#truly idk what this is but enjoy some natural disaster structural damage emotional trash i suppose?

[tuckersdeslauriers]

chenford + 'how the hell are we getting ourselves out of this one?'

Tim swallows and glances over at her, his lips twitching into a scowl for a moment before he neutralizes his expression. He can’t frown at her when she’s bleeding like that.

He sighs, crouching down next to her and adjusting her hands, pressing them down over the wound so she’s got actual pressure on it. He doesn’t allow himself to notice just how hard his hands are shaking. Doesn’t allow himself to notice how hard hers are, either. “Look at me,” she whispers, her tone harsh. “Right now, Tim.”

He listens, looks down at her face and feels his throat go tight. "Hi, baby."

Lucy furrows her brow at him and he can tell she's trying to fight a smile. "Hi," she returns, her voice clearly a little shakier than she wants him to hear. "Talk to me. What's the plan?"

Tim slides one of his hands over hers lightly, ghosting his palm over her knuckles. They're sticky with blood and he feels a thick, wet swath of it graze along his skin. He presses his lips together. She's bleeding more than he'd like, but not so much that he thinks it's catastrophic.

Still, the ambulance is at least 10 minutes out and they aren't cleared to move, yet. As if on cue, a loud crumbling emanates through the narrow stretch of the hallway they're trapped in and a piece of drywall lands next to Tim's boot, scuffing the side. He pushes it out of the way, away from Lucy.

This was supposed to be a quick stop-off to question a suspect before they grabbed lunch together. He was supposed to be picking french fries off her plate and casually telling her about all the things he had planned for them to do over the weekend in her incredibly empty apartment. Instead, the suspect had fled after pulling a knife on Lucy and his shitty fourth-floor walkup had started to collapse in on them.

The building, which Tim's pretty sure should be condemned, is going to come down any minute now and they need to be out of it by the time it falls. How that's going to happen, Tim has no idea.

"Baby," her voice is light, pulling him from his thoughts. "What's the plan?"

He knows she's asking for him, not for her. Lucy has a plan already, and he's sure it's a decent one. It's not what he's going to go with, because he's also sure it involves him leaving her, but it's probably decent. "The plan," he says softly, trying to keep the rest of his body still as he reaches down and brushes her hair out of her eyes, "is for you to keep up the pressure, and for me to get us out of here." Lucy frowns and he frowns back at her, albeit teasingly. "What?"

"Real plan," she urges, then sucks in a sharp breath, pressing her hands down into her skin further. The wound is just beneath her ribcage which makes the bleeding that much heavier. "Give me the real plan, please. Ambulance is how far out?"

He glances down at his watch. "Nine minutes," he casts his eyes towards the bleeding, then back up at her face. "You think you have nine minutes in you?"

"I'm not the one who can't last," she teases, and his chest tightens. "I have more than nine minutes in me, I promise."

Tim nods, looking back over his shoulder out the half broken window, straining to see if he can catch a glimpse of flashing lights or rescue vehicles. "I could do a lot with nine minutes," he murmurs, grinning when he hears her laugh. "What?"

"You planning on proving that to me later?"

"I've proven it plenty," he huffs, another crackling sending waves through the air and leaving the ground unsteady beneath this feet. He shuts his eyes and feels Lucy's leg tap against his ankle.

"Breathe," she whispers, and as much as he wants to tell her he'll breathe when they're on solid ground, he listens. "There you go."

"When did you become the voice of reason," he sighs, dipping down next to her slowly, so he won't fuck up the equilibriums of the building that he swears to god is swaying beneath them. He wonders if part of it is just his body reacting to hers, his head swimming because she's unsteady, because there's no way they're this unstable.

Lucy hums quietly. "Well, I was born in June of 19-," Tim cuts her off with a laugh and he watches as her face twists up into a smile, a real one. "We're going to be fine. I'm going to be laid up on your couch by this time tomorrow."

"My couch, huh?"

"Don't tell," she looks around conspiratorially, trying not to smile. "Your couch is more comfortable than mine."

He stares down at her, his face hard. "How much blood have you lost," he asks, serious, before cracking a smirk. He peeks out the window, then settles down next to her as carefully as possible, sliding one of his hands over hers and pressing down a bit further on her wound. "Can I tell you something?"

She hooks one of her bloody fingers around his thumb, squeezing it gently. "Anything you want."

He leans down slowly, as careful as he can, brushing his lips against her hairline. "You're the most important person I've got," he murmurs, his free hand slipping into her hair. "Even with your bad taste in furniture."

Lucy exhales a slow breath that hitches into a laugh by the end, another piece of drywall lands too close to her head for his liking. Tim smiles, kissing her gently and letting himself linger before he sits back up, admiring the smile on her lips, her eyes still closed. "You've at least cracked the top five, at this point," she hums up at him as he hears sirens hurdling toward them in the distance.