Chapter Text
“Hobbies?”
The tennis ball makes a solid thunk noise as it bounces off the wall and back into Carl’s hand.
“You know, like drawing or knitting or–” Dr. Irving barely glances up from her lunch even when Carl abruptly slams the tennis ball onto the coffee table.
“Yes, I fucking know what hobbies are!” He fumes, glaring at her from his awkward perch.
“Oh, good.” She doesn’t give his tantrum the time of day. “So, what are yours?”
His tongue swipes across his teeth as he tries his best not to say something that will get him kicked out.
“Solving cases.”
“That,” His therapist finally looks up from her lunch. “Is your job, not a hobby.”
“Same thing.” He waves his hand in a dismissive motion.
“Actually, it’s not.” Dr. Irving sighs, pushing her chair back from her desk. She crosses her arms. “And I know damn well that you know that too.”
Carl hangs his head back, looking up at the ceiling for patience.
“C’mon Carl, you don’t have any hobbies? And pinging your therapist's phones and crashing her date does not count.”
“That was one time!” Carl shoots up from his slouched position. He twitches at the sight of Dr. Irvings shit-eating grin.
“Twice actually.” She says conversationally. “Once at my house and the other at the coffee shop.” Carl groans, falling back against the couch dramatically. He knows he’s not going to win this one.
“Yeah, yeah. I said sorry, didn't I?”
“I’m not sure if transferring an alarming sum of money from a mysterious source really counts–” He clicks his tongue and starts throwing the tennis ball against the wall again. Dr. Irving twitches, clearly annoyed at the dismissal.
“Aren’t we getting off topic? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, talking about my horrible childhood?” He interjects before she could continue, feeling embarrassed.
“What makes you say it was ‘horrible’?” She tilts her head.
“Because it was–I don’t know.” He squints at her suspiciously. “Wait, hang on, I know what you're trying to do!”
“You’re the one who suggested we talk about your childhood, don’t you want to?”
“Fuck no!” He squeezes the tennis ball.
“Okay,” She picks her lunch back up. “So let’s continue talking about how you have no hobbies despite clearly needing to have something to do other than solve cases and be an overall miserable bastard.”
“Oi! Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”
“No, not really. I just have to make sure you’re not about to go jump out of a window.” She takes a big bite of her salad. “Or rather,” she says around the mouthful “push someone else out the window.”
“You’re a real shitty therapist, you know that? I feel properly judged right now.”
“Good. Maybe then you’ll think about picking up some hobbies.”
“Always with the bloody hobbies!” He throws his arms up. “Hobbies are for fancy artsy kids that have too much time on their hands, not for blokes with a full-time job.”
“So, no one you know has hobbies?”
“No,” He says slowly. “Well other than Martin but he’s always had too much time on his hands.” Dr. Irving hums noncommittally, in a way that makes Carl feel like she definitely doesn’t believe him.
“What about Hardy? Akram? Rose?” His jaw ticks and his skin begins to prickle. He gets up.
“Why do we have to talk about bloody hobbies?” He paces a little.
“Ok fine, let's talk about your complex PTSD. Or maybe your undiagnosed depression?” he freezes, uncomfortable. “How about your trouble with receiving acts of kindness or gentleness? Your trauma from the Leith Park shooting? Your marriage—”
“I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” He interrupts her and grabs his coat. As he reaches for the door, Dr. Irving doesn’t even glance up from her lunch.
“See you next week.” She shouts to him as he storms out.
He flips her off.
As much as he loathes to admit it, his conversation with Dr. Irving—Rachel—sticks with him. It settles in the folds of his brain, even as he enters St. Leonard's Police Station. He glides past his colleagues, doing his best to ignore the glances and whispers that seem to follow a new rumor every week.
The elevator doors glide shut behind him and he exhales softly, letting his shoulders slump for a second. He feels sufficiently rattled, something that's become more and more common ever since Leith Park. He eyes the elevator screen as it counts down, going lower and lower.
Hobbies, he thinks, are not for people like him. He huffs.
The doors ding open and he steps out, taking in the quiet chaos that’s become something like a second home for him. Rose is sprawled on the ground, twirling a neon highlighter in one hand and flicking through a case file in the other. Akram, at the very least, is reading through potential cases in a more organized fashion.
Glancing around, he fails to spot Hardy before remembering that today was one of his off days.
“Lazy bastard.” He mutters under his breath, with no real heat to it. He knows that Hardy needs to take it easy as he slowly recovers feeling in his legs. Doesn’t mean he can’t grumble about not having his friend with him today.
“Who? DCI Bruce?” Rose asks without looking up from her multi-colored madness. Carl hangs up his coat by the door, waving one hand dismissively.
“No. Well yes, but not specifically right now.” Carl replies, moving past his fellow detectives. He flops into his desk chair with a solid oompf, already feeling much better. Akram quietly walks over and places a thermos of Arabic coffee on his desk. Carl nods in thanks, which is when he notices something.
There’s a single file on his desk. He picks it up.
“What’s this?” Neither Rose or Akram make eye contact with him properly. Rose gives him a hopeful side-eye while resolutely pretending to remain focused on her work. It reminds Carl of how Jasper would look at him when he’d place a takeout menu on the dining table and pretend not to care if Carl ordered or not. The memory hits him so suddenly, making his heart squeeze.
He flips through the file, humming absentmindedly.
Cold case, obviously. Sixteen-year-old. Went missing three years ago. Name’s Ellis Duncan. No leads, buried under red tape. But—
He tapped the file with his index finger.
“There’s a pattern. Other disappearances. Similar age, similar background.” He mutters, interest perking up. Akram leans in closer and Carl pretends not to notice the way his breath is warm against Carl’s neck.
Carl follows Akram’s gaze. The file photos stared back.
Ellis: soft face, nervous smile.
Something in Carl’s chest shifted. Tightened.
“We’re reopening it,” he said.
No one questions him.
“Do you have any hobbies?” Carl blurts out, suddenly glad that he has to focus on the road and not whatever is shifting on Akram’s face.
“Hobbies?” Akram sounds somewhat amused.
“Yeah, you know, like reading, writing,” He makes a ‘and so on’ gesture with one hand.
“Yes, I do know what hobbies are Carl.” If Akram wasn’t amused before, he definitely was now.
“I’m just trying to make small talk!” Carl says defensively.
“You hate small talk.” Out of the corner of his eye, Carl sees Akram tilt his head curiously. Carl turns his head a little only to be fully confronted with Akram’s full attentive gaze. Carl swallows, feeling his face heat up and trying hard not to stare at Akram’s lips for too long.
“Yeah–Well–I–Shit!” His attention is turned back to the road when he nearly runs over a curb.
“Watch the road, Carl.” Akram says with a chuckle, still pouring all his attention purely on Carl.
“Bloody curb.” Carl mutters, hands tightening around the wheel. He avoids looking over at Akram, lest he be distracted again. It’s silent for a bit as Carl regains control over the car.
“So hobbies,” Carl brings up again, once he’s more settled.
“Hobbies.” Akram parrots back. He’s smiling brightly now. “What’s with all this talk about hobbies now, Detective Morck?” Akram’s voice is dripping with gentle affection and teasing. Carl swallows roughly.
“Just answer the question, DI Salim.” He bites back with no heat. Akram exhales through his nose sharply, seemingly pushing down a chuckle.
“When I have time, yes I do engage in hobbies.” Carl waits, expecting there to be more. But if he’s learned anything from his friendship with Akram, it is that the man can be stubbornly secretive when he wants to be.
“Like?”
“Knitting. Baking. Some reading here and there.” Akram says half-heartedly, turning his gaze back out the window.
“Knitting?” Carl can’t help but ask, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue.
“Yes. My wife used to knit for the girls and I. Now I do it.” He says simply. Carl closes his mouth sharply.
“Right.” He says, trying hard not to feel incredibly awkward.
“What about you?” Akram asks once the silence had lingered for too long.
“Me?” Who else, idiot? He wants to slap himself. He quickly barrels on. “Tons of hobbies.” He says, unconvincingly. “You know reading…” His brain blanks and he can’t think of any others to list.
“Reading cold cases?” Akram teases. Carl’s face burns even more.
“Nevermind.” He mutters, sulking a little. Akram laughs.
Carl pulls up next to Akram’s little apartment, feeling saddened that the drive is over although he’d never admit it.
“Your destination has arrived.” Carl mimics the automated GPS voice. Akram smiles at him softly.
“Thank you, Carl.” He waves him off.
"You’re on the way.” Akram raises an eyebrow.
“My home is on the opposite side of town.” Carl scoffs but doesn’t deny it.
“Nonetheless,” Akram concedes. “Thank you.” With that, the Syrian man slides out of the car gracefully.
Carl watches him slip inside his home and lingers for a moment or two.
The softness of the apartment lights coupled with the sound of laughter makes Carl’s soul ache for something he dares not to name. He pulls away before he can want for too long.
The drive back to his own apartment is quiet. He pushes away any thoughts relating to Akram and his stupid face and stupid smile filled with affection. When he finally makes it to his apartment he closes the front door behind him.
The flat was still and smelled of something warm—Martin’s doing most likely. Carl toed off his shoes and headed to the kitchen.
Martin was stirring a pot absently with one hand and thumbing through a recipe book with the other. Carl sniffs, his stomach growling a little at the scent of lamb curry.
“Smells like you’re compensating for something.” Carl said, leaning against the kitchen counter tiredly.
Martin grinned. “Don’t act like you won’t eat three bowls.”
Carl scoffs but doesn’t deny it. He stretches against the counter.
“Where’s Jasper?”
Martin nods towards the living room.
“Waiting for you.” He says, something hinting underneath his tone. Carl doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he moves towards the living room. Carl finds Jasper on the sofa, socks half-off, scrolling on his phone.
“How was school?” He asks as he flops down on the armchair near his stepson.
“Fine.” Jaspers says, not looking up from his phone. Carl inhales sharply.
“Just fine?” Jasper shrugs, awkwardly glancing up at Carl now.
“I went. Was bored out of my mind but I went.” Carl smiles at him genuinely.
“Good.” Carl says, reaching over to ruffle Jasper's hair. They had gotten slightly better at communicating lately and Carl tried to offer genuine moments of praise. Jasper ducks away, putting up a slight fuss, but Carl catches the edge of a soft smile on his face.
Later, after dinner, Carl lingered by the sink, rinsing plates. The food was, although he won’t admit it, absolutely delicious. Behind him Jasper hovered, cleaning the table without having to be asked.
“You said I could talk to you if something was wrong,” Jasper said.
Carl froze with his hands in the water. “Yeah.”
Jasper hesitated. “Is something wrong with you?”
Carl dried his hands, slowly. “I’ve had a long week.”
“That your answer for everything?”
Carl leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You want honesty?”
Jasper nodded.
“Yeah. Things are wrong. Things have been wrong for a long time. But I’m working on it. That’s what I can offer you.”
Jasper bit the inside of his cheek. “Is it about Mum?”
Carl’s eyes flickered. “Sometimes. Not all the time.”
“I hated how she talked to you.”
Carl blinked, surprised. “You never said anything.”
“I didn’t know how. I thought maybe it was normal.”
Carl swallowed. “It’s not.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Jasper asked, quieter, “Did she ever… hurt you?”
Carl hesitated. “Not in ways you’d think. But yes.”
They stood in silence, something fragile passing between them. Jasper didn't seem to know what to say at that revelation.
“You want to watch something?” Carl asked eventually.
Jasper shrugged. “Sure. As long as it’s not boring.”
Carl snorted. “Deal.”
It’s later that night, when the stars twinkle their brightest, that Carl finds himself drifting through the flat. Martin has long since gone to his room, probably asleep or rethinking his thesis again. Carl pads towards Jasper's door, unsure if he’s awake or not.
Peering through the door, he finds Jasper asleep on top of his covers.
“Of course.” Carl rolls his eyes with fond exasperation. Careful not to make too much noise, he makes his way towards the bed. He snags the comforter on the bed and drapes it over his son carefully. His hand stalls on Jasper's head.
For a moment, it’s just Carl and Jasper. Stepfather and stepson. Not related by blood but still so painfully similar. Carl smooths his kids hair, taking in the reassuring sound of Jasper's breathing. The crickets outside pause in their noise, allowing for utter stillness to envelop the room.
“Love you, kid.” Carl whispers, only finding the bravery to say these words when Jasper wasn’t awake. With one last look, he turns around and exits the room.
But he doesn’t go to his room to sleep, like he probably should. Instead, he snags Ellis’ case file and splays it out on the coffee table. The couch creaks under him as he leans forward to examine the file.
Photos spread out like ghosts. These small moments, merely glimpses, into a person’s life. There are mentions of Ellis being sent away, due to his difficult nature. A lost cause, thrown to be another person’s problem.
Carl stared.
Ellis’s eyes stared back at him.
A memory surfaced. Sharp. Immediate.
He was twenty-five. The door slammed. The coat closet. Vic’s voice on the other side, low and cruel. He had said the wrong thing—looked the wrong way. She locked him in. Told him he needed time to “think.”
Hours passed.
He remembered the way the dark pressed in on his skin like it was trying to crawl inside him.
Carl rubbed his temples. The scar on his neck throbbed—phantom pain, sharp and sudden.
He should sleep.
He wouldn’t.
The boy’s eyes followed him even when the lights were off.