Chapter Text
In the days and weeks since the dust settled on the US Institute, Tim has been learning. (How to be a parent; how to help a traumatized child; how to resist the need to keep them within eyesight all the time so you know they're safe.) And re-learning or honing skills he'd let go years before. (How to live with someone you are only just getting to know. How to make healthy meals for more than one person.)
Tim's not dumb - he's one of that rare set who has street smarts and book smarts - but he's. He's not sure he's the right guy for this job. He's trying, God he's trying, and he's not planning to stop anytime soon. But he doesn't know-
Anyway.
Right after The Institute fell, Tim was amazed at how well Luke was handling everything. A week or so later, he started seeing the cracks in the kid's façade and he felt a little ball of panic take root just under his ribcage.
The first time he woke up in the middle of the night to stifled sobs, he froze. Should he knock on Luke's door? When he'd been 14, decades ago, he would have been mortified if anyone had seen him crying, but kids now maybe don't have that problem? The cries settled before he could make himself move, and the only sign that anything was wrong the next morning were the boy's red-rimmed eyes when he came to the breakfast table.
Tim put extra chocolate in his milk, slathered extra butter onto the toast before he put it on the kid's plate of eggs and bacon.
"How you doin', pal?" he asked, looking at Luke's face for only a second before turning to give him some privacy, in case he didn't want to talk about it.
"Rough night," Luke croaked, trying to hide his scratchy voice in his enthusiasm for the food.
Tim nodded, gently ruffling his curls as he passed behind him with his own plate.
"You know I'm here if you wanna talk about it, ok?"
Luke nodded, ducking his head in a pretty clear indicator of how much he wanted to chat at this moment.
Tim didn't hold a grudge about it; he'd offered out loud, and that was what he wanted to do that morning. They ate their breakfast with the radio playing quietly in the background, and when Luke offered to help clean up Tim smiled and accepted it, unable to resist smoothing the back of his blonde hair in thanks.
The rest of the day had been smooth sailing, and as Luke shuffled off to his bedroom, Tim hoped the night would be kinder to the kid than the one before.
He'd fallen asleep close to midnight, Trauma-Informed Foster and Adoptive Parenting open on his chest. Only an hour later he was woken again by quiet crying coming from the other side of the wall.
By the time he'd untangled himself from his blanket and gotten into the hall, the cries were almost over and there was lamp-light shining from the crack around Luke's door. He knocked gently, anyway.
Luke opened the door, not hiding the fresh tear-tracks on his face or the tired and haunted look in his eyes.
"Hey," Tim started, then stopped. What do you say to your traumatized adopted teen in this situation? "Can I do anything for you, bud?"
Luke gave him the smallest smile - small, but genuine. "No," he answered, voice scratchy, like maybe Tim only caught the tail end of his grief tonight. "Sorry for waking you up."
Tim shook his head. "Don't worry about waking me up." He studied the boy in front of him. "Nightmares? Memories?"
Luke just nodded sadly. "I'm just gonna sit up and read for a while, I think."
"Ok," Tim said as he stepped away. "Please wake me up if you need- or want-"
"I will. Thanks." Luke closed his door and Tim went back to his bed, still tired but feeling like he'd never sleep again.
Tonight, Tim doesn't know if he's cut out for this. He thinks about the stack of parenting books he has on his nightstand - all three on helping kids through trauma, and wasn't that a gut punch when he started to think about why there was this whole specific subset of adolescent parenting books out there - as he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. He thinks, maybe if he stays awake, Luke's sleep will be kind. He's never considered himself superstitious before, but maybe he's only just found the necessary mix of abject helplessness and fierce, protective love that makes believers out of the most grounded or skeptical. He wonders if this is what people who are devoted to sports teams feel like. If his secret vigil works tonight, will he never want to wash these clothes again?
He must have nodded off, because the clock on his nightstand suddenly says it's almost one, and the most heartbreaking, tragic sound he has probably ever heard is coming from the next room. He scrambles to the door, tripping on a bedsheet as he goes. Terror grips him.
He knocks on Luke's door again, "Luke? Luke, buddy? Can I come in?" The wailing doesn't stop, and Tim makes an executive decision. "I'm coming in, kid."
Luke looks so small in the middle of his bed, his knees pulled up to his chest as he rocks back and forth. Tim kneels in front of him even though every bone in his body is screaming for him to wrap his arms around the boy.
"Luke?" he asks, then stops. He doesn't know what the rest of his question is. Can I help? Can I hug? Can I fight someone for you? Everything seems too late, not enough, useless.
Luke shakes his head into his arms. "I'm- fine. I just. It was my mom and dad. I'm fine," he says again, even though he is still actively sobbing and Tim can see him shaking.
Tim rests a hand on Luke's arm and gives the gentlest tug, and that's all it takes for Luke to press himself into the older man's embrace. He's still in a ball, still trying to make himself so small that his nightmares can't find him, but Tim hugs him anyway. His knees hurt after a few minutes, though, and he has to stand. Luke pulls away, thinking Tim is going back to his room now that "comfort the sad kid in my house" is checked off of his to-do list, but Tim guides him to his feet, too. Pulls him close, again, back into the shelter of his arms. Luke still seems like he thinks Tim will push him away in a moment, but Tim has no intention of doing that. Ever.
Tim half-carries the boy to the living room, Luke clinging fast to his shirt. He wraps the kid - his kid - in a soft blanket, nudges him down onto the couch, and finally wraps him back in a firm hug, tucking the tear-streaked face into his neck. He's not sure how exactly he should feel when Luke starts crying harder, but Tim hopes it's like cleaning out an infected wound so it can heal.
Tim would die for this kid, kill for this kid. (Again). He doesn't say it's all right or shh or try to calm Luke down, just rubs his back and says "I'm so sorry, kid. I've got you. I've got you." and holds him tight. As tight as Luke is holding on to him.
After what feels like hours, Luke settles. From the dead weight and deep, even breaths, Tim is pretty sure he's fallen asleep.
The older man indulges himself for a few minutes longer: tucking the teen closer, concentrating on pushing feelings of safety and calmness and, let's face it, love toward the front of his mind in the hopes that they reach Luke and keep any further nightmares or bad memories away.
Eventually, as the sky is turning grey in the pre-sunrise hour, Tim transfers Luke gently to the couch itself. He tucks the blanket tight around him before dipping back into his bedroom to pick up one of the books from his nightstand and splash some water on his face, rinsing away the traces of his own tears. Back in the living room, he pulls his chair close to the couch and props his feet on the coffee table, settling in to read while keeping an eye on his traumatized teen.
He wakes around ten, slight crick in his neck from the way he slumped as he fell asleep, Luke still breathing deeply and evenly on the couch - and picks up his book from the floor before gently disentangling the hand that's made its way to the calf of his pajama pants. He smoothes Luke's hair and moves into the kitchen, getting eggs and milk and bread out to start on french toast.
When Luke finds his way to the table right as Tim is topping off the second plate, he wonders if it's his imagination that the boy looks a little bit lighter around the eyes. He plops the warmer plate in front of him before settling in front of his own, and they eat in a comfortable quiet, the only sounds the clinking of their forks and the soft crooning coming from the kitchen radio.