Chenford: You Are Not Worth It (Even For Donuts)

Mental Breakdown Donuts

Lucy POV

She waited until the door clicked shut. She whirled to face him, snatching the donut box out of his reach.

"Hey!" He said, perplexed.

"No," she said, her tone low and grasping for straws of control.

He smirked, "I thought those were my congrats for not dying donuts."

"Oh, yes because we should be awarding you for nearly dying again. No, these are my 'great job on not having a mental breakdown donuts.' And since it's all your fault, you don't get any."

"What do I have to do to earn them?"

Tim POV

He was going to die, not of a gunshot wound but of starvation. He desperately wanted those donuts even though he'd never admit it.

"What do I have to do to earn them," he asked. He saw an indescribable expression cross her face.

She was angry and concerned and stressed and... something else.

"You have to tell me why."

There was no question of what she was talking about. Why? Why had he jumped in front of a bullet for her? The easy answer was that it was the job, but she wouldn't fall for that. Why had he? It wasn't like he hadn't mulled over this from the moment he'd been shot. Okay, he had. And he knew the answer. He just wasn't ready to confront it himself. But she needed an answer now before she collapsed in a heap of uncertainty.

"Because... you aren't worth it."

He was met with silence. Her eyes grew wider and wider. As he thought about what he had actually said, he began a mental back-pedal.

"WHAT?"

Keeping his tone low and even, he said, "Lucy that is not what I meant. Your life means so much to so many people. Your life wasn't worth it."

She shook her head, "Tim, maybe you're still slightly out of it. That is the only reason I'm attempting to not go nuclear here, okay? But I am this close," she pinched her fingers, "to having a full-on mental breakdown. So try doing what you're good at. Use fewer words."

Sighing, he tried again, "I mean that losing you is not an option for me."

This time, he was met with silence. She fell back into the chair she had sat on for nearly 48 hours, the box of mental-breakdown compensation donuts still hostage in her arms. She was cataloging, analyzing, compartmentalizing. He could see it in the crinkle of her forehead, the way she scrunched her nose, how her eyes took on a deep, far away look.

"Why can't you lose me, Tim? Why is it not an option for you," she finally asked. But she wasn't done yet. He could see the flush grow in her cheeks, the shaking of her hands (still holding those precious donuts captive), the rush in her speech, the incline in the pitch of her tone. "And you better have a really good reason. Because otherwise, why can I not get a say? Do I not have a say? What if I said that I can't lose you either? Would that matter? Do you have any idea what it was like, to drag your heavy ass behind a wall and have to watch you bleed out? To watch you get carted off looking like death incarnate? To sit here for two days, not knowing whether you were going to wake up?"

"I do," he said quietly. "I pulled you from the ground Luce." Any argument she had prepared was shut down immediately. "I sat here drowning in guilt for over 24 hours waiting for you to wake up. That wasn't even the first time. I've hurt so many people, Luce. I've seen so many hurt. Mitch. Mac and his family. Angela. Many of the people I served with. Isobel. I lost almost all of them. You weren't one of them. So, forgive me, if I can't lose you. Forgive me for wanting to protect one of the only people left who I know actually cares about me. Forgive me for not wanting the roles to be reversed in this scenario. But I am not sorry for it."