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Lucy goes with the ambulance to the hospital and Tim stands in her empty apartment, trying to ground himself against the emotions welling in his chest. The wall he’s carefully constructed for almost five years–because, really, he’s been steadily falling for Lucy since the very beginning–had finally started to come down and now he wishes like hell that it hadn’t. Because he’s mad. He’s mad at himself for crossing this line, he’s mad at Rosalind for ruining everything, he’s mad at Chris (which is the part he feels worst about, if he’s being honest), and he’s even mad at Lucy (which is the part that’s hardest to admit), for saying she didn’t feel anything and then inviting him in.
Jesus. What a fucking mess.
Tim is no stranger to cleaning up blood, or broken glass, or splintered wood. He’s no stranger to the kind of quiet that comes after. But it feels horrifically out of place here.
The couch is a loss, that much is obvious. No amount of peroxide or bleach will get rid of the blood.
Tim.
He’ll never unhear his name on her lips, begging for him to fix something he can’t. He’s never seen her so helpless. That had felt out of place, too. Because Lucy is a lot of things but helpless has never been one of them.
Shaking the memory from his mind, he drags the couch toward the door so he can reach the carpet underneath.
By the time he’s scrubbed away all the blood, his phone goes off.
Angela: He’s in surgery now. Bring Lucy some clothes.
Clothes, right. Because she’s covered in blood too. Because she’s still dressed like Sava. As badass as she’d been–and he’d told her that–he’d missed Lucy.
So Tim goes to her bedroom. Or he tries, anyway. But the doorway feels impassable. He’s never been in here and going in now, today, feels like a betrayal.
Her bed’s unmade but otherwise the room is neat. It smells like her, floral and clean. In the alternate timeline, the one without Chris, bleeding out on the couch, he’d have her in that bed right now, stripped of Sava and all his. He’d know what it was like to kiss more than her mouth, to taste her neck, to sink his fingers into bare skin. And it fucking aches, because he’s back at square one now, with none of his armor.
Still, tonight his only job is to be there for her. Because he couldn’t fix it, couldn’t turn back the clock and save Chris. Couldn’t go back even further and save Lucy from ever falling into Caleb’s trap in the first place. But bringing her a little comfort, a change of clothes, some uncomplicated company, he can do that.
He calls in help to get rid of the damn couch before driving to the hospital. Lucy doesn’t need to come home to that. She’s sitting in the waiting room in blood stained clothes, surrounded by their friends when he arrives. Her eyes find his instantly, but they’re empty, swimming with guilt.
“We’re still waiting,” Nolan says.
“It’ll be a long night,” Nyla agrees, taking the bag from Tim and turning to Lucy.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart. You’ll feel better.”
Because of course it shouldn’t be him. Not when there’s another option.
“Hey.” Angela squeezes his arm as Nyla leads Lucy away. “You have your go bag in your car, yeah?”
He blinks at her, the words taking several seconds to register before he nods.
“Come on, I’ll walk out with you.”
Part of him wants to object. There are so few people he’s let in, so few people who know him, truly, and Angela is at the top of the list. Being alone with her right now feels dangerous. He can’t break. Not yet, not here. But she stays quiet, just offering company.
“Wash your face. It’ll help,” she says when they reach the bathroom. “I’ll wait here.”
He nods, grateful, and locks himself inside.
Seeing his reflection, Tim understands why Angela had told him to change. He looks like hell. His clothes aren’t any better off than Lucy’s. Blood and bleach stain the fabric in equal measure. His hands are raw. He hadn’t really thought about chemical exposure when he’d been cleaning, but his knuckles are raw and his cuticles are dry. There’s the shadow of a bruise blooming on his jaw from the fight in the hotel room. Sighing heavily, he turns away from the mirror and starts stripping off his clothes, tossing them in the trash.
Washing his face does help, though his hands burn. Lucy would have lotion. Under any other circumstances, on any other day. The hollow feeling in his chest threatens to swallow him whole.
Now is not the time.
Steeling himself, piecing together some line of defense, he rejoins Angela in the hallway and they go back to the waiting room.
They wait for what feels like an eternity and he doesn’t say one word to her the whole time. For once, it just doesn’t seem like she wants him to.
_______________
It’s only once Chris is out of surgery and safely in his own room that Tim breathes. There’s still guilt written all over Lucy’s face and she can barely look at him, but everyone’s alive, and that’s what counts.
He texts her because it’s less pressure than a call, and just prays she doesn’t ignore him because he’s not sure he can take that rejection right now.
Tim: pick a couch. I’ll take care of the rest.
The message goes to read but there’s no response for a long time. It’s hard not to feel like he deserves the pain he feels, and harder still not to internalize it, make it a part of him again. After Izzy, he’d done exactly that. And the only reason he’d pulled himself out of it is Lucy.
When she texts him back, it’s hours later. The middle of the night. Not that he’d been sleeping. The alert startles him all the same.
Lucy: this one should work. [link]
Lucy: I’m not ignoring you, by the way. It’s just…hard.
Tim reads her words over and over until they stop making sense. He’d never wanted to make her life harder.
Tim: don’t worry about it. Couch’ll be set up by the time you get home. If you need anything else, let me know.
Simple. Easy. Because that’s what Lucy deserves.
He shows up at her apartment for the couch delivery and leaves when it’s done. Chris should be discharged from the hospital tomorrow.
Things will go back to normal. If he wills it hard enough, it’ll be true. It has to be.
When his phone rings the following afternoon and it’s Chris’s number, dread fills him. Had Lucy told him? She’s honest to a fault and a terrible secret keeper when it’s not about her job. Maybe the guilt had gotten to her?
His chest aches when he answers the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Tim. It’s Chris. Sanford. Lucy’s boyfriend?”
As if he wouldn’t immediately know, even without the caller ID. He doesn’t sound mad, which is something.
“Yeah, of course. What can I do for you?”
The rest of the conversation is static in his mind. The important parts filter through. Undercover school. Her dream. And she’s putting it on hold. For Chris. Out of a guilt that the guy only half understands. But Tim knows.
“I’ll talk to her,” Tim hears himself say.
“Thanks, man. I know she values your input. She just needs to hear it from someone that isn’t me,” Chris says.
“I’ll stop by later. Thanks for the call.”
And he hangs up, willing the noise in his head to quiet.
For the fourth time in two weeks, Tim stands in Lucy’s hallway. For the millionth time, he wishes he could go back to before. No part of him wants to be here right now. He’s barely seen her, barely spoken to her, and it’s been hell. But he thinks–knows–this will be worse.
The things he wants to say but knows he can’t stick in his throat as soon as she opens the door.
Choose me. It wasn’t a mistake. I love you.
The last one is the only reason he can look her in the eye and tell her to go.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Her words embed themselves and he wonders if his heart can even break if it was never whole to begin with. Sure as hell feels like it.
“I’m trying to do what’s best for you.” Except now that he’s here, watching her eyes fill with tears, he’s not so sure. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe she wants to choose him.
But it’s too late.
The only thing that stops him from breaking is knowing what he’d said is the truth. Without Chris in the equation at all, he’d tell her the same thing. It’s just that then, she wouldn’t need him to tell her.
It’s her dream and she’s made for it. At least one of them should get what they want.
There’s a voice in the back of his mind, saying he should have what he wants, too. But he’s too damn scared to go for it, so this’ll have to do.
A month apart. Some space would be good.
Except being away from her doesn’t help at all.