Being Replaced

The Bradfords Series Masterlist (5/?)

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!cop!reader

Summary: During your yearly physical, your doctor brings up a surprising series of questions. You take several tests, and as you continue policing, you forget to tell Tim about what you're waiting to find out. When Lucy overhears your conversation, she wants to know everything.

Warnings: discussions of pregnancy/menstrual cycles + symptoms, fluff, brief angst, banter, protective!Tim

Word Count: 3.0k+ words

Tim sighs when Lucy slows on their way to the shop.

“What are you looking for?” he inquires.

“Mom,” she answers. “Where is she? I didn’t see her during roll call.”

“She’ll be here later. Let’s go, boot.”

“Why isn’t she here now?”

“Why are you still asking questions instead of getting in the shop?” Tim counters, his patience wearing thin. “Now, Chen.”

Lucy looks around once more, then leads Tim to the garage. As she sits in the passenger seat, she considers texting you. She notices Tim’s relaxed grip on the steering wheel and decides that you must be okay. If there was something wrong, Tim would show it even if he denied it. When you get to work later today, Lucy will ask you herself.

“The guy that robbed my apartment is going to trial this week,” Lucy says. “Prosecutor said he has over a dozen people testifying.”

Tim shakes his head slightly and raises his fingers from the steering wheel. “Why do I need to know that?”

“It’s called sharing. When two people care about each other-“

“Stop.”

“But, I-“

“Stop.”

Tim looks at Lucy as dispatch alerts them of a nearby call, and she changes the subject to focus on the matter at hand.

While Tim and Lucy deescalate a fight at a high-end cookware store and take details from the employees about the preceding robbery, you flip through a magazine. Stopping at a page with a ‘Couple Compatibility Test,’ you roll your eyes. The magazines in the waiting room are well over a decade old, yet you read the first question and smile. You and Tim would undoubtedly fail one of these tests, but you’ve already proved to be great together. A few pages later, someone calls your name, and you abandon the magazine to follow a nurse’s assistant into the heart of the doctor’s office.

You get weighed, your height is checked, and then you sit patiently as your temperature, pulse, oxygen levels, and blood pressure are measured. After thanking the assistant, you sit alone on the examination table to wait for the doctor. Nothing is wrong; you’re just here for a yearly check-up and physical, yet you’re hit suddenly by a feeling that something unexpected is coming.

“Whoa, this is nice!” Lucy exclaims as she runs her fingers over the lid of a Dutch oven.

“It’s one of our best sellers,” an employee interjects. “Luckily this stuff is heavy so the thief couldn’t have gotten away with much.”

Tim ignores their conversation to look around the store. By the seasonal sale display at the front, he looks out the window and sighs. “They could if they had a vehicle parked outside.”

“What?” Lucy asks, moving toward Tim. “How did they do that without opening the door more than once? This is a state-of-the-art security system.”

“Is that what they said?” he asks quietly. “The sensor on this door can be tricked with a magnet. That’s why the alarm wasn’t responded to, I’d guess. Short enough disruption that the dispatchers figured it was a false alarm.”

“Officers?” the second (and more helpful) employee calls. “I have a list of the missing items.”

Tim takes the printed sheet of paper and reads the first few items before looking to the bottom. “15 items worth $4,000. Is that before tax?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that important?” Lucy asks.

“Only if they try to resell it.” He turns to the employees to explain that several detectives are on their way and will have many of the same questions and need the same list.

“Call if you need anything else,” Lucy urges them, leaving her card on the counter.

Tim stops outside the door and looks at the tire marks on the concrete. He straightens and follows them until they lighten and disappear around a corner.

“The merchandise was transferred somewhere near here, or to a larger vehicle. Whatever cart they had all that stuff in to begin with was weighed down,” Tim tells Lucy. “Let the detectives know.”

“Overall, you’re very healthy,” your doctor says after her exam. “There are a few questions I’d like to ask. Have you noticed any swelling or bloating in your abdomen?”

“A bit,” you admit.

“Missing or late periods?”

“I’m about a week and a half late. It’s happened before, my gyno said it was nothing to worry about.”

“Okay. And, last one, have you experienced any nausea or vomiting? Especially any occurring around the same time as the swelling?”

“There have been a few mornings I’ve been really nauseous, but I haven’t actually gotten sick.”

She nods as she jots a few notes on her tablet. After a moment, she asks, “Are you going to work today?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m supposed to be there in about twenty minutes actually.”

Setting the tablet aside, she leans forward and rests her elbows on her legs. “I want to run a pregnancy test. I’m not thoroughly convinced you are or even could be pregnant, but I’m also not willing to say you’re completely in line with last year’s physical based on some of those symptoms. Unfortunately, we can’t get it all done before you need to leave.”

“I…” You trail off, trying to process what she’s telling you. You don’t feel pregnant, but now that you think about the swelling, the nausea, and the other changes you’ve experienced, you don’t know what to think. “Could I call later to get the results?”

“That is an excellent idea.” She calls a nurse into the room and instructs her to prepare a pregnancy test. “I’m going to give you my cell number,” she tells you. “Whenever you have time, whether it’s today, tonight, or tomorrow, give me a call and I’ll go over the results with you. When’s the last time you ate or drank?”

“About eight hours ago because my shifts were oddly spaced this week,” you remember.

“In that case, I’d like to run a blood test to check your hormone levels as well. We’ll get you out of here in less than ten minutes. Do you have any other questions for me?”

“No. Thank you,” you reply.

In the empty room, you stare at the wall and try to think but don’t come up with anything before the nurse returns to give you directions.

“What’s up with your boot?” Angela asks, sitting across from Tim at their favorite food truck. Tim mumbles an answer, to which she raises her brows.

“She misses my wife,” Tim says. “Has been asking about her all day.”

“Where is she?” Angela inquires.

Tim groans, but he’s saved by Lucy yelling your name. Tim looks up, but you’re locked in conversation with Bishop. She lays her hand on your upper arm, and after a moment, you smile and nod. She walks past you and toward her shop as you move farther into the circle of food trucks.

“Hello,” you greet as you approach your fellow officers. “Nolan, you’re with me for the rest of shift.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

“I think you and Bishop planned this,” Angela muses.

“We absolutely did,” you answer with a smile. “Her appointment got changed last week.”

“Appointment for what?” Lucy asks.

“Yearly physical. We got them on the same day in year one, so we tend to go around the same time every year.”

“Oh, that’s where you’ve been. Dad wouldn’t tell me.”

“Dad?” Angela repeats with a brow raised.

“It’s because they argue like parents,” Jackson explains. Tim turns to glare at him, so Jackson raises his hands and defends, “We all know it; don’t shoot the messenger.”

“You let your boot call you Dad, Timothy?”

Tim turns his glare to you, but his brows drop momentarily. He can read you well – too well. You send him a small smile to communicate that you’re okay. Tim is your husband and is possibly going to become a father soon, so you need to tell him. But something makes you pause.

“She’s persistent,” you answer for Tim. “And he cares.”

“He loves me,” Lucy agrees.

Tim pulls his eyes from you but can’t berate Lucy before a speeding car drives by with several people screaming in the trunk. Everyone at the table jumps up and runs to their respective shop. You completely forget that you may be carrying precious cargo.

“Where’s Officer Bradford?” Tim asks Nolan as he and Lucy enter the station.

Nolan points to a nearby hallway, and Lucy begins talking to him about the car chase. Tim follows Nolan’s direction to find you. He slows when he hears your voice, then stops.

“Hi,” you greet before saying your name and providing your phone number. “Sorry for calling late, but I had some time and wanted to ask about the results of the pregnancy and blood tests. If you can give me a call back when you have some time, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

You turn, then freeze at the sight of a wide-eyed Tim Bradford. Your mouth opens, but words fail you.

“I should have told you,” you begin.

“You’re pregnant?” he exclaims, finally moving closer to you.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t- but you could be?”

“Well, I didn’t think so, but then the doctor started asking all of these questions and I answered them and apparently that made her think I could be. Honestly, Tim, if I thought I was, you would’ve been the first person I talked to, you know that.”

“Why’d you get a blood test?” he asks.

“Hormone levels.”

Tim nods, then takes your hand. “Do you want to be pregnant?”

“I want to have kids with you, someday, but… Don’t you think I would have felt something? If I’m pregnant and had no idea, what kind of mother would I be?”

Tim presses his lips together, then says, “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

His lips quirk up at the corners, and you laugh. Falling forward against his chest, you complain, “And you’re the expert on human reproduction.”

“I’m getting pretty good at understanding you, I think.”

“Bradford!” Wade calls. He sees your hand slide off of Tim’s waist, and though he can’t see you, adds, “And Bradford, Metro got ambushed looking for your thief from this morning. We need you in the bullpen. Now.”

“You can sit this one out,” Tim says softly.

You shake your head and say, “I’m not leaving. We- when we find out, we’ll go from there.”

Tim hesitates, then nods and follows you to the bullpen.

Tim hovers. Since you started dating, you have known that he’s protective, caring, and doting when no one is looking, but this is different. Even the mere idea that you could be carrying his baby makes him move closer to you. He keeps his arm within inches of you, and his hand seems to be halfway to your stomach. As you receive instructions for extracting the Metro team, you struggle to keep your attention off of Tim and how much you love him.

“Officer Bradford,” Wade says. “Bradfords, actually, I want you two guarding the southern exit. This warehouse is laid out in a split-level configuration, so the only door on the south side has a second-floor exit. Metal grate stairs lead up to the door, and that’s where we need your cover.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply.

Tim glances at you, then nods. He doesn’t want you working this specific job, you’re sure, but an entire team of your friends, your brothers, and sisters in arms, are in danger; you’re not going to leave them there for a restless night of sleep, not knowing if you’re pregnant or not while Tim puts himself in danger.

You glance at the wire hanging from the earpiece tucked carefully into your ear. With your hair pulled out of its usual hairstyle and secured away from your face and off your neck, you resist the urge to fan yourself. Los Angeles isn’t always hot like some people think, but it’s a warm night, and the disturbing heat radiating from the metal wall beside you has the potential to make you miserable.

“Watch your step,” Tim requests quietly.

You slow several steps from the second-floor door and glance over your shoulder. “The landing isn’t big enough for one of us to stand and the door to open.”

Tim moves to the step behind you, his chest pressed against your back as he looks at the top of the stairs. “If someone walks out, grab the closest body part and throw them.”

“Where?” you ask, your brows raised dramatically.

“Over the rail, down to me, I don’t care, but don’t give them time to grab you or raise a weapon.”

“Is this how Lucy feels all the time?” you muse, turning to face the building.

“Car approaching from the west,” Angela alerts in your earpiece.

“Thermal scans show at least a dozen people inside,” a SWAT officer announces. “Two are moving south.”

“Be careful,” Tim tells you as you move your foot to the top step.

The door opens, and you grab the unsuspecting man’s arm and pull forward, twisting your hips as he trips down the steps. He extends his arms to catch his fall, and his gun slips through the grate before his wrists shatter on impact. His strangled scream of pain is silenced when his face meets the metal step beneath him. Unconscious, he slides down a step and stops at Tim’s feet.

Tim looks at him, then back up at you. He raises a finger to remind you that there’s one more. Watching the door, you see it begin to open before it clicks closed again. You wrap your fingers around the handle while Tim handcuffs the unconscious gunman behind you. Pulling the door open, you don’t hear Tim’s warning hiss.

There’s no one inside, so you let the door close again. Less than thirty seconds later, the door opens again, but you’re too close, and only an arm exits. You’re pulled inside as Tim moves his hands up the rails. The door locks behind you, but Tim jumps over the man on the stairs and radios to alert other officers of your entry. Kneeling on the top step, he shoots up through the lock to ensure he can’t accidentally hit you if you’re still standing by the door, then rushes in, his gun raised.

Simultaneously, three different SWAT teams enter the warehouse and begin yelling demands. Tim lowers his gun and looks at you, standing above the man who pulled you inside.

“I told you to stay back from the door,” Tim says.

“Well, I couldn’t pull him through a half-closed door, could I?” you counter.

Tim sighs, then pulls you against his chest and hugs you tightly. It’s quick, and he steps back before you can get your hands around his waist. As officers rush up the stairs to assist you, someone alerts you that there’s one missing suspect.

“My car’s close,” Tim tells you. “Let’s go find this guy and go home.”

Tim’s plan to get home quickly doesn’t work, and the sun is rising over Los Angeles when you finally hear that the last suspect has been taken into custody. Dropping your head back against the headrest, you sigh. A moment later, your phone rings.

“It’s the doctor,” you tell Tim.

He pulls over in an industrial area and shifts into Park. You tap your screen to answer the call and put the phone on speaker before you greet your doctor.

“Good morning, I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says.

“No, ma’am, you didn’t,” you assure her.

“Alright, well, first, sorry I missed your call last night. And, most importantly, I have your tests back. The short answer is that you are not pregnant.”

Tim takes your hand, and you squeeze his fingers.

“In my opinion, you’re experiencing a pseudopregnancy,” she explains. “Following your most recent ovulation, your prolactin levels remained elevated while your progesterone took a dramatic dip. I’d also guess that some of the emotional difficulties of your jobs played a role in causing the false pregnancy. That combination of psychological and hormonal factors likely contributed to your symptoms. Based on the blood tests, your hormone levels should regulate soon, and I’d recommend you take it easy and eat well, get good rest, and assist your hormones in balancing however you can.”

“Will do, doctor,” you reply. “Thank you.”

After you end the call, Tim brushes his thumb against your hand and waits until you turn in your seat.

“Are you disappointed?” he asks.

“No,” you confess. “I don’t think I’m really anything. I was so confused and taken back by everything she said that I didn’t really think about it either way.”

“When or if you are ready for that test to be positive, I’ll be right here,” Tim promises.

His phone rings, and he rolls his eyes before he says, “Yes, Chen?”

“Hey, Lucy!” you add.

“Oh, good, I need to talk to both of you,” she says. “Tim, can you help me get reservations for Friday night?”

“Do you think I’m your assistant, Chen?” he barks into the phone.

“Is that a no?”

Tim doesn’t answer, so you ask, “Another date with Alex?”

“Yes!” Lucy exclaims. “But I need a new outfit, which is what I wanted to ask you about.”

“We can go shopping tomorrow after end of shift if you want.”

“I do! And if you can change Dad’s mind, I’ll bake you cookies.”

“Don’t bribe my wife,” Tim interrupts.

He taps his phone screen and sighs. You laugh as he steers the car back onto the road and drives toward the station to get his truck.

“She’s more work than a baby would be,” Tim complains.

“Does that mean you’re going to help her?”

“Not until I get some time with you that she doesn’t interrupt.”

“Yet you answered her phone call without hesitation,” you muse.

“And you hid your pregnancy from your husband.”

Tim’s phone lights up, displaying that his call from Lucy is still connected. She yells, “What?!” so loudly that Tim swerves, and you begin laughing as he tries to explain.

“You’re not being replaced?” he repeats. “Chen, what is wrong with you?”

Falling Slowly

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader

Summary: You are Tim's newest rookie, and his favorite. He treats you differently, able to see that your past affects you, and the little things build up until you can't deny your feelings.

Warnings: so much fluff, brief angst, domestic violence (Tim and reader respond to a call & allusions to past dv against reader), one scene is inspired by "The Switch" (1x4)

Word Count: 4.0k+ words

A/N: This doesn't really fit in any specific season, so I put characters in the roles I wanted them to have and just made up some names to fill in the gaps. Hopefully everything makes sense. Please let me know what you think!

Picture from Pinterest

“What are you doing here?” Angela asks, surprised to see Tim.

Furrowing his brows, Tim answers, “I’m here for the TO meeting.”

Angela tilts her head back and groans, passing Nyla a 10-dollar bill.

“She thought you’d give up your position for Metro,” Nyla explains.

“I’d like to, someday, but not today,” Tim replies.

“20 bucks this is his last one,” Angela says to Nyla. “He still has the open invite to Metro and his patience can’t take many more boots.”

Nyla reaches to shake Angela’s hand as Tim rolls his eyes and walks away.

“Let me see his rookie first, then we’ll talk,” Nyla decides. “I’ve got a feeling a lot is going to change around here.”

“Like what?” Angela asks. “Nyla! Like what?”

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking into the Mid-Wilshire station on your first day as a rookie is both nerve-wracking and exciting. You’ve heard stories about boots making it through the academy to fail once they reach this level, but you’re determined. When you were a kid, you were in bad situations more often than any child should be, but kind police officers changed your life, and you’d like to do the same.

Waving to one of your police academy friends, you sit in the bullpen, waiting impatiently to learn which officer behind you will be your training officer. Getting the perfect training officer is up to fate, based on what you’ve heard, and your TO can make or break your career.

“Good morning, boots! I am Watch Commander Wade Grey. You have made it through the police academy, but don’t expect a pat on the back, your work is just beginning. This is the time to prove yourself, to show your TO, me, and this city why you deserve to be a police officer.” He pauses, moving around the podium to add, “If you should be a police officer.”

As you listen intently, striving to remember every word Sergeant Grey says, two detectives stand at the back of the room and evaluate the rookies.

“He’s only got one shot,” Angela mutters.

“If he gets the pretty one in the front, I’m not taking the bet,” Nyla says.

Angela looks up a row, her brows raising when she sees you. “If he ends up with her, we’re starting a station-wide pool and getting rich,” she adds.

“Now, it’s time to be assigned to your judge, jury, and executioner,” Wade says with a smile. “Or, as we call them, TOs. Our former rookie turned TO, Nolan: you’ve got Edward Henderson.

Officer Nolan nods at Henderson, and you remember his story: a late-life rookie who got a golden ticket. Part of you wants to work with him and learn why he decided on law enforcement, but you only nod at Henderson before turning back around.

“Lance Vincent, you are with our newest TO, Eliza Reagan.”

Wade says your name with a smile that seems a bit more genuine than before. “Officer Bradford, last but not least,” he says as he assigns you your new TO.

You look over your shoulder, a small smile on your face as he nods at you. He is undeniably attractive, and you hope it doesn’t cause any problems.

“Oh, he’s a goner,” Nyla whispers under her breath when you smile at Tim.

“Should we tell him?” Angela replies.

“I think we’ll have to.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Something about you bothers Tim. Not in the usual, grumpy-with-a-new-boot way, but he has a sense that you’re different.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, walking to Tim at the back of the bullpen.

He stands, offering a calloused hand to shake.

“I’m not going to pretend this is going to be easy or fun,” he tells you. “Being a rookie is the hardest part of your career, but if you’re a good cop under the uniform, you’ll be fine.”

Nodding, you promise to do your best and express your willingness to learn everything you can from him.

“Good,” he says. “Meet me outside the war room. We’re not wasting any time, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

Tim watches you walk away, and when you stop to let someone carrying a large box cross in front of you, Tim realizes that you’re hurting, or were hurting not long ago. The underlying need to help people is something he recognizes.

“She’s pretty,” Angela muses, walking to Tim’s side.

“Though you know that,” Nyla adds, smiling on his other side.

“She’s a boot. No different than the other rookies,” Tim argues, though his gaze is still on your back as you sign for your bags and weapons.

“Sure, she is. Why don’t you go put her through a Tim test?” Angela suggests.

Tim rolls his eyes as he leaves, wondering what hurt you bad enough to make you want to be a cop. He became a cop despite his hurt, but you’re young and bright – and too good for him – so there must be something in you that makes you worthy of this. More worthy (and more beautiful) than any rookie before you.

✯✯✯✯✯

Several officers wish you luck, with one or two warning you about so-called “Tim Tests” while you wait for Tim behind the shop.

“Don’t tell me you have a checklist,” Tim begins, drawing your attention away from the shop tires.

“No, sir,” you answer. “Just being vigilant, I suppose. I’d hate to start my first day with a flat tire.”

Tim nods, asking where the war bags are. You tell him how you checked the contents and loaded them into the trunk, and he appreciates your brief explanation.

“Good work. The easy part is over,” Tim says. He seems to weigh his options before deciding, “You drive. Show me what you’ve got.”

He follows you to the driver’s side door, opening it as he reminds you of standard shop procedures. As Tim closes the door, you wonder if he’s a gentleman or if he followed you because he doesn’t trust you to drive correctly. Either way, you know what you’re doing, and you won’t let the man in the passenger seat distract you… too much.

Driving toward Wilshire Boulevard for patrol, Tim looks out the window.

“Blue Camaro has an expired plate,” you alert.

“Call it in.”

You do so, hitting the sirens as you engage the traffic stop. Tim raises a hand to stop you from getting out.

“Remember your training. Don’t let the situation get away from you.”

His words linger in your mind, and you complete the stop with no problem, issuing a ticket and returning to the shop.

“I’m driving,” Tim alerts you, spreading his hand across the small of your back as he directs you to the sidewalk.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask when he starts the car.

“No,” he answers bluntly.

You lick your lips nervously, turning your attention to your surroundings. Suddenly, Tim pulls over and hits the brakes.

“I’ve been shot, boot. Where are we?” Tim demands.

Furrowing your brows in surprise at his actions, you answer, “Intersection of 12th and Meadowbrook, west of Redondo. There are several hospitals in a five-mile radius, but only one has a trauma center.”

Tim pulls out wordlessly, continuing his patrol route. Tim doesn't say much else throughout the few hours between his first test and lunch. He lets you point things out, answers your questions about the area and procedures, and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. When he pulls up to a small circle of food trucks where several police officers are waiting, he turns toward you.

“You’re doing well. I’m not neglecting to give you good feedback for any reason other than once you start riding alone, you won’t get it. My role here is to prepare you for your solo career, not hold your hand until you get there.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for answering my questions,” you reply as you open the door.

Tim’s hand finds your upper back as he leads you to his favorite of the food trucks, a light touch that disappears nearly as quickly as it happened. You thank him quietly for the suggestion before sitting with your fellow rookies.

“Hi, Tim,” Angela says.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his annoyance breaking through his growing fondness for you.

“Just came to get some food. Your boot seems to be in a good mood.”

“Strange, I thought Tim’s thing was ‘break their spirits in the first hour,’” Nyla adds as she joins Angela.

“You two not have work to do or something?” Tim inquires.

“Something like that. How’s she doing?” Angela tips her chin toward you as she asks.

“She’s got good instincts, knows protocols.”

“But?”

Tim shrugs, turning away before Angela can dig deeper.

“I give it a week,” Nyla announces.

“Before what?”

“He can’t take it anymore.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Domestic disturbance in your area,” dispatch alerts.

Tim grabs the radio, accepting the call as he hits the sirens and turns into a residential area. You chew the inside of your bottom lip; domestic calls are your least favorite, especially when kids are involved. Unwilling to show discomfort, you put on your best brave cop face and follow Tim to the door.

A young girl with a bloody nose and teary eyes opens it, and you glance at Tim before kneeling and asking her to come outside. She listens without question, her lower lip wobbling as you smile.

“He’s hurting my mom,” she whimpers.

Tim nods at you before tilting his head toward the shop. You direct the girl to stand at the edge of the porch and wait for you as you follow Tim inside.

“LAPD, put your hands up!” Tim yells as he steps into a bedroom.

Your eyes widen when you see the large man towering over the girl’s mother. He smiles as he reaches for something.

“Don’t move unless you want to give me a reason,” Tim says lowly. “Step away.”

The man looks toward the nightstand before taking a deep breath and giving up.

“I got it,” Tim tells you before radioing a code 4.

You wait until Tim has the handcuffs secured to walk outside. The girl runs into your arms, and you pop the shop's trunk, setting her down as you retrieve a small first aid kit. She lets you clean her bloody nose, gripping your wrist when it stings.

“Where’s my mom?” she asks.

“She’s talking to my partner right now, she’ll be out in a few minutes,” you explain.

“Is he nice?”

“The nicest,” you answer.

“Mom!” she yells, letting you set her on the ground before she runs to her mom’s side.

“Get in the shop,” Tim commands as he walks past, his hand brushing your arm as he closes the trunk.

You obey, climbing into the passenger seat and waiting as he talks to the EMTs. When he joins you, he drives to a quiet, empty street before switching off his body cam and gesturing for you to do the same.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer than you’ve heard.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t say what I want to hear. Domestic calls are tough but that wasn’t your first one, was it?”

You shake your head, looking out the windshield instead of at Tim.

“We all have reasons for becoming a cop, and some calls are harder than others. As long as your past doesn’t get in the way and put you in danger, it’s okay to be human,” he continues. “TOs are notoriously hard on you, but we’re also here for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Tim shrugs, one corner of his lips upturned. “No more sappy stuff, we have work to do.”

“Oh, if you think that was sappy, I’ve got a lot to show you before I graduate to short sleeves.”

The comment catches Tim off guard and makes him feel something he didn’t expect.

✯✯✯✯✯

By the end of the first week, you feel like you know Tim well. His hand spread across your back or shoulder when you’re in front of him, his little reminders that you’re not alone, that you can show emotion when the time allows, and every other little thing he does makes you wonder why there are so many horror stories around his teaching style.

Likewise, Tim thinks he has you down. You ask him questions, ask for his opinions, listen and apply what he says, and send him small smiles when he compliments your work.

But, it only takes a shift to realize that people are multi-faceted, and cops and rookies are no different.

“Good morning,” you greet, passing Tim a small box.

“What is this? A bribe?” he asks.

You smile as you reply, “Nope. Just something I found, and I thought you’d like.”

Tim opens the box, his eyes widening at the 2000 Super Bowl tickets, the Rams’ first win. “I can’t accept these.”

“They were under a bookshelf in my apartment, it’s not like I spent a million dollars on them, Officer Bradford.”

Tucking them into his pocket, Tim opens your door. “Thank you.”

You smile, and Tim thinks your joy is the better gift.

✯✯✯✯✯

During your first call of that day, you show Tim that you don’t just value his opinions.

“Shots fired!” you radio as you duck behind the car.

“Are you hit?” Tim asks.

Shaking your head, you move closer, trusting him to direct you and keep you safe. The men in the house you were called to have automatic weapons, and though you’re a good shot, you’re not a match for their guns alone.

“Backup is on the way, but I need you to do something for me. You trust me?” Tim adds.

“I do.”

“Reach around the back and open the trunk; just far enough to reach the latch. I’ll cover you.”

He stands above you, firing into the shattered window of the house as you slip your arm and back around the end of the shop and open the trunk.

“Good, perfect,” Tim praises as he ducks beside you. His knuckles graze yours as he leans past you. “Can you reach the shotguns?”

Glancing in the window above you, you locate them quickly. “I can.”

“Do it. I got you.”

Once the shotguns are in your hands, you pass one to Tim as you ready your own. Timing your shots, you take out two shooters just as your backup arrives.

“You’re bleeding,” Tim says, his adrenaline dropping as a tactical team takes over.

You look at your arm, just noticing your ripped sleeve and bloody skin. Tim lays his hands on your arm as he turns it toward him.

“I think it was just glass from the windshield,” you say quietly, pointing to the car behind you, riddled with bullet holes and broken glass.

“Either way, we need to get it checked out.”

“Officer Bradford?” you interject. “Thank you. For making sure I trust you.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” he mutters, so soft you can barely hear it.

He taps the Super Bowl tickets in his pocket as he rises to get a paramedic to check on you, and you smile, wondering how bad it would be if you fell in love with your TO.

✯✯✯✯✯

“You’re quieter than usual,” Tim points out. “I need to know that whatever is bothering you won’t impair your ability to work with me.”

“It won’t,” you promise. “Sorry.”

Tim considers pressing, but he trusts you. “I’m here. If you decide you want to talk about it.”

He exits the shop and opens your door before you can reach for the handle.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Did you see that?” Nyla gushes, elbowing Angela.

“Ow. See what?”

Nyla points to Tim, closing your door and laying a hand on your shoulder as he ducks his head to talk to you.

“That’s not a reprimand,” Angela deduces.

When you smile, a tiny upturning of your lips, Nyla laughs.

“Oh, that boy… The door, the touches, listening to her? He’s gone.”

“Not just him,” Angela adds. “She asks him questions, smiles at him, trusts him more than anyone… and the Super Bowl tickets? They’re adorable.”

“Should we do something?”

“Not yet. I think they’re close to realizing.”

✯✯✯✯✯

After your longest, and worst, day yet, you find yourself in a hospital waiting room beside Tim. He hasn't said anything since a speeding driver ran into your side of the shop, though you've apologized countless times (even though there's nothing you could have done).

Tim’s jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried it will snap. You’re sitting close to him, a bandage around your wrist and an ice pack pressed to your cheek.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“Stop- stop apologizing, it’s not your fault,” Tim sighs.

His arm is on the armrest between you, and you move your hand toward his. When he doesn’t back away, you turn your arm to allow your knuckles to brush against his.

“It’s not your fault,” you tell him kindly. “He ran a red light.”

“And you could’ve been killed,” Tim replies, standing abruptly and walking away.

You slump in your seat, dejected and curious about what you could say to make him stop blaming himself for someone running into you.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Tim and his rookie sitting in a tree,” Nyla sings under her breath.

“I don’t have time for this right now,” Tim replies.

“Right, because you’re too busy being mad that she got hurt. Cops get hurt Tim,” Angela reminds him.

“Not with me,” he begins, pausing to take a deep breath. “Despite what you think, I’m upset that she got hurt, not because I’m in love with her.”

“Whatever you got to hear, buddy,” Nyla replies. “But tell me this. If it was Nolan when he was a boot, would you have felt this bad? Even if I believed you didn’t have feelings for her, which I don’t, you’re different with her and you know it.”

Tim sighs, looking out the door at you. He knows it’s true; despite his constant denial, he does treat you differently because you are different, and you’re like a magnet, incapable of being ignored or forgotten. Finally confessing it to himself, Tim knows that his feelings for you will get one or both of you in trouble unless something changes.

✯✯✯✯✯

“It is time for The Switch,” Wade says as he walks into the bullpen. “The day you ride with a new TO.”

You glance at Tim, who gives you an encouraging nod. He tells you that you’re a great rookie, but he also tells you that you’re pretty sometimes, which doesn’t seem pertinent (or always true, in your eyes). Wade says your name, and you look up.

“You’re with Nolan,” he tells you.

Smiling at Nolan, you cross your fingers under the desk that it’s a good day.

“Henderson,” you call as he stands up, “what’s Nolan like?”

“He’s great. Really understanding and knowledgeable. A little talkative, but fairly easy going. Just stick to protocol and listen to his directions; you’ll be fine.”

“What about Bradford?” Vincent asks you. “Everyone says he’s the toughest. Anything I should be aware of?”

“I don’t think so. He’s quiet sometimes, but he’s great.”

You collect your war bag with the expectation of a good day. You will miss Tim, but learning how another TO teaches and his views can be invaluable. As you slide into the driver’s seat beside Nolan, you realize something: you like Tim as more than your TO. He means more to you than just being your teacher, your mentor, and a trustworthy officer. The thought hits you so suddenly you're not sure where it came from.

With each passing moment, you find yourself remembering something Tim said or wanting to tell him something, but he isn’t there. Nolan is kind and laughs at your muttered comments, but it is nothing like riding with Tim. As you think about all the little things Tim does, everything begins to make sense.

Someone yells your name when you step out of the shop to get lunch. Turning, you’re surprised to see Vincent storming up to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demands.

“Tell you what?”

“That Bradford has ‘Tim Tests’ and nothing pleases him!”

You glance over his shoulder, finding Tim and Nolan talking. Tim glances over at you, and the tension in his shoulders seems to ease until Nolan says something else.

“His Tim Tests aren’t that bad; he’s just teaching you awareness and safety.”

“He wants to end my career,” Vincent exclaims before muttering something about you not understanding as he walks away.

✯✯✯✯✯

“How’s Vincent doing?” Nolan asks.

“That kid has no situational awareness,” Tim answers. “I stopped at a street sign, and he couldn’t figure out where we were.”

“He’s probably scared of you,” Nyla interjects. “And, no, Bradford, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“My rookie can tell me where I am, no matter what,” Tim adds.

“Your rookie is very good, I’ll give you that,” Nolan replies. “But Vincent has potential. Besides, your boot has people problems.”

Tim glances over at you, locking eyes with you while Vincent talks to you dramatically.

“So do I, but I’m still a good cop.”

Nyla watches as both you and Tim sigh before abandoning the conversations you’re in. She shakes her head, calculating her winnings if the betting pool goes her way.

✯✯✯✯✯

Walking out of the locker room at the end of the day, you’re surprised to be called into Sergeant Grey’s office. You sit across from him, fiddling with the hem of your shirt to spend your nervous energy.

“You are being assigned to a new TO. Officer Bradford has decided to hand you off to someone better equipped to teach you,” Grey informs. “But you’re not in trouble.”

You still your hands in your lap. “Okay. Effective when?”

“Monday morning. So, rest up.”

As you stand, Grey says your name, smiling as he repeats, “You’re not in trouble. This was Bradford’s decision, nothing to do with you. Well, nothing to do with you as a rookie.”

You purse your lips at his phrasing, and he chuckles before sending you out. Walking through the parking lot, you see Tim’s truck is still there and decide to ask him what happened. Standing by the tailgate, you chew your bottom lip as you wait, nervous that you did something, though Wade assured you differently.

Tim walks up unnoticed, saying your name to get your attention.

“What did I do wrong?” you ask, jumping straight to your questions. “I can fix it; there has to be a way to fix it.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Tim promises. “I just can’t be your TO anymore.”

“Why not?”

Tim shifts his backpack on his shoulder. “It’s not appropriate.”

Your heart drops. Tim knows you have feelings for him, and it makes him uncomfortable; that’s the only explanation. Nodding slowly, you accept your fate.

“And I can’t do this,” Tim adds.

His hands slide onto your jaw, his palms against your cheeks as his fingers settle behind your ears, pulling you into a quick kiss. You only begin to respond when he pulls back.

“You’re the best boot I’ve ever had,” he whispers, brushing his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks.

“I’m not your boot anymore,” you remind him.

“That’s your fault. Those little gifts, and soft smiles, and how well you listen… You make it impossible not to fall for you.”

You laugh, leaning against his hands as you reply, “You do too. How do you think I felt when you called me pretty or touched my back? Then you kept comforting me and inviting me to talk. It was too easy.”

“Go to dinner with me?” he asks.

You nod, smiling against his hands before he moves to touch your back again, opening the passenger door as he helps you in. Tim slips his hand into yours, kissing your knuckles as he keeps you close.

✯✯✯✯✯

When the rest of the rookies leave the station, noticing that your car is still there, they ask each other if anyone has seen you.

“Bradford’s truck is gone,” Nyla notices as she walks out.

“Looks like we won,” Angela cheers.

“Where’s Bradford?” Vincent asks.

“On a date,” Nyla answers. “With his former boot.”

The rookies’ jaws drop, wondering how you managed to pull Mid-Wilshire’s resident grump.

“Don’t expect the same to happen to you,” Angela says as she passes the rookies. “We all worked for this one.”

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myfictionalbfs

8 months ago

Smile for the Camera

Description: Bruce is convinced by his wife to make a sex tape

Word Count: 0.7k

Warning: Sex, cream pie, recording, reader is described as having pudge from childbirth, reader is black

Bruce didn't know how he kept finding himself in these circumstances. However, he most definitely didn't object to his wife. How could he when she asked if she could record them having sex? He couldn't say no to the smile that he fell in love with. Especially not when she was only wearing an old silk robe that failed to hide her curves and the pudge that she gained from birthing his children. Her brown thighs barely being hidden nearly gave the older man a nosebleed.

Anyhow, that's why he ended up lying down flat on his back with soft pillows on either side. His wife straddled his bare hips and gasped as she felt his length grow beneath her. She held her phone in one hand and grasped the headboard with the other to keep steady. Bruce's hands helped guide her onto his length as they had done a hundred times before.

"Bruce," She whined as she fully sunk onto his length. Her breath hitched as his massive cock nudged near her G-spot. Her wetness was dripping down his shaft as she slowly rocked back and forth.

"Ah-ah. You were the one who wanted this," He reminded her as she continued to whine. The weak knot tying the robe together fell apart. Bruce sat up on the bed, pulling her closer to him. She nearly dropped the phone but found a better angle to record from. His tongue traced her ear lobe before

"I'm lucky to have such a gorgeous wife," He said before moving his assault down to her chest. His tongue licked the dark areola first before taking her nipple into his mouth. Bruce noticed her pace had slowed down with her hips and smirked slowly. He stopped helping her move and she stopped on her own, frustrated from the lack of stimulation.

"Did my sweetheart get tired?" He chided as she let out a small moan. Bruce quickly flipped both of them over and Y/N nearly shrieked from surprise. Now on her back, Bruce could appreciate her properly.

He spread her thighs and licked his lips at the sight. Lining up the head of his cock with her slit, he resisted the urge to pummel her pussy. Bruce liked to think of himself as being rather disciplined but the way his cock was begging for release would suggest otherwise.

"Such a wet pussy. All for me or the camera?" He asked as he pushed his cock into her pussy. Her legs tightened around his hips letting him know he hit her g-spot. One of his hands snaked down to fondle her clit.

"All for you," She admitted shyly. Bruce adjusted her chin so that she looked him directly in the eye. He thought of recording their sessions more so that he could have a few copies from his perspective but anything to keep his wife happy.

"That's right," He reminded her. His resolve wouldn't let him cum until his wife did. Her eyes were nearly glazed over, and her pussy fluttered around his cock. She was fucked out and she hadn't even come yet. That did something for Bruce's ego as he continued to stroke in and out of her pussy.

"Bruce, I'm-" She could barely finish her statement before the pleasure was too much. Her back arched off the bed and Bruce slowed his movements while taking deep breaths.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," Bruce spoke as he came inside of her. The two of them didn't see the point in condoms at this point in their marriage. Well, that and Bruce liked to watch his cum drip from her pussy onto the sheets and her thighs. He pulled out of her and lay next to her while placing kisses on her temple.

"What'd you want the video for anyway?" He asked as he pulled her bonnet from the nightstand and pulled her closer to him. She set her phone on the nightstand on her side of the bed after reviewing the footage.

"Sometimes, I get lonely while you're away and this is as close as I can get to the real thing," She admitted before placing a small kiss on his cheek. She turned onto his chest and quickly began to snore leaving Bruce to simply bathe in her beauty.

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myfictionalbfs

1 year ago

Besties Get Banged (part2)

⟢Angel Dust x PornstarReader - Besties get Banged smut💦

Part 1 ꒰აMaleReader ✧ FemaleReader໒꒱ Part 2 ꒰აMaleReader ✧ FemaleReader໒꒱

Val leaves set and Angel offers the sofa of his dressing room to continue what you started.

「warnings/promises: Angel x FemaleReader , vaginal creampie, quick fuck, kisses, cuddles」

same story as male reader; just different bits and bobbles

minors dni 🧯

Angel’s hand slipped into yours as soon as Val was called off set. You two had been corrected for your behavior by the overlord, but luckily his square headed prince needed him.

“Ya know, I have a private dressin’ room.” Angel’s fingers tugged your hand, “With a sofa.”

The benefit of so many arms was how easily he could close the door, lock it, and pull open both of your robes all while you struggled to shake off your slippers.

His mouth left yours as he gently pushed you back toward the purple chaise lounge near the balcony door, “You whole?”

A common question amongst Val’s employees, especially those who found comfort in each other after his abusive power trips. Not are you hurt, that implies just physical harm. Not are you okay, you can be okay and not be okay. You understood very well what he was asking, are you mentally and physically comfortable to continue?

You nodded, “Yeah, you?”

“He doesn’t get to me as badly anymore,” two hands on your face, two on your hips. Ah, you wish you could touch him more, with as many hands as he had soft places to caress. Angel lowered you, lithe body coming to rest on yours as his hips began moving against your naked core. Soft cock slowly growing against your skin, lube and slick being rubbed into your folds by his ministrations.

As soon as he was hard enough to enter you, he did. The sigh he made, the weakness that came over his face as he sunk into your tight but welcoming cunt made you shudder. A streak of electricity traveling from your spine down and forward to your clit.

Angel wasted no time in finishing the fucking he had been dreaming of just an hour earlier. His arms came down, fingers exploring your valleys and your peaks. Hungry for your affection, for the tenderness he so desperately needed, his mouth crashed into your cheek. Sloppy, happily unprofessional, he kissed and licked his way to your mouth, already open and waiting to receive him.

He tasted like candy on your tongue, sweet and melting. Every gasp and moan he gave you he then greedily swallowed.

“Shit, close,” he whined, “Already”. He found your hands with his, pulling them and you up as he leaned back. Two hands cupped your ass and lifted you onto his now seated lap. Your legs came around his waist, your measly two arms wrapped around his neck as you held tightly. Small but strong, he pistoned himself up into your heat while those hands did the work of you riding his swelling cock.

He pulled you in for another kiss, lips pressing into yours with no rhythm or goal as he tried to bring you over the climax together. While he spent most of his time with dicks, literally and figuratively, he understood the focused wind up a female orgasm could need.

Your hand came between your bodies, trying to meet him at the edge. Eyes shut, you focused on the place where he was in you, the heat and the stiffness of his arousal for you. As he whispered, “so close” and whined, “baby” into your ear with gasped breaths, you thought about your pussy wringing Angel Dust dry and quickly reached your orgasm.

“Me too,” was all you could manage as your teeth clenched and head came down onto his shoulder.

Angel continued to move you on and off his dick as he rode out his climax. Your walls contracting around him, milking him like your body had been designed to do it. A feeling he wasn’t wholly used to, definitely not for free and off camera, he pulled you down and held you there to linger in the sensation.

“Too deep,” you wiggled, slightly painful pressure as his still engorged head was now threatening to slip past your cervix.

“Sorry” he smiled, “not used to, ya know, some of this stuff.”

Valid. There was a lot more stuff than he was used to thinking about. Especially at work.

He eased up his grip, letting you lift enough to relax.

Slippery and hot, you stayed stuck together for an unknown amount of time. His mouth kept finding its way back to you, lazy but content kisses peppered across pink cheeks and flush lips.

Rarely he could be held so gently while sober, so he took his time in enjoying your tenderness. Four arms wrapped around you and pulled your head into that fluff on his chest, “Val’s not gonna let us work together again.” He said it matter of factly.

You sucked in through your teeth, “Yeeeeeah… I’ll probably get canned.”

Angel pursed his lips, “Well, I know a solution to both problems.” He pulled back, beaming down at you, “A place with free rent where yous can easily see me anytime we want. How do ya feel about group activities?”

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay , @asleeponelmstreet , @tremendoushearttaco , @mutifandomkid , @sapphirecaelis , @itzzzkiramylove @saccharine-nectarine , @viannasthings

@looking1016 , @ultimate-duck-king-lucifer , @blakeaha , @astraechos , @sailorsmouth ,

@jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling

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myfictionalbfs

7 months ago

Until You Smile (Venom x Fem Reader)

Anon Requested: May I request a Venom x reader story please? Like he’s trying to cheer her up by taking different blob forms and trying to look extra cute wanting to see her laugh again please?

“EDDIE… LET ME SEE HER….” Venom says within Eddie’s mind.

“I’m not sure if she wants that… She has been kind of touchy…” Eddie says with uncertainty.

Eddie and Venom can see you sitting on the couch curled up on your side. You had been upset all day. You came home yesterday from work and you seemed off, but Eddie didn’t question it and decided to make dinner for you, which you didn’t eat.

“PROBABLY BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT GOOD AT ATTRACTING A MATE IN THE FIRST PLACE.”

Keep reading

5K notes View Post

myfictionalbfs

5 months ago

With You, Even When I'm Not

Requested Here by the amazing @newobsessionweekly!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: When one of Tim Bradford's enemies is released from prison, he sets out to hurt Tim by hurting you. You trust that Tim will save you, but time is not on your side.

Warnings: angst, car accident, torture (injuries to r), based on 2x11 but this isn't a rewrite (for once lol), crying, fluff and comfort

Word Count: 5.5k+ words

A/N: I didn't include a scene with Tim threatening someone like he does in 2x11 and I kinda regret it because it was hot, but I also really like how this turned out...

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

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead.”

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Less than eight hours ago, you sat beside Tim in roll call. You force yourself to remember that rather than consider what Ferguson plans to do to you.

- 8 Hours Ago -

Your day starts like any other: you wake up, get ready, go to the station, and take your seat beside Tim for roll call. The sun is bright, the sky clear, and Los Angeles is event-free for once. So, it has the makings for a good day.

“What is up with you?” Tim asks quietly.

“What do you mean?” you counter.

“You’re all smiley and happy. Someone puked in my shop yesterday and you’re acting like this is the best job in the world.”

“It is!” You chuckle at his look before explaining, “It’s going to be a good day. Just let me enjoy this one for every hundred bad ones I’ve dealt with.”

“Sure.”

Wade enters, and you give him your full attention, though you never forget about Tim. He’s a constant in your life, and you wish you could have him by your side every moment, not just during roll call.

“Nolan, Harper is back so you can return to your TO,” Wade says.

“That’s why you’re so happy,” Tim muses. “You got rid of Nolan.”

You shake your head and smile before you stand. You’re patrolling in one of the nicest Los Angeles neighborhoods today, so you probably won’t see or hear Tim much today.

“Have a good one,” you tell him.

“Be careful,” he replies.

You exit the room, and Tim watches you go. Lucy walks to his side and stops, aware of what he’s looking at and longing for.

“Let’s go, boot, don’t just stand there,” Tim demands.

“Bradford,” Wade calls. “A word? Chen can stay.”

Tim nods and follows Lucy to the front of the room.

“Ferguson was released on parole this morning,” Wade says. “Sorry to tell you like this, but I thought you should know.”

“He had fifteen years left; how did this happen?” Tim asks.

“Who’s Ferguson?” Lucy inquires.

“Someone I arrested,” Tim answers. “He threatened to kill me when he got out.”

“Oh. Uh, should we-“

“That is up to Officer Bradford,” Wade interjects. “If you want to sit today out, I’ll understand.”

“No. I’m not letting him ruin my life, too. We can handle Ferguson if he’s stupid enough to show his face.”

“The parole board seems convinced he’s reformed, but we both know he’s a good liar and a better manipulator. Keep your eyes open, Tim, and don’t hesitate to call in anything you think is a threat.”

“Yes, sir. Let’s go, boot.”

Tim leads Lucy to the shop, and he's quieter than usual. Lucy hasn’t been a cop as long as him, but she knows what it’s like to have a criminal blame you for the consequences of their actions. She won’t push Tim, not about this, but she has questions about everything she heard.

“Pull up Roscoe Ferguson,” Tim says as he turns onto the road. “Get familiar with his face. If you see him, I want you to know it’s him.”

“You really think he’ll do something?” Lucy asks as she turns the dashboard computer toward her.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-9, are there any alerts in my area?” you ask into the radio.

“Negative, 7-Adam-9.”

You nod to yourself and place the radio back in the console. The morning has been quiet and slow. You know you shouldn’t complain; a sunny drive in the hills is rarely a bad thing, but you’re a cop, and you’re getting bored.

“7-Adam-9, switch to channel 4 for Sergeant Grey,” dispatch instructs.

You turn the channel dial and let Wade know you’re there. He doesn’t answer, and you slow at a stop sign as you bounce the radio against your thigh.

“You’re in the hills, right?” Wade asks suddenly.

He doesn't use your name or call number, only asks a rushed question. It concerns you, but you remain professional.

“Yes, sir,” you answer. “Do you need me to come back?”

“No, stay up there. Just wanted to double-check.”

“What’s going on?”

Wade goes silent again, and you repeat the question.

“Nothing, I hope. Just trying to keep everyone connected to Bradford out of the heart of LA today.”

“Why?”

“Ferguson was released.”

“He has 15 years left on his sentence!” you exclaim into your empty car.

“I know. I’m trying to get everything figured out and petition for it to be reversed, but for now, just keep working.”

“Yes, sir.”

You turn the channel back and set the radio down. Roscoe Ferguson hates Tim and would do anything to get to him. Tim knows you're here for him, so you focus on your assignment. The Hollywood hills are quiet this morning, but you know better than to let your guard down.

As you turn onto Tahoe Drive, you notice a black truck in your rearview. He gets close to the tail of your shop but slows suddenly and turns onto Tahoe Place. You roll your eyes; the people who live in the Hills drive like they own the hills. They probably do, but it doesn’t excuse unsafe vehicle operation.

You round the bend where Tahoe Drive turns into Lake Hollywood Drive, and the Hollywood Reservoir comes into view. When you glance up, you see the black truck speeding toward you again. You hit the lights and leave them on for a few seconds as a warning, but the driver doesn’t slow. If they pass you, you’ll stop them and issue a ticket, you decide.

There’s a point on Lake Hollywood Drive where there’s less than 200 feet of terrain between the road and the reservoir. It’s covered in sparse foliage, but it would be easy enough to get to the water or hide in the trees. You realize too late that the truck isn’t slowing down or moving to pass you as you near that point. It rams into you from behind, and you lurch forward before the seatbelt catches and snatches you backward. Steering is pointless as the shop slides into a small patch of dirt. The truck is still driving, pushing your car forward. The driver stops just before you collide with a tree, and you reach for the radio.

It's fallen from the console, and the seatbelt holds you uncomfortably tight to your seat. As you wrestle to free yourself and get the radio, you don’t see the man exit the truck or approach your window. He hits it with an illegal tool used for breaking into cars, and you turn your face away as glass showers over you.

“Hi,” he greets. “7-Adam-9, right?”

“And you’re Roscoe Ferguson,” you answer.

“Bradford, get back to the station,” Wade radios, “Now.”

“What’s going on?” Tim asks as he makes a U-turn.

“Ferguson stole a truck. We don’t know where he went after or what he’s planning to do.”

“We should find him,” Lucy says.

“And don’t say you should go look for him,” Wade adds. “You’re too close to this.”

“He’s not going to kill me, Grey,” Tim argues. “Let me help. I caught him once; I can do it again.”

“Get back to the station. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tim sighs as he continues driving toward the station. The last time he worried about Roscoe Ferguson, you were sitting beside him. Though you’ll never take the credit, Tim thinks you’re the main reason he finally got Ferguson in cuffs.

“What now?” Lucy asks.

“We find a way to help find Ferguson,” Tim replies.

“Get out,” Ferguson demands.

He pushes the gun closer to your face, and you raise your hands slowly. Your left shoulder aches from the impact of the seatbelt, and as you reach through the broken window to open your door, you feel the tiny scratches littering your face and neck sting. Ferguson pulls you away from the shop and pushes you toward the reservoir.

“What’s your plan here, Roscoe?” you ask.

He taps the gun against your back to make you keep walking. With your back to him, you slide your hand into your pocket and remove the laminated piece of paper you keep in it. It falls to the ground, and you hope it’s enough to help Tim find you and Roscoe.

“Kill me to get to Tim? Hurt him without touching him because you know he won’t let you get the chance?”

“Shut up!” Ferguson yells. “Walk!”

Taunting him may not be your brightest decision, but making him mad will make him careless. When you reach the water, he grabs your belt and pulls you backward. Your breath rushes out as your back hits the ground, but you smile through the pain.

“You will never beat him,” you say.

“Tim Bradford took everything from me. Let’s see how he likes the feeling,” Ferguson responds.

He raises the gun to your face and pushes the barrel against your forehead. You keep your eyes on him, unwilling to flinch in the face of death. He changes his mind, however, and brings the butt of the handle down against your temple instead, and everything goes dark as the water blows in the wind.

Tim and Lucy have been relegated to desk duty. With Ferguson on the run and numerous threats against Tim’s life, Wade decided it would be best for him to stay here. Wade watches them from his office and shakes his head when Lucy begins twirling her handcuffs around her finger. His phone rings and Wade steps away from the glass door to answer it.

“Sergeant Grey,” he answers.

He listens silently before lowering the receiver and stepping out into the station. Tim looks up, and his expression drops immediately.

“What happened?” Tim asks as he stands.

“They found the stolen truck. It was involved in an accident near the reservoir. He, uh… Ferguson ran a cop off the road, and they’re both missing.”

“Who?” Tim asks, urgency and panic lacing the syllable.

Before Wade can answer, dispatch reads your badge number in a missing officer alert, and Tim’s blood runs cold. He freezes, staring at Wade as he realizes what has happened and that it’s his fault. Tim never anticipated Ferguson going for the people Tim cares about – loves – and he should have.

“Let me go out there,” Tim demands lowly. “I can find her.”

“I shouldn’t,” Wade answers. He looks to Lucy and adds, “But I will. Don’t try to do this alone, Bradford. Take help where you can get it.”

“I don’t want the credit; I want her back,” Tim snaps.

“Then get to the reservoir and do what you do best, Tim.”

Lucy nods at Wade, an unspoken promise that she’ll do her best to help him and keep him from spiraling. They both know that it’s easier said than done.

“Tim,” you call out when you wake.

“Nope, just me,” Ferguson says.

He’s sitting across from you as he carves a piece of wood into a chipmunk. Your arms are tied tightly behind you, and one of your ankles is secured to a metal pole with your handcuffs. Whatever he’s planning to do to you will hurt you, but it will hurt Tim much worse.

“I hope you’re asking for a lot of ransom,” you mumble.

“You and I both know this isn’t about money. It’s about that little partner of yours and what he did to me.”

“Making you pay for your crimes? Yeah, he’s a terrible person.”

Ferguson moves forward quickly. The half-finished wood carving falls to the floor as he presses the knife under your jaw.

“These whittling knives are small, but I can cut an artery before you can call out to him again,” he threatens.

You swallow, causing the knife to bob in his hand. He presses harder and turns to the left before standing. Warm blood trickles down your neck, and you wonder what he plans to do to you before he kills you. If you didn’t have so much faith in Tim, you’d be tempted to anger Ferguson and trick him into killing you early. It’s a terrible thing to think, but at the end of the day, you’re a cop, and you know when your chances aren’t good enough. Right now, they are.

“When he gets here, he will put a bullet in you this time,” you tell Ferguson.

“You stopped him last time,” he answers.

He’s planning to use you as a human shield; let Tim be the one to finish you off in the darkness. Perhaps that’s why you’re underground. The only light you see is from a small lamp; when it goes off, you will be plunged into complete darkness.

“Stop talking,” Ferguson demands as he retrieves his chipmunk. “We don’t have much air in here.”

You try not to let your shock show, but as you look around and fail to see a single air vent, you worry that Tim won’t make it in time. Forcing yourself to take a steady breath, you close your eyes.

“No, no, no,” Ferguson chides. “No napping. We have to stay awake for the pre-game, and the final score.”

He tips your head back, and your eyes open instinctually. When he sees that, he tightens his grip on your jaw and circles you. Looking at him upside-down, you tug against your restraints. He raises a foot and places it on your bound hands before stepping down hard and fast. Your shoulders pull backward at a painful angle with no room that makes you yell in pain. Ferguson’s laugh drowns out your scream, and he keeps his hand on your jaw as he lays a rope over the back of your neck to hang over your shoulders.

“He’s going to kill you,” you say between pants when Ferguson releases your face.

He hinges at his hip, invading your personal space as he smiles and says, “You too.”

“Bradford, there’s blood,” an officer alerts.

Tim steps to your open shop door and sees a few small, oblong blood drops on your seat. Based on the shape, you were in motion when they fell, and it wasn’t enough blood to kill you.

“Probably from the glass,” he decides. “Let’s move toward the reservoir. We can’t tell footprints apart but watch where you’re stepping!”

“Tim!” Lucy yells from just past the tree line.

He jogs to her side and looks down. She found a small, laminated piece of paper, and Tim recognizes it immediately. Your self-proclaimed “perfect fortune” from one of your first dinners together as P2s rather than rookies. He picks it up and looks toward the water. He’s looking in the right place, you made sure to tell him that, but he feels like he’s missing something else.

“Please,” you whimper, even though you know he can’t hear you.

“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Ferguson asks. “He’s not here.”

The only thing on your mind is Tim because if you stop thinking about him you’ll only know the unbearable pain and the man inflicting it. Ferguson places his foot between your legs, pushing against the chair slowly. It tips back, and you close your eyes and imagine Tim catching you. It doesn’t stop the initial pain of your leg being held in one place by the handcuffs as the rest of your body moves back or the scream you release as you hit the floor, but it does give you a reason to keep fighting. Ferguson pulls you up nearly as fast as he tipped you over, and the rope digs in against the side of your neck.

“This is the best workout I’ve ever had,” he says.

He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead, and you notice how hot and thick the air seems. Ferguson admitted that the air supply was limited, so if you start wasting it, maybe he will leave.

“If you call him…” you begin slowly. “Let me hear Tim Bradford’s voice one more time, and I will lure him here for you.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” Ferguson asks.

You nod and immediately regret it when he pulls the rope and forces your head down toward your chest.

“I’m not letting you take control. This is my plan, and it ends beautifully.”

“I can’t do this!” Tim yells.

He runs his hands over the back of his head and down his face as he squats by the reservoir. There are no other hints about where Ferguson took you, nothing to guide Tim toward saving you, only dirt and broken promises. He told you that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you; Tim whispered the promise in the dead of night when you were asleep during an overnight patrol, yet he’s holding himself to keeping it like it will kill him if he doesn’t. Because it will.

“Tim don’t give up yet,” Lucy encourages. She lowers beside him and lays a hand on his back. “We can do this, but we have to work together. The paper means something right? Could it be more than an indication she was here?”

Tim wipes under his eye, and Lucy’s eyes widen as she realizes tears are streaming down his cheeks. He stops them quickly, but she pats his back to remind him he’s not fighting alone. You’re fighting, too, and Tim needs to remember that.

“Lucy, I lo-“ Tim stops suddenly, though Lucy is confident she knows where he was going. “I know what it means.”

He stands quickly, and Lucy follows him to the place where they found the fortune. The little strip of paper from a fortune cookie has been in your pocket since you read it, but not only for the encouraging message on the front.

“34831,” Tim says.

“Your badge number?” Lucy asks, tilting her head to the side. “What about it?”

“It was on the back of my fortune that night. Hers, though, didn’t have a number. So, we wrote one on it.”

“What’s the number?”

“2 25 12 9. I didn’t think she’d know what it meant.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s an alphabet cypher, but backward.”

“B, Y, L, I,” Tim rattles off. “If she had this, she may have left more clues at those points: 2, 25, 12, and 9.”

“This would have been about 2,” Lucy says, gesturing to the ground. “That’s what, 2 meters from the car?”

Tim furrows his brows at Lucy’s use of meters but nods anyway.

“We can’t walk 25 meters forward, we’d be in the water,” Lucy points out.

“Then we need to spread out in every direction we can go 25 meters… Unless I’m wrong.”

“Don’t question it.”

“No, she would’ve fought. He wouldn’t have been able to make her go anywhere if she wasn’t willing to. We should assume that she couldn’t leave a trail after this point.”

“Then we’re back where we started?”

“Exactly.”

“Tim, what does that even mean?”

“She’s still here. They both are.”

Tim turns and yells for someone to get satellite imaging of the area and the camera footage from your car. Your body cam and police uniform shirt were discarded by the water but the cameras could tell them what happened before and during the initial attack.

“We’ll find her, Tim,” Lucy promises again.

“Thank you,” Tim whispers.

Running footsteps echo over the top of the tin deathtrap you’re in. Someone yells, and Ferguson ducks his head as he moves out of your sight.

“Tim!” you yell.

Your voice cracks, and as you prepare to yell again, Ferguson pulls the rope around your neck. It digs into your skin and compresses your windpipe. Tears begin leaking from your eyes, and after the day you’ve had, you don’t care to stop them.

“Tim, please,” you whisper.

“Welcome to the final round,” Ferguson says into your ear.

He loosens the rope and pushes your chair forward. His foot pulls down against your hands again, pulling your shoulder muscles cruelly as they stretch to accommodate the impossible movement. You scream in agony as Ferguson pushes you past the point he stopped at previously.

“Did you stop to ask yourself what he’s thinking? Wouldn’t he have found you sooner if he cared? I’ve been out long enough that he knew, yet he let you out by yourself,” Ferguson taunts.

“You won’t win,” you say between ragged breaths.

Ferguson pulls your head to the side to hold the whittling knife against your windpipe, and the cut he made earlier pulls open. Your white shirt is stained with blood and tears, and even as your blinks slow and breathing begins to feel impossible, you trust Tim.

“The almighty Tim Bradford isn’t coming to save you. You know why? Because you’re already dead,” Ferguson says.

You force your eyes open and ignore the pain and fear to say, “So are you.”

Throwing your head backward, you ignore the sting of his knife sliding across the tender skin of your neck. Your skull hits Ferguson’s nose, and he staggers backward with a hand holding his face. Suddenly, you can’t pull a full breath into your lungs. Time has run out, and Tim isn’t here yet. You hold your breath as Ferguson stumbles behind you. He drops, and you see his hand and face are covered in blood. His chest rises and falls slowly, but you’re safe until the rest of the oxygen is used up.

“Tim,” you whisper toward the metal sheet above you.

“Wait!” Lucy calls. “The ground is hollow here.”

Tim returns to Lucy’s side and hears his footsteps echo. It sounds like there’s a metal sheeting under the dirt beneath his boots. He raises a hand to call a few officers over before someone screams. It’s muffled by the metal and earth, but it’s a clear sign of pain. Better than that, it means someone is still alive.

“Find a way in,” Tim demands quietly.

As he searches the area around the hollow spot, he wishes to hear your voice again. Not another scream, but an acknowledgement that you survived whatever caused you such agony.

"Bradford!” Janssen calls.

He waves Tim over and points to a small opening. Together, they lift the heavy steel cover away from the round hole. Another barrier of cloth and metal sheets blocks the entrance, and as Tim digs through, he wonders how much air is getting through, if any. The moment he can see inside the fortified bunker, he pulls his weapon and drops silently into the metal housing.

What was likely meant to be a storm shelter has been converted into a survivalist’s nightmare. A small corridor leads to a wider opening, and a dim light is the only sign that anyone is inside. Tim raises his guns and stays ready to shoot as he nears the opening.

“Tim,” you whisper.

Tim hears your voice and doesn’t hesitate to step into the open room and swing his gun as he clears the small, square area. Ferguson lies unconscious in the corner, and Tim can only see your back, the restraints keeping you in place, and the rope loosely wrapped around your neck and shoulders.

Your shoulders shake as you exhale slowly. When you notice that you can breathe again, you take a deep breath before letting your head fall forward.

“Tim,” you repeat, trying not to think of anything else.

Tim says your name as he holsters his gun. You sit up straight and try to turn your head to the side but are stopped by the pull of the rope and the pain in your shoulders. You hiss in pain before returning to your previous position.

“You can’t trick me, Roscoe,” you mumble.

Tim steps toward Ferguson and handcuffs him. He repeats your name as he moves into your line of sight. His hands are raised to his shoulders, though his expression is pure concern. When he sees the blood, sweat, and dirt covering you and your clothes, he has to fight not to rush to your side.

“Tim,” you say again. Your voice is louder than before but still has an untrusting quality. “Tim.”

When you start crying and lean toward Tim, he kneels before you. He reaches down carefully to use his key and remove the handcuff from your ankle. Your head rests on his shoulder as he moves, and when he sees the damage done to your ankle, the swelling, deep bruising, and handcuff-induced gash, he looks back at Ferguson.

Tim sits up slowly and raises a hand toward your face. He pushes your hair back softly and waits until your eyes meet to speak.

“I need to go get backup,” he says.

“No, no! Please don’t leave me, Tim,” you plead through your slowing tears.

You lean forward and wince when your shoulder meets its new range of motion.

“I need to get Ferguson out of here,” Tim explains. “There’s a lot of people above us waiting for me to signal.”

“Tim, please.”

“Can I yell?”

You swallow as Tim moves closer to you. He stops an inch away from you, with your knees almost touching his ribs.

“I’m not going to yell unless you say I can,” he adds.

Tim waits for your nod, then leans away from you slightly to yell for Janssen and Lucy to come in.

“Help me,” you whisper when Tim’s eyes return to you.

He sits back on his heels as he unloops the rope from around you. It’s heavy, and he sees your shoulders drop once it’s away from you. They drop unevenly, though, and he knows you need more help than he can give you.

“I’m staying with you,” Tim promises, “but I have to untie your hands.”

You shake your head quickly, and Tim moves his hands to the sides of your thighs as he agrees not to leave. He asks Lucy to free your hands and keeps his hands on you as Lucy cuts the restraints.

“Thank you,” you say.

Tim doesn’t answer before you pull your arms forward. With them free, you don’t hesitate to raise them and wrap them around his shoulders. It hurts, and you sob as you fall forward and cling to Tim. He welcomes your touch and wraps his arms around your waist, but he doesn’t touch you, too mindful of how injured you are and where those unseen injuries are.

“I knew you’d come,” you say through your tears.

Tim looks over your shoulder as Janssen and a few other officers carry Ferguson to the opening. He should call an EMT to meet you here, but he can’t let you go yet. His grip tightens around your waist without thinking. When your only reaction is relaxing against him, Tim holds you as tightly as he needs to. Your tears are drying, and you turn your face toward Tim’s neck to speak.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t leave more clues,” you begin. “But I knew you didn’t need them.”

“The paper was smart,” Tim replies. “And I will always find you.”

“He wanted to lure you down here and trick you into killing me. Every time I called out for you he reminded me that we would both die.”

Tim exhales deeply, unsure how to tell you he knows you and he’d never make that mistake. He sits back, twisting you so that he’s holding you against his chest rather than letting you support your own weight.

“It hurts,” you say softly.

“Can you get out of here? Go up the ladder?” he asks.

“There’s a ladder?”

Tim’s brows furrow at your question. How did Ferguson get you down here if you weren’t conscious when you came in? He shakes his head; the detectives (and Tim) will look into the details of your abduction later. For now, your safety is the priority.

“Can you climb out?” Tim asks.

“Not without help,” you answer. “I don’t think I can walk.”

Tim looks at your ankle again, and his eyes catch on the fresh blood pooling against your collarbone. He leans closer to you to find the source. When he sees the cut across the front of your neck, he knows you need help sooner rather than later.

“Hold on,” he instructs you.

“I- I can’t move my shoulder.”

Tim lays you against the metal floor and looks at your left shoulder. It’s out of its socket, but Tim can’t risk pushing it back in without knowing if your muscles or ligaments are still intact.

“Please just get me out of here.”

Tim nods and turns around so your hips are beside his shoulders. He leans down and pulls your legs over his shoulder rather than your arms. With one hand pressing your shoulder to your side, Tim stands and pulls you up in a modified fireman’s carry. You stifle the yell that tries to escape, and Tim’s heart breaks when he hears it. He spent so much time fighting, desperate to find you, that he didn’t consider how different things would be when he did.

With the help of Janssen, Nolan, and Lucy, Tim gets you back above ground. He collapses to the ground but makes sure you’re set down with care. You reach out for him immediately, and Tim pulls your chest to his again. The paramedics are close, but until they arrive, Tim will hold you like he never has.

“I’m so sorry,” Tim whispers.

“You found me,” you reply. “You found me.”

Your right hand squeezes Tim’s shirt in your hand as you hold onto him. You didn’t doubt him for a second. Being in his arms gives you the safety and comfort you need to fall apart because you know he’ll hold you together.

“I know what it means,” you say. “Or I think I do. B-Y-L-I; it’s backwards, right?”

Tim nods against you, and you smile through your tears. The paramedics arrive, and you’re carefully removed from Tim’s grasp, though his hand stays in yours. You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to let go, but Tim has already made a new promise, and he won’t leave your side until he’s forced to.

“Where’s Kojo?” you ask as Tim leads you into his house.

“He’s staying with Lucy tonight. He gets excited when he sees you and I didn’t want him to hurt you,” Tim answers.

He guides you to the couch and sits beside you after placing your things in his guest bedroom. Tim refused to let you return to your apartment alone after being discharged from the hospital, and you didn’t need much convincing to stay with him while you heal.

You lean your head against Tim’s shoulder, careful not to jostle your shoulder in its sling. He moves his arm to welcome you closer and tilts his head to rest beside yours.

“It’s I love you backward, right?”

Tim looks down at your hand, surprised to see your fortune in it. He takes it from you and flips it to see his handwriting. He nods and sits up straight. When you turn toward Tim, he wipes under your eyes as if he can still see the tears you cried when he saved you. Your skin is littered with scars and reminders of what Ferguson did to you, but Tim still seems to only see you underneath all of it.

“It’s I love you, Bradford,” he answers. “Whether you wanted that to mean ‘from Bradford’ or something else.”

“I begged for you to save me while I was down there with him.”

“I’m-“

“Don’t apologize. I just- I need you to know I trust you that much because I know you love me. I’ve known for a long time. But I also knew that even if you didn’t find me in time, I would die loving you. And life was worth living because you were in it.”

Tim’s hands rise out of his lap before freezing. He looks down at your neck and back to your eyes before smiling. His eyes look misty, but you know yours are, too, so you decide not to tease him about it this one time.

“I don’t know where I’m supposed to put my hands to kiss you,” he mumbles.

You hold his shoulder as you lean in and kiss him. His hands raise to your waist without thought, and other than the soreness of using your obliques to search for Tim while tied in place, it’s a painless touch. Tim moves slowly and intentionally as he kisses you, reminding you of everything he said and did, even what you weren’t present for.

“I love you, Tim Bradford,” you say against his lips.

“I love you. I will always love you, and I will never lose you again.”

Tim slides the fortune into your pocket as he kisses you again, and every pain and fear you faced disappears because you know Tim will always find you and make you whole.

447 notes View Post

myfictionalbfs

6 months ago

Next Year

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (w/ retinoblastoma + a prosthetic eye)

Summary: Tim accompanies you to your yearly ophthalmologist appointment for the first time.

Warnings: depictions of anxiety about dr visit, fluff, comfort

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

“Are you going to Lucy’s party?” Angela asks as she walks into the station beside Tim.

“No,” he answers quickly.

“Did you get invited yet? Because you can’t say no before she asks you.”

“Tim!” Lucy calls.

“When’s the party?” he asks.

“A week from today.”

“Can’t. Maybe next time.”

Angela shrugs, conceding defeat, but Lucy wants to know why Tim refuses to attend. Usually, he’ll say he doesn’t want to, but his short answer - can’t - intrigues her.

“Why not?” she inquires, walking quickly to keep up with Tim’s long strides through the station.

“I’m going out of town that day,” Tim says.

“Why?”

“Chen,” Tim sighs, stopping to face her. “I can’t go to your party, I’m sorry.”

“Okay. But, where are you going?”

“Is no not sufficient?”

“Tim, c’mon, give me something so I don’t just assume you hate me and never want to see me outside of work.”

Tim raises his brows, and Lucy shakes her head quickly. He knows he can’t get out of this easily or quickly, so he blows out a breath and explains, “I’m going to San Francisco with my girlfriend.”

Lucy’s eyes widen as she gasps. “Are you proposing?” she whispers.

“What? No.”

“Why else would you be taking her up there, then? You can tell me if you’re proposing, I’m really good at keeping secrets.”

“Not something to brag about in a police station, Chen.”

“I’ll ask Angela to interrogate you.”

“It’s a doctor’s appointment,” Tim admits. “And truly none of your business.”

“A doctor’s- Is everything okay?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, so we can’t come to your party, but if you keep this between us, I will make sure I come to the next one.”

“Keep what between you?” Wade asks.

Lucy presses her forefinger to her lips and nods once, but Tim rolls his eyes and answers, “Next week.”

“Ah,” Wade murmurs. “Tell her we’re keeping her in our thoughts and let us know if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

Tim sees the look of hurt that flashes across Lucy’s face at not being included in whatever it is you’re dealing with. Yet, she knows that medical issues can be stressful enough without a bunch of cops asking you questions or treating you differently.

“I’ll see you at the next party then,” Chen says. “And bring me some Ghirardelli!”

“No.”

“Are you ready?” Tim asks as he turns his truck off in the parking garage.

You look at him from your place in the passenger seat and shake your head. “I’m nervous.”

Tim takes your hand over the console and smiles as he promises, “Everything’s going to be fine. Even if it’s not, we’ll deal with it. Okay? And just think about the cheesecake you get later.”

You take a shaky breath and smile as you nod. Tim squeezes your hand before he exits the truck, walks to your door, and takes your hand as you walk to your doctor’s office. The waiting room is tiny, and you cross your fingers as Tim opens the door that it’s not busy. You’re anxious enough without having to stand or step around other people while you wait.

“Good morning,” the receptionist greets.

She’s new, you realize, and you offer a small smile as you tell her your name and birthday.

“Alright,” she says after typing for a moment. “I’ve got you checked in and they’ll call you back shortly.”

“Thank you,” Tim tells her, placing his hand on the small of your back to lead you to a chair.

You clasp your hands together in your lap to hide your shakiness from Tim, but when your leg starts bouncing beside him, you realize it’s pointless. He’ll see your anxiety even without the outward responses.

“I’ll be right back,” you whisper to him.

Tim nods once and watches you walk to the bathroom before he looks at the small table beside his seat. There’s a pamphlet about retinoblastoma, and he picks it up to read the back as he waits for you.

With your hand on the doorknob, preparing to exit the restroom, you realize that you’ll probably have to come straight back. It’s one of the more annoying responses to anxiety, the constant bathroom breaks. When you remember that Tim is waiting outside for you, you feel better.

“What are you reading?” you ask as you sit beside him, leaning toward him.

Tim flips the pamphlet closed, and you smile as you furrow your brows.

“It is my first time,” he points out. “You’ve told me a lot, but I’m not going to pretend like I know exactly what you’ve dealt with or have to go through every year.”

You wrap your fingers around Tim’s forearm as your leg begins bobbing up and down again. He extends his arm over your torso to rest his hand on your leg. Almost immediately, a nurse opens the door and calls your name.

“I’ll be right here,” Tim promises.

You follow the nurse into a small exam room and try to listen to her instructions on reading the charts to test your vision. You’ve done this every year for as long as you remember, so you know how to do it. Still, you haven’t cracked the code to eliminate the anxiety that comes with the yearly doctor visits.

“Read these letters,” she prompts.

Resisting the urge to squint, you read, “A, K, L, M.”

“Good, and these?”

“Y… uh, P? E, R.”

“Okay,” the nurse mumbles before showing you more letters. “Good, done with that. Now we’ll check your eye pressure and dilute your eyes for the doctor’s examination. Do you have any questions about that?” You shake your head, and she smiles as she prepares the numbing drops. “Tip your chin up toward me slightly?” she requests. “Good. Open nice and wide.”

You blink after the drops hit your right eye, and she quickly moves to do the other side. A moment later, she instructs you to sit closer to the machine that checks your eye pressure. After the pressure is checked and your retina is imaged by the retinal camera, she instructs you to turn toward her.

“Time for the worst part,” she announces. “Tip your chin up again? Thank you.”

As the dilation drops begin working, you swallow to get the taste out of your throat. You can feel the drops draining down the back of your throat as your vision shifts, growing farsighted. Luckily, you return to the waiting room before it gets too bad. Tim appears blurry as you sit beside him and wordlessly pull his arm against your chest to hold his hand. He turns to lay his other hand on your knee and brushes his thumb against your inner thigh.

“Feel okay?” he asks softly.

“Yeah,” you answer against his arm. “Just don’t like the dilation.”

“Nobody does,” Tim whispers, as if it’s a secret. “What happens next?”

You appreciate Tim’s presence beside you more than he’ll ever know, but the fact that he’s concerned about you and wants to know exactly what you’re dealing with and thinking makes you love him even more.

“I’ll talk to the doctor about changes, but there aren’t many this year. Then he’ll check my retina, and every other year he does imaging and ultrasounds to look at the tumor. I got them last year, so I shouldn’t need them unless he sees something.”

Tim nods and carefully pulls his arm away.

“How’d you know?” you ask as you stand.

“Do you need help?” he says rather than answering.

You shake your head and walk carefully to the bathroom. Before you sit back in your seat, you’re called back again and wave to Tim. He’ll be there when you finish, and that’s a good comfort as you follow the tech to the exam room across the small hall.

“Good morning,” the doctor says as he walks in, glancing your way before he sits and looks over through your oversized chart and the results of today’s vision test. “Any changes to vision or pain?”

“No pain,” you answer. “My vision is a little blurrier than last year, mostly when I’m looking at things far away.”

The doctor nods and sets the large folder aside as he moves his chair toward you. “Anything else?”

You shake your head and follow his light as he moves it from left to right. He raises his retinoscope and direct ophthalmoscope to further examine your retina.

“Good reflectivity,” he tells the technician behind him. “Minimal changes.”

“So, I’m cured?” you joke, pressing your hands against your thighs.

Your doctor smiles, a rare expression, at your comment and murmurs, “If only it were that easy.”

He moves closer to examine your eye through the ophthalmoscope and hums as he moves upward. When he lowers it and pushes back to look at his notes from last year, you bite the inside of your bottom lip and prepare yourself for bad news.

“You’re fine,” he announces, causing you to release your breath. “There has been a minimal change to your vision, but it’s not even worthy of updating any preexisting prescriptions. Your retina looks as good as it can, there’s no new damage, no swelling, and the tumor obviously hasn’t changed. The nerves are intact and healthy also.” He presses a few buttons on the computer and three images of your retina load, and he points to the one on the far left to say, “This was six years ago, and there’s been very little change since then. These nerves and vessels are maintained, the fovea centralis is healthy, and that’s what I wanted to see.”

“Thank you.”

“And the other eye still matches,” he adds.

“Was that a joke, doctor?”

He shrugs, reminds you of eye safety rules, and tells you to schedule your next appointment with the receptionist before you leave. You thank him again and then follow the tech slowly to return to the waiting room.

“Ready?” Tim asks, offering his arm as he walks to your side.

“I need to make my appointment,” you answer as you wrap your arms around one of his.

“Already on it,” the receptionist tells you. “Does the same day next year at 10 a.m. work for you?”

“Yes,” you and Tim answer simultaneously.

“Perfect. You’ll get some email reminders, and I’ll get you an appointment card now. See you both next year, then.”

You doubt it; you rarely see the same receptionist twice, but you enjoy hearing that Tim will undoubtedly be at your side again next year.

“And?” Tim prompts as he leads you out of the office.

“Everything’s fine. My retina’s okay, the nerves are functioning and healthy, so I’m as good as I can be.”

“That’s great!”

You nod and remind him, “Now I need cheesecake.”

“Of course. Hold on tight.”

You do just that, trusting Tim to get you safely where you need to be. After he gets you into the truck, he drives to Union Square. Then, Tim leads you into Macy’s to go to the top floor and enjoy lunch and cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory for a reward. You and Tim talk about work, Kojo, and enjoy the time together, even if you are in San Francisco for an unexciting reason.

“Left?” Tim clarifies as he leads you out onto the street.

“Yes,” you answer. “You have to figure it out once we get closer though.”

Tim smiles and pulls you closer to his side as he leads you down the street to your next appointment. It’s much faster, just answering a few questions and waiting for your eye maker to polish, clean, and check the size of your prosthetic eye before you’re ready to go. As you leave, the effects of your dilation begin to wear off.

“At least I don’t have to ride back to LA with dilated eyes,” you tell Tim after he asks what your relieved sigh was about.

“I wouldn’t have made you do that,” he counters. “We could have gotten a hotel.”

“Maybe next year.”

Tim smiles and turns you to face him on a sidewalk in Union Square. He brushes his thumbs gently across your cheekbones before he kisses you. It was his first time accompanying you to an appointment. If every visit is like this, you may actually look forward to next year’s visit.

175 notes View Post

myfictionalbfs

6 months ago

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!”

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myfictionalbfs

4 months ago

Do You Want to Keep a Secret?

Part 2 Here - Do You Want to Keep Another Secret? >

Pairing: Dominique Luca x fem!reader

Summary: After Luca asks Street to stay out of the house for a while, Street gets tired and curious and accidentally crashes Luca's "book club."

Warnings: secret girlfriend, "book club" joke goes on way too long (Bridgerton slander; I haven't and won't read it but know Street wouldn't like it), fluff, brief mention of alcohol consumption, the one and only Duke!!!

Word Count: 2.5k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Luca Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

“Street, wait up, man,” Luca calls.

Street pauses by the door of S.W.A.T. HQ and turns to look at Luca. 20 Squad had an early day and Street’s been eager to get out of the station and relax. When Luca waits for Deacon and Hondo to walk by before he begins talking, Street narrows his eyes in suspicion.

“What do you want?” Street asks.

“I can’t just want to talk?” Luca defends.

“If you just wanted to talk, Deacon and Hondo overhearing wouldn’t have been a problem. Spit it out, man.”

“Fine. I’m going to be home late tonight and need the house tomorrow night.”

Street opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. Luca tugs nervously on his backpack strap, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Street.

“There’s something that I need to do tomorrow, and I just- go ride around or visit friends, whatever you want to do, but I really need the house to myself,” Luca explains.

“What do you need to do?” Street inquires.

“Something that I can’t do with you asking questions.”

“Why-“

“Streeter, please.”

Street nods slowly before agreeing to find somewhere else to be tomorrow night. Luca’s the best roommate and friend he’s ever had, so despite all the questions he wants to ask, he’ll give Luca the space and privacy he needs. As they leave HQ, Luca turns left where Street turns right, and Street only becomes more curious about where Luca is going and how he’s spending his nights.

“Book club?” Street asks.

“Dude, do I look like I’d host a book club? Or be in one?” Luca replies.

“No offense, but kinda. You’ve got that soothing, welcoming personality, and you love people.”

“Who’s in a book club?” Deacon asks as he walks into the situation room.

“No one,” Luca answers.

“Luca disappeared last night, didn’t get home until well after midnight, and now he needs our house tonight. Won’t tell me why,” Street explains.

Deacon looks over at Luca, and he nods once. Luca thinks Deacon probably figured out exactly what has been taking Luca’s free time, but he trusts Deacon to keep it quiet and not push like Street.

“Well, Street, you’re welcome to come over for dinner since you’ve been evicted,” Deacon offers.

“Temporarily evicted,” Street corrects. “And, thanks, but I already found a way to kill a few hours.”

“Luca, enjoy the Street-free house,” Deacon adds as he leaves.

“Hey!” Street yells. “Wait, Luca, is Duke staying?”

“Where are we going?” you ask.

Luca told you during your date last night that he’d pick you up from work today because he had a surprise. Seeing your boyfriend two days in a row is unusual, but you’re certainly not complaining. The permanent smile on your face since you met is proof that there’s never too much time with Luca.

“We’ve been dating for a while, but we don’t spend time alone,” Luca begins. “Not that I don’t enjoy our date nights, but I thought it might be nice to have a night in for once.”

“That does sound nice,” you agree. “But we both have roommates.”

“I don’t have one tonight. Street agreed to let me have the house to myself for a while.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Not much. He asked a lot of questions, though.”

“You know, you’re not the first boyfriend I’ve had who didn’t want me to meet his friends. You are the first who said it was because of his friends and not me, though.”

“I’ll introduce you when the time is right. And we’re not starting with Street, that’s something that needs to be eased into.”

“Then who would you introduce me to first?”

Luca smiles, and when he reaches the last stop sign before his house, he turns to look at you.

“Deacon, probably,” he answers. “I think he already knows I’m seeing someone.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Deacon’s crazy intuitive, and the only one who has any idea what it’s like to be in a committed relationship.”

Luca turns into his driveway and races around the front of his truck to open your door and help you out. His house is cute, you think, but the work he’s doing in the neighborhood is even better than the house. As he opens the door, you hear a dog bark happily.

“Is that Duke? I get to meet Duke?” you ask excitedly.

“Yes, you do. He’s the best roommate I have.”

“When I meet Jim, I’m telling him you said that.”

“He already knows.”

Luca opens the door, and you step inside before being greeted by Duke. He’s just as kind and gentle as his owner, and you fall in love with him in a moment. As you kneel and pet him, letting him sniff your hand to introduce yourself, you’re glad for a quiet night in. You know Luca well, but you expect to see a different side of him away from the public eye, and the dangers he watches for outside.

“This is the best date you’ve ever taken me on,” you tell Luca as he helps you stand.

“I’ll remember that next time I get reservations at an expensive restaurant,” he jokes.

“You know I’d be happy with your cooking, or a food truck, or a microwave dinner as long as I’m sharing it with you.”

“Don’t get sappy yet,” Luca warns playfully.

You already feel comfortable in Luca’s house, and as you follow him into the kitchen you catch a glimpse of what the rest of your life will be like. Your favorite meal is waiting for you, and you hug Luca tightly to thank him. The night is perfect, and it’s just beginning.

“I’m so tired,” Street complains.

“Go home,” Chris answers. “That’s, like, the entire point of having a place to live.”

“I can’t. Luca said I can’t come home until later.”

“Why not?”

“Wouldn’t tell me. Deac probably knows.”

“If he didn’t say why, it must not be too important.”

Street looks up from his drink and snaps. His eyes are glassy as he points at Chris and agrees, “You’re so right. You’re so smart, Chris.”

“And maybe you need a ride home,” she suggests.

“I’m not drunk,” Street argues. “Just tired and I want to know what Luca is doing.”

“I’m not going to tell you that you should go home earlier to find out, but if you’re uncomfortable staying out any longer… Where else are you supposed to go?”

“Luca would kill me.”

“I love you,” you whisper.

Luca’s hand slows in its trail from your hip to your ribs and back down. His touch is both calming and electrifying, and you can’t imagine a life without Luca. He pulls your legs over his lap to bring you closer. What started as sitting on his couch to talk quickly turned to quiet confessions and cuddles, which you would like to be a nightly occurrence. Luca kisses your cheek before promising that he loves you.

“I’m never going to want to go on another date with you unless it’s just like this one,” you say.

Luca turns to look at your smile and cups your cheek before he agrees, “I’m sure we could work something out.”

“You’re gonna have to tell Street then. Duke already loves me, so we’re over halfway there.”

“Or I could just get him, like, arcade passes to keep him busy.”

“Luca.”

‘We’ll talk about it later,” Luca whispers as he leans in.

His hand moves from your cheek to the back of your neck as he kisses you. Already halfway in his lap, you lean forward and press your chest to his to return the affection. Your hands move to Luca’s shoulders, and you grip his shirt gently as you push yourself closer to him.

The door opens, and you pull away from Luca quickly as someone asks, “Is this why you didn’t want me to come home?”

“Street, what are you doing here?” Luca asks as he gently moves your legs off of his and stands.

“I forgot?”

“Any other night I would believe that,” Luca says.

He’s standing in front of you, but you peek around his side and wave. You introduce yourself and say hello to Street as he waves in return.

“Why are you back?” Luca asks again.

“I got tired, and Chris kind of convinced me that it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to come back early. I swear, Luca, I had no idea I was going to be interrupting.”

“Because I didn’t want to tell anyone yet!”

You stand and lay a hand on Luca’s back in an attempt to calm him down. Although you understand why he wants to wait, things don’t always work out like you want.

“I’m sorry, Luca,” Street says.

“Uh, Street?” you interrupt softly. “Do you want to keep a secret?”

“You want me to stay quiet about this? Absolutely; you don’t have to worry about that." He looks to Luca and adds, "I really am sorry, man.”

“Not exactly,” you say, though you look at Luca as you say it. “Want to start a book club?”

“I knew it,” Street says through his teeth.

“You guys want to come over for dinner?” Luca invites.

“Are you cooking?” Hondo asks quickly.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Then, I’m in.”

“Sure,” Deacon agrees. “I just have to be home by nine.”

“Nobody envies that, Deac,” Hondo teases.

“I’m down, too,” Tan says.

“Sounds good,” Chris adds.

“Alright. Come over whenever you’re ready, but food should be done in about an hour,” Luca calls over his shoulder.

“Bring your own silverware, I’m not doing dishes,” Street demands.

“Sure thing, playboy,” Victor says.

“Hello?” Street asks as he opens the door.

“Kitchen,” you call. “Are you aware that it’s still your house?”

“Doesn’t mean you have to feel uncomfortable or stay confined to Luca’s room.”

You smile and when Street raises his hands in question, you ask, “Are you ever going to let them know that you’re not a playboy anymore?”

“And lose all my credit and the best nickname I’ve ever had? Not likely, future Mrs. Luca.”

“Now that is the best nickname I’ve ever had.”

“Streeter!” Luca calls.

“Second best,” Street whispers before leaving your side to help Luca.

“How well do you think this is going to go, Duke?” you ask as you follow him into the living room.

“This is the only book that I could find seven copies of,” Luca explains as he dumps a bag of paperbacks on the coffee table.

“Bridgerton?” you read. “Luca, did you think maybe there was a reason there were so many?”

“It’s good enough for a TV show,” Street says.

He picks one up and begins reading the blurb on the back, and you watch his face go from curious to confused to disinterested and disgusted.

“Not good enough for a S.W.A.T. team,” you explain. “And now poor Street is scarred for life.”

“Good thing we’re not reading it,” Luca says. “They’re going to figure out far before they gain any interest in the book.”

Street shudders as he steps back from the books, and you laugh before returning to the kitchen. Luca is making dinner, but you claimed dessert and two different options are cooling on the counter. The doorbell rings and Street walks to the door as Luca arranges the books. You run into Luca’s bedroom to hide and wonder if Street will be able to keep a secret long enough to pull off the book club gag.

“Hey, Deac,” Luca greets. “Come on in.”

“Is your girlfriend here?” Deacon asks.

“How do you do that?” Street exclaims.

“Dude,” Luca sighs. “Yeah, she’s here.”

“The book club bit is a nice touch,” Deacon applauds. “Worst book you could have chosen though.”

“I agree,” Street says dramatically.

“Annie couldn’t finish these books.”

“Understandable.”

The doorbell rings again, and Deacon and Street quiet as the rest of 20 Squad enters the Luca/Street abode. With all of them talking over one another, you can’t tell how the conversation is going.

“Why is there an extra book?” Hondo asks. “Did you miscount for this joke or is that part of it?”

“No, there’s seven of us,” Luca answers.

“Me, you, Street, Tan, Deac, and Chris. That’s six, my man.”

“Plus, my girlfriend.”

Hondo, Tan, and Chris freeze. Luca expected a louder reaction, so the stunned silence is a surprise.

“Are we going to stand here in suspense, or do we get to meet her?” Deacon asks finally.

“Hi,” you say as you walk into the living room. “I’m-“

Halfway through your introduction, 20 Squad finds their voice again and Hondo, Chris, and Tan begin speaking over one another again to ask you questions. Street steps up and raises his hands to stop them.

“I can answer any questions you have about her. Because I’m a great roommate, and Luca’s best friend, and I already know her,” he says proudly.

“What’s her favorite book?” Luca asks.

“I can say with absolute certainty that it is not Bridgerton,” Street answers. He looks at you quickly to ask, “Right?”

“That is correct,” you affirm.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Deacon says as he shakes your hand. “Sorry Street was the welcome committee.”

“If I get to see Street, I get to see Duke, so it’s a win,” you tease.

“Okay, okay, let’s go back,” Hondo interjects. “How long have you been together?”

“Almost six months,” Luca replies.

“Six months? And we haven’t heard a thing? Luca, what did we do to deserve this?”

Luca glances at Chris, who is pulling you away from Deacon and talking so quickly you probably can’t understand anything.

“The interrogation I knew she’d get, mostly. No offense, Hondo, but when we’re all together it’s a lot to take in.”

“I get that, man, but you could have told us. We’re family.”

“I’m telling you now. With food.”

“Touché.”

“She’s going to be around for a long time, though,” Luca promises.

“I’m happy for you, man. Just let me know before you pop the question, would you?”

“I do have a ring,” Luca murmurs.

“Next book club, she ain’t here and we talk about that little piece of information,” Hondo declares before leaving Luca to join the small circle around you.

After everyone leaves, and you accept an invitation to join Annie and Deacon for dinner next week, you fall back on the couch and lean against Luca. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and tugs you closer to him.

“You were right. They’re a lot, but it’s clear that they care about you, Luca. I’m glad you have friends – family – like them,” you say.

“And now they’re yours,” Luca replies, “for as long as you stay with me.”

“I like that sound of that.”

Duke jumps onto the couch beside you, and you pet his head. Luca imagines how different this will be when you have a ring on your finger and smiles.

“There is just one thing I’d like you to do,” you request.

“Anything.”

“Pick a better book next time. Something by Michael Connelly or Doyle, anyone-“

Luca cuts you off with a kiss, and you both pretend not to hear Street tiptoe behind you to eat more brownies.

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