Work Text:
Monday was strawberry.
He could be sure of that much.
She kissed him before jumping out of the truck, grinning and skipping through the doors of the station with one quick look back, her hair swishing around her shoulders like willow leaves. The ghost of her lips against his lingered; soft and strawberry sweet.
Metro had been called to decamp a nest of violent squatters, needles and syringes scattered through the rotting litter of dumpster food and human excrement. His team was armed to the teeth, helmeted and gaitered and gloved, kitted out in full SWAT gear and steel-toed boots. They swept their flashlights through each squalid room, the squatters scattering like rats, or - worse - popping up like angry racoons, teeth bared and any imaginable deadly item clutched in their bony hands as a weapon.
And all Tim could taste was strawberry.
***
Tuesday was vanilla.
Birthday cake and frosting; his favourite donuts or her chai latte.
He had the day off, and he was going to spend the morning sorting through the pile of his clothes that had begun to accumulate in the corner of her bedroom. She danced around him, running away with two long-sleeved tops and a tee that she refused to return (and which he had to admit he enjoyed seeing her wear - whether curled up in a ball on the couch inside the tent of his tee, or stretched out asleep in their bed with her arm across her forehead, chest rising and falling gently beneath his soft old henley).
He’d caught her in the doorway, and although she didn’t let go of the clothes, she stretched up to kiss him, leaning her weight against him and trusting his arms to hold her. And she tasted of vanilla.
Tamara had emerged then, groaning when she saw them making out, and declaring the situation ‘cruel and unusual punishment’ before demanding the breakfast pancakes that Tim had promised her the evening before.
Lucy smirked, dodging into the bedroom behind him to squirrel away his shirts in her own closet, and then she joined them for breakfast, peppering his face with small vanilla kisses when she finished her food and hurried out to work.
***
Wednesday was mint.
She yawned awake beside him, stretching out sensuously and stuffing the toes of one foot right under his knee, before reaching for her nightstand and popping the lid off her lip balm. He’d slept well, and was loath to have his comfort disturbed, so he reached an arm around her waist, pulling her back into his side as she burst into giggles. He’d discovered early on that she was ticklish, the finding warding off the heavy emotions unearthed in both of them by the sight of her tattoo, and it became a tactic he frequently employed when he wanted his way in particular situations.
She gave in to him, sinking back into her pillow and allowing him to tuck his head into her neck and under her jaw. She stroked her fingers along his hair, around his ear, over his cheek, and she hummed softly to herself, the music reverberating along her chest and deep into the core of his bones.
She’d dropped kisses on his face before she eventually got out of bed, mint tingling along his forehead and nose and cheek, and when she was gone into the bathroom, singing along to her playlist, he swiped the stick of balm, opening it up and inhaling the scent to fill his lungs and his memory.
***
Thursday was citrus.
Orange or mandarin or clementine - he didn’t know. Something sweet and summery and as effervescent as her.
They were running a training day - Patrol and Metro divided into mixed groups and scattered throughout an obstacle-laden warehouse. He’d ended up on the opposite team to her, and he rolled his eyes as she whispered to Thorsen, plotting and planning and waggling her eyebrows across the room at him suggestively.
Competition still got his blood rushing, even more so when he knew the results would continue to play out once they got home together that night. Grey and Pine stood on a balcony overlooking the course, whistling and calling out fouls, or removing ‘dead’ participants. The scoreboard clocked up behind them, each team neck and neck, and Tim suddenly found himself and Webb in a room surrounded by enemies. Webb was taken out instantly, but Tim pulled off a magnificent feat of evasion; briskly eliminating his opponents and scurrying out of the room to safety.
A small stairs lead to a semi-hidden overlook, and he backed into it, rubbing the sweat off his forehead with his shoulder as he crouched low beneath the shield wall.
He should have known to look around first.
She was buried in the corner, her weapon aimed straight at him, a sly smile curving one corner of her lips.
He surrendered, removing the strap of his paintball gun and offering it to her in supplication. She took it from him, but she yanked when he didn’t expect it, toppling him over and into her lap, and suddenly the world was just her lips and her skin and her eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks like butterflies, and citrus - citrus everywhere.
Thorsen had found them then, and in his disgust at Lucy’s betrayal, shot the two of them, eliminating them both from the competition.
One more amused citrus kiss, and they pulled each other up from the ground, walking to the exit side by side.
***
Friday was hemp.
She had the day off and she packed him out the door with a hug, lacing her fingers around the back of his neck and plastering herself to his face. His hands were full of keys and coffee, but he still found a way into the back pocket of her pyjamas, impishly squeezing her cheek until she squealed and jumped away from him, her face turning pink, even in the early dawn light. She’d given him one more kiss, then shoved him away from her, backing inside the door and peeping through the gap until he turned the corner in the hallway.
It wasn’t until he was sitting in his truck that he recognised the flavour, and he had to search hurriedly for something to wipe it off. There were always K9 units benignly stalking the corridors, or - knowing his luck - he’d get called for a random drug test. Even if her lipbalm was only imitation, it was better safe than sorry.
Thankfully, the number of women who rode in his car was extensive, and one of them had preemptively stocked his glove compartment with ‘babysoft’ wipes, which he now used to remove the trace of her taste.
He felt sad for doing it, and then he felt silly. He’d see her again tonight. She’d chosen him, and he’d chosen her, and they could kiss each other as much as they wanted, whenever they wanted, and surely - at some point - he’d have tasted her every flavour.
***
Saturday was fear.
Fear and worry and trepidation and barely reigned-in panic.
Why she’d ended up at a mall, he still hadn’t fathomed, but here they were. She’d gone with Tamara on Friday afternoon, and they’d split up to do some shopping before catching a movie.
The terrorists had descended on the department store Lucy was in, blocking all the exits and sealing the security gates before anyone noticed. The alarms had sounded and Tamara had - sensibly - hidden and called Tim, staying in her hidey-hole until he came to get her. Three suspects were arrested in the main concourse when SWAT and Metro entered, but they were no closer to a compromise with the hostage takers by the time it hit midnight.
The store had a grocery section, and they’d planned well - by some estimates there was over a month’s worth of supplies in there - more, if the number of hostages was reduced.
He wasn’t thinking about that.
There hadn’t been any deaths so far, although the images they sent out made clear that the terrorists had the upper hand.
Lucy wore yellow. Her hair was loose and they’d taken her bag, but it gave him heart to see her photo, considered defiance written plain across her face.
That night, Angela offered to keep watch for him; Grey threatened to have him sent home; Pine agreed to let him stay if he promised to rest in the back of one of the shops.
There was no way he could sleep. Any time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured up the worst of every hostage situation he’d ever witnessed. Lucy’s yellow top, ripped and blood stained; her legs twisted at odd angles; her hair matted and stuck to the floor in a dark red puddle.
He took out his phone instead, scrolling through his gallery and adding all his favourite pictures of her (which was essentially just all his pictures of her) to an album called ‘Lucy’.
The negotiators came to an agreement in the middle of the night, trading out both the child and elderly hostages for whatever the fuck these assholes thought was worth the centre of his whole life.
Lucy had used the distraction to her advantage, roping in a bundle of semi-confident employees and customers, and taking out the terrorists with cans of soup and one surprisingly agile Krav Maga enthusiast.
He hung back while SWAT breached, following with the second wave of Metro officers so that by the time he arrived in the store, the suspects were all in handcuffs (or unconscious under piles of soup cans) and he could drop his gun and run straight to Lucy.
She registered his presence a split second before he swept her into his chest, and somehow she was able to jump, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around the back of his knees. He spun on the spot, inhaling the smell of her sweat and her skin, and she whispered comforting nothings into his ear, her hands stroking gently through his hair and along his jaw.
I’m alright, I’m here, I’m safe, It’s over, I’ve got you…
***
Sunday was her.
Just. Her.
They slept for hours, almost comatose with relief and exhaustion.
He woke first, watching her chest rise and fall in the warm afternoon light. They’d showered when they got home, but she was too tired to dry her hair, and it spread across their pillows now in flowing chestnut waves. Her arms were bare, small nicks and bruises scattered amongst the light hair and freckles, and he traced his fingers along the winding map they etched into her skin.
She woke slowly, a deep and satisfied intake of air through her nostrils, turning into a luxurious yawn at the apex of the breath. She turned to him, and he reached out, tucking her into his side as her eyes drifted open to meet his with a sleepy smile. He could feel her fingers toy with the collar of his shirt, tickling at the overgrown stubble on his neck and jaw, and his heart thumped painfully with the sheer immensity of his love for her.
With her fingers on his chin between them, he kissed her; sleep-sticky lips and morning breath turning into soft smiles and gentle kisses.
And she tasted like her.
He knew her taste so well.
It was the taste of sunny summer drives and champagne parties; baking in the kitchen and hiking in the mountains with Kojo; browsing college brochures with Tamara and babysitting in the Lopez-Evers house.
It was strawberry and vanilla and citrus and hemp. It was vanilla chai latte and Nevin’s pastries. It was suds in the shower and perfume on the lobes of her ears. It was wool shirts and tin police badges, feathery fake eyelashes and temporary tattoos, beer and notebooks and Vietnamese food and tiny leather boots and every moment that they’d ever shared that had led them right here.
To this.
Her, wrapped safe in his arms, and him, curled tight against her body.
Her taste was ever-changing and ever-familiar, and he’d know her in the dark with his eyes closed.
She tasted like Lucy.
She tasted like Tim.
She tasted like forever.