She does not see him again for five years.
Lucy senses how the scenario will play out hours before it happens. He will be at a bar, drinking on the anniversary of Isabel's death. He'll stay until closing, then get mugged on his way to his car. Tim's a good fighter and carries an off-duty weapon, but he'll be up against three other men. It will go wrong, and he'll perish alone in a gutter.
It's not the end he deserves and feels unnecessarily cruel after everything he has already endured, so she's driven to carelessness. Again. Lucy has begun to realize there is a pattern to her behavior where Tim is concerned; she refuses to dwell on what might be the cause. She has no plans to intervene, only wants (perhaps a little foolishly) to be seen by his human eyes before she guides him to the afterlife. It's a concession that's not technically barred, so she doesn't feel bad making it. Not in this case. Not when it's him.
Although masquerading as a human was a skill all angels possessed inherently, Lucy had never before put it to use. She'd not once had the need or desire to play at humanity, avoiding it even though others of her rank encouraged her to do so. It gave them a renewed perspective on guiding, they said. If anyone asks (which she doubts), she'll say this foray into humanity is to improve herself. Her true plan will stay concealed.
She's taken the form of a female in her late twenties. The rest is a translation of how she appears supernaturally, with the caveat being that the luminescence of her features is dulled so as not to incite suspicion. Her hair falls long and brown down her back, and the clothes she wears (black jeans and a floral blouse) are restrictive and just a little itchy. At least her shoes are cute.
Tim has chosen to patronize a place called Scotty's. Not a bad bar, but not upscale, more on the divey end of the spectrum from what she understands of humans and their liquor joints. It's late enough that the building is clear of all but the most dedicated drinkers, Tim among them. She can tell at a glance that he's not inebriated, but judging by the empty bottle to his left, he's been there for at least a little while.
A few barflies are nursing drinks at tall tables. Tim is seated at the bar. One seat to the left and two to his right are vacant. She takes the closest one on his right.
"Buy me a drink, soldier?" she says glibly, but that's before his eyes turn her way. Once his gaze lands on her, she briefly loses her nerve. She had done very little to prepare for this, and could think of no comparable experience to equate suddenly finding herself under his stare. He's aged some in the years between Isabel's death and now. Faint lines have formed around his mouth and beneath his eyes, but he is no less beautiful than the day she first saw him. Maybe even more so.
She clears her throat and flashes a smile she hopes is charming before flagging down the bartender. "I'll have what he's having." A moment later, he places an amber bottle in front of her. She takes a sip and frowns. "Oh. Well, that's foul."
Tim laughs, and she realizes she's never heard him laugh before. It's a nice sound, low, and just a little gruff. "I take it you don't drink much?"
"I can honestly say I've never had this before." She tries another sip. It's still disgusting.
"So what made you decide to drink tonight?" he asks.
She drums her fingernails against the bottle before casting him a sidelong glance. "Saying goodbye to someone I care about," she answers mournfully. "What about you?"
"Same thing, sort of," he replies.
She holds her beer up. "To goodbyes, I guess?"
He clinks the neck of his beer against hers. "To goodbyes."
The toast is what starts the conversation. He asks who she's saying goodbye to. She replies that it's a friend she works with (it's as near to the truth as she can safely get). She reciprocates the question, and after a pause, he tells her.
"My wife." He takes another long pull from his beer. They married too young, Tim says; too quickly. He rushed into it after his mother died, and the resulting union was unhappy. Divorce had been mentioned, and Isabel -who'd started abusing drugs in their second year of marriage- ended up going overboard after a bad fight. "I spent a long time thinking it was my fault. Like I could've made her stop. I still feel guilty. If I hadn't brought up divorce… Well, guess it doesn't matter now. It was years ago," he says with a sigh, then puts down his bottle and looks a little ashamed. "I don't know why I'm telling you all of this." He looks a little shaken as he realizes how much he divulged to a stranger.
Lucy touches his wrist. "I'm glad you did." Like when she caressed him the night Isabel died, his skin is pleasantly warm. "I'm sorry that happened to you. It sounds like she was in a lot of pain."
He nods his agreement. "She was." It is confirmation of her theory, but he does not elaborate.
Last call comes, and they finish their beers (or rather, he finishes his), and then he pays the tab. "Never bought a drink for a girl without knowing her name," he comments with a smirk, then stands and sees her out. She sets the pace, walking slowly out of the bar -meandering really- delaying the inevitable for as long as she can. Then, as they stand under the awning-covered entrance, she puts one hand on his arm.
"Mind walking with me for a minute?" she asks. "I think that beer got to me."
"You only had half," he notes with a chuckle, but accompanies her without protest, and they fall into synched steps as they amble down the sidewalk without a particular aim. All the while, a cold sweat breaks out over Lucy's skin; the feeling is foreign and uncomfortable as they walk. She's never stopped a death before, and that hadn't been her plan when she joined him tonight. She hadn't come here to interfere, had just wanted to see him once before she led him through to the everglow… But she understands in a rush that she won't let him die tonight.
Won't and can't. She senses the future changing as if she were watching it in real-time. Someone else will walk down the alley. They'll lose their wallet, but unlike Tim, they won't fight back. They won't struggle, and they will live.
She feels the borrowed time in her pocket the moment she's made her choice. Yes, the victim will survive. And so will Tim.
"What's your name?" she wonders. It's purely for appearances' sake. She's known his name for over a decade now.
"Tim," he tells her. "Tim Bradford."
Lucy turns to him, looking him over as she comes to a halt and stands with her hands in her pockets. "You're a good man, Tim Bradford." She tears a large corner off of the fabric from Zoe's shawl. It can't be perceived by human vision, but it's solid in her hand until she holds it up to his mouth. It moves like mercury when she rubs her thumb over his lips. The extra life courses down his throat, something he can't see or feel, but her finger over his lips remains. He has tensed under her touch, his eyes widening, and she feels her body hum with something she'll later recognize as want before she drops her hand. "I'll see myself home from here. Be safe, okay?"
She makes it a few feet before he calls out after her.
"I didn't get your name."
"I didn't give it." She glances over her shoulder to see he's watching her go. "It's Lucy. Lucy… Chen." The surname means "ancient" in some Chinese dialects, and she thinks herself very clever for choosing it.
"Lucy," he repeats, and oh , hearing his voice wrap around her name is a pleasure for which she had not prepared. Smiling slightly, he asks, "When can I see you again?"
She can see the borrowed time under his skin. It has traveled through him, carving a silver path inside his veins that no one but an angel would notice. The piece had been larger than what she had first planned to give his mother, equating to an extra month; maybe a little more. "Oh, I'm sure I'll be around," she answers before continuing on her way.
Indeed, she is around. After the first night of seeing him, she remains nearby, staging meetups (and calling them coincidence) before they begin to make intentional plans. When two weeks have passed, he kisses her, and she knows she'll never forget the thrill of his mouth over hers, nor the tremble of delight that runs in a rivulet down her spine when it deepens.
The days march on, and she watches as that first dose of extra time fades. It is first silver, then gray, then only a slight sparkle.
A month after they first met - the night the borrowed time appears as only a shimmer beneath his skin- Tim takes her to his home. His hands over her human body bring her to a height of pleasure that feels impossible, almost mythical. If the everglow isn't heaven, she thinks as they lay panting, bodies still entwined, maybe this is.
Later, as he sleeps, she runs her fingers over the veins in his hands. The silver light of the borrowed time is so faint she can barely see it. He could very well die in his sleep, though his heart and body are still strong. It's a better end than the first; in the comfort of his home, in the arms of a person who cares about him.
… But she, for all her angelic properties, is greedy and selfish when it comes to Tim. The afterlife will have him for all eternity, she thinks. Can't he be spared another month or more? She still has the rest of the lent time, and nothing but her own will is stopping her from giving it. Lucy weighs the scrap in her hands, repeats Zoe's warning in her mind. Use discretion, she had said. Anything else is reckless. Crazy.
He stirs slightly in his sleep just as dawn breaks. The blanket slides off of him a little, showing the steady rise and fall of his chest. He has to die one day. She knows this. This is reckless. This is crazy, she repeats but holds the borrowed time to his mouth nonetheless.
The caress is enough to wake him, and his eyes open while her fingers are still splayed against his lips. "That tickles, babe," he says, and she laughs.
"Sorry," she replies, withdrawing her hand as she watches the remainder run through his veins. She can see it glowing beneath his skin, and is relieved. "I can't help myself. You have such a pretty mouth."
"That's a strange compliment."
"Well, I am a strange woman."
He doesn't disagree. "That you are," Tim teases, then rolls over to drape one arm over her waist as his eyes close. Sleepily, he asks, "How would you feel about calling out from work today?"
If only. Telling him she worked in end-of-life care had been a necessary half-truth (humans and their strange tendency to fixate on their occupations; she'd lived for weeks among them and still found it baffling), and she had to come up with some explanation for what she did during the hours he spent on patrol as an officer. "I wish I could," she says, "but people need help."
"I know," he answers. "Do you ever wish you could leave it all behind?"
"My work?"
"That, too. I meant the city. The grind." He pulls her closer.
"You love Los Angeles."
"I do, but… I don't know. Sometimes, I want to get away from it all." His eyes open, finding hers. "What about you? Feel like running away with me to the mountains?"
"What would we do there?"
"Live."
The word makes the breath catch in her chest, and she's reminded again (not that she'd ever forgotten) that he has no idea how little time he has left. Even with the extra life she's given him, he's got less than a year to live. She looks away. "Tim…"
He backs down from his offer immediately, mistaking her hesitance for gentle rejection. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. Something about you just…"
"Just, what?"
"I've never felt this way about anyone. Never." A dry, somewhat bashful laugh escapes his mouth. "I've only known you for a few weeks, but it feels like longer. It feels like you've always been here." If only he knew how accurate that is, she thinks, but she does not speak. "I don't know. Something about you makes me say and think things I normally wouldn't."
"Like what?"
"Like… Lucy, what are you doing for the rest of your life?"
What wouldn't she give to answer that question? The best she can do is respond with, "Are you sure you want me around that long?"
"Absolutely." He interlaces their fingers. "I'm going to want you around forever."
Her face gives it away. She feels her expression change, feels the burn of new tears well in her eyes for the first time. A future with him. Dare she even imagine it? It sounds too good to be true.
It sounds like it because it is .
Of course, Tim doesn't know this. He doesn't know her true nature, only knows something he's said has made her cry. He sits up in bed and tries to console her.
"Baby, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you upset."
"You didn't," she replies after a minute, then wipes her eyes. "I've never felt this way about anyone before, either." She feels lonely for him even when he's right beside me. She misses him when he's away from her. She cares for him so deeply, it scares her. It hurts, it aches. It burns . Then, she whispers, "Is there even a word for this feeling?"
His smile is soft just before he kisses her. "Yes, Lucy," Tim whispers against her mouth. "It's love."
Three months pass, and they fall into a pattern. Their days are spent separately, with Tim at work and Lucy attending to the dying. At night, she shirks all of her responsibilities. That last, larger scrap of time from Zoe's shawl is still bright beneath his skin. With any luck, he'd live another two months, and she intends to be there for every moment she can.
It is too easy to forget that, like most things in the natural realm, this is only temporary. This goodness -no matter how much she feels Tim has earned it- cannot stay. She is awakened one night by a chill. It is followed by the palpable sensation of foreboding, and she knows her phase of joy and willful ignorance is coming to an end.
Lucy does not need to turn on the bedside lamp to see Zoe standing at the foot of the bed she is sharing with Tim. The archangel's face is illuminated from within, and there is no mistaking the anger in her expression. When she speaks, her voice sends a shiver through Lucy.
"What have you done?"
Without a word, Lucy rises from the bed and withdraws to the living room. Zoe
follows, and only when she is certain they are out of earshot does Lucy speak.
"I know what it looks like," she begins, just to be interrupted by a sarcastic chortle from the other.
"Really? Because it looks like the angelic equivalent of a rumspringa. What are you doing, Lucy?" she asks, and although she keeps a handle on her rage, her irritation is clear. "He is brimming with borrowed time. How much did you give him?"
Tears spring into Lucy's eyes as she admits, "All of it."
Zoe looks crestfallen. "Lucy," she scolds after a moment, "I told you to use discretion."
"I know," she replies meekly. "I don't know what came over me. He was going to die in a gutter and he deserved better than that."
"'Die in a gutter'? 'He deserved better'? You act like that's all you did! You didn't just give him more time. You've significantly interrupted the path of his life with your presence. How could you do something so thoughtless?"
Lucy has never seen the archangel look so angry, but perceives a note of hurt beneath the lecture. She doesn't reply.
Zoe sighs. "It's love, then, isn't it?"
Again, she does not answer.
"Lucia."
"Yes, Zoe. It is."
Zoe is silent, absorbing this news. When she speaks, it is an order. "You are not to intervene with his life any further, do you understand? He may keep what remains of the borrowed time, but if something happens before it's gone he will die, and you will not stop it. Are we clear?"
There is nothing for Lucy to do but nod. The archangel departs without another word; without so much as a warning glance as she departs. Once she is alone, Lucy returns to the bedroom. Tim has slept through it all, but as she reclaims her place beside him, he senses and reaches for her clumsily, still half-asleep. She lets him hold her, curls her body towards him, and presses her hand against his heartbeat.
Every human knows their days are numbered. How can they stand it, she wonders. How does anyone love so freely and easily, knowing tragedy could strike as quickly as a missed breath, as swiftly as a blink? She's known from the start that this could not last, but it does not make the certainty of losing him sting any less.