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Jan isn’t a fan of the night shift.
He likes routine. Daylight, familiar voices on the radio, the steady churn of calls that feel almost predictable after enough years on the job.
Night shift has none of that.
But, his family’s hoping to go on vacation this summer, so he’s taking on some extra shifts to save up for the upgrade. After all the shit he’s seen, he deserves a nice break, and a first class seat to Tahiti. He hasn’t been on a proper vacation in nearly five years—five of the longest years of his life, somehow—and he’s ready for it.
Still. Night shift sucks. Half the officers band together to sleep, for something called the “Dream Team”, and the other half are stuck picking up the slack. And, given that Jan isn’t part of the Dream Team, he’s one of the ones picking up the slack.
It’s lonely, and, quite frankly, the kinds of calls that happen at night are scary. Even after his many years of service, he’s still a little spooked when he has to investigate a Metro station alone at night.
He’s sitting there for almost an hour, a very long hour, before the radio crackles with an address.
“Domestic,” is the information that follows. “A neighbor reports hearing a couple fighting for the past hour. Possibly physical. The address has been reported a number of times in the past two months.”
Domestics are probably cops’ least favorite call, and Jan is no exception—especially for night shift. It could be anything from a normal heated fight between couples (a waste of time for everyone involved), someone getting a little too rowdy during sex (awkward for everyone involved), or the TV being on too loud (really?). And, of course, a genuine domestic, which quickly becomes a volatile situation that’s doomed to escalate, and are one of the leading causes of injury by a civilian.
Still, someone has to respond to it, and it’s clear no one from the Dream Team is rushing to the radio.
Jan picks up the receiver.
It’ll be worth it when he’s sipping Mai Tais on the beach.
“Control, this is 7-Lincoln-8, attaching to the call,” he answers. “Requesting backup for domestic.”
The response takes long enough that Jan already knows what’s coming.
A click. Then: “Wassup!” a familiar voice responds. “This is 7-Lincoln-18, reporting for duty.”
Immediately, Jan groans.
Smitty.
Jan closes his eyes for half a second, accepting his fate. He hadn’t even noticed Smitty in roll call tonight. He had noticed Nolan and Penn, who switched to night shift for the week to get the rookie requirements during the last month. He’d been hoping for them; they’re competent cops, even if both of them have the uncanny ability to attract trouble.
Instead, he’s stuck with Smitty, who might be even worse. Jan would prefer the inevitable shootout.
Jan makes his way over to the address of the scene, regretting every moment of his life. He thinks of Tahiti. He thinks of how excited he is to check into his all-inclusive resort there, and have zero responsibilities beyond his family. And, unlike many of his coworkers, he rather loves his family.
Smitty is in full night-shift mode: uniform slightly rumpled, soda already in hand, expression cheerful in a way that makes Jan suspicious on principle. He swings his keys around one finger, uncaring, as if they’re not about to answer to a domestic at midnight.
Jan stares at him. “You’re my backup.”
“Lucky you,” Smitty says, and takes a sip of his soda. “I’m an excellent presence.”
“What are you even doing on night shift?” he asks, still a little confused. Why would Smitty ever take extra work?
“Are you kidding?” Smitty exclaims. “Best damn OT opportunity there is. I’ve been trying to switch to the night shift for years, but no one on the Dream Team wants to give up their spot.”
“That’s because they’re asleep.”
“Exactly,” he says, like Jan’s finally catching on. “It’s beautiful.”
“So, you’re the sacrificial lamb, then?” Jan asks, unhappily.
“Of course,” Smitty responds, as if it’s obvious. “Everyone has to prove their weight before they’ll accept you into the Dream Team full time.”
Ah, Jan realizes. The man’s only willing to put in the effort if it means he’ll get accepted into a team that sleeps for a living.
It makes sense, of course. Any of the officers that actually give a damn do everything in their power to make their way into the day shift—but that doesn’t leave a spot open on the Dream Team. The vacuum must be filled by other poor new officers who also give a damn, and the cycle continues. Anyone who wants to sleep the shift away has no desire to move, and, well, you can only have so many Dreamers at a time before someone takes notice. It’s quite the exclusive club.
Jan decides that this is as good as it’s going to get, for now.
Tahiti, he reminds himself. Think of Tahiti.
The neighborhood itself is quiet, including the house in question. Whatever fight had been in process is clearly over, now, so that means Jan has some time to look around and investigate.
“I’m going to talk to the witness who called it in,” he tells Smitty.
The man hums, playing on his phone. Is that Candy Crush?
“You coming?” Jan pushes, trying to give a strong hint.
Smitty looks over at him, as if considering. “Nah,” he decides. “You got this. Come get me when you’re ready for the main event.”
He takes a slow sip of his soda, and Jan decides he’s definitely not going to be of any help. He might as well be alone. He sighs, and then turns to the house.
“Control, this is 7-Lincoln-8, at the scene,” Jan announces. “All quiet; talking to the witness first. Requesting additional backup.”
“7-Lincoln-8, additional backup has been sent,” control responds.
“I’m looking for real backup,” he clarifies.
“Copy that.”
With that, Jan quiets his radio, and knocks on the door, next to the house that’s being reported.
Immediately, the door swings open, and a very tiny Chihuahua in a pink tutu is barking like her life depends on it.
“Hi, are you Mrs. Karen Collins?” Jan greets.
“Thank god you’re finally here!” the older lady exclaims, clearly agitated. “You’ve taken so long—I bet they’ve already killed each other by now!”
This immediately concerns Jan. “You mentioned hearing a couple fighting,” he asks. “Can you provide more information?”
“Every night, before bed, I drink a little glass of wine outside as my darling Sweetpea does his business,” the lady explains, gesturing to the growling and spitting little Chihuahua that looks like he’s hoping to commit murder. “And almost every night for the past two months comes these awful sounds from the backyard next door. It upsets us both greatly. Sweetpea hasn’t felt himself in days!”
Sweetpea, in fact, very much looks like he’s feeling himself. Jan feels like the little rat is about to lunge up and try to rip him apart at any moment, and he’s looking quite gleeful in his plotting. Jan probably would be too, if he’d been forced to wear a pink tutu.
“Ma’am, can you describe the sounds?” he asks calmly, pulling out his pen and pad to take notes, trying to avoid any eye contact with the little monster.
“Oh, so horrific,” she bemoans. “It’s some man who lives there alone, you know. But I keep hearing this girl cry out in pain—he does too, sometimes, when she fights back. There’s all this loud thumping. I’ve heard glass breaking before. And the man’s dog just won’t stop barking! That dog’s always been a menace—he looks like he’d tear poor Sweetpea apart.”
Sweetpea looks like he can handle himself, actually, Jan decides.
Jan’s pen pauses. “And you’ve heard the male voice, too, you’ve mentioned.”
“Yes,” she snaps. “Grunting. Shouting. Sometimes he sounds—” She pinches her mouth tight, as if the word itself offends her. “—pleased.”
“And, uh, is it always the same woman?” he asks. If he’s being honest, it sounds more and more like it might just be a couple who enjoys particularly noisy sex. Never a fun conversation, when he inevitably has to knock on their door and tell them to tone it down.
“It is,” Mrs. Collins confirms. “Definitely.”
“Does she sound...pleased...as well?”
“...Sometimes,” she admits reluctantly. “But, you know, I’ve seen her around a few times. She’s always got these different bruises and cuts on her face.”
Oh. Well, there goes that theory.
“She always says it’s from her job, but what kind of job involves a woman getting hurt like that?” she continues.
Jan thinks idly of the amount of stitches he’s gotten in the last year, but elects not to mention it.
“Poor thing,” she tuts. “Every time the cops come, they do nothing. I checked in on one once, and they just told me everything was fine and not to report it again.”
Now, that’s weird. Jan’s not entirely sure why any officer would say that to a concerned citizen. “Do you remember the officer’s name, ma’am?”
“Officer Juarez,” she remembers easily, like she’s been waiting for the opportunity.
Huh. He can’t say he knows Juarez well, but she doesn’t seem careless. She seems like the kind of cop who would take these kinds of reports seriously, so she must’ve had a really good reason to dismiss the case.
“It was last Friday, around 5 PM,” she remembers. “She looked like she found the situation so amusing. Sweetpea liked her, though, but he’s never been a good judge of character.”
Jan certainly hopes so, because otherwise, this dog must sense something evil within him to be acting the way he is.
“Sweetpea!” Mrs. Collins suddenly calls out. Jan’s a little confused, because the dog’s right there, but—
“What?!” a gruff voice of a very human man responds. “I’m busy!”
“Wait,” Jan starts, having a surprising realization. “If he’s Sweetpea; what’s the dog’s name, then?”
“Oh, that’s Bob,” the lady answers easily. “It says so right on her collar.”
No wonder the little thing is so murderous.
“Sweetpea!” she calls again, more violently. “Come here!”
“Just leave the sex freaks alone!” the man calls back. “I’m trying to watch football!”
“SWEETPEA!”
“Actually,” Jan interjects, scribbling notes frantically on his notepad, “I think I got everything I need. Thank you very much. I’ll send a colleague over if we need more information.”
“Thank you, officer,” she says graciously. “I hope you actually do something this time. He ought to be arrested at this point—did you know that his tree’s branches hang three-fourths of an inch over my fence? Some people are a scourge on society. Please, all of this has been awful on Sweetpea’s digestion.”
Jan isn’t sure what a tree and digestion suddenly has to do with it, but he gives a friendly smile anyway. “Right. Good night, ma’am.”
Sweetpea—er, uh, Bob, actually—gives a final bark, as if she personally fended off Jan all by fearsome self. Maybe she had.
Smitty’s already proven himself as absolutely useless tonight, and while Mrs. Collins and Sweetpea sound a little crazy, their allegations are pretty serious. She gave a consistent enough account that Jan can’t shrug it off. The detail about Juarez is the part that nags at him, because if Juarez really told her not to report it again, that’s either sloppy policing, or there’s something on the other side of that fence that isn’t what it sounds like.
Either way, he’s extremely relieved when another shop pulls up besides his own, and Nolan and Penn step out.
“Does this neighborhood look familiar to you?” Penn asks, frowning.
Nolan frowns too. “Kinda, yeah. Didn’t we answer a call here the other week?”
“I can’t for the life of me remember the crime, though,” Penn responds, his brow furrowing as he thinks.
“You good?” Nolan calls out, glancing at Jan, before looking suspiciously at Smitty playing on his phone in the car.
“Domestic,” Jan answers when he’s close enough to use a quieter voice. He sees Penn eye the house that is in question, even though it hasn’t been pointed out to him, yet. He wonders if the rookie recognizes it from a previous call; he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s answered a call here before. They’ve already established that this address has a bit of a history.
“Right,” Nolan comprehends immediately. “Officer Penn, why is it important to call for backup when responding to domestic calls?”
“Domestics can be one of the most dangerous calls for police,” Penn responds dutifully. “Situations often escalate fast. Most cops killed on duty are from traffic stops and domestic calls. It’s better to be prepared, though it’s up to the officer’s discretion if backup is required or not.”
“Good, Officer Penn,” Nolan says with a small nod. Then, he turns back to Jan. “So, what have we got?”
“Caller claims she hears screaming and thumping from the backyard,” Jan fills in. “Says she’s seen a woman with bruises. Also claims Officer Juarez told her not to report it again—that it’s been handled.”
Both men look just as surprised by this revelation as he had been.
“Alright,” Nolan says, not wanting to dwell on it. “Let’s go check it out.”
Immediately, like he’s been keeping tabs on them, Smitty puts his phone away and gets out of the shop, joining them just as they begin to walk towards the house. Everyone looks at him, a little surprised that he’s actually committed to doing his job.
“You’re coming?”
“Oh, I’m not missing the show,” Smitty says vaguely.
“Show?” Jan asks. “What show?”
“You’ll see.”
Jan doesn’t like that answer. He likes answers that involve facts, not ominous enthusiasm. He elects to ignore it, instead leading the charge towards the house in question.
“Wait, this is the house that the call is about?” Penn asks, his voice sounding more and more terrified with every word.
Nolan seems to recognize it now, too. “Wait, don’t—!”
It’s too late. Jan’s already pounded on the door. He looks back at the other men. Nolan’s closed his eyes, dreading what’s about to come. Penn’s eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly open in horror, staring at the door. Smitty’s just as clueless as ever, tapping his foot impatiently.
For a second, Jan is worried, his hand settling against his gun. But, oddly enough, the men don’t act as if they’re in any danger, despite them looking like they’re about to face a feral animal.
The door swings open, and Jan braces.
“What the hell are you doing here?!” barks—
Sergeant Bradford?
Jan blinks.
Sure enough, it’s their Watch Commander, Sergeant Tim Bradford, at the doorway. He’s shirtless and barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants low on his hips, and there’s sweat clinging all over his skin.
“Oh,” Jan gets out, caught off guard. “Uh, hi, sir.”
“I’m not on call tonight,” Bradford says roughly. “Talk to your Watch Commander—and if she’s indisposed, Lee’s on as backup.”
“Actually, sir,” Jan starts awkwardly, and it’s then that the sergeant seems to realize that he’s got his hand on his gun, as is protocol for a domestic. “We’re here for—”
“Who reported me this time?” he asks, unimpressed, crossing his arms. Then, he looks at the other officers. “And why the hell did four of you respond?”
“Don’t look at me,” Smitty defends. “I was called as backup. There’s no explanation for why these two—” He throws his thumb over his shoulder, towards Nolan and Penn, accusingly. “—showed up.”
“Actually, that explains all of it,” Bradford decides simply. He sighs. “It was Mrs. Collins again, wasn’t it? She never knows how to mind her business. Last week, she called in a teenager who was outside at 11:01 PM.”
Jan clears his throat, trying very hard not to stare at his sergeant’s bare chest. “Sir, we received a report of a possible domestic disturbance. Caller described yelling, thumping, and—”
Bradford’s eyes narrow. “And what, exactly, did she think she heard?”
Jan hesitates, hating to even voice it out loud. “She claims there’s a woman being hurt.”
Sergeant Bradford’s jaw flexes once. “No one’s being hurt.”
Nolan mutters under his breath, “Define ‘hurt’.”
Penn makes a strangled noise, and Smitty laughs.
“You and Chen getting rowdy, eh?”
Everyone looks over at Smitty incredulously. He’s not supposed to say the quiet part out loud.
“Smitty,” Penn whispers harshly. “Are you trying to get us all fired?”
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he responds confidently. “I’ve got the union behind me—nothing will ever get me fired.” He claps Nolan on the back, who glares at him. Then, he looks at Penn. “Tough break for you, Boot.”
The rookie looks back at Bradford, pleadingly, who stares at them all flatly. “Smitty.”
Smitty lifts his hands, still grinning. “I’m just saying. Sounded like a good workout.”
“We were sparring,” Bradford says firmly.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Nolan asks, eyebrows raised, unable to resist. At the Watch Commander’s deathly stare, he cowers slightly. “Sorry, sir.”
Desperate to get this back on a professional track, Jan clears his throat. “Sir, there’s been reports of you and another party ‘fighting’—”
“That’s what sparring is,” Sergeant Bradford interrupts, deadpan.
“Sir, the caller claims she’s seen Sergeant Chen with bruises.”
“Chen is a police officer,” he says firmly. “Fine. You checked, you can go now.”
Nolan steps forwards. “Look, Tim,” he starts delicately. “I think it’s best for everyone involved if we follow protocol, here.”
Bradford exhales in a way that almost sounds like a growl, before finally relenting. “Lucy!” he calls out. “Mrs. Collins reported us again. They need to see proof of life.”
“You’re kidding me,” comes a sleepy groan from inside the house. A few moments later, Sergeant Chen appears at the door, glancing at the four officers at her doorstep. She’s wearing more than Bradford is, in leggings and a sports bra acceptable for a gym, but she’s also covered in sweat, with her hair messily in a bun.
Now, Jan isn’t blind. He’s relatively aware of Bradford and Chen’s romantic history—the whole station gossips about it whenever they’re not in hearing range—and they’re not exactly subtle about it. A man as tough as Sergeant Bradford immediately becomes obvious when he looks at Chen the way he does, that it was never destined to be a secret.
That being said, seeing them swap small little smiles at the station is entirely different than witnessing...whatever this is.
“This wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t so paranoid about telling people that we’re cops,” Chen mutters to Bradford, clearly a little less embarrassed than he is.
“Mrs. Collins is a busybody who can’t stay quiet about anything,” he retorts. “The whole neighborhood would know within two days.”
“Would you rather them know we’re cops,” she asks, “or have them think that we’re killing each other?”
Bradford considers this. Jan almost wants to point out the even bigger problem—that as long as this goes on, more and more cops are going to show up, and realize that two Sergeants at Mid-Wilshire have...sparring sessions that are loud enough to distress their neighbor.
Now that he thinks of it, he does remember hearing from Officer Ruiz that she answered a call the other week, where Chen had been the one to answer the door, and spent the next five minutes giggling about how good in bed their Watch Commander must be. Of course, Jan had promptly erased this entire conversation from his mind, wishing for bleach, until this very moment.
“Sir,” he squeaks out, “It might be in your best interest to explain the full situation to Mrs. Collins. She’s rather concerned.”
Chen, seemingly on his side, also looks at Bradford. “See?”
“Fine,” Bradford relents, displeased. “Officer Jan—”
Jan steps aside. “I think Nolan and Penn would love to do the honor of informing Mr. and Mrs. Collins of our findings,” he says. He doesn’t think Bob would tolerate seeing him twice in one night, and he wants to avoid any major injuries before his vacation. He’s heard dog bites can be nasty to heal.
He’d rather deal with Bradford’s wrath, honestly.
“You guys do this a lot,” Penn blurts out, like he’s just catching up.
Chen’s eyebrows lift. “What?”
Penn swallows. “Uh. Sparring. You spar a lot,” he clarifies awkwardly. “You said the other day you guys were practicing judo throws in the backyard.”
“We did,” Chen confirms.
“What was it tonight?”
Sergeant Bradford’s stare turns to Penn, slow and deliberate. “Boot. Go next door and handle this.”
The rookie nods quickly. “Yes, sir.”
With that, Nolan and Penn disappear off, and Jan wishes them the best of luck against Mrs. Collins, Sweetpea, and Bob. He doesn’t bother warning them, though.
“Is there anything else you need from us?” Chen asks. “I mean, I can show you the security footage from our backyard earlier tonight—”
“No, thank you,” Jan says quickly. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to unsee whatever is on that recording. Because, no matter how much they say they’re sparring, he doesn’t quite believe that’s all that’s happening. “I think we have enough information, Sergeant Chen.”
Chen looks relieved. “Alright. Well, if that’s all...”
“Actually,” Smitty grins, poking his head inside before getting permission. “While I’m here, can I use your restroom?”
Jan decides that Tahiti isn’t worth it.
.
.
.
The second the door closes, and they’re finally alone again, Lucy bursts out laughing.
Tim, on the other hand, doesn’t feel nearly as amused. “Stop it.”
“Jan’s face!” she wheezes, wiping some of the sweat off of her forehead. “Oh my gosh. He was looking at your chest like it was evidence.”
“It is evidence,” he mutters. “Evidence that I was in my own house, minding my business. Unlike Mrs. Collins.”
“She’s just jealous that we’re getting some and she isn’t,” she puts simply, her laughter finally dying down as she smirks mischievously. Her hands find his waist, her fingers curling into the waistband of his sweats. His breath catches. “Speaking of, where were we?”
“I think,” Tim starts, inhaling sharply when Lucy presses up against him, “that you were just about to hand over a sex tape to our coworkers.”
“Hey,” she defends, “Proof is proof. I figured they’d stop after a few minutes of watching us actually spar, before it got to the good part.”
He sighs, back to thinking about their nosy neighbors. “Maybe we should stop sparring in the backyard.”
“But it leads to so much fun,” Lucy insists. Then, she grins. “We can buy a sign. ‘Dear neighbors: We are not murdering each other. In fact, we’re rather enjoying each other’s company. Sincerely, The Cops Next Door’. They’ll get the hint.”
Tim exhales, then finally breaks. “I hate this neighborhood.”