A/N: No matter how I tried, this final chapter kept slipping out of Tim's POV and yet - for me - it clearly belonged in this story, not as a side fic. I hope you will forgive the switch at this late stage.

Trish

I hate these chairs. I always hated these chairs, they're fucking uncomfortable.

The sound of the bottle hitting the table is loud, when I misjudge the distance slightly in putting it down. But then any sound is loud in this house.

I wonder why I never got rid of these chairs. Ain't no one else to care, to offer an opinion. Frannie wouldn't want them, in her midget sized apartment, but Barb might have a use for them, I could get new ones from somewhere, if she took them. I don't know why it never occurred to me to change them before. Kitchen chairs just...are, though, ain't they? I mean, these gotta be as old as me. Older. I don't remember Mom buying them, don't remember a time when they wasn't in the house.

I light another cigarette and stare at the chair on the other side of the kitchen table. It would be just as uncomfortable, if I moved around to that one. But I always sit in this one, back to the ice box, facing the door to the entryway.

Why? Because this was always 'my seat', even though they are all identical? Because Barb and Frannie sat on the other side of the table? Mickey tucked back in the corner, dropping whatever he didn't want into Reb's waiting mouth, despite Mom telling him 'not to feed that dirty animal at the table'?

There used to be other chairs too, I do remember that. I know Mom threw out the mismatched one from the end, the 'head of the table', when Dad shot through. Said it gave her more elbow room in front of the stove. And I know the last one is in her bedroom.

Joey always sat facing the window, one eye on the weather, because he wanted to be outside.

Before I even think about it, I'm climbing to my feet and slinging two chairs out onto the back stoop. That gives me room to drag the table around, which changes the look of the kitchen completely.

"This is my house," I announce to the empty room, "I can do what the hell I want. I don't haveta sit around and wait for nothing, or nobody." Because keeping things the same don't work anyhow.

I did that. I waited. For nothing.

Then I failed at moving on, because it don't hardly count as moving on when all you do is step sideways, not forwards.

And then I let him back, yesterday, and where did that get me?

I push open the door to Mom's room. It ain't a shrine. The three of us packed up her clothes and stuff, Frannie cleaned, Barb took one of the dressers. It's just an empty room now; bed, night tables, the dresser with the broken drawer.

And the chair that's coming back to the kitchen with me.

It's when I put my hand on it, to pick it up, that I feel the marks cut into it and the memory comes rushing back. This is how, even if they all got moved around, Mom knew which one it was. My fingers trace the carving, as I wonder how many times she did the same thing, how many times she remembered ripping him a new one for testing out his first switch on the chairback. How many times she said his name quietly, like I am now, going over the letters scratched into the wood.

"You idiot," I mutter, sliding to the floor, my hand still on the 'J'. "You frigging idiot. If you'd chose anything else, you coulda blamed Mickey. Or me. Why'd you do your own frigging name, Joey?"

People say that sometimes it's 'too cold for snow'. Never made much sense to me. But maybe it's the same principal for 'too painful for tears'? I could get on board with that. I lay my head on the chair, breathing around the knot of hurt inside me that never loosens.

I don't even jump when I hear my name called.

They sound the same. Maybe that's one reason why...No, that ain't fair to Dom.

"Do you got a type, then?"

"Sure." I sounded weary to myself. "Boys in gangs. Men in prison. All the same type. I think I met a guy once, hadn't never been arrested, but maybe he was a liar."

Dom laughed. "And here I was, thinking I was special."

"Round here? 'Bout as unusual as a girl who don't let you...pick her up, just 'cause you buy her a drink."

"That what's happening? I'm...picking you up?"

"Buy me a drink and maybe we'll work out the answer to that."

"What the hell? Why didn't you answer me? You alright?" Tim pulls up short when he sees me sitting on the floor, concern skittering across his face. I guess he came in the back door I left open. The idea that he might think I fell or something, makes me snort. Just a little. I stand up, tell him I'm just peachy, I'm moving furniture is all. He tries to take the chair off me, to carry it for me.

"Fuck off!" I wrench it away from him. "I got it." And I do. I kind of scrape the wall a little, but I get it where I want it, under the table just so. I reach for the vodka, look around for my glass and don't find it. Don't matter to me, only -

Tim's hand stops the bottle and takes it from me before it reaches my lips. He breathes out slow. "Can I say 'sorry' again? And will you hear me this time? For real?" I watch him carefully as he speaks, waiting for the catch. It's quiet when it comes: "I talked to Dom. I know about you an' him."

I take a step back. I know chicks who've been hospitalized for less, by men who were supposed to care about them.

Tim puts down the bottle, careful like, on the counter top. Real careful. He turns it around, studies it like he's reading the label, as he says, "Did I ever tell you 'thank you'? For the way you looked after me when my friend, Dallas, died?"

I stare at him, unable to form a reaction, a response.

"Did I ever tell you 'thank you' for all the times you patched me up?" His eyes drag up, to meet mine.

I open my mouth, but close it again a second later.

"This one time, down range, I was hurt and I think maybe I was out of it, 'cause I was convinced you was there. An' I knew that meant I was gonna be okay." Tim looks like he didn't expect to tell me that, like the words surprised him as much as me. He takes a step closer. "Trish? I wanna come home."

"Like yesterday, you mean? Like, you gonna split the second I leave the room?" I can't help the anger. I can't help it. But. Oh, God. But...

Tim goes to say something but settles for shaking his head. He ignores the chairs I just rearranged and leans back on the edge on the table, rubbing his hands on his jeans' pockets, like his palms itch. Or he's nervous. Which is weird.

My heartbeat ricochets between hope and fear, as I tell him, "I can't do it like we did it before. I won't sit around, in case you wanna drop by."

"I don't want it like that, neither." He holds my gaze and I take a tiny step towards him. I know he knows, but it can't fester between us. I have to be sure. I have to be so sure.

"I slept with your brother."

"I know." The calm tone of his voice ain't matched by what's going on behind his eyes.

"I ain't sorry about it." My defiance is undermined by the fact I have to bite my lip to keep it from trembling.

"I know." He takes a steadying breath. "That's okay. I just...need..." I close the last distance between us, before he loses it, before he breaks. He wraps his arms around me. I can feel him breathing into my hair. Eventually he sighs. "I ain't exactly offering you a fair deal. I'm kind of fucked up. You need to know that."

"That why you're here? So's I can patch you up again?" I don't mean it cruel, but I need to know. I can't see him but I feel Tim shake his head.

"Ain't sure I'm fixable this time."

"Don't sweat it. I ain't exactly stable myself." I could call that nearly empty vodka bottle as a witness.

Tim moves, holding me away at arms' length, then he starts pacing. I follow him through to the front room, as he mumbles, "I ain't kidding, Trish. It's like a piece of me got left over there. Or I brought it back, or something." He rubs his eyes. He looks real tired. "Whatever it is, I ain't how I was."

"Why? What happened to you?"

"See, that's the thing. I can't tell you. I don't wanna tell you." He gestures with his hand in a vague direction. "That. That needs to not touch you. I need some part of my life that ain't dirty with all of that." Throwing himself onto the couch, he leans his elbows on his knees. "But it's gonna happen, I know it will. 'Cause..." I lose the rest of what he says, because he puts his face into his hands, but it's something about 'nightmares'. I go right in front of him, challenge,

"But you wanna be here?" He looks up at me, confused. I check again. "You wanna be here? With me? Just me. Just us." Tim nods and goes to stand but I push his shoulder, making him keep his seat and I climb onto his lap, pinning him against the back of the couch. "Be careful what you wish for, Shepard." I kiss him. Kiss him until we're slipped sideways, lying down with his arms around me, curled around each other like we've been here always.

Tim chuckles. "I didn't ask you, did I? What you wanted?"

"Maybe I got it anyway." I smile at him. I feel like smiling a whole lot. He smiles back. He still looks tired, but Jeez, it's better when he smiles.

"I want you to know, it ain't all bad. I ain't such a dick as I was, back when we was kids."

I raise my eyebrows. "Are you apologizing, for the shitty way you treated me back then?"

"I guess. Seem to be doing a lot of that."

"You on Curly's program, or somethin'?"

He looks surprised. "You know 'bout Curly?"

"Ain't I been serving him neat Coca Cola all these months? Yeah, I know about Curly. Knew him before...before he did what he did. Seems like he hadda hit the bottom to come back on up, y'know?"

"Yeah." Tim smiles again, to himself this time. "I know."

We stay there for a while, cuddling, quiet, until I can't stop myself asking, "Are you really not gonna tell me about all where you've been?"

"Uh." I feel him tense up, then make himself relax again. "Not about over there. But I'd like to tell you about some of the rest. I was at the Grand Canyon one time. An' I seen them trees you used to talk about, the big fuckers." Holy God, he remembered me saying I wanted to see the redwoods? I ask him what they were like and, predictably, he answers, "Big." I roll my eyes and he winks. "Janssen said they was –"

"Who's Janssen?"

Tim swallows. Then he concentrates on moving a strand of hair off my face and tells me, "He was my buddy. He died. He was...I think you woulda liked him."

"He look after you?"

"We looked after each other."

"Then I woulda liked him." That seems to make Tim happy, although he goes on to frown a little.

"I don't need no nursemaid, that ain't what I'm saying 'bout us. I want us to be together is all."

"You wanna live here, with me, in this house?"

There's more than a trace of the old cockiness as he says, "Yup."

"What about dough? I got two part time jobs but I ain't pulling in that much an' I ain't itching to see you hauled in for anything illegal."

Tim Shepard looks mighty pleased with himself as he informs me casually, "Oh. That. Yeah. I got a job. Turns out I know a guy needs a motorcycle specialist at his garage. Figure I might see if I can stick workin' with him."

The End

So, this is where I'm leaving it. Thoughts?