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Career Day Chaos.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, Like Rookie.

POV: When you and Tim get roped into an elementary school’s career day, things quickly go sideways… thanks to a swarm of curious kids who seem to prefer you over him.

A/N: Long time no see! Sorry for the out of the blue hiatus. It was my first break from school in what felt like forever, so I definitely took advantage of that! Hope y’all can forgive me and I also hope all is well on your side of life. :)

You didn’t expect to start your shift surrounded by glitter, graham crackers, and the scent of dry erase markers—but here you were, standing in front of a room full of wide-eyed second graders, badge clipped neatly to your vest, pretending not to feel wildly out of your element.

Next to you, Tim stood like a granite statue—arms crossed, expression unreadable. To the untrained eye, he looked annoyed. You, however, had known him long enough to recognise the signs: he was just deeply, deeply uncomfortable.

“Okay, everyone,” the teacher chirped, practically buzzing with enthusiasm. “Let’s give a big thank you to our guests from the LAPD!”

A chorus of high-pitched thank yous echoed across the room, some enthusiastic, some distracted by the giant cardboard police car cutout in the corner.

One hand shot up before the teacher even finished introducing you.

“Do you get to drive fast all the time?” a boy in a red hoodie blurted, practically bouncing in his seat.

Before you could answer, another voice chimed in. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“My mom said you guys should eat the curb!” One of them exclaimed with a grin, who was soon escorted out to have a talk with one of the teachers outside.

“My dad says cops eat donuts,” another kid offered with a grin, clearly proud of that contribution.

“Can you arrest my brother?” someone else asked, very seriously.

You opened your mouth—probably to give a well rounded, age appropriate answer about public safety and teamwork—but then felt a gentle tug on your duty belt.

A small girl with messy pigtails and wide, curious eyes stared up at you like you held all the secrets of the universe.

“Are you his kid?” she asked, pointing directly at Tim.

You blinked. “What? No, I’m not—”

“They’re my rookie,” Tim interjected smoothly, tone flat as a parking ticket. His arms were crossed, expression unchanging as he scanned the room like he was preparing for a tactical op. “Not my kid.”

Another hand shot up near the back. “What’s a rookie?”

You crouched beside the girl who had tugged on your duty belt, careful not to knock over the crayon box balanced on the corner of her desk. It rattled slightly as you settled into a squat, bringing yourself eye-level with her.

“It just means I’m still new,” you said, voice warm and easy, like you were sharing a secret. “I’m learning from him.”

She blinked up at you, her lashes fluttering as she took in your uniform, your badge, your vest—then flicked a look over at Tim, who stood at the front of the classroom, arms crossed like a bouncer at recess. Her head tilted slightly, lips pursing like she was solving a very serious equation.

“Like a dad?” she asked.

You smiled, soft and unguarded, caught somewhere between amused and oddly touched. “Yeah, sorta,” you said, glancing up at Tim. “It is like learning from your dad.”

There was a pause—long enough to notice the faint scratch of crayons against paper, the rustle of Velcro from a kid trying to adjust their shoe, the way the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Tim didn’t say anything. But when you looked up, his gaze was already on you.

He didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t scowl or scoff like you half expected.

He just held your stare, steady and unreadable—until the corner of his mouth twitched, barely there. Like he was acknowledging it. Like he didn’t hate how you’d said it. Like maybe… he even agreed.

Then he cleared his throat and turned back to the board, muttering something under his breath about kids these days, and in all honesty, you couldn’t tell if he was referring to the small children you were answering to, or you.

But he didn’t correct you.

And that was answer enough.

“You know ‘bad cop, nice cop.’ Are you the nice one?” the girl asked, tilting her head.

You stifled a laugh and glanced sideways at Tim. “I try to be.”

From the back of the room, a boy in a paper police hat stage-whispered to his friend, “They’re cooler.” He nodded his head towards you.

Tim’s jaw twitched. His brows ticked upward just slightly, like the betrayal physically pained him.

“Little traitors,” he muttered under his breath, adjusting the sleeve of his uniform. “I’m the one who brought the sticker badges.”

You leaned toward him, voice playful. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve got better hair.”

He didn’t move, but his eyes narrowed, dry as dust. “I heard that.”

The chaos rolled on. You helped the kids try on your vest (which nearly swallowed one of them whole), and they begged you to let them talk into the radio (you didn’t, but you pretended). Tim stayed close, looming like a grumpy storm cloud while you answered question after question.

At one point, a small boy with a blue marker mustache wrapped his arms around your leg and declared you were his “new favorite grown-up.” Tim just stared at him.

“Kid,” he said, crouching down to meet his eyes “you’ve known them for twenty minutes.”

“They let me try on the cool vest,” the boy shot back.

Tim’s eyes shifted up to you. “Congratulations. You’ve been out ranked by a second grader.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” You beamed, looking down at him.

By the end of it, your uniform had tiny handprints smeared across it, and your back ached from crouching so much—but you were smiling. And despite all his grumbling, Tim hadn’t left your side once.

You were halfway back to the shop when you reached into your pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper—construction paper, thick and soft, with a crude crayon drawing of what was unmistakably you and Tim, both with blue stick-figure badges and beaming smiles. In the corner, written in shaky, bubble letters: “THE COOL COPS.”

You chuckled and held it up.

Tim glanced over, expression unreadable. “They gave you that?”

You offered it to him. “Split custody?”

He rolled his eyes but took it without a word, folded it neatly, and slipped it into the glove compartment. Like it was nothing.

You didn’t mention it. Didn’t have to.

You just smiled to yourself as he pulled back onto the road.

“Don’t let it go to your head, kid.” He said.

“Too late.”

The sun had already dipped below the horizon by the time you and Tim pulled back into the station lot, golden haze giving way to a cool, blue-gray dusk. Your feet ached. Your back wasn’t far behind. But your heart felt… warm. Lighter.

The kids at the elementary school had worn you out in the best way. You still had a sticker badge on your sleeve, slightly crumpled. And a crayon drawing—bright scribbles of you and Tim standing in front of a very boxy police car—was folded in your vest pocket.

You changed out of your gear slowly, letting the silence of the locker room settle around you like a favorite hoodie. The chaos of the day had passed. Just the hum of overhead lights, the distant buzz of dispatch through the hallway speakers.

Jackson stepped out from behind a row of lockers, phone in hand, looking way too smug for someone off shift.

“You’re not gonna believe what I just caught,” he said, screen already up like he couldn’t wait another second to show you.

You raised a brow. “If it’s Lucy making fun of my sticker again, I already know.”

He snorted. “Better.”

He turned the phone around, and there it was—a photo, slightly out of focus, clearly taken through the cracked locker room door. Tim stood at his locker, shoulders relaxed for once. His face was unreadable, but not cold. Focused, almost careful. And in his hands—your drawing. The one with the neon green police cruiser and giant badge-shaped sun in the corner.

You watched as Tim, in the photo, gently smoothed out the edges of the paper before tacking it up inside his locker door. Right next to his medals. Right next to the photo of Metro and Isabel from back in the day.

Your breath hitched a little, unprepared for how much that image settled into your chest.

“Didn’t even hesitate,” Jackson added quietly. “Like it belonged there.”

You smiled, small and stunned.

“Don’t tell him I showed you,” Jackson said with a wink, slipping his phone away. “Guy acts like he’s all tough, but we both know—he’s a total softie.”

You shook your head, a laugh breaking loose. “Yeah. I won’t say a word.”

But later, as you walked out into the night, the breeze cool on your face, you glanced toward Tim’s car. He was already there, sipping from a to-go cup, eyes on the dashboard like nothing had changed.

But you knew better now.

And when you climbed in, settling into the passenger seat like it was always yours, you didn’t say anything either.

You just smiled—and held on to the quiet.

Because that drawing wasn’t just kid stuff.

It was proof you were part of something.

And you weren’t going anywhere.

taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads @gublerstylesobrien1238

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hey lovely! it's @nevereclipse (on anon cause side blog). I'm absolutely obsessed with your like father, like rookie series (anything you write with Tim is just chefs kiss). would you mind writing a story where Tim's rookie is really stressed about their six months exam? like perfectionism, either superrr stressed before hand or not happy with their mark afterwards, and Tim helps them/comforts them? love your work sm!

What You Don’t See Yet.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, Like Rookie.

POV: Overwhelmed by the pressure to be perfect for your six-month evaluation, Tim Bradford sees through the cracks—and he won’t let you spiral. Through quiet guidance, firm words, and on-the-job moments, he helps you realize you’re more ready than you think.

A/N: Always a pleasure to hear from you, Eclipse! Thank you for the sweet message and request, this is adorable and I definitely enjoyed writing it! 💕

You hadn’t stopped moving since the start of shift. Not really.

Your nerves were like a second heartbeat—fast, insistent, relentless. Hands fidgeting with your vest straps. Pacing while waiting on call sheets. Tapping your pen against the desk during report writing until Tim’s eyes cut over with a sharp look that made your hand freeze mid-air.

But now, seated in the passenger seat of the shop, you couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Your knee bounced, leg jittering with a mind of its own like you were wired straight into a live socket.

Tim noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You gonna shake the whole damn shop apart, or what?” he asked, his voice even, calm—eyes still on the road.

You startled like you’d been caught stealing. “Sorry,” you muttered, forcing your leg to still. “Just… tired.”

Liar.

You could feel the word in his silence before he even said it.

“Bull.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “What?”

“I said bull,” he repeated, tone clipped. “You’ve been on edge all day. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

You tried to swallow the lump crawling up your throat. Looked out the window like the lights passing by might drown out your thoughts.

“It’s—it’s the six-month eval,” you finally said. Quiet.

Tim didn’t respond right away. Just flicked the turn signal, calm and composed, merging into a slower lane like he was waiting for you to keep going.

“And?”

You shifted in your seat, feeling every buckle and seam in your vest. “And, I need to crush it.”

He finally glanced at you—one of those looks. The kind that felt like floodlights cracking you open. Like he wasn’t just hearing you—he was reading between every damn word.

“Crush it,” he echoed, tone unreadable. “Why?”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Because if I don’t, it proves everyone right. That I’m too young. That I’m not ready. That I don’t belong out here.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

Instead, he turned on his blinker and pulled the shop smoothly into a parking lot—quiet, mostly empty, lit by a flickering overhead light and the orange glow bleeding from a liquor store window.

The shop rolled to a stop. He put it in park. Killed the engine.

Silence.

You sat there, hands twisted in your lap.

Then Tim turned toward you fully, the weight of his posture shifting—shoulders squared, arms crossing in that solid, grounded way of his.

“You listen to me, and you listen good,” he said, tone hard but not harsh. “This job doesn’t give a damn how old you are. What it cares about is how you show up. And you? You show up. Every single day.”

You parted your lips, some excuse or protest waiting on your tongue, but he cut you off with a look.

“Do you make mistakes? Sure. So does everybody else. You think your eval needs to be perfect? It won’t be. Because you’re not perfect. And you don’t need to be.”

His words echoed in your chest like they were being carved into bone.

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You’ve already proven yourself.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice dropped an octave—deeper, more pointed.

“You think I didn’t bomb parts of my eval? You think I haven’t sat where you are, thinking if I messed it up, I’d never get taken seriously?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re not here to be flawless,” he continued. “You’re here to learn. To grow. To take hits and keep moving. That’s what makes a good cop. That’s what makes you worth the badge.”

Your fingers curled around the hem of your shirt. They were trembling. Just a little. But enough.

Tim saw it.

He sighed, quieter this time. “You’re good, kid. Better than you think. And yeah, I’m hard on you. You know why?”

You nodded, voice small. “Because you want me to be ready?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Because you are ready. You just don’t see it yet.”

The words landed with a thud—solid and final. Like the earth settling beneath your feet.

You blinked, jaw clenched against the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Tim didn’t soften. Not visibly. But his hand reached over and patted your shoulder—firm, grounding, real. It wasn’t tender. It was steady.

“Now take a breath. Straighten up. We’re not done with shift, and I need you clearheaded.”

You nodded once. Shaky. Then again, stronger. “Yes, sir.”

His voice was gentler then, but just as sure. “Good. Let’s go.”

He started the engine again, shifting it into gear without fanfare. Just Bradford, making damn sure you knew your worth—even if he had to drill it into your head himself.

And the world kept turning—but slower now. Calmer.

You weren’t okay yet. Not fully.

But you believed him.

And that was enough to keep going.

Post-exam, though? Hit you like a brick with malicious intent.

The fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the bullpen. It was late—too late for how long you’d been sitting in front of your locker, still in uniform, still frozen.

You stared at the evaluation sheet in your hands. It had crumpled slightly from your grip, edges damp where your fingers had trembled. You read the feedback for what had to be the tenth time, the words blurring around the edges. Your chest was tight. Too tight.

“Satisfactory in judgment. Needs improvement under pressure.”

That line echoed over and over in your head, louder than the rustling papers, louder than the clacking keyboard a few desks away. It was all you could hear.

You blinked hard, throat aching. The scent of old coffee grounds lingered in the air. Someone had microwaved leftover pasta—again—but it didn’t even register.

You should’ve done better. You needed to do better.

Footsteps approached from behind—heavy, measured, and familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Kid,” Tim’s voice was gruff, cutting through the spiral. “You planning on camping out here, or…?”

You didn’t answer.

Tim sighed, and the bench beside you creaked under his weight as he sat down. You kept your eyes on the paper, willing it to disappear, or change, or both.

“Talk to me,” he said.

Your throat closed up.

“I messed it up,” you murmured. “I should’ve scored higher. I knew the scenarios. I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Didn’t respond fast enough. Froze when it mattered.”

The paper in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve. The words were smudged a little near the corner from how tightly you’d been holding it—creased, sweat-softened, like it had been through war and back. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up just yet.

Tim’s gaze remained unreadable but steady. You felt it on you, the way you always did. Sharp. Grounding. Impossible to shake.

He glanced at the paper, then back at your face.

“You passed,” he said, voice calm, slow and deliberate—like it needed to be heard through the static in your head.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. “I barely passed,” you bit out. “That’s not good enough. Not for this job.”

The words came fast, bitter, too familiar. You’d been saying them in your head all day. This was just the first time they slipped out loud.

A pause stretched between you. Not long. Just long enough to feel like the air had thickened.

Then Tim’s voice came, low but sharp—like the snap of a taut rope.

“Good enough for who?” he asked. “For Grey? For me?”

He remained sat next to you, his stance firm but not aggressive. “Because neither of us put barely on your report. You did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. No words came. Just that lump in your throat—the same one that had been there since you got your results. It burned behind your ribs, a quiet kind of shame you couldn’t shake.

You looked down. Couldn’t meet his eyes.

He shifted slightly, not backing down.

“You want to be perfect. I get it. But that’s not the job. The job is making the call, learning from it, and staying alive to make the next one.”

The words scraped against the wall you’d built up all day. Slowly, brick by brick, they chipped it.

Your fingers clenched the paper again, crumpling it tighter in your grip.

“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess up out there. I don’t want to get someone hurt. Or get you hurt.”

The admission cracked something open—soft, exposed. You hadn’t even realized it until it came out. But it was the truth.

The room went quiet. Not the awkward kind. The kind that settled around you like a pause before impact.

Tim didn’t move for a long second. Then his expression shifted—subtle, but real. The edge in his eyes softened. His voice lowered, not losing strength, but gaining something steadier. Warmer.

“You’re not going to,” he said. “Because you don’t quit. And because I’ve got your back.”

The words hit hard. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

And that made them worse.

You blinked fast, vision blurring slightly.

A memory flashed—uninvited but vivid. Your first week on the job. Nervous energy riding high. You trailing too close behind him on a call, trying to prove you were sharp, fast, useful. And Tim yanking you back by your vest a second before a suspect swung wide with a pipe.

No shouting. No panic. Just that laser-focused look he’d fixed on you as you stood there stunned.

“You’re here to survive. Do that first.”

Back in the present, your breath hitched. The locker room blurred again at the edges.

Tim hadn’t looked away. He never did, not when it counted.

“Take the win, kid,” he said, voice a little softer now. “You passed. Not because you got lucky, but because you’re learning. Every damn day.”

You gave a slow nod, jaw tight, voice caught somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t speak—not yet. You weren’t sure if it’d come out steady if you tried.

Tim didn’t push. Just gave you a moment, then added, businesslike but not cold:

“I want you rested for tomorrow.”

You looked up, confused for a beat.

“Because I’m putting you behind the wheel for most of the shift,” he continued. “And I expect you to call the shots when it’s your turn.”

That made you blink. “Wait. Me? All day? You never let me drive—”

He gave a short nod, like the decision had already been made and he didn’t see the point in debating it.

“Best way to prove to yourself what I already know.” He got up, already facing toward the doorway, but his words lingered. “You can do this,” he said. “Even when your head says otherwise.”

Then he was gone—out the door and down the hall, leaving you in the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of his belief in you.

And for the first time all day, the paper in your hand didn’t feel so heavy.

The next morning started early—before the sun even had a chance to warm the streets of Los Angeles. A low fog lingered above the pavement, curling between squad cars in the lot like smoke that hadn’t cleared. You stood by your locker, already dressed, boots laced, vest snug. But your hands were trembling.

You could still feel yesterday in your bones.

That exam. The feedback. The way it made your stomach twist. And worst of all, the expression on Tim’s face when he told you “You passed”—firm, serious, but not the kind of praise you felt you deserved. He said you did well. Your brain told you he was just being nice. He wasn’t. He never was.

But logic and feelings never played fair.

You were zoning out again—thinking too hard—until a paper coffee cup appeared in your peripheral vision.

“Drink it,” Tim said, not waiting for a thanks as he walked past, heading for roll call.

You stared at the coffee for a second, then followed, hands finally steadying with the warmth of the cup in your grip.

The first call was routine—at first.

Dispute in a strip mall parking lot. You followed Tim’s lead, clipboard tucked under your arm as you approached the two arguing men. One was pacing, the other red-faced and shouting. You kept your tone calm, your posture open, repeating everything you’d been trained to do.

You were halfway through separating them when one of them threw a punch.

You didn’t freeze this time. Your reflexes were faster than your thoughts.

You ducked. Moved in. Grabbed his wrist, pivoted your body like you’d practiced in defensive tactics, and forced him back against the hood of a car, cuffing him with clean, practiced motions.

When it was over, your heart was pounding—but you weren’t spiraling.

You looked up and Tim was already watching you from across the lot, one hand on his belt, expression unreadable.

Back in the shop, after turning the guy over to another officer, Tim gave you a nod.

“Clean,” he said.

You blinked. “Clean?”

“Your takedown. No hesitation. No overcorrection.” He glanced over his shoulder at the commotion dying down. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re growing. You didn’t let your nerves get in the way of your instincts.”

Something about hearing it now, in the field, after doing it right—meant more than the score on your evaluation ever could.

You nodded slowly, your chest feeling lighter.

“Thanks, sir.”

Tim shrugged. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who put in the work.”

The shift moved on. You responded to a stolen vehicle, a shoplifting call, and a welfare check. Each scene came with moments of doubt—split-second flashes of memory from your early weeks, moments you’d stumbled, fumbled, froze.

But you didn’t now.

You kept moving. You remembered Tim’s voice, his corrections, his dry sarcasm and steady calm.

And at every stop, he was just… there. Quietly guiding, standing just far enough to give you space, but close enough that if anything happened, he’d be in your corner in half a second flat.

It wasn’t until the last call—almost at end of shift—that the day gave you one final test.

A teenager had been reported missing, last seen leaving school.

You and Tim canvassed the area, checking alleyways and bus stops, when you spotted someone curled behind a dumpster. Thin frame, hoodie pulled low. You crouched, gentle voice easing the kid out, while your heart pounded in fear of what you might find.

She was okay. Scared, cold, but okay.

You offered her your jacket, spoke softly while you waited for her parents to arrive. Your words were careful, calm. Reassuring.

And Tim? He stood back and let you handle it.

You didn’t notice he was watching you like a hawk until it was all over.

Back in the shop, you slumped into the passenger seat, the door clicking shut behind you with a dull thunk. Your vest felt heavier than usual—like your body had only just remembered how tired it was now that the adrenaline was gone.

You rubbed your hands together, then dragged one down your face, the skin clammy with sweat and tension. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, like your lungs were still catching up from the last call.

Tim didn’t speak at first. Just adjusted the rearview mirror with a practiced hand, his movements calm, deliberate. The cruiser’s engine hummed under you, warm air filtering through the vents, soft against your chilled skin.

Then, without looking over, he said, “I remember when that would’ve wrecked you.”

His voice wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. Just matter-of-fact, grounded in something that felt like pride.

“When you would’ve stumbled over every sentence trying to talk to her.”

You let out a slow exhale, head tipping back against the seat. The hum of street noise outside dulled to a low murmur through the glass. “Yeah,” you said quietly.

You remembered too.

You remembered that first call with a DV victim—how your voice had caught in your throat, how your hands had trembled when you tried to take a statement, how you’d looked to Tim for backup not because the scene was dangerous, but because you didn’t trust yourself to get it right.

But today, it had been different. You’d moved with purpose. Spoken with clarity. You had looked her in the eyes and told her she wasn’t alone—and meant it. You’d navigated the entire scene without a single glance toward your T.O.

Tim didn’t say anything else. But his silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t the kind that made you second-guess yourself or fill the air with nervous chatter.

It was solid.

Like brick and mortar.

The silence of someone who had seen your worst days and never once backed away from them. The kind that said you did good, without needing to spell it out.

You turned your head slightly and caught his profile—jaw set, gaze steady on the windshield, one hand resting lightly on the gearshift. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just about passing the eval anymore.

It wasn’t even about the numbers on the report or the comments scribbled in the margins.

It was about every rough shift that came before this one. Every moment you thought you couldn’t keep up, every time you’d failed and come back anyway. It was about how you showed up today—not perfect, but prepared. Capable.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t trying to convince anyone that you belonged.

You weren’t trying to convince him.

You were trying to convince yourself.

And in that quiet space between shift calls, in the warmth of the shop’s late afternoon light filtering through the windshield, something in you finally settled.

You believed it.

You belonged out here.

The precinct had thinned out by the time you returned. Most officers were already gone, the last rays of sun bleeding over the city like the world had exhaled a little. The bullpen was quiet, low-lit, with the hum of vending machines and distant radio chatter the only background noise.

You were at your locker, peeling off your vest, when Tim reappeared with two bottled waters and a couple of granola bars.

You stared at them, one brow arched. “This your version of a steak dinner?”

Tim leaned against the row of lockers beside you. “If you wanted a steak, you should’ve tackled a better suspect.”

A small, tired laugh left you before you could stop it. He cracked the faintest smile in return.

“Seriously though,” he said, tone dipping into something lower, more even, “you did good today.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Felt different. Like… I wasn’t constantly second-guessing every move.”

“That’s because you weren’t,” Tim said. “That wasn’t luck out there. That was training. Control. You let your instincts kick in because you trusted yourself.”

You looked down at your hands, flexed them once. “I think… part of me still doesn’t believe I passed.”

Tim’s voice was quiet but firm. “Then believe me.”

You looked at him.

He nodded once. “You’ve come farther than you realize. And I’m not gonna let you burn yourself out chasing some imaginary finish line.”

You blinked hard. “You really suck at pep talks.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, crossing his arms again, “you suck at eating lunch without being told.”

You smiled, warm and lopsided. “Touché.”

Tim reached out and ruffled your hair—not playfully, but with a certain worn fondness. Like someone used to watching over something fragile until it found its strength.

“Go home,” he said. “Get some rest. You earned it.”

You hesitated for a second. Then, softer: “Thanks, sir.”

He gave a single nod, eyes steady. “Anytime, Kid.”

And as you stepped out into the fading sun, boots heavy from the day but heart a little lighter, you realized something important:

You weren’t just surviving out here anymore.

You were growing.

And Tim had seen it before you ever could.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads @gublerstylesobrien1238

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Bradford’s Intervention.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

POV: A rookie who forgets to eat. A training officer who notices. It starts with late-night takeout, and ends with quiet care. Tim Bradford doesn’t say much—but actions? They speak loud enough.

TW: Reader goes through the motions of poor eating habits due to prioritising work, resulting in brief mentions of weight loss. Tim ensures reader gets back on track with eating in various ways, including often asking reader if they’ve eaten and observing if they’ve eaten enough.

A/N: Okay, first of all, I literally whipped up 70% of this oneshot and forgot to save it. So, apologies if this oneshot doesn’t hit different because it was made with frustration (Because I had to rewrite it all over again,) and not love like usual. :( Which also explains why I didn’t post once a week because my motivation went downhill after I realised it didn’t save—but we persevere!! So, here it is!

It was nearing the end of shift, and Tim could already feel the exhaustion setting into his shoulders. The paperwork was never-ending, the bullpen too loud, and his patience was at about 4%.

But when he looked across the room and spotted you, hunched over your desk with a blank stare and twitching fingers—he knew something was off.

You hadn’t said a word in the past hour. Not since the last dispatch call ended. Not since you got back to your desk.

Your knee bounced restlessly under the table, fingers twitching against the edge of your laptop. Your eyes were glassy—focused on nothing, staring straight through the screen in front of you like it wasn’t even there.

Tim watched you from across the bullpen, jaw ticking.

“Kid.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even flinch. Just blinked—slow, like the thought had to travel a long way before it reached your brain. Then you looked up, bleary-eyed and sluggish, like you’d been wading through molasses.

Tim pushed back his chair with a scrape and crossed the room, arms folding as he stood beside your desk. “You good?”

You gave a fast, jerky nod. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Too quick. Too rehearsed.

Tim glanced down at your desk—the same granola bar had been sitting there since morning. Unwrapped, untouched. The coffee cup next to it was long since empty.

“Did you eat today?” he asked, voice low.

Your eyes flicked to him, then away. “Wha—yeah. I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t the question,” he said flatly, brow raised. “Did you eat?”

You hesitated. Just enough to answer the question for him. Then you muttered, “Had some coffee.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t call you out or scold you.

He just looked at you. Stared long enough that you started to fidget, then glanced at his watch.

“Come on.”

You blinked. “What?”

He was already walking away, grabbing his jacket. “Hurry up before I leave you here.”

For a moment, you just sat there, watching him near the exit before you shook your head profusely, as if snapping out of a trance that had it’s way with you for far too long before bouncing to your feet and jogging after him.

The ride was quiet—typical with Tim. No music, just the soft murmur of the radio and the occasional irritated grunt when someone on the road pissed him off.

You sat curled into your seat, arms crossed, stomach finally realizing it hadn’t been fed in over twelve hours.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a faded parking lot. The diner looked like it belonged in a postcard from the ’80s—neon lights buzzing, chrome siding catching the glow of streetlamps. The windows glowed warm and yellow in the night.

You squinted. “Diner?”

“Midnight special,” he replied, cutting the engine and getting out like it was a regular routine. “Get moving.”

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old grease, pancakes, and brewed coffee. You slid into a booth by the window while Tim nodded to the woman behind the counter. She brought two steaming mugs of coffee over like she already knew the drill.

Tim didn’t open the menu. Just sipped. Watched you.

“You’re gonna order,” he said finally, nudging a menu toward you with a finger.

You blinked at him. “What should I get?”

“All of it.”

You stared. “What?”

He took another slow sip of coffee. “Everything you’ve been skipping. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Pick something from every section.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “Sir—”

“Don’t even start,” he cut in. “I’ve seen corpses with more color than you today. You’re running on fumes and stubbornness.”

You huffed, looking away, cheeks burning. “I’m not a kid.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push. Instead, he nodded toward the menu again.

“Then order like an adult who knows how to take care of themselves.”

You grumbled under your breath, but something about the steadiness in his voice—like he noticed the way you’d been shrinking lately, the way your uniform was a little looser—made you obey.

And for once, you didn’t have a retort. Just stared down at the laminated page, swallowing hard as your stomach let out a quiet growl.

You pointed, finally. “I’ll take the fries, pancakes, hashbrowns, and a milkshake.”

Tim grunted, satisfied. “Atta kid.”

Tim just nursed his coffee, occasionally stealing a fry off your plate once the food came. He didn’t push. Just watched you eat with that unreadable expression of his.

Halfway through your milkshake, your shoulders sagged.

“Didn’t realize how hungry I was,” you mumbled.

Tim gave a small nod. “That’s the thing with burnout. You don’t feel it ‘til it’s already bleeding into everything else.”

You looked down at your fork.

He leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly. “You’re not a machine, kid. You don’t get extra points for starving yourself through the shift.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s the problem.”

You went quiet again.

The syrup was starting to stick to your fingers. The milkshake was giving you a headache. But the warmth in your chest—warmth that wasn’t from the food—was harder to ignore.

And when he flagged down the waitress for a to-go box for the leftovers you couldn’t finish, you didn’t argue.

After the midnight diner run, something shifted.

Tim Bradford, usually content to let his rookies suffer through learning things the hard way, was now on your ass like a hawk about one very specific thing:

Food.

It started the next morning—quiet, early, just before roll call.

You were half-awake, rubbing sleep from your eyes and yawning into your shoulder as you fumbled with your locker. The clatter of boots on tile barely registered until a shadow stretched across the floor beside you.

“Did you eat?”

You blinked, turned your head, and found Tim standing there—arms crossed, face unreadable, looming like a silent judgmental stormcloud.

“Uh… yeah?” you offered, voice raspy from sleep.

He tilted his head slightly. “What?”

“Granola bar?” you tried again, already wincing.

He let out a low, unimpressed sound. Somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. “That’s not breakfast. That’s a snack pretending to be one. You’ve got five minutes. There’s a vending machine in the breakroom. Find something with protein—go.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to ask if he was serious—but the sharp look he gave you shut it right back.

Your legs moved before your brain caught up.

By day three, the mission had evolved.

Now he was personally escorting you to the food trucks during break like your own surly, broad-shouldered chaperone.

“Go big or go home,” he muttered, squinting at the chalkboard menu propped on the sidewalk. “Get the loaded burrito.”

You stared blearily at the options. “Which one?”

He stepped forward slightly, pointing without hesitation. “Not that one. The other one—with potatoes.”

You followed the direction of his finger, and it took you a second to realize your own hand had drifted to match, your finger hovering just beneath the menu item like a trained reflex.

“Yeah,” he said with a small, victorious nod. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “Are you seriously micromanaging my lunch right now?”

“Damn right I am,” Tim said without missing a beat. “Not risking my rookie blacking out during a foot chase because you skipped breakfast again.”

You just rolled your eyes with a defeated huff, stepping up to the food truck to place your order.

By day five, it was no longer a secret.

In fact, it had become something of a running joke at Mid-Wilshire.

“Hey,” Jackson whispered across briefing during roll call, nudging Lucy with his elbow. “Why does Tim follow Y/N around like a grumpy golden retriever with a lunchbox?”

Lucy smirked without looking up from her notes. “He’s on full food patrol. They skipped a meal once and now it’s like… a vendetta.”

Even Grey caught wind of it.

During roll call, right as the morning briefing was about to wrap, Tim leaned over casually and murmured, “You eat anything yet?”

You muttered a tired “Yes, sir.” under your breath, and Grey paused mid-sentence.

His eyes flicked up. “You feeding your boot now, Sergeant?”

Tim didn’t even flinch. “Can’t train a rookie running on fumes, sir.”

From the back of the room, Nyla raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “Didn’t know T.O. stood for Take-Out Officer.”

Angela snorted beside her. “Please. More like Dad-ford.”

You buried your face in your elbow and tried not to laugh, whilst Tim just shook his head, deadpan as ever, but didn’t deny a thing.

Because by now, it was true.

And everyone knew it.

Later that day, when he caught you trying to sneak away with just a cup of coffee for lunch, he reached out, plucked it from your hands, and deadpanned, “Caffeine doesn’t count as calories, kid. Let’s go.”

You groaned but followed.

And maybe, just maybe, the food tasted better when he was sitting next to you, silently eating his own lunch like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t made it his full-time side quest to make sure you were okay.

By day six, Tim was satisfied with not only the improvement in your eating habits, but also with the fact that everybody in Mid-Wilshire hadn’t mentioned a thing about his part in it ever since the day before in roll call.

Until..

Nyla and Angela decided that it was too good of an opportunity to not mention it once the break room was quiet, save for the low hum of the vending machine and the occasional clink of mugs against the counter.

Nyla perched on the edge of the table, sipping her tea, while Angela leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Tim stir way too much sugar into his coffee.

“You know,” Angela started, her voice carrying that amused edge she always got when she was circling in on something juicy, “you’re not exactly subtle.”

Tim didn’t look up. He was leaned against the breakroom counter, hands wrapped tightly around his coffee mug like it was anchoring him. His shoulders barely shifted.

“About what?” he muttered, tone just this side of defensive.

Nyla raised a brow, sipping from her own cup as she leaned beside him. “Your rookie.”

He let out a small, tired breath. “I make sure they eat. Big deal.”

Angela gave a short laugh. “You make sure they eat. And sleep. And drink water. You drag them to food trucks, you check in before every shift, and I swear to God, I’ve seen you watch their plate like a hawk to make sure they finish what’s on it.”

Tim gave her a flat look but didn’t deny it.

“I’m not coddling them,” he said. “They weren’t taking care of themselves. I stepped in.”

Nyla crossed her arms, eyes steady. “You stepped in like a one-man wellness program, Bradford.”

He didn’t respond right away.

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He stared down at his coffee like it might say something back to him. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before—less like a retort and more like the truth slipping out. “They’re young,” he said. “Too used to burning themselves out before they even recognize the damage. Always pushing through, always trying to prove something. I’ve seen that break people. I’m not gonna let it break them.”

Angela’s teasing faded into something softer, more thoughtful. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Most T.O.s would’ve chalked it up to ‘toughening up.’ Let them figure it out the hard way.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “Yeah, well. I’ve been the guy who figured it out the hard way. It sticks with you.” His tone had gone distant. Like he was seeing something none of them could. A memory, probably. One that hurt in ways he didn’t speak about.

The room quieted for a moment. Even Nyla, who usually had a comeback for everything, didn’t say anything right away. Then she tilted her head, voice quieter. “You’re a good T.O., Tim.”

Angela nodded. “Little overbearing. Lot grumpy. But yeah—solid.”

He rolled his eyes, but it didn’t quite reach the rest of his face.

Before he could respond, the door creaked open behind them, and your voice cut through the silence like sunlight filtering through blinds.

“Hey, sir? I grabbed you an extra taco.”

All three of them turned. You stood in the doorway with your jacket half-zipped, hair a little mussed from your earlier nap in the shop, holding out a foil-wrapped taco like it was a peace offering.

Tim’s entire posture softened in a blink.

His brows lifted—not in surprise, but in quiet warmth—and he straightened from the counter. When he reached out to take the taco from your hand, his fingers brushed yours gently. He didn’t rush it.

“Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice lower, more grounded.

You smiled—small but bright—and gave a quick nod before stepping back out, the door closing quietly behind you.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there.

Then Nyla took a long sip of her coffee and smirked. “Okay, but that was actually adorable.”

Angela grinned, eyes twinkling. “Dad-ford strikes again.”

Tim groaned and tipped his head back against the wall. “I swear to God, if that name sticks—”

“Oh, it already has,” Nyla said with a shrug. “You’re toast.”

Angela raised her cup in a mock toast. “To the dadliest T.O. in Mid-Wilshire.”

But the thing was—Tim didn’t argue. He didn’t snap back with a sarcastic jab or roll his eyes too hard.

Instead, he just looked down at the taco in his hand. His thumb brushed over the warm foil, slow and thoughtful, like he was still hearing your voice echo in his head.

And there, alone with his thoughts while the others teased, Tim let the smallest smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

One of gratitude.

And something else that felt a lot like peace.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads

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hii i absolutely love your rookie series!! would you be open to writing something with tim and his boot slowly moving in with each other?? they leave things around his house during their father-kid bonding sessions (although he definitely denies it to the others) and just slowly starts to stay over at his place more often than their own. it gets to the point where they just permanently move in for comfort sake, maybe after something traumatic happens??

sorry if this is too specific or long T^T. love the series!!! tysm for writing for us ♡

Let’s go home, kid.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Masterlist

A/N: Hi, sweetheart! Don’t apologise, I love when you guys are specific about what you guys would like to read! 💞 Especially because this idea is super cute! (P.S, this is a separate storyline from my series, Like father, Like rookie, but you guys can imagine that it is if that’s why you guys like!)

Summary: What started as casual hangouts turned into something unspoken. Your things ended up in his house, and he never asked you to take them back. Then, after that night, he didn’t take you to your apartment—he took you home. His home. Maybe it had been yours all along.

It started with a rainstorm.

A bad one.

The kind that turned the streets into slick, flooded hazards and made every shift feel like a fight against nature itself.

By the time you and Tim wrapped up your last call for the night, you were both drenched—cold, exhausted, and in no mood to deal with LA’s nightmare traffic.

Tim had fully intended to just drop you off at your place. But when you slumped in the passenger seat, shivering, eyes heavy with fatigue, he sighed and made a split-second decision.

“Alright, Kid,” he muttered, flicking the blinker on. “You’re coming to mine.”

You barely stirred, half-asleep against the window. “Huh?”

“You’re soaked, I’m not leaving you to get sick and have a snotty rookie in my shop tomorrow,” he said gruffly. “You’ll crash at mine for the night.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t even question it. Didn’t even roll your eyes at the ‘snotty rookie’ comment. Just let out a quiet, “M’kay,” and dozed off to the soft platters of the rain against the windows again.

Tim tried not to think about how much trust that meant you had in him.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, you were awake again—barely. He tossed you a hoodie and a towel, pointed you toward the bathroom, and made sure you had something warm to eat before you inevitably crashed on the couch.

He hadn’t expected it to happen again.

But then the next time a shift ran late, it was “Might as well stay, kid. Saves you the drive and I’d rather not have you asking for gas money again like an overgrown 16 year old who just got their first car.”

Then it was “I already got takeout, no point in you getting your own.” Matched with a classic Tim remark—“I’m not surprised you didn’t listen to the lessons about saving money in high school.”

It wasn’t intentional.

At least, that’s what Tim told himself the first time he spotted something of yours in his apartment.

It was small—a phone charger, coiled neatly on his kitchen counter. He hadn’t thought much of it at first. Just a forgotten item from one of those late night shifts that had you too exhausted to go home, totally not one of your your so-called “father-kid bonding sessions” (which he definitely did not call or acknowledge them).

Then it was a sweatshirt draped over the back of his couch. A spare uniform shirt folded in the corner of his laundry room. A six-pack of your favorite energy drinks shoved into his fridge.

Tim frowned at that one.

He distinctly remembered watching you put it in the cart last time you’d gone grocery shopping—not together, obviously—but somehow, it had ended up in his apartment. He hadn’t even noticed you stashing it away.

Then, something else.

A toothbrush.

Tim stared at the new addition to his bathroom counter, arms crossed, mouth pulled into a tight line.

This was getting out of hand.

He’d meant to bring it up. Ask when exactly you’d decided his place was an extension of yours.

Somewhere along the way, the father-kid bonding sessions had stopped being something he tolerated and turned into something he… looked forward to.

Not that he’d ever admit that.

Not even to himself.

Maybe it was because, despite how much he grumbled about it at work, the house felt less empty with your things scattered around. Maybe it was because your presence had stopped feeling like an intrusion and more like something inevitable.

Then came the real kicker—the night you crashed without a reason.

No rainstorm, no late shift, no excuse. Just you, wandering into his house after work with a bag of takeout and a casual, “Hey, figured I’d stop by.”

Tim had stared at you for a good five seconds.

You blinked back, unbothered, before holding up the bag. “I got your usual.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “You do realize you have your own place, right?”

You shrugged, toeing off your shoes. “Yeah, but your WiFi’s better.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

But he still took the takeout from your hands, setting it on the counter. And when you flopped onto his couch like you’d done it a hundred times before, flipping through his TV channels, he didn’t argue.

As much as Tim would’ve liked to keep it under wraps that you and him have somehow slipped into the routine of you being at his—Mid-Wilshire wasn’t as gullible as he’d like.

The teasing started slow.

At first, it was just Lopez giving Tim a pointed look when you and him walked into roll call together, both holding coffee cups that looked suspiciously like they came from the same place.

Then Nyla got in on it. “So,” she mused one morning, eyes flicking between the two of you, “you two just happened to arrive at the exact same time? Again?”

Tim didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Traffic.”

Jackson, always the instigator that knew just how to add the right amount of fuel to the fire, smirked. “Yeah, traffic. Right, Boot?”

You just took a sip of your coffee, completely unfazed. “If I say yes, do I still get a good eval this month?”

Tim shot you a flat look.

Lucy was the one who finally pushed him over the edge. “You know,” she started, an innocent lilt in her voice, “it’s funny. I lived with you for a while, and I still got called ‘Boot.’ But them?” She nodded toward you. “Kid.”

The room hummed with interest.

Tim set his clipboard down with a sigh. “We’ve been over this before. They act like a kid, they get called one.”

Lucy snorted. “Sure, Dad.”

Tim’s jaw twitched like he wanted to just quit right then and there, God forbid. “I’m not their dad.”

Lopez grinned. “Oh? Then why do you two carpool?”

“Because I—” Tim clenched his jaw. “We don’t carpool.”

Jackson laughed. “Oh, yeah? Then why’d I see you waiting outside your truck for them the other morning?”

“I wasn’t waiting for them.”

Lucy crossed her arms. “Mhm. And why’d I hear them say, ‘I left my charger at home’ the other day, and then magically a charger appeared at their desk five minutes later?”

“Coincidence.”

Lopez tapped her chin. “And why did I hear them say they didn’t have food at home last week, and then, the next morning, hear them say, ‘Tim, your fridge is looking kinda empty’?”

Tim scowled. “We don’t live together.”

The whole room went quiet.

Then Grey’s voice cut through the silence. “Yet.”

Tim’s head snapped toward him. “Sir.”

Grey just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

You, meanwhile, were quietly enjoying your coffee like this had nothing to do with you.

And then, a few weeks later, the teasing stopped.

Not because it became routine to those back at Mid-Wilshire for you and Tim to live together.

Not because Tim snapped and told them to shut up about it. Not that they’d ever listen to him anyways.

Because something happened.

Something bad.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just you leaving things behind.

It wasn’t just staying over for convenience.

It was necessity.

Because after what happened, you couldn’t go back.

It was supposed to be a routine call.

Simple, in and out.

But those were always the ones that went sideways.

It happened so fast. One second, you were clearing a room, and the next—

Gunfire.

Searing pain in your side.

The world tilting as your legs gave out beneath you. You barely registered hitting the ground, too busy trying to force air into your lungs as panic clawed at your chest.

Then Tim was there. Dropping to his knees beside you, pressing his hands hard against the wound.

“Stay with me, kid.” His voice was sharp, but his eyes—his eyes were afraid.

You tried to stay calm, tried to keep your face blank like he’d taught you. But the pain was overwhelming, and your breath hitched, and suddenly, tears were pricking at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

Tim’s expression barely shifted, but his grip on you tightened. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. We’ve got you—I’ve got you.”

His hand shook.

The sirens in the distance blurred into white noise.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a ragged breath.

Tim swallowed hard. “I need you to breathe, kid. You hear me?”

You nodded weakly, trying to focus on his voice.

Trying not to focus on the blood pooling around you.

And then, darkness.

The hospital was quiet.

Tim sat at your bedside, staring at the IV in your arm, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

Hadn’t let himself breathe properly since the second you hit the ground.

And now, as he sat there, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, all he could think was:

This is my fault.

He should’ve checked the room himself. Should’ve had you cover the door instead. Should’ve done something different.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

Silence.

Then—

A weak, hoarse voice.

“…wasn’t your fault, sir.”

Tim’s head snapped up.

Your eyes were barely open, heavy with exhaustion and pain meds. But there was no mistaking the way you looked at him—so sure, even now.

His throat tightened. “You got shot.”

You huffed a small, breathless laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Tim’s jaw worked. “You almost—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “You should’ve never been in that position.”

You blinked at him, tired but steady. “And if it were you? If you got shot, would you be sitting here blaming yourself?”

His silence was answer enough.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Didn’t think so.”

Tim exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together. “You scared the hell out of me, Kid.”

“Sorry,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. Just—” He swallowed hard. “Just don’t do it again.”

You let out a weak chuckle. “I’ll try.”

And for the first time in hours, Tim let himself breathe.

You didn’t go home after you were discharged.

Because when it came time to leave the hospital, your legs still felt unsteady. Your apartment felt too empty.

And the nightmares—

Well. You weren’t ready to face them alone.

Tim didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. He just grabbed your bag and said—

“Let’s go home, kid.”

And somehow, that was enough.

The ride was quiet.

Not uncomfortable—just quiet.

Tim’s truck rumbled beneath you, headlights cutting through the dim evening, but neither of you said much because there was nothing to say.

Something unspoken had already been agreed upon.

When Tim said, Let’s go home, kid, you knew.

Knew that the home he was referring to wasn’t your apartment. It was his. And neither of you needed to say otherwise.

And so, the stop at your apartment was quick.

You moved through the space with a detached sort of efficiency, grabbing only what you needed. Clothes, a toothbrush, a few things you’d be annoyed not to have later.

Tim stayed quiet, standing near the door, arms crossed. Not pushing, not rushing—just there.

Watching.

Making sure you didn’t hesitate on whether or not you wanted to stay here, or go to his.

You didn’t. You never were one to when it came to staying over.

But when you went to grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder, the sharp pull of your wound made you wince.

It was subtle. Barely even a flinch. But Tim caught it.

And without a word, he stepped forward, plucked the bag out of your hands, and slung it over his own shoulder instead.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His free hand ruffled your hair as he passed. “C’mon, kid.”

You huffed but didn’t protest, following him out the door, and never once did you look back.

Tim’s place felt…

Safe.

Not in the way a fortress felt safe. Not in the way an apartment with deadbolts and security cameras felt safe.

It was different.

The kind of safe that was quiet. Steady. Unquestioned. Like you could close your eyes here and not feel on edge.

Tim dropped your bag in the spare room without ceremony, moving through the house like it was just another night. He tossed his keys on the counter, opened the fridge, pulled out a couple of bottles of water.

“You hungry?” he asked, like you hadn’t just gotten out of the hospital. Like you hadn’t just been shot. Like you were just here because—

Because you were here.

Like it was normal.

And maybe, in some way, it was.

You shook your head, taking the water he offered. “Not really.”

Tim just nodded, popping open his own bottle. “Let me know if that changes.”

It wasn’t a command. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

An unspoken you’re allowed to need things here. And for the first time in days, your chest felt a little lighter.

Moments blurred as the two of you settled in. The weight of the contrast between the last time you were at his and now was heavier than the two of you expected.

The TV flickered, casting dim light across the living room. Some random movie played in the background—not that either of you were really watching it.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but stubbornly refusing to sleep.

Tim sat on the other end, one arm resting along the back of the couch, water bottle still in his grip.

The room was quiet, but it wasn’t empty.

Not like his house usually was, not with you here.

He glanced over at you, taking in the way your shoulders had finally started to relax, the way you looked comfortable for the first time in days ever since the days you spent in the hospital before being discharged.

And something settled in his chest.

At first, he’d thought he was letting you stay because you needed it. Because you needed space, needed to feel safe. Because, after everything, you deserved that.

But sitting here now, watching the way your breathing had evened out, the way the tension had finally bled from your frame—

He realized the truth.

He needed you here.

More than you needed him.

Tim sighed, shaking his head to himself, a bittersweet revelation that hit him like a truck rooted from you quite literally bleeding out in his arms.

He reached over, ruffled your hair just enough to be annoying.

Your tired grumble made him huff a quiet laugh.

“Go to sleep, kid.”

And this time?

You did.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty

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The Rookie Prank War!

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

A/N: Okay, so, I may have had a mini writer’s block—but! Hopefully this lengthy oneshot makes up for it. 😭

Summary: You start a (mostly) harmless prank war with one of the other rookies. Tim doesn’t care—until you drag him into it. Now he’s torn between helping you win and making sure you don’t get fired.

Pranks weren’t technically against department policy.. but that didn’t mean Tim Bradford approved of them.

Tim Bradford didn’t play games.

He didn’t do pranks. He didn’t do childish antics.

He especially didn’t do rookie nonsense.

For the first two weeks of your ongoing prank war with Aaron, Tim had stayed blissfully uninvolved. Sure, he rolled his eyes when he caught wind of your antics, and yeah, he warned you at least three times that you were playing a “dangerous game.”

But he had other things to worry about, like actual police work and making sure you didn’t get yourself killed.

So long as you weren’t embarrassing him, he didn’t care.

Yet here he was.

Stuck in the middle of a full-blown prank war between his own rookie and Aaron Thorsen.

And it was entirely your fault.

It all started when you strolled into roll call one morning looking suspiciously innocent.

Tim, unfortunately, knew you well enough by now to recognize that nothing good ever came from that expression.

He barely glanced up from his clipboard before sighing.

“Kid.”

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, the very picture of fake innocence. “Yes, sir?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“Why do you always assume I did something?”

Across the room, Lucy snorted, barely looking up from her coffee. “Because you always do something.”

Before you could fire back, the doors burst open like a dramatic courtroom scene.

Aaron stormed in, and for a second, you thought he might actually combust from sheer rage. His usually pristine uniform was slightly disheveled, his patrol belt slightly askew, as if he had been fighting for his life.

He pointed an accusing finger at the room.

“Okay, which one of you messed with my shop?!”

You barely bit back a grin. “What happened, Thorsen?”

Aaron glared, breathing deeply like a man trying to suppress a violent outburst.

“…Every time I hit the brakes,” he gritted out, “my car starts blasting ‘Barbie Girl.’”

Silence.

For a full three seconds, the briefing room held its breath.

Then—

Chaos.

Angela doubled over, wheezing, gripping the table for support. Meanwhile, Nyla had to physically turn away to wipe the tears forming in her eyes.

Lucy? Clapped.

She actually clapped.

Tim sighed loudly, rubbing his temples like he was regretting every decision that led him to this moment.

Aaron threw his hands up. “Do you think this is funny?!”

Angela barely choked out, “I—I just—” She gasped for air between cackles. “It fits your whole vibe, man.”

“My vibe?!”

Nyla, still wiping away laughter tears, nodded seriously. “Yeah. Rich kid turned cop? Total Ken energy.”

Lucy lost it at that. “Oh my god, Thorsen’s a Ken!”

The laughter doubled.

Even Grey—Grey, the literal sergeant who had the patience of a saint (and zero tolerance for rookie nonsense), tilted his head like he was mildly impressed before exhaling sharply, looking away like he was suppressing a smirk.

Aaron, however, looked seconds away from committing a felony.

Tim, watching all of this unfold, finally turned to you, exasperated.

“You’re lucky Grey isn’t in the mood to suspend anyone today,” he muttered.

You beamed, utterly unbothered. “That means I win this round, right?”

Aaron’s glare deepened.

“Oh, you’re so going down.”

And just like that—

The war escalated.

Tim just sighed deeply, wondering what debt he had left to pay that had led to him being responsible for you.

By the next day, you knew you were in trouble.

Aaron had resources.

Specifically? Money.

Which meant he had somehow managed to hire a professional prankster to help him.

You came back from patrol to find everything in your locker had been individually gift-wrapped.

Every. Single. Item.

Socks? Wrapped. Notebooks? Wrapped. Your taser? Wrapped, complete with a bow.

The squad was losing their minds.

Tim, walking past, barely spared it a glance. “That’s what you get, kid.”

You turned to him, desperate, your hands clasped together as if you were praying for a miracle, “Sir, I need your help.” you whined.

Tim scoffed, turning on his heel to face you with a stern look, one that screamed ‘I don’t have time to play around.’ “Absolutely not.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You leaned in. “Come on. You hate losing.” You argued.

“I’m not in the game.”

You cheekily smirked as if you were in on a joke that he had no knowledge of, “Not yet.” You cooed with a knowing look.

Tim eyed you warily, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You just grinned, giving him a firm pat on the back, “You’re already on my team, sir.” You exclaimed, already daydreaming of all the possibilities of how this prank war was going to end.

Tim frowned. Hard. “Kid, no, I’m not—”

“You gave me a direct order to win.” You said, raising a brow.

Tim blinked, staring. “I did not—”

“Ohhh, but you did.” You tapped your chin, feigning deep thought. “Just this morning, you said—what was it? Oh! ‘Don’t let him get away with that, kid.’”

Tim groaned, already regretting every decision that led to him being stuck with you. “That wasn’t—”

“Sounds like encouragement to me,” Lucy cut in as she walked by, smirking.

Angela who’d been watching this whole ordeal unfold with arms crossed, grinned like this was the most entertaining shit she’s seen all day, “Oh yeah. That’s definitely involvement.”

Wesley, who wasn’t even part of the department but just happened to be visiting Angela, sipped his coffee and muttered, “That would hold up in court.” Adding his very valuable two cents in.

The whole squad was watching now, entertained as hell.

Nyla leaned back in her chair, nodding like she was considering the argument, “You do hate losing, Tim.” Gaining a nod of agreement from Nolan who’d just come back from returning war bags.

Tim turned to her. “Not the point.”

“Sounds exactly like the point,” Nyla countered.

Tim exhaled sharply, looking toward Grey who was strolling past like maybe—just maybe—he’d be saved.

Grey just raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to stop walking, or taking the risk of hearing things he didn’t wanna hear, “I don’t care what you do as long as it doesn’t make my life harder.” He casually said, already disappearing into his office.

Tim groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine.” He pointed directly at you. “But if I help you, it’s only to make sure you don’t get fired.”

You beamed. “That’s a win in my book.”

Tim muttered something under his breath—probably regrets and prayers—but you didn’t care.

Because Tim Bradford was now on your side.

And that meant?

Aaron didn’t stand a chance.

The next morning, Aaron strolled into the locker room, yawning as he reached for his locker.

He unlatched it—

And immediately stumbled back as a dozen overstuffed balloons burst out, each one exploding mid-air and showering him in a relentless, ungodly amount of glitter.

It got everywhere.

His uniform. His hair. His soul.

Aaron froze, hands outstretched in horror as the last bits of glitter floated gently onto his already-ruined uniform.

The room?

Absolutely lost it.

Angela gasped, eyes wide. “No. Freaking. Way.”

Nyla leaned against the lockers, impressed. “Okay, I gotta ask—how did you even set that up?”

You shrugged, innocence personified. “Trade secret.”

Lucy wiped away actual tears. “It’s so evil.”

Wesley, who somehow kept getting roped into this nonsense, just sipped his coffee and muttered, “That’s a felony in some states.”

Tim, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose like a man deeply regretting his life choices.

“Don’t get cocky, kid,” he muttered.

Aaron, still frozen, wiped a slow, agonized hand down his glitter-covered sleeve.

Then, very carefully, very deliberately, he turned his deadliest glare on you.

“You,” he said, voice deadly calm, “are so. Dead.”

You?

You just smiled.

Because this?

This was only the beginning.

From that point on, it was war.

Aaron, never one to back down from a challenge, retaliated by slipping red food coloring into your hand sanitiser.

You stared at your hands in horror—bright pink, you raised your hands in the air like you’d been caught in a crime scene. “What the fuck?!”

Aaron, smug as ever, gave a short laugh. “I thought it would be a nice touch.”

Tim, ever the reluctant mentor, simply sighed deeply from his desk. “Here,” he muttered, tossing a pack of tactical gloves your way. “Wear these until it fades.”

You, still sulking about getting caught up in Aaron’s prank, slipped the gloves on. “You’re the best, sir.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples like he was at peak regret already. “I regret everything,” he mumbled, half to himself.

But you weren’t done yet. Oh no, this was only getting started.

The next move? You reprogrammed Aaron’s entire shop GPS to only speak in Tim’s voice.

You watched with barely-contained glee as Aaron got into his shop, fully unaware of what awaited him.

It didn’t take long for the magic to happen.

A few miles into his patrol, Aaron pressed the GPS button.

The voice crackled to life, Tim’s voice, smooth as ever.

“In 500 feet, make a U-turn, rookie. And try not to embarrass yourself.”

The entire squad, who had been waiting outside, erupted.

Angela gasped, barely holding her coffee. “Oh my god,” she half-laughed, half-choked on her drink.

Nyla actually slapped her knee. “You are a genius.”

Grey, who normally maintained a wall of composure, actually snickered and cleared his throat, turning to Tim. “You sure you didn’t record those lines yourself?”

Tim was staring at you, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and something that could’ve been admiration.

“Kid.”

You beamed, leaning against the counter casually. “Yes, sir?”

Tim’s brow furrowed as he gestured vaguely toward the car. “Where the hell did you get a recording of my voice?”

You just grinned and leaned back, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “That’s a trade secret too.”

Aaron, furious, slammed the car door, his face flushed red, glaring at you through the windows. But you didn’t even flinch.

Because you knew…

You’d won again.

By the end of the week, Aaron was running out of ideas.

But you?

You were winning.

Each day, you upped the ante, pushing the limits of what could be considered acceptable behavior in the workplace.

You’d switched his shop keys for ones that didn’t fit. You’d swapped out his patrol jacket for one covered in pink rhinestones. You’d even clipped a “kick me” sign to his back when he wasn’t looking.

Aaron’s frustration was at an all-time high, but you were still going strong.

Unfortunately, Tim?

He was growing more and more exasperated.

“If you get fired,” he muttered as you and Aaron stared each other down across the room, “I’m not writing your recommendation letter.”

You grinned, unphased. “I would never get fired, sir.”

Tim glared. “You put silly string in Aaron’s patrol air vents.”

You paused, looking innocently at him. “…Okay, fair, but—”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “I helped you. I am complicit.”

You grinned wider. “That means you’re an accessory.”

Tim groaned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I hate you.”

Angela, who had been watching this whole thing unfold with an amused smirk, chimed in. “No, you don’t.”

Tim turned to her, exasperated beyond belief. “They’re worse than Lucy.”

Lucy, who had been silently enjoying the drama from her corner, gasped in mock outrage. “Hey!”

Tim pointed directly at you, almost accusingly. “This is your fault. You encouraged them.”

Lucy just grinned that mischievous grin she always wore when chaos was afoot. “I am so proud.”

You raised an eyebrow. “See? Lucy gets it.”

Tim rolled his eyes, rubbing his forehead as though he were moments away from walking out the door and never looking back.

“I really regret this,” Tim muttered under his breath.

But no one was listening—because you were too busy preparing your next move.

The prank war had reached its peak.

Aaron was tired. You were unstoppable.

But it wasn’t until Grey finally had enough that everything came to a grinding halt.

“If I see one more prank,” Grey called out from his office, voice like a thunderclap that cut through the chatter, “you’re all pulling double shifts.”

The squad froze.

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over everyone. No one dared to speak. You glanced at Aaron, who shot you a murderous look, but both of you knew—this was it.

The war was over.

You stood up, offering your hand to Aaron with all the grace of a seasoned negotiator.

“Truce?”

Aaron sighed, rubbing his temples as though trying to physically push the frustration out of his head. But then, after a beat, he reluctantly extended his hand.

“Truce.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved.

But not without Tim watching from the sidelines, his expression ageing five years in a matter of seconds. You could practically hear him thinking, What did I get myself into?

The squad, still thoroughly entertained by the spectacle of the entire week, immediately pulled out their phones and gathered together in front of Aaron’s locker, now completely covered in glitter, to take a group picture.

Angela, still laughing, wrapped her arm around your shoulders. “This is definitely going on the wall in the break room.”

Nyla, wiping tears from her eyes, nodded. “I’ll print out a copy, frame it, and put it next to Grey’s desk. For posterity.”

Grey, who had been leaning against the doorframe, gave a low grunt of disapproval but didn’t stop them. “You’re all ridiculous.”

But even he couldn’t help but smirk.

And Tim?

Tim stood a little farther away, arms crossed and looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was trying to hide the fact that, despite everything—the pranks, the chaos, the countless headaches—he was proud.

He refused to admit it, of course. Not in front of anyone.

But watching you outsmart Aaron every step of the way? Watching you win in ways he never thought possible?

Yeah.

He was definitely proud.

taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty

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Not my kid!

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: When Angela and Lucy are wholeheartedly convinced that you and Tim have the most ‘I don’t get paid enough for this shit’ father to ‘I love making Tim’s life harder!’ child-like dynamic in the precinct, Tim is stuck with the fact that they won’t shut up about it.

Tim Bradford had been through a lot in his years as a cop. He’d survived war zones, worked under some of the worst training officers the LAPD had to offer, and somehow managed not to strangle Aaron Thorsen on a daily basis. He’d seen it all.

And yet, nothing in his career had prepared him for you.

“Kid, I swear to God—”

You guided the criminal into the backseat of the shop with a grin, entirely unfazed by the exhaustion in his voice as you shut the door. “I got the guy, didn’t I?”

Tim exhaled through his nose, standing on the curb and leaning against the shop. “You got the guy by jumping off a dumpster, nearly breaking your neck, and landing on top of him like some kind of rabid squirrel.”

“Worked, though.”

“You are going to give me a stroke.”

“Eh, you’re too tough for that.”

Tim turned his head just enough to shoot you a look—one of those deadpan, barely-contained irritation looks that had made rookies before you crumble under the weight of his judgment.

But you? You just smiled, perfectly comfortable in the way you leaned back against the shop like this was just another normal day.

Meanwhile, Lucy and Angela were having the time of their lives eavesdropping into you and Tim’s conversation as they walked towards youse.

“I mean,” Lucy mused, arms draped over the front seats like she was settling in for a show, “it’s kind of impressive. You have to admit, Tim—”

“I do not.”

“—that it was a solid takedown.”

Angela, arms crossed but clearly holding back a smirk, nodded. “If a little reckless.”

You lifted a hand, like a lawyer presenting evidence in court. “A calculated risk.”

“Bullshit,” Tim and Angela said at the same time.

Lucy snorted. “You’re getting soft, Tim. Back in the day, you would’ve—”

Tim’s glare cut through the air like a warning shot. “You wanna ride with me for the rest of the month, Chen?”

Lucy grinned but lifted her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying, it’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” you asked, head tilting in curiosity.

Angela smirked. “The way you two act like a single dad with a hyperactive kid.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Tim groaned. “No.”

Lucy’s eyes lit up, her smile downright smug. “Absolutely. He’s all rules and structure, and you’re just out here doing parkour, making his life miserable.” Her expression practically screamed, ‘Did I lie, though?’

Angela tilted her head, considering. “And yet, if anyone else tried to parent them, they’d end up in a ditch.”

You turned to Tim, expectant, eyes bright. “Sir?”

Tim exhaled sharply, staring dead ahead like if he ignored the conversation long enough, it would cease to exist. His jaw tensed, hands gripping his vest as he muttered under his breath—

“I don’t get paid enough for this.”

Lucy let out a delighted laugh. “Oh my God, that was the most dad thing he could’ve said.” She exclaimed to Angela, the two of them borderline snorting of laughter as if you and Tim weren’t there.

Tim made a mental note to start requesting solo patrols.

Meanwhile, you were still grinning like you’d just won the precinct lottery, leaning into your seat with the kind of self-satisfied energy that made Tim’s eye twitch. “So does that make Lucy the fun aunt?”

Angela snorted. “She wishes. If anything, I’m the cool aunt, and Lucy’s the big sister who has to keep you alive while Dad’s at work.”

Lucy gasped, clutching her chest like she’d just been hit. “That’s… painfully accurate.”

Tim groaned, dragging a hand down his face like he could physically wipe away the conversation. “You’re all insufferable.”

You, unfazed as ever, nudged his arm with your shoulder, practically radiating warmth and mischief. “C’mon, sir. You know you love us.”

Tim had been a cop for a long time. He knew how to lie. Knew how to keep a straight face. Knew how to bluff his way through situations that should’ve killed him.

And yet, when you said it like that, with all the unshakable confidence of someone who had already decided he was stuck with you, Tim didn’t have it in him to argue.

He sighed instead, looking into the shop windows as if there was something more important to focus on besides this conversation, and muttered under his breath.

“Not my kid.”

Angela leaned against the shop, arms crossed, the smirk on her face downright smug. “Oh, please. You act like it’s just us seeing it, but literally everyone knows.” She said, holding a hand up as if to say ‘Oh, you don’t get to talk just yet.’ when Tim opened his mouth to protest.

“Grey watches you suffer on purpose. Nolan says you remind him of when he first became a dad,”

“Lopez, shut the hell—“

Angela only continued, “West told me he once saw you instinctively put an arm out to stop them from stepping into traffic—mid-lecture—like a stressed-out parent.” Her voice laced with a knowing tone as she crossed her arms, “And me? I’ve personally witnessed you yank them back by the collar when they tried to chase a suspect barefoot because, and I quote, ‘I had to know if I could.’”

A small ‘Ohhh, I remember that.’ left your lips, huffing a laugh at the memory that was personally hilarious to you, but excruciating to Tim.

“Not to mention, just last week, you scolded them for getting blood on their uniform like it was grass stains on a kid’s soccer jersey.” Angela raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “So tell me again how they’re ‘not your kid.’”

Lucy whistled, “Damn, Wesley been teaching you a thing or two.” she smirked.

The sidewalk fell into a momentary silence, save for the hum of the engine and the distant chatter of dispatch over the radio.

You, still grinning like you’d just won some unspoken battle, hopped into the shop and settled into the passenger seat, clearly pleased with yourself.

Lucy exchanged a knowing look with Angela, both of them reveling in Tim’s suffering as they walked back to their own shops.

And Tim? He just exhaled slowly, staring at the road like it held the answers to all of life’s problems—like if he focused hard enough, he could pretend he wasn’t stuck in a moving circus.

But deep down, buried beneath the exasperation and the ever-present headache that came with being responsible for you, he knew the truth.

He’d never admit it out loud, but he was stuck with you. And worse? He didn’t actually mind.

taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty

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Not my Rookie, Not my Problem. (…..Sike.)

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: When Grey conducts a training exercise for Mid-Wilshire, involving rookies having to partner up with new T.Os for the time being, Tim is faced with the obstacle of not being able to do what he does best—be your T.O.

The department wide training exercise had barely started, and already, something felt off.

Tim wasn’t sure what it was at first. He stood among the other training officers, arms crossed, watching their assigned rookies partner up with new T.O.s for the day.

It was meant to test adaptability, to see how the rookies handled new leadership styles. Logically, he understood that. But watching someone else give you instructions?

That was another story.

You were paired with Sergeant Harper, which, as far as temporary assignments went, wasn’t bad. Nyla was sharp. She knew what she was doing. Tim had no reason to worry.

And yet.

His jaw clenched as he tracked your movements through the training course, eyes narrowing at the way you hesitated for half a second before moving into position.

Normally, he’d bark at you to stop thinking so much, to trust your training.

But today? That wasn’t his job. He wasn’t your T.O. right now. You weren’t his problem.

Still, that didn’t stop his eyes from catching every little thing—the way you adjusted your stance, the slight delay in your reaction time.

Rookie mistakes. Correctable, but mistakes nonetheless.

And Harper, for whatever reason, wasn’t correcting them.

Tim shifted his weight, his arms tightening across his chest. Maybe she was waiting to address it later. Maybe she had a different method in mind. Maybe—

Nope. He couldn’t do it.

“Stop.”

His voice cut through the noise of the training ground before he even realized he’d spoken.

Everyone froze.

Harper turned first, her brow raised. “Bradford?”

Tim was already moving, stepping onto the course without hesitation. He ignored the way the other officers exchanged glances, ignored the fact that this wasn’t his drill to interrupt. His focus was solely on you.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, eyes locked on yours. “You’re leaving yourself open. That’s a great way to get shot, kid.”

You blinked, caught between confusion and familiarity. “I—”

“Fix it.”

A beat of silence. Then, like muscle memory, you adjusted without argument. Quicker stance, sharper movements. The hesitation vanished, replaced by the reflex he’d drilled into you a thousand times over.

Tim gave a curt nod. “Better.”

Harper, to her credit, looked more amused than offended. “You know,” she mused, “last I checked, I was running this drill.”

Tim exhaled sharply, running a hand over his jaw. He wasn’t about to apologize, but he knew he’d overstepped. Still, as he glanced back at you—more alert now, more you—he found he didn’t regret it.

“You weren’t fixing it,” he said simply. “So I did.”

Harper smirked. “And here I thought you were handing them off for the day.”

Tim huffed, stepping back to rejoin the other T.O.s. “Guess that’s easier said than done.”

And just like that, it clicked.

Because maybe, for the next few hours, you weren’t technically his rookie. Maybe, on paper, you weren’t his responsibility right now.

But in every way that mattered?

Yeah. You still were.

taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty

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Hello I have an idea for Tim x rookie reader.

They get a call that seems pretty normal and when they arrive Kid gets shot.

They end up in hospital ICU where Tim is sat next to kid saying how everything is his fault ect.

When Kid wakes up and hears Tim saying how it’s his fault she reminds him that is isn’t.

Thank you ☺️ x

Rookie down.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: No amount of training could’ve prepared you for the moment you got caught up in an active shootout—and for Tim, no amount of stoicism could rid of the guilt.

a/n: I find it adorable how we’re just referring to reader as kid now. 😭💕

The call had come in like any other—routine, nothing out of the ordinary. A disturbance at a small corner store. Dispatch barely sounded concerned.

Tim had driven, you in the passenger seat, legs bouncing absently as you sipped at the coffee you barely had time to grab that morning. The other units were still a few minutes out, but this was just supposed to be a check-in. A quick look, a clear scene, and back to patrol.

You should’ve known better.

The second you both stepped out of the shop, everything exploded. Shots. A full-blown active shootout between two rival groups, and you and Tim had walked straight into the crossfire.

Instinct kicked in. Take cover. Return fire. Call it in.

You barely made it behind the shop before searing pain bloomed in your side, so sudden and white-hot that it stole your breath. You staggered, barely registering that you were going down until your knees hit the pavement hard.

Some part of you dimly registered Tim’s voice—loud, commanding—but the sound of gunfire muffled everything else.

You pressed a hand against the wound, and your fingers came back slick with blood.

Not good.

Your breath shuddered. You had been trained for this, prepared for it, but the sheer force of reality hitting you was different than a controlled scenario.

The pain wasn’t controlled. The fear wasn’t controlled. And despite every instinct screaming at you to hold it together, your vision blurred with unshed tears as your breath came in short, ragged gasps.

“Hey! Kid—stay with me.”

Tim was there, dropping down beside you, one hand pressing firm against the wound to slow the bleeding. His other hand gripped the radio, calling for an immediate medic response, voice sharp, commanding—desperate.

You blinked up at him, your body trembling violently from the shock. You tried to regulate your breathing, to not let him see the fear that had crept into your bones, but it was damn near impossible.

“I—” Your voice caught, breath hitching. Your lips parted, trying again, but all that came out was a shaky exhale.

“Hey. Look at me, kid.”

You did, barely able to keep focus on his face, but you tried. He was pressing harder now, trying to stop the bleeding, and it hurt. God, it hurt.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Tim said, voice steady. “You hear me? You’re gonna be fine.”

You nodded, a quick, jerky movement, but you weren’t sure if you believed it.

“I need you to stay awake, alright?” His grip tightened just slightly, the rare, vulnerable edge in his voice cutting through the panic clawing at your chest. “Just keep breathing, okay? Just like that. Slow it down.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to do as he said, but the pain was starting to get unbearable. Your head swam.

“I—” You sucked in a shaky breath. “Sir, I don’t—I’m scared.” You muttered between breaths.

Tim shook his head, shifting to cradle the back of your head, steadying you as you started to sway. “Nope. No, none of that shit. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna get you to a hospital, and you’re gonna be okay.”

He was holding it together, but just barely. You could see it in his eyes, in the way his jaw clenched, the tension in his grip as if he were forcing your body to stay with him.

He wasn’t letting himself break, not yet, but you could feel the desperation beneath his words. Tim was talking like he needed to hear the words more than you did. He was trying to convince himself, just as much as he was trying to convince you.

You wanted to say something, anything to make it easier, but you didn’t get the chance.

“Kid? Damn it, keep awake!”

Everything blurred into sirens and movement and then—

“Don’t do this shit to me! Please.”

Nothing.

The ICU was quiet. Too quiet.

Tim sat beside your bed, hands clasped together, elbows resting on his knees. He hadn’t moved much since they’d let him in, since they’d assured him you were stable, that you’d made it through surgery.

It didn’t matter.

This was his fault.

He should’ve clocked the situation faster.

Should’ve called in backup first. Should’ve done something different, something better, because now you were here, unconscious and hooked up to machines, your face too pale against the stark white hospital sheets.

It felt wrong to be in a room this quiet with you in it, like he couldn’t adjust to the absence of hearing you chew unnecessarily loud on a bag of chips that you made him pay for—or when you’d ramble on to him about something he could care less about.

He exhaled, running a hand over his face, fingers digging into his temples. “Damn it, kid.”

He wasn’t even sure if he was talking to himself or to you. It didn’t matter. Either way, the weight of it pressed down on him like a vice.

The soft beeping of the monitor filled the absence of the voice he knew.

Then, slowly, the sound of movement. A shift in the bed. A quiet, pained inhale.

Tim’s head snapped up instantly. “Kid?”

Your eyes were barely open, hazy with sleep and medication, but you were awake.

Tim sat forward, relief hitting him all at once. “Hey. You with me?”

You blinked sluggishly, gaze struggling to focus, but eventually landed on him. “…Sir?”

His throat tightened. “Yeah. I’m here.”

You took another slow breath, still visibly groggy, but the confusion was settling. Then, after a pause, your brows furrowed slightly. “…Why do you look like that?”

Tim scoffed, a quiet, breathless sound, but his expression was still tight. “Like what?”

“Like—” You swallowed, shifting slightly, wincing at the movement. “Like you ate the chocolate bar I hid in the shop.” You mumbled, managing to let out a weak and quiet laugh.

But when Tim didn’t laugh, or even roll his eyes at your half-assed joke and just stared with that same guilty look on his face, your gaze softened.

“Like me getting shot was your fault.”

Tim said nothing.

You exhaled, voice softer now, but still firm. “It’s not.”

Tim’s jaw clenched, gaze flickering away. The stubbornness in his eyes lacing itself with his guilt, “I should’ve—I should’ve secured the perimeter before we stepped out,”

“Sir,” you huffed in disagreement.

“No, kid. If I had done that, you wouldn’t have been fucking dying in my arms.” He muttered through clenched teeth.

You pushed on, despite the exhaustion settling deep in your bones. “This was never on you.” You mumbled, “Yea, I got shot. But I would’ve ended up actually dead if I didn’t have a T.O who took down half of them, and then called for backup and R.A.”

His shoulders tensed. Then, after a long moment, he let out a breath.

“…Get some rest, kid.”

You watched him for another second, then, finally, nodded, letting your eyes drift closed.

The tension in Tim’s chest didn’t ease. Not fully. But as he sat back, watching your breathing even out, some small part of him finally let go of the guilt just enough to breathe.

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Coffee Routine.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I honestly didn’t expect so many of you guys to love this series. Definitely gave me more motivation to write! 🥹

Summary: Your everyday routine consisted of many things—one of them being bringing Tim coffee right before roll call without fail. However, one morning, Tim notices something awfully wrong. You didn’t bring him coffee today.

The first time it happened, Tim barely even looked at you.

You strolled into roll call, dropped a coffee onto his desk without ceremony, and took your seat like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just handed him a large black coffee from his usual spot, perfectly made.

Tim blinked at it. Then at you.

You didn’t even glance up, already flipping through your notes.

Alright. Maybe it was a coincidence.

But then it happened again. And again. And again.

Every morning, like clockwork. Before his first cup of the day, before he even had a chance to be irritated at something stupid, you were there, sliding the cup over without so much as a greeting.

Like it was routine. Like you just knew.

And Tim—being Tim—did what he always did when confronted with something odd. He ignored it.

For weeks.

But then, one morning, he got to work a little later than usual, and when he walked into the briefing room—no coffee in hand—he felt it immediately.

Something was missing.

He glanced around. You were at your desk, looking half dead, chin resting on your palm as you aimlessly scrolled through a report.

And on the table that he sits at every morning?

Nothing.

No cup waiting for him. No routine exchange. Just an empty desk and a sluggish-looking rookie who was barely upright in her chair.

Tim frowned. “Where’s my coffee, kid?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, like it took you a second to register the question. “Huh?”

“My coffee,” he repeated, slower this time. “The one you hand me every morning like some kind of overgrown intern.”

“Oh.” You yawned, rubbing a hand over your face, expression hazy. “Didn’t get one.”

Tim squinted, like it was a riddle that he (for once) didn’t have the brains to decipher. “You didn’t get one?”

You shrugged, barely lifting your shoulders. “Forgot.”

Forgot.

That was new.

You had managed to grab coffee every single shift for the past three weeks, unprompted, like some weird unspoken pact. You weren’t exactly a creature of habit—more impulsive, more instinct-driven—but somehow, this had become routine. Reliable. And now, suddenly, you just… forgot?

Tim crossed his arms, taking in the mess of you. Your uniform was a little more wrinkled than usual, your posture slumped. Dark circles weighed under your eyes, and you had that glassy, half-there look of someone running on fumes.

It clicked.

“You overslept.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms. “Why do you say that like it’s a crime?”

Tim huffed, unimpressed. “Because for you, it kind of is. What happened? Alarm not go off?”

“Woke up an hour late,” you mumbled, voice muffled against your sleeve. “Didn’t have time to stop.”

Tim stared at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked right back out of the briefing room.

You barely even noticed. Probably too half-asleep to care.

Five minutes later, when he returned, he dropped a cup onto your desk—your usual order, still warm.

Your head lifted slowly. You stared at it. Then up at him.

Tim just arched a brow. “What?”

You squinted. “Did you… just get me coffee?”

He scoffed. “Yeah. It’s called returning the favour.” He muttered, before clearing his throat to restore his imagine, “—and I can’t have a rookie who’s sloppy just because they didn’t have their morning coffee. Don’t overthink it.”

You blinked again, as if trying to make sure this was real. Then, with an exaggerated sniffle, you clutched the cup to your chest. “I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Drink your damn coffee, kid.”

And just like that, the routine was set back into place.

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Boot to most, Kid to Tim.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — ONGOING SERIES: Like Father, like Rookie.

Summary: Do you ever wonder why Tim calls you ‘kid’ and not ‘boot’ like any other normal T.O would do? Good, because the whole of Mid-Wilshire is too — And in an amusing attempt to find answers, they set out to press Tim about the nickname until he breaks.

Tim Bradford had a system. Rookies were “Boots.” No exceptions.

It kept things simple, professional. He wasn’t there to be their friend—he was there to make sure they survived long enough to do the job right. He’d trained enough rookies to know that getting too familiar was a mistake. Keep your distance, break their bad habits, toughen them up, and send them on their way.

But somewhere along the line, that system cracked.

It started small. Barely noticeable. A slip of the tongue, maybe, or a subconscious shift. But it didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“You ever notice Bradford doesn’t call his rookie ‘Boot’?” Lopez mused one day, arms crossed as she leaned against her shop.

West, mid-bite of his burrito, paused. “Wait, what? No way.” He chewed thoughtfully, brows furrowing. “You sure?”

Lopez smirked, jerking her chin toward the food trucks where you and Tim were returning from, your pace leisurely compared to his purposeful strides. “Listen.”

Sure enough, as the two of you passed, Tim’s voice rang out over the chatter of the lot.

“Hurry it up, kid. We don’t have all damn day!”

You followed closely behind, completely unbothered, still munching on a tray of curly fries like you hadn’t a care in the world.

Not “Boot.”

West blinked, glancing at Lopez. “Huh.” He tilted his head. “You’re right.”

Lopez grinned knowingly, watching Tim yank open the shop door while you casually trailed after him. “Told you.”

It spread from there. At first, just quiet observations—shared glances between officers, murmured comments by the coffee machine. Then, it became something more.

One morning at roll call, Sergeant Grey was assigning tasks to the T.Os and their rookies.

“Bradford and Y/L/N, you’ll be on standby in case we need an additional unit.” Grey ordered, flipping through his notes.

Tim nodded in response with his usual smug smirk, “Maybe this’ll teach you to stop hogging the spotlight, kid.” He teased, followed by laughter around the room by fellow officers.

“Uhhuh, whatever you say.” You mumbled under your breath, turning around to face him, only giving him a thumbs down.

But despite the normality of Tim sneaking a snide comment about his rookie, Grey glanced down at his roster, then up at Tim. His gaze was unreadable.

“Kid,” Grey repeated slowly. “Not ‘Boot’?”

Tim, sitting at his usual spot, barely looked up from the paperwork in front of him. “They act like a kid, they get called one.”

Lopez scoffed from across the room. “Oh, come on. You’ve had rookies who acted like kids before. You still called them ‘Boot.’”

Tim’s pen didn’t stop moving. “Well, maybe they weren’t this much of a pain in my ass.”

A few chuckles rippled through the room. You, standing beside Nolan, just raised a brow but said nothing.

Grey, however, wasn’t so easily distracted. He studied Tim for a long moment before nodding once. “Just make sure you remember your job, Sergeant. Rookies don’t need nicknames. They need to be trained.”

Tim’s pen finally stilled. He met Grey’s gaze evenly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”

Grey watched him for another beat, then turned back to his notes.

As soon as roll call dismissed, Lopez elbowed Tim with a smirk. “Even Grey noticed it. You’re slipping, Bradford.”

Tim scoffed, shoving his papers into a folder. “Go away, Lopez.”

But the teasing didn’t stop there.

Later that week, Nyla Harper and Nolan were by the coffee machine when the topic resurfaced.

“You ever hear Bradford call them ‘Boot’?” Nyla asked casually, stirring her coffee, “Ever since Lopez mentioned it in roll call, I started wondering the same damn thing.” She admitted before bringing the cup to her lips.

Nolan frowned, thinking. “Now that you mention it… no, I haven’t.”

Nyla smirked, tapping her spoon against her mug. “Exactly.”

You walked in at that moment, grabbing a cup for yourself. “Should I be concerned that my nickname is a department-wide discussion?”

Nyla chuckled. “Not concerned. Just aware.” She took a sip. “Bradford doesn’t just hand out familiarity. If he calls you ‘Kid,’ it means something.”

Nolan grinned. “Probably means he actually likes you.”

You snorted in amusement at the idea, “Yeah, right. It’s no different from Harper calling you five percent!” — But the way they exchanged a knowing glance made you wonder.

And just when you thought the whole mind blowing concept of stoic Bradford having a nickname for you started to calm down—your coworkers were there to make sure it hadn’t.

Because one afternoon, while you and Tim were sorting through evidence reports at the precinct, Lopez, West, and Nolan were not-so-subtly watching from across the bullpen. Nyla, the current Mid-Wilshire reigning instigator, walked up and leaned against Tim’s desk.

“So,” she began, sipping her coffee, “is ‘Boot’ just too formal for you now, Bradford? Or is this one special?”

Tim didn’t even glance up. “You all seriously have nothing better to do?”

Lopez grinned. “Nope.”

You glanced between them, confused. “Why are we still talking about this?”

West gestured toward you with his fork. “Because it’s weird. You’re his rookie, but he doesn’t call you ‘Boot.’”

“Would you rather I did?” Tim finally looked up, pinning you with a dry stare.

You opened your mouth, then hesitated. “…I don’t know.”

Lopez pounced on that. “See? Even they don’t know what to make of it!”

Tim rolled his eyes, shutting the folder in front of him. “Alright. Since it’s apparently everyone’s business now—” He turned to you, arms crossed. “You tell me, kid. Why do you think I call you that?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “…Because you hate me?”

Nolan coughed to cover his laugh.

Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “No, dumbass.”

Lopez snickered. “Wow. Such a loving mentor.”

Tim ignored her. “I call you ‘Kid’ because that’s what you are. You’re a stubborn, reckless, pain-in-the-ass rookie who acts like they’ve been on the job for years when they’ve barely made it through probation.” He leaned forward slightly. “But you’re my rookie. And if I’m stuck with you, then you’re gonna learn how to do this job right.”

The bullpen fell into silence.

You stared at him, not sure what to say.

West was the first to break it. “…So, it’s, like, a term of endearment?”

Tim shot him a glare. “Don’t push it.”

Lopez and Nyla exchanged grins. Nolan just looked highly entertained.

You, on the other hand, found yourself suppressing a small smile. “Got it,” you muttered, nodding. “Kid it is.”

Tim gave a curt nod back, already returning to his paperwork like the conversation never happened.

But the next time he muttered “Let’s go, kid.” under his breath as you headed out for patrol, it felt just a little different.

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Stay here.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader [PLATONIC] — ONGOING SERIES: Like Father, Like Rookie.

Summary: After responding to a particularly gut-wrenching call, you find yourself struggling to shake it off. Tim doesn’t do hand holding or pep talks, but the way he subtly keeps you grounded reminds you that maybe he does care—just in his own way.

Warnings: Reader & Tim take a domestic call gone wrong, mentions of blood, derealisation.

You weren’t sure why this one stuck with you.

You’d seen worse. At least, that’s what you told yourself. You’d handled chaotic crime scenes, violent arrests, situations where adrenaline took over and left no room for emotions to settle in. But tonight—tonight was different.

It was a domestic call gone bad. The kind that started with a 911 hang-up and ended with shattered glass, blood on the floor, and a kid too young to understand what had happened but old enough to know it wasn’t right. You did everything by the book. Secured the scene. Called for medics. Reassured the child the best you could, even when their small hands clung to your uniform like a lifeline. You did your job. And then you left.

That should’ve been the end of it.

But one thing couldn’t get out of your head — Your uniform was awfully stained.

The blood wasn’t yours, but it didn’t matter. It had splattered across your sleeves when you helped the woman up from the floor, smudged onto your hands when you picked up the crying kid. You hadn’t noticed it at first—too busy, too locked into protocol. But now, sitting in the shop under the dim glow of the streetlights, it was all you could see.

You rubbed your palms together, as if you could scrub the feeling away, but the red didn’t disappear. It had already dried, darkened into something rust coloured and permanent. Your breathing slowed, the noise of the city fading into a dull hum as a strange weight settled in your chest.

You didn’t even realize you were staring at your hands until Tim spoke.

“Hey.”

The sharpness in his voice cut through the haze. You blinked, finally looking up, and he was already watching you—brows drawn, head tilted just slightly. You hadn’t even noticed that the shop had pulled over to the side of the road.

“You’re here,” Tim said evenly, like he was reminding you of something obvious. “Stay here.”

You exhaled, shaking your head as if that could clear the static in your brain. With stiff movements, you reached for a napkin in the center console, scrubbing at your hands even though it wouldn’t do much good. Tim let you, didn’t say a word until your hands stopped shaking.

Then, after a long beat, he reached behind his seat and tossed you a fresh department hoodie.

“Put that on,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the road.

You hesitated, then pulled it over your uniform without question. The fabric was warm, heavy, grounding.

You weren’t sure if it actually helped, but somehow, you didn’t feel so lost anymore.

You pulled the hoodie over your uniform, the scent of worn fabric and faint cologne settling around you. It was grounding in a way you didn’t expect. But then, Tim reached over and—

His thumb swiped against your cheek.

You stiffened slightly, not because of the touch, but because of what he was wiping away.

Blood.

You hadn’t even realized it was on your face too.

Tim’s movements were calm, methodical. He pulled another napkin from the glove compartment, wetting it with his water bottle before dabbing at the smudges across your jawline. His touch was firm but not rough, like he knew you needed something tangible to focus on.

“You’re doing fine, kid,” he said, voice low, steady. “Stay with me.”

You nodded slowly, still silent, but compliant. Your breathing was shallow, but you matched the rhythm of his movements—each slow pass of the napkin against your skin, each flick of his eyes scanning for anything he missed.

When he was done, he studied you for a moment. His usual sharp, assessing gaze softened just slightly, like he was trying to gauge if you were still floating somewhere outside yourself.

“Talk to me,” he finally said.

Your lips parted, but no words came out at first. You swallowed, forcing out something—anything.

“I didn’t even feel it,” you admitted. “Didn’t notice the blood was there.”

Tim nodded, like that answer made sense. “That’s because you were running on instinct.” He tossed the used napkin into a small trash bag near the console. “It’s not a bad thing. It means you did your job.”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight in your chest shift—still heavy, but not suffocating.

Tim didn’t push for more. Instead, he rested his arm against the center console, glancing at you like he was about to say something but changed his mind. Then, after a beat—

“Let’s get some coffee.”

The abruptness of it almost made you laugh. Almost. But the offer was exactly what you needed—something normal, something routine, something that wasn’t blood and sirens and silence pressing in too hard.

You nodded, finally meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Tim hummed in approval and put the shop in drive.

The coffee shop stayed quiet between you and Tim for a while, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. Just… steady. Like the weight of the last call wasn’t pressing as hard anymore. Like you could actually breathe again.

Your coffee was still too hot to drink properly, but you held onto it anyway, fingers gripping the cup like it was some kind of lifeline. Tim didn’t comment on it. He just sat across from you, sipping his own, gaze flicking out the window every now and then, like he was still half on duty even while sitting down.

You let the silence sit a little longer before finally speaking. “So… you’ve done this before.”

Tim glanced back at you. “What?”

“This whole ‘walking someone out of a breakdown’ thing,” you said, raising a brow. “You’re kinda suspiciously good at it.”

Tim scoffed. “It’s not a breakdown.”

You gave him a look. “It was getting there.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I’ve done it before.”

You nodded, waiting.

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t say anything else. But then, his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his coffee cup, and he spoke again.

“I had a T.O who did the same thing for me,” he said, voice lower now. “When I was a rookie, fresh out of the military. Thought I could handle anything.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

You blinked. Tim didn’t talk about himself much, and when he did, it was usually wrapped in sarcasm or some kind of tough-love lesson. But this—this was different.

“What happened?” you asked carefully.

Tim exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “Bad call. Domestic. Ended ugly.” His fingers flexed once against the cup before stilling. “My T.O. knew I was barely keeping it together after. Took me out for coffee, let me sit with it. Didn’t push, didn’t lecture—just reminded me that it wasn’t my job to carry it forever.”

You swallowed, watching him.

Tim glanced at you then, eyes sharp and knowing. “That’s what I’m doing for you.”

You shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling like he could see straight through you. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though even you weren’t convinced.

Tim’s brow lifted. “Sure. That’s why you haven’t taken a sip of that coffee yet.”

You scowled at him but finally lifted the cup and took a hesitant sip, more out of stubbornness than anything else. It was still too hot, and you made a face, setting it back down.

Tim smirked. “There. Progress.”

You rolled your eyes but felt the tightness in your chest ease just a little.

After a moment, Tim leaned back, stretching his shoulders. “You don’t get used to it, you know,” he said, voice softer. “The blood. The way people look at you when they realize you can’t fix everything. You just learn how to live with it.”

You nodded slowly. “And coffee helps?”

Tim shrugged, smirking slightly. “Doesn’t hurt.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, finally taking another sip of your drink. This time, you didn’t grimace.

The weight of the last call still lingered, but it wasn’t crushing you anymore. You weren’t fully back yet, but you were getting there.

And Tim—without making a big deal out of it—was making sure you didn’t have to get there alone.

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Upcoming The Rookie series.

A/N: I’m not a committed writer, nor do I promise consistent posts. I don’t expect anyone to read my fics either, I’m kinda just writing what I want because I’m quite literally addicted to The Rookie right now and need an outlet with all these scenarios in my head. But, in saying so, I don’t mind requests, so if you have one, don’t be afraid to submit some.

Last Updated: 4/25/25

❀ = Fluff ✸ = Angst ☆ = Suggestive ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶ ￶✮ = NSFW 〤 = Platonic ! = Ongoing

Like Father, Like Rookie !

Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader [PLATONIC] 〤

Summary: Being the youngest rookie in Mid-Wilshire so far—let alone being Tim’s rookie, everyone either looked out for you, or was determined to prevent whatever disasters were bound to come with your youth. But to Tim, you were his mini him. And he honestly couldn’t tell if it was a curse or a blessing.

Episodes: Not in the Rook Book. ❀ Stay here. ❀ / ✸ Boot to most, Kid to Tim. ❀ Coffee Routine. ❀ Rookie Down. ❀ / ✸ Not my Rookie, Not my Problem. ❀ Not my kid! ❀ The Rookie Prank War! ❀ Let’s go home, kid. ❀ / ✸ Bradford’s Intervention. ❀ / ✸ What You Don’t See Yet. ❀ / ✸ Career Day Chaos. ❀

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Not in the Rook Book.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader [PLATONIC] — ONGOING SERIES: Like Father, Like Rookie.

Summary: When you spot a crying toddler wandering the streets alone on patrol with Tim, the both of you quickly realise that babysitting a child was not in the manual.

The streets of L.A were unusually quiet this time around whilst you and Tim strolled around on patrol. The two of you had already dealt a few minor arrests, nothing too life altering as the summer’s heat blended into the abnormality of the shift’s peaceful atmosphere.

“Look, if push comes to shove, then we’ll go for the kill,” Tim insisted with furrowed brows, keeping his eyes peeled as he parked up the shop onto the side of the road, “I’ll be damned if we take the fall. For what? For Lopez and West to gain all the glory? Hell no.” He muttered, frustration lacing his tone.

You hit the bottom of your fist onto the palm of your hand in spirit filled determination, “Roger that, sir!” You exclaimed with a killer expression to go with it, “The next monopoly game, they’re going down.”

At this point of you and Tim’s rookie to T.O relationship, it wasn’t surprising to have a rookie like you who was just as determined to rid of Lopez and West’s winning streak in game night, which began to creep it’s way into the conversations that you’d have in the shop. In which, you and Tim would strategise ways to take them down, whether it be within the rules or not.

“Uh—I can’t tell if this heat is getting to me, or if that baby is actually on the road,” you muttered, unbuckling your seatbelt and hopping out of the shop.

Tim’s attention quickly shifted away from the upcoming game night and towards the busy street ahead of him filled with cars that came to a halt, causing traffic to slowly build up. In front of them, a crying toddler had wandered into the middle of traffic, too overwhelmed to even move.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, quickly hopping out and following after you.

The two of you made haste in between two lanes of cars, some beeping with drivers peeking their head out of the window to see what the hold up was.

“Hey, little guy,” you cooed, scooping the toddler up into your arms, “You’re safe now.” You said as you waved a thank you to the cars who had stopped in the midst of traffic before you and Tim returned to the sidewalk.

The kid thrashed in your arms, still screaming with tears as you slightly stumbled in response, regaining footing almost immediately as you looked at Tim with a desperate ‘help me’ look.

Tim sighed, grabbing his radio off of his holster, “7-Adam-19, show us Code 6 on a found child, Wilson Street. Toddler, male, approximately 3 years old, no guardian in sight. Requesting additional unit and supervisor. Start a 415P broadcast for a possible missing child report.” he spoke into his radio before putting it away again.

“Alright,” Tim mumbled as he evaluated the situation, his gaze rested on the crying child in your arms, “What do you do when there’s a random kid on the streets?” He asked, knowing that whatever answer didn’t replicate his, was wrong.

You hummed in response, placing the child down to his feet while you crouched in front of him, “Check for injuries, their current condition, and anything that could help ID the kid.” you answered, your gaze skimming the boy’s body for wounds or anything alarming. Only to be met with nothing useful.

“Attempt communication,” you continued, your hands gently grabbing hold of the boy’s hands, “Hey, buddy, where’s daddy or mommy?” you asked with a soft tone and smile.

The boy, who had only now just stopped crying, looked at you with tears in his eyes. He was silent, so was you and Tim as you waited for an answer.

Slap!

“What the fuck—“ You groaned, holding your palm to your cheek as you watched the little boy turn on his heel and run the other way.

Tim snorted, making no effort to hide his laughter, “He’s on the run, kid!” he laughed, amusement plastered clear as day on his face.

You rolled your eyes, making chase after him, “Think I can arrest him for assault?” you joked, knowing damn well you meant it.

However, the little boy’s legs could only take him so far, so it didn’t take long for you and Tim to catch up and grab him.

“You’re a little runner, aren’t you?” You mumbled with a frown as you held the boy in your arms, who had only responded by blowing a raspberry.

“Sir, what’s the minimum age limit for juvenile detention?” You mumbled, only for Tim to chuckle. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid. It’s a long time from three years old.” He said, “Now that we got the kid back, what’s the next thing to do?”

You shifted the boy higher up in your arms, ignoring the fact that he was now fascinated with tugging on your badge. “Well, since he’s non-verbal or just doesn’t trust cops—” you shot the kid a look as he stuck his tongue out at you, “—we check if anyone nearby recognizes him, then start canvassing the area for a parent or guardian.”

Tim nodded, pulling out his phone to start a quick log of the call. “Good. But we’re also keeping an eye out for any signs of neglect or foul play. If this kid wasn’t just wandering, but was left out here, we’re dealing with something else.”

You scanned the sidewalk, spotting a few bystanders watching the commotion. A woman in gym clothes, an older man with a dog, and a guy sipping a coffee outside a corner store. “I’ll start asking around.”

Before Tim could even respond, the toddler, apparently done with being in your arms, reached for him instead. Without thinking, Tim took him, freezing for half a second as the kid clung to his vest like he was a jungle gym. You bit back a laugh as Tim adjusted his hold, his expression unreadable.

You grinned as you watched Tim shift uncomfortably, holding the toddler like he was a ticking time bomb. One hand awkwardly under the kid’s legs, the other hovering near his back like he was debating whether full support was necessary.

“Damn, sir,” you teased, crossing your arms. “You’re holding him like he’s got an explosive vest on. You’ve never looked after a kid before?”

Tim gave you a dry look, adjusting his grip as the toddler started tugging on his radio strap. “Oh, I have,” he shot back, glancing at you. “Just ones that are your size, attitude, and energy level.”

You gasped, clutching your chest dramatically. “So you admit I’m a handful.”

“I’ve admitted that since day one, kid.”

The toddler giggled, smacking a tiny hand against Tim’s cheek, and you nearly doubled over laughing. “Guess he agrees.”

Ignoring you, Tim turned back to his radio. “7-Adam-19, negative on immediate guardian identification. Starting canvass now.” He sighed, looking down at the kid, who was now playing with one of the straps on his vest. Tim just sighed, shifting the boy to his other arm. “Let’s just find his damn parents before you start recruiting him for game night.”

You smirked as you led the way, making a mental note to never let Tim live this down.

With no immediate leads on his parents, you and Tim had no choice but to hunker down and wait for backup. The problem? The kid, who had blabbered his name along the way, now identified as Benny, had the energy of a caffeinated raccoon.

“Okay, buddy,” you said, setting him down on the sidewalk. “You like games? Let’s play a game called sit still.”

Benny immediately took off running.

Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, saw that one coming.”

You scrambled after the toddler, catching him just before he faceplanted into a newspaper stand. Lifting him back up, you groaned. “This is not in the Rook Book.”

Tim huffed. “Nope. But I did warn you about dealing with kids.”

You shot him a look. “What part of this is training me to be a cop? Huh? What do I put in my notes? T.O. Bradford made me babysit a rogue toddler who slapped me and then tried to flee the scene?”

Tim smirked. “Sounds like a solid report.”

Before you could respond, Benny grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked.

“Ow! Dude!”

Tim didn’t even try to hide his amusement. “Yeah, welcome to law enforcement, kid. Unpredictable perps, constant chaos, and at least one person crying. Usually you.”

You scowled, bouncing Benny slightly to distract him from turning you into his personal stress toy. “Great. Love that for me.”

Benny, of course, took that as his cue to stick his fingers in his mouth, then wipe them on your uniform.

Tim chuckled, shaking his head. “Should’ve worn the rain-resistant vest.”

“I hate you,” you grumbled, wiping off the toddler slobber.

Just then, Benny started reaching toward Tim. The man who had mocked your struggles for the past ten minutes suddenly went stiff. “Oh no. No, no, no—”

But it was too late. Benny was full-on grabbing for him.

Biting back a laugh, you handed him over. “Your turn, sir.”

Tim held the kid awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure which part to support. Benny, meanwhile, was having a great time, kicking his little legs and babbling nonsense.

You smirked. “You’re holding him like he’s gonna explode.”

Tim shot you a glare. “I told you—I’ve babysat your level of chaos before, not actual toddlers.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but then—miraculously—Benny started to settle. He clung onto Tim’s vest, his tiny fingers gripping the straps. His big, tear-filled eyes blinked up at Tim before he rested his head against his chest.

You gawked. “No way.”

Tim looked equally horrified. “What just happened?”

“You soothed him,” you said, completely in shock. “Bradford, I think you’re his comfort person now.”

Tim stared down at the now very content Benny. “That’s unfortunate.”

Before you could tease him further, you spotted a man outside the corner store, frozen in shock.

“Oh my God—Benny?!”

The toddler perked up. “Dada!”

Tim exhaled, “Well. That was easy.” He pulled out his radio, “7-Adam-19, we have a possible guardian on scene, verifying ID now.”

You smirked. “Almost too easy. Suspiciously easy.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, or maybe not everything in life has to be a full-blown homicide case, kid.”

After verifying the man’s ID and handing Benny back, you couldn’t resist one last dig as you clapped Tim on the shoulder.

“Well, look at that. We saved the day and you got some practice for fatherhood.”

Tim gave you a blank stare. “I will leave you on the side of the road.” He muttered, giving Benny one last glance before calling it in, “7-Adam-19, show us Code 4 on the found child. Guardian verified, child reunited. Cancel additional unit and 415P broadcast.”

Cackling, you walked back toward the shop. “Come on, Dadford, let’s get back to work.”

As the two of you headed back to the shop, you couldn’t help but glance over at Tim, who was still adjusting his vest like he was trying to shake off the feeling of tiny toddler hands gripping it.

“You know,” you mused, smirking, “for someone who claims he doesn’t do kids, you sure handled that like a natural.”

Tim scoffed. “Yeah? Well, let’s add ‘temporary babysitting’ to the list of things they should put in the manual but don’t.”

You snorted. “Right under ‘how to survive game night’ and ‘rookie hazing 101’?”

“Exactly.”

The radio crackled to life, dispatch calling in another unit for backup, and just like that, it was back to business as usual. But as you settled into your seat, you made a mental note to bring this up at game night—because if nothing else, you had just witnessed the impossible.

Tim Bradford, LAPD’s toughest T.O., had been chosen by a toddler.

And that was going in the unofficial rookie handbook.