Want You to Stay || Chenford / The Rookie

Part 17

Trigger Warning: Grief and mentions of abuse.

***

Tim is staring at the untouched glass of whiskey in front of him when he hears the soft knock at the door. He looks momentarily toward the sound in confusion before getting to his feet. Kojo lumbers to his feet and begins to bark when the knock repeats.

Lucy is on his stoop, wringing her hands and staring up at him in nothing but a pair of tiny silk pajama shorts, flip flops, and an LAPD hoodie.

Her large brown eyes are filled with concern and uncertainty as she looks up at him, but it's the familiar, unquestioning trust underlying her gaze that gives life to a warmth in his belly. That breaks through the blanket of numbness that has trapped his world in slow motion since the moment he hung up with Genny.

He stares at her in glassy-eyed confusion, the cold outside air giving rise to goosebumps on his arms, even though he is far more reasonably attired in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. "Lucy? What are you doing here?"

"I — uh – sorry — I didn't mean to just show up, but... you didn't respond to my texts." She shifts her gaze shyly to the ground, "I got worried, but I — I can go if..." She is shivering so hard her teeth are chattering, and the sound jolts Tim back into the present.

"No... come in. It's cold. Sorry."

Lucy peers over his shoulder into the house, "Is...?"

Tim shakes his head, taking a step back so Lucy can enter and shutting the door behind her before offering her an answer, "She's at her place. I dropped her off before I had to go to the hospice."

Lucy nods, her earlier conversation with Chris leaving her that much more wary about the entire situation. She's not even entirely sure how she ended up here. But she'd been with Tim the night he'd last seen his father, had seen the impact it had had on him. When he hadn't responded back to her texts, something in her hadn't been able to stay away. It hadn't even felt like a choice. She had to be sure he was okay, even if that meant making an idiot of herself by showing up uninvited in the middle of the night.

But now, face to face with him, the reality of the two of them alone together in his house again is smacking her in the face.

Should she be here? Why isn't Ashley? Why didn't she go with Tim to the hospice?

Lucy shakes herself, remembering the reason she had crawled out of bed to be here, "I'm — I'm so sorry, Tim." She's not sure if it's the right thing to say, if anything could be the right thing to say in this moment, "How are you feeling?"

Tim shrugs, his expression blank, "Fine, I guess."

Lucy follows him into his living room where he retrieves a blanket and tosses it toward her before plopping down on the couch, settling back against the armrest and tiredly letting one bent leg partially sprawl on the couch in front of him.

"You're still shivering," he notes, eyes automatically trailing down the length of her bare, shapely legs despite himself. "Couldn't find any pants?" he asks, tone laced with just a bit of familiar TO reproach.

Lucy rolls her eyes at the judgment, but can feel the blood flowing to her face as she settles herself on the opposite end of the couch, tucking her bare legs up under her and resting her own back against the opposite armrest so she can face him. She shakes the blanket out, the familiar comfort of his scent enveloping her as she pulls the soft fabric over her body.

She sucks in a long inhale before finally responding to him, "I — uh... I wasn't at my place when I got your text and... I didn't want to stop on the way. Maybe I should have..." she offers meekly, feeling a little embarrassed about her half-dressed state.

"Oh." He shifts his gaze away from her before continuing, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have texted you so late. I don't even know why I did."

Lucy flinches at his dismissal even though she doesn't think he's saying the words to be hurtful. She swallows before venturing softly, "Well, I'm glad you did."

He shifts his eyes back to hers questioningly.

"Your father just died, Tim. You shouldn't be alone right now."

Tim laughs bitterly, "That man was not a father to me in any way that actually counted. I'm fine."

"Tim," she says softly, "It's normal... you know... for children of abuse to have complicated feelings —"

"Lucy, stop," Tim snaps, interrupting her. "Just don't. I don't need you to psychoanalyze me or tell me how I'm supposed to feel like I'm a subject in one of your goddamn textbooks, okay."

She's taken aback by the fury in his eyes, by the unexpected anger that is radiating off of him as he glares at her, "I — that's not... I wasn't... I just —"

She isn't quite sure what to say, and so she says nothing, letting her gaze drop to her lap where her fingers are worrying the fabric of the blanket. She feels the weight of having chosen the wrong words when all she desperately wants is to comfort him. The pull is almost unbearable — the intensity of her need to be there for him, to make any part of this easier for him.

"Lucy...I-I'm sorry. I — please look at me," his voice is softer, the anger melting away as quickly as it had appeared.

She lifts her gaze to meet his, can feel the heat building behind her eyes. "Tim, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean... I would never, in a million years, tell you how you should feel about any of this, okay? I just meant that it's okay if you don't know how to feel because... yes, he was your father, but... he was never the father you deserved, and I just thought that maybe... maybe you're also feeling the loss of what he was never able to be for you."

Tim nods slowly, "I guess I thought I'd be relieved or something... happy even that he is finally gone, but..." His voice cracks and Tim shakes his head, as if he's trying to shake off the emotion. "But now he actually is and," he drops his head in misery, "I don't know what to feel. I just feel sick."

He runs a hand tiredly over his face as he continues, "I keep telling myself he was a monster, and he doesn't deserve my grief, but maybe Genny was right... Maybe it wasn't all bad.

"We used to do these boys' weekends — just the two of us — we'd go camping and fishing and he'd tell me about the weekends he had with his dad. It would drive Genny crazy," Tim laughs. "She hated the whole idea of a boys' weekend, hated being left out."

"And he'd take us to see the Dodgers — the most nosebleed seats you could imagine, but it didn't matter. Just being there in the stadium with all those people and the energy — it was enough. And then he always pissed my mom off by getting us all the nachos and hot dogs we could eat..." Tim looks wistful, clearly reliving the joy he'd felt as a child in those moments.

"He's the reason I played football, you know? Took me out every weekend the summer before middle school and ran me through drill after drill. I thought that it was a way for me... if I could just get good enough — I don't know. It's stupid." Tim shakes his head.

"It's not, Tim." It's all Lucy says, not wanting to intrude on his memories, the processing he's doing in this moment.

Tim nods his head, a bitter expression contorting his face as he swallows, refusing to meet Lucy's eyes, "I thought if I could just make him proud... then maybe he'd —"

Lucy wipes at the tears streaming down her cheeks, heart aching for the boy that just wanted his father's love and acceptance, just wanted his father to stop using him as his own personal punching bag.