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Rachel was not in the habit of inserting herself into the home lives of her patients, current or otherwise. To do so would be both incredibly unprofessional and inappropriate. Besides, a career spent talking to world-weary police officers, most of whom possessed the emotional maturity of a box of rocks, had as good as blessed her with immunity from any such temptation.
And yet there she was at Carl Morck’s door, and with a present in hand, no less.
She hadn’t seen him—either in person or, God forbid, yet another viral video clip—in well over a week, not since she’d driven him off for crashing her coffee shop date. It was easy to assume that he was simply putting his head down and staying out of trouble for a change. That the mosaic of clues and persons of interest she’d spied in the basement of Edinburgh’s finest was keeping his days and his thoughts more than occupied. Only, a small part of her worried she’d scared Carl away for good with her dismissal. Which wasn’t her intention, for she did want to offer her help as a friend, outside the capacity of doctor and patient, if that’s what he needed. It would just be a lot easier if she didn’t have to worry about him cropping up unannounced like a bad rash every time she turned around.
Compelled to let Carl know they were OK, at least on her end, Rachel planned to drop off her gift—a canister of tennis balls, fresh from the sporting goods store—and then go. A task that should have taken her five minutes, tops. This was no grand heist, after all. But she hadn’t accounted for running into Martin, Carl’s lodger (and possible dream interpreter, seeing how she had not so politely declined the position herself). And she certainly didn’t expect to be ushered inside for a cuppa, for Martin was confident that Carl would be home at any moment and wouldn’t it be a shame if she just missed him?
Her surprise visit turned into a household affair when Carl’s stepson emerged from his bedroom. The teen understandably stopped short at the sight of the stranger seated at the dining table.
Making the best of the unusual situation, she greeted him with a friendly wave. “Hi, there. I’m Rachel, Carl’s friend from work.” (Not the exact truth, but not an outright lie, either.) “You must be Jasper?”
“I didn’t know Carl had any friends besides Hardy,” he said without preamble, the words slipping from his mouth of their own accord, if his now rapidly reddening cheeks were anything to go by.
“He doesn’t make it easy, I’ll give you that,” she replied in a pretend whisper, like the two of them were already close confidants.
It proved to be the right move, putting Jasper more at ease, diffusing both his embarrassment and the coloring on his fair complexion. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” He gestured at the canister on the table before her. “So, um, what’s with the tennis balls? Carl’s never once mentioned anything about playing.”
“They’re just a small gift I came to drop off. Good for stress relief.”
Rachel expected Jasper to respond with skepticism or indifference before going about his business once more. He was a teenage boy, and he certainly hadn’t come out into the kitchen just to talk to his stepfather’s colleague. But surprisingly his answer was a reserved yet unmistakable look of curiosity. It sent a twinge of empathy through her; she knew firsthand just how tough young adulthood could be.
With a mental apology to Carl for repurposing his gift, she popped the canister open and tilted it in Jasper’s direction. “Want to give it a try?”
“Sure,” he said noncommittally even as he made a beeline for the table and let her tip a ball into his open palm. After a few firm squeezes he declared with an understated nod of approval, “Not bad.”
Like stepfather, like stepson, she smiled to herself.
Martin soon took a seat as well, trading the cup of tea he’d promised her for a tennis ball of his own, and before Rachel knew it, she was in the middle of an impromptu group session. Fiddling with their new toys, her rather vocal hosts tossed out commentary and good-natured jokes with abandon—a fair share made at Carl’s expense, of course.
Her attention was abruptly pulled away from the chatter by the distant slam of a door, the jangle of keys echoing through the flat. Neither Jasper nor Martin paid them any mind, continuing on uninterrupted as though they’d not heard a thing. If only she could be as cool and aloof, she thought. Her eyes flitted to the doorway, a tingling sensation climbing up the length of her spine as the sound of footsteps drew near.
“Oh, Jesus,” Carl cried out, feet coming to a sudden halt as soon as his eyes met hers.
Striking the detective dumb and immobile with her presence was as satisfying as a sun-ripened strawberry; a pour of whisky in her coffee; an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. It was her just desserts for having endured his repeated ambushes, his unsolicited commentary on her life outside of work.
But all of Rachel’s thoughts of pleasure and retribution quickly dissipated as he finally came closer, the kitchen overhead lights throwing into relief his battle-weary form. She could think of no other way to describe it as she took in the dark shadows under his eyes; the ill-fitting jacket, AMBULANCE emblazoned across the breast; his lame left arm hung feebly in a sling. He projected a figure far more disheveled and mangled than one supposedly on desk duty ought to be.
Still, banged up as he was, Carl remained unapologetically Carl. He made sarcastic quips about doctor house calls as he took the empty seat next to her. Downplayed the fact that he’d been shot yet again, a tidbit dropped so casually one would think he was merely sharing what he’d had earlier for lunch. And perhaps most true to form, he grew irritable when Jasper pressed impatiently for more details, deflecting as if the boy were yet another pesky journalist.
Rachel rushed to calm him down from the precipice that was his prickly temper, presenting him with a tennis ball from the canister—the very gift that had brought her to the doorstep in the first place. Its effect was instant, his exasperation fizzling out as he lowered his shoulders from their defensive stance and accepted the offering with soft-spoken, almost achingly delicate thanks.
(Though she would unlikely ever see eye-to-eye with the concept of fate, in that moment it was hard to shake the feeling that right here, right now, this was where she was meant to be.)
“And now it’s a party,” she heard Martin proclaim.
She turned to give him a quizzical look. That wasn’t quite the word she’d use to describe this offbeat gathering. Then again, it was undoubtedly more lively than the quiet night in at home she’d expected to have. Especially once they all managed to find a comfortable rhythm, questions and comments volleying back and forth effortlessly from one side of the table to the other like proper sport. As much as Carl liked to present himself as a lone wolf, detached from those around him, it was clear from their exchanges how much he cared about this unconventional family of his, and how they cared about him in turn. Rachel hoped he realized just how lucky he was to be able to come home to them every night, this night in particular.
Eventually their party of four dwindled to two as Jasper and Martin retired to their respective bedrooms—though not before the teen secured assurances from Carl that all burning questions would be answered in the morning.
“Mind if we head over to the living room? No funny business, I swear,” Carl said once he and Rachel were alone in the kitchen. He made sure to brandish his one unencumbered hand in a show of innocence. “The only thing I care to do right now is put my feet up.”
“Far be it for me to protest against the wishes of a wounded man,” she said, standing up from her chair.
“Wounded, yes, but not a dying charity case, as your tone suggests,” he shot back, though not without a faint, wry grin. He then made his way to the nearest armchair and plopped himself down, his body sinking into the cushions as though the weight of life since Leith Park bore down on his very bones. Toeing off his shoes, he extended his long legs outward and finally propped his feet on the nearby coffee table. A great, heavy sigh passed through his lips as he reclined backward, expelling material breath, yes, but perhaps even something more. Something bottled deep inside that was no longer fit to be contained within the cage of his ribs.
“Waiting for a formal invitation to sit down?” he asked, face expectant.
She let out a small wisp of a laugh. So he’d caught her staring. It couldn’t be helped, really. Not when Carl, a man so routinely disappointed by the world at large, had just lowered his carefully cultivated defenses before her with a remarkable display of vulnerability and trust. But to even hint as much would be to risk making him self-conscious, possibly scare him into mounting the guards once again.
Falling back to their usual patter, Rachel said as she took her place on the adjacent sofa, “I was only waiting for Your Majesty to settle into your throne.”
“You do realize that pinning your grievances with all things English on me doesn’t actually accomplish anything.”
“Obviously, but that doesn’t make it any less fun to do.”
Carl rolled his eyes, just like she figured he would. There was entertainment in that, too.
“So. What brings you into my office today, Rachel?”
“Hmm, taking the therapist role out for a spin, I see.”
“You’re the one in the hot seat,” he said, nodding toward the sofa. “We’ve got plenty of tennis balls if you find it stressful.”
“Not at all. Ask away.”
A look of focused concentration washed over his face at that, his now unblinking gaze that of a man intent on deducing the inner workings of her brain. This was what it must be like to sit opposite the detective in an interrogation room, Rachel thought. She stared back, undaunted. Intrigued, more than anything.
“Why’d you stop by tonight?” he said with an evenness honed over nearly two decades on the police force.
She kept her answer straightforward and frank: “I didn’t like the way things ended the last time we met, so I came to offer an olive branch. To let you know I was hoping we could be friends.”
Carl huffed. “You want to be friends with me, a grumpy cop with a documented superiority complex? Who turned down your help, only to come crawling back through inappropriate means?”
“Believe it or not, I do enjoy your company,” she replied, speaking absolute truth. He was the most interesting person she’d encountered in quite some time, his sharp mind and even sharper tongue keeping her on her toes like a ballerina en pointe. “That is, when it’s not foisted upon me out of nowhere,” she felt the need to add. “Though I must say, this new self-awareness is commendable.”
“My former therapist helped me broaden my perspective,” he said drolly.
Rachel granted herself a tiny smile. It was the first time she’d heard him say anything positive about their work together as doctor and patient. “She sounds like a miracle worker.”
“Hey, let’s not go that far. She is good for a swift kick in the arse, though. And stress-relieving tennis balls, as it were.”
“Had to make sure you've a decent supply since you’re no longer going to Dr. Sonnenberg’s.”
“Yeah, about that,” he murmured, uncharacteristically shy as his hand came up to the back of his neck. “I think I’m going to give therapy another shot.”
Her eyes involuntarily blinked in surprise, but otherwise she was able to school her features into a convincing display of composure. “What brought about this change of heart?”
“Jasper. I’ve been encouraging him to open up about his feelings instead of seething in silence. And, well, turns out, helping someone with their shit makes you reevaluate your own. Like, maybe I ought to try to work my way through the refuse instead of just treading in it aimlessly.”
She nodded sympathetically, and with no shortage of pride at his growth. “I’m really glad to hear that, Carl. It’s great that Jasper’s opening up to you, and that you’re receptive to getting help for yourself, too.”
“Thank you. For the sentiment, and not rubbing my nose in it just now. Seeing how I’ve disparaged your profession on more than one occasion,” he said, eyes downward as his fingers idly picked at a stray thread on the arm of his chair.
“Nothing I haven’t heard before, and in far cruder language. Police officers aren’t exactly known for their decorum.”
“Well, here’s hoping Dr. Sonnenberg will be so forgiving. I didn’t exactly make what you would call a ‘great first impression.’”
“Shocker,” Rachel deadpanned.
“Alright, now, Miss Congeniality,” he replied back with mock affront.
She flashed her best attempt at a vapid, too-broad beauty queen smile, cheeks pulled so wide they nearly ached. It earned her a genuine laugh, free of his usual sarcasm or disdain.
“Friends, though, huh?” Carl continued. “So I can ask how your coffee date went?”
Gone was the pageantry as her face changed shape yet again, this time into its patented unimpressed glare. The one she was known for amongst friends and family. Probably some colleagues, too, though none were brave enough to tell her so.
“What?” he said innocently. “That’s what friends do, talk about their love lives. I’d divulge my own, but it’s been nonexistent ever since my ex took off for friendlier skies.” He shrugged his shoulders with a look of exaggerated nonchalance, only for it to crumple into a pained wince.
“Are you alright?” Rachel asked, worried he’d just done himself more harm. Did he break some stitches? Would she need to help him out of his layers and redress his wounds? Or take him into hospital, even?
He simply waved off her concern, oblivious to the questions turning over in her mind. “I’m fine. Painkillers are starting to wear off, that’s all. Gimme a distraction and tell me about your date.”
She sighed begrudgingly, knowing it wasn’t worth trying to argue against the “injured” card. “There’s not much to tell. It was… fine. Well, kind of awkward and dull, actually.” Or, if she were completely honest, as hopeless and devoid of sparks as a dead car battery. Enough so to almost make her regret shooing Carl away—helping him analyze his dreams would have made for a considerably more engaging afternoon. But she’d sooner eat glass than disclose that.
“So no more afternoon coffee dates with Ben, I take it.”
“No more afternoon coffee dates, period. That hit of caffeine that late in the day kept me up half the night,” she admitted. Hours upon hours she had spent tossing and turning in bed, and for what, only most boring date she’d experienced in recent memory? No way was she opening herself up to a potential repeat.
“Talk about an eye-opening experience.” Carl pressed his mouth into a cheeky smirk, far more pleased than anyone with a fresh gunshot wound had any right to be. Were she gripping a tennis ball, she might be inclined to lob it directly at his face.
“Clever,” she said dryly, by no means impressed. “Clearly you’re not in that much pain after all.”
“On the contrary, taking the piss out of a friend is a proven pain reliever. Recommended by four out of five doctors,” he said, intonation bearing the empty conviction of an advert voiceover.
“I must have missed that study,” she laughed despite herself.
“Well, me and Hardy are living proof. But enough about that. Tell me something positive, hmm? Like your plans for the weekend. I need to live vicariously through someone while I convalesce here at home, and it sure as hell won’t be Hardy or Martin.”
“I’m going on a hike with a friend on Sunday. Does that inspire enough excitement for you?”
“Not in the slightest, but it beats Martin’s sci-fi book club, or whatever the fuck. So go on, then. Keep talking.”
She had a captive audience in Carl as she went on to describe her favorite local hiking spots, the gorgeous views she could never fully capture with words. He interjected with the occasional question here and there, but was otherwise content to listen to her improvised monologue. There was hope yet, she thought, of dragging him out to Arthur’s Seat or Calton Hill when the weather was favorable, to show him the beautiful landscapes that took her breath away.
But as Carl’s eyes grew heavier—despite fighting valiantly to stay alert—she had to stop herself. He didn’t need her blathering, or hypothetical plans for future outings. What he needed now more than anything was rest.
“I should head out. Let you get some sleep,” she said.
Carl yawned as if on cue, covering his mouth with his hand. “Sure. I’ll walk you to your car.” With businesslike swiftness he shoved his feet back into his shoes and pushed himself out of his chair, making clear that the offer was not up for debate. All there was left to do was grab her handbag and follow him out the door into the night.
It was a brief walk, Rachel having parked her car just across the street. That it would have been even more brief for Carl had he not shortened his stride to match her own was a detail she tried not to dwell on. She only somewhat succeeded.
“Well, this is me,” she said as they approached the vehicle.
“Rachel,” he responded, her name but a gentle exhalation from his lips.
She craned her neck to meet his gaze. Though illuminated by just the dim glow of a neighboring lamppost, his eyes were still strikingly bright, flecked with innumerable, intertwining shades of blue and green and gold. She wondered what they saw, what it was that turned his expression so profoundly soft that she couldn’t help but catch her breath.
A quiet, miraculous stillness then settled over them both, neither she nor Carl finding reason to do anything other than stare at each other in curious fascination. For a fleeting moment she thought he might try to kiss her. And that against her better judgment, she would let him. The possibilities seemed as vast as the star-dusted night sky canopied above them.
Finally, after minutes or hours, she could hardly say, Carl reached over, breaking the calm to take her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. His hand was dry and callused, but also steady and warm to the touch. Rachel felt her nerves hum with electricity in response, goose pimples rising across her skin in a way that had nothing to do with the cool night air.
“Thank you for stopping by. It was good to see a friendly face tonight,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Let me know…” she somehow managed to speak, only to pause as she considered her words. “Actually, hand me your phone?”
Carl looked at her with amused interest, but kept whatever smart riposte he surely had queued to himself. Instead, he simply let go of her hand—to her minor regret—and obliged her request, wordlessly unlocking the device with his thumbprint before dropping it into her open palm.
“I know you technically already have my number since you pinged my phone earlier, but consent matters.” She navigated to his contacts app, tapped her information out onto the screen, and finally returned the phone back once everything was saved. “There. Whenever you want to talk, rather than planning an ambush, you can call or text. Like a civilized human being. Who knows, I may even agree to meet you somewhere.”
He grinned, his smile a crooked yet undeniably pleased thing, one she wouldn’t mind getting used to. “Just not for an afternoon coffee.”
“Only if you want the pleasure of me blowing you off for a change,” she said crisply. “OK, I really should get going now.”
“Right, ‘course,” he nodded. “Cheerio, Rachel.”
“Tatty-bye, Carl,” she answered back instinctively. That he’d teed her up for the valediction, one that normally made his face break out into a scowl, was maybe the most notable milestone of their burgeoning friendship so far.
With a final wave goodbye, Rachel hopped into the car and drove off. In her rear view mirror Carl’s figure grew smaller and smaller until it finally vanished out of sight. His presence, however, lingered larger than life in her thoughts all through the drive home, so much so that she actually missed the final turn onto her street, to her chagrin.
Awaiting her upon her arrival home was not only her warm, inviting bed, but also a new text message from an unrecognized number. It didn’t take a detective (ha!) to identify the sender based on the timestamp and message itself:
Text me once you get home safe. Or else I’ll have to haul my sorry arse out to look for you.
She laughed, delightedly and at full volume now that she was in the privacy of her own home, knowing that at the same time Carl was roaming her thoughts, she too was a fixture in his.
Just made it home. No search party needed, she replied. Good night, and pleasant dreams.
I’ll try my best.
It was an honest, straightforward answer, one he probably didn’t give much thought to before hitting the “Send” button. And yet it managed to encapsulate so much: He was making efforts, putting in the work to confront his inner demons. To be more present for his stepson. To be a decent person and friend, much in the same way she wanted to be for him. Which was why she replied back:
If you want, call me tomorrow and tell me about the dreams, good or bad.
Deal.
Rachel smiled, responding with a thumbs up emoji before saving Carl’s number to her phone in anticipation of his call. And as she set the device aside and began readying herself for bed, she wondered if come morning, she too might have dreams of her own to share.