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The Great War. ~T. Bradford.

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (timeline: season somewhere 1-4 ish...?)

Synopsis: Twenty years after Tim Bradford, your first love, stopped replying to your letters from the army, you show up as a new literary analyst at the Mid-Wilshire Police Department. Old feelings resurface, buried truths come out, and what you both thought was long over suddenly doesn’t feel finished at all.

CW: angst, angst, angst; typical miscommunication trope; "what letters" trope; lots of italics; repeats; yelling; probably not v canon compliant,we're pretending isabelle probs never happened but upto you, mention of divorce, engagement, tim is lowkey a bitch but so are we<3 random OCs are added in, ehh.

WC: 8.4 K

A/N: This went on wayyy longer than it should have, so here, have fun with your angsty, comfort at the end fic. This is SO self-indulgent it's not even funny. I just wanted an excuse to write the "what letters" trope with Tim, muehehehehe. Also, the breakroom scene is inspired by my sister asking me why so many of the rookie characters are divorced lmaoo. The end is low-key rushed, but I cannot care anymore. Pretty sure the literary analyst part was inspired by one of @fluentmoviequoter's works check them out they're awesome😭

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~Always remember, Tears on the letter I vowed not to cry anymore If we survived the Great War~

~~~

Tim Bradford was your first kiss.

The first boy you hung out with on your house's roof, overlooking growing bushes and thinning trees. Your fingers interlocked, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

The first boy whose hand had slipped into yours as the other cradled your face. Flushed cheeks, crooked smiles and hushed giggles.

Tim Bradford was the first boy who made your heart giddy; you could still recall its thumping. Steady, calm, and whispering comfort.

The first boy you went on a date with to the amusement park, rode on the rollercoaster, ate cotton candy and watched the whole city from the top of the Ferris wheel.

He had asked you to be his girlfriend on that Ferris wheel, his mouth dry, fingers clamped around the edge of the seat.

Tim Bradford was the first boy who held your arm a little tighter one night, beckoning you to not leave, not because he feared you would, but because he feared everything else.

That night he confided in you of his desire to join the army. Desire would be an understatement. Decision, really—a choice he had already made.

“But what about college?”

You had asked in a rather foolish tone, holding onto hope that may as well have been thoroughly shattered.

"I mean, I just kind of wanna get away from...here, yk?”

He had gestured vaguely around the parking lot. You lifted your eyes to see where he was pointing: nothing but a clearing where the trees parted ways, leading to a walkway. But you knew; you always did.

You knew that his hand pointed not towards the vague expanse of foilage around you but that it pointed to his house, three blocks down the road. His father's house.

His hand had lowered only slightly before he clenched his fist and continued.

“...I mean, I don't even know what I'd study in college."

Understandingly, you had nodded and leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The night had ended with whispered promises and transient moments spent in silence.

Tim Bradford was the first boy you'd ever liked.

Somewhere between the pages adorning his crooked handwriting, recounting days from where he was posted, there was care. It was simple at first, simple country-border postings that he tried tirelessly to belong at.

He'd tell you how he missed you and how his days had been boring without you; he'd talk about your smile, your lips, your humour and your eyes.

He talked a lot about your eyes.

Tim Bradford was the first boy you fell in love with.

And you—oh, foolish you—you'd told him as much.

You'd found yourself smiling at his stories, replying in blue ink that you had made sure to test for smudging—lest he be unable to read it.

Eagerly you had scribbled out in running hand how you’d fallen. Hard.

Tim Bradford was the first boy who broke your heart.

When his letters stopped coming mere days after he was deployed to Afghanistan.

Days after you had professed your undying love for him, marked in that careful blue ink, curved letters adorned the otherwise boring military-stamped paper.

You waited; god, you waited, but after the third month you figured he must've gotten too busy, too distant.

Or maybe he had decided you weren’t worth loving at all.

Your heartbreak came like a hurricane, shattering all the pieces of your trust. Days were spent crying in your father's arms or hurling insults at the setting sun.

The anger mellowed after a while, fading to a low hum in the back of your mind. The pain still present, still gnawing, but shallow.

Bearable.

You studied and built a dream for yourself. A dream away from the suburban houses of Los Angeles. Away from your memories of teenage years, amusement parks, stolen kisses and secret bike rides.

A dream away from him.

You’d kept in contact with Genny, Tim's sister, and had even been unfortunate enough to receive the news that he came back after twelve long years, from Iraq, a posting you knew nothing of.

You'd begged her to not say more, afraid that whatever she may reveal about Tim, his new job, or his new home may force your heart to seek him out all over again.

In the years that followed, whenever you had to visit, well… LA was big enough if you tried hard enough.

Twelve years, huh?

Time never had been on your side.

It isn’t until eight more that you return to Los Angeles, a transfer in your job.

That is what brought you to the Mid-Wilshire Police Station as an acting literary analyst, in the core of the city you remember calling home.

The same city with broken promises, crooked smiles and flushed faces that you kept under lock and key in your very mind.

~~~~~~

The bullpen smells faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Your feet carry you towards the centre, where Detective Angela Lopez, Watch Commander Grey and your new partner Emma are all standing together reviewing a case file. The same case that you were called in to assist on.

When you pause a few feet away from the trio, their eyes turn towards you. The detective promptly gives you a smile as Sergeant Grey extends his hand in greeting. You shake his hand, along with Emma's, and introduce yourself.

"Welcome! I hope you find everything to your liking here. I’ll make sure to introduce you at roll call.” The sergeant promises.

You give all three a smile and decide to utilise the time until roll call – fifteen minutes – and take a stroll around the precinct, thinking of how it’ll be advantageous in case you have to stay long-term.

That's when you spot him.

He has just walked out of the locker room; a woman – with a straightened uniform, taut bun and flustered expression – accompanies him.

He stops after putting his hands on his hips and turns to the woman, expression unreadable, as he seemingly reprimands her in a hushed tone. The woman nods, flustered, then scrambles to join a few other similarly dressed officers on the other end of the room.

Tim Bradford, Your Tim, has just crashed your new place of work. And what’s worse is that it seems he belongs here far more than you do.

He doesn’t see you yet, and you take the opportunity to turn around and make a beeline towards the water fountain. Your footsteps echo in your own ears once you’ve made your way far enough away.

First, confusion takes it's rightful place in your mind. How could this happen? What are the chances?

Then, doubt. What if he doesn't remember me? Am I ready to face him again?

In that moment you’re presented with a choice.

Either you make your peace with what happened and move forward professionally, or you let your feelings get in the way and request your firm to appoint someone else to the case, demanding a transfer at once.

No.

You’ve survived Tim Bradford before; you can survive him again.

You choose the former.

And so, when the fifteen agonizing minutes have passed, having been rehearsing your first words – if any – to the boy who broke your heart when you were seventeen, you stand at the door to the briefing room waiting to be called in.

Your eyes are trained on Tim; he’s sitting at the far end of the room, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest assertively. He looks older; of course he does, but still, he is the Tim you used to know.

His eyes haven't changed; though, they’ve hardened in the years you haven't seen him.

His shoulders are broader, more muscular. He hadn’t necessarily been a lanky kid back then but certainly didn’t have biceps that threatened to rip his shirt at the seams, or shoulders that gave him this boxy appearance.

What is the most striking is his hair. It’s the same buzzed-down cut from all those years ago, as if the man sitting here and the boy you loved all those years ago were one and the same.

Grey announces your name loudly, which forces you to turn your attention towards the head of the room. You walk confidently, your stance unwavering.

You’re here with purpose, a job to do. And you intend to make that abundantly clear.

“Here is our literary analyst for the case; she’s been appointed by the city, and they believe she’ll be a great asset in addition to our forensic department.”

You face the room full of officers; the three crisp-uniformed ones are sitting at the front with straightened spines, a row of detectives at the back and several other uniformed officers scattered about.

A voice quips from the right.

“What’s the point of a literary analyst in this?”

That's another thing that has changed, you suppose. His voice. It’s deeper now, hoarser than you remember, carrying a seriousness you never noticed two decades ago.

Murmurs follow Tim's query, many officers agreeing with the doubt.

You turn your head towards the watch commander, silently asking if you may address the question. At the nod of his head, you prepare to reply.

Doubt floods your mind again. What do you call him? Do you even take his name at all?

You settle on ‘Officer’.

“The investigation department has assigned me to the case due to my expertise in the location, Officer. Not to toot my own horn, but otherwise, I assure you it is not a matter of general intervention.”

Clear. Concise. To the point.

Professional.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t see any recognition flash in his eyes, no longing, no sympathy, not even resentment.

There's tension in the room long after the briefing is over.

~~~~~~

When your name was announced, Tim thought he was hearing things. That his mind was still repeating the name of the girl, from his teenage years, that he could never let go.

But then you walked in.

Your professional block-heeled shoes clacked loudly on the tile, announcing your presence. Your shirt was smooth, tucked into your knee-length skirt, paired with translucent stockings. A binder was in your hand, blue and comically overfilled with pages and tabs.

Tim took in your appearance like he was seeing you on your first date all over again, holding a stick of cotton candy for you, smiling so wide it had hurt his cheeks.

Your hair was longer now, not anymore in a ponytail at the base of your skull but instead left open and free. You’d grown taller, though, only slightly, and your nails were painted; Tim could tell as much, even from his position, seated at the desk.

He couldn’t help himself, really, when his words carried themselves through the room, breaking the curt atmosphere and giving rise to murmurs from other officers.

He wanted to know.

He needed to know if you remembered him.

So when you answered his question with a lifeless statement and didn't even mention his name – which he knew you would know – Tim knew he was done.

The rest of the day felt like torture. The officer wanted no more than to be off duty and let out some steam by punching bags or lifting weights.

He had to stop himself before he lashed out at Lucy for forgoing an otherwise negligible step of protocol. Even she had pin-pointed the extra tension he carried in his jaw and his sudden meticulous attention to detail.

Dejection and delight hung in his mind side by side, like he was unable to really tell if he was to be angered or relieved.

By the time their shift was over, the rookie officer was left slumped in her seat, dejectedly playing with the chipped polish on her fingernails.

~~~~~~

Exiting the locker room, Tim caught himself mid-walk, almost having run into a figure that he didn't see.

You.

Your head was angled downwards, fingers wading through the three folders you held in your arm. At the commotion that his boots had made while halting suddenly, you turned your head to look at the source.

Tim nodded once to acknowledge your presence and again when he addressed you apologetically.

“Analyst.”

Analyst. Not your name. Not even your last name.

Just an analyst.

Tim's hand stilled on the strap of his bag, his mouth stretched into a thin line.

You scoffed once, irritation evident on your features.

“I have a name, you know? Officer.”

Tim said nothing for a while, simply glaring into your eyes with a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, all traces of guilt wiped off of his face.

“I know.”

His shoulder brushed slightly against yours as he stepped around you to continue towards the exit.

Your pulse was left pounding as your feet remained glued to the station tile.

Part from your exchange and part from his proximity. The brush against your shoulder felt both like a distant memory and an unyielding force.

Continuous, but fading.

You heaved a sigh, returning to the files in your arms, flipping through them with practised ease.

~~~~~~

Genny's eldest son was the one that opened the door, his eyes lighting up at the presence of his favourite—only—uncle at their doorstep.

Excitedly he called out to his mom and gave Tim a hug before padding down to his room to retrieve his brother.

Tim's sister entered the living room with a smile, ready to greet her brother, but her smile faltered at the sight of his tight frown, eyes boring into her with precision and something close to – but not quite – anger.

“She's back and you didn't tell me?” Tim huffed, moving to drop his bag onto Genny's couch.

Genny stood still for a moment until her feet moved on their own; she placatingly laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking.

“She told me not to say anything, Tim. I would've otherwise.”

Just like how you'd asked her to not speak further about his return, you had asked her to keep quiet about your own whereabouts as well, unsure if your heart could handle another heartbreak.

Tim shook his head and let himself plop down on the couch, shoving his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

“She didn't even recognise me.”

His muffled words made Genny's eyes widen. She took a cautious step, moving around the couch.

“Wait, what? Tim, what are you talking about?”

Tim looked up at that, briefly meeting her eyes. He tilted his head questioningly as he answered.

“She saw me, didn't say a word. Not my name, nothing.”

Genny frowned and sat down beside him, the thoughts in her mind running a hundred miles an hour.

“But she knows you. She's seen pictures; there's no way she didn't—"

She cut herself off with a sigh from saying anything further, abruptly standing and heading into the kitchen, leaving Tim alone in the company of his own thoughts.

By the time she returns with two glasses of water, Tim's eyes are bloodshot. His gaze is fixed on something indistinct outside the window in her living room, distant, unfocused.

She knows what he's thinking, how he's processing.

He thought you moved on. He convinced himself he deserved it.

She knows there isn't anything she can do other than just let him be.

~~~~~~

The next time Tim sees you, you’re laughing with Avery Finley, another forensic analyst who has flown in from Chicago to assist on the case.

Your eyes are crinkled in the very way he remembers from your first date, your hands placed loosely on your hips.

He sees you shake your head with a smile at whatever the officer says before his feet are moving, footsteps sharp, decisive and loud.

You turn your head at the sound, mouth still quirked up from the remnants of your laughter and then your eyes land on him – and incidentally – on the report he’s carrying in his hand.

Behind Tim, Detective Hall follows, and your eyes dart towards him instead.

It is then that you realise Tim isn’t looking at you, infact he’s looking past you even as he hands you the rather bulky envelope.

You accept the article with minimal movements, muttering a ‘Thank you, officer' and turning away instantaneously to work on something at your desk.

The two other men exchange glances at the sudden shift in atmosphere, looking between you and Tim curiously. The smile on your face has faded completely; in its stead is a tight-lipped scowl. Tim's posture is rigid, his hands resting stiffly upon his duty belt.

You ask Avery a question; Tim takes it as his cue to leave, boots thudding on tile, leaving Detective Hall to stare at his retreating back.

Once the officer is out of earshot, Hall turns to you, making you pause your movements on the keyboard.

“Okay…?” he says, dragging out the two syllables as you simply raise a brow at him.

“What was that?” Finley finishes for him, an incredulous stare accompanying his question.

You huff, giving a shrug as a response. Your voice tumbles out evenly.

“No clue what you’re talking about."

Avery’s hand dramatically flies to his chest, muttering something about ‘betrayal’ and ‘thought we were friends’ while Hall rolls his eyes.

You give another shrug at their actions, and resume your typing.

“I used to know him once. That's all.”

~~~~~~

Three weeks.

Three weeks is how long it took for the case to be closed. Three weeks and your briefcase was being shut with sharp precision, a meticulous stack of all your belongings: papers, cards and a score of pens bundled neatly within a pouch.

You would be moving back to headquarters tomorrow, not the one back “home” in Boston, but the one here in LA.

Still far from the Mid-Wilshire Police Station, you had become comfortable walking into each morning.

After hearing the latch click shut, you gathered the handles of your briefcase and set it down on the chair accompanying your desk. You collected the last few pieces of scrap paper and inkless pens to throw away on your way to Grey’s office.

As you spin around to reroute your steps, a broad, hard surface collides with your form, pushing you backwards and forcing your arms to latch onto the first thing you could grab, pens clattering to the ground and scrap paper fluttering on their way down.

oh.

Him.

One of Tim’s hands finds your waist, and as if on instinct alone, his other hand reaches out to stabilise himself – and you – on your desk.

Your eyes widened as you braced for the fall that never came, breath stuttering at the sight of the training officer.

You could’ve sworn you saw him glance downwards at your lips, but with your heart racing like a Formula One car and fingers still desperately death-gripping his biceps, you couldn’t be so sure.

And oh.

You suppose that, in the three weeks that you have been at the station, you never quite noticed how handsome Tim Bradford has become.

How he has remarkably grown into his features, with blue eyes almost always narrowed slightly, a sharp jaw set in place and smile lines adorning every inch of his face.

Oh-

He’s attractive.

Wait – no. Snap out of it!. He broke your heart, girl!

…But damn, those biceps—

Tim clears his throat as he firmly places you back on your feet, and you swear you can see his face flushed under the dim lights of the bullpen. He brings one hand to the back of his neck while the other remains on your desk, half-caging you between it and his body.

“Uh— Grey wanted me to take you to his office, said you had a meeting…?”

Trying to cool off your now flaming cheeks, you watch him blink twice before you bend down to retrieve the fallen pens and papers and respond.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”

You only hope that your voice didn’t betray your calm confidence as you stand up and discard the objects carelessly on your desk while Tim awkwardly stands, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

He clears his throat again and gestures in the general direction of the watch commander’s office, giving you a curt nod and walking away.

Huh. You guess that’s one habit he hasn’t grown out of. The gesturing.

You straighten your posture and tighten your ponytail, continuing to stare at the spot he had just stood at.

Shaking your head, your hands gather the papers once again before heading towards Grey's office at last.

~~~~~~

Divorces and second marriages had been the topic of conversation in the break room today.

Nyla was the one that began the discussion, Nolan having contributed with his own little sprinkle of knowledge.

But with only those two in the group being 'experienced' and Nolan skipping over to the coffee machine, the conversation soon shifted to a 'worst love life' contest between you and your female colleagues.

One of your own coworkers, Emma, a forensic analyst, moves the spotlight to you and asks if you've dated your fair share of men.

"Oh, me? I guess… and I kind of got engaged once…?" you reply, half-heartedly rolling your eyes at the redhead.

"Kind of?" Lucy asks, as she tilts her head forward.

"Yeah, I mean, he broke it off before we even planned the wedding. I guess I just thought I had to say yes."

You finish with a laugh, already having moved past the awkwardness.

The women pass along their own little comments. 'Good for you, girl,' 'His loss,' and 'What a loser,' accompanied by giggles, filled the small space.

None of you seemed to notice the way Tim looked up from his coffee or how his cup was gripped a little harder in his hand after.

~~~~~~

You exit the precinct with a smile, the zeal from the pleasant interaction of the day still buzzing off of you.

It isn't until you've quietly fished out your keys from your bag that you train your eyes forward, towards your car parked neatly in its designated spot.

Your smile falls.

Your steps stutter for a moment, confusion evident in your gaze as you take in the picture in front of you.

Tim Bradford, leaning on your car. His arms are crossed, one ankle crossed over the other as well. You take your bottom lip between your teeth unconsciously, chewing without a thought.

You straighten your back and walk forward again, confidence radiating off every stride.

You stop about two feet from the man, stance questioning, already impatient from whatever he must have been here to say.

You don't look at him; no, instead, you focus on the tap of his finger against his elbow, the fluorescent light illuminating each curve.

You expect an order, maybe a rush on the report you need to file tomorrow.

"You moved on."

It's not a question; he doesn't ask you anything. It's a declaration, like he's accusing you of something he didn't think you were capable of.

You laugh bitterly as your hands begin to fiddle with your keys, shoulders squared with tension that you can't quite place.

Of-fucking-course he eavesdropped on that breakroom conversation; you thought you had seen him lift his head up in your periphery.

You glance at him, his azure eyes locked in on you with purpose, the kind that's built after years of mastery.

You swear you can see traces of longing in them, but you blame the navy filter that this night has put on the two of you.

"You disappeared. What was I supposed to do?"

A mindless chuckle falls in between the two sentences, breaking them up uncomfortably.

Tim has the audacity to scoff. He fucking scoffs.

He shifts his weight on one leg, angling his body towards you in a way that screams business. Like you're some criminal he has to deal with in the interrogation room, with accusations or insults.

"I disappeared?"

His brows are lifted in amusement, his eyes flitting over your figure, up and down. He pushes himself off the body of the car and uncrosses his arms.

This whole conversation is amusing to him, you conclude—a mask he puts on when things get heavy.

Twenty years you haven't seen each other.

Even after twenty years, his gaze is fixed on the way your hands remain still when he moves, keys no longer jingling.

Like he still knows you. Like he still has the right to know you.

And here, you pretend to not know him.

He doesn't read your mind when he utters his next words, but the way he says them still knocks the wind out of you one way or another.

"Why did you pretend to just not know me then? When you came back."

The words prick you, hard. His figure becomes nothing but a blur, and you're not sure you want to know if it's your anger that clouds your vision or your tears.

Your pulse feels loud enough to shake your ribs, your breath falling short and throat stinging with the pain you try so hard to keep down.

"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"

Your voice gets uncharacteristically loud, Tim notes. You're no longer the calm, patient, put-together analyst.

You're seventeen again, with crushed promises and a broken heart making home in the palm of your hand.

Tim doesn’t respond, not yet.

It takes you a moment to gather your breath, chest still heaving from the sheer strength it took to be that loud.

It takes another moment to recall where you are for the smallest bit of embarrassment to flood your senses. Not enough for you to stop, but enough to manifest as discomfort.

You're still at the station, in the parking lot.

The light from within the building is blinding to your right, a constant presence you cannot seem to ignore.

Shadows dance across the pavement. Someone's hand reaching out, pulling the shoulder of another away from watching whatever scene you two have created.

Lucy, Jackson.

Even amidst the angry huffs and the faint hum of traffic on the nearby road, you can make out a few gasps, some shocked, some scared.

Someone even whispers, 'what the hell?'

Your feet move before your mind can comprehend. In a haste, you turn your body away from Tim completely, seeking whatever semblance of ignorance you can muster.

His footsteps are loud, too loud, as he crosses the distance you had put between you two with little effort.

Your jaw is clenched; you can feel its pull. You can also feel the tremble of your hands as they stay at your sides, keys now held looser in your grip.

You swallow; Tim shifts somewhere behind you.

His next words aren't loud enough to reach the station, but they're loud enough for you. Uttered with careful urgency, like they were meant for your ears and yours alone.

"If you cared so much, why didn't you reply to any of my letters?"

Tim doesn't shout. He doesn't increase his volume; he doesn't even forcibly thrust the words in your direction.

He says it like he's asking himself, wondering – no, demanding – where he went wrong.

Your thoughts scatter. Suddenly, you're thinking of a hundred things at once.

Your rooftop. The Ferris wheel. The confession. The park. The letters.

Wait.

The letters?

You spin on your heel with such haste that your feet stumble against eachother. Eyes narrowed, fists now clenched, you put words to your doubt.

"What letters?"

Your brows are furrowed. Tim is looking at the space above your head, as if afraid to meet your eyes.

A beat passes.

"After you told me you—"

He pauses mid-sentence, like saying the words physically pains him. Like they probe a knife through his chest with no mercy. He inhales deeply, then releases the words with his breath.

"—after you told me you loved me."

He winces right after, like the knife has now been twisted viciously.

The air gets caught in your throat, your eyes widen, and something akin to a gasp escapes you.

You move your head to the side, eyes stubbornly not leaving his, which have started to stare right back at you.

"Tim...what letters?"

His name comes out in a whisper, the rest following in a haze.

You can see the moment recognition flashes across his face, the moment the resolve crumbles and the anger slips through the cracks.

The anger slips away through the cracks.

He takes one step towards you, his chest nearly colliding against yours with the motion.

He stands close enough for you to make sense of his musky perfume, still fresh, still—

Lilac?

You'd recognise that scent anywhere. His eighteenth birthday gift. The one you gave him even prior to his enlistment, knowing he'd be spending his birthday alone. The one he made fun of and said he'd never use.

That one must've expired long ago. Unless...

Unless he never changed it. Unless he buys it over and over and uses it to this day.

You open your mouth to try and give an explanation, one you know he deserves. But what do you explain?

You still have no idea what he's talking about.

What fucking letters?

For the third time in your life, and in all the time that you've known Tim Bradford, you hear him stutter.

First, when he had opened up about his father.

And second, when he had asked you to be his girlfriend.

And third now.

"I-I wrote you letters from Afghanistan; they always came back. Always, always, stamped 'return to sender'."

For a moment your world stops, and not in the good way.

You say his name first, then take one step backwards.

It's not intentional, your movement, but Tim notices. He always notices.

He takes your response as rejection, the way he was trained to, in the way that was wired into him – no, hammered into him – from the days before he met you.

He turns on his heel before your fingers can reach him, your hand hanging limply in the air as the sound of his footsteps gets quieter until his truck door slams and the engine starts.

By the time you move your feet, his truck has left the parking lot.

You can't quite tell how long you stood there until Lucy's hand brushed your elbow as she calmly guided you towards your car.

She drove you home in silence. No explanation, no questions, nothing.

You don’t remember saying a word either.

~~~~~~

The entrance to Tim's house is slammed shut with a bang so loud that it rattles the windows and causes the jackets hung behind his door to nearly fall.

He rakes an unsteady hand over his face, head angled upwards, silently willing the tears to not fall.

He stalks towards the bedroom like a dead man, doesn’t even bother locking the front door. He takes off his boots and sits on the edge of his bed.

He lets out a shuddering breath. His hands are clammy; he knows it. The traffic noise from the street outside is too loud; it makes him wonder if he left a window open somewhere.

His phone rings for the eighth time that night, and to Angela's surprise, he finally picks up. Her voice sounds partly like static through the speakers.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there? The whole station got a view of that spectacle.”

Tim grunts, bringing the phone closer to his face. He pauses initially, then replies.

“I can’t. Not right now.”

He doesn’t think he’d recognise his voice if someone played him a recording of this later; he can’t bring himself to care. Angela says his name once; it’s preceded by a sigh of her own.

Tim swallows, though; tonight it feels like he’s swallowing down bile that has threatened to rise up.

“Angela, I really can't," he says, almost like he’s begging.

Angela sighs again on the other side of the call and mutters something about ‘being here’ before the call cuts.

Tim sits in silence for a while, mind blank, knuckles whitening over his knees.

He stands up, swaying a little as he walks toward the closet.

A neat arrangement of greys and blues stares back at him. He thinks that the brown box, a stark contrast to the rest, must be mocking him while he pulls it out.

The lid opens; inside lies a stack. A stack of at least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink ‘Return to sender’.

One envelope is crumpled, lying on top of the rest, like it's worn out from being carried everywhere.

He did—carry it everywhere, that is. For all twenty years, it sat undisturbed in his chest pocket, only being moved here three weeks ago.

"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"

Did you really believe that he chose war over you? You were the one that gave up on him when he was alone in a foreign country.

Weren’t you?

~~~~~~

You don’t know why your feet have brought you here or why your fingers had tirelessly skimmed through address logs until you spotted his name. Why you’re standing at his doorstep in navy pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt thrown on haphazardly.

You don’t know why you even ring the doorbell, why you don’t shy away from it in an instant, why you suddenly hold your ground and decide to be the ‘mature’ person.

Scratch that.

You do know why you’re here.

You know it’s the same reason you refuse to meet his eyes at work, the same reason you talk to him with clipped tones and minimal words.

Time never had been on your side.

It’s only moments later when the door opens, yellow light from the hallway bulb shooting forward through the crack.

His eyes follow next. The vibrant azure hue that you’ve come to expect is somehow dimmer than you remember. They widen the moment he registers your figure.

He yanks the door open hastily, taking a moment to square his shoulders as his brows furrow. He looks you up and down once, taking in your odd outfit choice and glassy eyes.

You tilt your head and begin to look around, now avoiding his gaze that suddenly makes you want to curl in on yourself. You open your mouth a couple times, closing it again when no sound escapes.

He says your name. You can’t quite place why, but it makes your heart swell.

Not ‘analyst’. Not ‘ ma’am’.

Your name.

It gives you the courage you needed to speak.

“I-I can leave—" you offer, shrinking under his blatant stare.

His response is immediate; the door opens further, and a quiet 'no' whas you dragging your feet through the door despite yourself.

“We should talk.” he says after a moment.

You both cautiously pad further into the home, past his living room, stopping near the kitchen.

Like two teenagers who got caught sneaking out.

He offers you water like he doesn’t know what else to do. You accept before sitting down on a stool at the island, jumping in your seat when he sits on the one beside you, pushing forward a filled glass.

You rub your feet against one another, tapping one finger on the counter, the other hand resting tentatively on the glass as if to stall time. Tim breaks the silence first.

“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re wondering."

His tone is light, airy and carefree. Like everything between the two of you, past and future, doesn’t depend upon this single conversation. You smile without meaning to as you trace your finger on the edge of the glass.

Tim lets out a breathy chuckle, and once his laughter dies down, you take it as your cue to talk.

“I…”

An inhale. An encouraging nod of his head.

“I never got your letters. The ones after…” you trail off, hoping he catches the sincerity in your words.

At his lack of a response, you grasp that, much like you, Tim has also spent the last 6 hours, between the station and now, figuring things out. And much like you, he has reached the same conclusion.

With no one to condemn and nothing to blame, you let out a bitter laugh, the collective weight of twenty years lifting from your shoulders.

Tim follows it with a laugh of his own and shakes his head as he speaks.

“So… I guess that was stupid, huh? The twenty years, hating eachother.”

“I didn’t hate you," you instantly reply, turning to him with a frown.

Tim only raises his brows before a smile breaks out on his face, yours following soon after.

The two of you fall into a solemn rhythm, littered with acknowledgement and acceptance. It’s not easy conceding the damage and how it happened. You admit you were kids. You admit that it still hurts.

You don’t notice when the two of you shift closer, when your knee starts touching his and your arms fold neatly onto the counter beside his own.

By the time the conversation has lulled, moving to stories and memories, Tim says something you have to take a second to process.

“You were the only good thing in that house.”

He says it like a confession, hanging his head low and fiddling with his empty glass. You don’t realise when a tear falls from your eye, a burning sensation hitting your throat. Not until his hand reaches up to wipe it away, muttering a kind ‘hey’.

His hand stills on your cheek, cupping it gently. His face moves closer as another whisper escapes him. 'I'm okay now’. A reassurance, a promise.

Your eyes dart to his lips, gulping at the realisation of how impossibly close he has gotten. His gaze moves downwards aswell, just for a second.

Your eyes flutter before you look up, seeing his eyes still trained on your lips.

He stops.

And then, barely louder than a whisper, he speaks.

“We’re not seventeen anymore."

You nod instantly, hand grasping his – that was still on your cheek – and bringing it down. Pushing your legs back, you stand, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

“I should—" You motion towards his front door, already straightening your socks. He nods once, slowly, then follows you to his house’s exit.

You halt your steps on your way to your car, turning around in a hurry. Tim tilts his head, silently asking if something happened.

Glancing around, you rock on the balls of your feet, swaying on the front porch.

“So… friends?”

A smile breaks out on his face at your suggestion; he nods, watching you turn around and comically walk—skip—over to your car.

He then closes the door with a smile and a shake of his head.

~~~~~~

Tim’s friends are also your friends.

It’s been about a month and a half of having transferred to your new job at HQ. After the completion of that case, your help has been both requested and required at several other precincts across the state.

Despite having to travel several hours each workday, you’ve found yourself making time to visit your ‘friend’ Tim, spending days at the station during your off time or making yourself at home in his apartment when he’s on duty.

His coworkers talk to you almost every day; brunch dates with Lucy, clothes shopping with Angela and Genny, and back-and-forth debates with Wesley have kept you busy long enough to forget about Boston and get used to LA again.

As for with Tim… It was awkward at first, having to relearn eachother after years of longing, guilt and distance.

So much distance.

But it's been comfortable, oddly so, like you simply picked up where you left off, laughing at the TV and making sassy remarks about eachother’s food preferences.

His friends, on the other hand, have started to comment on his changed demeanour. How his insults carry no weight and his reports have become more generous.

Most of all, they comment on his eyes lingering on your form long after you have turned away, a soft look on his face, uncharacteristic of the brooding T.O.

Lucy teases him about the way he smiles when you ramble.

Angela lifts her brow at dinner when he wordlessly slides his mushrooms to your plate with no hesitation.

Wesley tilts his head at the coffee you bring him one morning before a meeting he has with the lawyer.

You really think nothing of it when the same looks and questioning stares make their way into your own routine.

~~~~~~

Tim has been meaning to assemble a new armchair he got recently, and being his bestfriend (self-proclaimed), you took it upon yourself to help.

He sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor, brows furrowed at the set of instructions in his hand, sixty pages long. You return from the kitchen, beer bottle in hand and stop at the back of the couch, peering over the backrest to see his tense shoulders, bowed head and tightened hands.

A laugh escapes your throat at his focused expression, prompting him to look over the instruction manual.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing…” you respond.

It’s easy being Tim's friend. Sometimes too easy and you find yourself wondering if he’s just grown comfortable with you now or if there is something deeper going on.

Sometimes, just sometimes, there are certain lines that blur.

Like when his hand hovers too long over the small of your back, guiding you to his desk or the exit.

Or when his eyes linger on your lips as you finish speaking, darting to your eyes soon after.

Little things.

Tim motions for you to get him a screwdriver while tearing open a package of screws with his teeth.

Your feet padded down the hall. You turn to the right and enter his bedroom, heading straight for the closet where you know he keeps his tools. Your hand skims the handle of the toolbox before your attention is drawn elsewhere.

A brown box, half open, with white paper within, seemingly screaming your name, like it's begging you to see what's inside, like an itch you can’t yet scratch.

You take the gamble, pulling your hand away from the toolbox and towards the cardboard instead. Steady hands pry open the lid the rest of the way.

A stack.

At least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink 'Return to sender’.

One envelope lies wrinkled, having been crumpled and then flattened out, atop the rest. You reach for the stack first, all considerations of privacy thrown out the window carelessly.

The stack is heavy in your palms, with sharp folded edges, compressed from years of being kept together, nearly merging into one.

The smell of old paper hits your nose the moment you lift it from the box, somewhere mixed with lilac and the lingering scent of ink.

The first letter is written in jet-black, careless, boyish writing, scribbled hastily on the paper. It’s dated. And as you recall, only a week after your confession.

Your eyes fly across the words, reading each line twice.

“I keep thinking about your eyes.

The way they crinkle when you’re trying not to laugh.

I think about them when it gets loud here. It helps.”

Your breath picks up, fingers beginning to quiver unconsciously, hesitant. You reread the words again.

Your eyes. He used to mention your eyes.

You take a breath, just one, willing yourself to push down the lump that has formed in your throat.

The next letter is sharper, with more full stops littering the paragraphs. More concrete thoughts framed into those boxy letters.

“I don’t know if you’re reading these anymore.

I keep replaying the way you looked at me the night I left.

I can’t tell if I imagined it. Or if you already knew I wouldn’t stay.”

You blink several times, fingers nimbly closing the flap of the envelope.

The angry red letters stare back at you; in the creases you can see fragments of the boy from highschool.

The crooked smile.

His stare at the back of your head in math class.

His fingers shielding his eyes as he looks up at the sun.

You don’t read one, you read all of them. They lengthen as you progress, getting more detailed as you near the end.

“You used to look at me like I meant something.

Like I wasn’t just… my father’s son.

I don’t know if anyone’s ever looked at me like that since.”

You press this one to your lips, a ghost of a laugh escaping you. The plastic is still moving in the living room, your heightened senses picking up on each rustle.

The next letter makes your hands tremble. The words are shaky, frantically etched onto the paper, tripping over eachother. The sentences are clipped, smaller than the rest; the ink is angrily smudged towards the corner.

“It was loud today. I kept thinking, What if I die here?

You’ll never know I meant it. I meant it. I did.

I kept my eyes closed longer than I should have.

And all I could see were yours.”

A quiet sob escapes you as the words drill into your mind.

You smooth out the minor wrinkles with your knuckles, fingers slow and intentional. Your head tilts back to look at the ceiling, and that's when the first tear falls.

The crumpled one is different; it’s not dated, not even addressed, no red stamp bleeding through the back. The handwriting is tighter, straighter, and less boyish.

He starts the letter normally.

“___,

I don’t know if you’re getting these anymore.”

Then there’s a scratch through your name. It's not messy; it’s deliberate. A single strike stretching to cover the length of your name

Like he tried to write it, stopped, then started again beneath it.

“I don’t know if you want to hear from me.”

Then it goes into the mundane; he talks of the sky, clouds and birds, the dust, and how quiet it has been lately. How he misses your bike rides and your lame dad jokes.

Then the handwriting tilts again, smoother, as if the words were writing themselves before the mind could comprehend.

“I thought loving you meant I was allowed to hope.

I think…maybe I misunderstood.”

Your breath stutters at the next line and the one that follows. Because at the bottom, when he signs off, he writes:

“I won’t write your name again if you don’t want me to.

- Tim

(the one you used to look at like he was worth something)”

The letter flutters as it falls down, your hands having left the paper, now one at your mouth and the other fisting your shirt, hoping to fruitlessly ground yourself.

Sobs rake your body, louder now, reality crashing down on you with each passing second. Your mind drifts to each day spent with the boy at seventeen, laughing, hands linked, hours bleeding into dusk.

You break.

Not because Tim Bradford stopped loving you.

But because he thought he had to.

~~~~~~

By the time Tim enters the room, your tears have dried. There you were, kneeling between his closet and his bed, holding a bundle of red and white, your cheeks streaked with saline water and mascara.

When he arrives, the door creaks.

His footsteps echo, thumping loudly as he hurries to your side, a quiet flurry of 'What happened?' and 'Hey's accompanying him.

Your body is still shivering with the remnants of your sobs when his hand lands hesitantly on your shoulder.

You look up to meet his eyes, and another wave of tears gathers at your waterline. His face twists into concern again, and his eyes dart down to your hands at the crumpled letter you’re gripping onto.

He meets your eyes again, and you can barely give it much thought; you push yourself forward and wrap your arms around him, taking him by surprise.

There is no hesitation when he wraps his own arms around your frame, swaying gently with one hand cradling your head.

“I’m so sorry," you whisper, the words wedged between sobs.

You feel Tim shake his head, still buried in the crook of your neck, and you cling harder onto his shirt, like he’ll disappear again if you let go.

You jerk back like you’ve been burnt, your eyes wide and frantic, pushing Tim off yet holding him at arm's length. Words tumble out. Raw, unfiltered. Weak.

It's now or never.

“I love you! I’m still in love with you, Tim. I tried—and trust me, I did—I tried to make it smaller, to make it all go away—”

Your voice falters at the edge of your words, rough and raw. But you continue despite it.

“But I just can’t not love you. I—you're still everything to me.”

Tim’s eyes widen, his hand stilling at your nape. He swallows once, then opens his mouth to no avail.

At his lack of response, you continue, having just now registered the weight of your words, wishing you could have taken them back.

“And I get it if—if you’ve moved on and you don’t ever wanna see me again, I—I’ll deal with that. But i just had to tell you, after reading them and—”

Your voice has returned to a shallow whisper by the time you finish. The rest of the words getting stuck like thorns on your tongue.

The air shifts then, his hand tightening on your neck, an anchor, and yours coming up to rest on his chest.

He opens his mouth and closes it, swallowing.

And then he leans in.

Any remaining thoughts get pushed to the back of your mind the moment his lips crash into yours, one of his hands still at your shoulder.

Like he’s afraid you’ll break if he presses too hard.

His thumb brushes the damp skin beneath your eye. Your fingers tighten in his shirt without you realising.

It’s slow and unsure, nothing dramatic. There is no collision. Not a desperate clash of tongue and teeth. It just is. A declaration of the words Tim wishes he could say out loud.

He pulls back with a slight flush on his cheeks, his hand limp around your neck. Your eyes are wide open again, lips slightly parted, heart still racing abnormally fast.

He doesn’t have to say it. Not out loud, and the way his hand stays at your neck, like it belongs there, feels like answer enough.

But he does anyway.

“Not going anywhere," he says, softly.

The softest of smiles curves at the corner of his mouth. He presses his forehead to yours, quiet, just breathing.

And for a moment you’re not in his bedroom anymore; the room feels suspended suddenly, like the world is small and moving below you.

You're high above the city lights, metal creaking softly, one hand intertwined with his, the other clutching the seat of a Ferris wheel carriage, afraid to look down.

“I’m not going anywhere." he had said then, and you hadn’t believed him.

But you sure as hell believe him now.

And for the first time since you were seventeen, it makes you trust that maybe, just maybe, you survived the great war.

~Fin.~

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-tulip🌷