Chapter Text
Phillip hadn’t stayed at the police station, though it had been a near thing. He’d wanted to storm in there and grab the weaselly billionaire and smarmy ex-politician by their collars for daring to threaten Blanc’s gaggle of well-intentioned 30-year-olds. But the looks on their faces made him hesitate: Marta kept reflexively glancing down at her shoes and swallowing hard, Helen was standing with perfect posture and a terribly flat sort of expression, and Jud looked like he was expecting someone to punch him any second.
He was awfully fond of all three of them, but he also knew his husband knew them better. So after he’d given his statement to a vaguely bored police officer, Phillip tracked Blanc down. He found him outside, smoking what was (by Phillip’s estimation) his first cigarette of the last few days.
“Hey,” Phillip said, wary of the police station at his back. It felt like having a hostile audience, and he restrained himself from pulling his husband into the hug they both so desperately needed. Blanc had to put on the act for another few hours at least. Phillip wouldn’t crack his armor now.
Blanc glanced at him, undoubtedly reading all of that off of his face, and gave him a sad and distant smile.
“Hey yourself,” he replied.
“Do you want me here?” Phillip asked. Then frowned, as he heard how that sounded, but before he could open his mouth to explain he wasn’t seeking reassurance Blanc broke in.
“I would really prefer you returned to the cabin,” he said, a thread of real panic poorly hidden behind the forced slowness of his voice.
“I thought you might need me there for the kids,” Phillip said, but let the sentence hang like a question.
To his surprise, Blanc pulled him into a hug.
“I cannot abide the thought of you meeting them,” Blanc whispered in his ear. “I am tryin’ so hard to protect those three, and I’m not sure I can worry about you too.” It was a confession and an apology all in one, and Phillip squeezed him back gently in acknowledgement before he stepped away.
“If you need me,” he said sternly. “You’ll call me. Or just come get me.” Blanc blushed, an unusual tell for a man who usually had excellent control over his physiology, and Phillip nearly frowned. But Blanc recovered quickly, throwing him a two finger salute and crushing out his cigarette.
Blanc went inside. And Phillip went back to the cabin.
Which is why everything else he heard about the case, he heard from one of the others.
Marta came back to the cabin first.
“I didn’t have much to say,” she said. They’d played four rounds of Go before some of the tension had crept out of her, her shoulders lowering. Now they were drinking coffee on the porch, watching the last of the snow melt to reveal beleaguered dandelions and wildflowers.
Phillip hummed an agreement, mostly just to acknowledge he was listening.
Marta took another sip of her coffee and sighed.
“Everyone’s really rattled,” she said. “Blanc’s running triage, and I was fine, so I figured I’d get out of his way.”
“You’re fine?” Phillip asked, as lightly as he could manage. He made himself stop holding his breath.
“Okay, well, I’m not fine,” Marta said. “David’s doing better.” Phillip ignored the apparent nonsequitur with the ease of long practice.
“That’s good,” he said.
“I see hurt people a lot,” Marta said. “It’s my job. I try to be forgiving, because a lot of the people I meet are having the worst day, or week, or month of their lives. I think Blanc might do that too.”
“I think he tries to be kind,” Phillip said. “I’m not sure he would call himself forgiving.”
They sat in silence for long enough that a magpie landed and started pecking idly at the grass. Or at least, it seemed idle. Presumably the magpie could see something there. Something no one else could see.
Phillip stopped watching the magpie that was definitely not suddenly reminding him of his husband and turned his focus back to Marta. Her brow was slightly furrowed.
“What about David?” he prompted gently.
“It’s different when it’s off the clock,” Marta said. “I couldn’t help wondering- Worrying-” She broke off again, but Phillip finally had a flash of insight.
Marta had been, albeit briefly, accused of killing someone through negligent care. Worse, she’d believed it of herself. She had been in as much danger as the rest of them if David had died.
Jud, known for a history of violence and rumored to have been involved with Wicks’ death, had been a clear target. Helen, haunted by her past with the Glass Onion and Miles Bron, could easily have been implicated. And real work had been put in to frame Blanc. But Phillip hadn’t even thought of the consequences to Marta for tending to someone so grievously injured, who might die and drag her nursing ability back into the spotlight.
“I see,” he said. “At least, I think I do.”
“I chose to help,” Marta said, and her voice was so distant that Phillip was no longer sure which victim they were talking about.
“You did,” he agreed. “A brave choice, if I might say so.”
Blanc had wondered aloud at it after he’d come home from Marta’s case. Asked how many others would have tried to save a person overdosing in front of them while seemingly accusing them of a murder they thought they were responsible for.
“Maybe one day, I’ll choose to help and not dodge those consequences,” Marta said softly.
Phillip just put a hand on her shoulder. She swayed slightly, leaning into it for a moment.
A blue jay landed on the fence, and he pointed it out. It looked ruffled, like the cold weather had offended it.
They sat there for a while longer, until the evening chill sent them inside to build a fire.
Helen came home that night trembling with barely suppressed rage.
“That slimy-” she said, then broke off and took a deep breath. Phillip had stood when she came in, and offered her a spot on the couch. She didn’t sit, though, just paced with sharp, neat turns in front of the fire.
“They want to offer him a deal,” she spat at last. “Cy left him out to dry. Miles didn’t even clean his fingerprints off the crossbow, the idiot, but there’s nothing tying Cy to anything. Miles hinted that he would give up his partner in exchange for a reduced sentence. And the police are excited about it, like this isn’t his fourth attempt at killing someone. Yeah, he ‘only’ succeeded twice.” Even the motion of her air quotes were sharp and controlled. “Why don’t they understand this man is dangerous?”
“I don’t know,” Phillip said. The truth of it stung a little.
“They act like I have no idea what I’m talking about, no matter how calm and logical I am,” Helen continued. “And I can’t risk placing myself on the island to change their mind. The Shitheads might have left me out of it the first time, but I highly doubt they’d directly lie for me. The police won’t listen to Blanc, either.”
She did sit down at that, perching on the edge of the couch with a sigh. Some of her anger seemed to have been expelled with the words.
“Blanc’s half a second away from losing his temper all the time,” she said at last. “But god forbid I say a cross word and confirm the stereotypes these petty thugs have of me.” She threw her hands up in the air and sank back to huddle miserably into the couch.
Phillip reached out, careful and slow, and when she didn’t pull away he took her hand gently in his.
They sat and watched the fire in the fireplace burn down until there was nothing left but glowing coals.
“He killed Andi,” Helen said at last, her voice small and thick with unshed tears.
“I know, love,” Phillip said softly. “I believe you.” And he pulled her into a tight hug, ignoring the dampness of her tears against his sweater.
Jud didn’t come home until the next evening. Marta and Helen had elected to run to the store to keep their mind off the case and on achievable tasks, so Phillip was puttering around in the kitchen considering a baking project when Jud opened the front door as carefully as if it was made of glass. He saw Phillip and flinched.
“Sorry,” he said. Phillip cocked his head in a silent question. “I couldn’t get him to come back with me,” Jud explained.
“Dear boy,” Phillip said gently. “A natural disaster and a team of wild horses combined couldn’t pull that man away mid-case. I’ve long since made peace with that.” He glanced down at the ingredients instinct had made him lay out on the counter and smiled. Jud was hovering by the door, awkward and unsettled. “Wash your hands?” Phillip suggested. “I could use some help with this bread, if you’re willing to join me.”
Jud rushed to the bathroom, and Phillip caught himself wondering if young Jud had enjoyed baking, if he’d gotten to cover his tiny hands in dough.
He came back with the same haunted look, but clean hands and rolled up sleeves.
Phillip set Jud to testing the yeast, giving him clear but simple directions on adding the warm water and honey to the fine powder. Jud didn’t go and sit down, staring into the bowl for the whole five minutes.
“It’s bubbling,” he said at last, his voice almost reverent.
“Excellent,” Phillip said. He’d measured everything out while they waited, getting a truly ridiculous number of bowls dirty. But it was worth it to dump everything together, dusting them both with flour and making Jud smile, even if it was still somewhat nervously.
He had Jud knead the dough, watching scarred knuckles churn the floury mess against the ceramic bowl they’d ended up in until it was silky and smooth.
“I was making bread when I met Helen,” Phillip said conversationally. “Blanc was in the bath, of course.” Jud smiled again, though he tried to hide it behind one flour-speckled hand. He spread a streak of flour across one cheekbone in the process.
“You two always have this tone when you talk about each other,” he explained, as he watched Philip coat the dough with oil for proving. “Like you’re laughing at each other and terribly fond at the same time. Even before I figured out Blanc was, um,” He still hesitated over the word, and Phillip hid his own reaction behind reaching for the oven controls.
“Gay?” he suggested levelly.
“…yes, I could tell he loved his spouse very much,” Jud said, recovering quickly. “His eyes lit up the opposite way they did for the case.” Phillip handed him a paper towel.
“Get that a bit wet, then wring it out,” he said. “Opposite how?”
Jud bit his lip in concentration as he gently wrung out the paper. Phillip draped it over their bowl of dough and headed to the kitchen sink to wash dough off his hands.
“When he was talking about the case, he’d light up and speed up,” Jud said. He watched the soapy water swirl down the drain like he was hypnotised. “But when he talked about you, it was more like he slowed down. Relaxed, almost.” Phillip swallowed against the lump in his throat. For him to be so obvious that Jud had noticed it while Blanc had been making something of an active effort to conceal it was… unexpected.
“How are you doing with all this?” Phillip finally asked, once they were seated at the little table with mugs of herbal tea. “The bread has to rise for an hour and a half, all told, so we have plenty of time if you want to talk.” Jud laughed.
“You’re really good at this,” he said, just a little sadly. “I’ll admit, this has raised some things for me.”
A little over two hours later, when the women got back from the store, Jud and Phillip met them with thick slices of warm white bread slathered in honey and butter.
Blanc got home three days later around two in the morning. Phillip heard a car crunch over the gravel driveway, a door open and close, and then the car pull away. He got up, pulling on a thick robe but braving the cold wooden floors in bare feet. He waited in the living room for a moment, then shoved his feet into the nearest pair of shoes (Jud’s hiking boots, a poor fit) and headed outside.
Blanc was standing in the driveway, his face a mess of triumph and guilt and exhaustion. Dark circles were heavy under his eyes, and the hand holding his ignored cigarette was visibly trembling. His gaze was locked on the Milky Way above them, painted across the sharp crisp stars and vanishing behind bristling pines on the horizon.
He didn’t look over at Phillip’s approach, startling only when he had gotten close enough to touch.
“Phillip,” he said. “I might have pushed it a bit far this time.” Phillip bit back his rising panic and rubbed a soothing circle into Blanc’s back. He was in the same suit he’d left in, his muscles locked into rigidness underneath like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“Do I need to call our lawyer?” he asked, and Blanc snorted.
“Not this time,” he said, and lowered his gaze to Phillip. “This time, I got ‘em. I got ‘em both.” His eyes were hazy and solemn, and Phillip remembered with a distant ache how much he’d grieved after the Young case.
Without any warning, his knees buckled and Phillip had to lunge forward and grab him to keep him upright.
“Hey,” Phillip said, his knees and back already regretting the sudden motion. “You’re okay.” He slung one of Blanc’s arms over his shoulder and dragged him to the porch. They collapsed together into the ridiculous, kitschy porch swing he’d made fun of on their arrival. Blanc was breathing hard. Phillip probably was too, but his heart was thundering in his ears too loudly to notice.
“Do I need to call an ambulance?” he asked.
“Jus’ tired,” Blanc slurred, trying to roll upright and mostly succeeding. “Didn’t sleep much. Or eat. Too focused. But I got ‘em.”
“Okay,” Phillip said. “Food, then bed. We can talk about the rest tomorrow.”
He considered Blanc’s reclined posture and winced. Levering them both to their feet was going to be tricky.
The door creaked open.
“Look at the state you’ve gotten yourself into,” Marta said, warm amusement cutting the bite of the phrase. She stepped over and took one of Blanc’s arms at the bicep, cheerfully ignoring both his and Phillip’s reactions. Helen, right behind her, took the other arm. They easily hefted Blanc upright, and Jud appeared beside Phillip with a warm smile and an offered arm.
“You should see the other guys,” Blanc mumbled into the vicinity of Helen’s shoulder. “I thought Miles was going to spontaneously explode when his plea deal was rejected.”
“Fight’s over, Blanc,” Jud said, as they traipsed in to the relative warmth of the cabin. “You can lower your guard now.” Belatedly remembering his own footwear, Phillip glanced down at Jud’s bare feet and felt a swell of affection tug at his chest.
The women dumped Blanc unceremoniously (but gently) at the table and Phillip took the seat next to him. He reached out, taking one of Blanc’s trembling hands in his, and squeezed it hard.
“When you needed me,” he whispered, just loud enough for his husband’s ears. “You came home. Good job.”
Then the kids were chattering and setting down a bowl of pumpkin soup with a hunk of that morning’s sourdough experiment.
They didn’t flinch or stare when Blanc silently and robotically ate what was put in front of him, or say anything when his attention drifted off and Phillip re-grounded him. Instead, they brought each other snacks and joked quietly, keeping the mood light despite the worried looks they sometimes traded.
Jud offered to help once more when he’d finished eating, but Phillip waved them off and guided a calmer but disoriented Blanc to bed.
“Sleep,” he said. “I’ll wake you if anything happens.”
The next morning, or rather much later that morning, Phillip woke to the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon. Blanc was still completely unconscious next to him, his body warm where it was sprawled against and across Phillip. Phillip’s stomach growled.
He disentangled himself carefully, but needn’t have bothered. Blanc didn’t stir at any point.
He was cheerfully kicked out of the kitchen by Helen before Jud served him eggs, bacon, and a thick slice of bread fried to crispiness in butter and topped with raspberry jam. Marta dropped into the seat next to him, putting a mug of coffee in front of each of them.
“The other two remain loyal to their preferred tea,” she informed him gravely. “We stand alone as coffee connoisseurs.”
Jud was actually drinking juice, which Phillip chose not to point out in favour of inhaling the delicious breakfast.
“He’s still asleep?” Helen asked, tilting her head at the bedroom.
“Oh, easily for another ten hours,” Phillip said. “Thanks for helping last night. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“I’m not,” Jud said softly.
“He’s human?” Marta said, glancing around with exaggerated surprise. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Helen laughed and, judging by the rustling under the table, attempted to kick her.
“Thanks for looking after us,” Helen said, meeting Phillip’s eyes. “We were more than happy to pay it forward.”
“So,” Jud said, waving a piece of bacon thoughtfully at the room. “That was exhausting. This happens every vacation?”
“Not like this,” Marta and Helen said in eerie unison.
“It’s not like it’s a curse,” Phillip said gently. The coffee mug was heavy and warm in his hands, and all his family was inside and safe. “It’s a very clear cause and effect.”
“Rules of the genre,” Helen said, nodding, and Phillip’s lips twitched.
“Not that either,” he said. “Blanc is observant. Put him in a crowd of ten thousand and he’ll notice the lost child crying by the stairwell and the woman hiding bruises and the man who’s on the verge of a panic attack. He can’t help it, noticing. And a lot of the time, he can’t help them.” He shrugged.
“When we go on vacation, we pass through huge crowds of people. Airports. Hotel lobbies. He almost always sees something that requires intervention. A kidnapped heiress. A man loading suspicious cargo onto our plane. The mafia boss’s wife hiding across the pool from us.” He paused, took a sip of his coffee, risked a glance around. The three of them were all watching him curiously, no judgement on their faces.
“He tries not to drag me into it. And I think, if I asked, he wouldn’t intervene,” he added. “We could maybe have a vacation where neither of us ended up getting involved. But it would tear him apart. And me too, honestly.” He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.
This had been one of his family’s main objections to Blanc, once they’d gotten past the ‘very much not an appropriately wealthy British woman’ argument. He hadn’t expected to still be so sensitive around it.
“Maybe we could introduce him to the concept of a staycation,” Marta mused, which was so unexpected that Phillip nearly choked on his coffee.
“He needs a lot of stimulation,” Helen pointed out. “Maybe we could all come over and bring our favorite mystery book or something. Does he read mystery books?”
“He liked ‘The Hollow Man’,” Jud said. “I don’t know if he read it for fun or for work, though. Do you think Geraldine would give me actual cold cases?”
“Sorry,” Marta said, her light hand settling on Phillip’s wrist. “Is this annoying? We can stop brainstorming.”
They were accommodating, trying to build a vacation that Blanc could enjoy without it going off the rails. They were trying to change their vacation to suit the man instead of trying to change the man. Phillip felt tears prick at his eyes.
“No,” he said, smiling broadly. “It’s lovely.”