Work Text:
Nearly two months to the day after that final confrontation with his son, Tom Bradford's overworked liver finally gave out.
Neither Tim nor Genny were there at the hospice when their father died. Genny was with her family upstate, probably in the middle of trying to convince one or more of four young children to stay in their own beds for the night, while Tim was two hours into a graveyard shift with Lucy, listening to her talk about her own college experiences as they drove away from breaking up an altercation at an off-campus party. He was still laughing at one of her more colorful stories when the phone in his cupholder began to vibrate. His smile slipped as he caught sight of his sister's name and picture displayed on the screen, and he knew, even before he pulled the shop to the side of the road and slid his thumb across the screen to answer, that there was only one reason for Genny to be calling so late, especially on a weeknight.
It happened quickly, according to Genny. That was what their father's nurse had said, at least. His suffering is over was the only condolence the hospice's staff had offered. Then again, compassion was probably a hard thing to come by in a business so filled with death. So much of it was given to the patients that they had little left for the families by the end of it all.
They'd known it was coming. Tim reminded himself of that as he numbly listened to his sister describe their father's last minutes. Most people would've probably considered it a miracle that Tom had lived as long as he did, that he'd not ended it all by wrapping his truck around a tree back when Tim and Genny were kids, or by falling down the stairs one of the nights he was too messed up to walk straight. Forty-plus years of drinking liquor like it was water was a lot for a body to withstand, after all.
Maybe Tim would've more easily seen something miraculous in it if his father had used those precious, coveted years to change, to apologize, to be better. He hadn't, though. He'd been as terrible to 39-year-old Tim as he'd been to five-year-old Tim, as cold and harsh and cruel of a man as he'd always been even whilst facing the reality of his own mortality. The only fear, the only sympathy, he'd felt in those last few months was for himself. Not for the children he'd abused. Not for the daughter who'd taken care of him despite his wickedness right up until the end. Only himself. That told Tim all he needed to know about the old man. It confirmed all he'd already been aware of.
The only sympathy Tim felt was for his sister, whose voice shook throughout their entire phone call, who was grieving for a man who'd given her half her DNA and the worst memories of her life. Tim wanted to tell her the man wasn't worth her grief. He couldn't that, though, because he knew Genny wasn't only grieving for what she'd lost that night. She was also grieving for all she'd never had.
"I'm flying in tomorrow, to plan the funeral," was one of the last things Genny said before they hung up. She was crying, Tim could tell, but he was still able to understand what she was saying. "Hayden and Hunter both have spelling tests Thursday, and Robert's school's short on subs already, so they'll be driving down after school on Friday, but I'll be bringing Maisie and Owen with me." She did her best to keep the pain in her voice hidden, but it was still there. Tim couldn't join her in her grief. All he felt was guilt for the fact that he couldn't find it in himself to feel the pain she so obviously was.
"Okay. I can pick you three up from the airport," Tim offered, "and, uh, I'll help you with the planning in any way I can." He didn't think their father deserved all the effort his sister was already talking about putting into the service, but he wasn't going to leave her to do all of it herself. He'd promised not to leave her alone with things like that, not anymore, and anyway, it seemed funerals were really meant more for the living than the dead. His sister deserved to grieve however she liked, even if Tim didn't entirely understand why she was.
Genny sniffled. "Thanks."
"Yeah, of course."
His sister drew in a shaky breath, then let it out slowly. "I've gotta go. The baby woke up, and if I don't get him back to sleep soon, the morning's going to be even more miserable than it's already set up to be. I'll text you my flight details once I have them. I love you, big brother. Be safe."
"I love you too, Gen. I'll see you tomorrow." He only pulled the phone away from his ear when a rapid beeping alerted him to the fact that she'd hung up. A moment later, his head fell back against the headrest with a dull thud.
Lucy, who had remained silent for the past fifteen minutes, uttered his name softly.
He held up a hand before she could continue, steadfastly avoiding her gaze and instead staring out the windshield. He didn't think he could handle the kindness he'd find in her eyes, the compassion. She felt grief for him that he didn't feel for himself, and that was a fact he wasn't ready to face. "Don't. Please," he pleaded, the desperation in that single word enough to make her listen to him. "We both know I didn't lose much. I hadn't had a real conversation with the man in twenty years, and if I'd had any choice in it, I would've stopped talking to him a lot sooner than that. I don't need you to apologize, and I'm not grieving. I just... I want to get back to work."
"You shouldn't just get back to work, Tim. That's the worst thing you could do right now. You need to go home." She said it evenly, logically, and yet Tim still felt an unexplainable urge to rebel against the rationality behind her words, to argue against what they both knew to be true. She knew as well as he did that you didn't have to love someone, or even grieve them, to be shaken by their death. His father was dead, which meant it didn't matter how he'd felt about the man; there was still no way his head was in the right place.
He didn't want to admit that, though. He didn't want to confess that the news had altered his world view even slightly, and so he glared over at her, hoping the ferocity of his gaze, the warning behind it, might be enough to make her back down. "Chen, I've known this was coming for months. I'm fine."
Lucy, of course, hadn't been scared of anything or anyone a day in her life, least of all him. She glared back just as fiercely, spoke just as sharply. "No, you're not," she denied, twisting in her seat to look over at him. "Look, I'm not telling you that you have to grieve your father, Tim. He was an abusive bastard. If all you feel right now is relief, then that's fine; there's nothing wrong with that. There's not a thing wrong with shedding no tears for a man like that. He hurt you when it was his job to protect you, and you can hate him for that. You don't have to forgive him for that. What I am saying, what I am asking you to realize, is that grieving or not, you are not in the right headspace to be out on the streets right now. You are distracted. In what way, I don't know, I don't get to decide that for you, but I'm also not going to sit here and pretend with you, or for you. It's not in your best interest, or mine, or the general public's, for you to stay out here tonight. You've always said a distracted cop's only good for getting people killed, either themselves or somebody else." She stared at him pointedly. "Proving this point isn't worth risking your safety or anyone else's, Tim. Nobody's going to think you're weak for clocking out a little early. And if they do..." She shrugged carelessly. "Well, if they do, then screw them."
That last remark startled a laugh out of him, and he finally met her gaze head-on. "I think I hated him," he confessed quietly, ignoring the tears burning at the back of his eyes. He refused to shed tears for Tom Bradford, of all people.
Lucy exhaled shakily in the seat next to him. "I think I hated him, too," she offered just as softly, smiling sadly over at him. "And I had much less of a reason to."
He knew what she meant by that. Lucy'd never actually set foot in the same room as Tom Bradford. She only despised him because Tim did, because Genny couldn't. One day, the ferocity of her loyalty was going to stop surprising him. That wasn't the day for it, however.
"What do you think it says about me, that I hate my father?" he asked, scared to hear the answer.
Her gaze was steady. "I think the better question is, what does it say about your father that he was the kind of man his own children could hate?"
It probably wasn't meant to be a rhetorical question, but Tim pretended it was as he glanced away from her and cleared his throat. "You're right. We should, uh, we should head back." He put the shop back in Drive, then pulled back onto the road. "Grey's probably going to send you home, too. Everybody's paired up for the night."
"Alright," she said softly. He could still feel her gaze burning into him. "Tim, if you want to..."
He cut her off, knowing already what she was going to say. "I don't want to talk about it, Lucy. I, I can't. Not right now. Can we please just..."
He trailed off, but she seemed to understand what he left unsaid. For a moment, she hesitated, likely torn at the idea of leaving whatever wounds had just been ripped back open to fester, but then she glanced around them, realizing where they were and why he might not feel comfortable speaking freely, and simply nodded. Though he knew it pained her to agree so easily, she was still Lucy. She had always excelled at reading him, at knowing what he needed, and in that moment, he needed to not think about the events of the past half hour. And Lucy, angel among them that she was, didn't make a single remark about his father for the rest of their drive back to the district.
Instead, she turned to him with a smile that was less bright than was typical for her, more brittle around the edges, but still felt genuine. "Do you want to hear about Tamara's latest research project?"
"Sure," he answered, eager to have something fill the silence on the way back in.
She talked throughout the drive, seeming to know the last thing Tim wanted was to be left with the silence and his own thoughts. Her easy chatter made him smile in some moments and laugh in others. By the time they pulled back into the parking garage, he felt lighter already. Not for the first time, Tim found himself feeling immensely grateful for Lucy Chen's presence in his life.
"If Grey doesn't send you home," he warned just before they got out, "he's gonna stick you at the front desk. Do you have enough caffeine in you to tolerate the general public for the next few hours?" He meant to tease her, to bring a bit more light into that smile of hers.
His efforts proved successful. She grinned over at him, then waved a hand in the air. "I'll figure it out." She reached out to grab his forearm before he could open his door. Her smile became warmer, a bit shyer, as she looked over at him. "It's gonna be okay, Tim."
He himself wasn't so sure of that yet. For whatever reason, though, he'd come to always believe those words when she spoke them. This time was no different.
"I know it will."
"And until it is, I'm here."
He allowed himself to smile, just briefly, as he looked over at her. “I know that, too."
Some days, it was the only thing that got him through.
He wasn't quite ready to let her know that, though, so instead, he simply said, "Thanks."
She smiled. "Anytime."
When they parted ways, a lot still hung heavily over him. But, as always, Lucy had helped make it that much easier to breathe.
-
He wasn't expecting for Lucy to be the person standing on his welcome mat when he opened the door forty-five minutes later.
Really, that was on him.
"You were right," she informed him as he moved aside to let her in. "Grey sent me home."
"Your home is on the other side of town," he reminded her dryly, closing the door behind them and joining her in the living room.
She glanced up at him from her place on the sofa and offered a careless shrug. "Technically, he didn't tell me which home to go to. This is, in fact, a home, so I'm not breaking any rules."
"Cute." He shook his head at her cheeky smile. "I really am okay, Lucy."
Her face fell. "I know. I just - I don't want you to be alone right now, that's all. Even though you're fine," she tacked on quickly. "Can't a friend not want a friend to sit and stare at a black tv screen all by their lonesome, Tim?"
He smiled at the sheepish look on her face, then agreed, albeit begrudgingly, "They can." He hesitated for a moment, then added, much more quietly, "Thank you."
She smiled, shrugged. "Tim, I literally just said we're friends. You don't have to thank me for showing up for you, on today of all days." Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said. "You know, on this perfectly normal Wednesday."
His smile transformed into a smirk. "Perfectly normal, huh?"
"Yup," she said, her voice a touch higher than usual. "Nothing abnormal about it at all, really."
"Okay." He snagged the remote from the coffee table, then settled down on the sofa beside her, trying to ignore the way she seemed to instinctively lean closer to him. "Well, then, what would you like to watch on this perfectly normal Wednesday, Lucy? Not reality tv," he tacked on firmly, flicking the television on.
She considered the guide for a moment before offering, "True crime?"
He stifled a groan. "Aren't they the same thing?" All the dramatizations certainly made it feel like they were, sometimes. Why a cop would be so invested in that garbage, he didn't think he'd ever truly understand.
"Yeah, but there're probably fewer villains in true crime," she pointed out cheekily, smirking up at him.
He rolled his eyes. "You going to try to solve the cases the whole time?"
"Well, they're cold cases," she pointed out. "We're cops. It's our job to try and solve them. I'm not going to go against my nature, Tim."
"Well, if you want to try to solve a murder from..." He glanced back at the screen. "...1944, with no DNA evidence and no witness statements, then you go right ahead."
"You shouldn't underestimate me."
"Believe me," Tim said, draping his arm along the back of the couch as he relaxed back against the cushions, "I don't."
They didn't accomplish much, sitting there and tossing ideas about the case and its suspects back and forth, but Tim did feel much more grounded by the time the second episode began, and from the look on Lucy's face when she glanced at him during a commercial break, that had been the only thing she'd wanted to accomplish, anyway.
He really did need to remember to be more grateful more often about the fact that she was one constant in his life on which he could always depend. It was something that was all too easy to take for granted.
-
Planning a funeral was a nightmare.
It'd been a nightmare the first time around, too, when it was their mother they were mourning. Genny and Tim had been the ones to prepare everything, seeing as their father didn't bother staying sober long enough after his wife's death to stand up straight for the service, let alone help his children pick out floral arrangements and decide on a headstone engraving. The service had gone on without any issue, in the end, and Tim had been grateful that he and his sister had put it all together. He didn't think his mother would've been very honored if it had been left to his father, seeing as Tom Bradford had never made any effort to honor his wife in life and would have proven at least as worthless at honoring her in death.
Maybe that was the problem, what was making it seem even more difficult this time around. As exhausting as planning his mother's funeral had been, at least Diana Bradford had been somebody worth honoring. She'd been a parent to her children, and a present one at that. She'd been the one there to kiss skinned knees and bandage cut fingers and sit in hospital waiting rooms every time one of her children landed in the ER due to athletics. She'd written Tim every day when he was deployed, sent care baskets every week. She'd spent a month with him in Landstuhl when he was shot that first time, held his hand despite the fact that he’d been twenty years old, told him everything was going to be alright when even his doctors wouldn’t offer those assurances. He’d lost her six years earlier, yet the grief of her loss gripped him in a way the grief of his father’s didn’t.
Diana and Tom Bradford had been vastly different people, though. She'd been a good mother, the kind of person worthy of honoring, of celebrating, of mourning. He, on the other hand, had been his children's first villain. He'd been the first monster under their bed, more terrifying than anything their imaginations could come up with. He'd used his last months of life making sure his children were still as afraid to him as they'd always been, rather than trying to repair the still-open wounds he'd been responsible for inflicting upon them. It didn't feel fair, that they were taking so much care to pick flowers and readings and a headstone, when their father had spent most of his life doing all he could to be cruel.
It was important to Genny that they do this, though, and so Tim went along with it. He helped her make the decisions, discussed the eulogy and readings with the priest at their childhood church. The entire process was exhausting. The only person keeping him sane through it all was Lucy, who texted every hour and visited every night. She was becoming a permanent fixture in his home, something he'd never considered happening but deeply appreciated nonetheless. If not for her, he would've lost his mind two days into it all.
She was there on the day of the funeral, too, standing on the front steps of the church when he arrived. She was in a simple black dress with her hair curled and pinned back from her face. She smiled warmly at Tim as he made his way up the steps to her, the heat of the sun bearing down on both of them.
The sun was shining on the morning they were to bury his father. Tim didn't entirely know what to do with that.
Lucy embraced him once he was close enough, murmuring an "Are you okay?" into his ear before she pulled back to stare up at his face, eyes wide and filled with care and concern.
Tim was surprised to realize that, when he said, "Yeah, I'm good," he wasn't lying.
She reached down to squeeze his hand gently, keeping hold of him so that she could lead him up the stairs. "Everybody's already inside."
When she said everybody, he assumed she meant the small handful of people who cared to mourn the fact that his father was no longer with them. He didn't expect everybody to include about half of the cops from Mid-Wilshire.
None of his fellow officers had ever met his father, and those who knew of Tom Bradford were unimpressed by the man. The only reason they were there was for him, for his sister. That knowledge was enough to make Tim freeze before making his way down the aisle. He blinked rapidly to dispel the tears gathered in his eyes, cleared his throat, and then set off with Lucy at his side.
He claimed a seat in the front row, beside his sister and her family, while Lucy sat in the next row back, by Angela, with a softly snoring baby Jack propped up against her shoulder. He sorely missed her presence at his side, something he hadn't realized he'd grown used to until that moment, but his sister handed him his youngest nephew once he was beside her, and the solid weight of the baby in his arms was enough to keep him grounded as he listened to the priest deliver a eulogy that, while nice, was also entirely dishonest. The kind, loving husband and father Father McClain spoke of so passionately had never existed. He did not exist for any of them to miss. Tim wished he had. He wished he'd had that man in his life, because it would have made the loss of Tom Bradford a lot easier to mourn. As it was, all Tim really felt was numbness and the slightest hint of relief.
He knew, though, that the point of a eulogy was rarely to honor the dead. It was to soothe the living. It was important to Genny that their father be portrayed this way, that he not be loathed by an entire congregation of people on the day they put him in the ground.
Tim didn't have the heart to tell her that that ship had probably long since sailed.
The service seemed to go on forever, but it did eventually end. Tim had to resist the urge to sprint from the chapel the moment he stood. Once he was back outside, he was joined by Lucy, who smiled up at him sadly. "Your sister's talking to the priest, still."
"I know." Tim cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks," he offered awkwardly. "For coming."
She was still smiling as she lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Where else would I be?"
It really was as simple as that, to her. Tim was going to have to get used to that, one of these days.
"You drove here by yourself, right?" she continued as they made their way down the stairs.
Tim nodded. "Gen's got all the car seats. There wasn't enough room for me in their car, or enough room for them in the truck."
"I could ride over with you, if you wanted," she offered hesitantly. "If you wanted some company."
"Okay," he said, trying to hide his relief. "If you're sure."
"Of course I am. You can tell me about Kojo on the way over."
"Okay," he agreed easily, smiling when he was awarded with her sunny smile. "I'm maintaining control of my radio, though."
She heaved a theatrical sigh, then shrugged. "Fine."
The grin on his face when they reached his truck felt more genuine than anything else had for the past week.
-
Tim stood in that cemetery long after everybody else had left, watching silently as the hole for his father's grave was dug. The only one who remained with him was Lucy. She stood there at his side, a silent support Tim had never been more grateful for.
"C'mon," he muttered finally, once the cemetery's staff were preparing to lower the coffin into the ground. "Let's go."
She nodded silently, reaching out to snag her purse from a nearby chair and hiking it high on her shoulder. "Ready when you are," she said simply.
When Tim turned his back on not only his father, but also the painful past his father had stuck him with, it was with Lucy at his side.
He couldn't properly express his gratitude to her. He knew that. So, instead, he turned his head to look at her as they walked and offered, quietly, "Coffee?"
The beaming smile on her face as she looked back at him told him she'd gotten the message, loud and clear. "I'd love some."