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Carl never thought he'd see the day he would actually miss the shitbox Sierra, nor regret his foray into blackmail to convince that bastard Burns into getting him a new car. But that aubergine eyesore could have driven through the fucking apocalypse with only a few extra dents and outlived even the bloody cockroaches.
This heap of shit, on the other hand, with all its fancy controls and inbuilt sat nav and digital dash had smelt the threat of snow in the air and promptly conked out, halfway between the back of beyond and the arse end of nowhere, and refused to listen to Carl's gentle coaxing, tirade of curses, or increasingly irate threats.
The immovable object silently claimed its smug victory, the unstoppable force of Carl's stubborn anger eventually running out of steam and leaving him slumped in the driver's seat, scowling out the windscreen as the first flakes melted on the rapidly cooling bonnet.
“I don't think that helped.”
Carl turned his glare on the man beside him. “It made me feel better.”
Akram said nothing, but the smooth arch of his eyebrow was silently eloquent. Did it?
No, he didn't feel any fucking better about being stuck in some desolate, uninhabited corner of Scotland, returning from a fruitless trek to follow a shaky lead that had very quickly proven itself to be a load of bollocks. Carl bared his teeth in a snarl that succinctly expressed just how bloody wonderful he currently felt.
Akram's phone buzzed in his hand. His expression didn't change as he read the message, but the way he subtly angled the screen away from Carl didn't bode well.
“What?” Carl demanded, wary. Akram's lips pressed into a thin line, unwilling to add fuel to the already raging fire of Carl's fury. “Whatever it is can hardly make this—” a jerky sweep of his arm took in the car, the snow, the complete lack of any sign of civilisation— “any worse.” It was a miracle they had any phone signal at all.
Akram sighed and accepted his fate. “Rescue cannot reach us for at least three hours.”
“Fucking…” Carl's elbow connected hard with the unyielding door, his hands crushing the wheel with such force it was a wonder it didn't crumble to dust. “Wonderful.” The muscles in his jaw ached with the effort of calming the impotent rage searching for an outlet. “That's great. Absolutely bloody perfect.”
“It is not all bad,” Akram said, ever ready to find the positive in any hopeless situation. “You have not been shot.”
Carl closed his eyes, taking brief respite in the blessed darkness, picturing Moira's thunderous expression as he attempted to explain what had led to him murdering his partner.
“How about you keep your mouth shut for the next three hours,” he growled, frustration making him mean. “Unless one of your secret sort-of Syrian cop skills happens to be car mechanics.”
Unfazed by Carl's misdirected malice, Akram calmly asked, “Would you like me to take a look?”
Carl replied by reaching down to pop the bonnet.
Pulling the flaps of his cap more snugly over his ears, Akram slipped quickly out of the door and into a whirling flurry of snowflakes, blurred behind the condensation coating the glass of the windows. Alone, Carl felt the sharp jab of remorse beneath his ribs, unfamiliar and unexpected. None of this was Akram's fault.
It had always been too easy to lash out at those closest to him. Another entry on the list of reasons to despise himself. He heard Rachel's voice in his head, telling him to stop being such a fucking arse.
He told her to piss off.
Then he told himself to stop being such a fucking arse.
Rachel would be proud. Or smug.
The muted thunk of the bonnet dropping back into place, and moments later Akram returned with a blast of arctic air that cut straight through every layer of Carl's clothing and pierced him to the bone.
“What's the verdict?” he asked around chattering teeth.
“I think it is the alternator.”
It was impossible to tell whether he was taking the piss or if he did actually know enough about engines to have diagnosed the problem. Either way, they were stuck, which gave Carl's bad mood permission to darken along with the waning sunlight.
For once, he bit his tongue.
Akram pulled off his gloves, now streaked with grime and grease, and wiped his hands clean on a handkerchief. As he neatly rolled and tucked the soiled garments into his coat pocket, his small sound of pleased surprise caught Carl's attention. His hand reappeared holding two Mars bars.
Carl's irritation subsided a little, amusement creeping in around the edges. “You really are always prepared for anything, aren't you?”
“With two young children, it has become a habit to always have snacks handy.”
Carl's eyes narrowed. “I resent the implication that I am a recalcitrant toddler in need of placating.”
“Do you want the chocolate bar or not?”
“Of course I fucking want it.”
Withholding the Mars bar, held safely out of Carl's immediate reach, Akram merely raised his eyebrows and fixed Carl with an expectant look, waiting with the infinite patience of a man tasked with raising two young children alone. Carl stared back in irritated confusion. What? Unmoved, Akram's only response was a tiny tilt of his head, still waiting.
Understanding struck like the angry crackle-flare of a match igniting. Hand clenching into a fist around an invisible tennis ball, Carl forced himself to take a breath; he refused to give Akram the pleasure of watching him throw a tantrum.
“Please.” The word was forced out through clenched teeth and a rictus smile.
“Good boy.”
Carl choked, the sudden short-circuit in his brain sparking like a live wire, heart kicking hard behind his ribs. His reward was placed into his numb hand, fingers reflexively grasping as his mind stalled, as useless as the car they sat in.
“You see?” Akram's lips curved into a proud little smile. “That wasn't so hard.”
He almost dropped the chocolate as the wrapper tore open between his suddenly clumsy fingers. Was Akram doing it on purpose? Training his face safely into a scowl, Carl's glare was met by an almost convincing mask of innocence that would have fooled anyone else. Carl, however, saw the little telltale tick of amusement beneath his moustache.
Bastard.
“Sometimes I really fucking hate you, Akram.”
Akram didn't even blink, as conscious of the lie as Carl. “And now you are a teenager.”
Well, he had an excellent role model for that one.
For want of a bedroom to storm off to, Carl settled for flipping him off and sulking around a mouthful of chocolate, nougat, and caramel. It was fucking delicious. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten — whatever Martin had cooked the last time he'd actually made it home in time for dinner, most likely — existing almost solely on coffee and pigheaded determination.
He hadn't missed the way Akram's usually inscrutable expression betrayed the hint of a frown every time he worked through lunch or declined Rose's offer of breakfast. He could sense his scrutiny now, chose to leave it unacknowledged. He didn't know what to do with concern beyond the belligerent reflex to tell the poor bastard to fuck off, the fiercely stubborn self-preservation instinct of the lone wolf.
Wolves were stronger in packs.
It was only after they'd both finished eating that Carl deemed it safe to risk a glance at Akram. He was looking at his phone again, and even in profile Carl could tell his expression had softened into a rare smile, the corner of his eye webbed with telltale crinkles.
“They're okay?” Carl asked. “Your girls?” He wouldn't be surprised to find he was the reason two young girls were home alone because he'd got their dad stranded. Jasper was old enough to fend for himself. It would be headline worthy if he even noticed Carl was late.
“Oh yes, they are with my neighbour. I have sent a message to say I am delayed.”
For some reason Carl pictured a young, pretty babysitter. The kind in the American teen dramas Jasper pretended he didn't sometimes watch. “That's… handy.”
“She loves to look after them.” Carl's stomach twisted with something he refused to identify as jealousy. “I think it is good for them to have someone like her in their lives.” Better than an arsey English cunt. “She reminds me of my grandmother.” Oh. Okay. Not the kind of thing anyone says about a woman they have romantic designs on. The wash of relief that swept over him demanded attention. He stubbornly ignored it.
Akram typed out a reply, usually deft fingers fumbling as the phone shook in his shivering hands. Fuck. In his fit of petulance, Carl had made him go out there in the fucking snow, ruining his gloves and letting the cold work its icy claws in.
Remembering he still had his own gloves stashed in his coat pocket, Carl fished them out and offered them across the console that separated them. Akram made no move to accept them.
“I cannot take your gloves.”
“You're not.” Carl pressed them into Akram's chest for emphasis. “I am giving them to you.”
“Don't you need them?”
“I'm fine.”
“But your hands—”
“Put the fucking gloves on, Akram.”
Finally, he accepted the damn things and Carl's clumsy attempt at an apology along with them.
“Better?”
“Much warmer.” Akram flexed his fingers and met Carl's gaze. If he was surprised by Carl's sudden bout of altruism it didn't show, his eyes and voice sincere. “Thank you.”
Now the residual heat from the dead car's heater had almost completely dissipated, the temperature inside the car was rapidly racing to catch up with the air outside. Carl jammed his hands deep in his pockets and huddled down in his seat. His nose was cold. Akram had burrowed his into his scarf, arms wrapped tightly around himself, but he still twitched every so often as he failed to suppress another shiver.
Something flickered through Carl's mind, a memory or old piece of knowledge that teased him as he tried to catch onto it, certain it must be relevant if it had dredged itself to the surface now. Fucking cold was making his brain slow. He closed his eyes, wishing he could flick the heater on or climb into a warm bed—
He shot upright, lightbulb sparking to life in defiance of the snow building up on the windscreen. Twisting his long limbs awkwardly in the small space, he clambered between the front seats, Akram neatly dodging to the side to avoid a knee to the face. One collision between his head and the roof, several swear words, and a good deal of embarrassing groaning carried him into the back seat with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. A newborn giraffe who'd had a few too many pints.
Kneeling on the seat he fumbled for the release catch and yanked the seatback forward to give him access to the boot. He rooted around, shoving crime scene tape and evidence bags aside until he found the torch and first aid kit. He hadn't given a fuck at the time, Moira insisting the vehicle be kitted out in some kind of official manner — just in case you ever feel like actually being a police officer for a change — and getting some minion to sneak the essentials in.
He clicked open the first aid kit, and sent Moira very begrudging, never to be spoken aloud thanks. He'd rather have his fingernails pulled than admit he owed her one.
He pushed the seat back into place and shook open the foil blanket with a satisfied flourish worthy of his brilliant, if slightly delayed, stroke of bloody genius. Akram had twisted around, dark eyes watching from between the brim of his cap and muffler of a scarf.
“Come on then, get your arse back here if you want to share my blanket.”
“Your blanket?”
“Right now I have it all to myself. If you want to stay up there freezing your bollocks off, can you do it with less snark?”
Ignoring him, as was his habit when Carl was being especially arsey, Akram climbed through to the rear, putting Carl to shame with the ease with which he slipped between the seats. Nothing new there. He settled beside Carl, shoulder to shoulder, and the blanket rustled as they tucked it around their laps.
Akram kept one hand free, holding his phone which was buzzing with rapid-fire notifications.
“Someone's popular.” Carl's own phone remained silent. It would probably be a few more hours before anyone thought to check if he was still alive, and then it would most likely be Moira, dreading the additional paperwork.
“They have sent some cat videos,” Akram said. “So we won't be bored.” He started to work a glove off, the thick wool useless on the touchscreen, but Carl was there before he could remove the layer of warmth, offering his own bare finger as sacrifice.
Akram's quick glance betrayed his surprise, more than likely having been expecting ridicule, but he shifted a little closer, the firm pressure of his thigh against Carl's, holding the phone between them so they could both watch as Carl tapped the play triangle.
The videos froze and jumped a few times, the weak signal struggling, and the subject matter wouldn't have been Carl's first choice of entertainment, but the gentle smile on Akram's face made it worthwhile. And, okay, they were pretty cute. If you liked that kind of thing.
When they reached the end of the impromptu playlist, Akram tucked his phone back into his pocket but didn't move away, unabashed by their close contact. More surprising was that Carl felt no urgent desire to reinstate the distance between them, which was… new. Unexpected. But maybe something to analyse later, when he wasn't so fucking cold.
Despite the blanket and shared body heat, it quickly became clear that Akram was still suffering worse than he was. Carl felt the vibration of every shiver through each point of contact, heard every shuddering breath, and there was fuck all else he could do about it.
Unless.
Giving himself no time to question the wisdom of what he was about to do, Carl eased out from under his side of the blanket and slid across the seat, wedging himself against the door, shuffling until the frame wasn't digging into his spine. Akram watched with the same resigned confusion with which he met most of Carl's questionable antics as he propped one long leg up onto the seat, leaving the other down in the footwell.
“Get your arse over here.”
Akram resisted Carl's tug on his sleeve, perhaps calculating the odds of Carl having finally lost his tentative grip on sanity. But then something in Carl's expression, or maybe just his need for the warmth, broke through his reticence and he moved over into the V of Carl's legs, his back to Carl's chest, legs settling alongside Carl's. He resettled the blanket over the both of them, now sandwiched between the insulating foil and Carl's body.
A moment of hesitation as Carl wondered what to do with his arms until, fuck it, he wrapped them around Akram's waist. He wasn't built for displays of affection, even ones with a practical motive, easy deniability. Afraid he had finally crossed one boundary too far, he waited for Akram to pull away, only for gloved hands to settle atop his, trapping them against the warmth of Akram's stomach.
Slowly, Akram relaxed into his embrace, the solid weight of him a comforting pressure against Carl's chest, and the awkwardness leached away. Every breath was suddenly filled with the spicy scent of Akram's cologne, the dense muscle Carl had until now refused to acknowledge inescapably evident beneath his palms, even through his winter layers, the concealed evidence of strength incongruous with the gentle sweep of his thumb over Carl's wrist, tucked under the cuff of his jumper.
If not for the fucked up car and threat of imminent hypothermia, Carl might have even said he was content. In the privacy of his own mind, at least.
Akram's voice was hushed when, after several long minutes, he spoke. As if he too was afraid of shattering the comfortable peace of this strangely pleasant moment.
“I did not take you for a cuddler.”
Carl hummed agreement. He had never been an especially tactile person; he didn't seek out, nor invite, the touch of others. In fact, he naturally discouraged it with his prickly temper and open disdain, the invisible walls he had erected around himself to keep people at bay, even those he cared about most. Especially them, guarding his heart from the inevitable pain of rejection or loss.
Slowly, he was starting to let them back in. Jasper, Hardy. The people he should have been protecting, the people he had hurt.
And, somehow, Akram had slipped past his barriers without him even realising.
“I suppose every rule has an exception.” And he'd never been afraid to bend or break a few.
“And I am yours?”
There was more than one question in there. Carl swallowed, throat clicking in the quiet of the car, as he fought the instinct to throw himself out into the snow. Then he felt a shift against him, a subtle tensing in Akram's shoulders, and wondered why the fuck he was considering hypothermia a preferable alternative to facing up to his feelings.
Before the silence dragged into awkward retractions, Carl found his voice, ragged but certain. “If you want to be.”
Akram released a breath, the mist of it hanging in the chill air, and squeezed Carl's hands. “I do.”
Heart kicking hard behind his ribs, it was a wonder Akram couldn't feel the rapid beat of it through the layers that separated them. Perhaps he could. He tipped his head back onto Carl's shoulder and Carl bent to meet him, pressing his temple to Akram's.
“For our next date,” Akram said, his voice a low rumble that shivered through Carl's veins, “I will take you somewhere nicer than this.”
Carl managed a snort around the constriction in his throat, grappling with the absurdity of it all. The revelation that Akram wanted him despite his many and various character flaws, the thought of dating again, the thanks he owed to that wanker Burns for the shitty car that had conspired to confine them long enough to confront growing affection left too long unacknowledged.
The tightness seizing his chest wasn't panic. It was potential.
“You don't find the freezing interior of a broken down car in the middle of the barren Scottish wilderness romantic?”
Akram gave a non-committal hum. “The cuddling is nice,” he conceded.
Carl couldn't disagree with that.