Chapter Text
The pub Miller takes him to is crowded, absolutely teeming with young professionals and Broadchurch regulars. The music is loud, too, some obnoxious pop number that he vaguely remembers hearing from Daisy's bedroom at a similar volume.
It is exactly as he imaged it would be. Loud, crowded, filthy.
He hates it.
"Oh, c'mon, Hardy. Smile! We're at a pub, we've just solved a major case. This'll be good for us. Relaxing, even. You do know how to do that, don't you?"
He's trailing behind her as she navigates them to a pair of empty barstools near the corner, already cursing himself for having agreed to come. Why can't he say no to her anymore?
"I am relaxed, Miller," he says. "I took my tie off on the walk over here. See?"
She rolls her eyes at him and then turns away, motioning for the bartender. "What're you having? A pint? First round is on you."
"How generous of me," he scoffs, moving to situate himself on the barstool next to her. "I'll take a pint."
"Brilliant. And a wine for me, please," she says.
She smiles at the bartender then, a big, gummy grin that brightens her whole face. She is radiant in the dingy light of this pub, and for a moment he can't turn bring himself to turn away from her.
"You okay?" She asks, her brows furrowed in confusion at his sudden attention.
"Fine," he says, turning away from her to grab the lager the bartender has just set in front of him.
He takes a long pull from the glass and closes his eyes, mentally chiding himself for being so obvious.
She isn't ready for all that. Not yet.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Their first round goes down smooth. He can feel the alcohol loosening his inhibitions, softening him up a bit.
Miller has asked that they don't mention work (at least for one night, Hardy, please) so they mostly talk about their children. He takes occasional sips of his beer and listens to her talk about Tom and Fred's antics, paying close attention to the stories that make her face light up, the way the wine has muddled her speech.
He tries not to read too much into the way she leans against him when she laughs, tries not to think about how warm he feels when their shoulders brush up against each other. Every time she readjusts herself on the barstool he catches a whiff of something feminine and bright, a floral scent that vaguely reminds him of early spring in Glasgow. She smells like home.
When she motions the bartender over for another round, he doesn't object.
This one is also his treat.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Sometime later, at least three or four drinks in, she turns to him and says: "Tell me something about you."
"What?" He chokes a little on his lager, momentarily caught off-guard by the abrupt change in topic. "Like what?"
"I don't know, Hardy, just... your favourite colour or something," she says. She pauses for a brief moment, re-directing her gaze towards the dirty countertop, a poor attempt at hiding her grin. "Or any bad Tinder dates you might've been on lately."
He huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head in mock-annoyance. "You're hilarious."
This bit, the quick back-and-forth commentary and exchanging of sarcasm, has always been easy between the two of them. Hardy had been comfortable around Miller long before he'd even liked her, something like intimacy bleeding its way into all of their conversations. All of those late nights spent huddled over a single laptop, Sandbrook files spread out on his coffee table, a sleepy Fred in his pram in the corner. She is more familiar to him than any other person has been, at any point in his life. It scares the hell out of him.
She's staring at him now, though, clearly intent on seeing this conversation through.
"Miller, this is stupid," he says. "You know me. There's nothing to tell."
"You could tell me why you came back. The real reason, not just... some vague bullshit about Daisy," she says.
She had tried for cool and casual. Unaffected, even. But instead, it comes out strained. She looks away from him, wincing at the anger in his eyes.
"How long have you been waiting to bring that up?"
"Not long," she says, trying to recover her composure. "I read the Echo article a while ago. After you left. It seemed... brief."
He takes a long sip of his beer and turns to face her, giving her a resigned shrug.
“The DS that lost the pendant was my wife. My ex-wife," he says.
“But that DS was—“
“Shagging somebody else in a hotel room upstairs. Aye.”
In his haste to stop her from jumping to conclusions his words come out bitter, bitingly angry. This betrayal had hurt, carved itself somewhere deep beneath his ribcage. She knows the feeling well.
"Shit, Hardy. I'm sorry."
She places her hand on top of his on the countertop, brushing her thumb soothingly against the back of his hand.
"Yeah," he sighs.
"So..."
She tugs at the moment, hoping to stretch it out between the two of them. He still hasn't answered her question, but maybe with a little guidance...
"So, nothing. Let's just drop it. Okay?"
"Fine," she says.
He makes no attempt at conversation, content to let a lingering silence occur between the two of them. Miller is increasingly aware of their hands -- still intertwined on the grimy bar countertop -- and grows nervous. She casts about for some new topic of conversation, some safe space far away from marriage and children.
"Well," she says, all false-brightness. "Might as well order some chips while we're here, too, right?"
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
He lets her eat most of the chips; it's his way of apologising -- without really apologising -- and he knows she'll get it, knows she'll take it in stride and move past any lasting resentment at his behaviour.
Her hands comes back to rest occasionally on his own, leaving a slight greasiness from the chips. She chatters excitedly about some new woman Brian from SOCO is dating, gives him updates on how Beth is handling her separation from Mark.
"And she's mostly doing great," she says. "She's got beautiful baby Lizzie keeping her busy, and Chloe, well... she's broken up with Dean..."
He listens with only a passing interest, content to watch the wrinkle in her nose appear and disappear at different parts of the story.
They have, he thinks, mostly moved past what happened earlier.
She turns to him, then, her earlier mirth gone.
“Why did you do it?”
“What?” He asks.
“Why did you take the fall for Tess?”
He exhales loudly, more than a little annoyed. He should've known she wouldn't let this rest.
“I thought we were done talking about this.”
“We were,” she says, finishing off the last of her wine. “And now we’re not.”
“Miller—“
“You nearly killed yourself trying to solve Sandbrook. Working long hours, eating like a bloody rabbit. Not sleeping.” She sets her glass back down on the bar, twisting in her barstool to face him. Their knees knock against each other. "And for what? It wasn't your fault, Hardy."
He adjusts in his barstool, moving away from her, eliminating any contact.
"It was my fault," he mumbles.
"What?" She is incredulous, angry on his behalf. Angry at his fucking capacity for guilt, and self-pity.
"I thought... it was a rough patch. That Sandbrook was getting to us. I didn't see it, had no idea she was shagging somebody else. Had been for months. If I had just--"
"Just what?" She interrupts, growing increasingly irritated. "Known she was going to cheat on you?"
"Made her happier," he says, defeated. "If I had made her happier, she wouldn't have cheated. And we wouldn't have lost that pendant. It is my fault, Miller. It was my failure."
The tone of his voice makes tears sting behind her eyes, and she feels a sharp burning sensation in her throat. All this time she'd listened to him talk about Sandbrook, justifying long nights -- and nearly killing himself -- by saying it was his penance, his way of washing away his sins. She had no idea he was making up for Tess not loving him enough.
"How can you think like that?" She swipes at her eyes, looking away from him. "And what about Daisy? You let her believe you walked out on her, and you didn't."
He has started toying with the napkin below his empty glass of lager, tearing it into smaller pieces. He can't meet her eyes.
"I didn't know how much time I was going to have. My heart problems... Didn't want her to watch me die," he says, with a self-deprecating laugh. "She was always closest to her mother, anyways."
Miller places her hand on his shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze.
"But she's with you now," she says, softly.
"Aye," he smiles. "She found out. Saw a copy of that bloody article and started asking questions. She stayed with Tess, for a while, but then it... got to be too much. Started causing trouble at school, bunking off in the middle of the day."
"So you took her here. To Broadchurch."
It isn't a question, but he nods anyway.
"I didn't know where else to go," he says.
She lets out a shaky breath and closes her eyes, willing herself not to cry. She had hated him when they first met, had been so cruel in her assessment of him. She shudders, remembering how she'd spent countless hours laughing with Joe about him, at his refusal to wear anything other than a suit. His tireless work ethic, his piss-poor attempts at being human.
Now, she thinks she might not have known him at all.
"Right," she says, flagging down the bartender to ask for the cheque. "We should get going."
She sees a flash of hurt cross his face before he covers it up, replacing it with a look of indifference.
He grabs for the cheque and pays without a second thought, places a steadying hand on her back as she rises from her own barstool.
"It's pretty late. I'll- I should walk you home," he mumbles.
She's about to protest when her mind, unwittingly, lands on Trish Winterman. They are both thinking it.
She nods her head, trailing him out the door, hoping she can find the strength to make it to her house before bursting into tears.