#roach is a hawk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

realityjoey · 22 days ago

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SEASON 1, EPISODE 6, “HAWKE.”

The roll call room buzzed with early morning chatter — the kind that came from sleep-deprived officers nursing coffee like a lifeline and catching up on the previous night’s chaos. The whiteboard was already cluttered with scribbled notes, half-erased names, and bullet points left behind by the midnight shift.

Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins sat at their usual spot in the second row — though today, they were noticeably closer together. Shoulders nearly brushing. Legs just shy of touching under the table. Neither of them said a word about it. And, interestingly enough, neither of them seemed to notice.

Tim leaned back in his chair, reading something on the file in his lap. Dylan was next to him, sipping her coffee and scrolling idly through her phone, though her gaze kept flicking to the whiteboard at the front of the room.

The low hum of voices faded when Sergeant Grey walked in, holding a thick stack of manila folders in one hand and a coffee in the other. He looked tired. Irritated. Exactly how Grey always looked at 7:00 a.m.

“Alright,” he barked, dropping the folders onto the front table with a dramatic thud. “Since the midnight shift was apparently too busy playing poker or solving the mysteries of the vending machine, we’ve got some leftover work to clear up today.” A few groans filled the room. Grey ignored them.

He started calling out assignments, tossing folders to pairs of officers without so much as a glance up. Stolen vehicle recovery. Loud disturbance follow-up. Illegal fireworks seizure. Then he picked up a thick file and held it for a beat longer.

“Bradford. Jenkins.”

Both looked up. Grey walked over and dropped the folder squarely on their desk, right between them.

“Congratulations. You’ve been gifted a beautiful little search warrant from the burglary unit. House was hit late last night. They think the suspect’s cousin stashed stolen goods two blocks over. We’re the lucky ones who get to play doorbell tag and hope no one takes a swing at you.”

Tim sighed heavily, flipping the file open. “Seriously? A burglary follow-up?”

Grey raised an eyebrow. “I’ll cry for you later.”

Tim glanced up, unimpressed. “I thought you gave the boring stuff to Nolan.”

“Trust me,” Grey said flatly. “I was tempted.” That earned a few quiet snickers from nearby officers. “Look at it this way,” Grey added, already turning back to the front. “You get to knock politely, dig through someone’s underwear drawer, and write it all up with Jenkins’ immaculate penmanship.”

Dylan smirked. “He just wants my paperwork to set the bar higher.”

“Damn right I do,” Grey muttered, sipping his coffee.

As the sergeant moved on, assigning the rest of the leftover calls, Dylan and Tim both leaned in toward the folder in front of them — their heads almost touching without realising it.

Dylan flipped through the warrant paperwork, skimming it fast. “Single-level property. Previous drug charges on the cousin. Property damage from forced entry. Fun.”

Tim made a face. “We’re gonna have to crawl through a garage, I can feel it.”

“That or a basement full of roaches,” she said, flipping another page.

Still, neither of them leaned back. Still seated close, as if the space between them had always been this small. As if they hadn’t spent last night replaying a shoulder touch, a quiet conversation, or a look held a few seconds too long.

“Ready to go knock on some doors?” Tim asked.

Dylan gave a shrug, casual. “Only if you promise not to flirt with dispatch for brownie points this time.”

He glanced sideways, smirking. “No promises.”

She rolled her eyes — but the edge of her mouth tugged upward.

And just like that, they stood and left roll call together — their shoulder bags slung over opposite sides, the case file tucked under Tim’s arm, their footsteps in sync as they made their way to the cruiser. Still pretending nothing had changed. Even though it had.

The cruiser pulled up to a single-level house in a rundown corner of Glassell Park. Paint peeled from the siding, and empty beer cans littered the dead grass out front. It looked like the kind of place that had seen more arrests than renovations, and Tim Bradford already had the guy’s file in hand.

“Name’s Carter Miles,” he muttered, skimming it one more time as Dylan Jenkins stepped out beside him. “History of assaulting officers, multiple drug-related priors, and apparently this place has been searched a dozen times already without finding squat.”

Dylan pulled her hair back into a tighter ponytail. “So he’s not stupid.”

“Nope,” Tim said, snapping the folder closed. “Which means we’ve gotta think like a thief and a liar.”

They approached the front door. No barking dogs. No movement inside. Tim knocked. Three heavy raps. Silence.

He waited exactly five seconds. Then muttered, “Alright. We’re doing this the fun way.” He kicked the door in.

The deadbolt snapped with a metallic crack, the door swinging inward to reveal a dimly lit living room, the air thick with stale beer and weed. A man in his thirties stood halfway between the kitchen and a beaten-up couch, eyes wide and arms halfway raised.

“Yo, what the fu—”

“Down. Now.” Tim’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Carter didn’t resist — maybe he remembered the last time he tried to swing on a cop and ended up with three fractured ribs. Tim grabbed him, spun him, and cuffed him to a chair, fast and tight.

“You know the drill, Carter,” Tim said flatly. “You’ve had more warrants than birthdays. Sit tight and keep your mouth shut.”

Carter snorted. “You pigs just mad you never find anything.”

“We’ll see about that,” Dylan muttered, already moving past the kitchen into the living room. Her eyes swept the space — a wreck of old furniture, laundry, takeout boxes, and years of dust. She dropped to her knees and started pulling up the edge of the couch, flashlight in hand. “He’s right. It’s clean on the surface. He’s not dumb — probably got a crawl space or a false panel somewhere.”

“I’ll check the vents,” Tim said, already moving toward the hallway.

But he wasn’t more than two steps away when it happened. Dylan was crouched, leaned forward with one arm under the couch, when Carter, watching her with a lazy, smug grin, opened his filthy mouth.

“Yo, lady cop… You can search my place all day if you’re gonna bend over like that.”

Everything stopped. Dylan’s body froze — not out of fear, but from pure, measured restraint. She started to rise, jaw tight, ready to respond— But she didn’t get the chance. Tim turned like a switch had flipped.

He stalked back across the room in three strides, smacked him across the back of the head, grabbed the back of Carter’s chair, and yanked it violently away from the table, forcing the man upright.

“Hey—!” Carter barked, but Tim already had him by the collar, spinning him around and slamming his chest against the peeling wall.

“Face the wall,” Tim growled, voice low and deadly.

Carter grunted, now pinned, arm twisted awkwardly behind him in the cuff. “What the hell—?!”

“You wanna mouth off? That’s one thing,” Tim said, his mouth near the guy’s ear now, ice-cold. “But you talk to her like that again, and I’ll make sure your next warrant comes with a concussion.”

The room went silent. Even Dylan stared, momentarily stunned — not because she couldn’t handle herself, but because Tim’s reaction was… different. Protective. Fierce. Personal.

Tim stepped back, eyes narrowed. “You want respect? Try giving it.”

Carter stayed quiet now — no cocky remarks, no slurs. Just a bitter, breathless silence as he slumped against the wall.

Dylan finally spoke. “Tim.”

His eyes flicked to hers — just for a second. She gave a small shake of her head. Not disapproving, just… surprised. But underneath it, a flicker of something else passed between them. Unspoken. Real.

Tim didn’t say anything as he walked past her and disappeared down the hallway to resume the search. And Dylan? She stood there, still catching her breath, still processing the heat behind his reaction — a heat that had nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with her.

What the hell was happening? And why did part of her not want it to stop?

The air inside Carter Miles’ house was stale, thick with old smoke, mildew, and the faint scent of body spray desperately trying to mask something much worse.

After restraining Carter and securing the premises, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins regrouped in the living room, both now donning gloves and flicking through the search warrant again.

“He’s done a good job hiding this stuff,” Dylan muttered, shining her flashlight up into the corners of the cracked ceiling.

Tim nodded. “Which means we go back to basics.”

He pulled a pen from his vest pocket and wrote four bold letters on a napkin from the filthy coffee table: D. E. A. R.

“Deception, Elusive, Access, and Repulsive,” he recited. “You know the drill. Look where most people wouldn’t. Where they hide what they don’t want found.”

Dylan leaned against the wall, arms folded. “You’re assigning letters now?”

“Of course,” Tim said, smug. “It’s only fair.”

He pointed to the first letter. “D — Deception. Hidden panels, fake bottoms, containers disguised as something else. I’ll take that.”

Dylan arched a brow. “You’re assigning yourself the clever one?”

Tim grinned. “E — Elusive. I’ll also take that. Nooks, behind outlets, under floorboards.”

“I see what’s happening here—”

“A — Access. You’re good at that,” he cut in. “So you’re climbing into the crawl space.”

Dylan narrowed her eyes. “That leaves me with—”

Tim’s grin widened. “R. Repulsive,” he said. “Congratulations. That means garbage bags, toilets, and—oh—there’s a lovely box of sex toys in the bedroom. Top shelf.”

Dylan blinked. “You’re joking.”

Tim was already walking toward the hallway. “Nope.”

“I am not sorting through sticky handcuffs and god-knows-what,” she called after him.

“You don’t want to win today’s warrant game?” he called back, smug. “Could be something nestled between a pair of furry handcuffs.”

“I’m going to throw up.”

Tim popped his head back into the room. “Listen, Jenkins, if you’re too squeamish—”

“Oh, don’t even start,” Dylan cut him off, marching after him. “I’m not squeamish. I just have standards. Which includes not elbow-deep diving into a man’s porn collection for sport.”

Tim leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, all too pleased with himself.

“Fine,” Dylan snapped, pointing a finger at his chest. “Here’s how this works: I get three minutes. If I find the stolen jewellery before then, we skip the ‘Repulsive’ round altogether. If not, we both go in. Together. You touch the love lube just as much as I do.”

Tim made a face. “You’re terrifying.”

“I’ve had years of practice.”

He stepped aside, gesturing with a bow. “Your time starts now.”

Dylan moved fast. Focused. She started with Access, climbing onto counters to check behind the top cabinets in the kitchen. Found nothing. Moved to Elusive — behind vents, inside power outlets, under the bathroom sink panel. Still nothing. Two minutes in. She pivoted.

Back to the living room. Eyes scanned the furniture. Then something caught her attention — a slight gap between the drywall and the back panel of an entertainment unit. Looked like bad craftsmanship. Seemed like nothing. But it was exactly the kind of D = Deception tactic they were trained to notice.

She crouched low, pulled her flashlight up close… and gently pushed on the panel. Click. It gave way. Inside, tucked into a cutout hollow, was a velvet-lined pouch, bulging with rings, gold chains, and a Rolex. Dylan grinned.

“Bradford!” she called. He walked in, clearly ready to gloat — until she dangled the pouch in front of him like a trophy. “I believe this counts as a win for Team Jenkins.”

Tim blinked. Then let out a low whistle. “How long did I give you?”

“Three minutes,” she said, smug. “I did it in two.”

He took the pouch, opened it, and glanced inside. “You missed your calling as a burglar.”

“I’m an excellent detective with an excellent sense of smell,” she said. “And I’d rather not waste it sniffing my way through a drawer of vibrating socks.”

He shook his head, chuckling. As they walked back toward Carter — still handcuffed to the chair and looking not nearly as smug as before — Dylan bumped her shoulder lightly into Tim’s.

“Next time you try to assign me the gross job,” she said under her breath, “remember this moment.”

Tim looked over at her. And for a second, that same half-smile from the burger van flickered back.

“Noted,” he said.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath all the banter and bravado, something warm settled in his chest. And Dylan? Still couldn’t figure out if the flutter in her stomach was pride— Or something she didn’t want to name yet.

The sky was overcast, a thick sheet of grey hanging low over Los Angeles as Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford pulled up to the curb. The caravan in question sat crooked along the side of a residential street — nondescript, a little worn, the kind of vehicle you’d pass without a second thought. Except this one had just pinged from Jeremy Hawke’s phone — a once-respected officer, now on the run after an alcohol-fueled, violent incident the night before.

Tim killed the engine, the silence settling between them like a weight.

“Open door,” Dylan noted, tilting her head. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That he wants us to find this,” Tim muttered, eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”

They stepped out, both reaching for their sidearms instinctively. The caravan was parked tight against the curb, one tire dipped slightly into the gutter, the small window cracked open just enough to see movement inside. Tim moved forward first, gun low but ready.

“LAPD! Jeremy Hawke, if you’re in there, step out now!”

For a moment, nothing. Then the door creaked open and a head popped out — a man in his late twenties, shaggy hair, hands raised nervously.

“Whoa! Whoa. Don’t shoot, man. Hawke’s not here.”

Dylan kept her weapon raised, eyes locked on the man’s every move. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Jesse. I met him at a hotel, just outside the Valley.”

Dylan walked slowly around the side of the caravan, her boots crunching gravel beneath her. She scanned the undercarriage, the hitch, the wheel wells — all the typical places someone might stash something.

That’s when Tim appeared beside her, his brows furrowed in that way she’d learned meant something was clicking in his brain. Without a word, he stepped forward and popped the bonnet of the caravan’s attached vehicle. Inside, nestled carefully between the battery and the radiator fan, taped down in a black Ziploc bag, was a cell phone. Hawke’s phone.

Dylan let out a quiet breath. “He planted it.”

Tim nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Which means he’s running. And now he’s thinking like someone who knows our playbook.”

“Which makes him dangerous,” Dylan added. “He’s already one step ahead.”

Tim stared down at the phone, the low whir of nearby traffic muffled by the heaviness that had just settled over the scene. Dylan glanced up at him, reading the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand gripped the edge of the bonnet.

“You knew him well?” Dylan asked.

“He was an instructor when I was in the academy.” Tim said quietly. “He was brave. Impulsive. Kind of cocky, but in a harmless way. This? This isn’t the guy I knew.”

Dylan was quiet for a moment. Then: “It never is.”

Tim didn’t respond — just closed the bonnet with a low clunk and turned back toward the cruiser. “No more doubt,” he said grimly. “He’s officially running. Let’s call it in.”

As they headed back to the car, Dylan walked a little closer than usual. Not saying anything — but present. With him. Like always. Because cops on the run? They were unpredictable.

The radio crackled with urgency as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins tore through mid-city traffic, sirens screaming and tires shrieking around every tight corner.

“—last seen heading westbound on Sunset. Suspect vehicle: black Chevy Silverado. Repeat, suspect is Jeremy Hawke. Suspect has evaded capture. Officers in pursuit—”

Tim was on the mic before dispatch finished. “This is 7-Adam-19. We’re in route. ETA two minutes.”

Dylan gritted her teeth behind the wheel, fingers tight on the steering wheel as they swerved between cars, moving faster than the law usually liked.

“Pushing it,” Tim muttered under his breath — not disapproving, just bracing.

“Then hold on,” Dylan snapped, flooring it.

Up ahead, Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser came into view, taillights glowing red through the thinning veil of smoke now billowing across the road. Their vehicle swerved violently, tires screeching as a thick grey cloud engulfed the entire intersection. Hawke had dropped a smoke bomb. Tactical-grade. Military issue.

Dylan swore. “He came prepared.”

Bishop and Nolan’s cruiser slowed behind the cloud, wipers flipping, lights still flashing — but it was clear they were momentarily blinded. Dylan veered hard left, bypassing the smoke entirely through a side street, engine roaring as she picked up speed.

Tim called it in. “7-Adam-19 — suspect has deployed obstruction. Bypass route initiated. We’re still tracking.”

Dylan’s foot stayed heavy on the gas, eyes sharp.

Then— “There!”

Hawke’s black Silverado. Barreling down an open street, weaving recklessly between lanes, smashing a mailbox as it took a corner too fast.

Dylan gritted her teeth, accelerating. “We’ve got visual.”

Tim’s voice cut through the tension. “He’s going to kill someone at this rate.”

Before she could respond, Captain Andersen’s voice broke through over comms.

“7-Adam-19, you are cleared to use vehicle intervention. Repeat, you are cleared to hit the target vehicle. Stop him now, before he kills someone.”

Dylan’s jaw tightened. “Copy that.” She closed the distance — fast.

The cruiser’s engine howled as she pulled up just behind Hawke’s rear bumper, eyes locked on the truck’s left tire. She angled slightly, ready to bump the rear quarter panel just enough to spin him. One second. Two— And then her eyes flicked to the side mirror of Hawke’s truck. Her breath caught.

“Wait—wait!”

She swerved hard, veering left and missing the Silverado by inches. The cruiser jolted, slammed against the curb, tires skidding against concrete.

Tim braced with one arm, gripping the handle above the window with the other. “Jenkins?!”

Dylan’s chest was rising fast. Her fingers trembled slightly on the wheel. “I saw a kid,” she said, breathless. “In the passenger seat. There’s a kid in the truck.”

Tim’s eyes widened. He was already grabbing the radio. “Dispatch, this is 7-Adam-19 — call off tactical intervention. Suspect is not alone. We have a possible child passenger. Repeat, possible child passenger. Likely to be Hawke’s son.”

Silence on the other end.

Then: “Confirmed, 7-Adam-19. Jeremy Hawke’s son was reported missing by his mother this morning. All units, adjust protocol.”

Tim turned to Dylan, still stunned. “You good?”

She nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. I just—couldn’t risk it. Not with a kid.”

Tim looked at her for a long moment — longer than usual. And something in his expression shifted again. Not just admiration. Trust.

“You made the right call.”

Dylan stared ahead, heart still pounding, eyes following the fading shape of the Silverado vanishing into the horizon.

“He’s not just running,” she said quietly. “He’s desperate. And now he’s got a hostage who calls him Dad.”

Tim was already back on the mic. “Suspect is armed, unstable, and now mobile with a minor. We need containment now.”

And as the pursuit ramped up into a manhunt, Dylan hit the gas again — slower this time, steady, calculating. Because this wasn’t just about stopping Hawke anymore. It was about saving the child caught in the middle of the storm.

The sound of sirens was distant now — muffled behind the constant hum of engine noise and the chatter over the comms. Dylan Jenkins’ hands were steady on the wheel, her eyes locked on the black Silverado still speeding two blocks ahead, weaving through traffic with desperate, erratic swerves.

Behind them, a convoy of patrol units followed in coordinated formation — unmarked SUVs, black-and-whites, and even a traffic unit or two, all perfectly spaced, playing the long game.

It was a rare tactical move — make the suspect feel free by falling back into “tracking mode,” lights off, sirens off… letting him think he’s lost them.

What Hawke didn’t know — or so they thought — was that every traffic light had been turned green, and all side streets had been quietly barricaded. They were funneling him. Straight into the trap. Or at least, that was the plan.

Tim sat beside Dylan, eyes flicking between the Silverado, the GPS screen, and the map of coordinated unit positions.

“Fifteen more blocks and he’s boxed in,” he said, voice low but confident. “We’ve got him.”

Dylan glanced at him. “Unless he somehow grows wings or crashes into a farmer’s market, yeah.”

Tim leaned back slightly, a rare flicker of calm showing through his usually wired posture. “You know, if we’d used D.E.A.R to assess his next moves, we might’ve stopped him an hour ago. D.E.A.R works for any situation.”

Dylan rolled her eyes. “We are not doing this again.”

He grinned. “Come on. Deception? He left his phone in a decoy vehicle. Elusive? Disappeared before we even got to Megan’s. Access? Hitting places even seasoned cops wouldn’t think to look. And repulsive? The guy took his kid on the run — you think this isn’t repulsive?”

Dylan groaned. “You can’t just twist a tactical acronym to fit your narrative. That’s not how it works.”

“D.E.A.R works for everything,” Tim said, smug. “It’s a mindset.”

“You’re officially weird,” she muttered, turning the wheel slightly to hug the curve.

“And yet, here we are,” he replied, gesturing to the convoy behind them, “about to trap a rogue cop because someone thinks like a criminal.”

“You are not putting ‘Tim Bradford’ and ‘criminal mastermind’ in the same sentence—”

Suddenly, the radio burst to life. “All units, be advised — suspect is approaching final quadrant. Prepare to close in.”

Tim leaned forward, radio in hand. “7-Adam-19 is primary. Ready to block.”

The GPS showed it all — ahead of them, the funnel was narrowing. Barricades were in place. Backup was waiting.

“This is it,” Tim said, eyes locked on the road. “Three blocks. He’s boxed—”

The Silverado swerved. Hard. Left. Dylan swore and slammed the wheel, tires screeching as she followed.

“He turned! He turned left! He’s not following the funnel!” she shouted, taking the corner dangerously fast.

Tim scrambled for the radio. “Dispatch — he’s deviated. Suspect has turned onto Glendale Ave. He’s off the grid. I repeat, off the planned route.”

Static. Then a strained voice came through: “He must still have his radio. He’s been listening to us.”

Dylan’s heart dropped. “He’s a cop. Of course he kept his fucking radio.”

Tim’s expression hardened. “And now he knows we were closing in.”

The cruiser surged forward, lights back on, sirens slicing through the air again. Behind them, the convoy roared back into pursuit, scattered slightly by the sudden change in direction.

“He’s panicking now,” Tim muttered, buckling in tighter. “He’s not thinking straight.”

Dylan clenched her jaw. “That makes him more dangerous. Especially with a kid in the truck.”

They could see him again now — two blocks ahead, barely visible through the blur of tail lights. The Silverado jolted over a speed bump, bouncing like a bull let loose in a city.

Tim leaned toward the dash, voice grim. “Now we stop chasing Hawke the officer—”

Dylan finished it quietly. “And start chasing Hawke the criminal.”

The convoy continued through the city, sirens wailing now, engines roaring in an all-out pursuit. Jeremy Hawke’s Silverado was weaving erratically through traffic, clipping mirrors, jumping red lights, barely holding the line. Behind him, a swarm of black-and-whites followed, every unit in range mobilised, boxing him in tighter and tighter — but not quite enough.

In the second cruiser back, John Nolan gripped the radio in both hands, jaw clenched. His voice cracked slightly as he pressed the mic. “Jeremy… it’s me. It’s John.”

Static filled the channel for a moment. Then— nothing.

Nolan tried again. “You don’t have to keep doing this. Look, I get it. I know you. I know you didn’t plan for this to go this far. I know you’re scared. But you’ve got your son in the car, man. You can’t—”

Click. A sudden, sharp break in the static. And then: “Don’t talk to me like you know me.” The voice that came through was strained. Angry. Not the Jeremy Hawke anyone knew. “You think you know what this feels like?” he snarled. “You think you understand what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away? Your family. Your badge. Your name.”

“Jeremy,” Nolan tried, softer now. “We can fix this. You can still walk away—”

“No, we can’t!” Hawke’s voice exploded over the frequency. “It’s already done. You’re either with me or you’re not. Don’t call me again.”

The channel went silent. Not a click. Not a word. Just silence.

Back in the lead pursuit cruiser, Tim Bradford exhaled slowly, face grim. “He’s gone dark.”

Dylan’s fingers flexed around the wheel. “And if he’s gone quiet, it means he’s stopped caring who hears what. That’s not good.”

Tim leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he tracked the Silverado’s route on the GPS.

“He’s not heading for an exit. He’s circling. Looping. Like he’s looking for something.”

Dylan was already ahead of him. “Or someone.”

“What would you do?” Tim asked suddenly. “If it were you — desperate, cornered, son in the car, and no way out?”

Dylan frowned. “I’d look for cover. Somewhere dense. Somewhere I could disappear long enough to either blend in or take a hostage.”

Tim tapped the map. “Somewhere crowded. Big. Confusing.”

Dylan’s eyes snapped up. “Covered parking.”

They both said it at once— kind of.

“The mall.” “The shopping centre.”

Tim grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, 7-Adam-19 — suspect may be heading for the Glendale Galleria or surrounding commercial parking structures. He’s circling. It’s not random.”

Dylan was already flooring it again, taking a hard right and veering onto a faster access road. “If he parks that truck and disappears into a crowd—”

“—with a gun and a kid,” Tim finished grimly. “It’s a nightmare scenario.”

More voices buzzed over the comms. Confirmations. Redirects. Units repositioning. But inside the shop, Dylan and Tim were locked in their own storm — two minds in sync, thinking like the man they used to work beside. A man they now had to stop at all costs.

Dylan’s voice was tight. “We need to cut him off before he makes it into that parking structure.”

Tim nodded. “Then let’s move like we mean it.”

The chase had ended. But the hunt had begun.

The mall was alive with noise — the soft hum of overhead music, the murmur of shoppers, the occasional burst of laughter or the screech of a toddler — all layered over the quiet, pulsing intensity of the LAPD as they moved, spread out, eyes sharp, steps quiet.

No sirens. No shouting. They couldn’t spook the public. Not with children everywhere. Families. A hundred places for Jeremy Hawke to hide. Or worse — take someone else with him.

Dylan Jenkins spotted them first. A flash of movement through the glass — Hawke, holding his son’s hand, head low, moving fast past the cosmetics counter at the edge of the department store.

“Bradford!” she hissed, breaking into a sprint.

Tim was already moving beside her, weaving through shoppers, badge in one hand, free hand waving people aside.

“LAPD — out of the way!”

Hawke turned. Their eyes met. And for a split second, Dylan saw it — not rage. Not panic. But guilt.

He yanked open the security door into the store’s stockroom, dragging his son with him. Tim and Dylan pushed through just as the metal security barrier began to descend behind them.

“Slide under!” Tim shouted, diving under the barrier and holding it just high enough for Dylan to slip beneath. Seconds later, the metal slammed shut behind them, cutting them off from the rest of the store — and the public.

Inside was a maze of racks and boxed-up shipments. Bright fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead.

Then came the voice. “Don’t follow me!”

It was Hawke. Near the back.

“Jeremy, stop!” Tim shouted, rounding the first corner.

Suddenly — Nolan burst through from a side access hallway, out of breath but determined.

“Jeremy—please,” he called, voice lower, more measured. “Let’s just talk. You don’t have to do this.”

They saw Hawke now — crouched beside a display rack, breathing hard, his son standing behind him, confused, clutching his small backpack.

“I can’t go back,” Hawke muttered. “I’m not going to rot in some cell while she moves on and pretends none of it happened. I’m not losing everything.”

“You haven’t lost your son,” Nolan said. “He’s here. He’s scared. And you’re still the person who raised him — you can still end this without destroying everything else.”

Hawke shook his head. “He’s better off without me.”

Then, in one swift motion, he snapped a handcuff around the boy’s wrist, latching the other end to the steel leg of a clothing rack.

“Jeremy!” Tim and Dylan shouted in unison.

“I can’t take him with me. He’ll slow me down.”

“Don’t do this,” Nolan said, stepping forward.

But Hawke was already moving. He bolted toward the rear exit — a shipping bay door left slightly ajar — and disappeared through it. The child was now crying, pulling at the cuffs.

Dylan ran over immediately, crouching, gently placing a hand on the boy’s back. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

Tim was already calling it in. “Suspect has exited through the loading area. Child secure. All units converge on northeast quadrant.”

Moments later, the rest of the team arrived — Grey, Bishop, Chen, and two officers from mall security. Everyone looked tense. Wired. Grey’s brow was furrowed deep, sweat beading at his temple.

“He’s still inside,” Grey muttered. “Security footage confirms — no exits triggered beyond the west loading dock. We’ve got most exits covered.”

“Then where the hell is he?” Bishop asked.

“He knows this place is a labyrinth,” Lucy added, glancing at the map of the mall floor plan on her phone. “Employee corridors, utility stairwells, back offices…”

Tim turned to Dylan, who was now standing, jaw set. “What would you do?” he asked.

Dylan’s mind was already racing. “He won’t try for the loading docks. Too open. Elevators and exits are probably covered. If he’s smart—”

“He is,” Tim cut in.

“—then he’ll go low. Basements. Mechanical areas. Maybe maintenance tunnels if this place has them. He won’t go high — he’ll want a place to hide, not jump.”

Grey nodded. “Alright. Jenkins, Bradford — check sub-levels. Bishop, Nolan, Chen, take cameras with security. I want every hallway monitored. He’s somewhere in this building, and he’s running out of time.”

They nodded, already moving.

As Dylan and Tim jogged side by side down a concrete corridor toward the lower levels, her voice was quiet but firm.

“He’s unraveling.”

Tim glanced at her. “And desperate.”

“That makes him the most dangerous man in this building.”

The fluorescent lights had died three turns ago. Now, the only thing guiding them was the hum of the emergency bulbs lining the concrete wall — pale red and flickering, casting long shadows through the sub-level maintenance corridor of the Glendale Galleria.

Dylan Jenkins moved silently along the left flank of the hallway, her Glock steady in her grip. Each footstep was careful, calculated, her body pressed close to the cinder block wall. The air smelled of damp steel, dust, and something chemical.

On the opposite side — equally quiet — Tim Bradford moved in tandem. They were tracking Jeremy Hawke. And they were close. There’d been movement. Breathing. A metallic scrape that echoed too long.

Then— “Don’t come any closer.”

The voice floated from the shadows. Cold. Measured. But fractured.

“Hawke,” Tim called out, voice calm, weapon raised. “You’re boxed in. Just drop the gun, and we’ll talk this out.”

A bitter laugh echoed back. “You think you’ve got this under control?” Hawke said, stepping out from behind an electrical unit. He was dishevelled, pale, sweat beading at his temples — but his hands were steady. Gun drawn. Pointed squarely at Dylan.

Tim froze. Dylan didn’t move. Her grip tightened slightly — nothing else. Her stance was strong. Her aim was perfect. But her eyes locked on the barrel aimed directly at her. Tim’s heart dropped.

“Hawke—” he started, voice lower now, laced with something close to desperation.

“You made a rookie mistake,” Hawke said, almost smug, almost gleeful. “You’re both too close. Your lines of fire cross. If you shoot me, you risk hitting her. If she shoots—well. She might take out her partner.” His eyes shifted, twitching with something broken behind them. “You two really think you’re the heroes here? You think you’re different than me?”

“No one said we were heroes,” Dylan said, voice level despite the cold sweat trickling down her spine. “But we’re not pointing guns at our own people.”

He took one step closer.

Tim’s voice sharpened. “Don’t. Jeremy, listen to me—if you hurt her, if you even twitch wrong, I swear to God—”

“She’s just leverage,” Hawke muttered. “You won’t shoot if it puts your partner at risk, Bradford. I know you. I know the type.”

Tim’s voice cracked, barely audible: “You’re not gonna shoot her.”

“Is that a threat or a prayer?” Hawke whispered.

Dylan’s finger hovered over the trigger, her breathing steady, every muscle poised but still. She could feel Tim’s presence behind him, the weight of the moment, of this moment, settling like concrete in her chest.

“He’s bluffing,” Tim said, eyes locked on Hawke’s back. “He won’t shoot you.”

He was speaking to Dylan. And to himself. Because the truth was, if Hawke pulled that trigger, and Dylan— He wouldn’t survive it. He wouldn’t come back from that. Not again. Not after he’s already seen her shot for saving his life.

“Jeremy,” Dylan said softly, “you’re not thinking clearly. You’re scared. You’re angry. But this—this isn’t you. And the man I read about? The cop you used to be? He wouldn’t pull that trigger.”

Jeremy Hawke’s gun was still raised, though his finger hovered loosely near the trigger now. His eyes — bloodshot and wired — flicked from Dylan to Tim.

“What’s the endgame here, Jeremy?” Tim asked, voice low, steady despite the storm building behind his eyes.

“You think I’m going to be the guy who surrenders? Gets dragged out in cuffs while news cameras wait to plaster me all over every channel?” Hawke spat. “Nah. I go out my way.” He dropped the gun to the floor with a deliberate clunk. “But we do it like men,” he added. “No bullets. Just blood.” He looked at Tim with a sick, eager grin. “Been waiting years to test you, Bradford. And you…” — he turned to Dylan — “can’t wait to see what you’re made of.”

Dylan exhaled, already sensing where this was going. “Of course,” she muttered, lowering her weapon with a roll of her eyes. “Because why wouldn’t I want to get into a bare-knuckle brawl with a riled-up ex-cop in a maintenance corridor on a Tuesday?”

Tim gave her a sideways glance. “You can handle it.”

Dylan snorted. “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I want to.” But she holstered her gun and raised her fists all the same.

Hawke’s knuckles cracked as he squared up. “Let’s dance.”

Tim charged first, always the battering ram when instinct kicked in — but Hawke was faster than expected. He ducked low and slammed his elbow into Tim’s temple, sending him spinning to the ground, stunned.

“Tim!” Dylan barked, eyes flashing.

Hawke turned to her, grinning. “You’re up.”

She didn’t hesitate. She lunged. The first punch landed square in her gut, knocking the air out of her lungs, but she didn’t go down. Instead, she twisted with the blow, using the momentum to grab Hawke’s shoulder, kneeing him hard in the ribs. But he was big. Strong. Experienced. He grabbed both her wrists, and slammed her against the wall, the back of her skull bouncing painfully off the concrete.

“Still think you can take me, Jenkins?” he hissed, inches from her face.

Then— Slide. A small object skidded across the floor, barely audible. Pepper spray.

Tim — still groggy, still down — had pushed it her way, his hand bleeding from where it scraped the concrete.

Dylan didn’t hesitate. With her wrists pinned, she maneuvered just enough to hook the spray can with her boot, popping it upward into reach. Hawke realized too late — she snatched it, and sprayed directly into his face, holding it until he screamed. Hawke reeled back, eyes clamped shut, shouting and swearing, clawing at his face.

And that’s when Tim struck. From the floor, he whipped out his taser, arcing it forward and driving the probes into Hawke’s leg. TZZZT. Hawke seized up mid-stagger, body locking before he collapsed to the ground like a toppled statue.

Moments later— Footsteps. Running.

Bishop and Chen burst into the corridor, guns drawn and eyes scanning—only to see Hawke unconscious, and Tim and Dylan slumped against opposite walls, both breathing heavily, both bruised and scraped.

“Clear!” Bishop called out, holstering her weapon and moving in to cuff Hawke.

Chen’s eyes widened. “Holy sh—are you two okay?”

“Define okay,” Dylan groaned, wincing as she stood upright, hand to her ribs.

Tim sat back, breathing hard. “He got a cheap shot. I was distracted.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “You were overconfident. And slow. Guy elbowed you into next week.”

Tim gave her a tired glare. “I got you the spray, didn’t I?”

“Right after eating the floor like a rookie,” she said, grinning despite her split lip. “What would you do without me?”

Tim couldn’t help it. He smiled — a real one, bruised and tired and sincere. “Shut up, Jenkins.”

They looked at each other then, breath catching slightly. Because beneath the ache in their limbs and the adrenaline crashing down, there was something else. Something quiet. Something neither one of them could keep brushing off much longer. But now wasn’t the time. Now, Hawke was in cuffs. His kid was safe. The building was clear. But the air between Dylan and Tim? Still crackling. Still unresolved. And with every near-death moment, every brush with danger, whatever this was kept getting harder to ignore.

The station was quieter than usual, that rare after-hours lull hanging in the air. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a soft, sterile glow over the worn linoleum floors and cluttered desks of the bullpen. Most of the chaos from earlier had died down, and the adrenaline that had carried them through the last few hours was finally starting to drain from their limbs.

Dylan Jenkins and Tim Bradford emerged from the locker room, now in their civilian clothes — Tim in a plain black Henley and jeans, Dylan in her usual black hoodie and joggers, her hair tied loosely back. They looked like two people who’d been through a warzone… and maybe had.

The hallway stretched out in front of them, but Dylan could feel it — that weight hanging off Tim’s shoulders, subtle but there. The way he walked just a little slower than usual, quieter. A shadow of guilt clinging to him like dried blood.

And she knew why. Because he hadn’t been there. Not the way he wanted to be. He hadn’t stopped Hawke before Dylan got slammed against that wall. Before she had to fight her way out of it.

So, naturally, she decided to do what she did best. Ruthless sarcasm.

“So,” she began casually, slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder, “just to recap, I took a punch to the stomach, got pinned to a wall by a six-foot, rage-filled ex-cop, sprayed him in the face with his dignity, and had enough energy left to quip about it—”

Tim sighed, eyes fixed forward. “Jenkins—”

“—while you, my ever-capable partner, threw yourself headfirst into an elbow and spent the next five minutes face down on the floor like a Victorian lady fainting over corset tightness.”

That did it. A breath. A huff. The barest edge of a smile.

“Don’t make me regret pushing you the pepper spray,” he muttered, but his tone was lighter now.

“Oh, you regret it?” Dylan turned to him with mock outrage. “I had this whole image in my head of the great Tim Bradford — training officer, tactical god, the man, the myth, the very large shoulder pads — and then boom. Down like a sack of potatoes.”

Tim shook his head, that smile tugging a little further into view. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And still standing,” she shot back proudly. “Unlike you.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t deny it. In fact, he looked over at her then — really looked — and there was something in his eyes that lingered. Not admiration. Not just respect. Something quieter. Heavier. Real.

She felt it too. Which is probably why she looked away first, bumping his elbow lightly with her own.

“Don’t go brooding on me,” she added. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” he said, voice softer. “You’re not.”

They turned the corner together, still shoulder-to-shoulder, still close enough that their elbows brushed occasionally. And across the bullpen, Angela Lopez and Lucy Chen sat at their desks, both mid-report — or, they had been. Now, they were just watching.

Lucy nudged Angela subtly with her pen. “You seeing what I’m seeing?”

Angela’s eyes followed Dylan’s hand as it briefly touched Tim’s shoulder during another laugh, her body leaning slightly into his space. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away. If anything… he leaned back.

Angela sipped her coffee, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I see it.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Do we say something?”

“God, no,” Angela whispered, eyes gleaming. “We let it simmer.”

They watched as Dylan and Tim continued walking, voices quiet, laughter low and intimate — not romantic yet, not overt. But definitely… something. Something brewing.

It was nearing the end of the shift the next day. The bullpen hummed with the usual end-of-watch energy — officers typing up their final reports, the faint buzz of vending machines in the corner, someone laughing in the breakroom two doors down. Outside, the LA sun had started to dip low, casting warm gold light across the tiled floor.

Angela Lopez, Lucy Chen, and Jackson West sat clustered around a shared table near the windows, each of them with cold coffees, tired limbs, and more curiosity than paperwork at this point.

Jackson leaned back in his chair, stretching with a groan. “I still can’t believe what went down with Hawke yesterday. That could’ve been really bad.”

Angela nodded. “It was really bad. But the fact no one got shot? That’s a miracle.”

Lucy swirled her iced coffee with a straw, eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah, well… I can’t stop thinking about Bradford and Jenkins.”

Angela smirked. “Here we go.”

Jackson glanced between them. “What about them?”

Lucy leaned in, like she was about to share classified intel. “They walked out together yesterday after being cleared. Civilian clothes. All normal on the surface… until she started doing her British charm— all sarcasm, subtle intimacy.”

Angela laughed. “British charm?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy nodded. “You saw it. You saw Tim’s reaction. Lucy said. “He smiled. Like an actual, real smile. You know how rare those are.”

Angela gave a knowing look. “Weird thing is, I saw them at the hospital. Both of them looked like they’d been a bit busted up from the scrap with Jeremy — bruises, blood, dirt… and neither one of them cared. They were just asking if the other was okay,” adding onto the speculation and gossip Jackson was now intrigued with.

Jackson leaned forward. “You think something’s going on?”

Angela lifted her hands in mock innocence. “I’m just saying… Jenkins is tough. Closed-off. Doesn’t let many people in. But with Tim? She lets him in. That’s not nothing.”

Lucy grinned. “They bicker constantly, they work like they’re reading each other’s minds, and now they’re touching each other every five seconds like it’s not a big deal.”

Jackson gave a slow, impressed nod. “I mean… they do have chemistry. But Tim? With someone like Jenkins?”

Angela raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean,” Jackson said quickly, “she’s… intense. And smart. And… British.”

Lucy smirked. “And intimidating. You forgot intimidating.”

Angela leaned back. “So is Tim. They’re basically the same person. Stubborn, protective, emotionally constipated—”

“—but quietly loyal and kind of terrifying in a crisis,” Lucy added.

Jackson shook his head, laughing. “Okay, okay. So what are we thinking? A thing?”

Angela sipped her coffee. “Not yet. But it’s heading there.”

Lucy twirled her straw. “Give it a month.”

Jackson grinned. “You think it’ll be Jenkins who cracks first or Bradford?”

Angela and Lucy both answered at once:

“Bradford.”

They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Angela reached into her back pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, sliding it onto the table. “I’m putting this down on ‘within the month.’”

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

#oc #the rookie #tim bradford #jackson west #john nolan #lucy chen #tim bradford x reader #fanfic #oc x tim bradford #officer bradford #angela lopez #talia bishop #sergeant bradford #rookie x oc #wade grey #sergeant grey #the rookie fanfic

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masonmace · 2 months ago

Text

Hey, so! I haven't snapped any hearts like twigs lately.

Cw: angst.

RINSE. REPEAT.

Imagine Modern Warfare IV. Johnny's dead. Things aren't the same with the task force: they never will be. Simon's been quiet; distant. Gaz is quiet, but tries to fill the silence with jokes. A replacement for the jokester they'd lost. It's just met with grunts that are meant to be laughs.. but aren't true laughs.

It's just not the same.

John's been distant to you, too. Sure, you both had talked things out. You convinced him that he wasn't going to kill you. That it was in his head and that it was nobody's fault.

As if some shit like that would work.

Nobody expects a civilian to understand, though. John gets it.. that you didn't experience it. It's hard to sit day by day with his men when he killed their friend. He may as well've put the gun at Soap's temple. He was daft to make the scotsman wait. So . utterly . daft.

Missions are all the same. Well, they're never consistent, but they're the same. Quiet in the hawk, quiet on the field, quiet on the way home. Get into compounds, get intel, find targets, do whatever bullshit they need to do, etcetera. Get back to base, get hammered. Sometimes Gaz or Ghost will go spend the night with someone. It's all coping mechanisms.

The silence is so, so very loud.

Makarov is one of the biggest reasons why so many of John's men died. He won't stop until the bastard is dead. No matter what. Maybe that's where he went wrong. The bloodlust he carries for Makarov sits on the bloodied throne right next to the guilt. Wedded. Hand in hand ruling the war-filled place in his head.

He just isn't the same.

None of them are.

John's known Simon the longest. Gaz for a good while, too. Roach, too. They're his boys, and he wishes he could put a face on for them. John just cannot force himself to act okay this time.

None of them can.

The mission had happened so, so very fast. Too fast. Way . too . fast. What happens now? Where does he go? It was Gaz. Bullet between the eyes. Snap. Crack. Thud. Sigh. Then the blood was rushing in his ears again and he didn't have the time to even call his name. The mission roared on.

He should have called them off quicker. Told them to take a different route. Maybe if he had told Gaz to go with him instead.

Maybe.

What if.

If he hadn't-

There was a mandatory leave after Gaz' death. John didn't come home to you. There was no way in hell he could have. No, he didn't go home. Instead, he ran straight to the pub. Left when they closed and stayed at a hostel instead.

Rinse

Repeat.

Four days later... middle of the night. That's when he came home. It was three in the morning. The front door open and the stink of booze and a man in desperate need of a shower ran into the room. Your head immediately bounces up off of the couch's armrest.

He's a zombie as he shuffles into the house, toeing his boots off and mumbling a greeting. Even though you're half asleep, you rush up to him. Questioning where he's been, he only groans another response.

"Out." He mumbles. "I was fucking . out." John spits, glaring at you with a few harsh breaths. "Go t'sleep." He shuts down any and all conversation as he trudges down the hall and into the bathroom.

"Jonathon." You call, all groggy and discombobulated. You step into the bathroom, uncaring of the fact that he's stripping. The sight is enough to make anyone's throat dry. "John. Talk to me." You plea.

"I'll talk t'you in the mornin'." He grunts, eyebrows set into a deep furrow and jaw set into a clench.

"Right now." You insist. Eyes batting at him. "Let me shower with you. At least."

You showered earlier, but that doesn't matter to you. It takes quite a bit more convincing before John gives in - a drunken frown on his face as you don't turn the shower on, but draw a bath.

You will die.

The bath is quiet - John prefers it that way. He's already cried enough tears. He's all dried up now. He holds you in his arms most of the time, and manages to allow you to wash him the others.

Rinse.

He doesn't. John doesn't answer questions. Just closes his eyes and allows you to do what it is makes you happy.

Repeat.

The mandatory leave was only a couple weeks. Ghost, Roach, and Jonathon back onto base alongside two new transfers to replace Soap and Gaz. John's less than approving of them, but he does his best to put up and go through with an open mind.

They must kill Makarov. It's the only way to win. Things won't be right until that mother fucker is dead and burned. John has sworn that he will light his goddamn cigar with the same flames that burn that bastard alive. Swears it.

That's how it was supposed to go.

The ride to the compound was grim. But John was determined. He made sure to make very clear communication between everyone. Before they'd left, he'd hugged Ghost. It sure had been out of character, but he felt the need. He did the same to Roach.

Why must everything go to shit?

Ghost had gotten out of the building in time. But Roach's comms were finicky. He didn't hear his Captain shouting. The comms broke out, and Ghost went head first back into the crumbling building. The groan of concrete was loud. The world rushed around him and he was frozen there in time. 23:34.

Rinse.

The sound of the building crashing around him wasn't as loud as his own heartbeat. He was too late. 00:12. Price's hands clawed at the rubble, digging and forcing chunks up. Slipping himself in at the only entrance he found like some brave cave explorer. He slotted himself in and got through the rubble.

Repeat.

Price called out their names. Simon. Gary. Over and over. When he found Roach, he was already dead. John sat and tried to resuscitate. It didn't go over as planned.

He should have gotten Gary a new comm.

He didn't leave Roach there. He brought the limp body back to the surface and dove right back it. Simon was alive when he found him. His lieutenant. His breathing shook, and he fought and fought. "I've got you, son." His voice broke under the weight. Coughing from the dust. "I'm comin' to ya." He groans.

Simon's breathing was separated and wheezed; pained. Once the rubble was cleared, he had to tread carefully. A piece of rebar was staked through Ghost's lower abdomen. The blood made John's stomach twist. Not because he couldn't handle blood, but because it was Simon's. The pants coming from Simon made him want to puke.

It should've been him.

The groan of the concrete around them scared John, but he wouldn't leave Ghost here.

"Y'gotta work with me, Si." John breathes, hulking the broader man further and trying to pick him up. To save him. His last soldier. "Please. Please, son." John has to suck his lips together not to cry.

Rinse.

John pulled Simon as close as he could, clutching at him. Hauling him closer. Simon tried to fight it when Price moved to lift him, forced them both back down with a thud. "Leave me." Ghost pleas, groaning with the pain. Too many broken bones. His eyes too unfocused and the world spinning. "Let me go to Johnny, Price."

Price tried to argue, tried to drag Simon back up again. The bloke's too goddamn big. "I need a hand!" John hollers. He fights with his voice not to crack. His hands clutch for his mic. "Laswell! I need evac now." John spits, the mics cracking. His voice broken and wheezed. His face screwing up and the sob he sobbed unmatched by another. He saw the exact second Simon's eyes rolled, head lolling to the side right after. He's dead.

Repeat.

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