❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ SHADOWS IN THE STATION ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ he'll never say it, but the way he looks at her when he thinks she's not watching says more than words ever could. ❜

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝑈𝑀 of the vending machine rumbled beneath Charlotte's fingers as she pressed the button, waiting for the metallic clink of a soda to drop down. Just around the corner, she could hear the soft murmur of Rachel's voice, laced with a pleading urgency that caught her attention.

"Malcolm didn't do it, he couldn't have," Rachel was saying, her voice low and fervent as she looked at Tim with a determination in her eyes that belied her frustration.

Tim sighed, his gaze cast downwards, arms crossed over his chest. The subtle lines in his face looked sharper, more pronounced under the harsh fluorescent lights above them.

"I hope you're right." His voice was rough, carrying that hint of skepticism Rachel feared. He shifted his stance slightly, almost as if bracing himself against whatever conviction she might throw his way next.

Rachel's face fell, her mouth tightening as she gave a small huff. "But you think I'm wrong," she shot back, her voice carrying a hint of hurt. She glanced behind him, eyes lighting up as Wesley strode into the hallway, adjusting his tie as he took in the scene around him.

"Wesley, thanks for coming," Rachel breathed, relief evident in her voice. Her fingers twisted anxiously at the edge of her blouse as she watched him. The air felt tense, as if everyone had been holding their breath for too long.

"Of course," Wesley replied with a quick nod, his voice calm and steady. He glanced at Tim, who inclined his head toward the door at the end of the hall. "Where's my client?"

"Break room, with Von Liljah," Tim answered, his voice low but clear.

Wesley's brow arched slightly. "She's not questioning him?" The disbelief was subtle but unmistakable in his tone.

Tim shook his head, his voice firm. "She knows not to." There was a quiet pride in his words, as if defending Charlotte's restraint, her respect for protocol. Wesley studied him for a moment before nodding.

"Good." Wesley adjusted his tie again, the only hint of his own tension, before striding toward the break room door with an assured gait. "I'm going to go talk to him." Rachel started to follow, her steps eager, but Wesley held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

"Rachel, you can't come with me," he said, his tone not unkind but firm. "You work for the county; I work for Malcolm. I'm afraid you're on the outside now." His voice softened, but there was no mistaking the finality in his words as he continued on, leaving her behind.

Rachel's shoulders slumped slightly as she let out a sigh, the weight of helplessness settling over her like a too-heavy coat. She watched him disappear down the hallway, then took a few steps back, her gaze finding Tim's again.

"So, I guess I'm on the outside with you too, huh?" she murmured, her voice holding a faint trace of bitterness mixed with resignation. Her eyes searched his face, as if hoping for some reassurance, a glimmer of understanding.

Tim met her gaze steadily, his face softening just a little. "Not with me personally, no." His voice was quiet, carrying that hint of warmth he reserved for moments like this when he knew how much she cared.

But he was careful to keep his tone measured, his arms still crossed as he watched her. The smell of stale coffee and faint bleach lingered in the hallway, adding to the stillness between them.

Rachel bit her lip, eyes glistening with a touch of frustration. She glanced down the hallway, then back to Tim, her voice catching as she spoke. "He's just a traumatized kid, Tim." There was a desperate edge to her words, her hands clasped together as she tried once more to reach him.

Tim gave a low, noncommittal hum, his eyes distant as he absorbed her words. He shifted slightly, letting his arms fall to his sides, his face still as guarded as ever, but the tight line of his mouth softened, just barely. The two stood there in the hallway, the silence heavy between them, their unspoken worries filling the space like a fog they couldn't quite see through.

Charlotte slipped quietly out of the break room, her footsteps barely making a sound against the scuffed linoleum floor. She glanced back just once as the door shut behind her, catching a brief glimpse of Wesley leaning toward Malcolm, his voice a murmur too low for her to hear, his posture gentle but firm. The boy looked small and exhausted, his shoulders hunched as if bearing the weight of something far heavier than he should ever have to carry.

She let the door close softly, leaving them to the privacy she knew Wesley would insist on. They needed that space, that room to talk without any looming presence or judgment.

Charlotte knew what Wesley would say, his calm, patient tones coaxing Malcolm's trust, his assurances an anchor in the middle of the storm brewing around them. She took a deep breath, letting the thought go, and turned down the corridor toward the observation room.

The station was quiet at this hour, the low hum of machinery and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights filling the empty spaces with a sense of stillness. The air was thick with that familiar scent of coffee gone stale, the sharp tang of disinfectant clinging to the walls, mingling with the faintest trace of the department's ever-present stress.

Her shoes scuffed against the floor as she made her way down the narrow hallway, passing the empty desks and half-open doors, a quiet pulse of nerves building in her chest.

When she reached the observation room, she slipped inside with the ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times before, though tonight it felt different. She crossed to the one-way mirror, her reflection blending with the room beyond, where Armstrong was arranging his notes, his expression thoughtful.

The empty chair across from him felt like an accusation. Malcolm was about to step into it, and the tension of it all sat heavy on her shoulders, pressing down until she almost felt she couldn't stand upright.

A soft sound behind her broke her thoughts, and she turned, blinking in surprise as Tim closed the door behind him. His presence filled the small room, bringing with it a steadying warmth. His gaze landed on her, his blue eyes widening ever so slightly as he took her in.

"Didn't think you'd be in here," he murmured, his voice low but carrying a hint of approval, a subtle reassurance that slipped through his usual stoic demeanor.

He shifted, glancing briefly at the room beyond the glass before returning his gaze to her. He seemed to consider her, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, his lips pressing into a line that held more thoughts than he'd likely ever let slip.

Charlotte gave a small nod, her own gaze shifting back to the interrogation room as Armstrong straightened his posture, readying himself for what would come next.

"I just... wanted to make sure he was okay," she said softly, the words barely audible in the quiet room. The air was thick between them, heavy with unspoken concerns and the weight of decisions that might follow them long after they left this room.

Tim stepped closer, coming to stand beside her. She could feel his presence, solid and unwavering, a silent comfort in the face of the tension rippling through the station.

His arm brushed against hers, the contact grounding her, making her feel less like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. His gaze was steady, his jaw set as he watched Armstrong's every move, his attention flicking briefly to her reflection in the glass.

"Kid's lucky you're looking out for him," he said, his voice softened, that familiar gruffness wrapped around something gentler. She looked over at him, catching the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

Charlotte took a steadying breath, watching Tim's reflection in the glass as his expression darkened, his usual guarded look slipping into something more vulnerable, more exposed.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears, each beat reminding her of the moments they'd shared, the ones they'd both carefully avoided mentioning. But tonight, it all felt too heavy to keep buried. Her voice came out a touch unsteady, barely a murmur as she started.

"Tim..." She began, her tone firm but tinged with the weight of months of confusion. He turned slightly toward her, his brow creased, as if bracing himself. She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on his, catching the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. "I can't keep doing this back-and-forth with you."

His jaw clenched at her words, and he looked down, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. She caught the briefest glimpse of his face softening, but then it was gone, replaced by his usual steely resolve. But she pressed on, her words tumbling out, each one more urgent than the last.

"We haven't spoken since..." Her voice cracked slightly, and she closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. The memories of Isabel, the way it had felt like a punch to the gut seeing him with someone else, made it hard to continue. "Since Isabel came between us."

His face softened, but he kept silent, his eyes searching her face, almost as if he was trying to gauge how much she knew, how much he wanted to say.

"I thought..." she hesitated, feeling the sharp ache of those unspoken fears clawing their way up. "I thought you'd gone back to her, your wife. Then I find out you're divorced and out dating someone new." Her voice held an edge, a frustration that had been festering since she'd first seen him with that other woman, the way he'd seemed so at ease, as if they'd never even happened.

Tim's gaze flicked to the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He didn't look at her, not directly, but his silence only fanned the flames of her frustration.

"You ignore me, and then suddenly you're offering to help me train." Her tone softened, almost hurt now, as she spoke, her words coming out more slowly, as though she was admitting it to herself as much as to him.

"Then you talk to Grey about switching rookies, like... like you can't even stand the thought of working with me every day." She crossed her arms over her chest, as if trying to shield herself from the vulnerability she was spilling into the open.

He finally looked down at her, his eyes shadowed, and she could see the faintest trace of regret. But he still wouldn't speak, the words lodged somewhere behind that stoic exterior. It was infuriating, the way he could make her feel so much with so little.

"Make up your goddamn mind, Tim," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper now, the weight of it settling like a stone between them. The words hung in the air, the space between them thick with the tension of a thousand unspoken moments.

Tim shifted, his gaze hardening, but he didn't move away. His hand dropped to his side, his fingers brushing against hers ever so slightly. It was barely a touch, but it was enough to send a shiver through her, a reminder of the way things had been, the way they still could be if only he'd let himself feel it.

Charlotte's voice was a low hiss, barely breaking through the thick tension in the small, dimly lit observation room. Her words cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and heated, as she took a step back from him. She clenched her jaw, feeling the weight of her frustration and disappointment settle heavily in her chest.

"I'm done," she whispered, her voice simmering with a quiet anger that echoed in the narrow space. "I'm done ruining my reputation, my possibilities here at the station... for you. For a maybe." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she averted her gaze, forcing herself to look away from the piercing intensity in Tim's eyes.

Tim stood still, his face hardening as he registered her words. His expression was unreadable, a practiced mask that gave nothing away, and that only fueled her frustration.

She glanced sideways at him, and in the dim light, she could make out the tight line of his jaw, the way his fists were balled up at his sides. But he didn't speak. Not even a flicker of protest, not a single word to argue against the harsh truth she'd just thrown at him.

Charlotte let out a slow, shaky breath, her chest rising and falling as she tried to gather herself. She turned away, her gaze shifting back to the glass, focusing on the scene unfolding inside the interrogation room.

Malcolm was seated there, fidgeting with his hands, looking small and uncertain as he glanced around the room. Wesley was beside him, calm and steady, leaning slightly forward as he spoke in low tones, reassuring the boy.

But Charlotte's mind wasn't on the interrogation; her thoughts were still racing, replaying the moments she'd spent with Tim, all the times she'd tried to break through that wall he kept up so tightly.

She'd put so much on the line for him — more than she'd ever admit out loud. She'd covered for him, she'd defended him, she'd gone above and beyond, all for someone who seemed determined to keep her at arm's length, always hovering just out of reach.

A faint, bitter taste rose in the back of her throat, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, steadying herself. She was done hoping, done clinging to the possibility of something that might never be real.

Behind her, she heard Tim shift, his footsteps soft but deliberate as he moved closer, his breath warm against her shoulder. For a brief moment, she felt him lean in, his presence heavy and unspoken, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he stood there, watching her, his silence carrying the weight of all the things he couldn't bring himself to say.

Charlotte swallowed hard, refusing to let herself look back at him, to let herself hope for a response she knew wasn't coming. She pressed her fingers against the cold glass, watching Malcolm as he spoke in a low, frightened voice. There was a hollow ache in her chest, a strange emptiness that felt heavier than any heartbreak she'd known.

Without looking back, she spoke again, her voice barely a whisper, filled with a quiet, aching resolve. "You're not worth it, Tim," she murmured, each word a painful truth she forced herself to say. "Not if you can't make up your mind."

And with that, she took a step away from him, letting the silence hang heavy between them, unbreakable and final.

Armstrong's voice was a harsh whisper, his tone cold and pressing as he slid the photo of the knife across the table. "You recognize this knife, Malcolm?" The tension in the room was suffocating, and as Armstrong pushed the photo closer.

Charlotte could see Malcolm's face, pale and tight with a mixture of fear and confusion. He sat rigidly in his chair, his eyes darting between Armstrong and Wesley, searching for some kind of anchor.

Wesley leaned in, his presence calm but firm, placing a steady hand on the table in front of Malcolm as he murmured gently, "You don't have to answer that." His voice held a comforting certainty, and it seemed to give Malcolm the faintest glimmer of reassurance, a momentary break in the tension that made his shoulders relax, if only slightly.

But Armstrong's determination was unyielding. His eyes fixed on Malcolm, sharp and demanding, and he continued in a soft but forceful tone, "He's right. You don't have to answer." He paused, letting the words settle like stones in the room, before pressing further.

"But I think you want to. I think the truth is eating at you, Malcolm. I think it's tearing you apart. And I think you need to let it out." Armstrong tapped the photo four times, each tap driving his words deeper, punctuating the intensity of his gaze. "Do you recognize this?"

Malcolm hesitated, his face creasing in pain and fear, but finally, he muttered, "It's from the kitchen." His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible.

Charlotte felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her abdomen, her hand instinctively moving to clutch the spot as a strange dizziness washed over her. In a flash, she was outside, the distant memory of her own stabbing experience snapping vividly into focus. She glanced down to see blood pooling around her hand, her vision blurring as the pain seared through her abdomen.

When she blinked again, the blue house vanished, and she was back in the observation room, her pulse racing and her breaths coming quick and shallow. She could feel sweat beading on her forehead, and the cold fluorescent lights seemed to buzz louder, drilling into her head.

She forced herself to focus on the glass, to look back into the interrogation room where Malcolm was slouched in his chair, visibly weighed down by guilt, shame, and the growing horror of what he'd just confessed.

Armstrong leaned forward, unrelenting, his voice now raised as he drilled into the boy, "Let's go back to what we know, okay? Carson leaves the house. It's just you and your mother. Then, what?"

Malcolm swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to his hands. "She left the room... And I grabbed it." His voice cracked, a flicker of anguish twisting his expression.

"I picked it up and followed her. She was yelling about how it was over. Carson was gone. We'd never see him again." He paused, a tear slipping down his cheek as his voice broke. "I started crying... and she laughed at me. She laughed at me."

The room spun around Charlotte, her breathing labored and her vision clouded by tears she didn't remember shedding. She glanced down at her shaking hands, blood staining her fingertips as if from some long-forgotten wound.

The memory of her own trauma clawed its way back to the surface, her chest tightening as she tried to steady herself, but the room continued to tilt and shift, the walls closing in around her.

She blinked, and suddenly Tim was there, his figure looming over her, his mouth moving, calling her name, but his words seemed muffled, lost in the fog clouding her mind. Her vision wavered, her head spinning as she looked around, trying to ground herself, to bring the room back into focus.

She could barely hear the voices from the interrogation room, Malcolm's trembling admissions barely audible over the blood rushing in her ears.

In the interrogation room, Armstrong's voice broke through. "What'd you do to make her stop?"

Malcolm looked up, eyes wide and haunted. "I... I hit her with the knife," he murmured, his voice choked.

Armstrong pounced. "You hit her with the knife? You mean you stabbed her?" His words were biting, his gaze unyielding. "Where?"

Malcolm's face paled, his voice barely a whisper. "Her back."

"Then what?" Armstrong's voice was relentless, pushing, probing.

"She turned to me... Not even mad, like she couldn't feel it." Malcolm's voice was a hollow echo, the weight of his actions pressing down on him.

Tim's voice jolted Charlotte back to the present, his words coming into focus as he shouted for help. She felt hands gripping her shoulders, paramedics moving swiftly around her, the cool, sterile mask pressing against her mouth and nose as she struggled to breathe.

She tried to push them away, but her body felt weak, heavy, her mind slipping back into that hazy, disorienting place where pain and fear mixed into a suffocating fog.

When she blinked again, Tim was standing beside her, his eyes fixed on her face, a deep worry etched into his features as he studied her. His brows furrowed as he took in her sweaty, pale face, his lips pressing into a tight line.

Inside the interrogation room, Malcolm's voice broke the silence again. "I guess so."

Armstrong didn't relent. "Okay, you stab her in the back. She turns and looks at you. Then what?"

Malcolm's gaze fell, his voice a hollow murmur. "I stabbed her again. In the front." His face twisted in pain, his hands trembling. "And then... I couldn't stop."

Charlotte stumbled back, her hands fumbling for the wall as the floor seemed to pitch beneath her, a strangled gasp forcing its way out of her throat. She barely registered the cold sting of the wall against her back, the shock of the hallway air hitting her like an ice bath, cutting through the suffocating fog that seemed to press in on her from all sides.

Her breaths came in ragged gulps, each one painfully sharp as she struggled to regain control, her fingers clawing at the wall, desperate for any hold to keep herself grounded. The world was spinning, the ground unsteady, and the dull hum of lights above only worsened her dizziness, their harsh buzzing piercing through her pounding thoughts.

In an instant, Tim was there, his presence steady and grounding beside her. His hands found her shoulders, fingers firm but gentle as he steadied her, his voice low, a quiet command that somehow made its way through her panic. "Breathe, Charlotte." His face was close, inches from hers, his eyes sharp with concern as he searched her face, trying to pull her focus back to him.

But Charlotte's fear twisted quickly to anger, raw and searing, as if it were the only thing holding her together. She shoved him back, her palm flat against his chest, pushing him away as she grit her teeth, her voice a hoarse whisper, thick with unshed tears.

"Get away from me." The words barely left her lips, choked and strangled, as she struggled to keep from breaking down completely, her hands shaking against him, torn between pushing him away and clinging to him for support.

Tim didn't move. He didn't step back or drop his hands. He just watched her, his eyes steady and unreadable, a flicker of determination mingling with the concern in his gaze. She could see the way his fingers hovered near her, ready to reach out, his every instinct urging him to help her. But he stayed still, as if waiting for her permission, and something about that restraint made her anger burn hotter.

"Get away!" Her voice rose, a desperate, furious hiss as she shoved him again, her hands trembling. Each shove grew weaker, her strength fading, her breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. She could feel the tears now, hot and stinging as they spilled down her face, blurring her vision, making everything feel hazy and distant.

She was hitting him now, her fists slapping against his chest, but the blows were weak, landing with barely any force. Her movements grew sloppier, more desperate, as if each hit was a way to push away the pain, the memories clawing at her mind.

Tim stood there in silence, taking each blow, his face tightening but never turning away. His jaw clenched, and she could see the faint strain in his expression, the way he braced himself for each hit, not flinching even when a quiet grunt escaped him.

He looked at her with a mix of understanding and patience, as if he knew exactly what she was feeling, exactly what she needed to let out. Slowly, he guided her toward an empty interrogation room, his hands gentle as he maneuvered her inside, closing the door behind them.

She didn't stop. She kept hitting him, her voice slipping into broken sobs, her words dissolving into curses and desperate accusations, her throat raw from the effort.

Her fists grew slower, her hands curling weakly against his chest as her strength finally gave out. She slumped against him, her body shaking with the force of her emotions, her hands now resting limply against him as if she couldn't muster the energy to push him away anymore.

Tim reached up, his hands moving to the collar of his shirt, and he began to unbutton it slowly, never breaking eye contact with her. His gaze was intense, focused, as if he were stripping away more than just his uniform, baring some deeper part of himself for her to see.

The room was filled with a thick, heavy silence, the kind that held more weight than words, the air between them almost humming with the shared pain and understanding.

He took one of her hands, his touch steady but gentle, and guided it beneath his shirt, pressing her palm against his bare chest. His skin was warm, and beneath her fingertips, she could feel the steady, calming rhythm of his heartbeat, strong and unwavering.

Her breath hitched, and she found herself focusing on that heartbeat, the feel of it against her palm, the warmth of his skin grounding her in a way that words never could. Her breaths began to slow, her fingers resting against him as the anger and fear gradually faded, leaving only the raw, aching vulnerability beneath.

Tim's voice was barely a whisper, soft and rough with emotion as he looked down at her, his words slipping out like a confession. "Don't speak to me again after this. I don't deserve it."

His voice held a quiet resignation, a raw honesty that made her chest tighten. He spoke the words as if they were a final request, an admission of guilt, of regret, the weight of his emotions pressing into the silence between them.

Charlotte continued to cry, her sobs muffled against his chest, her hand resting there, feeling the warmth and steadiness of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. The room was filled with the sound of her quiet sobs, her breathing slow and shaky as she finally began to calm, the intensity of the moment settling into a quiet, heavy silence.

They stood there, locked in that fragile space between anger and forgiveness, hurt and comfort, as if neither of them knew how to let go but neither could find the strength to pull away.

And as the silence stretched on, as the weight of their unspoken words hung in the air, they both knew that something had changed.

Something deep and irrevocable, something neither of them could ever fully escape.

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐿𝑂𝑇𝑇𝐸 𝑆𝑁𝐼𝐹𝐹𝐿𝐸𝐷 softly, the sound echoing slightly in the stark, fluorescent-lit locker room, which felt both familiar and foreign after the emotional toll of the day. She lifted her hand to her face, desperately trying to erase the evidence of her tears, smearing the remnants of her mascara across her cheek in a messy streak that she hoped would go unnoticed.

The scent of sweat and industrial cleaner hung in the air, mingling with the faint whiff of fabric softener from freshly washed uniforms, creating an oddly comforting backdrop to her distress.

She could feel her heart still racing, the remnants of adrenaline coursing through her veins, leaving her shaky and unsettled.

As she turned her back to the mirror, hastily patting her cheeks with the back of her palm, she caught sight of Nyla moving quietly toward her locker a few paces away.

The older officer carried herself with a confident ease, her posture relaxed yet alert, embodying the very essence of someone who had weathered the storms of this job and emerged stronger. Charlotte felt a mix of admiration and insecurity wash over her, her own self-doubt creeping back as she saw the seasoned officer approach.

"I know this was a tough case for you," Nyla started, her voice warm and reassuring, like the sunlight peeking through the narrow windows. Charlotte quickly turned, a nervous smile breaking through her attempts at composure.

Wiping at her face one last time, she offered a small nod, her throat tightening as she fought the urge to break down again. Nyla's presence was steadying, yet the vulnerability of her own emotions felt like a raw wound, still stinging from the day's events.

"I want you to know that you've got a way with people," Nyla continued, her eyes meeting Charlotte's with genuine kindness. "That's a really good trait to have, especially in this line of work." The sincerity in her voice wrapped around Charlotte like a comforting blanket, easing the tension in her shoulders just a bit.

Charlotte felt a flicker of warmth bloom in her chest, her insecurities momentarily dulled by Nyla's words. She managed a small smile, the edges of her mouth turning up slightly.

There was something about Nyla's confidence that made Charlotte feel more capable, more worthy of this challenging path they walked together.

"But," Nyla said with a chuckle, her expression shifting to one of playful seriousness, "you need to learn when and how to get physical too, even if you'd love to talk it out instead."

The laughter that bubbled up from Charlotte felt like a small release, her giggle echoing softly in the room as she nodded in agreement.

It was a light moment, a brief respite from the weight she carried. The laughter brought a lightness to the air, a shared understanding that perhaps made the harsh realities of their job a little more bearable.

Nyla nodded back, her eyes bright with camaraderie. "And you were right; girls do need to support one another in this testosterone-filled job."

Her voice held a sense of camaraderie, like a sisterhood forged in the fires of their shared experiences. "Swing by the gym an hour or two before tomorrow's shift? We'll work on your fighting."

why do i feel like this is the end??? it's literally just the end of act 1???

thank you for the massive amount of support so far, i'm literally so thankful for every read, like and comment. god i love your comments they crack me up every time, never stop :,)

ily guys so much and i hope this was a good way to end act one, act two is only going to get crazier...

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 28.10.24 ❞