Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lily screams bloody murder because I gave her the green cup instead of the pink one. Not even ten seconds into our morning, and I’m negotiating with a two-foot-tall tyrant in sparkly bunny slippers, all while trying to zip up her little jacket and answer emails on my phone. I manage to swap cups mid-tantrum without spilling juice on either of us, and I feel like I’ve won a Nobel Peace Prize.

“Okay, pink cup, pink cup,” I say, tossing the green one onto the counter like it betrayed me personally. “Tragedy averted.”

Lily sniffles, accepts the peace offering, and immediately moves on to her next demand: “Unicorn backpack.”

“You need pants before you need a backpack, baby.”

“UNICOOORN.”

I mutter something that definitely wouldn’t make it into a parenting book and kneel down to wrangle her chubby legs into a pair of leggings covered in dinosaurs. She looks like a tiny, angry natural history museum by the time I get her dressed. Her curls are wild, her sock has already slid halfway off, and somehow she’s managed to get peanut butter on her temple. How?

“Alright,” I sigh, picking her up and looping her arms into the straps of her prized unicorn backpack. It’s twice her size, glittery to the point of illegal, and jingles when she walks like some kind of enchanted wind chime. “Let’s go to work, Mama’s got a lot to do today.”

My phone buzzes again: Dispatch: All call logs uploaded.

Right; because the world doesn’t stop for daycare emergencies or forgotten pacifiers.

The lobby key sticks—again—and I have to hip-check the door open while balancing Lily on one arm and my purse, work tote, and her ridiculous bag on the other. We stumble out like a circus act, me sweating in business casual and Lily chewing on a plastic dinosaur like it owes her money.

The sun’s too bright, my caffeine hasn’t kicked in and I’m about to walk into the SWAT precinct with a two-year-old who calls pistachios “stachy-yos” and thinks Deacon Kay is some kind of jungle gym.

I pause next to the car, heart pounding. My reflection in the window looks exactly how I feel: overwhelmed, undercaffeinated, and dangerously close to crying or laughing—depending on which one happens first.

“You ready, bug?” I ask Lily, who promptly blows a raspberry in response.

Fair enough. I take a breath, open the door, and carry her in. The second I push through the double doors into HQ, it’s like someone pressed pause on the entire building.

Phones ring unanswered, someone's mid-coffee sip and a clipboard drops in slow motion. All eyes—all of them—go straight to the tiny human on my hip, her glittery unicorn backpack sparkling like a disco ball.

Lily blinks at the room full of cops; then she raises one fist dramatically and declares, “HI!” A few people actually flinch. I think I hear Tan mutter “Oh, no” under his breath—like she’s about to throw a flashbang.

“Daycare plumbing emergency,” I say quickly, shifting Lily’s weight. “She’s tagging along. I’ll keep her quiet, I promise.”

“Oh my god,” Chris whispers, appearing in front of me like she teleported. “Is this... is this her?”

I nod. “This is Lily.”

Chris covers her mouth. “Oh, she’s even cuter than the pictures.”

Before I can blink, Chris is gently tapping Lily’s shoe and squealing over her pigtails. “She has snack crumbs in her curls. I love her, I’d die for her.”

“She says hi,” I say dryly, as Lily rests her cheek on my shoulder and sighs like she owns the place.

Chris leans in close, still cooing. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how many grown men around here are scared of your daddy. And now you’re just out here lookin’ like sunshine and fruit snacks?”

Across the bullpen, Hondo emerges from his office mid-conversation, spots us, and stops cold. “...What in the Fisher-Price is goin’ on out here?”

“She brought the boss’s kid,” Tan says like he’s narrating a nature documentary.

“Lily Kay, age two. Favorite color: sparkle” Luca chimes in, rising from his desk. “She’s a legend. I’ve seen more photos of her than I have of my own nephews.”

Hondo eyes Lily, then Deacon’s empty chair. “Where’s your dad, huh?”

“DEEDEE!” Lily suddenly yells, pointing behind me like she summoned him.

And there he is; Deacon walks in holding a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, wearing his usual calm-and-capable expression... until he spots us. His eyes soften. Like, visibly.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, coming to a slow stop beside me.

“She wanted to come to work,” I say, and my voice wobbles, just a little.

He looks at Lily. She stretches toward him without hesitation—juice-sticky fingers, mismatched socks, and all. Deacon’s already setting down his coffee.

“I got her,” he murmurs, arms opening.

She practically swan-dives into his chest. And just like that, the room melts.

Even Hondo’s face twitches. “Well, damn.”

Street is fully grinning. “Okay, not to be dramatic, but I’d follow her into battle.”

Tan whistles low. “She really is Deacon’s kid. Laid-back, observant and ruthless.”

Deacon adjusts her on his hip, presses a kiss to her forehead, and says—quiet, just for me—“She already runs this place.”

“She runs you,” I whisper back.

His smirk answers for him.

Chris fans herself dramatically. “If this man starts singing lullabies I’m gonna cry right here on the floor.”

“You cried watching a tire commercial last week,” Street says.

“It had a dog in it!” she shoots back. “I have layers!”

And just like that, the chaos of HQ returns, louder and somehow more joyful than before—because now it includes juice pouches, animal crackers, and one very proud little girl curled into her father’s shoulder like he’s her whole world.

Which, honestly? He kind of is.

“Is she always this chill?” Tan asks as Deacon lowers Lily into an empty chair next to his desk and hands her a sippy cup like they’ve done this every day for years.

“No,” I say. “She’s just luring you into a false sense of security.”

Right on cue, Lily throws a cracker across the bullpen. It arcs and lands on a clipboard. Hondo doesn’t even blink.

“Better aim than Street,” he mutters.

“Hey,” Street protests from the couch, mouth half full of protein bar. “She’s got the advantage of small hands and no impulse control. I’m measured.”

“She’s got you beat by 30 IQ points and a sticker chart,” I deadpan.

Lily squeals at the attention. She clambers out of her chair and toddles over to Chris, who’s now seated on the floor like she’s at storytime. Chris holds out a pen; Lily grabs it, then shoves it in her mouth.

“Okay, no,” I groan, heading over. “That is not a snack.”

Chris laughs and wipes it off with a napkin. “She’s fine. I used to babysit my cousins, if nobody’s bleeding, it doesn’t count.”

“Sound medical logic,” Hondo says dryly.

Lily turns, scans the room, and zeroes back in on Deacon—who’s returned to his seat, clearly trying to do some version of work while watching her out of the corner of his eye. She marches over to him and points dramatically at his lap.

Deacon raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You need something, boss?”

Lily points harder. Deacon sighs like a man defeated and lifts her into his lap. And she just melts into him, arms around his neck, head on his chest like she’s known how to do it since birth. Which, well, she kind of has.

The room goes weirdly quiet again. There’s a beat where I don’t breathe, where nobody does. Because seeing Deacon—stoic, unflappable, 10-year-veteran-of-everything-Deacon—cradle our daughter with that kind of unconscious tenderness? It feels intimate, almost too much to watch.

Then Luca breaks the moment by whispering loudly, “Okay but he looks hot doing it, right?”

Tan: “I wasn’t gonna say it, but—yeah.”

Chris, fanning herself again: “Someone give this man a BabyBjörn and call it a calendar shoot.”

I bite back a laugh and pretend I’m fixing my ponytail. Really I just need to look away before I get misty-eyed in front of the damn snack station. I walk back to my desk, pretending to scroll through emails, but really I’m listening to Deacon’s deep voice reading a printout of tactical reports like it’s a bedtime story. Lily doesn’t understand a word, but she’s hanging on every syllable, legs kicking slowly as she leans into him like he’s the safest place in the world.

A few minutes pass and not much happens. Deacon shifts slightly, adjusting Lily’s weight as he continues reading aloud—not baby talk, not some animated voice—just his voice. Calm; low and steady.

Lily’s eyes start fluttering. She’s not asleep, but she’s in that in-between space kids go when they feel completely, utterly safe. Her thumb finds her mouth. One of her curls is stuck to his badge.

I’m pretending to work—emails, schedules, inventory logs—but I’m not really seeing any of it. I’m watching him, watching them. I’ve never wanted to cry over a man reading logistics reports before.

He looks up, like he can feel me watching and meets my eyes across the bullpen. His brow lifts—just barely and the corners of his mouth twitch. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to.

I stand and cross over slowly, smoothing down the back of my dress as I walk. My heels click softly on the floor. Lily stirs just a little when I approach.

Deacon glances at her, then at me. “She’s fading.”

I nod. “I know that face, she’s gonna be out in five.”

“You want me to...?” He starts to lift her toward me.

But I stop him. “No. You’re good, she’s good.”

I reach for her sippy cup on his desk and take a sip myself. He raises an eyebrow.

“She doesn’t backwash,” I say. “She’s very advanced.”

Deacon huffs a little laugh. His hand brushes against mine when he sets the cup down. We both pause, his thumb lingers. I look down, then back up.

We’ve been together long enough that there’s trust, affection, even comfort. But this is the first time we’ve really shared this space. My world—chaotic, soft, messy—is in his arms right now, asleep against his bulletproof vest. And he’s holding her like he never wants to let go.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now. Just for me.

I nod but something in my chest tightens.

“Wasn’t sure how today would go,” I admit. “Didn’t want to... I don’t know. Bring a circus into your world.”

Deacon looks at me like I’ve said something stupid. Like I’ve just apologized for breathing.

“You are my world,” he says simply. “Both of you are.”

My breath catches. And then, like it never happened, he looks back down at Lily and adjusts the hem of her little unicorn T-shirt so it doesn’t ride up. Like that confession didn’t just wreck me.

“She's got yogurt in her eyebrow,” he adds, deadpan.

And somehow, that almost does me in.

The bullpen hums again; not with urgency, but with something softer. Radios clicking and laughter echoing from the gear room. Street and Luca arguing over the best juice box flavors like they're prepping for a tactical op.

Deacon hasn’t moved. Lily’s sprawled across his chest now, fast asleep, hand fisted into the collar of his shirt like a baby koala claiming a tree. Her legs twitch every few minutes—dreaming, probably, of snack time or sticker charts or world domination.

I sit next to him quietly, sipping coffee someone (Chris, probably) shoved into my hand fifteen minutes ago. The edge of his arm brushes mine and we don’t speak for a while.

This is weirdly domestic. We’re not at home, there’s no couch or cartoons playing in the background. And yet, the rhythm of this moment—his hand on our daughter’s back, my shoulder leaning into his, the steady way we exist together—it feels like home.

He looks over at me just for a second.

“She’s out,” he murmurs.

“Out-cold,” I agree. “You’ve got the magic touch.”

“I don’t do anything special.”

“You just breathe near her and she goes limp. That’s sorcery.”

He smirks, eyes dropping to Lily’s soft, scrunched face. Then: “You okay?”

I pause.

Then I nod—slowly, carefully. “Yeah, just watching you.”

Deacon’s quiet for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. And my throat tightens. “You’re really good at this with her and with me.”

He looks at me again; full-on, this time.

“I love you,” I say, and I don’t even mean to. It just falls out, like I’ve been holding it between my teeth for months and it finally slipped.

His expression doesn’t change much but his eyes do. Soft, warm and anchored. Then, without saying a word, he leans in—slow, deliberate—and brushes his lips against my cheek. My whole body goes still. And then, because I am a person who ruins things with humor when I’m overwhelmed, I blurt:

“If you kiss me while she’s drooling on your shirt, I’m gonna marry you by accident.”

Deacon’s laugh is soft but deep in his chest. “Then maybe I’ll hold off ‘til I’m wearing a fresh one.”

I don’t respond. I can’t because Lily stirs. Her tiny hand reaches toward his collar again and Deacon adjusts her like it’s nothing. Like he was born to carry this girl and all the weight that comes with her.

My heart feels like its blooming and breaking all at once and I know this isn’t just a relationship, it’s a family.

Chapter Text

I buzz Deacon from my phone.

Me:

We’re in the lot. You might want to warn the squad that their queen is back.

Deacon:

Bring her in. They’re already waiting.

I can see him through the bullpen windows now—jacket off, sleeves rolled, talking to Hondo while Lily’s tiny purple hoodie hangs from the back of his chair. He’s ready like always.

I haven’t even made it through the metal detector when I spot it. On the far side of the bullpen—just outside my desk—there’s a brightly colored foam mat. Like a baby playroom mat with alphabet tiles. That weren’t there yesterday.

A juice box sits on my swivel chair and taped to my desk drawer, in Chris’s handwriting, is a neon pink sticky note that says:

 “For Her Majesty. Snack tribute in drawer #2. ❤ ️ - Auntie Chris

I blink at it and then look around. Chris is already walking toward me, holding two travel mugs and a bag of applesauce pouches like she’s been training for this moment since the day Lily was born.

“She here yet?” she asks.

“She’s in the car,” I say, stunned. “I thought I’d come set up first, let you guys breathe today...”

Chris waves that off. “Absolutely not, the kingdom awaits its heir. Also, I found Paw Patrol videos in Spanish. We’re learning today.”

I blink. “You’re teaching my toddler bilingual firefighting?”

“With subtitles,” she says, proud. “Respect the process.”

Just then, Luca strolls in holding bubbles, literal soap bubbles. “Is the princess awake yet?”

I stare at both of them. “What the hell is happening?”

Chris sips her coffee. “You brought the serotonin yesterday. We’re investing in long-term morale.”

“She drew on Deacon’s calendar and nobody even yelled,” Luca adds. “She’s magic.”

I cover my face and laugh; they don’t know what they’re doing to me. It’s not just that they’re being sweet; it’s how effortless it is and how normal they make it feel. Like this wasn’t supposed to be awkward or intrusive, like Lily just belongs here and like she’s part of the team.

The second we walk through the doors, Lily launches like a glitter-drenched missile across the bullpen.

“DEEDEE!”

She’s still got crumbs on her chin and one sock halfway off her foot, but Deacon doesn’t flinch. He crouches, catches her mid-charge, and lifts her high in the air with a strength that looks effortless—like tossing around twenty-five pounds of pure chaos is just part of his daily warm-up.

“Hey, baby girl,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Lily responds by smacking both her hands onto his face and declaring, “You got fuzzies.”

“She means your stubble,” I call, grinning as I hang up her unicorn backpack.

Deacon’s eyes flick toward me—brief, smirky. “I’m aware.”

Chris appears beside us holding two sticker sheets and a mini juice bottle like a bribe. “Okay, Lily. You, me, bubbles and a mission. Let’s roll.”

Lily looks at Deacon, then at Chris. She weighs her options like a tiny general considering a temporary truce. Deacon leans down and whispers something in her ear. Whatever he says, it works—she grins, lets go of his shirt, and slides down into Chris’s arms.

Chris gives me a wink like she just completed a hostage negotiation.

“She’s good with her,” Deacon murmurs.

“She is,” I say. Then tilt my head, smiling. “But she’s still your favorite jungle gym.”

He chuckles softly, brushing glitter off his shoulder. “She gets that from you.”

“What, the glitter?”

“No.” His eyes drag down, slow. Heated, but fond. “The way she climbs all over me like she belongs there.”

That silences me, in a good way.

Before I can reply, Luca calls, “Chris, I need backup—she’s trying to bubble the radio!”

Chris: “Ten-four, moving in.”

Lily: “BUBBLES GO EVERYWHERE!”

I lean against the wall beside Deacon, arms folded, trying not to laugh as chaos re-erupts in the corner of the room.

“They’ve got her,” he says, glancing at me sideways.

“Oh, I know.”

He pauses. “You wanna get out of here for a sec?”

I blink. “You mean… away from the human glitter bomb?”

“Locker room’s empty and the door locks.”

That look in his eyes? It’s soft. But it’s also hungry and I’m already moving.

The moment the door clicks shut behind us, the air changes. Not the temperature, not the lighting. Just the space. Like we’ve stepped into a pocket where nothing exists except his body, and mine, and the thrum of something we haven’t let surface in weeks.

Deacon leans back against the locker wall but doesn’t speak; just watches me. His eyes do that slow scan—like he’s checking every inch of me for something he’s missed and maybe he has. Maybe we both have.

“You okay?” he asks, low.

I nod. “Are you?”

His mouth twitches—more smile than smirk, but it’s there. He steps forward, hands light on my hips, thumbs dragging across the fabric of my dress like he’s remembering the shape of me.

“You wore the one I like,” he murmurs.

I glance down. It’s just a navy wrap dress; it’s a little clingy and soft at the waist.

“You like all of them,” I say.

“No,” he says, voice even softer now. “I love this one. Makes you look like you’re holding secrets under it.”

His hands slide lower over the curve of my hips, palms spreading over softness like it’s something sacred and reverent.

I laugh, breath catching. “There are no secrets, just Spanx.”

He huffs against my neck—amused and completely, helplessly gone. Then his hands tighten.

“God, I miss touching you like this,” he murmurs. “Miss feeling you with nowhere to be. No schedules and no juice cups in bed.”

I tilt my face toward his, lips almost grazing. “You’re the one who let her bring Goldfish crackers into the sheets.”

“She looked at me like I was a monster for saying no.”

“You’re weak.”

“I’m yours.”

That stops me. He sees it land—how those two words shift the atmosphere between us from flirty to serious and grounded.

He cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing the softest parts of my cheeks. “You don’t hear me say it enough,” he murmurs. “I know that.”

“You show it,” I whisper.

“I want to say it, too.” His eyes roam again; slower and hungrier. “Want to remind you that I don’t just love being in this with you. I want you, all of you.”

My pulse flutters. My hands settle on his chest, fingers curled in his t-shirt.

“And what exactly do you want right now?” I ask, barely audible.

His nose brushes mine. “To kiss you so slow you forget we’ve got ten minutes.” And then he does.

He kisses me like he’s starving. But slow, intentionally slow. Like he wants to taste everything he’s missed—the softness of my lips, the curve of my jaw, the breath I suck in when his hands skim over the dip in my back.

His palms hold my waist like he’s memorizing its shape again—not in spite of how plush I am, but because of it. His thumbs trace every hill, every curve, every line that makes me me. When he backs me against the locker, I feel it—the wall cool behind me, him hot in front. And everything in me wants to drag him closer, to press him into me until the world disappears.

But we only have ten minutes.

His mouth hovers at my ear. “Come home with me tonight.”

My heart jumps. “Yeah?”

“I want to wake up next to both of you, make pancakes and wear a t-shirt that smells like yogurt by 8 a.m.”

I smile so wide it aches.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He kisses me again—one last, deep, open-mouthed press of tongue and breath and promise. Then someone bangs on the door.

“GUYS?” It’s Chris. “We lost Lily. Correction—she lost us. She’s in Luca’s locker.”

Deacon grins against my mouth.

“I got it,” he calls, already pulling back, already reaching for the door.

I lean against the locker, breathless, lips swollen, dress rumpled—and so stupidly in love I could melt through the floor. He turns and winks.

“You look good against metal,” he says, voice smug.

And then he’s gone.

Lily’s asleep again. Two chairs pushed together, unicorn backpack as a pillow, one leg hanging dramatically off the side like she fainted from battle. She’s got a graham cracker clutched in one sticky hand and a pacifier hanging from her hoodie string like a fashion statement.

The bullpen is quiet. There’s no radio chatter, no running and no bubbles. Just the soft, warm lull of post-lunch calm.

I sit next to Deacon on the bench near the corner window, close enough to touch, close enough that I can feel the edge of his thigh press against mine. He hands me half of a sandwich I didn’t ask for and I take it without question. We sit in the quiet for a while. Eating and breathing.

And then—because it’s too quiet—I say:

“She loves you, you know.”

He glances at me, mouth full. He chews slowly and swallows. “I love her right back.”

I smile, but it’s fragile at the edges.

“She doesn’t even hesitate anymore,” I say. “When she sees you she just goes.”

“She trusts me.”

“She does.” I look down at my hands. “So do I.”

That makes him pause.

“I know,” he says quiet and steady. “And I don’t take that for granted.”

I nod and my throat tightens.

“I didn’t think we’d get here,” I admit. “Not like this. I used to dream about having a partner who could just handle it, you know? The chaos, the mess and me.”

Deacon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches over, wraps his hand around my knee, and squeezes—solid, warm.

“You’re not a mess,” he says. “You’re a miracle and so is she.”

My eyes sting, but I don’t look away.

“You really mean that?”

He leans in a little, gaze fixed.

“I mean everything, when it comes to you.”

There’s a long pause. The kind of silence that settles deep, that fills you up instead of leaving you empty.

And in that stillness, Lily snorts herself awake and immediately yells, “WHERE’S MY CHEESE?!”

We both burst out laughing.

Deacon stands, already heading over. “On your face, baby girl.”

“NO, NEW CHEESE!”

“Then we must prepare for battle,” he says solemnly.

And I sit there, wiping my eyes with a napkin that smells like fruit snacks, knowing with every beat of my heart: I’m already home.

Lily’s passed out, again. She’s curled on top of Deacon like a human weighted blanket—chubby arm tucked under her cheek, one boot half-on, the other dangling from the armrest. She’s snoring gently into his chest, and he’s just there. One hand rests on her back, the other loosely holding mine.

We’re both sunk into the bullpen couch. Lights are dimmer now, radio turned low. A weird kind of peace has settled over everything—like even the building knows something soft is happening and doesn’t want to interrupt.

Chris passes by with a cup of tea, sees us, and softly gasps. She pivots like she’s in a wildlife documentary, tiptoeing backward and mouthing at Tan: LOOK AT THEM. Tan peeks, smiles, and immediately turns back around like it hurts to look too long.

Street walks in, sees us, and visibly stops himself from yelling something dumb. He salutes instead, like we’ve achieved a new level of domestic bliss and he respects the command structure. Even Hondo pauses in the hallway, eyes lingering for a moment longer than he needs to. He says nothing, just offers me the tiniest nod. The kind that means: Yeah, we see you.

Deacon shifts slightly, adjusting Lily’s weight without waking her. She sighs and murmurs something that might be “cheese.” I curl closer into his side, cheek resting on the top of Lily’s curls. His arm tightens around me.

Chris leans over whispering: “Okay, but like… if you two don’t get married, I’m quitting.”

“I second that,” Luca says. “Also, can we put this on the Christmas card? Just saying.”

Deacon doesn’t open his eyes. “One of you takes a picture and I start filing HR reports.”

“Killjoy,” Chris mutters, but she’s smiling as she walks off.

I lean up, kiss the underside of Deacon’s jaw. His eyes flutter open—just for me.

“You okay?” I ask.

He nods. “Perfect.”

And in this rare, quiet moment—with our daughter asleep on his chest, and the world moving gently around us—I believe him, I believe us. And the best part? No one even tries to say goodbye. They just leave us there like we belong.