Chapter Text
Tim was never particularly enthusiastic for locker room chitchat. Inside the men’s locker room at the Mid-Wilshire Police Department, it came in various kinds: complaints about the perpetually broken coffee machine, tasteless jokes that made his face twitch, personal drama involving ex-wives and custody battles, and unfounded rumors about promotions and demotions that spread like wildfire. All things that would gain a world-weary eye roll from him.
He happily accepted any mention of L.A.’s finest sports teams, a welcome respite from the mundane. But the Rams hadn’t made it to the Super Bowl, and the Dodgers weren’t even up for spring training yet, so any sports-related conversations died out pretty quickly, leaving Tim to endure the locker room noise. He just wanted to get dressed, grab a coffee, and get to roll call.
So he had sought to drown out the pointless conversations as best as he could by letting his mind wander to the one distraction he allowed himself while on the job: Lucy.
The drone of voices faded into the background as Tim’s mind drifted, pulling him back to the hotel room and the night he had shared with Lucy—a night he wasn’t sure he would have been able to ever have again.
He remembered with undeniable clarity how he had initially been the one to make the first move, not just by closing the proximity between them, but by staring into her eyes, then dropping his gaze to her lips and leaning in a fraction before she held up a finger to stop him.
Tim had seen the pain in her eyes, and he was ready to relent. He had, after all, promised her small doses in whatever form and moments she would allow.
But then he had seen the pain in her eyes shift to longing, and before he knew what was happening, she was reaching for and kissing him. And Tim had been intent on following her lead, swiftly untying her dress after she had undone his belt, turning her around to recapture her lips and back her up to the bed before either of them could voice any doubts out loud.
He knew he had spectacularly fumbled everything the morning after and spent the day with a gnawing fear that he had caused another form of irreparable damage to his relationship with Lucy.
As Tim started buttoning the shirt on his uniform, he remembered Lucy's words after, during a shared elevator ride. Her voice had been soft yet firm: "I’m not sorry about last night."
After spending an eight-hour shift trying to ignore the dread and worry that filled his chest, her words had let him breathe again, and a heavy weight had lifted from his chest.
The air between them was still not normal yet, not by a long shot, but at least there were no regrets.
And then, her line, the boundary she'd drawn between them, severed any hopes that might have felt like resurfacing: "But it can never happen again."
He wanted to respect it; he truly did. And Tim knew he should respect it. But the thought of it never happening again… that was a truth he simply refused to accept.
Not a chance.
When he heard Smitty and Janssen bickering one locker row over about who "won the bet," Tim felt a familiar surge of dread and shook his head. He started buttoning his shirt faster, his fingers fumbling slightly, hoping to escape before he got dragged into their drama. He’d learned as a rookie that the best policy in the locker room was to remain a quiet observer in a space where secrets easily echoed off the tiled walls. His own had always felt too loud in here.
“Fine, I know how we’ll settle this,” Smitty said, his voice gruff and overly confident.
The sound of a locker slamming and feet shuffling closer made Tim tense, a premonition of annoyance settling in his gut. He’d just finished closing his locker, the metallic click a small punctuation mark in the ongoing locker room symphony, when he turned and found officers Smitty and Janssen staring at him expectantly. Smitty, as usual, looked like he was about to pitch some ridiculous scheme, while Janssen looked nervous by the way he shuffled his weight from foot to foot. Tim's patience, already thin, began to fray.
“Sarge, you gotta help me out,” Smitty started, palms up and eyes pleading, his voice a little too theatrical for the confined space.
Tim glanced between the two men, sensing he wanted no part of whatever this was, but then he heard Grey’s voice in his head, telling him that “a Sergeant is like the quarterback, and he has to put the team first.”
If Tim was lucky, this wouldn’t take up too much of his time, and they could all move on to roll call, where it was a drama-free zone.
“Fine,” Tim relented with a sigh, the word heavy with resignation. “What’s the problem?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
The question hit him like a punch, unexpected and personal. He felt a prickle of irritation. This was exactly the kind of locker room nonsense he tried to avoid. His personal life was not up for inspection, especially when it came to Lucy.
“Excuse me?” Tim frowned, his jaw tightening. “How is my personal life relevant to your issue?”
Smitty immediately launched into a convoluted explanation, something to do with how the breakup tension between Lucy and him seemed to have somewhat dissipated. And the sudden shift back into their usual shorthand had become fodder for the locker room gossip mill.
Tim’s mind raced, trying to keep up, a growing sense of unease creeping in.
“There may or may not have been a community bet on who would move on first between you and Chen…” Smitty explained and then raised his hands in defense when Tim’s scowl intensified.
His stomach churned at the thought of Lucy finding out their coworkers were betting on them. The idea was demeaning and intrusive. He felt the instinct to shield her from such crass speculation surge through him. He imagined the mortified flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes would harden with indignation. He’d rather face down The Hammer again than see her hurt by this kind of casual cruelty.
“You’ve got to be kidding me–” Tim inhaled, ready to give both men a lecture on professional conduct and the inappropriateness of betting on their colleagues’ personal lives. But Smitty, seemingly oblivious to the rising storm, didn’t give Tim time to finish his sentence.
“McNeil said she noticed a hickey on the back of Chen’s neck yesterday in the locker room–” Smitty continued on, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as if he could guard the secret from the echoing walls.
“A few hickeys, actually, said she resembled a leopard.”
Tim froze. The blood drained from his face so fast he felt lightheaded. His eyes widened involuntarily, the air thick with sudden dread. A cold sweat prickled his skin. His ears buzzed, drowning out Smitty's voice as the world narrowed to a single, terrifying image: Lucy's neck, the faint bruise of his indiscretion marring the skin right alongside the delicate script of her tattoo.
The realization slammed into him with the force of a physical blow: he had left those marks on the back of her neck when they both gave in to each other in that hotel room. He had been so caught up in their stolen moment and their complicated dance of unspoken feelings—the frantic need, their electric connection—that leaving glaringly obvious evidence of their impropriety had been the last thing on his mind.
How could he have been so careless, so utterly blind to the consequences?
What about the scratch marks Lucy had left on his back that night, a matching set of indiscretions? Were they still visible? Had anyone noticed them when he was changing earlier? Would they both look guilty of inappropriate behavior? Would this get back to I.A.? The consequences, both professional and personal, could be devastating. His career, her career, everything they had worked for, could be jeopardized. The questions were relentless. He must have been quiet for too long because now both men were staring at him with…
Sympathy? Or was it pity? Tim couldn’t tell, and frankly, either way, it was insulting.
“Oh…You didn’t know.” Smitty stopped sputtering nonsense and spared a side glance at Janssen, who looked uncomfortably guilty. “Sorry, Bradford.” Smitty slapped him on the shoulder, the gesture felt awkward and misplaced.
“Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you. How about I do some recon?” Smitty raised his brows, a sleazy grin spreading across his face. “I’ll find out who Chen’s new boyfriend is and report back to you.”
Tim blinked rapidly, trying to process the sheer audacity of Smitty’s offer and the sheer idiocy of it. He shook his head, a desperate need to shut it all down. "N-No… No thanks, Smitty." The words felt weak and lacking of any real command, like he’d barely managed to choke them out.
“It’s not a problem, I’ve got two friends in U.C. who owe me a favor–” Smitty insisted, undeterred by his commanding officer. “I’ll have a complete file on the guy ready for you by tomorrow, name, address, shoe size, the whole nine yards.”
“I said no, Smitty,” Tim barked out, his voice laced with an edge he hadn’t meant to reveal.
He pushed past the two men and headed towards roll call, desperate to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the locker room and the weight of his own secrets. He knew he had to talk to Lucy, and soon. Last night, in the hushed confines of the work elevator, she’d been adamant: no regrets, but what had happened between them couldn’t happen again.
He didn’t want to burden her with the knowledge of Smitty’s ridiculous bet, but Tim had to warn her in case Smitty ignored his orders. Dropping by his place, even if it was just under the guise of venting about her rookie, was a bad idea–no, a dangerous game. Every instinct screamed caution, but another, deeper part of him yearned for proximity, for the simple act of seeing her outside the confines of the station.
But as he entered the bullpen and saw her standing there, bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the windows, her features sharp and beautiful, the thought of telling her to stay away, to advise her to keep her distance, made something in his chest clench. It was a sharp affliction of longing and anguish, a twist of pain deep within him at the idea of pushing her away just when he felt like they were finally at a turning point from the awkwardness of their breakup.
He wasn’t sure he could do it. The desire to protect her warred with a yearning to reclaim what they once had, and that made the simple act of avoiding her feel impossible.