Chapter Text
The Finch family house sat in silence. Once so filled with life and moral respect, then lived a disturbing story, peeling paint, a staggered porch, and a weak hanging tire resembling the past lives lived.
This day marked one month since the horrible incident that broke Atticus into two. His children were gone, and not sweetly nor soundly. They were both stripped away from him at once. Brutally in their Halloween costumes. Not so far from the safety of their home. Just out of Atticus’s protective reach. A single path too far from what could've been safety.
Justice was served quickly. Sheriff Heck Tate arrived at the crime in an instant. And the maniac Bob Ewell stood, hunched over, just mere strides away from the scene; prop in his hand and a crazed look in his eye. He stood no chance in court (in which for once, Atticus was the one being represented; not the lawyer), especially when there were so many witnesses. So, the perpetrator was swiftly locked up in the Maycomb county jail. Rumor had it that a planned mob was bound for him, to mirror the murderer’s other evil actions. But Atticus was far too tired and, unfortunately, far too morally driven to ever participate in such a thing.
After that, the legal aspect was mostly handled. The children continued to be grieved. A wide variety of colorful flowers, fresh food, and kind notes from his neighbors built a messy mountain in front of Mr. Finch’s doorstep. Taken over by sorrow, he almost completely stopped showing his face. And he really only ever came out when forced to prove he had not gone rotten. And if not him, Calpurnia eagerly reported his wellbeing. Well being not very so.
Since the court missed Atticus’s moral guidance and lawful intelligence, they were giddy about getting him back onto his feet. But it was so very painful. Heck Tate’s visit said so.
Calpurnia answered the door and allowed the sheriff inside. And it was Calpurnia who wearily whispered to Mr. Tate about Atticus’s poor state and the likeliness of the visit being cut short. Heck Tate saw no issue. His true reason for visiting was only to see his friend once more.
Atticus was bundled onto the plush couch. Considering Cal’s persistent worry, Mr. Tate was pleasantly surprised the man was even dressed properly. A loose, white collared-shirt with an even looser tie, and casual slacks. So to be fair ‘properly’ was a stretch. But he was dressed nonetheless. He had a wispy blanket tossed over his legs and a plethora of pillows supporting his every limb. He really appeared quite coddled.
While his surroundings felt cozy and protective, Atticus himself looked completely worn. His eyes were lidded, puffy, and were carried by darkening bags. His nails were brought to his mouth, part of his hair swept one way and the rest left to its own will. He was slightly curled, zoned out and looking lost in his thoughts. Calpurnia had a mother’s frown, something similar to a concerned pout, as she glanced from the sad figure to the home’s visitor. Heck Tate matched her face and clucked his teeth. He drew near.
“Atticus,” He began, softer than he believed he could go, “Atticus, are you there my friend?”
Atticus’s eyes dragged to the sheriff’s frame. Mr. Tate pushed his brows taut. They had already begun to water. The poor man was more sensitive than he thought. But he did nod. And that was a start. Heck tried a smile and his leg met the lower cushion of the couch, still mindful of Mr. Finch’s space.
“It’s very good to see you.” Tate murmured. “Very good, Mr. Finch. I was getting worried about you. Many people are.”
Atticus made a weak noise. He nodded.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you. Is it alright that I’m here?”
And another hesitant nod. Mr. Finch’s eyes rolled away now, growing heavier. The sheriff made the awkward move to sit next to his old friend. He relaxed into the back cushion, giving Calpurina a two finger signal that all was swell. The woman modestly sighed and glided out of the living room. Tate felt rather antsy to do something, but nothing seemed like the correct approach for a man like Atticus Finch.
“I’m sorry.” The tired man suddenly muttered into his hand.
Tate raised a brow.
“For what, my friend? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“For not being very...approachable.” Atticus sighed. “I understand I am not my best self as of now.”
“Aw well, Mr. Finch, there’s nothing ruining you for me.” The sheriff replied warmly, not quite listening to his words or settling on an implication. “Sure, you’re off your pedestal. But that's just alright considering your position.” He risked a hand on the other man’s slumped shoulder. Atticus shut his eyes.
“I don’t know how I’ll recover, Sheriff Tate. I haven’t got a clue.”
“You’ll find something, Mr. Finch.” Heck insisted softly, beginning a slow circle pattern with his hand. “Know you will. You’re the handiest man I know, you know.”
“They were my everything, Sheriff.” Atticus took in a shaky breath. “Utterly everything.”
Tate bit his tongue. With a potential breakdown imminent, he didn’t want to risk triggering his old friend. Atticus was already making keening sounds, and his body shook with each inhale. Calpurnia hurried back into the room a mere minute after he had started showing signs of distress.
“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Tate.” She approached Atticus and adjusted his slipping blanket. “I hope you weren’t looking for a good, long conversation.”
“There’s no need to apologize for a friend’s misery.” Heck shook his head and helped comfort Atticus until he could look him in the eye again. “I’m just glad to see he’s still all there.” He squeezed his friend’s arm and stood. Atticus shuffled and promptly wiped his face. Calpurnia offered him a tissue.
“There’s no rush, Mr. Finch. Tears ain’t something you need to hide.”
Atticus nodded and stood, firmly shaking Heck’s hand.
“I appreciate you stopping by.” He gave a drained smile.
“Sir, it’s just nothing.” Heck chuckled, keeping their hands together with a squeeze before retreating. “You holler when you need anything, you hear? Both of you.”
Both residents thanked Heck as he spun and strolled out the front door.
He drifted down the steep front porch and began his way down the dusty, flat street. That was a rather quick stop, he thought. But of course, he could only feel pity. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of pain Atticus was in. It must be overwhelming, being a busy man in such a situation.
“Mr. Tate! Oh, Sheriff!” Calpurnia’s voice shook his slow stride.
Heck turned over his shoulder, calling, “Yes, ma’am!?”
The woman stood atop the porch, hands on her hips.
“Wouldn’t you like to come in for dinner sooner or later? Atticus is concerned he’s scared you off. Oh, does he feel horrible for hurrying you away!”
“Aw, well, tell him I’m free as a bird! I’ll be there!” Heck dipped his hat and the two went their own ways.
Dinner at the Finch residence, then. And that’s just a fine evening, to him.