Chapter Text
In her letter, Stephanie had claimed it'd be a lonely place. Too big to ever fill and upsettingly quiet.
If I were you, I'd tear it down and start from scratch, she'd written. It's no good to man nor beast.
Patrick was not a beast, and a man? Well, that was debatable. Either way, he had to disagree. The house was good, it just wasn't...nice. There was a very big difference.
It'd once been a manor house, perched near a cliff, forty miles from the nearest sign of civilization. The Buttons were unsociable folks, apparently. Then a storm rolled through, destroying the roof and most of the upper floor too. The owner of that time had taken it as a sign and de-sized, destroying all grandeur and leaving it as a small shell of its former glory.
Patrick wasn't too upset about that though. As Stephanie had said, it was already too big as it was. What little he had barely filled one room, and he didn't exactly have the money to go on a spending spree. No one did these days.
The kettle whistled, the noise echoing around the kitchen, pulling him out of his thoughts. He wrapped a towel around the handle and picked it off the stove, pouring himself a cuppa.
It was going to be miserable today, judging by the racket the wind was making outside. The gulls cried in chorus, his windchime adding in its own grating tune.
The tea was good though, warming his hands and filling up the kitchen with a pleasant smell. You always had to look at the bright side of things, in these kinds of situations. And he had a roof over his head, along with a steady job, so it wasn't all bad. Hardly worth whining about.
He sipped at his tea, ignoring the photograph on the mantle.
The clock behind him ticked determinedly onwards, and in three, two one-
It struck six o'clock. He didn't even need to turn around to know, but he did, just to check. He was right, as he always was. Which meant it was time to down his tea, muster his courage and face the dark outdoors.
The tragedy of living so far away from anything is that it took a bloody lifetime to get anywhere.
Patrick pulled on his coat, took a deep breath, and made a mad dash for the car, only getting very soaked in the process. He was disappointed, but not surprised. From the get-go, Stephanie had made it clear this wasn't going to be a glamorous life.
The ad in the paper had called it 'miserable', 'pathetic', and 'likely the worst decision you will ever make'. But it'd offered a house and a reasonable paycheck in exchange for maintaining the small museum in the main town. Patrick still couldn't wrap his head around that deal, but Stephanie hadn't given him much of an answer. Just something vague about the inexplicable wants of her late (and decidedly not beloved) husband.
He knew better than to ask.
It took an hour and a half to reach town, and another twenty to find the museum, the sign so weather-worn it was nearly unreadable. The bike abandoned outside told him he didn't need to fight with the locks, at least. He parked up and skidded inside, blinking to adjust to the dim lighting. He flicked the light switch, but all he got was a pathetic splutter.
Alright, who needed to see anyway? The low light just added to the ambience.
Patrick shook his head and looked around. Now where- ah, there.
Mary was sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the middle of the hall, wellingtons still caked with mud. She was furiously writing in her notepad, frowning every time water dripped off her hair or the tip of her nose and onto the paper.
"Morning," Patrick chirped. "How goes the writing?"
She startled, sharply closing her book. "Morning, Mr Butcher. As wells as it can. Can barely think over the sounds of it all."
"Pat, it's just Pat. Patrick if you absolutely must."
Eight months here and she still hadn't gotten used to it.
"Sorry. But Mr Button mades me call him mister when he were in charge."
"You don't need to say sorry, you didn't do nowt wrong. It was just a reminder," he said.
Patrick left his coat to drip on the nearby hanger and shook off his boots while he was at it. No one in their right mind was going to visit today, after all.
The doors flung open.
"Hello!"
But then again, most of the people in town were not in their right mind.
"Kitty," he nodded. "Close the door, will you? You're letting in the- everything."
"Oh, yes!" She slammed the door shut, and then turned on her heel to shoot him a grin. "There you go!"
"Ta, love."
Kitty had been the first to visit the museum after its reopening and insisted on visiting nearly every single day. Why, he wasn't sure. There wasn't anything interesting enough to keep even the most avid museum enjoyer's attention here, let alone a young twenty-something. The how was also a good question. Didn't she have a job? School? Something?
As long as she kept paying admission and brightening up the place with her cheery grin, he supposed it didn't matter.
"What's you got this week?" Patrick asked, as he always did.
Kitty grinned, practically vibrating as she spoke. "I'm not sure, it's a surprise!"
"Don't let us keep you then, off you go."
She immediately shot off, only pausing long enough to crouch down and steal a hug from Mary. A moment later, the gramophone cackled to life, playing loud enough to be heard through the entire building.
"...Alison?" Patrick guessed.
Mary nodded.
"You'd think at some point she'd just come out and ask Kitty when her birthday is instead of just guessing."
It had to be costing her a pretty penny buying a present each month in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, she'd get it right.
"Kitty wouldn'ts say if she asked," Mary argued.
"...Is that another no-no topic?"
She nodded again.
"Right."
Patrick added that to his list of questions he wasn't allowed to ask. It was a very long list. Ever growing, actually.
Mary opened her bag and held up a slightly crumpled paper bag, and he quickly forgot about all that.
"Oh ta muchly." Patrick exchanged the bag for 6d and scoffed down his breakfast. It was a bit cold and soggy, but filling. "How many do y'us think we'll have today."
"Sames as always."
"More than we reasonably should?'
"Aye, I'd say so."
"Brillo pads. Cuppa?"
"If you're making yourself one."
He always did, so he didn't even bother to answer. And she knew that, so she silently followed him into the staffroom, perching on the edge of the table as she began writing again.
It was a titchy place, the staffroom, barely bigger than a storage closet, but it was by far Patrick's favourite place in the entire museum. It was the only room that showed you the history of the museum itself - opening day with Mayor Fawcett shaking a Button’s hand, a grinning group of construction workers as they extended the left wing, George Button himself front and centre with the museum behind him decked in bunting celebrating Victory-
And below all that was a picture of Stephanie in her youth, with her son on her hip, her nephew Thomas tugging on her skirts. Patrick foundcit on the floor during his first day, tucked in the corner, forgotten when the place had been locked up after Mr Button's death. In his humble opinion, it was the loveliest artefact in the whole place.
He shifted Mary's growing collection of books away from the sink and filled the kettle up.
"Through the Looking Glass, huh?" Patrick noted. "Gotten to the jabberwocky yet?"
Mary nodded enthusiastically. "I likes the way it sounds to say out loud. Don't understand a lick of it though."
"Well, you're not supposed to, are you? It's all nonsense. Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe - all rubbish, innit? That's the point, with a nonsense rhyme. Should try the Pelican Chorus sometime."
Mary picked up the book, flicking through it. "Got it words for word!' she exclaimed, looking up at him.
Patrick ignored the strange sort of pride he felt at that and shrugged. "Yeah, I know it all off by heart. Learned it for Daley."
"Seems a lot of work. I'd think it were easier just to make it all up. Dids that yesterday for Kitty."
"Was she impressed?
"I don'ts know, I didn't ask."
Patrick wasn't sure what to say to that. Luckily the kettle finished boiling at that point, so he used it as an excuse to finish the conversation.
They had two hours to themselves before the hoard (a very generous term) came in, and they spent it there, the door ever so slightly ajar to hear the music. Mary with her head in her notepad, and Patrick idly flicking through her books (all from the library and horribly overdue, bet Thomas was pleased about that).
Then, right on cue at nine o'clock, a gaggle of parents and kids came in. Patrick still hadn't figured out whose kids were who's, or who was married to who, or why they were all there at ten o'clock on a Monday morning.cHe assumed it was another no-no question, so kept his curiosity to himself, greeting them all with a smile, taking in their admission fees and then leaving them to it.
They hardly needed him to hold a tour nowadays. They probably knew it all better than him.
- - -
The day passed as it always did, quietly and slowly, and soon it was time to close up.
Or, it would be, if their lights were working.
Mary perched on the windowsill, eyes glued to the world outside as the rain poured down, fingers idly playing with her rosary.
The last few stragglers ran to their cars and drove off, the roaring of the engines fading into the whistling of the wind.
"Me mother always saids to be weary on storming nights like this," she said suddenly. "Never know whats the waves will upturn and bring to shore."
"Driftwood and jellyfish, from my experience," Patrick replied. "Maybe a sea urchin shell, if you're lucky."
"Monsters, she saids. With teeth and claws and tails, waiting to drag tainted souls into the depths of hells..." Mary blinked. "There's Robin."
Patrick coughed. "Oh, so it is."
She didn't half have some weird stories, that one.
Robin stumbled in, looking worse for wear. He flung off his soaked fur coat, not even bothering to hang it up, and stormed over.
"Someone's in a cheery mood," Patrick chirped.
Robin already furrowed brow somehow furrowed deeper. "Everything's broken. Call every five minutes for new thing to fix."
He muttered some choice words about his clients under his breath, but since they were in Welsh and there were no kids around, Patrick let it slide.
"Well, more money for your pocket, isn't it, mate?"
Robin scoffed, rolling his shoulders. His dark eyea darted around the room, hair drippingonto his shirt. "Entrance lights?"
"As always," Patrick nodded.
Robin fixed them quickly, as he always did, and Mary waved goodbye as she hitched a lift with him, completely forgetting about her bike. Ah well. She'd ride it back home tomorrow when the weather was better. Until then, Patrick carried it inside so it wouldn't get stolen.
Then, it was time to leave.
At home, he finished off the leftovers of last night's cottage pie with a pint while listening to the latest drama on the radio (Under Milk Wood, that night). Come ten, he turned it, washed his dishes and dragged himself into bed.
It was all perfectly predictable, comfortable and safe.
So, of course, everything had to go wrong.
At five on the dot, he was woken up by his telephone ringing madly. Still half asleep, he stumbled out of bed, wincing at the cold floor beneath his feet. Who on earth was calling this late? Why couldn't they wait until morning?
He managed to get to the kitchen and pick up the handset. Smothering a yawn, he asked, "What's going on?"
"Pat! I'm so sorry about this," Humphrey said quickly, "but I can't- we can't, it seems-"
He heard a distant, "Oh, give me that", and Humphrey went quiet.
"Ello, Patrick?"
Patrick blinked a few times, trying to wake up more. It didn't work. "Sophie? Wha's wrong?" he slurred.
She sighed deeply. "Body is missing."
"Body? Where's his body gone to? Isn’t he attached to it?" That sentence was so strange that it woke him up completely. "Wait, did you mean Bobby?"
Bloody annoying bird it was. A tiny parakeet with a love of nipping at people's ears and squawking loudly. Julian had recently taught it how to curse, so it now delighted in calling everyone who visited a bastard.
"It's close enough," she argued. "And yes. 'Umphrey thinks it's gotten out of the 'ouse."
"How did the bloody thing get out?" Why would it want to get out in this weather?
"Umphrey left the back door open again."
"I'm sorry!" Humphrey yelled in the background.
"I know," she replied. "But you did."
"I swear you'd lose your head if it wasn't screwed on tight, mate," Patrick called out, hoping it was loud enough for the man to hear.
Even if it wasn't, it did earn a snicker from Sophie, which was good enough.
"Does he have any idea where it might have gone?" Patrick asked.
"The beach. It's where it always goes."
He was tempted to tell her 'then bloody go there' and hang up, but that wouldn't be very nice now, would it? Besides, Sophie was a formidable woman, it wouldn't be a grand idea to get on her bad side.
"Alright, I'll go down and have a look if it's on my side of the bay."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
He hung up.
What a lovely way to start the day. At least the tide would be out.
As Patrick got up and washed, he felt distinctly unsettled that his routine had been changed. He could handle change of course- if he'd been given enough of a heads up. But out of the blue like this? No, he didn't like it at all. But he was the Bones' friend, and that meant going out at five in the morning to search the beach for a horrible little bird, apparently.
The rain had calmed to the occasional patter by the time Patrick parked up, which was another plus. It would have been better if it hadn't been raining at all, but ah well, you couldn't have everything.
He buttoned up his coat and thumped his torch against his palm, encouraging it to stay on. It took a few tries, but eventually it worked… mostly.
It'd do.
He got out and cleared his throat before calling,"Bobby?"
God only knew how long he spent wandering in the cold, yelling for that bird, but he could confidently say this: it was too long.
Just as he was about to give up, he noticed something, a dark shape in the distance. It wasn't driftwood, and at that size, it certainly wasn't a bloody parakeet. A beached fish, perhaps? A shark or dolphin- that was certainly a tail Patrick could see, after all.
He took a step closer.
Oh. Now see, that. That was a hand. And that was an arm. Sharks didn't tend to have those things.
Patrick held his torch tighter and quietly crept forward.
A creature lay on the sand, writhing, trying to untangle himself from a fish net.
It- they looked mostly human from the torso up - if you ignored the greyish tint to their skin, the odd-shaped ears and gills - and more fish-like below. A tail. They had a tail. There were no scales though, it was all smooth, like the flank of a dolphin.
They were facing away, hissing quietly as they wrestled with the rope, but all that did was make it dig deeper into their skin. Poor thing.
Patrick slowly put down the torch and cleared his throat.
The creature froze.
"Well,” he struggled for something to say. “You're not a parakeet."
They rolled around, revealing a human-looking face. A strong jaw, grey eyes, salt and pepper hair-
And very sharp, very in-human teeth.
Patrick swallowed. Still, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his Swiss army knife.
They hissed louder.
"Easy there, mate, just gonna cut you loose. Then you'll be on your way."
Slowly, he crouched down beside the creature- mermaid. Might as well call a spade a spade, after all.
They watched him wearily but didn't make a move to attack when he reached for the net and began to cut, which was good. Patrick didn't particularly want to visit the hospital at this hour.
"Nasty thing, innit? The fishing line is the worst offender, I think. Find it in clumps all over the beach, and in more than one fish's gut, I'd wager. Lucky you got the net, really. Too big to cut that deep- though it looks like it gave a damn good try."
There was a cut on the mermaid's side, bleeding profusely. It didn't look too bad, but it was still making quite the bloody mess.
Patrick sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Oh, er, bet that smarts. Might do to keep to shallow waters away from any sharks until that heals."
The last of the net fell away and Patrick carefully peeled it off.
The mermaid didn't speak, just eyed Patrick. His stare wasn't blank though- Patrick would bet a million he fully understood every word. It also made it a bit annoying that they wouldn't speak. Could mermaids even speak? Fish sure couldn't. It was probably rude to ask, wasn't it?
"Right, do you need any help getting back into the water, or should I leave you to it? Nod or shake will do," Patrick said.
The mermaid did neither.
"Right, I'm supposed to be searching for a missing bird now, so unless you give me an answer, I'm just gon' head off and carry on looking." Nothing. '"Okay. Well, good- agh!"
Patrick stumbled, barely catching himself in time, and looked down at the hand wrapped around his ankle.
"Jesus, what's that for?"
Instead of speaking, Patrick was yanked to the ground. Before he could even process that, the mermaid was patting down his pockets and pulling out his keys.
"What are you, a magpie?" he squeaked. “Give them back- please.”
If he wasn't so cold, wet and miserable he'd be wondering what kind of strange dream this was. There was no way he could be wrestling a mermaid for his keys after all, right?
The mermaid scowled and pointed behind them.
Patrick twisted around to see the shadow of his house on the clifftop.
"You... you want me to take you to the house?" he guessed. He got a nod in reply. "Why? You've got a perfectly good- ocean right there, haven't you?"
Patrick tried to snatch his keys back, but the mermaid held them out of his reach. Bloody long arms. Now, Patrick, having legs and all, could have just gotten up, grabbed their arm and taken the keys off them. But if they were willing to go to this length to keep him from leaving without them, then there had to be a reason for it. Right?
"Why do you want to go? I'm not taking you anywhere if you don't at least mime out why."
The mermaid scowled fiercely, but Patrick held his ground. After a moment, they pointed at their side.
"Oh, you just want somewhere safe to heal? Couldn't have implied that earlier, could you?"
He held out his hand, but the mermaid didn't immediately hand the keys over. No manners and they weren’t trusting. What a great combo.
"I'm not going to ditch you," he insisted. "Scouts honour."
Patrick doubted that meant much to a mermaid, but it worked, nevertheless. He quickly slipped them into his trouser pockets, just in case they got any ideas.
"Ta muchly. Right, can you shift?"
The mermaid's brows jumped up, and they shook their head.
Of course not. Couldn't be that easy, could it?
"Bare with, then." Patrick rolled up his sleeves and shuffled about so he was on one knee. "Arms around my neck."
The mermaid lifted himself up on one elbow, one brow raised.
Bloody judgy fish.
Patrick ignored the flush on his face. "I'm gon' have to carry you to the car, mate. And it's either this or I throw you over my shoulder. Your choice."
Their face twitched, their fingers flexed, and then they wrapped their arms around his neck.
The mermaid's skin was cold and wet, the smell of sea salt so strong it made Patrick feel a bit dizzy. It wasn’t a bad smell, really, just- overwhelming, that was all. He shook his head as if that’d help.
Alrighty, now to get them to the car without dropping them and hurting them even more. Piece of cake. He put an arm around their waist, one under their tail, and one, two, three-
Patrick pushed himself up with a hiss. They weren't impossibly heavy, but they sure weren't light either.
"Hold on tight. It's going to be a bumpy ride."
The mermaid's heart thumped hard against Patrick's chest, their breaths ticking the side of his face, grip tight around his neck. It was- distracting. Very distracting. But, somehow, Patrick didn't drop them or stumble once. Call it a sprinkle of mermaid magic, though he didn’t think they had those kinds of powers…
As he awkwardly put them down in the car, tail flung over the dashboard, it hit Patrick again just how weird this whole thing was. He was buckling a mermaid into his car. A bloody mermaid.
Patrick took a moment to process that, and let out a slightly hysterical laugh. The mermaid raised a brow, and the hysteria died a quick and painless death.
"Don't look at me in that tone of voice," Patrick warned them. "I can still move you to the backseat."
They crossed their arms and huffed, looking away.
Better.
Patrick climbed into the driver's seat. He discreetly pinched himself, as he buckled himself in, but the mermaid remained, as did the damp on his clothes and neck. He sighed, started the car, and drove back.
The tiredness set in quickly, and he barely paid the mermaid any mind, trying to focus on staying awake. He did note that they were peering about with wide eyes that almost seemed to glow in the darkness though. If Patrick was more awake, he might have offered a running commentary, explained what everything was and what he was doing. A human town was probably quite a novelty to a mermaid, but he wasn't, so he didn't.
By the time he reached home, his eyes were fluttering dangerously, and he barely got the mermaid wrapped up and into his bathtub before stumbling into bed.
He fell asleep within seconds.