A/N: Thanks to everyone who's reading. If you've read this far then I guess you're already well aware things aren't going well for Tim, but his mental health is increasingly fragile...

Fifteen

'Daddy, I'm hungry.' Tony appears in the doorway, bouncing from foot to foot.

'Two minutes, buddy. Dinner's nearly ready.' I carry on wrestling a wriggling Grace out of her juice-soaked dress and into the only clean vest I can find that looks about her size, though I reckon I'd probably have an easier job dressing a cat, or an octopus. A vest that now I look at it, with it's blue stripes, looks suspiciously like something that was once Tony's. 'You go wash your hands and it'll be ready.'

I turn my attention back to Grace, add a note to the ever-expanding list of tasks in my head that as well as doing even more laundry, I probably need to find her some new clothes from somewhere, the rate she seems to be growing just lately.

'Daddy!' Tony calls.

'I said I'll be there in a minute, Tony.'

'But, Daddy! It's—'

'Shit!' The stench of burning food hits my nostrils. Leaving Grace sat on the rug, I bolt past him and into the kitchen. Snatching the pan from the hob and gingerly poke at the contents with a spoon. The pasta is blackened, crusted to the bottom of the pan where the water's boiled dry.

Unsaveable. What a fucking mess. The pan sizzles and spits as it hits this morning's dirty dishwater still filling the sink.

Dragging open the fridge, I peer in, in search of some other alternative to offer Tony, before hunger gets the better of him and he throws another tantrum. Not that I find much. That had been the last of the pasta. While the fridge offers not a lot more. A dry looking piece of cheese and two eggs. One slice of bread and a pint of milk. Though if I use all the milk now that means there'll be nothing to put on their cereal in the morning. A trip to the grocery store jumps to the top of my list even though it only feels like yesterday I was last in there.

'How about you go get your sister and I make you two some scrambled eggs instead?'

'But I wanted pasta.' Tony scowls at me. 'You promised we could.'

'I know. Guess I need a bit more practice cooking, eh?' I smile at him, try to make light of it. 'I promise we'll have it tomorrow instead.'

'But I want it now.' He glares at me. 'Mommy never spoiled it.'

'Tony, please.' What can I say? No words I can offer him that can make that aching loss hurt any less. And if I say any more I'll probably only end up losing it too. I crouch down, pull him into a hug.

'Please, Daddy. Don't make me,' he whispers against my shoulder. 'I hate eggs.'

I bite my tongue, stop myself from snapping at him. Because its not his fault I'm so crap at this. Or that he misses his mom so goddamn much. Force myself to choose my words carefully, keep my voice soft. 'Well, okay. How about you go play with your sister and I'll see what else we got.'

As Tony runs back to Grace, and their noisy shrieks echo down the hall, I pull open the cupboard to be met by near-bare shelves. Ma's old pill bottle, the one I lifted from Curly's place, skitters across the shelf as I rummage through the last remaining handful of cans and packets. Cornflour. Creamed corn. Ground almonds. Ingredients that I have neither the skill or knowledge to transform into anything that any sane person would risk eating. Which leaves one bag of potato chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies. Hardly the kind of dinner Leigh would approve of me giving them.

The lid twists easily off the pill pot and I tilt it, shaking it over my hand. Three small round tablets drop out. The last three. Which can't be right, can it? I can't have taken so many that the jar is empty already. I've had maybe the odd one or two, here or there, to take the edge off. Get me through the long dark hours when the kids are finally asleep and I can't ignore the pain of all my mistakes any longer. I push two back into the jar, swallow the other down.

Though maybe Leigh would laugh it off, make it fun—can see her now, making it some kind of party, tiny drinks served with Grace's toy tea set, or a picnic, a blanket spread across the carpet—and tell me how one night of junk won't hurt them. For a split second I smile at the thought of the three of them, laughing together, Leigh patting the space beside her as she persuades me to join them. Tears sting at my eyes, blurring my vision, but I manage to snatch out the packets and tip the contents into a couple of dishes. At least they'll have full stomachs, and I can get them something decent from the store after work tomorrow, something fresh, some vegetables or fruit. I glance at the calendar hanging beside the phone, at the names my sister pencilled next to each day two weeks ago. This list that controls my fucking life now.

Every day is the same. Get up. Shower. Wake the kids. Feed them, dress them, take them to whoever the goddamned master list tells me is watching them while I go break my back on Curtis's site—before doing it all again in reverse. Collect them, feed them, baths and stories. More chores while they sleep. It was Sylvia today. Sylvia who loves them both like her own, loved Leigh like a sister—and makes no effort to hide quite how much she hates me as soon as the kids are out of earshot.

I screw the lid back on the pill jar and check the calendar again.

At least it's Curly tomorrow.

Finally, the kids are settled, asleep. I've made a half-assed effort to tidy up the mess of the kitchen, had a shower. Laundry from the hamper to the washer, now tumbling noisily around in the dryer.

Six hours until I need to be up, starting it all over again. I should probably try to sleep.

I hover on the threshold to our bedroom. Or, I suppose, not ours any more. Mine. Even though half the closet, more than half, is filled with Leigh's clothes, and her make up lies untouched on the dresser, between the perfume bottle and small, dark wood jewellery box. A thin sheen of dust already coating them all. Her personality, so many memories, are imprinted on this space.

still can't bear the thought of sleeping in here, alone.

It's fifteen days now since Curly and Angela took it upon themselves to come rescue me from myself. Seventeen since Leigh's funeral, Twenty two days since she...since she's been gone, since I last saw her, spoke to her, held her in my arms...

My hand drifts to the chain around my neck, fingers working and turning her delicate wedding band that these days hangs heavy against my chest.

...Twenty two days where I've not done a single fucking thing to punish the bastard who stole her from me.

I can't sleep in here, without her. Tugging the door shut, I turn on my heel, head into the kitchen and pour myself a large whiskey. Down it in one and fill my glass again. But at least I'm keeping my promise, not drinking in front of the kids. Not getting paralytic. Enough to get me through the pain, help me sleep, help me feel nothing. For an hour or two.

I walk straight past the bedroom, settle down on the couch, pulling the blanket over my legs and sipping at the whiskey, a little slower this time.

It doesn't help.

Ideas of revenge crowd my mind. The same old half-formed, nebulous plans where Brannigan gets what's due, suffers the way Leigh did, the way my family is suffering now. Plans where half the time I don't walk away unscathed, either. But then that'd be a small price to pay, if he gets what he deserves... if I get to be with her again. Not like the kids'd miss me, they'd soon forget, adjust, adapt. Hell, it's plain obvious to everyone they'd be better off without me anyway, the hash I'm making of everything so far. And at least the constant ache in my chest, that feeling that part of me is missing, might actually end. Used to think it was ridiculous, people saying they were heartbroken. Guess I know better now, now my own heart's been ripped out, shattered into a million fragments that can't ever be stuck back together.

I stumble back through the darkness to the kitchen, reach for the tablets again, score one in half with the kitchen knife and slip the sliver of medication into my mouth. Another half won't hurt, might even let me sleep.

'Morning.' Curly scoops Grace out of my arms at the front door, making her giggle as he contorts his face into a stupid grin, while Tony darts into the lounge, already tipping the ever-growing assortment of toys my brother's acquired for him all across the carpet.

'Morning.' I stride in past Curly, straight through to the kitchen, scanning the pantry shelves.

Nothing. Could have sworn there had been another jar of Ma's meds in here. I reach in, fingers feeling around the dark corners of the shelves.

'You alright?'

I lurch back across the room at the sound of Curly's voice, avoid meeting his eye. ' Fine. Just needed a glass of water.'

Curly raises an eyebrow. 'The glasses aren't in there. They're over by the sink, same as always.'

I think about popping the last full tablet after I come out the convenience store, before I go back to my brother's. It's never a quick getaway, Curly never has the kids ready, always wanting us to stay for dinner, or at least for me to stay a while, to chat. As unsubtle as a brick as he makes no effort to hide he's checking up on me.

And if there was more left in the jar then I would, but then what if it wears off too quick? I won't get through the night, not without something.

Dropping my groceries into the trunk, I pull away, drive to the edge of town, towards Brumly, crawling through the streets until I spot someone who'll be able to help me out.

A swift exchange, I hand over the cash, an extortionate sum for the six tiny tablets same as Ma's plus three of some other thing he claims'll do the same job, maybe even better. But it isn't like I've got any other choice. No way I'm going to the doctor's office and giving them any ammunition to think I ain't coping, that I'm unfit to be with my kids. And besides, it's not like I actually need the pills, not really. It's only for now. Until I get my head straight.