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The house is quiet in that hollow uneasy way that only happens after something terrible has happened.
Lucy is sitting on the couch when Tim steps into the bedroom reluctantly. He pauses in the doorway before going inside, fingers tightening slightly against the frame.
Every instinct in him is screaming to go back.
To sit beside her.
To pull her into his arms and not let go until the shaking stops.
But he knows Lucy.
And he knows that look.
The one she had when she sank down onto the couch, the lights dim around her.
It means she’s overwhelmed.
So he stepped away.
Even though it felt wrong.
Even though every step towards their bedroom felt like leaving her alone in one of the worst moments of her life.
Tim sits on the edge of the bed and exhales slowly, trying to keep his emotions in check. He has to stay strong, stay composed, for Lucy.
The home stays quiet. Too quiet.
He lies back onto his pillow but doesn’t turn off the lamp. His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, listening. Waiting.
Any minute now she’ll have to come in. Crawl into bed beside him. Maybe she won’t say anything, maybe she will.
Either way he’ll be there for her.
Five minutes pass.
Then five more.
From the living room he hears it.
Soft. Barely there. A quiet, broken sound.
Lucy crying.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut.
The sound cuts straight through him like a piercing shard of glass.
He forces himself to counteract every single instinct of his, every neuron in his muscles, to stay where he is.
Lucy has always been strong. Stubbornly so. The kind of person who needs time to process things before letting anyone see the cracks.
If he walks out there now, she might shut down completely.
So he stays.
Keep staring at the ceiling.
Listening to the quiet rhythm of her sobs through the wall.
Half an hour passes.
Then an hour.
The crying comes and goes in waves. Sometimes it fades long enough that Tim thinks maybe she’s finally fallen asleep on the couch.
Then it starts again.
Each time it does, something twists tighter into his chest.
Eventually exhaustion starts creeping in, as much as he tries to fight it.
He’s still listening for her when his body finally gives in and he drifts into that strange liminal space between sleeping and waking.
Not fully asleep. Just hovering.
Then suddenly his body jerks.
That strange falling sensation that snaps through your whole body right before sleep takes over.
Tim sits up and inhales sharply.
The room is darker now.
He turns his head toward the clock on his nightstand.
*2:07 AM.*
For a moment he just sits there, disoriented.
Then the realization lands. Lucy still hasn’t come to bed.
Tim is on his feet instantly.
He steps out into the hallway.
The living room is empty.
The couch is exactly the way she left it, blanket draped over the armrest, the cushion still slightly indented where she had clearly been sitting for hours.
“Lucy?” he calls out softly.
No answer.
A flicker of unease moves through him.
Then he notices it.
Down the hall.
A thin line of light spilling out onto the floor from under the bathroom door.
Tim walks toward it slowly.
As he gets closer he pauses outside the door, listening.
Nothing.
No water running.
No movement.
Just silence.
He knocks softly and pushes the door open.
“Lucy?”
She startles.
It’s small; just a quick jerk of her shoulders and a sharp inhale. But it makes Tim’s chest tighten.
She’s sitting in the bathtub.
The water reaches just below her shoulders, long gone cool, small ripples spreading across the surface where she moved.
Her knees are pulled close to her chest.
Her hair hangs damp around her face.
And she’s staring down at the water like she’s been watching it for hours.
“Hey,” Tim says gently, kneeling on the floor beside the tub.
Her eyes lift to him slowly.
They look distant. Foggy.
Like she’s still somewhere else.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.
Lucy glances down at the water like she’s only just realizing she’s in it.
“Oh.”
Her voice is quiet.
“I didn’t notice.”
Tim reaches over and turns the faucet handle on, twisting it towards the “warm” setting.
“Lean back a little,” he says softly.
She hesitates. Then shifts.
Tim grabs the handheld shower head and runs the warm water over her hair. The scent of her shampoo fills the room as he works it gently into her hair.
His fingers move carefully through the strands.
Then they catch on something.
Tim pauses.
There’s a small section of hair behind her ear where the strands are stiff.
He gently parts them.
Dark. Crusted.
Blood.
For a second his stomach drops.
He doesn’t know whose it is.
Lucy’s.
Or maybe it was Martin’s.
And the fact that he can’t tell somehow makes the whole thing worse.
A terrible reminder that tonight crossed a line neither of them can uncross.
Tim swallows hard and keeps going, carefully working the shampoo through until the water runs clear.
Lucy closes her eyes, seeming to relax just a smidge. Her shoulders slowly loosen under his hands.
When he finishes rinsing her hair, Tim reaches for the towel sitting on the counter.
“Come on,” he says softly. Lucy lets him help her stand.
The moment she steps out of the tub she begins to shivers violently.
Tim wraps the towel around her immediately, pulling it tight around her shoulders.
She looks so small standing there.
Damp hair. Bare feet on cold tile.
Vulnerable.
For a moment she just stands there staring down at her feet. Then she looks up at him.
“Can I wear your hoodie?”
Her voice is quiet. Almost hesitant, scared to hear a responses.
Tim nods instantly.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Of course.”
He steps out of the bathroom and heads to the closet. Inside, his laundry hamper sits near the wall.
He digs through it quickly until he finds the one he’s looking for.
Light grey with the LAPD logo in the corner. Slightly worn and discolored.
The hoodie Lucy always steals. The one she had worn just yesterday, giggling as she stole it from its place on the couch and had slipped it on while Tim was making breakfast.
He knows she likes that one because it always smells like him.
Tim brings it back to the bathroom.
Lucy takes it and sluggishly pulls it over her head.
The oversized sleeves swallow her hands completely.
She exhales slowly, like putting the hoodie on had somehow taken some weight off her shoulders.
Tim grabs another smaller towel and starts gently drying her hair.
“Want me to braid it?” he asks.
She nods.
He gathers the damp strands and starts working them into a braid as best as he can, trying to replicate what he saw Lucy do with her hair every night.
His fingers move slowly, carefully, a bit uncertain.
The silence stretches out across the room.
“You’re very brave,” he says quietly.
Lucy shakes her head immediately.
“No.”
Her voice cracks.
“I killed him.”
Tim finishes tying off Lucy’s hair, tucking a small strand he missed into the rest of the braid.
“You survived,” he says, stepping around her so they stand face to face.
“That’s not the same.”
Her eyes fill with tears again.
“I can still see his face. Blood was dripping out his mouth and his eyes were empty and white.”
Tim steps closer.
“You did what you had to do,” he says gently.
Lucy presses her lips together, trying to hold it in.
But the tears come anyway.
Tim pulls her into his arms.
Lucy clutches the front of his t-shirt like it’s the only thing she can hold onto to prevent her from falling down.
Her shoulders shake as the sobs finally break loose.
“I didn’t want to hurt him,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I tried to stop him.”
“I know.”
Tim rests his chin lightly against the top of her scalp, hand cupping the back of her head.
“I’ve got you, Lucy. I’ve got you.” he murmurs.
Eventually the crying softens.
Tim brushes a strand of hair away from her cheek.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says quietly.
Lucy nods weakly.
He guides her down the hallway, one hand steady on her lower back.
When they reach the bedroom she climbs onto the bed slowly.
The second Tim sits down beside her she curls toward him automatically, pressing her face against his chest.
His arms wrap around her, too familiar of a motion.
Her fingers bunch in the fabric of his t-shirt.
Tim shifts them so they’re lying down against the pillows, Lucy tucked against his side, her head resting over his heart.
His hand moves slowly up and down her back.
A steady, predictable rhythm.
Over and over.
Lucy’s breathing starts to even out.
Every once in a while her body trembles slightly, like a leftover aftershock.
Each time it does, Tim tightens his arm around her just a little more.
“You’re safe,” he reminds her, every time.
Lucy presses closer.
Minutes pass.
Her grip on his shirt slowly loosens.
The tension leaves her body piece by piece until finally her breathing settles into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.
Tim brushes his fingers lightly through the braid he made earlier.
He presses a quiet kiss to the top of her head.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Lucy doesn’t answer.
She’s already asleep.
But she stays curled against him, one hand still resting lightly over his heart.
Tim stares up at the dark ceiling.
Holding her.
Not moving.
Because tonight the world tilted a little off its axis.
And the only thing he can do is keep her steady until it settles again.