THEN AGAIN • TC ✔️

8. Housekeeping

Clem's not one to exaggerate, but this is actually fucking awful.

The thing is, she's been sitting there for an hour and half, listening to this poor woman babble on, only Clem can't actually get any information out of her because the woman always breaks down crying in the middle of her points.

(And like. Clem understands that her job is to be patient, and she feels for the woman, she really does. Divorces aren't fun for anyone, but they're particularly un-fun when you're trying to make them more fun. Maybe less bad is more appropriate).

But Clem smiles. Nods. Tries to press gently for answers, never makes the woman uncomfortable; she's got this down to a fine art. Clem offers her another cup of tea. Looks pointedly at the little box of tissues on the table next to the sofa, and the woman takes one. Dabs underneath her eyes and blows her nose and says she'd love a cup of tea.

So Clem goes and makes one for her. (Plus one for herself and one for Timmy, who has never, in all the time she's known him, been unappreciative of a cup of tea.)

She gets out a little jug and a few sugar cubes. Puts them on the cup and saucer that she reserves for clients. (There used to be a set of two but Timmy managed to smash both the cup and the saucer and spill scalding hot tea on his bare feet two months ago. He'd claimed that he couldn't walk for three days and Clem had to tend to him in his bed like a little invalid. She'd enjoyed it more than she cared to say.)

Then she makes her own tea. Makes Timmy's as well, with too little milk and a half a teaspoon of sugar, because apparently he can taste the difference if she uses a whole teaspoon. She carries it to his room and knocks on the door softly. There's a muffled little come in, so she enters and finds Timmy slumped over his desk, scrolling aimlessly up and down a document.

"Everything okay?" she asks, and Timmy shrugs. Spins around in his chair, and his face pulls into a tired little smile as he sees the cup of tea.

"Thank you," he groans, reaching out for the cup, but Clem bats him away and sets it down on the coaster next to his laptop. "I'm okay. Just...work, I guess."

"Oh," Clem says. Bends down and squints at his screen, but it's all weird numbers and things she hasn't seen since her junior year. "I would offer to help, but."

Timmy smiles at her. Lets his head fall back against the chair as Clem kneads her fingers briefly against one of his shoulders. She lets go. Pats him on the head.

"Can you do the other one, too?" he pouts.

"I've got a client."

"Just quickly."

So Clem reaches for his other shoulder and gives it a quick massage as Timmy slumps back onto his desk, head in his hands. "Will you do it properly later?" he asks wistfully. Gives her a bargaining little smile because he seems to know that it works on her. (It does). "I'll cook."

"No, Tim, I'm-" she cuts herself off. Digs her fingers into his shoulder again, then smooths the palm of her hand over his upper back, sweeping over his shoulder blades. "Nick's coming over."

"Oh, right," Timmy replies impassively.

"I did tell you," she frowns.

"No, I know, I know, I'm just.... Okay. So I'll see you tomorrow, then?" he asks quietly. Clem's frown gets deeper.

"No, you can come say hi, I just-"

"No, whatever," Timmy assures her. "Go, you've got a client," he shoos her away, smiling. She sends him a smile back, a tight one.

"Okay."

---

That evening, when Clem is curled into Nick's side again, and they're watching something mildly interesting and talking about vacations they've been on--

(And it's a nice, generic topic, only it's not like she has much to say because she's never even left the country).

-- Timmy walks in, shirtless, just sweatpants and socks, nibbling on the core of a brown-looking apple. Clem's mouth goes dry and she pretends she hasn't seen him.

Only Timmy seems intent on making things very difficult, because there's an ungodly amount of clattering going on in the kitchen, so Clem has to turn around to see what he's up to. And he's-

He's unloading the dishwasher.

Now?

But she doesn't speak up, doesn't question it, because he has every right to unload the dishwasher if he wants; the apartment is half his. Clem looks at the apple core on the counter, looks at the bumps of Timmy's spine as he bends over to lift the cutlery holder from the rack. Looks at the softness of his stomach and thinks momentarily that it would be quite nice to fall asleep on him.

But she's with Nick, who's shoulders have stiffened almost imperceptibly, just enough for Clem to notice. She turns around, stops looking at Timmy, because she's been staring too long already and at least one of the men in the room has got to have noticed by now. Clem pushes her face into Nick's chest freely. She's stopped wearing lipstick after last time, because it's not like it's really necessary and like, Nick probably doesn't care.

The clattering goes on for a while, and when it stops it doesn't really stop.

Because Timmy fills himself a glass of water and just stands there, sipping on it. Clem can't work out if he's actually scrolling through his phone or if he's literally just standing there watching them, because she doesn't dare to look up from the screen, from Nick's chest. Their conversation has come to a complete halt, and it's not like she blames Timmy, but.

(Like, he could've at least put a shirt on.)

The dishwasher is completely empty but Timmy seems insistent on washing up his glass by hand, even though he usually just chucks his stuff in the sink. (Clem washes it up for him in exchange for a hug and some of the Cadbury's Timmy picks up on his way back from school. Work? School.)

Today, he seems intent on doing nothing by halves, because he even fucking gets out the washing up liquid and the scrubbing brush from under the sink that Clem has seen him use maybe twice in the entire time that she's known him. Timmy scrubs energetically. Then he fucking cleans the sink and Clem knows something's up because that is something that has never happened before.

Tim leaves after fifteen minutes and she tries to concentrate on the film, on Nick's fingers brushing soothingly against her thigh, but all she can think of is a lean stomach and lurid washing up gloves on pale arms.