Chapter Text
There’s no warning that his life is about to be shaken to its core.
It’s a typical Thursday morning in LA. The sun is bright, the sky is only dotted with fluffy white clouds… he can practically already hear the complaints of tourists not properly prepared for the heat.
He makes it to the station on time (half an hour before he actually needs to be there) and enjoys his coffee at his desk, perusing the reports from the previous night shift.
Nothing is out of the ordinary. In hindsight it’s all achingly normal.
That is until Grey’s shadow darkens the page in front of him 10 minutes before roll call is scheduled to start.
“Bradford,” the watch commander's voice cracks through the stillness. “I need to know who you want to take on as your temporary aide so I can hand out assignments.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in. He blinks a few times before finally looking up. “Pardon?”
Grey gives him a look, not in the mood to repeat himself. “Who are you taking as an aide since Chen called in sick?”
That throws him even more. His lips part, but he doesn’t have an answer because he’s still trying to process through the news.
Grey picks up on it immediately. “Did she not contact yo—?”
“No.” Tim’s immediate instinct is to cover for her. “No… Sorry Sir. I guess the caffeine just hasn’t kicked in yet.” His eyes flicker down to his desk, searching for a proper response. “I…” He stares at the scattering of files and blinks again. “I decided I was going to stay back at the station— catch up on some paperwork. I don’t need an aide today.”
Grey stands there a moment longer, his eyes nearly searing a hole through the back of Tim’s head. “All right, Sergeant,” he eventually concedes, patting his shoulder and moving on.
Tim is still at a loss. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checks to see if he somehow missed a message. There’s nothing.
Technically speaking it’s not against protocol for Lucy not to have contacted him directly to inform him of her absence. But it definitely goes against common decency. And it’s incredibly unlike Lucy.
It doesn’t sit right with him.
Eyeing the slowly filling roll call room, he quickly brings his phone to his ear.
It keeps ringing all the way through to voicemail.
That really shouldn’t be all that concerning. If she’s sick, she’s probably just sleeping.
But another morning where Lucy was noticeably absent from work comes to the forefront of his mind. His stomach turns. A cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck.
This is a different situation. She’d obviously notified the front desk. She isn’t missing .
Still, the memories won’t stay firmly in the past where they belong.
He jabs out a quick message, just two words.
Call me.
Then he pushes out of his chair, determined to get on with his day.
Time seems to crawl. The monotony of staying at the precinct certainly doesn’t help. He tries calling her a few more times, always with the same result. His mood darkens as the hours go by, and true worry starts to gnaw its way up from the base of his gut.
She’d seemed fine the previous day. Not that an illness couldn’t come on suddenly… but still, he felt as if there should have been some sort of sign that he would have picked up on.
The words on his computer screen blur together until he can’t make them out anymore. Pushing away from his desk, he runs a hand down his face, rubbing into the muscles of his clenched jaw.
A pang hits him in the center of his chest. He wishes Jackson was still around. Then he could just harass the officer for an update on his friend. It’s a selfish thought - wishing the dead back for something so banal - but he still can’t shake it.
The only real option is to just check on her himself. That’s the only way he can think of to put his mind at ease.
He has no idea how Lucy had gone from his rookie to being so deeply rooted under his skin.
He should wait and do it on his own time. He’s only on duty for a few more hours and then he wouldn’t have to figure out a way to try to explain why he’d used police resources for something that wouldn’t even truly qualify as a welfare check.
But if something is actually wrong and he’d waited…
Grabbing his utility belt, he secures it around his hips and heads for the garage.
The day is still achingly beautiful, though evening is starting to take hold as he pulls into Lucy’s apartment complex. He spots her death-trap of a car right away and doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or more aggravated now that he knows that she’s home.
Trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, he calls her one last time, hoping she’ll finally pick up and tell him off for being so damn relentless. Her voicemail comes through once again, asking him to leave a message.
Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he shakes his head and exits the vehicle.
A well-meaning elderly woman lets him in the front door before he can even punch the buzzer. He mutters a thank you while trying not to bristle. Lucy really needs to move somewhere with better security.
The halls are quiet as he makes it to her apartment. Three sharp knocks seem to echo as his knuckles rake against the door. “Lucy?” He calls, his cop-voice slipping out even though he didn’t mean to use it.
No response. Not even a hint of movement from inside.
He tries again.
Still nothing.
Adrenaline starts to creep into his veins. There are some logical explanations… she could be at a neighbor’s. Maybe she didn’t feel safe to drive and called an Uber to take her to the doctor.
Maybe she’s lying unconscious on the floor, struggling to breathe.
He still doesn’t have probable cause for entry.
Chewing on his lip, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls her yet again.
The muffled strains of Bad Boys drift into the hall. It’s the ringtone she’d assigned to him as a joke what felt like ages ago. His grip on his phone tightens.
He smacks his fist against the door one more time. “I know you’re in there, Boot. If you don’t answer, I’m going to assume you’re incapacitated and force entry.”
“Don’t.”
He freezes, his fist still raised. She’d sounded like she was just on the other side of the door. And her voice… he’d expected her to sound raspy or weak, the sickness draining everything out of her.
But her tone was almost completely normal. If anything she sounded angry. His brow furrows. Something definitely isn’t right. His right hand automatically rests on his belt. He leans closer to the door. “What’s going on, Lucy?”
He can hear her foot scuffle against the small entry rug. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
She sounds defensive. His teeth clamp together, his heart climbing toward his throat. “Then open the door. As soon as I know you’re okay, I’ll leave.”
There’s another stretch of silence that has him unconsciously fingering his gun.
“I told you I’m fine, Tim. You’ve done your due diligence. Just go.”
There’s the slightest tremor to her voice. He doubts almost anyone else would have picked up on it. But he spent an entire year sitting beside her on some of the ugliest days of her life. He was at her side for the aftermath of Caleb. He knows.
“I can’t do that, Lucy.”
A shuddering inhale. “Why?”
He shakes his head, impatience threatening to take over. “Because you opening the damn door is the only way I’ll know that someone’s not in there with you holding a gun to your head!”
Something clatters to the floor and shatters.
He doesn’t think, just acts on years of instinct. “Stand clear,” he orders.
Backing up, he plants one foot then kicks with all his might. The old wood of the door jam gives after only two well placed slams near the locking mechanism.
He hears rather than sees Lucy go down with a soft thud.
Drawing his sidearm, he holds it steady in front of him, eyes darting over the room, looking for threats.
“There’s n-no one else here,” Lucy stammers.
He glances over. She’s huddled on the floor with her arms thrown over her head for protection. He keeps going, can’t stop until he’s certain he’s checked for any possible threat.
Keeping his eyes focused down his gun’s sight, he clears both bedrooms and the bathroom. “Where’s Tamara?” He barks, still fully in cop mode as he makes his way back to the main room.
Lucy has started to lower her hands, making part of her face visible. “S-summer internship in Pasadena. They put her up in company lodging. She’s not back f-for 3 more weeks.”
Tim lowers his weapon slightly. He hadn’t known that. Taking one more cursory look around, he holsters his gun.
Then he finally really looks at her and is struck by just how un-Lucy-like his friend is acting.
She’s practically cowering in front of him, her whole body trembling in a way he’d only seen once before… And that’s about as far as his assessment goes because her baggy sweater nearly swallows her whole, and her tangled hair hangs in a curtain that almost fully obstructs her features.
He steps forward. She shies back. He stops, his hand drifting closer to his radio.
“What the hell is going on, Lucy?” He’s finally managed to soften his voice.
She physically cringes, then lifts her chin ever so slightly.
In the low light of the lamp, he can see a split in her lower lip, dried blood crusted across her chin. She won’t meet his eyes, keeping them turned determinedly to the side as she runs a hand through her hair. He catches a brief glimpse of a purpling bruise on her temple.
He’s pretty sure his stomach drops through the floor. At the same time a fiery rage starts to simmer deep in his chest. He may have no idea what happened, but someone hurt her. That much is obvious.
“I didn’t notice an assault report come across my desk.” It’s probably not the most intelligent thing to say, but he’s still in work mode, working through things out loud.
“I didn’t report it,” she states simply.
That gives him pause. All he can do is watch as she gingerly pushes herself up, her hands skidding on the broken glass littering the hardwood until she finally makes it to the sofa and once again curls around her knees. “I’m not going to,” she adds with a ringing finality.
That snaps him out of it. “Officer Chen, as a police officer it is your duty to report—”
“I’m not your boot right now,” she cuts him off in a dead voice. “I’m a human being. I’ve made a decision and you need to respect that.”
Ducking his chin, he changes his tone. “Lucy, you’re not thinking like a cop right now.” It’s the voice he uses when he’s talking to victims. He recognizes it right away - knows that she does too. And yet he can’t stop himself. It’s like the weight of the uniform won’t let him act in any other way “You need to hold yourself to a higher standard than a civilian. You know how important it is to—”
“No, Tim,” she practically spits. “I’m thinking like a female cop. One who knows exactly how this goes.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t try to pull that with me. You’ve been here before. If anything you gained respect when you survived Caleb. You don’t get to use that as an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.” She finally looks up, her brown eyes piercing. “It’s one thing to survive a serial killer. When that same cop allows herself to be tied to a bed and raped she loses all credibility.”
He’s pretty sure he stumbles back a step, his throat clicking shut. “Wha-?” The word is a gasp that isn’t even fully formed.
Lucy fights back tears, though her expression is still fierce. “I would never be able to show my face at the precinct again. No one would be willing to ride with a cop who evidently isn’t even capable of defending herself. One with judgement obviously so poor she keeps ending up in these situations.”
“Lu—” He moves forward unsteadily, sinking down on the opposite edge of the couch, nowhere near her.
Still, she flinches away.
“Stop.” He’s not sure if she’s warning him not to come any closer, or asking him not to speak.
He can’t stop himself though. “Have you gone to the hospital?” He already knows the answer to that. They would have stitched up her lip if she had.
“I told you, I’m not reporting it.”
The slowly building anger is still there and he knows that it absolutely shouldn’t be directed at her and yet he can’t control it. The volatile emotion comes pouring out. “That’s crap, Lucy. You know you need to come forward. What happens when this scumbag attacks someone else? How are you going to live with yourself knowing you could have protected his future victims?”
The look she gives him is indescribable. It’s so devoid of the spark that he’s used to seeing in her, and yet there’s a flare of pure disdain behind her eyes. It’s something ugly— Something he would never, ever associate with the Lucy he knows and loves.
“How?” Her question is rhetorical. “Less than 1% of reported rapes result in felony convictions. You want me to be retraumatized at the hospital, go through the humiliation of knowing that everyone at work knows, sit through my own coworkers doing their damnedest to find a way of classifying my attack as a lesser charge, and then have to continually live through this - potentially for years - as it goes through the courts, all so that he can ultimately walk anyway.”
He clenches his jaw. “That’s not how this would go. If anything, as a police officer you’re uniquely capable of being heard—”
“Don’t play dumb, Tim. You know the statistics.”
He wants to punch something. He clenches and unclenches his fists, trying to find some semblance of calm. “You need to be properly checked out anyway. You don’t want to file a police report right now? Fine. But at least you’ll have a record available if you come to your senses.”
The resulting silence is so heavy he can’t breathe. She doesn’t blink as she stares at him, her eyes so lifeless it’s terrifying.
“Get out of my apartment, Tim,” she eventually seethes.
This time, he’s the one that flinches. He starts to hold up his hands in a placating gesture. “Lucy, I—”
“Get out!” It’s practically a scream.
He stands up abruptly. He doesn’t want to go. Especially now that those final two shrill words have had the effect of a glass of ice water being thrown in his face.
He suddenly realizes how absolutely callous he’s been - treating her more like a hostile witness than one of his closest friends. She’d just been through something unimaginable and yet he hadn’t shown her an ounce of sympathy. “Lucy, I’m sorry…” he tries again, softly.
Her lips wobble as the floodgates finally open and tears start pouring down her cheeks. “Go,” she bites out firmly.
And he has to. Because as reality sets in, he knows that fundamentally she’s already had her consent violated in ways he’ll never comprehend. He can’t add to that.
He stumbles out into the hallway through the still ajar door then stops, staring blankly at the slightly peeling paint job and wondering what the hell just happened.
He’d fucked up.
Maybe even one of the worst fuck ups of his life.
He slams his fist into the wall.