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When Lopez hands him a cold beer, Tim doesn't refuse—even though his stomach isn't exactly on his side right now.
The discomfort had first set in hours earlier, back when he was holed up in his car, parked across the street from Ray’s place, a ballgame crackling over the radio as he watched the house through the windshield. At first it's just a faint tightness in his upper abdomen. Then it turns into a dull, heavy ache. Not sharp enough to stop him, but persistent. Impossible to ignore.
He's been tailing Ray for two days straight. Most of that time trapped behind the wheel, living out of the driver's seat, eating at odd hours, grabbing whatever fast food he could when the hunger got loud enough. Tim's always prided himself on having a cast‑iron stomach. Spicy, greasy, ice‑cold—nothing ever bothers him. So he figures a couple days of treating his body like crap won't matter.
But now, with waves of unease churning in his gut, he's starting to wonder if maybe he's not as indestructible as he thought.
Even so, right now he really needs this beer.
He clinks the bottle against Lopez's and takes a long pull. The icy liquid slides down his throat, and his stomach clenches sharply in response. The dull ache sharpens with it.
He pauses, swallows, then drinks again.
It's been a while since it's felt anything quite like this.
The last time was when he found out Isabel was using drugs. He'd drank himself into brutal stomach cramps that night, leaving him curled up on the couch for two whole hours, barely able to move.
This wave of pain is coming on far faster.
Tim takes another pull. His stomach churns once more. He can almost feel the warmth draining out of his insides, little by little, just like his mood.
"Hey, slow down." Lopez pats his hand. "I've had one sip, and you're already halfway done?"
He glances at her, offering no reply, and tips the bottle back again. The bottle is nearly empty now.
Lopez lets out a soft sigh, about to say something, when his phone cuts through the moment. Tim glances down at his phone screen. An unbidden sense of foreboding crawls up his spine. He hesitates for two seconds, then hits accept.
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Where are you?" Lucy's voice comes through the phone, cold and flat. Tim has never heard her sound like that before. Colder than the beer in his hand.
"Lucy..."
"Where the hell are you?"
She's furious.
Tim's mind goes blank. The icy discomfort in his stomach seems to rise up into his chest, choking off every half‑cooked excuse he might have scrambled to come up with. It takes him a few seconds to get the words out. "I'm... I'm at Lopez's."
The line goes dead immediately.
Something is very, very wrong.
He stares at the dead screen for a long moment, then slowly looks up at Lopez. There's something uncharacteristically helpless in his eyes.
Lopez presses her lips together. "Well... looks like you two need to talk."
"Do you think I should tell her?"
She hesitates, idly spinning the beer cap across the tabletop. "Honestly? I'd say I get it either way. That's your call."
Tim drops his head into both hands, fingers slowly rubbing through the hair at the nape of his neck. He leans back in his chair and exhales long and slow, as if he could expel that heavy knot sitting in his chest along with his breath.
It doesn't work. If anything, it sinks deeper.
He looks down at the bottle, then drains the last of it. Then his stomach seizes instantly.
This time it's not the dull ache from before. Pain strikes without warning, like a fist twisting deep in his gut. His breath cuts off sharply, and he folds forward instinctively, the empty bottle nearly slipping out of his grasp.
He presses his lips tight, fighting to swallow back the groan threatening to spill from his throat.
Propping one elbow on his knee, he slips one hand down to press against his upper abdomen, fingers finding the spot where the muscle keeps spasming. It's contracting in waves, each one sharper than the last. Beads of cold sweat spring up across his forehead.
"Tim?" Lopez's voice comes from somewhere beside him.
He doesn't look up. Just shakes his head, tucking his hand further into his jacket, letting the shadows under the table swallow it.
"I'm fine." Even he can hear how rough that sounds.
Lopez clearly doesn’t buy it, yet she assumes his distress is purely emotional. She just takes a slow sip of beer and lets the subject drop.
After roughly a minute, the worst of the spasm eases. Tim exhales carefully, trying to steady his ragged breathing. But the next painful contraction is already gathering strength, building like a tide drawing back before it crashes shore.
Right then, the doorbell rings.
Tim's back goes rigid. He grits his teeth, pushes himself upright and straightens his rumpled undershirt while Lopez steps to answer the door.
When the door swings open, the first thing Tim sees is Lucy’s face, hot with unmasked anger. Wind has tousled her hair; it is obvious she rushed over here. She no longer bothers to conceal her fury, striding straight toward him.
Tim straightens on instinct, almost forgetting his stomach is still twisting.
"What happened?" he asks, tension tight in his voice.
"Your buddy Ray stopped by," Lucy says, each word precise.
His heart drops. "Are you okay?"
"Do I look okay?" Her voice trembles, anger and hurt spilling out all at once.
Tim opens his mouth, yet no words come out.
Lopez senses the tension immediately and nudges Tamara away. "Let's give them a minute."
Now it is only the two of them left inside the living room. Lucy takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "What if Tamara had been there alone when that creep showed up?"
Tim swallows hard. "I'm sorry. I had no idea—"
"No. No more excuses, Tim." Her voice gets louder. "You have to tell me what's going on with you."
"Right now."
She steps closer, giving him nowhere to escape.
"Now!"
He knows he can't dodge this anymore.
He takes an inhale that comes out stiff and jerky, lingering pain in his gut catching in his breath. He presses his fingers into his side, a quick, hidden pressure against his abdomen, then lets go, as if pretending no one saw it means he can still pretend everything's fine.
"His name is Ray Watkins. He was under my command in Iraq. I thought he was KIA, but he's back, and he's going to hurt someone if I don't do something about it."
Lucy's anger doesn't fade upon hearing this. "None of that... none of it explains why you shut me out."
Tim lowers his gaze. "No. It doesn't."
"Stop trying to protect me, Tim!" Her eyes are reddening, everything she's been holding back finally overflowing.
He meets her gaze. "I'm sorry. I can't, okay? I won't." His voice is quiet, yet unyielding.
"You read Lopez in!"
"It's different—"
"How?" Her tone turns sharp, giving him no room to breathe.
"She has less to lose than you!"
Lucy stares at him, disbelief plain. Then she covers her face and draws in a deep breath, struggling to hold herself from falling completely apart.
"Please. Just steer clear of this for me, okay?" Tim says softly. Inside, he is torn completely apart. He wants her as far from this as possible. But it's already too late. Ray could do anything next, and Tim knows he can't guarantee her safety.
Lucy drops her hand and stares directly into his eyes. "I can't. I won't. You clearly need help, and I am done being the good girlfriend, okay? You don't have to tell me everything, but you are going to let me in."
There is no room for negotiation in her words. Tim's breathing picks up, like he's fighting something internal.
He should say something. Anything. But the second he opens his mouth, pain slams hard into him. Far worse than any pain he’d felt so far.
It feels as though a blade has been driven deep into his stomach and twisted. His face drains of color. His breath cuts off entirely. He doubles over, one hand clamped to his abdomen, the other gripping the back of a chair hard enough his knuckles go white. Every last shred of the composure he’d been forcing himself to maintain shatters completely.
"Tim?" All the anger freezes on Lucy’s face. She hesitates, then takes a step forward.
Tim doesn't answer. His jaw is clenched tight; sweat and veins standing out sharp under the room lights as his stomach contracts in relentless waves. A groan slips out before he can hold it back.
"Tim, what's wrong?"
"I'm fine." The words come out through clenched teeth, short and hollow. He tries to straighten his body, but the moment he does, his stomach lurches violently again. His knees buckle, and he stumbles forward.
Lucy catches him on instinct. "Oh—sit down here. Come on."
She guides him into a chair, its legs scraping with a harsh, grating noise across the floor.
"What hurts?" she asks, crouching in front of him, hand on his knee, trying to see his face hidden downwards.
"Just... stomach... cramps. I'll be... fine..." Tim's voice comes out in broken fragments. Waves of nausea rise up from his gut with every word he manages.
"Why would you suddenly have stomach cramps?" All sharpness has vanished from Lucy’s voice, only raw worry remains.
Tim swallows hard, trying to force the nausea back down, yet it climbs higher, pressing heavy against his throat.
Until he can't hold it anymore.
He clamps a hand over his mouth and lurches to his feet, staggering toward the bathroom.
"Tim!"
Lucy freezes for half a second, then runs after him.
The bathroom door flies open. A heartbeat later, the harsh, wrenching sound of retching echoes through the room.
Lucy's heart jumps into her throat. She rushes in. Tim's on his knees by the toilet, one hand gripping the rim, the other pressing into his stomach, his fingers curled, sinking deep into the folds of his shirt. His shoulders shake violently as he throws up.
She drops beside him, one hand steady on his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. "Easy. Easy..."
Tim can't respond. He brings most of it up in a rush, the food and beer he’d drunk moments before. Another wave hits. He gags, nothing but bitter acid coming up, his throat raw.
His face has gone deathly pale. All of Lucy’s rage is instantly doused, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over it. She reaches out, brushing the sweat‑damp hair from his forehead.
Tim finally slumps, breathing hard, eyes closed. "I'm okay..." he rasps.
Lucy almost laughs out of sheer disbelief. "You should see yourself right now." But her hand doesn't leave him. He leans back against the cold wall, chest still heaving. The sharp pain has dulled again, but it hasn't gone anywhere. It sits heavy, burning deep in his gut.
"What happened?" Lopez asks from the doorway, drawn by the commotion.
"Stomach cramps," Lucy answers, reaching to flush the toilet. "Do you have anything for it?"
"I might have some antacids left from when I was pregnant. Not sure if they're expired, but I'll look."
"No..." Tim mutters, frowning. "I've got some in the car. Took some earlier. It didn't help..."
"Antacids won't do much for the pain, but might help the nausea. And I'm guessing you've got some serious heartburn right now?" Lopez says, sympathetic, clearly remembering her own pregnancy struggles. Tim lowers his head slightly. She's right, his chest and throat burn.
"Where are your keys?" Lucy does not wait for his reply, already patting down his jacket pockets until she finds them. She glances back toward Tim before heading out the door.
"I'll go," Lopez says, placing a gentle hand on Lucy’s shoulder before she steps in. "You done puking? Let's get you to the couch."
Outside, cool night air wraps around Lucy as she hurries across the front porch toward Tim’s car. She opens the door, and pauses. A faint greasy smell hits her first.
Then she sees it. The backseat is a mess—crumpled wrappers, greasy fry cartons, crushed cups littering half the space. Enough for more than one meal.
She just stands there, frozen.
Two days. Two full days in this car, living on fast food, sleeping God knows where, watching Ray's every move. Something tight and achy swells in her chest, a bitter mix of anger and heartache.
She's still angry. Furious, even. That he shut her out, that he carried this alone, that he let himself get like this and still stubbornly claim "I'm fine."
But looking at the mess—
It hurts.
You idiot.
She grits her teeth, reaches into the glove compartment, and retrieves his medicine bottle.
When she gets back inside, her expression is calmer. Tim's curled on the couch, long frame folded in on itself, one arm under his head, the other still pressed to his stomach. His brow knotted tight with pain.
Lopez hands her a glass of water and a clean towel. "I'll be in my room if you need anything."
"Thanks." Once Lopez has left the room, Lucy sits down beside Tim on the couch.
"Open." She holds the pill to his lips. Tim takes it without protest and chews slowly, his gaze unfocused.
"Want some water?"
He nods, trying to push himself up on one elbow, but the movement pulls at his stomach, and he stops, wincing.
"I've got you." Lucy supports the back of his neck carefully, bringing the cup to his mouth so he can sip without straining. Tim takes a few small sips, then turns his head away, sinking back into the couch. She sets the glass down, fingers sticky with the sweat on his neck, and picks up the towel to gently wipe his hair and skin.
"How long?" she asks suddenly, voice cool, but her fingers grip the towel a little tighter.
"...What?" His voice is still raw.
"How long has your stomach been hurting?"
Tim falls quiet, eyes fixed on some point on the ceiling. His lips part, but no words come.
That's answer enough. She stills, then meets his eyes. "Tim."
"Since earlier."
"Earlier meaning?"
"A few hours, maybe..."
She closes her eyes briefly, reining in the surge of emotion.
"Of course." A quiet, bitter edge creeps into her voice.
"Of course you didn't tell me. About Ray. Or this."
Tim looks toward her, eyes glistening—whether from pain or guilt, maybe both.
"I'm sorry..." he murmurs after a long pause.
"For what?"
"...Everything." He swallows, throat bobbing.
Oh God.
Lucy looks away, trying not to look at his pitiful expression. But she knows she's already soft. "I don't want apologies. I want the truth."
No answer.
When she looks back, Tim's curled tighter, fingers digging into the couch, hand pressing harder into his stomach.
"Another one?" she asks quickly, grabbing his trembling hand, lifting his face. His features are twisted tight with suffering, lips pressed thin. His breathing is all wrong—jagged, shallow, barely any air coming in. His face is flushed red with the strain.
"Breathe, Tim. Breathe..."
Tim responds only with a low groan. Panic flickering in Lucy's chest, she pulls his hand away from his stomach and presses her own palm flat against the wrinkled fabric over his gut.
When she applies light pressure, the muscle beneath feels like solid rock. She rubs slow circles, careful, trying to ease the tension. She has no idea if it actually helps, but she can't just sit there and do nothing.
It goes on for a long time—long enough that Tim almost loses track. An invisible fist wrings his stomach tight then lets go, over and over again, each wave worse than the last. Every breath catches in his chest, cut short by the agony, trapped halfway in‑and‑out. He bites his lip, swallowing down the sounds he can't help making, but small, ragged gasps still slip through his teeth.
Lucy's never seen him like this.
She has seen him get shot, seen him take a brutal beating during calls. He always pushes through. But now, he can't even hold onto his usual composure. He looks so fragile. Just like he might break.
She keeps her hand on his abdomen. Her fingertips press through the thin fabric, feeling his abdominal muscles go taut again and again with each spasm, while her other hand holds his cold wrist, thumb brushing over his skin.
Minutes pass. Finally, slowly, his body starts to relax under her touch. The spasm ebbs. Tim collapses back into the couch, breathing hard. He's still pale, lips tinged blue‑grey. His whole body is clammy‑soaked in cold sweat, his collar completely soaked through.
"Better?" she asks, wiping his forehead. "This isn't okay. I'm taking you to the hospital."
"No." Tim pants out the single word.
"You're really sick, Tim." Her voice rises, brows knitting together.
"Please..." He reaches up, closing his hand around her wrist, his eyes pleading.
Lucy stares at him for a long moment. At his face, his pain‑filled breathing, the desperate look in his eyes. The worry churning in her chest finally gives. "Fine." She exhales, the word laced with reluctance.
"But," she adds, holding up a finger, "If it gets worse, or if you throw up again, I'm taking you in whether you like it or not. Got it?"
Tim gives a slow nod.
Lucy sighs, her hand still resting against his stomach, moving in slower, gentler strokes now. "You need anything else? Water? Blanket?"
A pause.
Then Tim lifts his heavy lids, his eyes wet and fixed on her face.
"You."
She blinks in surprise. "What?"
All the walls are gone now. No bravado. He's raw and open, voice barely a whisper.
"I need you."
Everything between them dissolves. She leans closer, slipping one hand to lace her fingers with his, and placing her other hand upon his shoulder.
"I'm right here," she says softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
Tim nuzzles his head weakly toward her hand, and she cradles his jaw, thumb smoothing over the dampness on his cheekbone.
Then his brow furrows again.
"What?" She stiffens, hand freezing. "Is it starting again?"
"No." He shakes his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Just thinking... Lopez might charge me for cleaning the sweaty couch."
Lucy exhales sharply, half annoyed, half relieved. "Still joking? Guess you're not dying." She leans nearer, pinching his warm ear gently. "Don't think I forgot why I came here."
"I know." Tim murmurs, gaze dropping.
Lucy chooses not to press for answers right now. She just pulls his jacket around him and sits on the floor beside the couch, back against the cushions, shoulder brushing his arm.
"But not tonight," she says softly. "We'll talk when you're better."
Night lies thick outside the windows. Distant dog barks and the low rumble of passing vehicles drift through the quiet. Inside, the warm yellow light softens everything, pulls their shadows close together.
Neither of them speaks. After a while, Tim cracks one eye open, voice rough and low.
"I don't deserve you."
Lucy's hand pauses. She turns her head, catches the faint sheen in his half‑closed eyes.
"That's my line," she mutters. "You don't get to say it."
"And I haven't forgiven you yet," she adds, staring down at his fingers in hers. "Not until you tell me everything..."
Her voice softens at the end. She's not looking at him, but her ears are faintly pink. Tim doesn't answer. He simply tightens his hold, his fingers curling slowly to lace their palms firmly together.
This time, he doesn't push her away.