Part Ten: Conflict & Resolution

Lucy groans when she wakes on the couch the next morning. She squeezes her eyes more tightly shut, unwilling to face reality just yet. Though the steadily intensifying throb in her head apparently has other ideas.

As does her mind when it decides it's time for her to relive a reverse play-by-play of the night before…

Was asking Tim to set her up with Emmett the most mature way to figure out where Tim's head was at after talking to Angela? Absolutely not.

But, was it effective? Absolutely not. She's not an iota more clear on how he feels. But at the time it had seemed like a well-architected (read: impulsive) approach to getting a pulse on a man harder to read than hieroglyphics. Truly, she felt like she had a much better idea of what he was thinking and feeling when he was being an asshole.

And then there was her little interrogation about the lifeguard.

And, nope. Nope. No, thank you. She would like to get off of this ride, please.

Why does it seem like drunken nights can only result in one of two things — remembering nothing or remembering everything in excruciatingly, cringeworthy detail?

Time to get up.

Tim has set some water, Pedialyte, and a bottle of Advil on the coffee table. Because of course he has.

She downs a dose of the pain reliever and then drags herself up and through her room into the bathroom. After brushing her teeth and washing her face, Lucy trades her shorts and sweater from the night before for an oversized T-shirt. And that's about all she can manage before feeling like she is either going to throw up or pass out. She trudges back out to the living room to reclaim her spot on the couch and to guzzle some of those sweet, sweet electrolytes.

During her short absence, Tim has popped up in the kitchen and is occupied cooking something on the stove. Lucy knows she needs to thank him and apologize for not helping with the clean-up after their party, but, at the moment, she needs to just be sitting with her eyes closed. Still is good. Still is so, so good.

She doesn't crack an eye open until Tim crosses right in front of her, setting a plate and a mug on the coffee table. This angel of a man has swapped her tea out for coffee, anticipating her every hungover need. She has to admit, penance looks pretty damn good on him.

She watches as Tim crosses back into the kitchen and carries the skillet over to Kojo's feeding area, scraping something that looks suspiciously like the contents of her plate into his bowl. The sweet boy chases his tail with excitement until Tim orders him to sit.

Lucy glances back and forth between Kojo's bowl and her plate as the pup begins to scarf down his meal. She finally rasps her first words of the day. "Did you… did you give me the same breakfast you just gave your dog?"

He grins over at her, shrugging. "You know I only give Kojo the best. Besides, salmon and eggs are good for a hangover.


Tim joins her on the couch after he's finished his own breakfast of — you guessed it — salmon and eggs. After swallowing the last of what she can stomach of the omelet, which actually is quite good — he really does spoil the shit out of that dog — Lucy switches the TV on and pulls the blanket Tim had covered her with the night before around her like a protective cocoon.

"Big plans for today?" he teases as Lucy begins flipping the channels. They aren't due to film again until that evening for dinner, followed by a Latin ballroom dance class — much to Lucy's delight and Tim's chagrin.

"All the true crime I can eat," she mumbles.

Tim audibly groans, "Seriously? Come on. I get enough of this at work. Don't you?"

"Nope. Can't ever get enough."

Despite his grumbling, Tim doesn't make a move, instead relaxing back to watch with her.

Four episodes later, they have cycled through just as many positions on the couch. Their current position has Tim lazing with his feet up on the ottoman and Lucy lying on her side with her head in his lap, eyes glued to the screen. He thinks about how it's actually absurd how comfortable they are with each other given their short and tumultuous history.

It's 90% Lucy. Tim isn't particularly good with ambiguity, especially in relationships — he's always had a tendency to be all in or all out. And he's never been one to be overly physically affectionate outside of a clearly romantic or sexual context. If Lucy were like him, he has no doubt they'd probably both be sitting stiffly upright on opposite ends of the couch, if in the same room together at all…

But Lucy isn't like him — her natural warmth and affinity for showing affection sucks him in and makes it impossible not to want to get that much closer.

The remaining 10% is the oddity of this circumstance — forcing him out of his comfort zone and keeping him in a perplexing situation where what he'd normally do in a situation as confusing and complicated and messy as this one (run for the hills), has very little relevance.

But sitting here with her now, his arm comfortably settled over the length of her side and hand resting easily on her hip, he's pretty sure there's nowhere else he'd rather be, crazy reality TV show contract or not.

Scratch that — he'd rather be here in this exact position watching the Dodgers instead.

Cold Case Files breaks for commercial and he yawns, stretching his arms over his head before returning his hand to her hip and squeezing gently.

She laughs and squirms. "Hey!" she protests good-naturedly. Apparently she's ticklish there, too. Good to know.

"Seriously — how do you watch so much of this garbage?"

And she must be feeling a little better because instead of ignoring him or giving him an irritated grumble of an answer, she shifts until she's facing him and props her head up on her hand, and it's Tim's turn to squirm when the placement of her elbow almost causes him some very real pain. He holds her carefully in place as he adjusts his position underneath her until they are out of the danger zone. She laughs softly, cheeks flushing slightly once she realizes her mistake.

"Sorry," she offers unconvincingly.

"Uh huh." He slides his hand leisurely back along her side toward her hip. The blanket has shifted in response to their movements, and his eyes wander over her delicious thighs up to where the hem of her shirt offers him a tempting glimpse of the curve of her ass.

She follows his gaze and her blush deepens, but she doesn't move to pull the blanket back into place. Fuck.

He leans over her and squints — it's still half-obscured by the length of her shirt, but he's pretty sure the bit of charming delightfulness scrawled across her ass today says Squeeze Me. His throat goes dry. Hadn't he warned her about invitations she wasn't planning to back up?

"What was that you were saying? Something about garbage?" she asks sweetly. Her fingers casually twist in the fabric of her shirt; the motion exposing the slightest bit more of her perfect back end.

Tim forces his gaze back up to her face because, god help him, this woman is going to end him.

And she looks just self-satisfied enough to get a rise out of him. Well, another kind of rise, that is.

He narrows his eyes; challenge accepted. "I asked how you could watch so much of this garbage."

Indignation twists her pretty features. "What do you mean? It's not garbage. It's riveting! Like, come on, that last case — how did no one think to look into the mailman? It was right there."

Tim scoffs, "No way — that was clearly a red herring. It was so obviously the husband. It's always the husband."

"No, it's not," Lucy insists.

"Yes, it is."

Lucy stares up at him in annoyance. "Anyway. You're just proving my point. Riveting. Besides, it's a proven fact that watching true crime sharpens your investigative skills," she asserts just haughtily enough that Tim knows she is completely full of shit.

He snorts scornfully, "Bullshit."

"Is not!" she insists.

"Is too!"

"Is not!" He half expects her to stick her tongue out like a spoiled child and is opening his mouth to tell her as much, but stops short when she reaches up to press a finger over his lips. "Shut up, Tim. It's back on."

His lips automatically part in response to her touch, and he resists the temptation to pull the tip of her finger into his mouth with his teeth and suck. And suddenly he's back in Mexico, gazing down at her perfect tits as she boldly invites him to do things he had thought he'd only ever get to do to her in his wet dreams. His breath catches; holy shit, she had been so fucking sexy.

And he knows she's right there with him because her eyes are locked on his and she hasn't moved — the rise and fall of her chest has quickened, and a flush is spreading up from her chest to her neck and her face.

Something flickers in her gaze, but he doesn't have a chance to actually read it because she is pushing herself up from his lap so suddenly she only narrowly avoids slamming her forehead into his jaw as she scrambles to return to the other corner of the couch.

What the hell?

"Lucy? Uh — are you —"

His concern for her is met with a throw pillow straight to the face.

He blinks away his shock before turning to stare at her in disbelief. She just shrugs, eyes wide — a picture of complete and total innocence.

"I told you. It's back on," she says simply, pulling the blanket more tightly around herself.

Tim is still a little butthurt about the unwarranted pillow violence when his phone vibrates less than thirty minutes later.

He looks up from the screen and glances over toward Lucy, back in her cocoon. "I've gotta go in," he announces, getting to his feet.

Her brow crinkles in confusion. "Huh? I thought you were off today?"

They both are working reduced schedules, and Tim is temporarily working shifts that align with a typical Monday through Friday 9 to 5 so that there's enough overlap between them to accommodate filming.

"I am," he says distractedly, already moving toward his room to gather a change of clothes, his uniform, and the rest of what he'll need for shift. "Looks like something's come up."

He's halfway out the door less than five minutes later, when he hears her call after him.

"Tim?"

He stops short and glances back at her, his mind already halfway to the station.

She seems to sense that he's anxious to get moving. "Sorry — I just… I didn't get a chance to thank you — for cleaning up last night and taking care of me this morning."

He blinks, registering for the first time that she seems to be a bit disappointed that he's leaving.

He crosses the room toward her before he even really has time to think about what he's doing. He cups her cheek with his hand and bends to kiss the top of her head.

His thumb brushes over her soft skin as he pulls back, "I'll see you tonight for dinner?"

She nods sweetly, until her lips curve upward into a wicked smile. She wiggles her eyebrows. "And dancing!" she reminds him teasingly.

He groans as he turns away from her, tossing over his shoulder, "If I end up having to work overtime, just trust me when I say I definitely did not volunteer and it has nothing to do with the dance class, okay?"


Lucy is surprised when she sees Tim's name light up her phone less than an hour later.

"I swear to god if this is you already trying to bail on the dance class, I'll — "

"Lucy, stop. I don't have much time." His voice is tense, more serious than she's ever heard it.

She stiffens as tension courses up her spine. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just need you to listen, okay? There's an active public health threat; I need you to stay home. I can't tell you any more than that. And listen — this is the most important part, you cannot tell anybody, okay?"

She freezes — it doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's not saying — an urgent and active public health threat that requires a response from law enforcement almost certainly means there's an act of bioterrorism already underway. Holy shit.

"Tim, I — thank you for telling me. I —" Her mind is whirring at a million miles per minute, trying to process what he's shared. And make sense of why this is how she's finding out about what is clearly a large-scale threat to the public.

"Just take care of yourself, okay? And please — I know you are going to want to tell the people you care about, but you can't. We can't risk a panic."

Lucy's stomach drops, and suddenly she is wishing she hadn't picked up the phone. "Oh, Tim..."

"Lucy, what's wrong? I only have a minute. I know this is scary, but you'll be fine if you just stay home. I have to get back out there and start running down some of these leads."

She swallows, as the reality of the situation washes over her. She knows because Tim, a cop — a public servant, chose to warn her. She presses her eyes closed, feeling deeply conflicted; it could not have been an easy decision for him to tell her — to trust her with this, not after knowing her for less than two weeks. Not after knowing what she does for a living.

"Tim. I — I'm a journalist. This is — I can't sit on this. I —"

His voice is ice cold when he responds, cutting her off. "Are you serious right now? Did you not just hear what I said? I can't believe I — this is my job, Lucy. Are you really going to throw me under the bus just so you can get another big headline?"

And it's a punch to the gut. That he would think so little of her. Think that was her motivation. Why on earth hadn't they talked about this — the conflicts of interests their professions could create for them?

Then again, why would they have talked about it? They are married in name only. And yet… he had still chosen to call her.

Her voice is barely a whisper when she responds, "No. I would never — this is my job. I have an obligation to the public."

She can hear the frustration and hurt and anger in his voice, "God, Lucy — I don't even know why I told you."


He hears her sharp inhale on the other side of the line and can feel his heart drop into his stomach. Fuck. Fuck.

How had they ended up here? Of course he knows why he called her. Because he cares about her. He wants her to be safe. He wants to know she's safe so he can focus on his job.

"Honestly, Tim, I wish you hadn't. Because believe it or not, I don't want to be in this position any more than you want to be."

Her voice is unsteady when she continues, betraying just exactly how upset she is. "But you have to know this isn't right — if there's really a public health threat, the government has a responsibility to protect the people in a systematic way — to prioritize the most at risk and vulnerable populations. They don't just get to protect their friends."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut. He absolutely cannot be dealing with this right now.

"I would never —" her voice breaks and her next words cut directly into his heart, "I would never intentionally hurt you.

"Tim, I would never want to put you in a bad position at work. But you're not the only one with a job to do. You're not the only one with an obligation to the public.

"Do you really think it's not an issue that when a crisis occurs the default plan is to save the loved ones of government employees and say fuck everyone else?"

And god. She is so pure and so principled and so idealistic. It's infuriating. On some level, he doesn't even really disagree with her. It is fucked up; this entire situation is fucked up. But this is the real world, and her virtuous grandstanding could cost a lot of very real people their lives.

He takes a deep breath, running a hand over his face before turning to signal his partner that he'll be right there. "It doesn't matter what I think, Lucy. I don't get the luxury of having an opinion right now because I need to get out there and do whatever it takes to stop this from getting worse than it already is. So that we can save as many people as possible. That is all I care about.

"And, yeah, maybe it is selfish and fucked up and all sorts of corrupt, but knowing that you're safe, knowing that Genny and my nephews are safe — that's going to help me do that."

"And now — I really have to go," he says abruptly, his tone clipped.


Lucy can feel a lump rising in her throat, realizing that he is going to be running directly into this thing no matter what, while she is busy worrying over who gets to run the other way first.

"Tim, please be careful," she begs. But it's too late. He's already gone.

Her first instinct is to call Jackson, but she quickly remembers with an overwhelming sense of relief that he and Sterling had left for a few days in Palm Springs that morning. And surely his father, Commissioner West, is already in the know.

Thankfully, Tamara is back at school, also outside of the city.

But what about her parents? Her aunt Amy? Her friends? Her colleagues? Fear for the people she loves grips her heart even as she knows that she can't. She absolutely cannot warn them.

What kind of hypocrite would that make her? Righteously reaming Tim out only to go on and do something far more self-serving.

But she can understand it now. How difficult it would be for anyone responding to this to focus on their jobs while in fear for the lives of their loved ones.

But the fact that she's human and just as emotionally fallible as anyone else? That doesn't change her ethical obligation. It doesn't suddenly make it okay that someone in leadership, who is supposed to be serving the public has decided it's okay for them to decide whose lives are worth saving and whose lives aren't on a whim.

She can absolutely understand the importance of not causing a panic. But that's why there are supposed to be plans to execute against in time of crisis — not people in power playing God — getting to choose who lives and dies, who deserves a chance and who doesn't.

It couldn't be more wrong. Couldn't be a better example of exactly the reason she chose her profession — holding power accountable in order to protect the people. How can she possibly look the other way on something like this?


Lucy has the article written in record time. It is unbelievably easy for her to find sources. She methodically contacts family members of government officials and civil servants at every level. She introduces herself as a journalist for the Times, vaguely says she is chronicling current events, and asks if they'd be willing to go on record for her story. Nine times out of ten they are sharing a play-by-play of their day and everything they know before she's finished — the result of some strange combination of hoping she'll share more information (she doesn't), a macabre fascination with being a part of this moment in history without actually having to be part of it, and having been made far more talkative by the fear of imminent death. It's truly a wonder the news hasn't broken already.

But she doesn't send the article to her editor. Part of her obligation to the public includes minimizing harm and serving the greater good. And as hard as it is to think of the masses — those unlucky enough not to be a part of the inner circle and in the know — out and about living their lives as usual, completely unaware of the very real danger they are in, she can't make an emotional or idealistic decision. Even if the sheer number of lives at risk is horrific to think about.

It's a sick game of probability — weighing the idea that many, many people could possibly die if she doesn't run the story against the idea that some people will very likely die in the resulting panic if she does.

She has to make a call, though, and without knowing more about where law enforcement is with their investigation and containment of the situation — the scenario with the lowest possible loss of life if they can prevent this from becoming a mass casualty event, she can't pull the trigger.

She watches the news and monitors online activity almost obsessively for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, looking for any mention that could possibly be related to the threat. She only breaks to take care of Kojo — and it is so incredibly eerie, walking the block with him on what appears to be a day like any other, knowing what she knows.

When she calls production to let them know Tim was called into work and they won't be able to make it to dinner or dance class, she tries not to think too much about all of the noise she hears in the background — all of the crew onsite at a crowded restaurant to film one of the other couples.

She doesn't answer when her mom calls that evening. She can't do it. She doesn't answer any of her texts or emails, unable to function in this state of limbo.

The hours tick by, and while she wasn't really expecting to hear from Tim; she also hadn't expected he would be gone this long.

By midnight, she is sick with worry. She sends him a text, even as she is chastising herself for bothering him when she knows the stakes of what he is dealing with.

She buries her head into Kojo's fur when the same rotating story she's already seen 16 times is aired again on the local news channel.

She's still wide awake — anxiety at an all-time high — when she gets a call from an unknown number at 3 AM. She picks it up without hesitation.

"Lucy, it's Angela," she sounds extremely tired. "I can't talk for long and frankly I could get in very deep shit for calling you at all, but I wanted to make sure you knew — Tim's been exposed to the virus. All I know is that he's still in quarantine with the man that was infected, and they're trying to secure a vaccine for him."

Lucy covers her mouth. As much as she had known this was a very real possibility, she still hadn't actually been prepared for this call. Hadn't even been sure that anyone would bother to call her if something did happen.

"The man that was infected?" she asks, not entirely sure she wants to hear the response.

"He didn't make it." Lucy nods, and though it's difficult to hear, she appreciates Angela's directness, that she's not bothering to speak in vagueries about the threat.

"Is — is he going to be okay?"

"I don't know, Lucy. I hope so."

She doesn't sleep at all that night. She paces the living room until Kojo is whining for her to stop; clearly unsettled by her state of distress.

She can't stand this, feeling like there is absolutely nothing she can do to help without making things worse.

So she stares at her silent phone willing it to ring and continues to compulsively check the news to see if anything has broken about the virus.

The sun rises and she takes Kojo out and makes him his gourmet breakfast, grateful for the distraction.

She cleans the apartment from top to bottom. Reorganizes her closet and drawers that she literally just organized when she'd unpacked not even a week ago.

Eventually, she drops onto the couch with exhaustion. It's 10 AM and there's still no word. And she's not entirely sure she's ever felt quite like this. Not sure how she's supposed to feel about the man who had chosen to keep her safe, only to end up with his own life at risk.

She is starting to feel foggy and disoriented from lack of sleep. Doesn't even process that it's Monday and she should be at work until her boss texts asking if she's out in the field working a story. She responds with a thumbs up, not having it in her to provide any other kind of response.

Why hasn't there been any kind of update? It's agonizing, but she knows Angela has to be busy doing her own job, that she is probably even more worried about Tim, and very likely has no idea how he is doing.

She forces herself into the shower when her vision blurs, hoping the spray will rejuvenate her enough to function.

She downs the rest of the Pedialyte still sitting on the coffee table afterward — it's the only thing she's consumed since the omelet Tim had made her yesterday.

At noon, her phone rings with another unidentified number and she picks it up so quickly the phone almost flies out of her hand.

It's Genny. She's sobbing.

Lucy's heart is in her throat as she drops onto the couch.

"Lucy? I'm sorry — it's Genny. I'm not sure if anyone has called you?"

She continues on before Lucy can respond.

"Tim was exposed to some kind of virus; they gave him the vaccine, but it was experimental and all I know is that he collapsed. I'm not sure where he is now — if they're taking him to the hospital or — someone's on the other line, Lucy, I have to go."

And then she's gone before Lucy can even thank her or express how sorry she is.

She feels numb.

It's 2 hours later when Angela sends a text. Complications with the vaccine but Tim is doing better. Running some tests at the hospital now and then they'll decide on a course of action from there. The threat has been handled.

She is completely exhausted and doesn't even know what hospital he's at, but that doesn't stop her from heading directly to her car. She heads to the medical center closest to the station first, dialing area hospitals all along the way — a miserable process of being put on hold after hold and being forgotten multiple times. Her next stop is Cedars, but no one seems to have any idea who she's looking for.

A call to Shaw Memorial confirms that there was, in fact, a patient named Tim Bradford there at some point, but they're not sure about his current status. She doesn't bother to wait on hold, making it there in record time only to learn that he's already been discharged. She can barely stop herself from dropping to her knees in relief. Instead, she finds her way back to her car in a daze.

With no idea if he's gone back to work or home or anywhere else, Lucy returns to the apartment. She's on the verge of tears but tells herself that it is more than enough to just know that he's okay. Darkness is falling outside when she finally falls asleep.


Tim gazes down at Lucy's sleeping form on the couch, and, for a moment, he just watches her, overwhelmed by feelings he is far too exhausted to identify or process.

He stands on his knees in front of the sofa and brushes her hair back from her face, allowing his fingers to trail through the silky strands, mesmerized by the motion.

She stirs, "Mmm, Tim?"

Her eyes fly open, and she flings her arms around him without warning. For a second he is worried he is going to crush her as his upper body collapses down on top of hers. But she is wrapping her entire body around him, only pulling him closer.

He laughs, still awkwardly tangled in her arms and her legs, but it's maybe one of the best hugs he's ever gotten and completely unexpected, at that. He pushes himself up just enough so that he can see her face.

She looks up at him, arms still locked around his neck, as the rest of her body relaxes back onto the couch. Her eyes slowly scan over his face as if she is trying to confirm that he really is there and he really is okay. She finally releases her hold, so she can shift one hand to his cheek; she uses the other to gingerly examine the wound near the right side of his hairline that has begun to bruise.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly. He nods, placing his hand comfortingly over hers on his cheek, turning his head to tenderly kiss the inside of her wrist.

She shifts to her side, propping herself up on her elbow, and he drops back onto his heels but continues to lean over the edge of the couch toward her — settling a hand onto her hip.

She slips her free hand back around his neck, and there's a tugging sensation in his chest, begging him to pull her closer, even though they are mere inches apart.

"You didn't write the article?" he finally manages.

"Oh I wrote it," she laughs tiredly. "I just decided to wait on publishing it."

Tim nods; it's still going to bring a lot of heat, but he respects that she is doing her job. "That I can live with."

"Does that mean you would be open to letting me interview you?"

He narrows his eyes, giving her hip a gentle squeeze of warning. "Don't push it, Lucy."

Her fingertips gently graze the back of his neck as she gazes at him. It feels amazing.

"I tried to find you at the hospital, but they said you had already been discharged."

His eyes soften, and he brushes a thumb over her cheek, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. "How did you know which hospital?"

Genny had already laid into him once he'd gotten back to the station via a well-timed call to Angela (well-timed if you ignored the fact that she had probably been calling Angela every 5 minutes for the last 24 hours). She reamed him out for not finding a way to tell her where he was the moment he'd regained consciousness; he hadn't bothered to mention that he'd been busy jumping directly out of the ambulance into the middle of a shoot-out that ultimately led to the apprehension of the remaining terror suspects. He had a feeling she wouldn't quite appreciate the epic badassery of it all.

She shrugs, "Lucky guess?"

He doesn't believe her for a second. He stares at her for a few moments, hating that she had been so worried.

"I'm so sorry, Lucy. My phone broke when —" he decides to skip the part about getting his head bashed in by a desperate, dying man with a wooden chair. He presses his eyes closed, trying to just be grateful that it's over.

She's watching him closely, and he tries to force a reassuring smile, but it's clear she isn't buying what he is selling, as Angela would say.

He clears his throat, "Anyway, point being that I haven't had a phone since yesterday afternoon, but I should have tried to find a way to call you once I was out of quarantine. There was just still a lot going on. And by the time I got back to the station, I was on autopilot. I wasn't even thinking."

She shakes her head, "It's okay, Tim. I know you were dealing with a lot. Angela and Genny updated me. It was … you were just gone for a really long time and I wasn't sure —"

Her voice breaks, and Tim has to resist the urge to pull her down onto the floor and into his arms, instead settling for leaning in to press his lips to her forehead.

Her eyes fill as he pulls back. "I'm just really glad you're okay."

"Did you sleep at all last night?"

She shakes her head noncommittally and it's enough for him to know that she didn't.

"Me neither." He tips his forehead against hers, his exhaustion catching up to him now that he's made it home and seen that she's safe.

They are both quiet for a few moments, just breathing each other in.

Tim finally begins to pull away, certain he is going to pass out right there if he stays any longer, but Lucy resists, tightening her hold around his neck and pulling him back toward her. When her lips brush against his, he thinks he must have passed out, must be dreaming. Because there is no way she is kissing him, no way this can possibly feel as good as it does.

He melts into the sweet softness of her mouth. She pulls him with her as she collapses onto her back, his arms sliding under her so that he finally has a proper hold on her. And it is everything — the taste of her lips, the feel of her body under his, the comfort of her touch. She is everything.

He ends up half on top of her as they continue to kiss. She tightens her arms around him and manages to wrap her legs around his waist. And good lord, she is wearing another one of those oversized T-shirts, and the urge to run his hands over every inch of her creamy skin is impossible to ignore. Tim groans against her lips — he can't get close enough to every part of her in this position. She protests as he breaks away.

And suddenly sleep is the last thing he is thinking about. He gets to his feet and, with energy that was nowhere to be found mere moments ago, leans down and lifts her into his arms.

He carries her into his bedroom and lays her on the bed, only pausing to pull his shirt over his head before climbing on top of her and pressing his mouth over hers again. Her lips part for him and his tongue takes the opportunity to greedily explore. She grips his bicep in a way that drives him absolutely wild. How on earth has he been surviving without this?

They kiss until Tim can't bear it anymore, needs to have more of her — the parts of her he's been craving since he was idiotic enough to throw them away. Her fingers are already working at his belt buckle, and his hand slides up under her shirt, until he is cupping her bare breast, not sure if he's ever been so turned on.

She moans his name into his mouth pulling him closer with the hand that isn't fumbling with the fly of his jeans. He lets his other hand slide down between her legs, and he can tell she is so, so wet from just the heat radiating from her center before his fingers even make contact with the damp cotton of her panties. He has wanted this so badly.

"Do you have any idea how fucking hot you get me?" he gasps against her mouth.

He feels her whole body tense beneath his and immediately knows he's said the wrong thing.

She's shifting — attempting to pull down her shirt and slide out from under him. He quickly rolls off of her. She doesn't even look at him as she scoots to the edge of the bed. She's on her feet and heading for the door before he can even process what is happening.

"Lucy, I —" He's not even sure what to say; all he knows is that he really, really does not want her to leave. Not like this.

She whirls to face him, her eyes flashing with anger and hurt. He knows right then and there that they are nowhere near past what happened in Mexico.

"What are we doing, Tim? What do you expect? Am I just supposed to be grateful that you at least think I'm hot enough to fuck and just forget about everything else?"

And it's a blow to his gut in that way only she can deliver. But she's not done.

"God, you know I almost talked myself into believing that what happened that morning — it was because you were still so messed up over Isabel."

Tim flinches.

"That you couldn't see yourself marrying anyone after what you went through. But that wasn't even it. Because —" her voice breaks and she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and he can tell from the way she is trembling that she is fighting to hold back an avalanche of tears.

This is what all those questions about Ashley were about?

And he's not sure he's ever hated himself more. He feels like she is ripping his chest in two.

He crosses the room toward her and grips both of her arms.

"Lucy, look at me. Please." Her exhausted, sad eyes find his. "I need you to know that what I did that morning —"

She shakes her head and tries to pull out of his grip, "Tim, I can't — I don't —"

The anger is completely gone — it's just hurt and sadness and exhaustion now.

He can see the emotion rising in her throat — how much she is struggling under the weight of it. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," she begs.

And he hates the idea of not finishing this conversation; he needs her to know how wrong he was, how that morning was a reflection of his shortcomings, and how it says absolutely nothing about her — no matter what idiotic words he had chosen.

And she has to know that the dumbass opinion of a man that couldn't have been bothered to get to know her and who had his head too far up his ass to even actually look at what was in front of him is less than worthless.

And though he can kind of see how she's made the leap that she has after that strange interrogation and question about whether he could have seen himself married to someone else, she has to know that struggling with his past and dating or thinking about moving on are not mutually exclusive. And that his feelings on either of those things have nothing to do with her or her worth.

But he's no stranger to demons. He knows how tempting it can be to seek validation of your worst fears about yourself when you're hurting and angry and scared.

And he had played right into hers — making her feel like she wasn't worth getting to know, that she just didn't matter, and couldn't possibly be good enough for him to see her as his wife.

She has to know that she is beyond good enough for him — that he's the one that has to prove he is worthy of her forgiveness.

The problem is that he is pretty sure she does know all of these things. She is too confident and smart and insightful not to. Hell, she'd told him as much in the aftermath.

But this isn't about what she knows; it's about how he made her feel that morning, and that it is something she is very obviously still battling.

He slides his arms around her, half expecting her to shove him away. But she doesn't fight him, instead gradually relaxing into his hold.

"When you're ready, I do want to talk about it, Lucy," he says softly into her hair.

And it couldn't be further from the truth — it is probably the last thing on this earth he wants to discuss because it's uncomfortable, and requires a vulnerability that he isn't always willing or able to give, and makes him feel like complete and total shit, but he would rehash every last detail, apologize and explain again a million times over, if it meant she would be even the slightest bit less hurt.

Tim presses his eyes closed. This isn't something that's just going to go away — it's going to linger and fester and feed until they deal with it; they are going to have to work through it if they have any chance of moving forward. And if he walked out of the last two days with anything, it's the certainty that he does want to try and move forward.

But forcing her to confront something when she obviously isn't ready isn't going to help anyone.

She doesn't respond, but she also doesn't pull away, so he counts that as progress.

A wave of exhaustion overtakes him, and he's back to feeling pretty much dead on his feet, but he's not going to let her walk out of here still questioning where he stands.

"Can we talk about something else?"

She nods yes against his chest.

He swallows. "When I was in that house, it was — uh, it was really rough. There was this guy — just an innocent bystander whose shit luck landed him with the wrong bag. And he got infected. And uh — it was brutal. He died one of the worst deaths I've ever seen. He was desperate for help and he knew he was dying. And I just kept lying to him that help was on the way." He pauses as his throat thickens.

Lucy pulls back and tilts her head to look up at him, her eyes soft with her concern. "That sounds — it sounds awful and really, really hard. You must have been so scared. I'm so sorry, Tim."

He nods as he gazes down at her, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch and it fills him with warmth.

"Anyway, I thought for sure I was seeing my future, you know? That there was no way I was making it out of there. And when I was feeling particularly hopeless, I was just staring up at the ceiling and it kind of made me think you were onto something with all your stars and hope stuff."

Lucy laughs quietly at his ineloquent description.

"Because I was feeling pretty desperate to not be locked in a room with a dead man and the virus that killed him. And yeah, it would have been really fucking nice to breathe fresh air and be able to see the stars."

She blinks back tears, and she really does have to be one of the most caring people he has ever met. He pushes a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

"And then it just got me thinking about you. And I wondered what you were doing — if you were on your 15th episode of Cold Case Files or making a voodoo doll of your jackass of a husband or writing the article that would end my career if I actually did manage to survive…"

Lucy frowns, "Tim…"

He pauses, "What I said on the phone about not knowing why I told you — it wasn't even a choice. I didn't even think about not telling you."

Her tears spill over and she buries her face into his chest, arms tightening around him.

"I'm so sorry," she says when she finally pulls back. "I was just so shocked and caught up in the moment, but I shouldn't have put all that stuff on you about reporting the story and how wrong it was. Not when you needed to be focused on your job and saving lives and keeping yourself alive."

Tim chuckles, "Nah — it was good. Being pissed at you and your idealistic ways got me through a solid four — maybe six — hours of that quarantine."

Lucy laughs as she rolls her eyes, "It's the principle, okay... I'm not that bad."

"Uh huh."

He softens as he continues to gaze down at her, "And yeah, eventually, when I was done being pissed, and done imagining stars, and done wondering what you were doing, all I could think about was how much I wanted to see you. How much I wanted to hold you."

He looks away as his cheeks heat, feeling a little embarrassed by the sappiness of his admission.

"And Lucy, I don't mean…" he hesitates, wary of reopening a wound, "I just mean it had nothing to do with anything physical between us and everything to do with you, and who you are, and how you make me feel. I just wanted you with me."

He takes a deep breath. Here goes nothing. "Lucy, I want… I want to do this. I want to try and see if this could work for us."

She stares up at him, and more emotions than he could count or identify flicker through her eyes — surprise and confusion and sadness and fear and maybe even a flicker of hopefulness amongst a dozen other things.

She drops her gaze and Tim holds his breath. He knows he's asking for far more than he deserves. And it's not a small ask. He knows this. In the real world, it could mean just asking if she'd consider giving him another chance. But here — it's asking if she would consider actually trying to be his wife, trying to build the foundation for a life with him, seeing if they could make this marriage work. And it's absolutely terrifying.

When she meets his gaze again, he can see how hard she's trying not to break down and cry. "I — I don't know if I can," her voice is barely a whisper.

He nods his head, trying not to focus on the weight of the disappointment in his chest. It's not a no, and truly probably the best he could have hoped for.

"Of course. That's okay, Lucy. It's completely up to you."

He can't take back what he did. He can't undo how it made her feel. But he sure as hell plans to spend the next six weeks doing whatever he possibly can to make sure she knows how much he cares about her and how completely and totally wrong he was about the possibility of a future for them.

But, of course, it no longer matters what he thinks — it's entirely up to her to decide what, if anything, she wants from the rest of this experience and what she wants from him.

She steps back, "You should get some sleep; I can't imagine how exhausted you are."

And though he could collapse on the spot, he's still having trouble tearing his eyes from hers.

"Yeah. You too. Good night, Lucy," he finally manages.

She pauses in the doorway and turns to look back at him. "Tim?"

"Yeah?"

She bites her bottom lip and looks conflicted, as if she's not sure whether she should say what she's thinking. She swallows and meets his eyes.

"I just wanted you with me, too."