Work Text:
Every Thursday, Joy had dinner at Tim and Lucy’s.
It had started after she’d moved to Los Angeles, shortly after Tim and Lucy got engaged, and had been going nearly a year.
This Thursday was no different.
At exactly 7pm, she knocked on Tim and Lucy’s door with a plate of dessert (this was the only thing that changed; Joy had had some fun finding dairy-free recipes so that Lucy could have them, and they’d given up trying to insist she didn’t need to bring anything after the fifth week in a row she’d brought a plate).
Lucy opened the door. Her hair was tied into a messy bun on top of her head, and she had on a pair of yoga pants that exposed her slightly rounded belly, the t-shirt she was wearing (definitely Tim’s) tucked above her stomach, where her hand unconsciously settled.
Her eyes were tired, dark streaks painted below her eye sockets, and her usually bright amber eyes dimmed slightly. She didn’t have much makeup on, just a little bit of mascara and some concealer, and Joy could see how pale her skin was, a faint sheen of sweat settling on her forehead at her hairline.
Joy wasn’t that surprised. Lucy hadn’t exactly had a fun few weeks. After the third dinner in a row where Lucy had had to leave the table to throw up, Tim on her heels to hold her hair back, Joy had guessed. She hadn’t asked them outright; that was their news to share. No, they’d snuck back in from the bathroom, Tim’s hands on Lucy’s shoulders as he followed her into the dining room, both of them with extremely guilty looks on their faces.
“I guess we should tell you something,” Tim had said, glancing over at Lucy, as if to confirm it was okay to speak. She’d just nodded once, obviously stopping the movement when she realised it made her nauseous.
“We’re having a baby,” Tim had whispered, his voice choked with unshed tears. “Lucy’s nine weeks pregnant.”
Joy had smiled, pulled them both into a hug, and told them they would be incredible parents.
Tim had explained after that that Lucy’s morning sickness (“Morning sickness is a lie, Tim!”) was…not great, and she’d been struggling for a few weeks. Now, she was at sixteen weeks, and apparently, the morning sickness had not let up.
Joy reached out for Lucy, pulling her in with the arm that wasn’t holding the plate of profiteroles she’d made. “Hi, sweetheart,” she murmured.
“Hi, Joy,” Lucy replied as she pulled away, gesturing inside. “Come in. Tim’s just getting changed.”
Something about the way Lucy said that made Joy pause for a second. Tim was almost always right there, ready to greet his mother alongside Lucy. Especially since she’d gotten pregnant, Tim had barely left her side, and didn’t let her lift a finger.
Yet here she was, returning to chopping up vegetables to go in the soup they were having for dinner. Joy pulled open the fridge and placed the plate of profiteroles inside, noting the empty shelves. Tim and Lucy always went shopping, usually together, on Thursdays, because they usually had Thursdays off.
Maybe Lucy had been too sick to go.
She glanced briefly at the younger woman as Lucy continued to lever the knife down on the carrot on her chopping board. Tim hadn’t let Lucy make dinner at all the last eight weeks. The smells of the kitchen made her too sick - the coffee machine, the mix of spices, the lingering smells of whatever they’d had for breakfast and lunch that day (which Tim insisted weren’t there, and Lucy insisted they absolutely were, and they were coming back to haunt her gastrointestinal system).
Joy didn’t say anything. Just reached over, grabbed another chopping board and knife, and cut up the ginger.
Tim emerged from his room a few minutes later. His hair was wet, like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He was dressed in an old LAPD Academy shirt, a long sleeve. That was one that Lucy often stole from him. As he walked toward Joy, she could smell Lucy’s perfume on the shirt. She suspected that was why he picked it. He normally hated long sleeves.
Well, he had when he was a kid.
Similarly to Lucy, his face was pretty pale, shadows underneath his eyes. But that wasn’t from constantly throwing up. It was something else.
Lucy placed the knife down as Tim approached, and Joy followed suit. Lucy rounded the bench and pulled Tim into her arms, whispering something indecipherable into his ear. She held on for a moment longer than she normally would, her hands rubbing circles on his back.
Tim’s eyes closed the minute he felt Lucy’s arms around him, and even Joy could see how much he relaxed in her embrace.
She couldn’t remember the last time Tim had relaxed into a hug with her.
Tim had spent years putting himself between the people he loved and the danger in front of him.
Between his dad and his mom and sister as a child.
Between kids at school and bullies as a teenager.
Between his friends and the barrel of an enemy’s gun on the battlefield as a soldier.
Between civilians and criminals as a police officer.
Between everyone else and the parts of him that hurt.
Now here he was, letting Lucy carry him the way he’d carried so many people over the years.
Lucy was the one that pulled away, softly letting her arms fall away from him. He looked lost at the lack of contact, his eyes unable to focus and his hands shaking ever so slightly. Lucy kept a hand on his back as he leaned over to hug Joy.
“Hi, Mom,” he whispered into her ear.
She gave him a reassuring smile, cupping his face in that way only a mother could do.
He avoided her eyes entirely.
As he turned back to Lucy, sucking in a breath, she just remained calm, pulling out one of the barstools that was directly in front of where she’d been chopping vegetables. “Sit down, baby,” she whispered, one of her hands threading through his hair as he wordlessly took a seat.
He normally protested.
She remembered the angry ten-year-old who refused to sit down, who’d figured out that how his father treated their family wasn’t normal, who’d finally realised that love and violence weren’t the same thing.
Joy and Lucy took up their places chopping again. Tim put his head in his hands, not making eye contact with either of them. Lucy glanced up every few minutes, concern etched into every corner of her face. She didn’t try to make conversation. Joy didn’t, either.
After they’d both finished chopping, Lucy thanked Joy as she took hers and Lucy’s own boards, tipping them into the pot, ducking slightly to the side when they splashed a little hot water near her.
Tim didn’t even notice, just kept his eyes downward.
Joy thought of every time she’d asked Tim if he was okay. The times he’d brushed her off. He was fine. He was good. It was no problem. Don’t worry about him.
She’d known when he was lying. He’d never really been a good liar. But she’d never pushed him.
Lucy moved around him, reaching to the wall cupboard next to the dining table for placemats, and handing them to Joy. Joy placed them in their normal seats around the dining table - Tim at the head, and Lucy and Joy either side of him.
Lucy returned to the kitchen, reaching for their drinking glasses. She pulled three at random, one with pink glass details, one with little dots pushed out from the inside of the cup, and one of the standard ones Tim had kept there before Lucy moved in.
As she carried them to the dining table, one slipped out of her grasp and hit the floor before anyone had time to react. Glass shards exploded across the kitchen floor, across Lucy’s feet, all the way up to the edge of the dining table.
Tim flinched so violently Joy thought he was going to fall off the stool.
Lucy didn’t look down at the glass on her feet first.
She looked at Tim.
She kept her gaze on him as she gently placed down the other two glasses on the bench.
Tim looked up them, making eye contact with Lucy as he sucked in a breath. He let it out after a minute, his shoulders dropping a fraction. She raised her eyebrow and dipped her chin a centimetre, a silent question. He swallowed, then nodded. I’m okay.
He wasn’t.
But she knew Lucy knew that.
Lucy relaxed then, her eyes returning to the glasses on the bench in front of her, the glass all over the floor, and Joy watching them quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, turning around to the cabinet under the sink and reaching for a dustpan and broom, crouching to the ground as she began to scoop up the glass.
“No, not at all,” Joy replied. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. It happens.”
Lucy shot her a grateful look as she reached for the second dustpan and broom and swept up alongside Lucy.
“Honey, if you want to stay upright while you can, I can do this,” Joy commented gently, seeing the colour slowly drain from Lucy’s face.
Lucy barely had time to mutter a ‘thank you’ before she dropped the dustpan and broom and was rushing out of the kitchen. Tim looked up when they heard the distant sounds of Lucy retching.
Tim was frozen.
He looked like all the life had been sucked out of him, his eyes wide, mouth half-open, hands shaking, halfway to standing up.
Joy glanced at him briefly, reaching for the dustpan Lucy had used and tipping her own and Lucy’s into the trash.
“I–I should go check on Lucy,” Tim whispered, but made no attempt to move.
Joy sighed softly. “I can, if you want.”
Tim swallowed, his jaw clenched tightly. “No. No. I–she hates people seeing her throw up. I should–“
Before he could argue any further, Lucy reappeared, padding down the hallway, one hand on her stomach and the other wiping her mouth.
Tim looked at her as she came into view. She gave a small smile, rubbing the space between his shoulder blades gently. “I’m okay,” she said. “I promise. Stay where you are, sweetheart.”
She said it so naturally, as if taking care of him required no effort.
Tim let out a tiny exhale, and she gave a small nod, leaning to kiss his head, a silent extra confirmation Tim probably didn’t even know he needed until she gave it to him.
He relaxed back onto the stool, scrubbing a hand over her face.
Joy glanced over at the stove. The soup was bubbling away, close to overflowing. She turned to Lucy. “Do you think the soup’s done?”
Lucy nodded. “Yeah, it should be cooked through by now.” She looked around, noticing the lack of glass. “Thank you for cleaning the glass up. You didn’t have to do that.”
Joy waved her off. “You don’t need to thank me for that, Lucy.”
Lucy squeezed Tim’s shoulder, and then moved to the stove, deftly clicking the buttons so it turned off, then reaching to turn the fan off. She reached for the bowls she’d set out beforehand, stirring the soup for a moment before ladling three bowl’s worth. She pushed the largest bowl toward Joy.
“This one’s yours.”
Joy glanced between her own bowl and the other two.
Lucy carried them both to the table, and Tim followed close behind her, taking a seat where he usually did. Lucy set down his bowl in front of him.
There wasn’t much in it.
It reminded Joy of the times he refused to eat after he’d had a hard day. He’d sit at the table and eat a couple of meagre mouthfuls, trying to remain stone-faced as Tom shouted at him for not appreciating his mother’s cooking. He’d eat, just to get Tom to stop.
She’d usually find him in the bathroom later, and she’d rub his back as he threw up.
Even as he wiped his mouth, his face pale and still tinged slightly green, he’d turn around and ask whether she’d eaten enough food.
Lucy didn’t have much in her bowl, either. She probably didn’t want to throw it all back up again.
“This is lotus root soup,” Lucy commented, as she sat down. “It’s one of my family recipes.”
Joy smiled. “I think you’ve made this for me a couple of times, dear,” she replied, reaching for Lucy’s hand and squeezing it.
“Sorry,” Lucy apologised, looking down. “We were gonna go shopping today and get some good salmon or something, but it’s…,” she glanced over at Tim. “It’s been a rough day.”
Joy nodded in understanding, looking between the two of them. She lifted a spoonful of the soup to her mouth, blowing on it gently before swallowing it.
“This is really good, Lucy,” she complimented.
Lucy smiled, slightly embarrassed, and she dipped her head. “Thank you. It’s, uh, it’s one of the only things I can keep down when I’m really nauseous, so we’ve…we’ve had a lot of it recently.” She didn’t take her eyes off Tim.
It was in the silence that followed that Joy realised Tim would usually have some witty comeback.
She watched as her son swirled his spoon around in his bowl, took a tiny spoonful, and then replaced the spoon.
“How was the pregnancy been, other than the nausea?” Joy asked. “It’s still very early, but have you felt any flutters yet?”
Lucy’s eyes darted back to Joy, and her smile brightened, as if she remembered to put on her mask.
“Once,” Lucy nodded. “Yesterday, a tiny little flutter. Not sure if it counts or not, but we’ve still got a little bit of time.”
Joy chuckled. “Just wait until the baby’s trying to kick their way out of your ribs.”
Lucy made a half-attempt at a smile in return, but her eyes gravitated back to Tim.
Joy kept talking. “Tim was an exceptionally hard kicker. He didn’t kick that often, but when he did, it was hard. Genny was much quieter, but she kicked all day, all night.”
Tim’s hand tightened around his water glass.
Lucy clocked it immediately.
Joy noticed the look in Lucy’s eyes.
She wasn’t really listening to the story anymore.
She was watching Tim.
The way he gripped his glass and his spoon.
The way his eyes seemed to focus on anything but the two of them.
The way it seemed like he had to consciously remember to breathe.
Lucy turned back to Joy a moment later. “Sorry, sorry. It’s just been a long day.”
Joy nodded. “I can imagine.” She reached over to squeeze Lucy’s hand. “What’s been your favourite part of pregnancy so far?” she asked.
Lucy took a deep breath in.
“Getting to see the baby on the ultrasound, hear the heartbeat, after…after the loss. It feels pretty surreal.”
She let out a half-laugh. “And Tim’s been so good. He’s so attentive.” She squeezed his forearm. “He’s there with me whenever I throw up, whenever I eat, whenever I breathe, basically.”
Tim didn’t react. Just kept his eyes cast downward.
Joy and Lucy had both finished their bowls, and Tim had barely touched his.
Tim’s hand curled into a fist beneath the table. Not threatening. Just grounding.
Lucy looked between him and Joy.
She carefully rested her hand on top of his fist.
His hand loosened. Not much. But enough.
Lucy looked back to Joy. “Joy, do you mind giving us five minutes?”
Joy lifted her eyebrows. “Uh, of course, take your time. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Lucy nodded, smiling briefly, before grabbing Tim’s hand and pulling him up.
“Luce–“ he attempted to argue, but she cut him off.
“Come on,” she tipped her head toward their bedroom.
She tugged him down the hall, the door swinging behind them, but ajar enough that Joy could still hear their conversation without straining.
“Hey,” Lucy murmured. “Come here.”
Joy heard shuffling. The rustle of clothing.
She pictured Lucy with her arms wrapped tight around Tim, one of his hands on her lower back, and the other on her belly.
“Are you okay?” she whispered. It was muffled, but she heard it.
Tim didn’t say anything for a second. His response wasn’t very convincing.
“I don’t know,” he whispered finally, his voice breaking.
A pause.
Then–
“Are you safe?” Lucy’s voice was small, but Joy heard it.
Her breath caught in her chest.
She’d never heard anyone ask Tim that before.
Not when he was fifteen.
Not when he was in the army.
Not when he was a rookie.
Not when he got married, and then divorced, and his wife left him.
He asked everyone else that.
No-one asked him.
She was reminded of the fifteen-year-old who put a smile on for everyone even on the worst day of his life.
She was reminded of the fifteen-year-old who moved heaven and earth to make sure his sister, five years his junior, had a real childhood, not the broken, tarnished collection of broken pieces he’d collected.
She was reminded of the fifteen-year-old who had razor blades hidden in his bathroom cabinet.
She didn’t know what they were for.
She does now.
She heard Tim’s response. “I don’t–I don’t know.”
Lucy took a breath. “Do you want to come back out?”
Tim paused, then answered. “I think so.”
Lucy’s response came a moment later, “Are you gonna be safe if you come back out?”
Tim waited a minute. Took a couple of deep breaths. “I think so.”
He exhaled.
“Yeah.”
Joy could practically see Lucy’s face in her mind.
“Okay, baby,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
A minute later, they reappeared, hand in hand. Tim looked, in some ways, lighter.
In that moment, Joy saw every version of him she’d ever known.
The newborn she’d held against her chest.
The two year old who’d had such a gleeful smile.
The five year old who swore to protect his sister the minute she was home from the hospital.
The eight year old who put himself between his dad and his mom and sister.
The ten year old who was so angry that Genny didn’t get to have a normal childhood, and that his mom didn’t get to have someone who loved her.
The thirteen year old who stood up for the younger kids on the oval.
The fifteen year old who was struggling much more than she ever realised.
The twenty-two year old who looked at her with shining eyes and told her he was joining the army, having waited until Genny was graduated before he left.
The twenty-six year old who told her he was joining the police academy.
The thirty-eight year old who got Lucy Chen as a rookie.
The forty-year-old who was in love with her much earlier than he’d ever admit.
The forty-five-year-old standing in front of her with his pregnant wife’s hand in his, having let his wife be the one to protect him.
As Lucy looked up at Tim, and he looked down at her, Joy realised exactly why Tim loved Lucy so completely.
Tim had spent his whole life carrying other people.
Lucy was the first person he trusted to carry him.