A/n I had a random idea for a Chenford AU and to be honest I'm not sure how into AUs this fandom is but I had to scratch my creative itch so to speak.

I would really appreciate people's thoughts 3

/

1.

Los Angeles is a city of contrasts, sprawling like a sunlit mosaic from the Pacific Ocean to the arid mountains. Known worldwide for its glitz and glamour, it's synonymous with the film industry, where the Hollywood sign watches over a patchwork of neighbourhoods that pulse with ambition. It's a city of endless summer days, where palm trees sway against a backdrop of smog-tinted sunsets and freeways hum like arteries through its beating heart.

But beneath the star-studded reputation lies a quieter rhythm, especially in the more suburban enclaves like Mid-Wilshire. Here, the city's energy softens. Streets are lined with modest, well-kept homes and duplexes, their facades a mix of Spanish Revival, Craftsman, and mid-century modern designs. It's a place where neighbours nod to each other while walking their dogs, and the hum of lawnmowers fills Saturday mornings.

Here, the noise of the city feels distant, muffled by the slower pace of family-run bakeries, local parks, and strip malls that have stood for decades. The area is alive with diversity, reflecting the city's cultural tapestry, but here, life unfolds at a pace that feels almost serene compared to the chaos of downtown or the frenzy of Hollywood Boulevard.

It's a place he's from, where he's lived all his life – so why does it no longer feel like home?

If he properly allowed himself to analyse it, he would have an answer. A therapist would have an answer almost immediately. He's been through a lot and since being back from Iraq, L.A. feels less shiny, in some ways it feels fake, especially compared to the realness he's seen, he's experienced, but he has accepted that this is how he will feel for the rest of his life now.

Tim Bradford walks into his apartment building, the door being held open for him by a neighbour who lives downstairs. Derek? David? Something like that. He shakes his head at himself, wondering if it's his memory or just he has shown no interest in finding out, but he is unsure why it matters. His dog brushing past him snaps him out of his thoughts, and the white and brown American Bulldog Staffordshire Terrier jumps up to press the button on the elevator with his black nose. "Good boy." His owner praises and gives the dog a pat on the head as he waits, but the elevator never comes.

His brow dips as he presses the button this time, and then feels his shoulders slump at the sight of the button lighting up but then immediately going dull again. Tim sighs on realising that the elevator must be broken again and makes a mental note to report it when he gets back to his apartment…. On the fifth floor.

It doesn't sound like a lot but as he grips the handle of his cane tightly, it seems like he's about to climb a mountain, but he's definitely climbed steeper more difficult mountains. "Come on Kojo, up the stairs." His trusty companion leads the way.

When he was discharged from the army in 2007, he thought life was over. He was only in his late-twenties and had been in the military since leaving school. Suddenly, that wasn't an option anymore, not only that, but it was also like he had no options. Between the injuries and the lack of prospects, was the PTSD and the self-hatred and the limp that a psychiatrist once told him was probably psychosomatic. He hoped it was but he's now in his late-thirties and it still takes him an age to get upstairs. Fortunately, he has a patient dog, and no-one waiting for him when he makes it to the fifth floor.

He's frustrated when he does, strained and out of breath, his grip tightening on the worn handle of his cane. His leg throbs in that dull, persistent way it always does after too much exertion, but he doesn't stop to dwell on it. Kojo, his loyal companion, patters ahead, nails clicking softly against the hallway floor. The dog pauses by their apartment door, ears perked as he waits patiently for Tim to catch up.

But Tim's attention is snagged by something out of place. The door to the apartment across from his is propped open slightly by a cardboard box, the flaps half-crushed as though it's been stepped on a few times. He slows, his discomfort momentarily forgotten, and straightens a little, curiosity piqued. The noises he's heard over the past few days – thumps, the scrape of furniture, muffled music – had made him suspect someone new had moved in. Until now, he hadn't given it much thought. People come and go all the time. That's just how it is.

Kojo settles at Tim's side, panting softly, but he lingers by his door. He can't help but glance inside the open apartment. The place is in the usual state of half-move-in chaos: cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly, a folded blanket draped over a chair that hasn't quite found its corner yet. In the middle of it all, a young woman stands precariously on a stool, her back to him, a paint roller in hand as she stretches to reach the upper part of the wall. She's singing softly to herself, her voice clear and unselfconscious, blending with the faint hum of the radio playing in the background. A cheerful pop song. Something upbeat and bright, at odds with the drab beige walls she's attempting to cover in a fresh coat of lemon pie yellow.

Tim shifts his weight, fingers drumming against the head of his cane. Socialising is not his strong suit. Hasn't been for years. That part of him, the part that knew how to strike up easy conversations, how to charm strangers with a quick grin, had died somewhere on a dust-choked area halfway across the world. He'd come home with scars and a limp, and over time, he'd let himself fade into the background. It's easier that way. Easier to keep his head down, to live quietly, to let the world pass him by.

But still. It would be rude not to at least say something.

Clearing his throat, Tim takes a careful step forward, leaning a little on his cane. "Uh, hey." Is all he manages to come out with, and later he will mentally chastise himself for being so awkward.

The woman startles, nearly dropping the paint roller as she turns to look at him. For a split second, her expression is one of surprise but then she breaks into a smile. It's an easy smile, warm and disarming, the kind that catches Tim off guard. "Oh! Hi!" She says, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a streak of yellow paint across her skin. "Didn't hear you over my music…and my singing." She blushes, then hops down with an agility Tim envies, landing with a soft thud.

Kojo, ever curious, takes this as his cue to investigate, his tail wagging as he pads forward to sniff at her shoes. The woman crouches to greet him, scratching behind his ears without hesitation. "Well, hello there." She coos. "And who's this handsome guy?"

"That's Kojo." Tim replies, surprised by how steady his voice sounds. "He's friendly."

"Good to know." She says, beaming up at him from where she kneels. "I'm Lucy, by the way. I just moved in. Clearly." She gestures toward the open boxes and half-painted wall with a sheepish laugh. "You must be my neighbour?"

"Yeah. Tim." He nods toward his door, just a few feet away. "I'm across the hall."

"Nice to meet you, Tim." Lucy stands, wiping her hands on the legs of her paint-splattered jeans. "Sorry if I've been making a racket these past few days. I didn't realise how much noise I was making until I caught the glare that the guy downstairs gave me earlier."

Tim smirks faintly. "Don't worry about it. The guy downstairs hates everyone."

Lucy laughs, a sound that's bright and genuine, and Tim finds himself caught off guard again. It's been a long time since he's heard someone laugh like that, especially directed at something he's said. "Well, that's Daniel off my Christmas card list." Daniel! Tim rolls his eyes at himself for forgetting his neighbour's name.

Kojo then decides to whine as he brushes against his owner's good leg. "Sorry, he always has a drink when we arrive back after his walk." He apologises but Lucy is still smiling sweetly – and perhaps this is why Tim doesn't want the interaction to be over so soon. "I am going to make coffee. Did you want some? Painting is thirsty work."

"I will definitely take coffee if you're offering. Thank you."

"All good. How do you take it?"

"Just with a bit of milk."

"Coming right up."

Tim pushes open the door to his apartment, Kojo trotting in ahead of him with his tail wagging lazily. The familiar, quiet space greets him with its usual stillness, the faint scent of coffee lingering from earlier that morning. He lets the door click shut behind him and leans his cane against the wall, exhaling as he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it by the door.

Kojo pads over to his water bowl in the corner of the kitchen, sniffing at it expectantly. Tim chuckles under his breath. "All right, all right. Let me get it." He fills the bowl from the tap, setting it back down on the mat with a soft clink. His dog doesn't waste a second, dipping his head to lap at the fresh water, his tail thumping lightly against the cabinets.

With Kojo taken care of, Tim moves to the coffee maker. The kitchen is small but tidy, the counters mostly bare save for a few essentials. He pulls two mugs from the cabinet and sets them down, his movements practiced and methodical. As the machine sputters to life, Tim opens the fridge to grab the milk. His eyes land on the whiteboard stuck to the fridge door, its surface filled with his familiar scrawl. His to-do list, most of what is on it for today is completed, apart from ironing his uniform polo and making his packed lunch for tomorrow.

He stares at the list for a moment, the marker smudges and checkmarks a testament to his constant need to organise his thoughts. These lists had become a lifeline in recent years, a way to keep his head above water when the weight of everything threatened to drag him under. Without them, things slipped through the cracks, important things.

Tomorrow marks the first day of the new school term, and Tim's stomach twists slightly at the thought. He likes teaching, genuinely does, but the start of term always comes with a flurry of nerves. New faces, new routines, and the endless energy of high schoolers ready to test his patience.

Kojo, now finished with his water, wanders over to nudge Tim's leg with his nose. He absently scratches behind the dog's ears as he uncaps the marker hanging from the whiteboard. He draws a bold line under the remaining tasks. "Polo shirt and lunch." He mutters to himself. "That's it. Then we're good to go."

He sets the milk on the counter and pours it into the steaming mugs, stirring each one before grabbing both by the handles. It's a little awkward, balancing the mugs while reaching for his cane, but he manages. He glances once more at the whiteboard as he heads for the door.

The lists had started as a necessity, a way to cope with the fog that sometimes crept into his mind, but over time, they'd become a ritual. A way to keep himself moving forward, even when it felt easier to stand still. When Tim woke up this morning, socialising with someone new wasn't on his to-list – but perhaps it's okay to go off-piste. "Be back soon, boy." Tim says to his loyal companion before stepping out into the hallway.

He knocks twice on Lucy's door with the side of his fist, balancing two steaming mugs of coffee in one hand. It's a precarious hold, his cane tucked firmly under his other arm, and he's concentrating on not spilling a drop. The door is ajar, like before, and her voice floats out to him, humming along with some upbeat song playing on her radio. "Come in!" She calls cheerfully.

Tim nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside. Lucy is crouched on the floor, carefully pouring thick yellow paint from a tin into a roller tray. She looks up just as Tim appears, her brows lifting when she takes in the sight of him and straightens, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. "Do you need help with that?" She asks, already halfway to him, prepared to take at least one of the mugs.

"No." Tim says quickly, with a small shake of his head. "I've got it."

Lucy hesitates, clearly sceptical, but she doesn't push. "Okay."

He sets both mugs down with a quiet clink, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, before he turns back to her and shrugs one shoulder. "It's nothing fancy. But it's still coffee."

Lucy grins as she grabs a rag to wipe a stray splash of paint from her wrist. "I'm not fussy." She comments before picking up the coffee and taking a sip whilst her guest takes in his surroundings, studying the half-painted bright wall on the other side of the room. "What do you think of the colour?" Lucy asks.

Tim hesitates. "Well, it's… well, it's yellow."

She laughs. "Yeah, it's quite bright."

"It is that."

"I like bright colours, though." She continues, walking back towards her painting supplies. "Yellow, well… it's a happy colour, isn't it?" She kneels again, stirring the paint gently with the roller. "I think this might be the only time my colour psychology class comes in useful."

His gaze flicks to her. "You studied psychology? At school?"

"College." Lucy corrects with an easy smile. "I am a psychologist."

Tim freezes. The words hit him like a brick, and he can feel his walls snap back into place, thick and impenetrable. His fingers tighten instinctively around the handle of his cane, and his shoulders stiffen. He's suddenly hyperaware of himself like how he's standing, how he looks, how he might sound. A psychologist. The word sets him on edge.

He's met psychologists before. Sat in too many rooms with them after he came back home, their patient, knowing eyes searching for cracks in his armour. He's learned that psychologists always find things about him that he'd rather bury and never look at again. He doesn't like the feeling of being seen, of someone trying to read him, and now he's acutely worried that Lucy is doing just that.

But if she notices his sudden change in demeanour, she doesn't show it. She's still focused on the paint tray, talking lightly as if nothing's shifted. "Yellow is associated with joy and optimism and energy." She explains. "At least, that's what the textbooks say. Thought I'd give it a shot. What colour is your living room?"

Tim looks away, his jaw tightening. He doesn't want to answer. He doesn't want her to know anything about him other than what she already knows. He's a man who has a dog and a cane, why does she need to know anything else even if they are neighbours? "It's…" He clears his throat. "I should probably let you get back to work."

Lucy looks up, surprised. "Oh. Sure, of course."

"Enjoy the coffee." Tim says quickly, already moving toward the door.

"Thanks, I will." She replies, her tone puzzled now, but still kind. "See you later?"

"Yeah. Course." And then he's gone, cane tapping against the floor in hurried, uneven beats.

Back in his apartment, Tim sinks into his armchair and sets his cane aside, staring blankly at the wall across from him. It's blue. He's always liked the colour blue, he finds it comforting, but he doesn't need to know why. He glances towards the door, where Kojo lies sprawled on the floor, ears perked slightly, as if waiting for something.

Tim exhales, his shoulders sagging. Yellow might be a happy colour, but he's not sure he's ready for happy. Not yet.