Chapter Text
I.
It starts with noises during roll call.
Normally, roll call is quiet, the calmest part of her day by far. She knows she’ll get her ass handed to her eight or nine different times by lunch, so she values this time to just… listen. Be. Exist. Not worry about whatever horrors her T.O. is going to undoubtedly put her through. Yesterday, it was fifty pushups for every minor traffic infraction she let slide; she learned her lesson after two rounds of dropping to the ground, the Los Angeles concrete burning her palms.
Lucy grips her pen tighter as another muffled sneeze echoes behind her, followed by a symphony of sniffles. Okay. Come on. They’re all adults here. If you’re under the weather, stay home. The only people who have a lot – or really anything – to lose are her, Nolan, and Jackson because they’re rookies, and rookies don’t get sick days. Whoever is making all these annoying sounds in a not very big room really needs to re-evaluate his or her life because seriously.
Sergeant Grey dismisses them.
There’s yet another sneeze. And another.
And another.
Lucy gets to her feet without a word to Nolan or Jackson, pulse pounding with anticipation to get the hell out of here. She doesn’t want to catch whatever this is. She grabs the rifles and war bags without a second thought, making her way to the shop. She’s settling everything in its place and getting ready to hop in the passenger seat when she hears it.
More sniffling.
She cringes, turning around on her heels in time to see Officer Bradford sneeze into the crook of his elbow.
Great.
“Bless you, sir,” she says, on the verge of irritation, but also with some pity in her voice.
Because, honestly, Officer Bradford looks kinda like shit with bloodshot, drooping eyes, flushed cheeks, and a comically red nose. A tissue box tucked beneath his arm, he slides into the driver’s seat wordlessly, turning on the shop and cranking up the AC.
Lucy balks. According to Tim Bradford standards, the air conditioner can’t be touched until after the heat of the day spikes, so around two PM, or if the internal temperature of the shop reaches 90 degrees organically. Right now, it’s barely seven and not even 80 outside. But if she so much as thinks about turning on the air, Bradford glares at her with his stupid eagle eyes like he can read her mind. Huh. It must be nice to get to do whatever you want whenever you want, even if it is in direct violation of your own rules.
“Get in, Boot.”
Ew. His voice sounds all snotty and deep.
This is gonna be a long day.
She almost runs back inside to grab some hand sanitizer and maybe a mask, but she doesn’t. Can’t. Isn’t really in the mood to be on his bad side so early in the day, even if he is a walking contagion. Lucy sighs and gets in the shop. Bradford sneezes the moment she shuts the door. It’s wet and sounds painful. She tries to ignore the sympathy that seems be crawling up her throat, threatening to lodge itself out in the open. First, he gets shot and then this. He hasn’t even been back from medical leave for a week yet. Has already pushed himself to the breaking point by instigating fights and punching walls and ripping open his wound more than once.
“Are you okay to drive, sir?”
Bradford rips the box of tissues open like a wild animal and grabs a handful. “I’m fine.”
He blows his nose. She winces.
“Are you sure? Because this doesn’t seem like a very safe way to operate a motor vehicle.”
Bradford puts the shop in reverse. He’s on the road in seconds.
Lucy rolls her eyes. Whatever.
Less than fifteen minutes into their patrol, Tim is almost through the box and is driving like a granny. He wipes at his nose and sniffles. He nearly rearends a red Subaru. He groans and puts a hand on his side, palpating it before he sneezes again.
“Sir, with all due respect, but if you’re this sick, you shouldn’t be driving.”
“Not sick, Boot,” Tim grumbles. “Just allergies.”
Lucy blinks. “I’m not sure that makes this any better. You can’t go a minute without sneezing, which impairs your vision, which impairs your ability to make split second decisions, which puts us at a high likelihood of being involved in a cr –”
Bradford stomps on the brake.
The same red Subaru comes rapidly into view.
Lucy swears her heart stops.
“Okay. That’s it. Pull over.”
“You don’t get to make the decisions, Boot.”
“Too bad. I’m making this one,” she says. “There’s a gas station to your right.”
Bradford must’ve run out of tissues because he wipes this latest issue of Snot Magazine on the back of his hand. Gross. But he pulls into the gas station parking lot without another word. Lucy swears his eyes are already halfway closed before the shop is even in park.
“I’m going to go grab some more Kleenex. You stay here and try not to drown in your own mucus. When I get back, you better be in the passenger seat.”
She swears Bradford sticks his tongue out at her. Valid response. But still.
Lucy heads inside. She turns her head in time to see Bradford opening the driver door and nearly spilling out onto the pavement.
She wastes no time gathering supplies. She grabs two boxes of tissues, three packets of Benadryl, and a bottle of Gatorade. There’s no way she’s spending the rest of her twelve hour shift with Sneezy McSneezerson without any type of relief. With any luck, it’ll knock him out, and she can study her rook book while he, for once, says nothing to her about anything.
Bradford is using what looks like a receipt to wipe his nose when she gets back to the shop.
She hands him the first box, already opened. He digs in, presses a wad underneath the trouble area, and sneezes again. She frowns as he blinks, shaking his head back and forth as if trying to lessen the pressure. His eyes are almost entirely red, blood vessels undoubtedly blown. Lucy watches him bury his face in the tissues, sniffing and sneezing like rapid fire.
“Here. Take these,” she commands, handing the pill packet and Gatorade over.
Bradford looks at it. Really looks at it.
“’s Benadryl,” he rasps.
“It’ll help. Maybe you’ll even stop sneezing.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t take it. Makes me tired.”
“Well, your sneezing is making me tired.”
“No,” he says. She swears he almost sounds… pouty. “It’ll make me fall asleep.”
She gets it. They’re on shift. He’s her T.O. and is responsible for her. She can’t take calls by herself yet. Can’t even make basic traffic stops without his approval.
“I’ll cover for you,” she tells him simply.
Bradford sneezes. “How’re you gonna do that?”
“A magician never reveals her secrets.”
He rolls his eyes. He opens the pill packet and swallows both with a swig of Gatorade. He hunkers down in the passenger seat, arms crossed as he shivers slightly in the air conditioning.
“Thanks,” he grumbles.
Lucy puts the shop in drive.
She’s barely on the road for five minutes before Bradford’s chin tilts toward his chest, snoring instead of sneezing.
II.
It’s raining.
Thunder rolls overhead.
Lucy knocks on the door for the third time.
She waits another minute and raises her fist again. Her hair is starting to get wet. She hates it.
But the door opens, revealing a shirtless and sleepy Tim Bradford. His eyebrows are furrowed. He looks mad.
“Are you mad?” Lucy asks, clutching the brown paper bag. It nearly disintegrates in her grasp.
Tim blinks. “What’re you doing here, Boot?”
His voice is scratchy, thick with congestion.
“Can I come in?”
Tim lets out a sigh, but gestures for her to enter anyway.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” she says.
It’s stupid. She knows it’s stupid. It’s not like she’s ever been to her T.O.’s house before. This is a big risk. But Tim just got out of the hospital two days ago after severe anaphylactic shock to a mystery vaccine after being coughed on by a highly contagious man who bled out right in front of him. She hasn’t seen him in a week. It felt weird. Feels weird. To leave this alone, to leave him alone, after the mandated quarantine didn’t sit right with her.
She finds her way to the kitchen, settling the paper bag on a spotless counter.
“I brought you some staples. Figured you didn’t have time to go shopping.”
She unloads eggs, wheat bread, peanut butter, noodles, ground beef, and apples.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
“I know. But I wanted to.”
Lucy turns around. Tim’s wrestling with a t-shirt when she sees it. Them. The blotches. They’re red and angry. Some of them are bleeding. The blotches coat his arms, his cheeks, his neck. Fingernail marks ghost his skin, leaving tracers of his movements. He smooths down the t-shirt – blue and oversized – and stares at the floor instead of looking at her.
This isn’t Tim Bradford.
No, this is the shell of her T.O., likely a crab shell because he’s pretty crabby most of the time. But this shell is quiet, hands tucked into sweatpants pockets and feet bare on the vinyl, obviously not expecting or used to having visitors.
“Have you taken anything for those?” she asks, motioning to, well, everywhere.
Tim holds out his left arm slightly and looks at it. Sluggish.
Did she wake him up?
She’s almost positive she did, especially with how long it took him to answer the door.
But Tim shakes his head. “It’s hives. Leftover from the reaction. They… They gave me this calamine lotion, but it’s sticky and feels gross.”
“You should really put some of it on. You’ll scar if you keep scratching like that.”
He shrugs. His eyes aren’t focusing right.
She remembers that look.
“Benadryl?” she asks.
Tim blinks. Nods. Blinks again. “A lot of it.”
She chuckles, just a little bit. “Do I need to be worried?”
But Tim doesn’t answer.
Lucy frowns. She puts the cold groceries in the tidy refrigerator and rounds the island to where she’s face to face with him, breathing in the smell of his cinnamon cologne. Between the hives and the congestion and the evident exhaustion, she isn’t sure how she’s supposed to react. He’s her T.O. and has only been that for six months, but six months is a long time to share a shop with someone. Tim isn’t usually… like this.
And she feels totally unprepared. Out of depth. Left in the dark.
If she’s being honest, she’s more scared of Tim Bradford than she is of Officer Tim Bradford.
He’s human. Not a robot or a machine or a soldier.
“Tim?”
“Hmm?” He sways in place.
“Do I need to be worried?” she repeats. “About the Benadryl?”
He shakes his head. “No. Big dose. S’posed to help.”
“Is it helping?”
“Dunno.”
“How about you go lay back down, okay? I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Tim scratches the back of his head. Moves to scratch his forearm and then his chin. “Wasn’t asleep. Can’t sleep.”
She frowns. Fights the urge to swat his hand but also to hold it close. “How about I help? Are you okay with that?”
Tim nods.
She doesn’t know this house, doesn’t really know this man standing in front of her, but she pulls him along anyway.
Lucy finds the bathroom. Finds the medicated calamine-like lotion and extra strength Benadryl prescribed to Timothy M. Bradford. She wonders idly what the ‘M’ stands for. Michael? Matthew? Mark? Or something more out there like Milo or Maverick? Finds a contact lens case, contact solution, and a pair of espresso-colored frames she only mildly freaks out about. Finds that the bottle of anti-itch cream hasn’t even been opened yet. She’s sure they slathered it on him while he was in the hospital, and that’s how he knows what it feels like. Sticky and gross. Hmm. She settles Tim, very very out of it Tim, onto the closed toilet seat and reads the instructions.
“Where are you itchiest?” she asks.
Tim laughs. It’s small and quiet.
“I guess that’s not a fair question, is it?”
She unscrews the cap, plops the pink gel onto her fingers, and approaches him like she’d approach a stray cat in need of food.
“I’m gonna rub this on your neck. Maybe those spots on your cheek too. You’ve got a lot of them there that are really red.”
She does. Tim flinches at first.
But then he wordlessly lifts his shirt. Lucy rubs the ointment in on his back and chest. She’s careful of the scar on his left side, the one he got on her second day. She’s careful of all the scars she finds riddling his skin.
“That should do it,” she says. Her voice shakes a little. She washes her hands and notes that her fingers are trembling, screaming with intimacy.
She really hopes he doesn’t remember this.
Can’t imagine what might happen if he does.
Because he’s her T.O., and she’s his rookie, and that… this…
This was nothing.
Nothing at all.
“Need to take your contacts out before you fall asleep?”
Tim startles at that. As if he’s been seen. Too seen. But then he shakes his head.
“You sure? You’re supposed to so you can prevent infections.”
“Not wearing them,” he mumbles, hauling himself to his feet. “Too itchy.”
So he’s just been blind the whole time.
Great.
Maybe he won’t recognize her.
Tim makes his way down the hall without another word. Lucy follows close behind, spotting him in case he stumbles. He falls onto bed on his belly, yanking a pillow to his face and holding onto it tightly, bare feet dangling over the end of the mattress. Lucy turns on the fan by the TV, knowing the hives are probably still hot and irritated.
“Thanks, Lucy…” he murmurs.
She barely hears it.
And now she’s been seen too. Too seen.
“Goodnight, Tim,” she whispers.
She tiptoes back the way she came from and heads out into the rain.
III.
The party is supposed to be fun.
But, as Lucy stands in the corner of the ballroom, off to the side and out of the way, she notes this is decidedly not fun.
Anxiety coils around her muscles like a snake, squeezing and twisting. Refusing to let go. She swears the air in here is poisonous and riddled with carbon dioxide. She grips her wine glass tightly; her fingers turn a dull shade of red. She watches her friends dance and laugh, some wearing silly 2020 glasses and others donning those weird hates she only ever sees on New Year’s Eve. It’s almost 10:30. The new year is close, but not close enough.
Maybe she’ll get lucky and can leave 2019 behind her for good.
At the very least, she’d love to forget the last month.
She gently traces her fingers over her side, where she’s been branded for life.
And she thinks of the barrel.
Thinks about running out of oxygen one agonizing millisecond at a time.
Thinks about screaming and thrashing and praying and hoping and all the things she’ll never get to experience because she’s here. She’s here, and she’s dying, and soon she’ll be nothing but a memory.
A memory.
That’s all this is.
She breathes.
She made it out alive.
But part of her is still locked inside that barrel, unraveling.
She isn’t sure the missing pieces will ever be recovered.
Lucy shudders, exhaling shakily as the party goes on without her.
She should go.
Yeah.
She should leave.
It doesn’t matter that she got here an hour ago. It doesn’t matter that Jackson is owning the dance floor, glow sticks everywhere. It doesn’t matter that –
“You okay?”
She turns around to see her T.O. standing with his hands in his slacks pockets, studying her closely with his big blue eyes.
“Um… Yeah. I’m fine.” She tucks a stray stand of hair behind her ears and clears her throat. “I’m good.”
Tim nods, rocking back and forth on his heels. “You leaving?”
“I think so,” she says honestly. “This is just…”
“Overwhelming?”
“Exactly.”
Tim nods again. “I agree. It’s very loud in here.”
“Yeah, this isn’t exactly your scene.”
“I’m more of a in bed by ten kind of guy.”
She chuckles. “I’ve seen it. Your grump level goes up dramatically when we work nights.”
He rolls his eyes. “Have you at least eaten? I hear the food’s good.”
“Have you?” she asks. She doesn’t know why her voice sounds small and questioning, but she hates it.
Tim shakes his head. He rubs the back of his neck. “Want to grab something?”
There’s a brief silence, and then Lucy nods. “Sure.”
He leads the way to the buffet, Lucy following close behind him. They bypass their drunken friends and coworkers. At one point, Smitty accidentally knocks into her. She’s grateful that she put her wine down, but she’s even more grateful that Tim is there to catch her and keep her from falling. His touch is tender but strong.
And she remembers being pulled out of the barrel.
Collapsing into Tim’s embrace.
Crying in his arms as he rocked her back and forth.
The ghost of his lips on her forehead.
And how he stayed by her side the entire time, never once abandoning her.
She shakes it off. It’s the only thing she can do to stop her cheeks from reddening beyond the point of no return.
Lucy fills her plate with Mongolian barbeque, stir fry vegetables, and egg rolls. She watches as Tim grabs the same foods, along with a small bowl of fruit salad. He turns around to make sure she’s still with him before he heads to an empty table.
“Any drink requests?” he asks as Lucy takes a seat.
“Rum and Coke?”
“Coming right up.”
She watches him walk away. She doesn’t mean to, not really, but it happens regardless.
She also watches him return with two smaller glasses balanced in one hand and a bigger glass in the other.
“Water?” she teases. “What a square.”
Tim rolls his eyes. He places one small glass and the water in front of her.
They settle into a comfortable silence. It’s as peaceful as it can be at a New Year’s Eve party in a ballroom filled with cops. She starts with tiny bites, unsure if the food will agree with her. But Tim’s right. It’s really good. Savory and tangy and fulfilling. Before she knows it, her plate is close to empty, random snap peas and garlic noodles the only survivors.
But then she looks at Tim.
He’s spearing a piece of pineapple with his fork.
But he doesn’t seem… like himself.
She watches his movements slow. Watches as he swallows almost convulsively. Watches as sweat beads on his forehead. Watches as a splotch of red appears on his neck, nearly hidden by stubble and the particularly bad lighting.
“Tim?”
He drops his fork.
And wheezes.
He gets to his feet, swaying and stumbling, and starts to make his way out of the ballroom.
Lucy follows, heart swimming somewhere near her toes.
As soon as Tim’s in the hallway, he sinks against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him.
“Hey, what’s going on? Was it something you ate?”
Tim coughs. Tries to clear his throat. “Strawberry.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “I didn’t see you eat any strawberries,” she says, voice borderline frantic. “Wait. Are you allergic to strawberries? Tim, this is really something you should’ve told me – ”
She watches Tim yank an EpiPen from his slacks pocket, hands shaking as he breathes raggedly. Lucy feels every muscle in her body tense up. Feels the air around her thicken like molasses. Feels fright in such a tangible sense that it makes her want to jump out of her own skin.
But she grabs the EpiPen anyway.
She jabs it into his thigh without a second thought, sitting down and guiding his left leg until it’s safely in her lap so she can massage the medicine around.
Work faster. Work faster so he doesn’t pass out.
Tim’s head falls back against the wall. His breaths come out in quick wheezes. But they do eventually slow down. She spies the hives that have taken residence on his neck and forearms. A couple dot his cheeks. He scratches at his neck, stopping to rub his throat every few seconds. He’s trembling hard but makes no efforts to move, not when everything is so volatile.
“I’m gonna call 911, okay?” she says.
Tim nods. His eyes are bloodshot and drooping, the rest of his face pinched.
She does. The dispatcher wants her to stay on the phone until they arrive. Instead, she wraps her arm around Tim and pulls him close. His head lulls on her shoulder. Sweat and the floor wrinkle her dress, but all she can think about is Tim.
The ambulance arrives.
Their coworkers and friends watch as Tim is loaded into the back on a stretcher, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose for safe measure.
Lucy follows close behind, driving like a lunatic as Jackson and Nolan sit stiffly in her car. She knows it’s likely Sergeant Grey and Angela and maybe even Harper are doing the same thing. As much as Tim likes to be the alpha male, he does have good people in his corner.
The hospital is a blur on New Years Eve. There are too many people with too much going on.
By the time she’s finally escorted to Tim’s room, it’s 12:01.
“Happy New Year,” she says quietly as knocks briefly on the door.
Tim’s sitting up on the mattress, legs dangling over the side. His clothes rest in a pile at the end. He doesn’t say anything, just gives her a brief, shy smile before he stares at the ground. His short hair sticks up in tufts, and his arms are covered in blotches slathered in the signature calamine-like lotion. He looks absolutely wrecked in every sense of the word.
Lucy grabs a chair from the corner, pulling it over so their knees touch when she sits.
“So, strawberries, huh?” she asks.
Tim nods. “Yep. Strawberries.”
“Were you ever gonna tell me, or was I just gonna have to find you passed out from a strawberry-related incident?”
He picks at a fraying edge of the thin blue blanket. “To be fair, I thought it was irrelevant. I always avoid them. Didn’t think it would ever come up because I’m careful.”
“Apparently not that careful,” she points out.
Tim rolls his eyes. “Cross-contamination is not my fault. Whoever made that fruit salad must’ve cut strawberries too and didn’t wash the knife in between.”
“Don’t you think it’d be helpful though if someone knew about your allergy?” she asks. “Like maybe you’re partner?”
“You’re my boot, Chen. Not my partner.”
She knocks into his knee with hers and smiles when he rolls his eyes, this time with his whole head.
“I’m just saying I can help. I can keep an EpiPen on me in case there’s any random killer strawberries on the streets. I’ll make sure to avoid eating them too when we’re together.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s not that bad.”
She blinks. “It looks pretty bad to me.”
“I mean I can be in the same room with them. I just can’t consume them without…”
“Nearly dying?” she finishes.
“It was minor anaphylaxis. They only make you call 911 after you use an EpiPen to make sure the reaction doesn’t return.”
Lucy sighs. “You still should’ve told me.”
To her surprise, Tim nods. “Yeah. I know that now,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Lucy pats his knee. “It’s okay. No more hiding things. Deal?”
“Deal.”
"Anything else you're allergic to? So I can keep watch?"
"Penicillin and most trees."
"Of course you're allergic to most trees, but not all of them," she says. "Okay, so I'll be on tree and antibiotic lookout, and I'll make sure you never accidentally consume another strawberry again."
Tim shrugs, a small smile on his lips. "If that's what you want to do."
“It is. When are they letting you out of here?”
Tim shrugs. “Hopefully soon.”
“I’ll wait with you until you’re discharged.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
Lucy settles further into the chair.
There are worst ways to spend New Year’s Day.