Work Text:
Lucy Chen noticed the cracks in the sidewalk first.
She told herself it was nothing. Just a habit. Something her brain did to stay busy while she walked from the parking structure toward the Mid-Wilshire station. She stepped carefully, counting under her breath—one, two, three—making sure her foot never landed directly on a seam.
By the time she reached the front doors, she’d done it three times. Restarted twice when a car horn startled her and broke her focus.
Lucy paused, frowning slightly.
You’re fine, she told herself. You’re just tired.
She pushed through the doors.
----------------------------------------
It started small. Or maybe it always started small and only felt big once it was impossible to ignore.
Lucy began staying late more often, retyping reports she’d already submitted. At first, she told herself it was about clarity. Precision. A good cop was a thorough cop, right?
But then “clarity” became “perfection.”
She rewrote witness statements until the phrasing felt right in her chest. She reformatted timelines until every bullet point aligned perfectly. If a sentence ended in the wrong word, she deleted the entire paragraph and started over.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Her desk became a battlefield of sticky notes and half-empty coffee cups, her fingers tapping against the keyboard in quiet, frantic rhythms. Four taps. Pause. Four taps. Pause.
She didn’t realize she was counting until she lost track and felt her heart stutter painfully in her chest.
----------------------------------------
Tim Bradford noticed before anyone else did.
He noticed because Lucy was usually the first one out the door, the one reminding him to go home, to stop working overtime like the world would end if he took a night off.
Now she lingered.
He noticed because she checked her vest straps twice. Then three times. Then once more “just to be sure.”
He noticed because she flinched when he said, “Lucy, we already cleared this room.”
She’d blinked at him, confusion flashing across her face, then nodded and said, “Right. Yeah. I just—can we just check again?”
Tim didn’t argue. He never did. But something cold and uneasy settled in his gut.
----------------------------------------
It got worse on patrol.
Lucy double-checked doors they’d already locked, circled the block twice to confirm a suspect wasn’t still nearby, counted the number of turns they made during pursuit debriefs.
Once, during a traffic stop, Tim watched her fingers twitch against her thigh, silently counting as she waited for backup. Her eyes were sharp, focused—but underneath it all, there was tension. Like a wire pulled too tight.
“Chen,” he said quietly after, back in the shop.
“Yeah?” She didn’t look at him. She was staring at her hands.
“You okay?”
She smiled too fast. “I’m fine.”
Tim knew that smile. It was the one she wore when she didn’t want questions.
----------------------------------------
The night it finally crossed the line was a report.
A routine arrest. Simple paperwork. Lucy volunteered to write it up.
Two hours later, Tim found her still at her desk, shoulders hunched, eyes red.
“Lucy,” he said gently. “That report was due an hour ago.”
“I know,” she whispered, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard. “I just—there’s something wrong with it.”
He leaned over her shoulder. The report looked flawless.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he said.
Her breath hitched. “I keep thinking if I send it like this, something bad will happen.”
Tim froze.
Lucy’s jaw clenched, like she’d already said too much.
“I just need a minute,” she added quickly.
Tim straightened, heart pounding. “Lucy.”
She finally looked at him. Her eyes were shiny. Afraid.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just need—five more minutes.”
She needed fifteen. Then twenty.
Tim covered for her, but the worry didn’t fade when they clocked out. It followed him home, sat heavy in his chest, refused to let him sleep.
----------------------------------------
The next morning, Tim found Angela Lopez in the break room, nursing coffee and scrolling through her phone.
“Hey,” he said.
She glanced up. One look at his face and her expression softened. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lucy.”
Angela sighed softly. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
That surprised him. “You have?”
“I notice things,” Angela said. “It’s kind of my job.”
Tim scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s not herself. She’s anxious. Obsessive. I don’t know how to help her without making it worse.”
Angela studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll talk to her.”
Tim looked relieved—and terrified. “You sure?”
“She trusts me,” Angela said gently. “And you’re too close to this.”
That stung, but Tim knew she was right.
----------------------------------------
Angela found Lucy alone in the locker room that afternoon, sitting on the bench, counting the holes in the metal paneling.
“Hey,” Angela said softly.
Lucy startled, then forced a smile. “Hey.”
Angela sat beside her, close but not crowding her. “You okay?”
Lucy hesitated.
Angela waited.
Finally, Lucy exhaled shakily. “I think…I think it’s getting bad again.”
Angela’s heart ached at the quiet defeat in her voice. “Tell me.”
Lucy stared at her hands. “I can’t stop checking things. Or counting. Or rewriting stuff until it feels right. And it never feels right anymore.”
“How long?”
Lucy swallowed. “Months.”
“And you didn’t say anything because…?”
Lucy laughed weakly. “Because I’m a cop. Because I’m supposed to be strong. Because last time—”
Angela nodded. She remembered. The therapy. The medication. The way Lucy had fought so hard to be okay.
“I think I should go back on my meds,” Lucy whispered. “But I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
Lucy’s eyes filled. “What the department will think. What Tim will think.”
Angela reached for her hand. “Lucy. Tim would never judge you.”
Lucy shook her head. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Angela said firmly. “And even if he did—which he won’t—your health matters more than anyone’s opinion.”
Lucy wiped at her eyes. “How do I tell him?”
Angela squeezed her hand. “We tell him together.”
----------------------------------------
They found Tim in the briefing room.
Lucy sat rigid, fingers twitching. One, two, three, four—
Angela noticed immediately. She reached over and gently grabbed Lucy’s hand.
Lucy startled.
“Squeeze my hand,” Angela murmured. “Don’t count. Just squeeze.”
Lucy did, grounding herself in the pressure.
Tim watched, confused—and concerned.
Angela nodded at Lucy. “Go ahead.”
Lucy took a shaky breath. “Tim…I’ve been struggling. My OCD is getting worse. I think I need to go back on medication.”
Tim’s face softened instantly.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Thank you for telling me.”
Lucy blinked, stunned.
“I was scared you’d think I couldn’t handle the job,” she whispered.
Tim shook his head. “I think you’re one of the strongest people I know.”
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Is there anything I can do?” Tim asked.
Lucy squeezed Angela’s hand once more, then looked at him. “Just…be patient.”
Tim nodded without hesitation. “Always.”
And for the first time in months, Lucy felt like she could breathe.