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This was the kind of house dreams were made of when Ted was Steve’s age. The lad had done well for himself, faced few prejudices; what white male southerner did? The worst Steve had faced in his time was a judge and jury — and now this, of course.
Admiring the two-up, two-down terrace from his car, with its neat hedgerow and large bay windows, Ted wondered if it was proper to visit his DS at home. Their friendship had moved past the purely professional before, although only stretching as far as safe social settings: meeting down the pub, or either end of a restaurant table. To turn up at Steve’s home, without invitation, potentially crossed a line.
If he’d gone far enough as to book a half day purely for this visit, he needed to leave the car. He dwelt on a few last-minute fears, whilst locking the doors and crossing the road: Steve might not want to see him, he might be asleep, and things might be awkward. He simply couldn’t bear that suffocating atmosphere of I’ll invite you in, but don’t really want to. He had enough of that with Roisin.
Knocking lightly on Steve’s front door, hands linked behind his back, he attempted playing it casual whilst praying Steve wasn’t in and this whole thing was a waste of time. No blind or curtain twitched. He could hear no television or music playing inside. Perhaps he had got his wish and Steve wasn’t home.
Then, from the other side of the door—as alert as he could be in his condition—Steve asked, “Who is it?”
“Your gaffer,” Ted replied. Closing his eyes, he corrected himself. “Ted.” This was supposed to be a friendly visit, no ‘sir’s, no work chat.
A chain scraping the wood, and the slide of a secondary lock, was an immediate reminder of Steve’s trauma. Following the accident in Northern Ireland, and his subsequent recovery, Ted couldn’t get into a car without working up a sweat. It took almost a year to recover from it. Thanks to Balaclava Man, Steve would second-guess everything and everyone for a while, no doubt.
Steve’s fragile frame, balanced on crutches, struggled to open up. Once he managed, he greeted Ted with a limp smile, erasing his previous concerns. “Good to see you, sir. Hope it’s good news.”
Unfortunately, he had nothing positive to report. Huntley kept getting her way and Balaclava Man was still at large, but, in the grand scheme, that didn’t matter. Steve was up and about, and home from hospital; nothing made him happier.
“Afraid I’m just here to see how you’re doing, son. And no ‘sir’s; it’s Ted or nothing today.”
Steve nodded, shuffling back to let the other man inside. “I’ll try and remember.”
“So, how’s the investigation?” Steve asked, once his guest had made himself comfortable in the front room at his request. Using the sofa arm, he lowered himself onto the cushions, wincing momentarily at the effort it required.
“Don’t worry your head over it,” Ted said, raising a hand to block any further questions on the subject. Steve hadn’t stopped going on about the case since he came round. “I want to hear about you, we all do. The department won’t stop bloody asking so you better give me a full report to take back or they’ll string me up!” He hoped that would make Steve laugh, or at least crack a smile, but he only nodded.
Inhaling deeply, he blew out a long sigh, as if he’d been asked this question a thousand times before. “There’s nothing to tell. Really. Still healing, still going over what happened in my head all the time. I’m bored out of my mind stuck here all day. If I have to watch another episode of Jeremy Kyle, I’ll scream.”
“Good. It’ll make coming back to work all the more appealing,” Ted assured. With a wink, he added, “Don’t want you getting used to the sedentary life, eh?”
“Is there really nothing you can give me?” It was a question Steve had asked before, but never face-to-face. “I’ll take paperwork, if I have to.” He looked utterly desperate, even pitiable Ted thought. Those pleading eyes always did a number on him.
Just as Ted went to explain that he couldn’t, as it was against regulations, Steve cut him off. “Please, sir.” Again with those eyes. “I’m going—” he stopped himself, altered his phrasing “—my mind’s stagnating.”
Considering it for a moment, and just a moment, mind, Ted shook his head. Not wishing to appear completely uncaring, he asked, “Can’t you get one of those game things?”
“I’ve got one.” He nodded towards his television stand. “I’m sick of it. I’m sick of everything.”
“There must be somethi—”
“There isn’t!” Steve looked taken-aback by his outburst, then apologetic. “Sorry, I... haven’t been sleeping.”
It seemed due time for Steve to clam up, pull on a happy face and pretend he was fine. Masking his emotions was something he’d become exceptionally skilled at; years in AC-12 had taught him well. Ted hoped he wouldn’t go silent on him — it was his job to detect and he’d known something wasn’t right the moment Steve opened the door. All you had to do was look at the boy—bloodshot eyes, dark circles, five o’clock shadow—and you’d see he wasn’t right.
“Is it the pain?” he asked, softly.
Steve shook his head, wiping a hand down his temple before covering his mouth with it. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled into his palm.
“You know,” Ted sat forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, “I used to get nightmares after what happened in the RUC, real bad.” Steve peered over at him, half his face still concealed behind his hand. “If you need to talk to someone, I can have that arranged. There’s no shame in it, none at all.”
Perhaps it was the Catholic in him, but Ted always found comfort in sharing his problems. Not with anyone, mind. Confession, of sins or otherwise, always prompted a kind of peace in him. If Steve was having nightmares—and he suspected that he was—he needed to tell someone, work it through.
“Thanks,” Steve said, at length, “Might take you up on that.”
A shared look of understanding passed between them. Ted hoped Steve had someone in his life to offer him advice, keep an eye on him. If he didn’t, he’d gladly accept the role.
“Want a cuppa?” Steve asked, inhaling sharply and finally taking his hand from his mouth. “I’m having one.” It seemed he’d hit his limit with this topic, felt he’d opened up enough.
“I’ll do that,” Ted fussed, “You stay there.” He went to stand up, made it halfway, but Steve interrupted and grabbed his crutches.
“Please. It’s good for me.”
“You sure?”
“Totally.”
Acquiescing, Ted returned to his seat. He tried not to be too concerned by Steve’s hobbled staggering en route to the kitchen but couldn’t help find it painful to see, like watching a puppy try to climb stairs and not quite making it.
When Steve finally returned—the proverbial watched pot indeed taking longer to boil—he did so empty-handed.
“Couldn’t manage carrying them, but they’re on the side.”
Silly boy should’ve called him through, saved him the uncomfortable worrying that Steve was struggling out there but too embarrassed to say. Standing up, Ted said he’d fetch them. As he passed Steve in the doorway, he noticed he looked rather sickly.
“You all right, son?”
“Yeah, yeah I just—” Steve’s breathing was noticeably fast and he blinked rapidly “—get dizzy sometimes. It’s fine, happens a lot.” Unsteady on his feet, he leant against the doorframe, letting his forehead fall against the wood. Voice hushed, words between gasps for breath, he reassured, “Don’t — worry — sir.”
The cheek of it, telling him not to worry! Of course he was going to bloody worry! Taking Steve’s arm, he helped him to the sofa, for he was clearly in need of a good sit down. Steve took tiny steps, knuckles white against his crutches. Closing his eyes, he let Ted lead him.
“That’s it,” Ted soothed, “nearly there.”
When they reached the sofa, Steve dropped his crutches, or, rather, they fell from his grip. As his body went limp, chin dropping against his chest, Ted realised the boy was fainting.
“Easy lad!” he said, unsure of how to deal with the situation. All he could do was wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders and, very carefully, lower him onto the sofa. He was a heavy one, so Ted had to come down with him, until they sat side by side, Steve’s cheek slumped against his chest.
“Sorry,” he slurred, the words lost in Ted’s shirt, “happens — sometimes.
“No bother,” Ted replied, speaking as softly as he could into Steve’s ear. “Do I need to call anyone?”
“It’ll pass.”
Leaning back a little, he let Steve reposition himself. With sluggish movements, hands limp and open in his lap, he found a comfortable spot to rest: forehead pressed to Ted’s neck, face nestled in the crook of his shoulder.
“I’ll feel — better — in a minute,” he breathed, still unable to lift his head properly, or say more than a few words without requiring a deep breath.
Ted didn’t want him to worry about a thing, or rush himself. “Take all the time you need, son.”
Raising a hand, he braced the side of Steve’s head. Stroking a thumb over his temple, as softly as he could, he hoped the gesture would help him feel at ease — they’d never invaded the other’s personal space like this. Steve didn’t seem troubled by the touch. If anything, it seemed to relax him further, his body melting into Ted’s side.
Ted remained silent for a while, his fingers continuing their soft brushing through Steve’s hair. It held a faint scent of antiseptic. Steve’s breathing steadied, his sharp panting slowly becoming lengthy inhales and even lengthier exhales. Then, all of a sudden, Ted realised Steve was, in fact, snoring. It was the smallest of sounds but snoring, without a doubt, it was.
Unsure of what to do, Ted weighed his options. Letting Steve get some shut eye was the ultimate aim. If he tried shuffling out from under him, lowering him to the cushions, there was a chance he’d wake up. But how long might the boy stay asleep for, potentially, if he kept still and waited? It didn’t matter, really. He had nowhere to be and the rest of the day off.
Concluding the best option was using the opportunity for forty winks himself, Ted closed his eyes. With his head resting half against the sofa and half against Steve, he found it easy to drift off.
***
When he woke, Ted didn’t remember where he was initially. All he knew was he was comfortable, warm, and somewhere not so distant, the sound of someone sleeping had become a comforting white noise.
Blinking his eyes open, Ted turned and realised the soft, warm shape beside him was Steve. It wasn’t as shocking a realisation as he expected. With a raise of his arm, he checked the time on his watch. They’d been asleep for a couple of hours, give or take fifteen minutes. The motion had Steve stirring, a hand gripping and loosening at Ted’s shirt while he grumbled under his breath.
“All right?” Ted asked.
“Hmm?” Steve sat up, eyelids opening a crack. He blinked a few times, and then appeared to get his bearings. “Yeah, so I get dizzy every now and then, but...” A confused look spread across his face. Clearly he wasn’t sure if he’d just slept for a few hours or merely passed out for a few seconds.
“You had a wee kip, son. Feeling any better?”
“Really?” He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “How long?”
“Couple’a hours.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose at the revelation. “God, sorry sir. Hope I haven’t kept you from work, or Mrs Ted.”
“Not at all,” Ted chuckled. “I’ll let you get some proper sleep though. Anything you need, before I go? Cuppa tea? Biscuit? Pillow?”
Steve looked like all three of those were tempting, but he wouldn’t allow his boss to wait around on him. “Thanks, I’ll be fine.”
“Grand,” Ted said, patting Steve’s arm before getting to his feet. “You stay there and rest, I’ll show myself out.” Steve didn’t protest the offer but Ted knew he’d follow him out later, put all the locks and chains back in place. “See you later.”
“Actually, sir?” Steve called out, just after his boss had left the room.
Ted popped his head around the doorframe.
“Can you pass the remote?”