Work Text:
Timm sighs as he watches Rita walk out of the Bakeria with her pie in hand. It was almost midnight, which meant two things: One, there would only be one more customer, if any, and two, it was about to be Christmas.
It goes without saying that working was not on the list of ways he’d like to be spending Christmas Eve. There were some slammin’ parties going on out there, if you knew where to look. Some more low-key, traditional ones too- a few of Papa’s other restaurants held them. Even restaurants that didn’t would’ve been a nice way to spend his time. Or just chilling with friends. Or, fuck, even being alone back at his pad would’ve been preferable.
But here he is, standing behind a counter in a mall, tired and painfully sober and wearing a Santa hat that is ruining his hair and impatiently tapping his foot to disco remixes of holiday classics that are even starting to grate on him. With how inconsistent the scheduling is, it feels almost spiteful for Papa Louie to ask for one of them to come in today. Maybe more than “almost” spiteful- with things like this and him giving the dance studio to Cecilia, Timm couldn’t help but feel like the man had something against him. Not that it was anything he could really prove, he had asked for either of them and he was the one who volunteered. Cecilia deserved the day off more- much like she did the dance studio, he’ll admit.
It isn’t just for Cecilia’s sake that he was in today, though. And it isn’t just for the exhaustion and diversion from his typical habits that he’s sweating and antsy. He glances down from where he’d been staring off into to the shelving beneath the counter. On it amongst the expected work clutter, the gift he had wedged in there when he arrived this morning sits, unmoved. It’s not large, but still too big to lay neatly with everything else on the shelf- he didn’t want to move anything in case he somehow lost it- and he’s worried about it sliding off and breaking. Surely it isn’t that fragile, but it’d be just his luck if it is. The cheap gift box it’s placed in would do little to protect it, same with the lack of tissue paper and other cushioning. In spite of not having done so much as shifted since being put there, he found himself looking back to it every couple of seconds throughout that entire day. Just in case.
The wrap looks nifty, at least. If this job has done nothing else for him, it’s certainly honed his precision. There are no unsightly tears and all sides are satisfyingly smooth. When he was picking the wrapping paper, it wasn’t even a question which one he’d get. The pattern of cats in Santa hats and sweaters playing with baubles had immediately caught his eye and he knew it was the only choice. He’d taken the time to specifically find, outline, and cut the perfect position of the pattern to fit the box. He measured out the exact centers for tying the ribbon, too. One of the thin ones, as not to distract from the cats. This level of precision isn’t normal for him. In fact, he usually can’t stand striving for perfection. Nothing is truly great without human imperfection, he thinks.
But for her? He’ll allow nothing short.
He didn’t know if she’d come in today. She isn’t the type to spend her Christmas Eve at a party the way he would, but that didn’t mean she was free. Maybe she’s staying in tonight, curled up in a chair reading a book or filling out sudokus or watching some bad holiday movies. Or… he wonders if she has people she’s spending it with. If she was invited to a friend’s place to spend the night hanging. Probably something that involves discussions over wine and charcuterie boards, he’d imagine. Honestly, watching some bad holiday movies in that scenario, too.
They used to make a game of it. Scour through video rentals once the season hit, each time trying to find a movie that out-did the trashiness of the other’s. It was always something he looked forward to. No matter how shit the day at the firm could’ve been, he could expect to have his perspective on life refreshed. His fatigue pushed aside as he’d carry some hastily made meal to the living room and set the plates on the coffee table. She would thank him, taking another sip of the wine she had poured while he was cooking, and he’d plop down on the couch next to her. He’d press play and they’d dig in. The food was consistently finished before the movie’s setup, leaving them free to point out the already present clichés and clear low budget. Still, they always became invested.
Or, mostly. There would always be a point where Timm’s focus would leave the screen, turning instead to her. The TV illuminated her like a spotlight, and the movie would be projected back at itself in the reflection of her glasses. It was fitting, complimentary to the critiques she threw at it. She noticed the smallest things, things that he’d completely miss were it not for her. Why would he notice the movie details, though, when he could watch the twitch in the corner of her lip every time she found another flaw? The way she’d barely hold back laughter at each ridiculous scene, throwing her hand up to cover her mouth, but the humor clear in the wrinkles of her eyes? And how eventually something would be too much and she’d break, erupting into a husky laugh that made him break too? Funny, the way he’s heard so much music since then, yet nothing as beautiful.
In the here, though, in the now, Timm looks back up from the gift. He can’t see any mall-goers walking by the door to the shop, which makes his stomach sink. The more the traffic slowed, the later it was, and the later it was, the less likely it was that she’d come. He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself and shakes his hands as though his restlessness would be thrown off like water. Can’t start buggin’ out now. Whether or not she- or any other customer- showed up, he’s going to have to close. Might as well start cleaning now.
He peels away from the counter, still finding the spirit in him to shimmy along to the music on his way to the corner of the kitchen they stash the broom away in. It takes a moment to unlodge it from between the wall and the shelf next to it, which causes a new wave of frustration to wash over him. Again, he tries to shake off the wave and calm himself. Whatever happens, he can go home and wind down once his shift-
She’s there.
She’s the first thing he notices once he’s close enough to see back through the window to the front of the shop. The click of her heels as she approaches seem somehow louder than the stereo. On a normal day seeing her makes him freeze up, so now? He could convince himself he’s having a heart attack. She’s there.
Calm down. The gift remains safely tucked where he left it. Breathe.
Brown roots peek out from under the maroon of her hair, visible just at the part. She’s gone longer without getting it redyed than she usually does. He wonders why.
She’s dressed in her signature style. A blazer. Pencil skirt. Opting for red and black today, likely for the holiday. It only diverges in the turtleneck she’s wearing under the blazer. They really suited her, turtlenecks.
Alongside the outfit, her shagged out demeanor- tensed shoulders, slight yet tight frown- and dark circles her makeup didn’t quite cover made it obvious that she’d worked that day. Of course she did. He had hoped that she would let herself have the day off, but knew it was an out-there thing to expect. She’d never been one to give herself some rest.
Timm had dropped the broom and already has the order ticket and pencil in hand by the time she reaches the counter. He gives her a smile that he hopes comes across as welcoming rather than giving away his nerves. For a moment, neither of them speak. There’s an ever-present tension in the air whenever they’re around each other. One suffocating, difficult to break.
Eventually though, she does.
“...I see you’re working on Christmas Eve, too.”
Quinn stares at him over her glasses, her exhaustion even more clear up close. Her frown is now something closer to a sympathetic grimace. Timm tries to not let his shock at her starting the conversation with something other than her order show. She… hasn’t done that before.
“Yeah,” he starts, shrugging, “what can you do?”
He wants to point out the “too”. Tell her that she didn’t have to work all the time, that if she kept burning the candle she’ll set ablaze. That all these years hasn’t made him worry about her any less.
He says none of this, and instead begins jotting down her order as she recites it. It’s an act that’s out of habit more than anything else, he’s long since memorized it- the candy cane drizzle aside.
“Alrighty, I’ll hop right on that!”
Timm steals one more glance to Quinn, then to the present, before turning around and heading to prepare the pie. Normally, this process would be a breeze. Do something long enough and it becomes second nature. However, in his current state it’s aggravatingly harder. His hands had been shaking all day and it’s only gotten worse, his entire arms felt heavy and his movements slower than he intended. He unintentionally adds too little strawberry filling and too much chocolate, topping it off with uneven and, quite frankly, pitiful looking meringue. Shit. Maybe it would have been better if he had-
No. He can’t be, not while trying to reconnect with her.
Maybe she’ll be less judgemental about the pie turning out awful today, he thinks as he places it in the oven. Softened by the spirit of the holiday. He sets the timer and takes a deep breath, then steps back behind the counter. Quinn is still standing in front of it, if slightly more to the side than before, arms crossed and tapping her foot. She never sat while waiting, almost as if by standing she could convey to her pie that she’s in a rush and make it bake faster. Her eyes meet his and he smiles again, this time more sheepish. He should probably use this time to clean, considering she never talked to him while waiting either, but… he could attempt some small talk, at least.
Before he does, he looks down at the gift once again, considering if now is the right time. Nothing else to do, right? Except he’s afraid. If he gives it to her now he’ll have to stew in her reaction, whatever it may be. He doesn’t think he could handle that.
So instead he starts, “How was your day?”
It’s a simple question, easy to ask, easy to answer- though usually not truthfully. Yet it hangs in the air between them, Quinn seemingly shocked that he’s talking to her, and him instantly uncertain of his decision to talk at all. How long had it been since he last asked her that? It felt almost… inappropriate to ask now.
“It was… fine. How was yours?” Quinn tilts her head towards him, but doesn’t move from her position to the side of the counter. He’s unsure whether the hesitation was because she’s lying or if she just didn’t expect the question. Maybe both.
“Ah well, y’know, baby-” he winces as the word leaves his mouth. It was something he said all the time, casually. Meaninglessly. It didn’t used to be meaningless with her, though. He shouldn’t have said it. “-I’d rather not be here today, but I’m making the best of it.”
Thankfully- he thinks thankfully- she doesn’t react to the “baby”. She only nods, and silence falls between them again. Various other kinds of small talk and conversation starters flip through his mind, none of them striking him as worth saying. In lieu of talking more, he returns to the present. He still can’t give it to her yet, but he stares at it despite. This time he focuses on the sticker.
To Quinn. From Timm.
It makes his chest ache, seeing their names together. Quinn and Timm. They’re names that fit together- that were made to be together. Printed once upon so many posters and business cards and pasted across billboards and TV advertisements.
He remembers choosing it. It had been their last year of law school, and he had been ruminating on a lot of things for a long time. They were sitting together in the campus’s café, their table tucked away in a corner with seating only for two. Quinn had been organizing notes, already a coffee down and starting on her second. He had just been tapping along to the radio, working out exactly what he wanted to say. It wasn’t hard to tell her, but it was hard to actually say it for the first time.
He’s trans. Quinn’s response to this had been underwhelming compared to what he was expecting- it being such a big revelation for him and all- but she is too, so it was nothing new to her conceptually. She’d congratulated him on realizing this and asked if he’d chosen a name.
“Timm,” he told her. “With two M’s.”
“Why two M’s?” she had asked.
“Well, I was thinking with one M but… if we open a firm together, right, the name would look nicer with two M’s. Quinn and Timm.”
Quinn had smiled at this. Timm, in the current moment, smiles sadly at it, too. He once had imagined them so inseparably intertwined. Now he… honestly still did, in a way. Even if it’s only in the occasional glares and curt conversations, he couldn’t imagine a life without her in it.
The timer going off pulls him out of his thoughts and makes him jump so hard he almost falls over. He gives Quinn a thumbs up and hurries back to remove it. Fortunately, he manages to get it out of the oven and carry it over to the topping station without burning himself or dropping it. Unfortunately, he struggles with applying the drizzle too, and it looks just as messy as the meringue. At least it matches? The shaved chocolate turns out looking alright, at least. He pulls one of the to-go boxes from a shelf and pops it up, sliding the pie safely inside.
As soon as he returns to the counter and sets the box down, the sound of a clock chiming rings out. Twelve o’clock. Christmas.
“Sorry that it’s not the best today,” he stumbles out, panic and adrenaline beginning to rise again.
Quinn raises an eyebrow at him, and she steps forward. The tight frown she wore when she walked in returns as she looks at the pie through the clear plastic of the box’s top. Before she can say anything about it, Timm continues.
“I, um, before you go!”
He pulls the gift out from under the counter and holds it out to her. She blinks, confused, but to his relief her frown lifts and she takes it from his trembling hands.
“You… got me a gift?” She’s inspecting the box as she asks, tilting it for a better look at the wrapping paper. For a split second, Timm thinks he sees the corner of her mouth twitch.
“Yeah! It’s- Well, I…” He trails off in much the same way she gently slides the ribbon undone. With how he tied it, the paper neatly tears with it, unwrapping the present in one swift movement.
Quinn sets the discarded wrappings on the counter and pulls the lid off the box. A hot flash of anxiety so strong he feels like he’s going to pass out hits Timm as she pulls the item out.
The clock looks like it was made for her. Smooth, black-stained wood carved into the silhouette of a cat. Embedded in its middle is the clock face, boasting elegantly shaped hands and numbers in a font just as elegant- yet still easily legible. She stares at it, wide-eyed.
“So I was checkin’ out this thrift store, dig? And um, I saw that and I thought of you. I don’t know if you have anything similar or anything but uh-”
“Timm.”
Her look lifts from the clock to him, and at first he expects disappointment. Or annoyance. Maybe even anger. He braces himself for all three of those. But instead, she splits into a grin.
“I love it.”
Timm lets out his breath and grins back at her, relief easing him back from what he thought was the brink of fainting. He’s still trembling, but that’s okay- it had more to do than just this.
“I’m glad!”
It felt so familiar, watching her gaze fixate back on the clock and her grin wane into a softer smile. He can’t tell whether it’s the glint of the overhead lights tricking him or if her eyes are starting to water. For a moment, they stay like this. Her taking in every detail of her gift, and him taking in every detail of her. Too soon, the moments over. Quinn sets the clock down and pulls out her wallet while Timm collects and tosses the gift box and wrapping paper. She gives him a tip- an alright one, better than he thinks he would’ve gotten if it wasn’t for having a present- and stacks the clock and pie to carry them out.
“Thank you, Timm. Goodnight- and merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Quinn. Peace out.”
He watches her leave until she turns out of sight, then still lingers staring at the shop’s exit. He should’ve said more. Apologized. Tried harder to bridge the gap between them. But he didn’t, and he’ll work with that. He’s already learned to accept that he can’t change the past, and this is a good start.
It’s not until he turns out the lights and goes to leave that he remembers he hasn’t cleaned at all. With a sigh, he heads for the broom again before thinking Fuck this, it’s Christmas. He gives the broom a dismissive wave instead and strolls out of the Bakeria, exhausted but hopeful in a way he hasn’t been in a long time.