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1.
In the hazy days that follow that darkest of nights, Tim knows only a couple of things for sure.
The first is that, with Jackson's death hanging over them like winter rain it is not the time or the place to put the nameless moment that passed between them into the cold light of day.
The second is that that moment, burning in the low light of midnight with Lucy swamped in his clothes and her face full of wide-eyed questions, will one day change everything.
And even though he knows that they still have so far to go, she's the first thing he thinks of when he touches down back in LA, and the first person he calls the moment Lopez is safe in hospital.
"Tim," she says, hushed and breathless when she answers on the very first ring.
"Lucy," he says, and the relief he feels on hearing her swims right down to his toes. "I'm coming home."
And then he's driving, and sure, it's still not the right time, but it doesn't change the anticipation that runs through his veins when he puts his key in the door to find Lucy standing on the other side of it.
She's clutching his spare key, half-sheepish and half-fierce as she steps up to him in his hallway and doesn't say a word as she throws her arms around his neck, holding fast.
His arms come up around her without hesitation, and just like last time, just like he can't possibly stop himself, he slides his fingers into the soft waves of her hair and smooths, all the way down. Reassuring himself that against this backdrop of death and despair that Lucy is here.
That she, unlike so many others they've known both together and apart, is entirely alive.
2.
In the weeks that follow, it is easier than expected to avoid thinking about the things he is so reluctant to acknowledge. Not least because the only thing that really seems to matter now is pulling Lucy bodily through the darkness that settles over her when the extent of what she's lost finally sinks in.
Nobody else needs to know that she doesn't stay in her own bed for two weeks after Jackson dies.
She tries, at the end of that period, but turns up back on his doorstep at one a.m. with red eyes and an apology he won't allow her to finish. This time, he doesn't have to ask before he enfolds her in his arms and draws her inside, holding her close against him while she shivers and clutches at the fabric of his shirt.
He manages to persuade her to take his bed that time, nudging her in with his hand on the small of her back, but he doesn't bank on her catching his wrist when he turns to go. There's confusion when she looks at him distractedly, shaking her head.
"Please just stay," she says, tensely, restlessly, and for whatever reason it seems easier, kinder, just to do it than to make her understand why he should not.
So he sleeps next to her, a careful distance between them but safe in the comforting knowledge that should he wish to, he could turn over and find her chest rising and falling in time with her slow and steady breaths.
It will be the only time they do this, and they will never put words to it either. The next day, she and Nolan manage to sort through some of Jackson's things and ease the pressure of his still-felt presence just enough for Lucy to start living in the space he once inhabited again.
It's good, of course, a healthy development. But Tim can't deny there's somehow a new feeling of loss in him that's completely unrelated to Jackson West.
3.
The problem Tim then faces is that once he becomes aware that there's something he doesn't want to think about, it becomes impossible not to do so.
In true Bradford form, he puts up a valiant show of not letting anyone else realise what's going through his mind every time he looks at her. He is his usual gruff, all-bark self at work, and he watches her only from a distance when he thinks he can get away with it.
And it is gratifying to see her slowly emerge from her pain, the dogged resilience she has shown each and every time she's dealt a brutally unfair hand by life almost flooring him. There is no one else alive who makes him feel such sheer and unadulterated awe.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, and he realises that maybe he hasn't been watching her from so much of a distance as he thought. She's standing there holding two drinks, eyebrow raised, and he tries for a strict frown when he takes the one she offers him.
"I'm not looking at you like anything," he replies, but she looks at him pointedly as she slides onto the barstool across from him.
"Uh-huh," she says, and the way her eyes slide all the way up his body until they meet his lets him know that she remembers how it felt to stand, hip to hip, electricity not nearly enough to describe what passed between them that night all those months ago.
"Is there something you're not telling me?" she asks, and he looks at her.
There are so many things he would like to say, but it's still too soon, his conscience whispers quietly. It's too much too soon. Only, now he's not so sure for which of them he's making that excuse.
"Yeah," he says, and there's a small flicker of anticipation in her eyes, both anxious and intent. "That I'm gonna school you at pool in about five minutes."
She rolls her eyes then, smiling, but he can see. There's a mixture of both relief and disappointment, and he knows this song and dance of theirs has to end soon, one way or another.
4.
Sometimes Tim walks Kojo to Jackson's grave, though he's never really sure why. He liked the kid as much as anyone but the loss was not his in the way it was Lucy's and Lopez's and Grey's.
But he looks down at that headstone every now and then, and remembers that, Jesus, life can be so fucking short.
He exhales slowly, turning his eyes skyward, and as the pale sunshine breaks through the early morning sky he thinks to himself if not now, then when?
You should call her, comes the thought, unbidden, out of the blue.
"Tim? What's up?" Lucy answers the phone sleepily, and the tension leaves him at the way she sounds like she's still in bed, never really one for this time of day.
"Sorry, I forgot it was so early," he says, and because he already knows what she looks like when she's half-asleep and tousled in the morning he can't help but smile. "I just- I think I need to see you."
He can feel her pause, her surprise, in the moment where she doesn't speak, but there's warmth and teasing in her voice when she does.
"I am irresistible," she mumbles. "Come over. I might be dressed by the time you get here."
He can't say he'd particularly mind if she wasn't, but it's probably for the best that when she lets him in she's fully dressed and only a little bleary-eyed, cradling a mug of steaming coffee.
"Want some?" she asks, and he takes a moment too long to figure out what she's talking about, so she laughs at him and puts the mug down. He looks over at her intently, and hides nothing from his expression, until she seems to understand.
"OK. Are we finally going to talk about it?" she asks softly, and his eyes stay locked on hers, his heart thumping in his chest.
"I think it's time we did."
5.
Death is the bedfellow of life, he thinks. A time-bound certainty that lends living its meaning in the first place.
It's a long and painful lesson to learn, and God knows each of them has already learned it too many times.
He lies next to her in the mid afternoon warmth, sunlight streaming through her bedroom window and lighting every inch of their bare skin golden. The covers are tangled on the floor with their clothes, but he feels warm to the core, the racing of his heart a reminder that this is what living means.
Lucy has her fingers looped with his in the middle of the bed, but apart from that they're not touching. Just catching their breath, knowing that the other is right there, that nothing is left unsaid between them.
Before long she's gravitating to his side, her head finding the top of his shoulder and her arm and leg sliding over his until there's no distance between them at all.
He smiles, tilting his head to look at her and thinks this is the first time in his life he's really felt content. Like he's finally got the time and place just right in a world where missed chances and just-too-late seem to be the norm.
He slides his fingers into her hair at the base of her head and the only thing she's wearing is that pendant, which she never takes off. He runs his finger down the thin chain, and her eyes follow the motion.
"He'd be so happy," she says, a deep wistfulness in her voice. "For us."
He murmurs his agreement, tucking his chin so he can press his lips to her forehead, and the quiet words of reassurance and adoration are his vow, to a kid taken much too soon, to Lucy herself. That they will keep living, and they will face whatever comes next together.
Because no less would honour such a friend as theirs.
.
.