What He's Supposed to Be
Pairing: platonic!TO!Tim Bradford x fem!rookie!reader
Summary: Tim knows that your past took something from you. When you come to work bruised and bandaged after dinner with your dad, he becomes something more than a TO.
Warnings/Word Count: familial/platonic pairing, depiction of parent-to-child abuse, injuries, fluff, hurt/comfort. 1.1k+ words, requested by anon
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“So, what’s the verdict?” Angela asks, leaning over her desk.
“Guilty,” Tim answers without looking up. “Always guilty.”
Angela sighs, then snaps directly in front of Tim’s nose.
“She’s fine,” he murmurs then. “She’s a rookie. Like every rookie before her.”
“Timothy!” Angela exclaims, straightening. “You like her!”
“What part of anything I just said led you to that assumption?”
“It’s called deductive reasoning. Were they teaching that in the academy way back when you joined?”
“Did you seriously just make an age joke? Should we look at your ID?”
“Excuse me?” you interrupt, standing a few feet away with your backpack pulled over your shoulders. You rock back on your heels until Officer Bradford turns toward you. “I just wanted to say thank you for being patient with me today, and I’m looking forward to improving.”
“That’s really nice,” Angela muses.
“What did I tell you, boot?” Tim sighs.
“Oh, right.” You straighten your shoulders and correct, “Night, sir.”
“Don’t do that,” Angela tells you. “He’s trying to intimidate you.”
“No, I’m trying to protect you,” Tim admits, setting his paper aside and looking at you with his hands on his hips. “You can’t be this nice to everyone. Life isn’t all bubbles and butterflies and not everyone wants you to say please and thank you.”
“I understand,” you reply, nodding once. “Thanks, Officer Bradford.”
You wave to a fellow rookie on your way out, hold the door for Smitty, and yield to a parking car that doesn’t have the right of way. Tim pinches his eyes closed, exhaling a long breath.
“I’ll ask one more time,” Angela says. “What’s the verdict?”
“She has too much compassion, empathy,” Tim answers.
“Not always a bad thing.”
“It is when it’s the result of something someone took from you,” Tim snaps. “She… She needs more than a T.O.”
“Ah, I see.” Angela taps the desk, mumbling, “Congrats on the puppy.”
“Not a puppy!” Tim calls over his shoulder. “And don’t let her be so nice to Smitty!”
Three weeks into being a rookie, you get invited to dinner at your dad’s house. You consider simply saying no or lying and saying that you have to work a late shift. But you get nauseous at the thought, so you promise to be there.
“What’s wrong?” Tim asks from the driver’s seat.
“Huh? Oh, no- nothing, sir,” you reply carefully. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. If you want to talk, there are plenty of people you can talk to. Say the word.”
“It’s nothing,” you assure him. “Was just thinking.”
Three hours later, sitting at your dad’s table, you realize that your own father has never asked What’s wrong? But Tim Bradford — your T.O., your superior officer — did.
“Look at me!” your dad demands, bringing his fist down on the table. “You are hopeless!”
“I’m not,” you argue without thinking. It’s been years since you last spoke back to him. The kindness, the sunny disposition that you cling so tightly to is a defense mechanism, an attempt to stay on everyone’s good side so you never end up here ever again.
“Give up before you embarrass yourself,” he scoffs. “Or worse, us.”
You look down at your hands, whisper, “Like you’ve ever noticed what I do,” and don’t see him move before his ring scrapes across your cheek.
The moment you step out of the locker room the morning after dinner with your dad, Tim steps in front of you.
“Grey’s office,” he says flatly. “Now.”
You nod, swallowing as you lead him through the glass door. Tim closes it behind himself, then perches on the desk and crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on the bandage covering your cheekbone.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he invites.
“I’m sorry?” you ask, lifting your eyes and immediately regretting it.
“Whenever you’re ready, tell me what happened.”
“It’s not relevant to the job,” you admit.
“Everything is relevant to the job. You fall down the stairs after work; you can’t chase someone the next day. So, talk.”
Looking at your shoes again, you link your fingers together. “I, uh, I went to my dad’s last night. He invited me over for dinner, which was weird. I couldn’t find the courage to say no, so I went.”
Tim drags his hand over his jaw. “You’re too nice, kid.”
“Kid?” you repeat with a smile. “What happened to boot?”
“We’re talking about you. What happened at dinner?”
You hesitate. If you don’t tell your T.O., he might decide you’re untrustworthy. At the same time, there’s a chance that Tim might be asking as more than a police officer.
“He reminded me of how much of a disappointment I am,” you say softly. “Tried to convince me to drop out of the program… Didn’t like that I talked back.”
“You?” Tim asks, shifting forward as he drops his arms.
“Me what?”
“You talked back? What could you have possibly said that made him- wait, did he hit you?”
Your lack of answer is enough for Tim. He pushes off the desk, careful as he peels the bandage away from your cheek to survey the damage done by your father.
“Don’t go over there again,” Tim says, straightening the bandage.
“I- What am I supposed to do, say no to my dad?”
“Yes. Because he’s a terrible person.”
“How would you know? This could’ve been a fluke.”
“I know,” Tim insists. “I can see the damage he did before last night.”
“How-”
“I have some of the same scars. Look, dads are supposed to be a lot — confidants, teachers, protectors. But some of them- some of them suck. Yours does. Mine did, too. At some point, you have to admit to yourself that he won’ t be any of those things for you, no matter how nice you try to be.”
“Then where do I go for all that?” you question. Brushing your fingers over your bandage, you remember, “Sorry, this isn’t appropriate for the station.”
Tim pushes your hand away from the bandage, sighing as he re-adheres the corner you pulled at. “You can come to me,” he offers. “Yes, I’m your T.O., but I care about you beyond the uniform, okay?”
Pressing your lips together to hide your smile, you nod. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get back out there,” Tim decides, stepping back.
“Yes, sir.” You’re a step behind him when you ask, “Could I call you Pops?”
“Not if you want to keep your job.”
“Understood.”
Tim stops by the door, meeting your eyes to promise, “I’m here, okay?”
You nod, and his jaw tightens before he demands, “And get that cheek checked.” He hesitates, then asks, “Your dad have the same last name as you?”
“Yeah. Why do you ask?”
He nudges you toward the garage and murmurs, “No reason.”















