Work Text:
Lucy's waiting in the hallway of the hospice, and while she knows Tim doesn't plan on speaking with his dad for long, the seconds tick by torturously. She's never seen him like this, not even after Isabel, and although her instinct is to rush in and fix everything, that would require a time machine and a do-over, both of which remain stubbornly out of reach.
--
"You OK?"
When Tim steps out of the room, the look on his face makes her rib cage tighten in her chest; she gets the sense that she won't be able to breathe for as long as the anguish exists behind his eyes.
"No," he responds frankly, his handsome features strained by the herculean effort of holding himself together when the only thing he wants to do is fall apart. "He was protecting her. He never did anything to protect us, but his mistress?" There's a bitterness in his voice that she honestly can't begrudge him for feeling. "He broke half a dozen laws for her."
If Lucy had one wish from some beneficent genie, she'd use it to rewrite his life story. And, yeah, maybe he'd be less Tim as a result—less gallant, less upstanding, less calm and collected in the face of adversity—but she'd mourn it all gladly in exchange for giving him some relief.
"They picked Monica up," she informs him carefully, because while nothing will make this better, at least... at least there's that. "She's being processed right now." She pauses for a moment, then adds, "I don't think the DA is gonna prosecute your dad on his deathbed."
"Doesn't matter," Tim shoots back instantly. His voice sounds hollow, as if his soul stepped out for a smoke break. "He'll get judged soon enough."
She bites her lip, and when his eyes meet hers, her breath stutters in her throat.
"The Tim tests…" he manages to continue, his tone raw and ragged. "Those don't make me like him."
The words splinter at the edges and her heart aches, aches, aches.
"I know," she stammers, and there are so many things she wants to say right now, the sentiments tripping over each other on her tongue, but ultimately, she chooses the one she knows he needs to hear the most. "You're nothing like him."
He rocks back slightly on his heels, and she bridges the gap between them with a resolute Come here.
--
She hasn't technically hugged him before—after Angela's wedding, it was Tim who'd folded her into his chest—and not for the first time, she wishes her bloodline had been a little more blessed in the height department. Still, his tall frame sinks gratefully against her body, her arms slotting around him like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
When he presses his face into her shoulder, she can feel him trembling with barely restrained emotion. As much as she wants to rearrange the world to make this easier, she knows the only thing she can do right now is be here for him—so that's exactly what she does.
--
Lucy owns her fair share of crystals, burns incense on the regular, and duly sets intentions every new moon, all of which is to say that while she's by no means an expert, she does know her way around a tarot deck. This one card, The Hanged One, used to come up often in her personal readings, and she's reminded of it now, of what it means. In short, it calls for stillness, holds space for… well… space by drawing attention to the presence of the present, no more and no less. And right now, their whole world is this moment, Tim in her arms as his father's life wanes on the other side of the wall, so she repeats You're nothing like him—and then she says it again.
If she wills it hard enough, she thinks the assertion might frisson through every synapse in his body, might adopt the steady drumbeat of his heart.
--
She's not sure how long the hug lasts, just that his tears drip down his cheek to sear against her skin as she draws abstract shapes across his back, the motions slow and soothing. When she finally pulls away, it's only far enough to clasp his chin in her hand.
"I'm sorry I compared him leaving you in Griffith Park to a Tim Test," she tells him quietly—she'd regretted the parallel as soon as she'd drawn it, and she really should've said so sooner. "Every child should grow up knowing their parents are looking out for them, and the fact that you are who you are despite not having that is…" She shakes her head, laughing incredulously under her breath. "Tim, it's amazing. You're amazing. And you deserved so much better than you got."
In the nanosecond before he averts his eyes, she sees something in them soften and shimmer.
--
Tim works his jaw, exhales slowly, and the next time he meets her gaze, he seems a bit more like himself.
"Thanks for coming here with me," he murmurs, his voice low and scratchy, and she reaches up to wipe an errant tear off his face. She half-expects him to balk at her touch, to shrug it off and clear his throat and stride away, but he doesn't do any of that—he doesn't even flinch.
"You'd do it for me," she tells him simply.
When he presses his lips to hers, it's less of a kiss than a Thank you, an almost chaste occurrence that means everything and nothing all at once.
--
After their mouths diverge, they hold each other in the hallway for an indeterminate amount of time; it's a level of connection that Lucy's never heretofore experienced.
Eventually, she trails her fingertips along the nape of his neck and tilts her head in the direction of the exit. "Are you ready to go?"
He nods resolutely, and as their bodies turn in unison, she slips her hand into his and guides him away from his father and his childhood and the ghosts of his past. When he squeezes her fingers, she squeezes back.