Chapter Text
Morgan noticed the theft shortly after devouring a bagel on a random Tuesday morning. Her purple Energel pen was missing. Her favorite purple Energel pen.
It didn’t take long to find the culprit – one look around the room, and there he was. Karadec standing across the bullpen – grumpy as ever – filling out evidence forms with her pen in hand.
She knew it was probably an innocent mistake – it wasn’t like purple was his go-to color - but in her mind, a crime had been committed, and justice had yet to be served. So she marched across the room – heels clacking on linoleum, bangles jingling on her wrist – she was a one-woman percussion section announcing her arrival.
“Yes,” Karadec droned, refusing to look up from his notes.
“Hey!” she snapped, pointing at his hand. “That’s mine.”
He closed his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “You left it on my desk – God forbid you should ever do any work at yours. So, yes. I picked it up and used it. I didn’t mean any harm, Morgan.”
“So, you admit that you stole it,” she scowled.
“I borrowed it,” he corrected, calmly. “And not by choice. Seriously, who uses purple ink?”
“I do!” she said, grabbing the pen from his hand and replacing it with a much more Karadec-appropriate Bic Stic. “Here. Boring, bland, blue ink. It’s far better suited for your reports – and for you, if we’re being honest.”
Karadec blinked once. “OK. If pen-gate is now resolved, can I get back to work?”
“Yep,” she said, taking a step closer, wielding the purple writing instrument like a tiny sword. “Just – don’t let it happen again.”
Later that afternoon, Morgan and Karadec found themselves in a dingy parking garage, combing through the oil-stained concrete for any clues that might lead to a missing heiress, but all they turned up was an old In-and-Out receipt and cigarette butts discarded long ago.
After their unsuccessful sweep, Morgan clicked off the tactical flashlight she’d been using, Karadec’s tactical flashlight with the serrated bezel edge, and absentmindedly slipped it into her coat pocket.
He didn’t notice it was missing at first, but by the time Morgan walked into the precinct the next morning, he was waiting like a storm about to erupt.
“Where’s my flashlight?” He asked before offering so much as a good morning.
Morgan held back a grin – mostly - and shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.”
Karadec pushed his chair back, the legs scraping sharply against the hard floor, and stood, arms crossed. “Morgan, I know you have it,” he said. “Please tell me this isn’t retaliation.”
“Retaliation?” she smirked with wide-eyed innocence. “Retaliation, for....”
“You know,” he replied, exasperated. “For me, borrowing your Hello Kitty pen.”
Morgan gasped, loud enough to turn heads.
“It was not a Hello Kitty pen!” She declared. “It was a perfectly respectable Pentel Energel, thank you very much. And now I’m offended! Everyone knows Hello Kitty glitter pens are not workplace appropriate! They’re strictly for to-do lists and writing passive-aggressive notes to your kids’ teachers.”
He dragged a hand down his face, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer asking for strength. “Morgan, that flashlight is... special to me.”
That was the wrong thing to say. She tapped a brightly manicured finger against her chin.
“Special, huh? Anything you’d need to confess here? Like - what’s the flashlight’s backstory? A gift from your first love? Did you two use it – you know – illicitly?”
He stared at her. Blinked twice and made the best decision he had made so far that morning – he decided to stop all engagement.
“You know what—forget it,” he said firmly, waving her off as he retreated to his desk. “If it makes you so happy – just keep it!”
But she caught the look he shot her – and she knew this game had come to an end – now, it was war.
Two days later, Morgan realized her tangerine-bedazzled coffee thermos, her caffeine lifeline, was missing. Actual panic set in until she heard a distinct slurping sound coming from the crime board. There Karadec stood, casually sipping from her thermos. She was not amused.
“Adam,” she snapped, hands planted on her hips.
He turned, his face devoid of emotion, save for a faint twitch at the corner of his lips. “Morgan,” he nodded.
“That’s mine.”
“No,” he smiled. “It was yours. But you left it unattended in the sink last night,” he said, taking another sip. “It seemed lonely, and me... well, I was thinking about my flashlight, and somehow, this,” he held the garish thermos up to the light. “This hideous concoction brought me joy – so I took it home with me. Outstanding heat retention, by the way.”
Morgan made a face - equal parts fury and amusement. “This isn’t over,” she muttered over her shoulder as she stormed off.
“I’d expect nothing less,” he smirked, filled with satisfaction.
The Tipping Point arrived soon after, on a bright but chilly Sunday morning. They were at her place, combing over evidence files sprawled across the living room table, when his phone buzzed, and he was called in for an interrogation. He left in such a hurry that his old Lakers sweatshirt remained draped over the back of Morgan’s sofa.
She picked it up and called after him, but it was too late to chase him down. Instinctively, she lifted the vintage sweatshirt to her nose – taking in the familiar scent of cedar and laundry detergent that always let her know when her partner was near, and she smiled.
The sweatshirt had seen better days - it was faded, worn, the kind of thing that could have been thrown away long ago, but it survived because it was too comfortable and too loved to discard.
She stood there a moment, when the draft from her old windows crept up her spine, leaving her with a shiver.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said, pulling Adam’s sweatshirt over her head.
It was soft and warm – so warm – it felt like a tender hug that she was enjoying a little more than she should. But she wasn’t taking it off – that wasn’t negotiable.
Her phone buzzed later that night – it was Karadec. He finally cracked and was seeking a resolution.
Karadec: Alright, I surrender - ceasefire request. Tomorrow, let’s bring all confiscated items to work to be returned to their rightful owners - no questions asked. My Lakers sweatshirt is a step too far. The fun’s over.
Morgan snorted into her tea – did he really think he was innocent in this whole thing? Still, she played along.
Morgan: Fine. Your terms are accepted. But for the record, you started this.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Until finally -
Karadec: We’ll litigate that point tomorrow.
She grinned at the glowing screen, his sweatshirt wrapped tight around her. Tomorrow would be interesting, but one thing was for sure – she didn’t want to give his sweatshirt back.
They both arrived early the next day. Karadec came armed with a small cardboard box containing her tangerine-bedazzled thermos, two gel pens, a nail file, and that bizarre little troll doll she used as a stress ball. He set it down so solemnly, one would think he was returning national treasures.
Morgan came in seconds later, carrying a gift bag filled with his tactical flashlight, a brand-new spiral notebook, his travel mug, and a pair of leather gloves he hadn’t even realized were missing. She handed it over to him with a bright smile.
“Here you go!” she said quickly, too quickly. “Now, we’re all squared away!”
Half of the team was watching – their head ping ponging between them as if they were watching a tennis match. It seemed like the armistice was reached when Karadec’s face crumbled.
“All right, Morgan. Where’s my sweatshirt?”
“Sweatshirt?” she asked, feigning confusion. “What sweatshirt?”
“You know exactly what sweatshirt,” he said, folding his arms defiantly. “My Lakers sweatshirt. Where is it?”
Morgan’s lips twisted, eyes narrowing as she desperately searched her mind for a lie that might be believable. But he knew her too well – he knew that look – and Morgan knew she was toast.
“It’s at home,” she admitted bluntly.
“Why?”
“Because…” she hesitated, then blurted, “Because I love it, Adam! It’s soooo cozy, and I don’t want to give it back.”
She shoved the horrifying troll squishy toy into his hands. “Here. You keep this – I’ll keep the sweatshirt. Fair trade!”
He stared at the troll, horrified. “That is not a fair trade, Morgan. I want my Laker’s shirt back.”
“But, Adam!” she whined. “I love it. And when I wore it last night, well, I haven’t slept that well in years—years. Honestly, letting me keep it would improve my job performance. So really, you’d be benefiting too - indirectly.”
Their friends all turned to him – waiting for a response, but he stood there, his mouth dangling open. But his mind was stuck on one single fragment of what she had just said:
“...last night I wore it… best night’s sleep…”
His mind filled in the visuals against his will - Morgan curled up in bed, his sweatshirt swallowing her frame, collar slipping off one shoulder, blonde hair spilling across the pillow as she tucked the sleeve under her cheek and nuzzled in.
By the time the mental slideshow reached the point where she let out a content little sigh and fell asleep, Morgan was waving her hand frantically in front of his face.
“Adam? Earth to Karadec?”
He blinked hard, cleared his throat. “Fine. You keep it.”
Morgan froze, shocked that victory had come this easily. “Really?” she beamed. “I can keep it? And the troll, too?”
“You can have the troll,” he said quickly, already regretting every decision that led him here. That sweatshirt had history, and he wasn’t ready to let it go.
“Look—OK—maybe instead of you keeping it forever, we could… work something out,” he said, awkwardly.
She raised an eyebrow. “Like a shared custody agreement?”
“Exactly!” he snapped his fingers. “I was thinking alternating weekends.”
“Generous,” she said. “But I get it on all major holidays.”
“Deal,” he said. “But I keep it for the entirety of any Lakers postseason run.”
She considered this seriously, then stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
~~~~~
A month later, Karadec dropped a paper bag on Morgan’s desk and cleared his throat like he was delivering a subpoena.
Morgan peeked inside with a smile. “I’m impressed! You’re actually sticking to the custody agreement?”
He shrugged, leaning against the edge of her desk. “Orders are orders.”
She pulled the sweatshirt half out of the bag, pressed it against her chest, and asked with mock solemnity, “And when will you be picking it up?”
“Sunday night,” he said. “Or Monday morning. Depending.”
Her brows lifted. “Depending on what?”
Karadec held her gaze for just a moment too long. “Depending on if ... you want to sleep in it.”
Morgan’s grin grew slowly. “Oooh, I’m pretty sure shared custody doesn’t usually involve overnight stays, Detective.”
“It does in this arrangement,” he said, pushing off her desk with a little smile. “But I reserve the right to check on it in person.”
Her pulse did something it absolutely shouldn’t have at work.
“Fine,” she said, holding the sweatshirt close, “but if you show up after midnight on Sunday, I’m calling the judge.”
He was already beginning to leave - satisfied, but understanding that he was in completely over his head. He tuned with a smug smile.
“Noted,” was all he could manage to say.
Morgan watched him walk away, his sweatshirt warm in her hands, and it was then that she realized one very important detail: Custody of the sweatshirt might not be the only thing they were sharing anymore.