Want You to Stay || Chenford / The Rookie

Part 20

Tim has gone through worse times in his adult life, objectively speaking. When men under his command lost their lives. When he got shot and wondered if he was going to bleed out in a squalid back alley. When Isabel was gone for months and every call to a homicide scene made his stomach bottom out with fear.

But something about the current combination of regret and shame and goddamn grief — coursing through him unexpectedly, utterly against his will — has Tim feeling like he's been hit by a truck. And like he can't seem to peel himself up off the pavement.

He keeps thinking about going to the hospice to collect his dad's effects, nothing but a pack of cigarettes and a few junky trinkets to his name. A whole life that fits inside of a damn shoebox.

Then his mind drifts back to his last conversation with Ashley — to the way her words had flayed him open, exposing the cold truth of how poorly he had treated her.

And then Tim thinks of Lucy — of the way she had dropped everything and come to him in the middle of the night. Of how she had held him close and let the dark tangle of anger and sorrow pour out of him. And he had done what? Asked her to stay in a moment of weakness, once again putting her in an impossible position. With her career. With her relationship.

His mind keeps replaying the way they had teetered there on the precipice yet again, his need to lose himself in her so raw and overwhelming that he couldn't think straight. If Lucy hadn't been strong enough to stop them, if she had let things continue down the path they were so precariously treading, he might have done it — the thought of who he was hurting nothing but a distant buzz at the back of his mind.

So yeah, Tim has had worse times. But this time — sitting at his kitchen counter, a funeral to-do list in front of him and a how are you? text message from Lucy on his phone that he has no idea how to answer — feels pretty crappy all the same.

A sudden knock on the door breaks Tim out of his trance, followed by Kojo barking as he leaps up from his bed, nails skittering across the hardwood floor. Tim sighs wearily as he makes his way to the door and throws it open.

"Hey, big brother," Genny greets him with a cheerless half-smile. After a second, she cocks her head, taking him in. "You look like shit, Tim," she says more softly, her voice laced with concern.

"You don't know the half of it," he grumbles off-handedly, trying for his usual gruff snark.

Genny's eyes crinkle, clearly seeing right through him, and she reaches out a hand to give his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Want to tell me about it while we deal with the joy of making funeral arrangements?"

Tim starts to shake his head and scoff, but it devolves into more of a broken sigh. And maybe it's because he's so tired of trying to pretend like he's fine. Maybe it's that he hasn't told anyone else in his life what's been going on over the last few months, too afraid that if he said it all out loud that he wouldn't be able to keep up the already-cracked facade of normalcy. Or maybe it's just that, for everything they don't see eye-to-eye on, he's known Genny his whole damn life, and right now she's looking at him with so much love and sympathy that it makes his chest feel suddenly tight.

Whatever it is, Tim does tell Genny about it. All of it. She listens intently as she brews up a fresh pot of coffee and makes them scrambled eggs, opening up every drawer and cupboard in his kitchen in the process. At first, it's hard — it feels as though the story is being dragged out of him against his will, every word scrabbling against the inside of his throat, desperate to stay inside. But there's a relief to it after a while, like finally telling someone is slowly purging the poison of secrecy from him.

Genny doesn't say anything as Tim talks. She just nods her head occasionally as she putters around the kitchen and points at his plate of food, reminding him to eat. When he comes to the end of it, she is silent for a few moments. Then she wordlessly reaches over and places a hand on his upper back.