Chapter Text
~Early Evening, September 2025~
[—Edinburgh, Scotland]
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
It’s like clockwork, as some heavy metal band switches to drum and bass, or whatever the youngest occupant of the shared house is suddenly interested in right now.
“Jasper for Christ’s sake! If you don’t turn that godawful shit excuse for music down then I’ll take an umbrella to the fuse box, please! — I just want five minutes of peace.”
Nothing in life is ever easy, Carl knows that.
But nothing in his life ever seems to end up making it out of the gutter.
Not in his personal life, or his professional life.
Not with his step-son who still hasn’t even thought about moving out; or his nosey—do good—housemate who insists on setting him up on ridiculous blind dates; nor where his best friend/co-worker is concerned, who won’t stop annoying the hell out of him on every job they get laden with about being optimistic and seizing every opportunity to face life head on.
The few people he tolerates, still interfere in his life way more than anyone should.
So when the doorbell rings just as the clock in the hall chimes, reminding him that it’s 9pm, and he really needs to go to sleep whilst it’s still today, he’s left feeling even more disgruntled.
His work clothes still clinging to him much like the heaviness of the day, as he navigates the untidy hallway, shoes and scattered laundry, parcels that Martin has yet to attend to, and the table in the entryway that isn’t in its usual place.
Which he consequently stubs his toe on, hard.
The string of curse words that leave his mouth, are enough to make a drunken Scotsman speechless.
“This is why I don’t socialise.” Carl grumbles through gritted teeth as he unlocks the front door and expects to come face to face with one (or more) of four people.
His ex-wife.
His best friend.
His work partner.
Or his other work colleague.
So when none of the four potential options are met by his pissed off glare, a seemingly empty hallway looms in front of him.
“For fucks sake.” He mutters quietly to himself, because getting ding dong ditched at this hour is just too much for him to deal with.
But just as he steps backwards with every intention of closing the front door, a noise from the floor catches his attention.
Upon further inspection, Carl finds himself staring at a fifth, uninvited guest.
By his sock clad feet, is a wicker basket drowning in blankets, with an infant nestled in the middle of them. Wide eyed, focused entirely on him, with the faintest look of what Carl can only describe as wonder. If babies could even harbour such an expression.
It reminds him of James when a new case passes across his desk, the manilla folder thicker than a series of hardback novels, or of Rose whenever he chooses to ask for her help or to merely have a conversation with her.
“And where on earth have you come from then?” His voice softens even though he doesn’t intend for it to. Babies have never been his area of expertise, interest, or desire.
Even so, he bends down and tries his hardest to ascertain whether or not this is some kind of prank, and that the caregiver of this child is waiting just around the corner.
But five minutes pass, and the baby is still there—so is he—and no one has emerged from the steadily growing darkness to claim responsibility for the child.
Leaving him no choice but to leave his own discomfort towards the situation at the door, and carefully pick up the baby from the basket and bring them inside.
Kicking the basket inside with his feet as he holds onto the infant, who has latched onto him quite literally as tightly as he has to them; taking comfort in the sensation of his t-shirt being balled up by a tiny fist.
In a flash of a memory he’s been trying so hard to forget, he finds himself reminded of PC Anderson’s wife. The new baby, well not so new anymore. A baby with a mother, and a dead father; because of him.
The noise disturbs Martin, because just as Carl nudges the front door closed he hears the soft creaking of his housemate's door opening, and Carl turns slowly to face him.
“Carl, why the hell do you have a baby, and where did you find one at nine o’clock in the evening?”
The baby fusses, and immediately he turns his attention to them not Martin, whatever paternal instincts he didn’t know he possessed kicking in.
“You’re upsetting her,” Carl smirks at Martin’s forlorn expression, even though he’s just being antagonising for the hell of it, nor does he know if its ‘he’ or ‘she’, “do me a favour before you interrogate me, check that wicker basket for a note or something.”
As Martin occupies the hallway, Carl takes the opportunity to move into the kitchen and once he has the kitchen counter to lean on he fishes his phone out of his pocket and easily dials James’s number from memory.
J—“Carl? Hi mate, is everything okay?”
C—“Hey, yeah I guess you could say that. Are you busy, or can you come over?”
J—“Erm, it’s a bit late mate. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?”
C—“If it could have waited until tomorrow I wouldn’t have called you.”
J—“Fuck me Carl no need to be rude, I’ll be over in half an hour, but I’m bringing—“
Carl ends the call before James finishes his sentence because Martin walks in waving a piece of paper and to him, the situation at hand is far more important than anything James has to say.
“Well? What does it say?” Carl tries to hurry Martin along, his own curiosity getting the better of him when he tries to pull the note from the other man’s hands.
But Martin’s too quick for him, and his hands are occupied with holding the baby close to his chest.
Martin clears his throat, a little too theatrically for Carl to tolerate, but he sinks down at the kitchen table and waits to hear what the letter says. How the person who abandoned this baby has justified their decision.
“Please look after my little girl. I know this is probably a shocking thing for you to process, a baby left on your doorstep but I’ve been watching you for a while and you’re the only person I’ve felt will do your best to protect her and do right by her. She doesn’t have a name, and by the time you read this note, I’ll be gone. Please don’t try to find me, she deserves better than me. She’s two months old, her birthday is July 3rd. Everything she has is in that basket, I left some cash too, and another letter with a few more detailed instructions. Even if she isn’t with you for long, I know she’ll be safe with you for now.”
Carl feels his brows knit together, fury glazing over his gaze so much so that he can’t bear to look down at the little girl in his arms with so much anger.
“If you don’t want a child, don’t have a fucking child. They’re not something you get to abandon at the earliest convenience…” Carl’s mind drifts back to when Victoria up and left Jasper, and he had no idea when or if she was going to come back.
Maybe Jasper was older, and he knew that he hadn’t actually been abandoned, but it didn’t mean he didn’t feel like that. That Carl didn’t notice it, not only in the way he lashed out but in the cacophonous silence that filled the house in the weeks and months after. How Jasper really wasn’t Jasper anymore. How Carl didn’t try hard enough to make it better.
Blame he’ll never be able to shift. Guilt he’ll never let go of. For not being the person Jasper needed him to be.
“This person was obviously stuck, and had to do what was best for their little girl.” Martin's optimism just about pushes him over the edge, but then the two-month old in his arms let out the loudest cry, and it’s like a switch flips.
He’s on his feet, and trying to soothe her by switching her position from his arms to laying her across his chest, “shhh, you’re okay.”
The doorbell rings just as she settles, and Carl curses softly when he feels the baby jolt but then she closes her eyes again and drifts off which allows him to walk out of the kitchen as carefully as possible to answer the door.
“Took your time Carl—holy fucking shit where on earth did you get a baby? You know that’s a criminal offence.” James’s tone is half joking, half serious.
Yet Carl can’t focus on anything else aside from the tiny, warm fist gripping the collar of his T-shirt, or the man standing behind James.
The man in question, is shorter than him, but on par with James, well dressed and with a stature that tells him this man can hold his own, although it’s the haunting look that seems to have been permanently scored on his face that draws Carl in; perfectly sculpted, moulded into every single wrinkle at the corners of his eyes, hiding behind sunken cheeks and an unkempt beard.
The cracks are there though subtle as anything, and Carl can tell that this stranger tries to smile, maybe tries to be happy even when he’s consumed by sadness.
An enigma is the only way Carl can describe him, one he’s desperate to solve, in spite of the fact that they’ve not even formally met, nor does Carl even know the stranger's name.
James’s fingers clicking in front of his face bring him back to reality.
A reality he doesn’t even know how to fully comprehend.
The tiny baby girl in his arms, once again content. The reason she’s even there in the first place. And now, James plus the stranger have arrived to no doubt ask him a million and one questions which he’s not sure he’ll be able to answer.
“Pack it in James you’ll wake her.” Carl snaps, but there’s no usual sharp edge to his tone.
“Her?” James’s face contorts with confusion as if he’s only just noticing the baby in his arms, and then with something else that Carl perceives as worry and horror combined.
“Oh god, please don’t tell me you got your leg over nine months ago and the mother has decided to drop off the baby on your doorstep and run?”
Carl fights the urge to grumble, or swear at James’s stupid theory, because the baby girl in his arms lets out a yawn and shifts, suddenly wide awake despite the sleepy look on her tiny features.
“I’m going to ignore your ridiculous question, and ask that a) you close and lock my front door, b) introduce me to your friend/uninvited guest, and c) shut the fuck up and let me tell you what’s going on.”
James holds his hands up in defeat, and Carl just rolls his eyes, not moving until the door is locked, and the chain is secured.
Only then does he turn on his heel and walk into the kitchen, with a backwards glance at Jasper's closed bedroom door. Wondering if his stepson is even awake, or if he’s just choosing to ignore all of the commotion.
“Carl, this is Sam Young, an old friend. Sam, this is Carl Morck, he was the first one to actually have a decent conversation with me when I joined the team at Leith Park.”
Carl gives Sam a small nod, and perhaps he musters a smile, one which is barely returned.
“If you mean I took this absolute piss out of you until you realised I was joking and then started doing the exact same thing to me then yeah, that’s how it went.” Carl smirks, and then gently lowers himself back into the chair at the kitchen table.
James offers for Sam to sit down, but he shakes his head and opts for leaning against the counter; Martin is up and finding every available clean mug in the kitchen to make everyone a cup of tea.
“Before I go into detail, I’ll give you the basics,” Carl starts, just as the kettle begins to warm up and boil, “she’s a she, obviously and she’s two months old-”
Carl thinks it might be a record for how quickly James interrupts him. But even his scowl doesn’t deter his friend from stopping.
“How do you know the baby is two months old? I didn’t think you knew anything about babies except how they’re made.”
Carl rolls his eyes at James’s statement, and thinks for a second about being even more annoying than usual with his response, but then the little girl lets out a half cry, half whimper and his attention is on her, switching her position again so that she’s laid more against his chest and shoulder.
“It says it in the note, thank you very much.” Carl finally replies, his voice soft and an octave lower as the nameless little girl buries her head in the crook of his neck.
Martin hands James the note, and Carl silently thanks the other man because he doesn’t think he can even bear to look at the note let alone read it without getting irrationally angry.
“Does she have a name?”
Carl turns to Sam—who’s holding his ‘dad’ mug that Jasper got him a few years back now—looking more comfortable than he did when they were all standing in the cramped hallway.
“No, there’s no name in the note. But I don’t think we can call her ‘she’ — ‘it’ — or ‘baby girl’ for the rest of her life. So if neither of you have anywhere to be, and Donna won’t murder me if you get home at an ungodly hour, maybe you could all help me figure something out?”
James sighs, and Sam merely shrugs. Martin has escaped and Jasper's bedroom door remains closed. The jarring music finally quiet.
“Don’t all volunteer at once,” Carl mutters, reaching for the pink knitted blanket that had been previously swaddling the baby, now folded neatly no doubt by Martin, and he drapes it mostly over the little girl, but covers himself in the process the smell of a lingering perfume and vaguely baby formula clings to the fibres of the pink fabric, “I’ll go first shall I?”
His heart lurches at the feeling of soft downy skin against his skin, nuzzling into his neck against his scar.
“Charlotte. At the very least it’s a name she won’t get bullied for.” Carl offers up, ignoring James’s unrelenting gaze that’s burning into the side of his face.
He knows James wants to talk, to ask him why he’s so hell bent on even keeping this baby with him let alone asleep on his chest, but Carl just wants to figure out a name for the abandoned child and like her, get some much needed sleep.
“Lila?” Sam suggests next, and Carl watches as he finally moves away from the kitchen counter and sits down at the table in the chair opposite him.
“Lila is actually probably too close for comfort. It’s a name involved in a cold case we haven’t long solved,” James finally tears his eyes away from Carl plus baby, and stretches out his left leg under the table, trying to stop it from seizing up.
“I should make a call to Donna, see if she can’t find some clothes and maybe a crib in the loft from when the boys were little. You can’t very well have this wee one sleeping in that basket.”
As James goes to get up, Carl puts up his hand, “we’ll move into the living room, don’t hurt yourself.”
Carl gets up with ease, slow but confident enough that he has the little girl safely tucked against him, and he gestures with a nod for Sam to follow.
The living room is shrouded with the beginnings of being turned into an autumnal shrine. With pumpkins, darker neutrals with pillows and throws, cinnamon, pumpkin, ginger and amber scented candles all lined up on the mantle. Courtesy of Martin, of course, but also Jasper, surprisingly, the pair of them have been ‘bonding’ a lot more recently but it doesn’t quite piss him off in the way it used to.
The minute he sits down on the sofa, he feels all of his muscles start to relax, the tension he didn’t realise he was holding onto dissipating.
James’s voice floats through, his conversation with Donna gruff but low, and Carl hopes that neither the little girl or Jasper end up being disturbed.
“How about Daisy?”
Daisy. Carl contemplates the soft, sweet name but the more he thinks about it the less it seems to feel ‘right’ which he knows sounds ridiculous but he supposes that naming a child comes with a certain level of responsibility that he shouldn’t be so flippant about.
“It’s lovely,” Carl notes, “but it just doesn’t seem like her name.”
Sam half smiles nodding in silent agreement, and Carl takes a moment to appreciate the fact that he doesn’t feel at all unnerved by his presence. A stranger, someone he wasn’t expecting, and yet he’s not on edge like he usually is when someone new is introduced to him.
Something he’s taken a long time to learn how to get used to again. Even still, he finds himself struggling with anxiety whenever a new person comes along, the aftermath of the shooting having left more than just the physical scars.
“Whilst we wait for James, why don’t I just list off a handful of random names and you can veto whichever ones you don’t like and then we can have a more cohesive group of names you do like?”
The softness of Sam’s voices very nearly lulls him into a far too relaxed state, but he sits up and carefully adjusts the little girl so she’s back in the crook of his arm; figuring that if he can see her face and study her features then maybe it’ll help with the decision of naming her.
Her skin isn’t as pale as he first thought when he finally studies her properly under the soft hue of the living room lights, she has an almost ivory complexion with rosy red cheeks that look almost out of place. Her downy cheeks cover up the slight appearance of freckles and Carl finds himself tracing tiny lines with the tip of his finger from her brow, the bridge of her nose, to her cheeks.
Brown hair crowns her head, thinning a little the closer to her forehead it gets, but it’s clear that she’s going to have a dark head of hair when she gets older.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so beautiful, fragile, or perfect. He doesn’t do babies, and the thought of children has always terrified him, but with this little girl nestled in his arms his mind is quiet and his worries about the situation have long since been forgotten. For now.
Being a stepfather to Jasper, he took in his stride. Eventually. Dare he say he was getting quite good at it, after a while of feeling like he was failing at every hurdle. Jasper no longer grunted in response to his attempts at conversation or played his music louder than a club rave when he was upset, and Carl didn’t shut the teenager out or try to protect him from the unfortunate circumstances that came with his job and mostly just with life as a whole.
Much to Victoria’s disbelief, they were doing okay.
Sam’s list is long, but Carl listens even still.
Mia. Amelia. June. Isla. Freya. Maisie. Bonnie. Iona.
Every name is different, and there’s a few that he maybe likes, but none of them are her name.
“Eilidh. Donna’s suggestion, not mine. Says that it was on her baby name list but we aren’t having any more so you can use it.”
James’s presence is not only welcomed, but needed because Carl doesn’t even let him get comfortable before he stands up and walks over to him.
“Cute name, but I have to go and pee before my bladder explodes, don’t drop her on her head or anything yeah? And if she cries, don’t be offended, it’s just your face and that godawful beard.”
Carl waits until James has positioned his arms properly, and then he reluctantly lowers the little girl down. The empty feeling instantly gnawing at his chest without her in his arms.
“I have two of my own dickhead, I know how to handle a baby. A hell of a lot better than you do anyway!”
But Carl hasn’t even stepped away when she wakes up and starts crying properly for the first time since she was left on his doorstep, and he can’t stop the triumphant smile that curls his lips as he walks away.
“Oh fuck off Carl.”
He takes his time leaving the room as she cries, adjusting his jumper and desperately trying to loosen the collar so that he doesn’t feel so suffocated. Prepared to go right back into the living room, and try to soothe the little girl.
The crying fades away as he ascends the stairs, whether or not he’s just put enough distance between them or if James has managed to stop her from crying he doesn’t know.
It still makes his heart ache, and his chest burn.
Although he knows he missed a dose of his anxiety medication earlier in the midst of all the chaos, he tries to pretend that it’s just the ugly monster inside of him rearing its head.
Not that he’s already become so completely attached to the baby girl downstairs that he can’t be away from her.
That the thought of giving her away, of her being here now and gone tomorrow, feels like someone is tearing a hole in his heart.
The cold water he splashes on his face barely touches the tormented feeling of letting someone else down, when the responsibility was never meant to be his in the first place.
It may only be for now, or it may be that he gets a week or two more with the little girl, but he’s determined to make sure that for however long she’s with him, that she’s loved, that someone wants her.
“Okay, please tell me you both made some progress whilst I was gone.” He tries not to immediately reach for her as he walks back into the room, but she’s rosy cheeked and her eyes are still brimming with tears and it’s like a switch has flipped inside.
All he wants to do is protect her.
“Oh go on take her, if it’ll stop you gawking.” Carl scoops the baby from out of James’s arms, and immediately she nuzzles against him, lulling herself to sleep with the slowing rhythm of his heartbeat.
It’s a smug and slightly powerful feeling, but it’s also endearing, to know that this tiny little human has chosen him, that she feels safe with him.
“We vetoed Blair and Skye, so that leaves us with absolutely nothing. I could resort to Google, but I have a feeling it’ll just be useless,” Sam gives him a defeated smile.
Then right on cue, Jasper strolls into the kitchen, headphones on oblivious until he spins around and faces the living room taking in the gathering of his stepdad, James, and a stranger.
“Jesus, you do all know it’s nearly midnight…” and then Carl turns to face his stepson, and watches his jaw drop, “is that a fucking baby?!”
“Yes, Jasper, it is a fucking baby.” Even though he’s prepared for any reaction that Jasper may have, he’s not sure if he’s ready for the potential confrontation, or the fact that maybe Jasper might go back to hating him again.
“Do they let you just randomly have a baby? Or did Donna have a baby without us knowing?” Jasper isn’t angry, just curious, but Carl tries to stay calm even so, even though his heart is beating faster, and his chest is beginning to hurt. His anxiety rising without rhyme or reason once again, his own thoughts beginning to turn darker.
“No mate, Donna and I haven’t had a secret kid. Some fucking idiot left her on your dad’s doorstep. Come and join us eh? Maybe you can help us pick a name for her—also that random stranger on your sofa is Sam, Sam, this is Jasper, Carl’s stepson.”
Jasper waves a little awkwardly at Sam, and Sam just smiles.
Carl retreats to the sofa before his legs buckle, and he expects Jasper to take up the other armchair, putting distance between them, but instead he sits down beside him on the sofa, peering at the half asleep baby in his arms, “she’s cute, for a baby. Normally they’re quite ugly aren’t they.”
“She’s not the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen, no. You were quite the looker when you were born, god bless. But you grew into your ears.” Carl grins, letting Jasper elbow him, his usual moody scowl passing across his features only for a second because the little girl coos and Jasper is immediately transfixed.
Carl stays stock still as Jasper reaches out and places his finger in the middle of the little girl's tiny palm, and in an instant she closes her tiny hand around his finger.
“You could call her Clara, it’s your name jumbled up with an extra ‘a’ and it sort of suits her.”
Jasper leaning against him still feels foreign, but in his anxiety ridden state, he tries not to tense up too much. Tries not to spoil the moment.
“And inflate your dads ego even more? Why on earth would we want to do that Jasper?” James chimes in.
“I love it,” Carl smirks, particularly directing his smugness at James, “Clara…”
As much as he does want to have that be her first name, he glances down at her and again it just doesn’t feel right.
“I have one more idea.”
Sam’s voice breaks through another wave of unsolicited anxiousness that washes over him.
“I’m all ears,” James says all too quickly in response, “anything to stop Carl naming her Clara.”
All Carl does is stick his middle finger up at James, not even looking at him.
“Florence, but you can always shorten it to Flora. It has the same vibe as Clara, and if you wanted, Florence Clara seems to flow nicely.”
Florence Clara…Morck.
His last name solidifies it in his mind, even though he immediately pushes the thought from his head. Do not get attached, a rule he absolutely needs to follow; yet he fears he’s already broken it.
“What do you think sweetheart? Hmm? Will Flora do?”
Her soft, lopsided smile in response, makes the decision for him.
“Flora it is.” Carl announces, and right on cue, the doorbell rings for the third time that night.
“That’ll be Donna, do me a favour Sam and go and answer it please mate.” James gestures to his legs, and Sam nods, leaving the room without a word.
Carl can still feel the heavy gaze from James lingering on him, but he doesn’t have the energy for the conversation that James wants to have. Not tonight.
“You should ring Moira, ask her if there’s any way you can get approved for emergency fostering. It’ll be better to do it sooner rather than later.”
He rolls his eyes so aggressively that it hurts, but he knows James is right. That everything needs to be done by the book.
“Fancy holding a baby for the first time kid?”
Jasper's eyes widen, but he quickly turns his look of panic to one of wobbly assurance, “you trust me enough? You sure you don’t want to give her to James or Donna?”
Flora stirs at the absence of Jasper’s finger from her grasp, and Carl simply shakes his head, moving the little girl from his arms, to his stepsons.
She screws her face up for a moment, poised to cry, and then Jasper whispers to her, “you’re okay Flora, I’ve got you,” and she goes quiet, a content smile passing over her lips.
“See, you've got the magic touch. Unlike James, whom she cried for instantly. She just loves the Morck men, clearly.”
Or rather, Carl hopes that she does.
He wants Flora to feel safe with him.
Whether or not she understands that she is, he never wants her to know the feeling of unwantedness that was bestowed upon her tonight.
“I’ll call Moira. You lot can sort out whatever Donna’s brought with her. If anything needs building Martin will still be up. Don’t make her cry again, Hardy.”
James grimaces, flipping Carl off as he walks past him.
“Shut your face Carl, I’m calling tonight a fluke, I don’t know how she hasn’t cried at your unruly beard and those egregious bags under your eyes. You look like shit mate.”
Carl winces at the last sentence, because he knows he does. He hasn’t slept properly in at least four days, and doesn’t anticipate sleeping much tonight either. Yet, it still stings to have it pointed out.
The one year anniversary of the shooting is less than five weeks away, and Carl doesn’t know why it isn’t affecting James. He doesn’t know why it’s affecting him so much.
“Hiya Carl, you alright?” Donna greets him in the kitchen, laden with bags, Sam carrying unbuilt furniture behind her.
“I’m good thanks Donna, I appreciate you coming over so late. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to find a sitter for the boys.”
Donna waves her hand in dismissal, “Rose was more than happy to pop round and the boys were already asleep. Don’t worry I didn’t tell her anything, but she’s curious, you know her. How is the wee girl, James didn’t say much on the phone.”
Carl shrugs, rubbing the back of neck with careful precision to avoid even getting close to his scar.
“She’s asleep with Jasper, I don’t know much about babies but she seems okay. I just don’t know what to make of it all…anyway, I need to call Moira. I’ll be back.”
“Okay, I’ll make her up a few bottles, and give her one now,” he nods, and with that Donna lets him go; Sam’s eyes linger on him as he walks past into the hallway exiting the flat altogether to get some much needed fresh air.
The harsh evening breeze wraps around him like a heavy embrace. The wind turns as he sits down on the stone steps outside, cutting through the thin fibres of his jumper.
Moira answers in two rings. As always.
M—“Carl? Respectfully what the fuck are you calling for at this hour?”
C—“Hello to you too. Imagine I was dying, you answer the phone like this, and it’s the last thing I hear, your pissed off Scottish accent.”
M—“If this is a wind up Carl I’ll hang up, I’m on the night shift.”
C—“Alright alright, don’t have an aneurysm, I need to know how quickly I can be approved for emergency fostering.”
The silence on the other end of the line lasts for over a minute.
M—“Have you hit your head? Or are you pissing about Carl? Please tell me this is a joke.”
C—“Fucking finally, I thought you’d actually had an aneurysm then. No, I haven’t sustained a head injury, and no, this isn’t a joke Moira. Some fucking poor excuse for a human being left their child on my doorstep, and I need to be approved for emergency fostering so that at the very least it’s legal for her to stay in my care for the next 24 hours.”
M—“Right. Okay. Consider it done. Erm, do you need anything?”
C—“I’d like to be four beers deep right about now, with a glass of whiskey to finish me off, but no, James and Donna are at my place now. I should be okay for tonight, do I need to sign anything or provide any kind of documentation for you to get approval?”
M—“In normal circumstances yes, but I can sort everything. If you can just make sure that you’re available to pop into the station tomorrow, and be prepared for an impromptu home visit. That’s all…and Carl?”
C—“Yeah?”
M—“Are you sure you can handle this?”
He watches a couple stroll by, hand in hand, laughing about something he didn’t quite hear; his stomach twisting as the anxiety creeps back in.
It’s not doubt that’s coating Moira’s words, it’s concern, and rightly so. But he doesn’t want to talk about anything else right now.
C—“Yes. I can handle this Moira. I haven’t fucked Jasper up, yet. So I think I’ll be fine. See you later.”
M—“See you later Carl. Remember babies need love, not sarcasm or swearing or—“
He ends the call whilst Moira is mid sentence, and pulls himself up, pocketing his mobile so that he can take a few cautious steps towards the half open gate.
Not hoping per se for a stranger to step out of the shadows, but curious about whether or not anyone is actually out there. Lingering in the dark, maybe drowning in regret and quiet resentment for their rash decision.
But the streets are empty, only half heard conversations drift from the neighbouring streets, dying as the wind carries them through, drunken laughter and unbridled enthusiasm that he hasn’t been a part of for a long time.
Going back inside should be easy, but he can’t move from the doormat, his arms are too heavy to lift and unlock the front door. His hands shake and even though he tries to push through the overwhelming feeling of panic, clenching his fists, nothing seems to work.
Are you sure you can handle this?
Moira’s words swirl around his head, digging in and pulling out any faith he actually had in himself. Replacing it all with fear and doubt and the simmering anger for how Flora was so easily left behind.
“Carl?”
It’s Sam’s voice that overpowers the voice in his head, the front door suddenly open, “is everything okay?”
He swallows the lump in his throat and forces himself to smile, even though it hurts his chest to pretend that he’s alright. Even though he’s desperate for another minute alone to let go of everything for a moment.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine, I should go and tell James that it’s okay for him and Donna to go home. I’m assuming you have somewhere to stay as well?”
Sam is still staring at him, as if he’s trying to figure him out. And for the first time in a long time, Carl feels seen and not seen through.
It’s uncomfortable and suffocating, and he decides that he hates it all, so he bites at the inside of his cheek until he can taste the sharp metallic blood pooling underneath his tongue.
A distraction from the fact that he feels more perceived by a stranger, than any of his friends.
“Yeah, James is putting me up until I get on my feet.”
An enigma. Who is Sam Young? And why the hell does he make him feel like he can spill every last ounce of pain, every anxious thought, and that he’ll simply be understood.
“Good.”
Carl sides past Sam and is drawn back into the living room, where waves of laughter die down as soon as he enters the room.
Flora is still fast asleep with Jasper, and there are now four neatly folded piles of clothes on the armchair, and what Carl thinks is a moses basket. If he’s remembering correctly.
It’s been too long since James’s youngest son was small enough to fit in this contraption.
“You can go now.” Carl deadpans, rolling his eyes at James’s concerned expression.
“Carl?”
“Go on, go home. Can she sleep in this Donna? I’m assuming it’s safe and will do until I can get a cot.”
He doesn’t even ask before he scoops Flora out of Jasper’s arms, settling the sleeping baby against his chest once more. But her warmth and tiny fist against his neck do nothing to quiet his anxiety like he hoped.
“Yes, she’ll be okay, just make sure she sleeps with her feet touching the bottom and use the swaddle blanket I left in there instead of an actual blanket. I’ll have a proper look in the loft in the morning, if not I’m sure I have a friend who can spare an old cot. She took a 5 ounce bottle with Jasper, and I assume she’ll take around the same in the next 3-4 hours but I left instructions on the side. She’ll tell you if she’s hungry. Come on James, let’s get going.”
Carl nods, and then sinks down onto the couch beside Jasper again, but he doesn’t say a word.
Focusing on Flora’s tiny breaths as she sleeps. Her mouth puckered in a pout, and her tiny feet tucked underneath her. Gently rubbing his hand up and down her back.
James, Donna, and Sam leave. But Carl isn’t really paying attention, mostly because he’s trying to ignore the painful spiral of anxiety that he’s facing, mainly because he’s terrified of falling apart if he speaks. He doesn’t do the whole falling apart thing. He’s supposed to act blissfully unaware, arrogant and selfish.
Even though he knows that when he’s alone tonight, he’ll let his true feelings come out. Just for a brief moment; behind a closed door.
“I’ll take this upstairs,” Jasper whispers, picking up the moses basket with one hand, collapsing the stand with the other.
Once again, leaving him alone.
.｡.:*☁︎⋆✿⋆☀︎*:.｡.
The numbers on his alarm clock glow green, reading 02:16, when he finally crawls into bed. The rest of the house is (probably) sleeping, and all he wants is to do the same.
Jasper said goodnight in his usual manner, closing his bedroom door but lingering outside for thirty seconds before leaving.
Flora woke up briefly, but the minute he started speaking to her, she was soothed by the sound of his voice.
Martin was probably asleep too, but Carl quite frankly didn’t care all that much.
There’s a slew of unread text messages on his phone from James, one from Moira and then a couple from Akram. None of which he’s bothered about reading or responding to tonight.
He’s aware that in maybe three hours he’ll be woken up by Flora’s cries for a bottle, and that he should try and get some sleep. But it makes his heart pound and his head hurt, just the thought of sleep.
So he tiptoes around the front of his bed, and finds himself just staring at Flora, drowning in tiny clothes that almost swallow her up. It’s a stark reminder of how much she’s lost in such a short time, in the midst of the beginning of her life, to have endured so much pain that she doesn’t even understand. Not yet anyway.
Maybe that’s why he scoops her up, laying her in his bed, finding his place beside her. For the first time in years, the other side of the bed isn’t cold, lonely, or undisturbed. Maybe it’s because he can’t bear to think of her waking up alone, or perhaps he can’t bear the thought of being alone either.
For how long he’ll have her, Carl doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to dwell on the fact that it may only be for a few hours more, doesn’t want to pin his hopes on it being longer term.
Flora has changed his life, which is drastic, he knows. But to think four hours ago, he had nothing but his own company and the looming night ahead that he’d probably have filled with beers and overthinking.
Now, he’s staring at a two-month-old little girl, who turned up on his doorstep, and is now his responsibility.
But if the last year has taught him anything, it’s that sometimes the most unexpected circumstances can make the biggest difference in life, in how you live.
And maybe, just maybe, Flora is his next ‘lesson’. He knows one thing for certain though, and that is, she’ll change his life forever no matter how much time they have left together.
For worse or better, he doesn’t know exactly.
Either way, he wants to find out.
So. He gently moves his thumb against Flora’s cheek, brushing away an eyelash and he makes her a silent promise that no matter what he’ll never let her down. That she’ll never have to know what it’s like to feel so lonely or unwanted ever again.