The babysitter

Aftermath

Lucy's key turned in the lock at nearly midnight, the sound echoing through their quiet house. She'd been running on pure adrenaline for the past fourteen hours, dealing with what had turned out to be a multi-jurisdictional drug bust that had gone sideways in spectacular fashion. Every muscle in her body ached, and she was pretty sure she had someone else's blood on her sleeve—thankfully not her own.

The house was dimly lit, just the soft glow from the kitchen nightlight and the lamp Tim always left on for her when she worked late. She could hear the faint sound of the TV from their bedroom, which meant he was probably waiting up for her despite having to be at roll call in six hours.

Lucy kicked off her heels right there in the entryway, not caring where they landed. Her feet were screaming from being in tactical boots for most of the day, then switching back to heels for the debrief with the FBI. She slumped against the door for a moment, just breathing.

"Luce?" Tim's voice came from the living room, and she heard his footsteps approaching.

"I'm okay," she called out weakly, though she wasn't sure she was entirely convincing. "Just... really, really tired."

Tim appeared around the corner, hair mussed from lying on the couch, wearing his old LAPD academy t-shirt and pajama pants. His face immediately shifted into that concerned-husband expression she knew so well.

"Rough day?" he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. He could read the exhaustion in every line of her body.

"The worst," Lucy confirmed, finally pushing herself away from the door. She made it exactly three steps into the living room before her legs gave out and she collapsed onto the couch with a groan that came from somewhere deep in her soul.

Tim was beside her immediately, his hands gentle as they found the tension knots in her shoulders. "Tell me what you need."

"Just... this," Lucy mumbled into the couch cushion. "Don't move. Don't stop. Maybe don't make me get up for the next twelve hours."

"I can work with that," Tim said softly, his thumbs working magic on the knots in her neck. After a few minutes, he shifted position. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up and into bed properly."

"I can't move," Lucy protested, though she didn't resist when Tim gently pulled her upright.

"Then don't. Let me take care of you."

He started with her makeup, using the gentle makeup wipes she kept in her purse, his touch feather-light as he removed the remnants of foundation and mascara that had somehow survived the day. Lucy's eyes were already closed, and she felt herself melting under his careful attention.

"There we go," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Much better."

Next came her clothes—the blouse that was wrinkled and definitely needed dry cleaning, the pants that had somehow acquired mystery stains during the arrest phase of the operation. Tim helped her out of everything with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before, replacing her work clothes with the soft cotton pajamas that had become her uniform for exhausted nights.

"Arms up," he instructed gently, and Lucy complied without opening her eyes, letting him slide the familiar t-shirt over her head.

When he was done, Tim simply scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing, which should have been impossible after the day she'd had, but somehow Tim made it look effortless.

"Tim," Lucy mumbled against his chest as he carried her toward the bedroom, "you don't have to—"

"Shh. I've got you."