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It’s becoming something of a theme, Lucy thinks, and she can’t say she’s exactly a fan of it.
How can I help? she’d asked Detectives Lopez and Harper, and she’d been sent off to babysit a pile of vomit.
Alone.
How can I help? she’d asked Nolan and Celina, and they’d brushed her off until they’d needed her to take over transportation of their suspect to the hospital.
Alone.
What have I done? she’d asked, and yet everyone she considers a friend — her family, even — had stood outside of her hospital room door, talking about her in low tones, no one bothering to fill her in or comfort her or even tell her it’s going to be okay.
And again, she’s alone.
She’d sat alone at the table while waiting for Tim, had watched Nolan and Celina receive praise on TV right after they’d both fucked up, even though when she’d fucked up someone had played clown music throughout the whole station and mocked her.
Alone
Alone.
She’s always fucking alone, lately.
Except for…
“Lucy.”
It’s immediate.
The relief.
Her body sags, and she can see in his eyes that Tim wants nothing more than to take her in his arms, but just as his hand — warm, comfortable, familiar — touches her back, she sees the people outside of her room turn to enter.
Go away! she wants to yell.
Leave me alone, just like you have all day!
But she doesn’t.
She knows they come bearing the news that she needs . The news of the man she’d shot. And she’s thankful, afterward, because the news that he’s still alive takes some of the weight off of her shoulders.
But then Grey and Wesley just… turn and walk away.
No one hugs her, or tells her it’s going to be okay.
No one offers sage advice on how to deal with the fact that she almost killed someone, even though she knows they’ve all been there.
No whispered words of “You did what you had to do.”
No reassurance, just — “If he dies, the investigation will have to resume.”
It’s all very clinical.
And Angela and Nyla don’t even come into the room.
They don’t look at her.
They don’t even turn her way when Tim pulls the curtains and then begins gently, carefully, taking the hospital gown off of her.
And they’re gone when Tim opens the door and ushers her out, his arm around her back and his body pressed all along hers as they walk through the now empty corridor.
They’re gone, and she’s alone.
Her family.
It occurs to her, as Tim is basically lifting her into his truck even though they’re both aware she can buckle her own seatbelt, thank you very much, that no one has even touched her since he hugged her goodbye this morning.
Even when they’d thought she’d been shot, Angela and Nyla hadn’t touched her.
Not a hand on the shoulder.
Not a hug.
Not even a thank god.
Nolan hadn’t even called her or texted her.
Tim drives silently, his eyebrows pulled together and his lips pressed into a thin line as Lucy holds onto his hand for dear life. Her fingernails are leaving marks in his skin, but she knows if she lets him go, she’s going to break.
She’d thought she’d found a new family when she’d joined the police academy. She’d had Nolan and Jackson, and then, eventually, Angela, Nyla, Sergeant Grey, Tim, everyone. After Caleb, everyone had her back.
She’d grown close to them all, and then closer still after Jackson’s death.
But lately…
Alone.
Lucy doesn’t realize she’s sobbing until Tim is parking the truck in her apartment parking lot. He carefully detaches her hand from his, and she’s about to sob harder when she realizes that he’s opening her door and pulling her into his arms. Not just for a hug, either; he’s literally cradling her, pressing kisses to her forehead as he carries her up the stairs and down the hallway to her apartment. He unlocks it one handed, tosses their stuff to the floor without caring, and brings her into her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.
When the door slams, the dam breaks.
She’s not sure if she’s sobbing words or just sounds, but she knows it’s loud and undignified. She’s trying to tell Tim how she feels, how it feels like everyone in her life has abandoned her, left her out at sea without a life vest. She’s barely treading water, clinging to the little moments where he reassures her and makes her smile. But everything inbetween is 17th place and watch this pile of vomit for three hours and fucking clown music.
Everyone laughs, tells her tough break, and expects her to just pick herself up and continue on even as they advance in their careers while doing nothing extraordinary.
Does there come a point, she wonders, where she can’t pick herself up anymore?
Does there come a point where she stops trying, because nothing, nothing she does seems to matter.
She doesn’t know how much of this she manages to communicate to Tim, but by the time her sobs die down and she comes back to reality a little bit, she realizes that he’s been murmuring soft, comforting words into her hair as he holds her. She’s curled into his lap, her fingers clinging so tightly to his shirt that the creases are probably permanent, and she can see tears slowly sliding down Tim’s cheeks as well.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers, his lips pressing an endless series of soft, barely-there kisses to her chin, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. His arms are around her back, strong, holding her to him.
Holding her together.
“I just feel so fucking alone,” she stutters, and she knows that he knows she doesn’t mean him.
He’s there.
He’s always there.
But he’s the only one who is.
The one who hugs her and reassures her, and pushes her when she needs it. The only one who knows, who sees, how she’s hurting.
Who sees beneath the mask of I’m fine she presents to the world.
“Shhhh,” he murmurs, rocking her slowly now, side to side. They’re on the bed, she realizes, the blankets still a mess from this morning. It smells like them, and as she starts sucking in deep, calming breaths, she begins to anchor herself.
Five things she can see.
A picture of them with Kojo.
Tim’s pajamas, thrown over the chair even though she’d told him to pick them up.
Love you! – Tim — the note he’d left her before her detective’s exam.
Their new blankets.
The pillow he’d shoved into the middle of the bed to be closer to her last night.
Four things she can touch.
The comforter, so different than her last, the one they’d picked out together.
Tim’s jeans under her thigh.
Tim’s chest.
Tim’s scruff, when she reaches up to cup his cheek.
Three things she can hear.
Tim’s words in her ear.
Tim’s heartbeat.
Tim’s breathing, slow and calming.
Two things she can smell.
The flowers on her bedside table that Tim had brought her.
The scent of Tim’s cologne.
One thing she can taste.
Tim.
“You’re not alone, baby,” he whispers as he presses his lips to hers, and Lucy’s chest tightens as he kisses her slow, soft, sweet. “I know it seems like it right now, and your feelings about how everyone else has been treating you are valid. But even if everyone else disappears from your corner, I’m still here. I’m your biggest cheerleader, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Lucy nods and tucks her head into Tim’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and cologne and his deodorant. She can tell that they probably both need a shower, but she likes the spicy scent of it’s-been-a-long-day Tim.
She likes knowing he hadn’t showered (or even changed out!) before rushing to the hospital to be at her side when no one else would.
“We can tackle all of this tomorrow,” Tim murmurs, and Lucy nods again because she knows he’s not trying to brush her off, but merely trying to help her rest so that she can face her feelings with a renewed mind. “Shower and then rest, okay? I’ll order dinner while you clean up.”
Lucy shakes her head, though, because she’s not hungry.
“Shower with me,” she compromises, and Tim smiles as she pulls back, her hands still and not trembling for the first time since she’d begun running across that alleyway.
“Deal,” he murmurs, and Lucy feels some of the aching in her heart abate when he stands and then pulls her into his arms, walking backward into the bathroom as though he can’t bear to be away from her for any length of time.
He washes her slowly, massages her head as he rinses her curls, and then dresses her in panties and one of his large, heavenly smelling t-shirts. He stands behind her, hands on her hips, as she brushes her teeth and takes her medication. Then he bundles her into bed and pulls her into his arms, wrapping himself around her until she can’t tell where she begins and he ends.
She sighs and rests her head on his chest, her heart beating slow and steady as he kisses her temple again.
“Sleep,” he murmurs. And then, “You’re not alone, Luce. I love you.”
She smiles and burrows further into his warmth, and while she knows that in the morning all of her problems will still be there — her worries, her fears, the crushing sense of alone — for the moment, she feels at peace.
Tim is her safe place, her constant supporter, and she feels safe in his arms.
I’m not alone, she thinks, and she falls asleep with a smile on her lips.