Chapter Text
He saw her from the window—a lonely figure on the steps of the station. He hesitated only for a split second before deciding to join her.
He walked a little louder to alert her to his approach. From behind, he could see her wiping away her tears when she heard him coming. He walked down a step and leaned against the handrail. She didn't look at him.
'Ed Burnett's gone.'
She nodded.
'And Jim Atwood.'
She nodded again, still staring intently at the ground. Hardy looked at her, his brow furrowed, not knowing how to help. He wanted to help; he hated seeing her this miserable again and not being able to offer any comfort. His gaze softened. Just say something.
'You okay?'
She shook her head. 'No,' she managed to say as she visibly fought back the tears that threatened to escape. He immediately pushed himself off the handrail and went to sit beside her.
'We have him though, that footage will send him down,' he said, and clasped his hands together, not knowing what else to do. She glanced at him for a fraction of a second and looked back at the ground. She exhaled.
He desperately wanted to be able to comfort her. He felt so useless—it was like the trial all over again. The trial...that case. And after all that, despite being put-together at work and being incredibly sharp towards some people, she still had the biggest heart. He would still chastise her for giving out her phone number when she did it again, because obviously she would, but a part of him admired her for it—that incredible capacity to care so much. He looked at her briefly and thought, someone who cared would hug her right now.
'Do you want a...hug?'
'What? No!'
'Right, no.'
'What's the matter with you?!'
'I'm just trying to help—'
'D'you want a hug? Let's hug it out?!'
'People do that...'
'Yeah well, not you!'
He'd be a shit detective if he made the same mistake twice. They didn't do hugs—or at least she didn't. The only things they could offer each other were curt words of comfort and veiled looks of care...a cup of tea in the quiet of the morning, a slice of toast. A handshake.
Perhaps the problem was in the question. Perhaps he shouldn't ask—people wouldn't normally ask, would they? Hardy momentarily thought of discreetly shifting a few inches towards her to place his arm around her shoulder. Or just a hand. What if she flinched away, though? Lashed out like the last time? That would be awkward. That would be so horribly awkward. He cringed and immediately discarded the idea. She didn't let him hug her in the toilets and she didn't let him touch her shoulder in front of his house; there would be no reason for it to be different now. He knew better.
'He is not what men are,' he eventually tried. He added futilely, 'He's an aberration.' The instant he heard his words, he realised how pathetic they sounded. Maybe he shouldn't even have said anything at all. What did he expect? He was shit at Supportive-Boss, why did he think he could be useful now? He cursed inwardly. Damn this relationship, damn this stunted verbal communication. Damn their distance. Why did it have to be like this? Why did it have to be so bloody hard? It's just like them—to be so close and yet, so far.
'I hope so,' she said.
He didn't touch her.
He clasped his hands tighter.