talk about?”

“What I’m not supposed to think about.” Tim slides his hands into his front pockets and shrugs. “I should talk to someone, not just retreat into who I used to be, dissect what could have been different. I just thought… If I’m going to talk, I need to tell someone I trust. Someone who understands.”

“And that’s me? Last I heard, I was overstepping and needed to let it go.”

Tim nods, stepping back toward his driver’s door.

“But,” you call after him, “if you’ve changed your mind, we can talk.”

Tim’s house is warm, comfortable, manly, and everything you expected. Yet, it’s awkward as you lower onto his couch and watch him move in his kitchen. It’s oddly domestic, but the connection between you and Tim is hanging on by a thread. 

“I’m not mad at you,” Tim says suddenly. With his hands spread on the counter, he watches you. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. I… my mind feels like my archenemy some days, and I fight that battle alone. You tried to help, and I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“No one knows the mess we’re in,” you agree. “The voices in my head say I’m being paranoid, but I know it will pull me under someday if I let it. You don’t have to apologize, Tim. I get it.”

“I don’t know what hurts worse, letting go or remembering,” Tim adds, walking to the couch with two glasses. He sets one in front of you, then sits beside you. There’s not as much distance between you now, but the vulnerability makes it feel like you’re exposed face-to-face.

“You were right,” Tim admits. “I’ve been thinking about what happened when I was a kid, wondering where everything went wrong, trying to identify something I could have done differently. Now that he’s gone, I guess I’ll never know.”

“Tim,” you breathe out, your heart breaking for him. “That was not your fault. None of it was because of you.”

“You’ve never wondered?”

“I didn’t say that.” You lift your glass, holding it between your hands to look down at it. “I used to lay awake at night trying to figure out what part of me was so broken that someone would do that to me. Especially someone I loved and who was supposed to love me.”

“But it’s not our fault,” Tim repeats. “It’s theirs.”

“And we can’t save everyone.”

“We shouldn’t have had to save anyone. Not even ourselves. I think back now, and I don’t remember my dad ever hitting my mom. He was verbally abusive, threatened to go farther, exhausted her emotionally and mentally. I tried to stay between him and Genny.”

“From what I’ve heard, you protected Genny from more than the bruises,” you offer. “You’re an incredible person, Tim.”

Tim smiles, turning his head toward you as his elbows rest on his thighs. “Was that flirting?”

“You’ll know when I’m flirting, Bradford,” you answer with a smile.

“When I was deployed, there were a couple guys whose wives divorced them,” Tim begins. “I found myself wondering why my mom didn’t do that. My dad would disappear for a week or so here and there. She could have left, but she didn’t.”

“I think moms try to fix everything in the only way they know how. If my mom even knew, she never showed it. But, I wondered the same thing. 20/20 hindsight, I guess.”

Tim empties his glass, then says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” you inquire, setting your cup beside his.

“The stuff in my locker? No one else would have put it there.”

You duck your chin to hide your smile. “It’s what I wanted when I was stuck in this cycle as a kid. I had panic attacks for a while. Music, something comfortable to wear, something rough to hold and ground myself with, and snacks I wouldn’t get otherwise felt like an escape to a world where I was safe, different.”

“I saw a therapist who told me to find ‘a portal to a better world’ when my PTSD was at its worst,” Tim says, leaning back against the couch, his hand falling toward you. “I was reliving memories that were killing me, and couldn’t figure out how to stop the bloodshed long enough to discover Narnia.”

“Narnia?” you repeat. “I didn’t realize you were a man of taste.”

“Next time, you won’t try to distract me with sports.”

“No. Although, I’d prefer a world where there isn’t a next time.”

“That’s a world we’d have to make.”

You lock eyes with Tim, shifting closer to him as the soft hum of his air conditioner fills the room.

“Are you okay?” you whisper, brushing your fingers against Tim’s.

“Would it sound like I was flirting if I said I am now?” he questions, leaning toward you as he smiles.

“Maybe,” you admit. “But would that be such a bad thing?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Me neither. After all, you trust me and I understand.”

Tim rolls his eyes at your teasing, and when you inhale, preparing to continue, he raises his right hand to your face, holding your jaw. You silence, watching Tim’s eyes.

“I don’t…” he begins. “I don’t want to be crutches.”

“Tim,” you breathe. “We’re not showing each other our scars to learn how to support each other. I’m telling you who I am because you make me better. You help me see who I am now, not who I force myself to see in the mirror. You aren’t my salvation, but I think you could be something.”

“I’ve lived in fear for most of my adult life that I couldn’t love someone, that I could tell them the truth about everything, about me. With you… telling the truth is as easy as breathing.”

“Breathing before, after, or during a panic attack?” you clarify.

“Why are we even having this conversation?” Tim jokes, shrugging. “You’ve been flirting with me for years, you clearly want me.”

“Then I guess it’s up to you,” you reply. “We’re at the edge, Tim. It’s your call. Are we going over the edge or running back to safety?”

“Tell me something about yourself,” Tim requests, pushing your hair over your shoulder.

You hum, dragging your fingers along his forearm. “I thought I was undesirable until I was, like, mid-20s.”

“What changed?” 

You shrug. “Put on the uniform, met a few badge bunnies, I don’t know. I still feel it sometimes.”

“With me?”

“No,” you whisper. “But I think you see more than my face. Your turn.”

Tim licks his lips as he thinks. “You know all my secrets now.”

“Then tell me something that isn’t a secret.”

“I didn’t think I’d be able to fall in love after Isabel. Not until a few years ago.”

“You had a girlfriend?”

Tim laughs. “What else changed a few years ago?”

You trace your own life back one year, then two, then… “Oh. Me?”

“Oh. You,” Tim repeats. “I was also called Reaper in the Army.”

“That’s so much cooler than falling in love with me. How’d you get that name?”

Tim’s lips are mere inches from you as he asks, “Is that really what you want to focus on right now?”

“Promise you know we’re not crutches?” you request.

Tim takes your hand and says, “I know. You’re clearly more of a walker.”

You huff, but Tim closes the distance - finally - and kisses you slowly. With his hand on your face, your hands joined, and your knees against his thigh, you forget everything except Tim Bradford and the future you want with him.

He pulls back first, searching your eyes before you drop your chin and kiss a scar on his neck. Tim takes a shaky breath as you sit back on your socked feet. You’d felt so out of place when you first arrived, and now you’re not sure you want to leave the comfort and seclusion of Tim’s home and his arms.

“You know we’re not going to be allowed to ride together anymore, right?” Tim asks.

“Yeah. Now we can do so much more,” you reply.

“Such a flirt,” Tim murmurs.

“I’m here for you,” you remind him. “No matter when, no matter what.”

Tim smiles as he pulls you closer. “Prove it.”

Bradford Bingo

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: Lucy makes Bradford Bingo for the station. You try to keep it from Tim, but you win in front of him. 1.0k+ words of fluff

Lucy slips a paper into your hand without comment, then walks away and does the same to Nyla. Nyla raises her hands in question and turns to you. You shrug and look down at the paper. It’s a bingo card, but not any bingo card; it’s Bradford Bingo. Your card has “calls someone boot,” “yells at another cop (besides you),” “gives the disappointed look,” and more.

There has to be something behind Lucy roping everyone in the station into a silent game of Bradford Bingo. You flip the card and see Lucy’s handwritten winner gets a prize ;) note.

“You ready?” Tim asks as he approaches you.

You hold the bingo card behind your leg and nod. Without knowing what the prize is – even if there was no prize – you want to win Bradford Bingo. There’s no doubt that he isn’t aware of the game, so you keep the card hidden from him as you sit in the passenger seat of his shop.

“Did Wade tell you why I’m riding with you?” you inquire as he pulls out of the garage.

“Yep,” he answers.

You press your lips together and mark “doesn’t offer additional information” off your card.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Making a note.”

You interact with other officers, listen to radio calls, and witness people marking blocks off their bingo cards throughout the next hour. Tim has clearly noticed the unusual attention and people marking cards. He doesn’t care enough or isn’t bothered enough to ask for more information.

“Ask your TO, boot,” Tim snaps as you leave a scene.

You mark the square and chew your bottom lip in thought. With only one square left in your diagonal line, you have a real shot at winning. Tim just needs to yell at an officer who isn’t you.

“7-Adam-19, requesting backup for signs of violence on scene,” Aaron radios.

“7-Adam-100, responding,” Tim responds before steering into a left turn.

“I love that you get to tell me what to do again,” you murmur as Tim parks outside the scene.

Tim turns in his seat and glares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and opens his door. That’s the disappointed look, but it’s still not the bingo you need. You mark it regardless and follow him to the front yard.

“You thought it was okay?” Tim demands, his voice rising. “You do not think on this job, you do!”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant Bradford,” the officer replies.

“Oh!” Tim's jaw tightens before he yells, “That makes it all better!”

You see Lucy approaching with Nolan, and don’t hesitate to yell, “Bingo!”

“What? Already?” Lucy asks, rushing to take your card. “It’s been two hours!”

You nod excitedly, then remember Tim is standing beside you. He simply looks at you, watching as Lucy congratulates you. The call takes precedence, so everyone shifts their focus from the game to the case.

When you get back in the shop, Tim doesn’t move.

“It was Lucy’s idea,” you begin, looking at your hands. “It was just fun, you know, nothing against you.”

Tim extends his hand toward you, palm up, and you place the card in it. He reads the activities you’ve marked off before giving it back.

“Why’d you play?” he asks.

“I… I knew I could win,” you admit.

“You think I’m that bad to ride with?” he challenges.

“Uh- no- no, sir, just…”

Tim fails to hold his laughter in when you call him sir and snorts before covering it with a cough. He moves his hand to cover his smile, and you look at him in shock.

“Why would you do that?” you exclaim.

“You could get another bingo with it.”

You roll your eyes and complain, “I don’t even know what the prize is.”

“Care to make a deal?”

You narrow your eyes but shake Tim’s hand anyway.

“If someone else gets a bingo, I’ll give you a prize in addition to Lucy’s.”

“That’s terrifying, Tim.”

 “Deal’s a deal.”

“Alright!” Lucy calls in the bullpen. “We had two bingos in today’s game! First prize is a gift card for free dinner!”

“How long have you known?” Tim asks Wade, watching the awards ceremony from inside his office.

“Who do you think offered the gift card?”

“No ulterior motive?”

“You’ll never know, Bradford.”

Tim raises his brows as you approach your car. You offer the gift card to him, but he knocks your hand away and opens your car door for you.

“My place,” he tells you before closing the door.

You prepare a dozen different apologies as you stand in his living room, waiting for him to tell you what’s going on.

“Tim-“

He raises his hand to stop you, and asks, “Did you know you got the only card without a free space in the middle?”

“I was riding with you, it probably made it fair.”

“Grey and Lucy worked together.”

“To make the game?”

“To show you that you…” Tim pauses to find the right word. “Tolerate me.”

“I-“

“We’re going to keep going in circles.”

You nod and admit, “It’s what we do.”

Tim pulls a bingo bard from his pocket and says, “This is the one Lucy was going to give you, but apparently she chickened out.”

The card has a red square in the middle, but instead of being a free space it says, Admit it already.

“Tim, I- I told Lucy about my feelings, but I didn't think-"

Tim cuts you off, his hands on either side of your face as he pulls you against him. You silence and look up at Tim as your hands meet his waist.

“Do you tolerate me?” he asks.

“You know I do more than that.”

“Enough for a lifetime of Bradford Bingo?”

You smile, wrap your arms around him, and kiss Tim. His fingers move to the back of your neck, tugging you closer as you melt into one another. Your legs hit the couch as you step back, and Tim spins so he falls back, and you barely manage to catch yourself above him.

“I’m really glad I won,” you pant, holding yourself up on the back of the couch with one hand.

“Maybe Lucy should make another game, one I could win.”

“I don’t have Bradford stereotypes.”

“Not yet.”

You don’t argue but smile before you shift your weight, wrapping your arms around Tim’s shoulders as you lower to meet him.

The Cook and The Teacher!

Let's pretend The Bear and Abbot Elementary are in the same city.

The meeting of Carmen (Carmy) Berzatto x Abbot Teacher Femreader! Sunshinereader!

Headcanons.

The day had been long, and Carmy was just trying to keep it together. He’d left The Bear earlier than usual—if you could call "earlier" 9 p.m.—and was heading upstairs to his apartment with a bag of takeout that was far less exciting than anything he cooked in the kitchen. His mind was still buzzing with half-finished ideas for new recipes and the stress of balancing the books. It wasn’t until he rounded the corner in the hallway that he saw you.

You were crouched on the floor outside the apartment next to his, wrestling with a particularly heavy box. A burst of bright, patterned fabric caught his eye—it was your socks. Your jeans were rolled up messily, revealing mismatched socks peeking out of your sneakers, and a stubborn strand of hair that kept falling to your face. You didn’t seem to notice him at first, too focused on trying to angle the box through the doorway.

“Uh, you need a hand?” Carmy asked, his voice quiet and even, as if he wasn’t entirely sure you’d hear him.

You startled slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes. A man—tall, with a mop of messy blond hair, tired blue eyes, and a hoodie that had definitely seen better days—stood a few steps away. He looked a little rough around the edges, like he’d just stepped out of a 12-hour shift. And, unbeknownst to you, he had.

For a moment, you seemed unsure whether to accept, but then you huffed, brushing your hair out of your face. “Honestly? Yes. Please. I think this box is plotting my downfall.”

Carmy set his takeout on the floor and stepped over. He crouched down beside you, studying the situation. “What’s in here? Bricks?”

You laughed, the sound warm and full, and it caught him off guard. “Close enough—books. I hoard them like a dragon.”

He smirked faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. Without another word, he lifted the box with relative ease, surprising you with how quickly he maneuvered it through your doorway. “Where do you want it?”

“Anywhere that’s not the hallway,” you said with a grin, stepping aside to let him pass. “But if you want to put it by the window, I won’t stop you.”

Carmy carried the box to the corner you pointed to, but as he turned back, his eyes lingered on you longer than he intended. Standing amidst the chaos of your half-unpacked apartment, you looked effortlessly natural—strands of hair falling loose, a faint smile on your lips, and a light, easy confidence that made the mess around you seem insignificant. The light caught your cheekbone, highlighting your warm, colorful presence, a stark contrast to the muted tones he was used to. The room was already full of little glimpses of your personality—colorful throw pillows piled on a couch, a small vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill, and a stack of what looked like hand-painted signs propped against the wall.

“Thanks for that,” you said, breaking his train of thought. “I owe you one.”

Carmy couldn’t help but think how effortlessly pretty you were, though he kept the thought to himself, letting it settle quietly in the back of his mind.

He shrugged, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You just saved me from throwing my back out. That’s definitely worth at least a plate of cookies or something.”

Carmy opened his mouth to respond, but you kept going, your energy bright and fast-paced. “Wait—are you my neighbor? Please tell me you’re not just some random guy who walked by and felt bad for me.”

“Uh, yeah,” Carmy said, scratching the back of his neck. “I live next door.”

Your face lit up. “Oh, good. I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you...?”

“Carmen,” he said. “Carmy.”

“Carmy,” you repeated, testing it out. “Alright, Carmy-next-door. Thanks for the rescue.”

He nodded awkwardly, his social skills feeling a little rusty. “Yeah. No problem.”

-----

Carmy was just about to head out for his usual coffee run before work when the knock came at his door. He hesitated for a moment, not used to anyone knocking on his door—especially not at this hour. He opened it cautiously, and there you were, standing on the other side, holding a plate covered in plastic wrap.

“Hey!” you said brightly, flashing him the kind of smile that felt a little too sunny for such an early hour. You hold the plate out toward him. "These are for you. My way of saying thanks for saving me from a very undignified fate yesterday.”

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, glancing down at the plate.

“Never joke about cookies,” you said solemnly, holding them out to him.

Carmy hesitated for a moment before taking the plate, his fingers brushing yours briefly.

“Uh thanks,” he said simply, his tone soft but sincere.

You tilted your head, your smile softening into something a little teasing. “That’s it? ‘Uh, thanks’? No ‘wow, these look amazing,’ or ‘you didn’t have to, Y/N, you’re too kind’?”

A chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, genuine smile. “Alright, fine. Wow, these look amazing. And you didn’t have to.”

“Much better,” you said, nodding approvingly. “I knew you had it in you, Carmy-next-door.”

“Carmy-next-door?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, leaning casually against the doorframe. “You didn’t tell me your last name, so I had to come up with something. If you’d prefer something fancier, we could workshop it.”

He shook his head, amused. “Carmy-next-door’s fine.”

There was a brief pause, and Carmy shifted slightly, unsure of what to do next. Social interactions outside of a kitchen weren’t exactly his strong suit, but something about the way you stood there, so at ease, made him want to keep talking. “Peanut butter?”

“Yep. I hope you’re not allergic or I might feel terrible for accidentally murdering my new neighbor.”

“No allergies,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “They look... good.”

“They taste better,” you replied confidently, rocking back on your heels. “You’ll see.”

Carmy stared at the plate in his hands for a moment, then back at you. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of you yet—this whirlwind of color and brightness that seemed to completely contrast his muted world.

“You uh-bake a lot?” he asked, his voice quieter now, curious despite himself.

You laughed, and the sound made something in his chest loosen. “Not really. I’m more of a ‘wing it and hope for the best’ kind of baker. Which, coincidentally, is also my teaching style.”

That caught his attention. “Teaching?”

“Yep. Fourth grade at Abbott Elementary,” you said, a note of pride in your voice. “You ever try to teach ten-year-olds about fractions? It’s like trying to train cute little squirrels to sit still.”

Carmy huffed another laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t say I have.”

“You’re lucky,” you teased, crossing your arms over your chest. “Anyway, I should let you get back to... whatever it is you were doing. But enjoy the cookies. They’re my signature recipe.”

“Signature?” Carmy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep,” you said with a playful smirk. “Passed down from the great culinary masterminds of my family. By which I mean, I Googled it five years ago and have been winging it ever since."

Carmy let out a quiet laugh, glancing back toward his apartment. For a moment, he considered inviting you in, but the idea of it felt… too sudden. Too much. Instead, he took a step back toward the door, holding up the plate as a gesture of gratitude. “I’ll let you know how they are.”

“Oh, it will,” you said confidently, already backing toward your apartment. “See you around, Carmy-next-door.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, watching as you disappeared back into your apartment, leaving him standing in the doorway with a plate of cookies in his hands and a strange sense of warmth in his chest.

-------

The plate of cookies sat on Carmy’s desk in the cluttered back office at The Bear, their presence almost mocking him. He’d brought them along in the rush of the morning, figuring he might as well snack on them during the chaos of his day. But, as usual, the day had taken over—prep work, managing the team, putting out fires both literal and figurative—and by the time he finally sat down, the cookies were still untouched.

Richie, after coming into his office asking about the butter delivery for tomorrow, noticed the cookies on the table.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, pointing to the plate with an incredulous look. “Since when do you bake cookies?”

Carmy looked up from his paperwork, deadpan.“They’re from my neighbor. She brought them over as a thank-you for helping her move a box.”

Richie snorted, picking one up without waiting for permission. “Your neighbor? What is this, a fucking Hallmark movie?”

“Can you just eat the cookie and shut up?” Carmy said, though his tone was more resigned than annoyed, as he leaned back into his chair.

Richie took a dramatic bite, his eyebrows raising in exaggerated surprise. “Damn. These are actually good. Who’s this neighbor of yours? She running a bakery or something?”

“No,” Carmy said, shaking his head. “She’s a teacher.”

Richie blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “A teacher who bakes like this? That's a keeper. Because these cookies are better than anything Marcus has cranked out lately.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Carmy muttered, grabbing a cookie for himself.

They were soft, perfectly sweetened, with just the right amount of salt to balance the flavor. He wasn’t expecting much when you’d handed him the plate earlier, but now... now he understood why you’d been so confident.

He finished the cookie quickly, his mind already drifting to thoughts of you. He could picture the way you’d smiled when you handed him the plate, the playful glint in your eyes when you teased him. He wasn’t used to people being so... warm. So open. It felt unfamiliar, but not in a bad way.

Richie leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “Seriously, though, what’s the deal? She single? Maybe I should swing by, introduce myself. Could use some homemade cookies in my life.”

Carmy shot him a warning look, though his tone remained light. "Just get out of here, Richie,"

Richie chuckled, grabbing another cookie as he walked out. “Hey, if she makes more of these, tell her I’ll marry her. Hell, I’ll even carry her boxes next time.”

Carmy shook his head, staring at the now half-empty plate of cookies. For a moment, he considered texting you to tell you how good they were, but he didn’t have your number. Instead, he made a mental note to return the favor—something different than cookies.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared so much, but as he reached for one last cookie, he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

-----

It had been two days since you’d dropped off the plate of cookies as a thank-you for Carmy helping you with your move. You didn’t expect much in return—maybe just a polite nod in the hallway or, at most, an offhanded “thanks.” That was the kind of vibe you got from Carmy: quiet, reserved, polite but not overly forthcoming or social.

So, when there was a knock at your door that evening, you weren’t expecting to find him standing there, holding a small brown takeout box.

“Carmy-next-door,” you said, your voice warm and teasing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, as his eyes flicked between her face and the container in his hands. “Uh, thought I’d return the favor."

Your eyes flicked to the container, and you tilted your head curiously. “Return the favor?”

"For the cookies.”

You blinked, glancing down at the box in his hands. It wasn’t your typical store-bought takeout container—this one looked nicer, almost custom-made. You tilted your head slightly, curious. “What’s this?”

“Just something I made,” he said, shrugging one shoulder like it was no big deal. “Nothing fancy.”

You smiled, reaching out to take the box from him. “Wait, so you’re telling me you cook? Like, professionally?”

Carmy hesitated for a moment, clearly debating how much to say. “Yeah. I’m a chef.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Like... a real chef? Not just someone who’s really good at making grilled cheese?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. A real chef. But I do make a mean grilled cheese.”

“Well, color me impressed,” you laugh, holding up the box like it was a prized treasure. “What’s in here? Or is it a secret?”

“Braised short ribs,” he said, shifting his weight slightly. “With some potato puree and roasted vegetables. It’s... leftovers from a test recipe.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned. “You're giving me that as a thank-you for cookies?”

He shrugged again, his gaze flicking away. “Figured it was better than just saying ‘thanks.’"

You laughed softly, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, now I feel like I need to bake you an entire cake or something. Cookies don’t seem like enough anymore.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “You didn’t have to bring me anything in the first place.”

“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have discovered that my new neighbor is secretly a culinary genius,” you teased, watching as his cheeks seemed to tint just slightly pink.

“Not a genius,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just... a chef.”

“Well, Chef Carmy, you’ve officially raised the bar for neighborly exchanges,” you said, grinning.

A small, almost shy smile tugged at his lips. “Just enjoy it.”

She studied him for a beat longer, the way he seemed both completely comfortable and slightly out of place at the same time. “Well, thanks, Carmy. I’ll let you know what I think.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding slightly. “You do that.”

Carmy turned to leave, but before he reached his apartment, you called after him, your voice light and teasing.

"Hey, Carmy-next-door!"

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder, a curious expression on his face.

"Is this some kind of competition now? Because if it is, my next thank-you might have to involve actual fireworks."

He gave a quiet chuckle, a rare sound that widened your smile. "It's not."

You laughed, the sound brightening the hallway. "Well, it is now," you declared, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "And I’m not going down without a fight."

"Looking forward to it," he murmured, shaking his head, his smile lingering as he turned and disappeared into his apartment

You stood in the doorway for a moment, still holding the box, a warm feeling spreading through you. There was something about him—quiet but deeply thoughtful—that made you feel like you’d just scratched the surface of who he really was.

You carried the box into your kitchen, setting it carefully on the counter. The smell alone was enough to make your mouth water, but you didn’t open it right away. Instead, you poured yourself a glass of wine and took a seat, savoring the anticipation. And as you finally took your first bite, you couldn’t help but think: maybe moving into this building was the best decision you’d made in a long time.

Hope you enjoy it!!!! <3

Part 3??

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved, the killer is behind bars, and you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Derek Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”