Never Again
Pairing: Tim Bradford x wife!reader
Word count: 2.7k
Genre: angst, hurt/comfort
Requested: yes, here
Summary: When your parents come to visit you, they're as a toxic as ever. But after coming back from a brief undercover operation, Tim finds out the true extent of your parent's cruelty.
Warnings: mentions of police corruption, physical/verbal abuse and discussed past child abuse, mentions of bodyshaming and accusations of cheating (from y/n's parents.) Use of y/n. Probably incorrect representations of American & use of the metric system because I'm Australian.
A/N: I may have gone slightly overboard with this one, hopefully it's what you wanted. I thought y/n having rich parents added an interesting bit of backstory and dynamic with Tim, especially in her reasoning as to why she didn't tell Tim the truth about her family.
---
Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’
You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.
Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.
“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.
Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.
You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”
Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”
“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.
“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”
You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.
--
You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.
“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”
“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.
Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.
“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.
“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.
You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.
--
Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.
“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”
Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.
“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”
You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”
Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.
--
“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.
Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.
“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.
Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.
“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”
For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”
“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.
Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”
Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.
--
Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.
So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.
Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.
Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.
“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.
Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”
“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”
You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.
Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”
“He doesn’t.”
Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”
You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.
The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.
“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”
You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.
“Get your hands off my wife.”
Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.
Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”
Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”
Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”
“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.
Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.
Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.
“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.
You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.
When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.
“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.
Still unable to speak, you just nodded.
Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”
You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.
Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.
“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”
At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”
And for maybe the first time, you believed him.
--
FIN.
hope you enjoyed :) i love protective tim
