Chapter Text
The closer the calendar gets to November, the harder it becomes for Tim to keep up his promise to himself. He’s happy for Lucy, really. She’s never been so excited as the day she showed him the resort they’ve booked for a Paris honeymoon, the fairytale trip she’s always dreamed of. And when she texts him from her bachelorette party, a couple of drinks past tipsy, close to a dozen messages in fragmented staccato to build two sentences?
Well, he’s hanging out at home, and he’s pretty sure Kojo won’t say anything about the smile on his face.
Tim
Tim Tim Tim
Timmmmmmmmmm
I’m so exciteeeeeeeeee
Im getting MARRIED
Isnt it exciting?
SO EXCITING
And you’re going to be there
You'll be there right?
I want you to come
Alllllll my friends, but extra for you. You're an extra friend.
He’s not sure what it means, “you’re an extra friend,” but he's pretty sure it’s a compliment coming from Lucy. Regardless, his answer is the same.
I’ll be there. Told you, wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Lucy doesn’t text him back, but Angela posts pictures by lunchtime the next day, and Tim can only assume that she was too blitzed to comprehend his reply.
Still, she can read it back in the light of day, any time she needs the reminder. He cares about her, he’s excited for her, and nothing else is going to get in the way of that.
He needs to see it too, finds himself scrolling back through their messages more and more often to see the texts as the wedding draws closer.
He wouldn’t miss it for the world.
The thought runs on an endless ticker tape through his mind, just a week before the ceremony, as he sits across the table from Lucy and nurses a beer on their night off. They’ve played a game of pool, the score closer than usual, but his next drink is still on Lucy, like it almost always is.
“It’s what, a week away?” Tim asks, like the date hasn’t been seared into his memory for months now. He doesn’t have to say what ‘it’ is; they both know.
“Yeah,” Lucy smiles and sips her own drink. “Hard to believe, like I’m going to be a wife.”
“Hey, you’ll be great at it.” Tim smiles back at her, hoping it comes across as friendly and comforting. “Just like being a fiancée, but with a different title. And the biggest promotion party of your life. And an officiant.”
“Yeah, my dad’s really excited. He got ordained online like five years ago just for fun, and he’s finally got an excuse to use it.”
Tim looks down at his drink, suddenly unable to keep looking at Lucy’s smile. She’d mentioned before that her dad is doing the service, but it’s so close now that the reality is sinking in.
Lucy’s getting married. Her dad is walking her down the aisle, then helping her exchange vows and rings with the man of her dreams.
“He ready to give you away?” Tim asks it without looking up.
“He’s … a lot more excited about being in the wedding than he is that I’m getting married. I mean, he’s happy for me, of course. He loves Emmett, and he wants me to be happy, but he keeps saying things about how he’s ‘losing me.’” Lucy rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere; we both work in LA.”
Tim knows he should probably take Lucy’s side. She’s probably looking for him to say something about how she’ll still have time for her parents, no one is losing anything, she and Emmett are just gaining each other and each other’s families.
He can’t do it. He opens his mouth to agree with her, but nothing comes out. He’s only met Lucy’s father once or twice in passing, doesn’t even know the man’s first name. But right now, Tim knows exactly how he feels.
Mr. Chen might be the only one walking her down the aisle, but he’s not the only person who’ll be giving Lucy away.
“He’ll come around,” Tim says instead, trying to convince himself as much as Lucy. Maybe if he says it enough times, it’ll be true. Maybe he’ll reach a day when seeing the ring on Lucy’s finger doesn’t feel a little bit like a punch in the gut.
But in the meantime, he’ll pretend like it doesn’t hurt and just hope that tomorrow is a little easier.
It works, for a few days. But the next thing Tim knows, it’s late Thursday morning and he’s standing shirtless in his dress slacks, pulling the ironing board from the hall closet. His dress shirt hangs from the lip of a dresser drawer, necktie draped over side of the hanger.
Before he presses his shirt, though, he reaches for the roll of silvery wrapping paper he’d bought and wrestles it lengthwise across the board. The space is a little narrow, but it means he can stand at his full height instead of bending awkwardly over his coffee table to wrap the paper around the slow cooker-and-then-some he’d picked out for the happy couple. He folds the corners neatly, tucks all the raw edges underneath and seals the seams with tape. The card is a little trickier, but after a moment, he finds a generic well-wish to scrawl at the bottom and signs his name.
Wishing you both a lifetime of the happiness you deserve.
Tim tapes it to the front of the package and slides the whole thing to the kitchen counter, then turns back to pressing invisible wrinkles out of his shirt. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s worn this suit before, how many times he’s testified or how many other rare instances he’s had to get dressed up. Today, it needs to look the best it ever has.
He folds the shirt collar up and slides a dark blue tie around his neck. It’s one of his favorite ties, dark enough to be subtle and understated, but just a little bit of color against the bright white dress shirt and black suit. He knots it carefully, flexing his fingers so they won’t shake as he slides the half-Windsor to rest at the base of his throat and reaches for the jacket he’d draped across the foot of his bed.
He slips the suitcoat over his shoulders, but before he buttons it closed, he slips back out to the kitchen. Even as he’s doing it, it feels ridiculous to be sneaking around in his own home, where he lives alone, but Tim pulls the bedroom door open quietly and sticks close to the walls until he can pull open the drawer of rarely-used kitchen supplies and pull out a flat, silver flask. It’ll only hold a few ounces of the whiskey he takes from on top of the fridge, but Tim thinks it should be enough to get through the ceremony. There’ll be an open bar at the reception, he knows, but he’ll need something before then, if he’s expected to keep his mouth shut through ‘speak now or forever hold your peace.’
On impulse, he lifts the flask to his mouth for a quick sip before screwing the top on tightly and slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat. It’s nowhere near enough alcohol to impair him, but the burn lingers in his throat as he does up the button and checks himself in the mirror. Every seam sits evenly, every crease is folded sharp and pressed flat. His tie hangs perfectly, snug but not puckered, the length just barely grazing the top of his belt.
But in spite of all that, Tim only notices one thing about his reflection: this suit would be perfect for a funeral.
It’s not a rational thought; he knows that black suits are timeless, that the light grey alternative he has is out of season, that the royal blue tie will fit in with the colors of Lucy’s venue. But it feels fitting for today, when he’s privately mourning everything he'll never have with Lucy. So he brushes an invisible speck of lint from his lapel and reaches for his keys on top of the dresser.
With the present balanced on one hip, Tim has to turn sideways to make it through the front door. The box is too wide for the floorboard, big enough that it takes up the passenger seat of his truck, and he rests an arm on top of it as he backs down the driveway.
He’s out the door almost exactly on time, set to arrive at the venue just shy of an hour before the ceremony is scheduled to begin. It’s a short drive across town, by LA standards, 40 minutes for him to keep nudging the volume dial on the radio just a little bit louder, in the hopes that the music will drown out the dread building up in his gut.
It doesn’t work. By the time he pulls into his parking space, it feels like there’s a brick in his stomach. His feet are heavy, leaden with every emotion he’s trying to hide, as he circles the truck and slides the box back into his arms. The invitation is in his pocket, but there’s no usher at the door, only a sign asking people to “pick a seat, not a side; you’re loved by both the groom and bride!”
Tim takes a deep breath, scanning the room in search of Angela before he remembers that she’s off somewhere helping Lucy get ready. He leaves the gift on the table and reminds himself that he’s excited for Lucy and happy to be here as he slides into a folding chair in the back row. The bow tied around the back of it matches the ties on the corners of the tent, holding back the fabric that threatens to cage him in.
He has to admit, he’d been curious to see how a wedding in an outdoor tent would be “cute” or “romantic,” but the sides are largely open, so there’s plenty of natural light. And whatever darkness would have been left is shined out by the fairy lights Lucy had been so excited about. Everything is decorated in dark red ribbons, shiny gold, little green leaves and tiny white flowers.
Somehow, even if he hadn’t known this was Lucy’s wedding, even if “L&E” weren’t monogrammed across every imaginable surface, Tim still would have been able to tell. It’s perfectly in line with Lucy’s personality, and he’s picking up hints of what he knows about Emmett as well, even if he’s got less to go on about the groom’s taste in wedding décor.
Before he realizes it, Tim’s fingers are tucked into the pocket of his jacket lining, brushing along the top edge of the flask. He needs a drink, needs it more and more with each passing second, each glance at the next decoration.
He needs a drink, but he won’t let himself have one. Not yet. There’s only so much whiskey to carry him through the next couple hours, and he doesn’t want to waste it. Not when he knows the afternoon has hardly begun, and what comes next is bound to cause him even more pain.
So he leans back in his seat, picks up the program and traces the swirls in the corner with his thumb. It’s hardly the distraction he’s looking for, but it’s something to do while he tries not to look around too much.
“Not looking around too much” is blown out of the water sooner than he’s ready for, though, when Tim sees a dark red blur hurrying across the grass outside the tent. He blames it on his instinct, between the LAPD and the Army, but his head turns toward the movement before he can stop himself. It’s Angela, that much is easy to tell as soon as he gets his eyes to focus. She’s leaning into the side of the tent, whisper-shouting for Wesley, who’s one of the few other people in the makeshift room. Tim starts to wave, but it’s pretty clear that Angela isn’t paying enough attention to even know that he’s there, so he puts his hand back in his lap.
He’s too far away to make out the entire conversation, but catches something about high heels and softer-than-expected grass. Wesley jumps into action, following his wife back away from the slowly-growing crowd taking their seats. It’s getting close to time for the ceremony and people are starting to trickle in. Tim recognizes about half of them, out the corner of his eye, as he keeps watching where Angela and Wesley are walking away.
His gaze follows them up a shallow hill, far enough away from the main venue that they’re not likely to draw much attention. There’s a distant figure dressed in white, and Tim doesn’t need to squint to know who it is.
Even from way back here, Lucy looks incredible. She's balancing between Wes and Angela, doing something with her feet that he can’t quite see. Then the three of them start making their way back toward the tent, slowly, like people aren’t supposed to notice the approach.
As they get closer, and Lucy comes into clearer view, the brick in Tim’s stomach turns itself into a wall. He can feel the dread pushing on his lungs now that Lucy is close enough that he can see her face. He doesn't know enough about makeup to know what she’s done, but it’s the best she’s ever looked, as far as he can remember. And that’s saying something, because he can’t remember a time she’s ever looked less than stunning. Her hair is pulled away from her face, but he can see just a few light waves curling against her shoulders. The dress is familiar, from the pictures she’d sent, but no phone screen could ever do her justice. She’s radiant, laughing at something Wesley just said, and Tim swallows roughly against the urge to empty his flask in one drink.
Right behind that is the sudden impulse to get up and go meet her halfway across the field, beg her to reconsider this and send everybody home. He wants to stop this, keep Lucy from making the biggest mistake of his life. For months now, he’s pretended like everything is fine, put up a good front and acted excited when he needed to, even though it’s like he’s dying inside.
He can’t do it. He can’t do this any longer. He doesn’t trust himself to keep up the act anymore, even just for a few more hours. He can’t sit by and watch Emmett put another ring on Lucy’s finger and pretend that he doesn’t wish it was him up there at the altar with her.
After all, he gave her a ring months before Emmett was even in the picture. He can still remember the feel of the opal too, perfectly smooth beneath his fingers, just the way Lucy’s skin looks today.
Not that it matters.
Because he can’t do this. He can’t be here, can’t listen to Mr. Chen ask if there are any objections and trust himself not to stand up. He can’t smile all night, steal Angela from Wesley and dance with her like nothing’s wrong, congratulate Lucy with a smile on his face. He can’t do any of it.
So he stands up, quietly and carefully. He ignores the pang of guilt when he thinks about Lucy looking out across her audience and not seeing him there. He’d rather she miss him; it’s better than her being embarrassed when he loses the battle against holding back everything he’s felt since the day she’d shown up at work with the diamond ring on her finger.
He checks his pockets for his phone and keys, feels subtly for the hard edges of the flask as he slips out the same opening in the curtains through which he’d entered.
(A benefit to the flowy, outdoors-y wedding: he doesn’t have to worry about letting a door slam by accident.)
As he leaves, he sees the silver-wrapped present on the table, but knows he can’t take it with him. He’d bought it for Lucy, Lucy and Emmett, and he wants them to have it. Lucy deserves it, deserves all the good things in the world, and that includes friends who want to be at her wedding, not friends who are dying in the back row.
So Tim walks out. He walks across the grass, back to the parking lot, thankful that it’s far enough away that his truck won’t be a distraction as the engine turns over. But he doesn’t drive off, not right away. No, he takes a swig from his flask and sits there in his parking place, head tipped back against the car seat, and groans.
What kind of jackass is he, if he can’t even put on a smile for a few hours and support Lucy? He’s supposed to be her friend, first and foremost. And part of that means always being in her corner, even when it’s the hardest thing in the world for him.
Eventually, he can’t take it anymore, can’t stand seeing the wedding tent in his side mirror, and finally pulls away. He’s not sure where he’s going, but he isn’t going home. As the venue fades off in the distance, he wishes silently for Lucy and Emmett to be happy together, surprises himself with how bitter the words sound, even inside his own mind.
He drives aimlessly, focusing just enough to keep up with traffic and driving laws, no real destination in mind. But after a few minutes, he’s parking again, pulling his tie loose but leaving it knotted around his neck.
Tim sits in the truck for another minute, engine turned off, staring at the dashboard until the lights go out and he pulls the key from the ignition. When he looks up, he recognizes the diner immediately, but can’t figure out how he ended up here, of all places.
Then it hits him: her second shift, checking up on her over lunch, knowing exactly where Wrigley would take her. Of course he ended up here, of all places. It’s the closest thing he and Lucy have to a restaurant that’s their place, where they don’t go with a group of coworkers or dates or anyone but each other. They’ve eaten here a handful of times since, whenever a call landed them on this end of town, or they were hanging out over here; the burgers really are good enough to be worth the drive.
Tim doesn’t think he can stomach a burger tonight, though. As he throws the truck door open, his stomach is still in knots.
He sits in the back here, too, folds himself into a corner booth away from everyone else, where he can stare out the window. A waitress offers him a menu, but he waves it off, asking for a black coffee and an order of fries. He doesn’t even want the fries, really, but he’s hardly eaten today. When she brings them to his table, he picks at them for a few minutes, nibbles his way through a few bites before he turns his attention to his coffee.
The flask is still tucked into his pocket. When no one is looking, he slides it out and pours a strong measure into his mug. Irish coffee has never been his drink of choice, but it’s the only option he has right now, the only way he can be subtle about it and still feel the alcohol settling into his veins. So he drinks it down, then chews through a few more fries while he waits on a refill.
If he’s going to empty the flask, he shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach.
He’s on his third mug of coffee, each stronger with whiskey than the last, when he starts wondering how long he can sit here before anyone takes notice of the guy in the disheveled suit, sneaking booze into his mug. It’s been close to an hour, he thinks, so he should probably think about heading home soon, before he drinks too much more and renders himself unable to drive.
The idea of going home is enough to turn his stomach around what little food he’s put into it, though. He doesn’t want to go back to his house, alone and quiet and miserable, when Lucy is having the best day of her life. He doesn’t regret sneaking out of the wedding, but he does wish more than anything that he’d been able to share that moment with her. There’s so much left unsaid between them, a million things Tim wishes he could tell her, but knows he can’t.
It’s too late now; he’s missed his chance.
He’s trying to decide if he can stay for a fourth cup or not, when something catches his attention out the window. The buzz is just starting to reach his mind, fogging over how he’d been thinking about Lucy, all the times they’d eaten here, how much she’s grown since he started training her. He’s wallowing in his own self-pity, if he’s honest, but the blur distracts him, even as it disappears before he can tell what it was.
Tim cranes his neck, but he’d need to be on the other side of the booth to see the right direction down the sidewalk. He thinks about moving, but doesn’t want to give up the solid wall behind him. He’s never liked sitting with his back to an open room, has always wanted to know if someone is approaching him, even on the days when his reflexes are top-notch. But nothing about today feels top-notch.
Besides, as it turns out, he doesn’t need to move. Because the shadowy figure is backtracking, slowly reappearing in front of the window. Tim knows who it is right away; even through the messy hair and the tear-stained cheeks. If the white dress didn’t give her away, it wouldn’t matter. Tim would still know, will always know when Lucy is around.
He looks up far enough to make eye contact with her, and his chest goes tight when he sees the fear in her eyes. He thinks about tapping on the window, but clearly he already has her attention. Instead, he picks up a fry and waves it at her, then points at the empty side of the booth and raises an eyebrow.
Lucy nods, her bottom lip quivering as she turns again and starts toward the door. She’s moving quickly, but unsteady, so unlike the light, regal steps she’d been taking earlier.
Tim beckons for the waitress, orders a chocolate milkshake just as he hears the bells chime when the door opens. He’s still holding the fry, but Lucy plucks it from his hand as she drops herself into the booth across from him. She puts the fry in her mouth, and her hand in Tim’s. He squeezes instinctively when he feels her fingers shaking in his grasp.
“Lucy?” He whispers her name, trying to figure out what’s going on, even though he has a pretty good idea.
“I couldn’t do it,” she says through her tears. “I couldn’t marry him.”
Maybe it’s not too late, after all.