Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Harvest Moon Festival was in full swing, the village green overflowing with stalls, lanterns swaying from strings, and the faint smell of food and cider drifting through the evening air. Children ran about in paper masks of foxes and owls, while a handful of adults in flowing robes and flower crowns performed a slow circle-dance around a carved oak effigy.

Jamie was scribbling in his notebook, doing his best to look like he wasn’t entirely baffled by the mixture of folklore and crime scene they’d walked into. The body of a local shopkeeper had been discovered behind one of the festival tents earlier that evening, and now the revelry carried on just a few steps away from the cordoned-off patch of grass.

Scott was less impressed. He tugged at his tie, side-eyeing a group of self-declared “witches” selling charms and bundles of herbs. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “Who in their right mind believes a bunch of dried leaves can ward off evil spirits?”

“Play nice,” Jamie said under his breath, glancing up from his notes. “We need them to talk, not clam up.”

Scott plastered on a grin that was about as convincing as a paper mask, then stepped toward the nearest woman. She was tall, grey-haired, with bracelets jingling down both arms and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You were at the festival all evening?” Scott asked, tone brisk. “Did you see anyone near the west field, around the time Mr. Holden went missing?”

The woman tilted her head, gaze sharp as flint. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. The moon hides many things.”

Scott huffed. “Right. And do the stars have an opinion too, or should I check with the local hedgehogs while I’m at it?”

“Scott,” Jamie warned quietly, but it was too late.

The witch’s smile widened, and she reached out, laying a hand on Scott’s shoulder with surprising firmness. Her bracelets clinked like tiny bells.

“You should mind that tongue, young man,” she said softly, almost kindly. “Sharp words can cut back.”

Scott gave an awkward shrug, stepping out of her touch. “I’ll take my chances.”

But Jamie, standing just a half-step behind, felt a prickling crawl along the back of his neck. The woman’s gaze lingered on Scott for a heartbeat too long, as though she knew something they didn’t.

*

The incident room was quiet, most of the team long gone home. The only sounds were the low hum of the old radiator and the scratch of pens on paper. Files were spread across the table between Scott and Jamie, the festival case already looking like a tangled mess of half-truths and eccentric witness statements.

Scott leaned back in his chair, arms folded, smirk firmly in place. “So let me get this straight. We’ve got three different accounts of the victim’s last movements, two contradict each other, and the third one insists he was carried off by spirits of the harvest.”

Jamie didn’t look up from his notes. “It was ‘the Watchers in the Corn,’ actually.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Of course it was. Because nothing says reliable testimony like a woman in a flower crown and too much incense.”

That earned him a quick sideways glance. “You know, you don’t have to insult every witness.”

“They make it too easy,” Scott said, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, someone’s got to keep your reports entertaining.”

Jamie snorted under his breath, scribbling something down. “If by entertaining you mean unreadable…”

“Readable. Memorable.” Scott leaned forward, tapping the case file with his pen. “And don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy watching that witch’s face when I called her out.”

Jamie set his pen down and finally looked at him properly, one brow raised. “Enjoy isn’t the word I’d use. You do realise she looked ready to hex you on the spot, right?”

Scott smirked wider. “What’s she going to do? Turn me into a toad?”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Jamie muttered, though his lips twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smile.

They sat there a moment longer, the lamplight throwing soft shadows across the table, the air easy between them despite the grim case. Scott tossed a paperclip in Jamie’s direction, and Jamie lobbed it back without missing a beat.

*

Scott blinked awake to the thin morning light seeping through the curtains of his flat. His head felt heavy, his limbs oddly sluggish, as though he’d overslept by hours. He sat up with a groan, scrubbing at his face.

Something felt… off.

The bed stretched wider than usual, the quilt pooled around him like an oversized cape. When he swung his legs over the side, his feet didn’t touch the floor.

Scott frowned. “What the—?”

He slid down, expecting the ground to meet him, but the drop was longer than it should’ve been. He landed with a thud, knees bending awkwardly, balance all wrong. His shirt reached down to his shins.

For a wild second he thought—did someone break in and swap all my furniture for bigger versions? He padded toward the dresser, the knobs at eye-level now, heart beginning to hammer.

Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror.

A boy stared back. Eight years old, maybe nine. Same unruly hair, same nose, but the jawline gone, the height stolen, the detective’s scowl shrunk down to a child’s bewildered expression.

Scott staggered back, clutching at the dresser. His voice came out high and thin when he whispered, “Oh, bloody hell.”

The witch’s hand on his shoulder flashed in his mind. You should mind that tongue, young man.

Scott swallowed hard. “This… this isn’t happening.” He raised his hands—small, narrow fingers, calluses gone. His trousers lay crumpled in a heap on the floor, far too big now.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, feet swinging helplessly above the carpet, pulse racing.

“Right,” he muttered, the word quivering in that ridiculous little-boy pitch. “Don’t panic. Just… don’t panic.”

Scott scrambled onto the bed again, tugging the oversized duvet around his shoulders like a cloak. His mobile sat on the nightstand, far too big in his shrunken hands. He fumbled with the buttons, thumbs clumsy, but eventually got it to ring.

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, heart pounding.

The line clicked.

“Winter,” Jamie’s voice answered, brisk but warm.

Relief flooded Scott. “Jamie! It’s me. Listen, something’s happened, you need to—”

There was a pause. Then: “Who is this?”

Scott froze. “What do you mean, who is this? It’s me!” His voice squeaked on the last word, betraying him.

Jamie’s tone sharpened. “If you’ve found this phone, you’d better hand it in to the police right now. This is official CID property—”

“Jamie, for God’s sake, I’m not mucking about, it’s really—”

Scott heard the disbelieving sigh on the other end, followed by a muttered, “Unbelievable. Some brat nicked his phone at the festival, didn’t they?”

Panic flared.

Scott hung up, thumb stabbing the screen as humiliation burned hot in his chest. He dropped the phone onto the duvet and buried his face in his too small hands.

“Brilliant,” he groaned into his palms. “Absolutely bloody brilliant. Now he thinks I’m some kid prank-calling him.”

The phone buzzed again in his lap — Jamie ringing back — and Scott bolted upright. Heart racing, he killed the call, then shoved the device under the pillow like it might bite him.

“Not dealing with that. Nope. Not yet.” He flopped back, staring at the ceiling, his voice thin and childish even in a mutter.

Chapter Text

Scott spent the next hour pacing the flat in circles, tripping over clothes that no longer fit and tugging at sleeves that swallowed his hands. Any second now, he told himself, the nightmare, spell or curse or whatever it was would wear off. He’d blink, stretch, and be himself again.

Except nothing happened.

Every time he checked the mirror, the same scrawny boy looked back. The same wide eyes, the same voice that cracked when he swore under his breath.

Eventually he grabbed his phone again, hunching over it like it might explode. His thumbs, clumsy and too small, jabbed out a quick message:

To: DCI Barnaby, DS Winter
Feeling rough. Think I’ve caught something. Won’t make it in today.

He stared at the screen a moment longer before tossing the phone aside. “Sorted,” he muttered. “One day. Just one day. I’ll figure this out before anyone notices.”

*

Meanwhile, at the CID, Jamie frowned at his phone.

“‘Feeling rough,’” he read aloud. “Since when does Scott voluntarily take a sick day?”

Barnaby glanced up from a stack of witness statements. “Miracles do happen, Winter.”

Jamie didn’t look convinced. He scrolled back through the message, chewing the inside of his cheek. Something about it felt… off.

By lunchtime, he’d made up his mind. Closing his notebook, he said lightly, “I’ll check in on him. Make sure he’s not dying of man flu.”

Barnaby waved him off without much interest. “Do what you like, just don’t catch whatever he's got.”

Jamie smirked, but the unease lingered. As he headed out toward Scott’s flat, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was going on.

*

Jamie knocked once. Then again, louder.

“Scott? It’s me. Come on, open up.”

Silence.

Jamie frowned, shifting the takeaway bag in his hand — soup and sandwiches, because if Scott really was sick he’d never have stocked his fridge. He knocked again, ear pressed close to the door. Nothing.

“Alright,” he muttered, fishing out the small spare key Scott had grudgingly handed over months ago after losing his own set twice. “I'm coming in.”

The lock clicked. The flat smelled faintly of coffee and aftershave, but the lights were low, curtains drawn. Jamie stepped inside carefully.

“Scott?”

A shuffle came from the bedroom. Jamie followed the sound, pushing the door open just enough to peek in.

The bed was a messy tangle of blankets. A small figure was curled under the duvet, only a shock of hair poking out.

Jamie’s froze. A child? No older than eight, maybe nine. What the hell? Was Scott babysitting now?

He glanced around the room, expecting Scott to appear with a sheepish explanation — a neighbour’s kid, a cousin’s child dropped off at the last minute. But the flat was quiet.

Setting the food down on the dresser, Jamie crouched near the bed. “Hey there,” he said gently, like he would to his niece. “I'm Jamie. I'm a colleague of Scott. Did he ask you to stay here? Where is he?”

The bundle under the blanket shifted. A muffled voice piped up, high and wavering: “I… I’m here.”

Jamie blinked. “What?”

The duvet slipped back, and the child’s face turned toward him — familiar eyes, familiar scowl, only shrunken into a boy’s rounder features.

Jamie’s stomach dropped. He stumbled back onto his heels, staring.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “Scott?”

The boy winced. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Jamie just stared, mouth half-open, brain scrambling for some other explanation. Kidnapping? No. Hallucination? No. The boy on the bed had Scott’s eyes, Scott’s stubborn scowl, even the same swirl in his hair.

It couldn’t be.

“…Scott?” Jamie said again, slowly, as if saying it wrong the first time had made the image worse.

The boy groaned and dragged the duvet up over his head. “Don’t. Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second nose.”

Jamie rose unsteadily, then sat down on the edge of the mattress, careful as though he might spook him. “What—how—” He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“No kidding,” came the muffled reply from under the blanket.

Jamie tugged the duvet back a little, enough to see Scott’s reddened face, his small hands gripping the edge tightly. “You’re a child,” he said flatly, like stating it might undo it.

Scott glared. “Yeah, thanks, hadn’t noticed. Woke up like this. Not exactly my idea of a good laugh.” His voice cracked on the last word, turning into a high-pitched whine that made his cheeks burn.

Jamie swallowed hard, still staring. He wanted to ask if this was a prank, but nothing about Scott’s mortified expression looked faked. “You… you really are Scott.”

“Obviously.” Scott kicked at the duvet, tiny bare feet peeking out. “Can you imagine me making this up? Do you think I’d choose to spend the day looking like—like—” He gestured helplessly at his small frame. “Like Harry bloody Potter in wrong pyjamas?”

Despite the absurdity, Jamie couldn’t even crack a smile. His mind spun with too many questions at once, not a single useful answer in sight.

Scott groaned again, flopping back into the pillows and covering his face with both hands. “I can’t go in like this, Winter. Barnaby will have my head. Or my school report.”

Jamie dragged a hand down his face, still staring at the boy bundled in Scott’s duvet. “Alright,” he said finally, voice steadier than he felt. “Let’s… think this through. You went to bed last night, normal. Woke up this morning… like this.”

Scott peeked at him through his fingers. “That about sums it up.”

Jamie leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if it might supply answers. “It could be some medical condition. Rapid… I don’t know, regression? No, that’s ridiculous.” He shook his head, muttering half to himself. “Some sort of drug? An illness? Or—” His thoughts flickered unwillingly to the woman at the festival, her hand heavy on Scott’s shoulder, her words lingering like smoke.

Before he could voice it, a low rumble broke the silence.

Scott froze, then groaned, covering his face again. “Brilliant.”

Jamie blinked. “Was that—”

“My stomach,” Scott admitted, voice high and miserable. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday, alright? But I can’t even reach the bloody counter, never mind the top cupboards. Tried earlier, nearly fell off the chair.”

Jamie bit the inside of his cheek, torn between sympathy and a flicker of something dangerously close to amusement. “So what you’re saying,” he said carefully, “is that you need me to cook for you.”

Scott groaned louder, pulling the blanket back over his head until only a mop of hair stuck out. “Don’t make it sound like babysitting.”

Jamie stood, brushing his palms on his trousers. “Well, you’re about three feet tall and whining. Call it what you like.”

From under the blanket came a muffled, mortified growl: “This is hell.”

*

The pans clattered as Jamie set about making breakfast, the tiny kitchen suddenly feeling like the stage for some surreal comedy sketch. Behind him, Scott sat at the table with his chin in his hands, feet swinging uselessly above the floor.

“Toast,” Scott announced, like he was giving an order at a café.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder. “Toast you’ll get. And eggs.”

Scott wrinkled his nose. “Not soft ones. That’s disgusting.”

Jamie paused mid-crack of the shell. He turned, brow raised. “Since when? You ate half my plate the last time we had breakfast at the café.”

Scott crossed his arms, cheeks flushing. “That was different. Those were… better.”

Jamie smirked faintly, turning back to the pan. “Right.”

A beat of silence, then: “And no vegetables,” Scott added quickly. “Not even tomatoes. Don’t even think about it.”

Jamie bit back a laugh. “Tomatoes are technically fruit.”

“Still disgusting.”

The smell of butter and toasting bread soon filled the flat. Jamie plated up the eggs and toast, setting the plate in front of Scott. The boy eyed it with suspicion, then picked up a corner of toast and chewed sulkily.

Jamie leaned on the counter, arms folded, watching him. “You do realise you sound exactly like my niece, don’t you?”

Scott shot him a glare far too adult for his small face. “Shut up, Winter.”

Jamie only shook his head, lips twitching. Somewhere between the ridiculousness and the worry gnawing at his gut, he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or start panicking all over again.

By the time Scott had finished, Jamie had already made a mental list of their next problem.

Clothes.

Scott sat sulking at the table, drowning in one of his shirts. The sleeves trailed past his hands, the hem brushing his bare knees like an oversized nightshirt.

“This is humiliating,” Scott muttered, glaring at the floor.

Jamie crouched a little to meet his eye. “You can’t exactly run around like that, can you? We’ll nip into Causton, grab a few things. No one will think twice.”

“They’ll think I’m your—” Scott cut himself off, face heating. “Forget it.”

Jamie straightened, grabbing his jacket. “My what? Nephew? Godson? Kid I got stuck babysitting? Take your pick.”

Scott groaned into his hands. “Kill me now.”

*

Half an hour later, Jamie was shepherding him through the entrance of a children’s clothing shop. The bell over the door chimed, and racks of bright T-shirts and tiny jeans stretched out before them. Scott tugged self-consciously at the hem of his too-big shirt, refusing to meet anyone’s eye.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“You’ll survive,” Jamie said, steering him toward the boys’ section. “Come on. You like blue, right?”

Scott shot him a baleful glare. “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.”

“You’re the one in a shirt-dress,” Jamie pointed out mildly, plucking a pair of jeans off the rack.

Scott groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “Worst day of my life.”

Jamie couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth as he held the jeans up against him. “Alright. Let’s see what actually fits.”

Jamie flipped through a rack of jeans, holding up a pair. “These look about right.”

Scott crossed his arms, drowning in the shirt that looked like it had swallowed him whole. “They’ve got cartoon dinosaurs on the knees.”

Jamie bit the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well, they’re reinforced. Practical.”

“I’m not wearing dinosaurs,” Scott snapped. “I’m a detective, not a six-year-old in nursery.”

Jamie chuckled, putting them back and selecting a plainer pair. “Fine. What about these?”

Scott squinted. “Those are skinny jeans. I’ll look like one of those lads in a boy band.”

Jamie’s shoulders shook, and he had to duck his head to cover the laugh that escaped. “I—sorry, I’m trying to take this seriously.”

“You’re failing,” Scott muttered, but his ears were pink.

They moved on to shirts. Jamie pulled out a polo. “This one’s nice.”

Scott recoiled. “Absolutely not. I’d look like I’m headed for Sunday lunch with Grandma.”

Jamie was openly grinning now, unable to stop himself. “You are a bit picky for someone with exactly zero clothes that fit.”

Before Scott could retort, a woman pushing a pram stopped nearby. She gave Jamie a warm smile, then glanced at Scott with fond amusement.

“Oh, he’s adorable. Dressing up in his dad's shirt,” she said brightly. “How old is he? Seven?”

Scott’s mouth dropped open in horror. Jamie, frozen for half a beat, managed a weak, “Uh—eight.”

The woman cooed. “My Ben’s eight too! We should set up a play date sometime.”

Scott made a strangled noise. “Play date?”

Jamie coughed hard into his fist, fighting laughter. “That’s… kind of you, but—he’s, uh, very busy.”

“Such a shame,” the woman sighed, giving Scott’s hair an affectionate ruffle before moving on.

The second she was out of earshot, Scott rounded on him, face blazing. “Did you hear that? She thinks you’re my dad! Wants me to go play with some kid named Ben!”

Jamie burst out laughing, doubling over slightly, hand braced on the clothing rack. “Sorry—sorry. I can’t—your face—”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Scott grumbled, yanking the polo out of Jamie’s hands and stomping toward the changing rooms, the oversized shirt flapping like a cape behind him.

Jamie trailed after, still grinning, the sound of Scott’s indignant muttering carrying all the way across the shop.

Chapter Text

Scott disappeared into the changing cubicle, dragging a bundle of jeans and shirts with him. The curtain swished shut, leaving Jamie leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded.

From inside came a muffled curse. Then another.

“You alright in there?” Jamie called, voice carefully neutral.

“No,” Scott snapped. “These bloody trousers are possessed.”

Jamie bit the inside of his cheek. “Try pulling the tag out of the waistband before you put them on.”

“I did! The legs are backwards or something—” A loud thump followed, as though he’d fallen against the wall. “—and don’t you dare laugh.”

Jamie’s lips twitched anyway. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The curtain jerked open suddenly. Scott stood there scowling. The effect was somewhere between miniature detective and lost choirboy.

Jamie took one look and burst out laughing.

Scott’s scowl deepened. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie wheezed, though he clearly wasn’t. “It’s just—you look like you mugged a children’s catalogue.”

Scott groaned, tugging the sleeves down in defeat. “I hate this. I hate all of this.”

Jamie straightened, still grinning. “Come on, turn around. Let me see.”

Scott glared at him but spun reluctantly. “Satisfied?”

“Not quite,” Jamie said, still chuckling. “But I think we’ve found a winner. At least you won’t trip over your own shirt anymore.”

Scott stomped back into the cubicle, muttering, “Next time you get cursed, we’ll see who’s laughing.”

Jamie leaned against the wall again, still smiling to himself. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

*

Jamie balanced the shopping bag in one hand as they stepped out of the shop, Scott trudging at his side in his new jeans and T-shirt, arms crossed and expression thunderous. The clothes fit, but he still looked like a sulky schoolboy dragged along on errands.

“Cheer up,” Jamie said lightly. “At least you don’t look like you’re wearing a tent anymore.”

Scott shot him a withering glare. “I hate you.”

Jamie grinned—then froze.

Because striding across the pavement toward them, case file tucked under one arm, was DCI Barnaby.

Scott went sheet-white. “No. No, no, no—”

“Play it cool,” Jamie hissed, quickly shifting the bag to block half of Scott from view.

“Play it cool?!” Scott squeaked. “I look like your kid!”

Barnaby stopped in front of them, brow furrowing. His gaze dropped to the boy at Jamie’s side. Then up again. Then down once more.

“Well,” Barnaby said slowly, “who is this?”

Jamie forced a laugh that came out slightly strangled. “Oh—uh—sir. This is, um… Scott’s nephew.”

Barnaby’s brows arched. “His nephew.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Jamie nodded too quickly. “Scott’s under the weather, so I—uh—offered to mind him for the afternoon. You know, to help out.”

Scott pressed his lips together so tightly they nearly vanished, glaring daggers at the pavement.

Barnaby studied the boy a moment longer. His expression softened with something almost like amusement. “Funny. He looks rather a lot like Scott himself.”

Scott made a strangled noise, and Jamie clapped a hand gently on his shoulder before he could explode. “Runs in the family,” Jamie said quickly. “Strong genes.”

Barnaby’s eyes narrowed, as if weighing up whether to pursue the thought. Then he gave one of his faint, knowing smiles. “Well. Do tell Scott I hope he feels better soon. And mind you don’t spoil his nephew with too many biscuits.”

He walked off, leaving Jamie exhaling in relief and Scott ready to sink through the pavement.

“I am going to die,” Scott hissed.

Jamie tried not to grin. “Could’ve been worse.”

Scott shot him a murderous glare. “Worse? He thinks you’re babysitting me!”

Jamie chuckled under his breath. “Well, I am.”

Jamie steered Scott toward the car, keeping his head down in case Barnaby decided to double back. Scott sulked the whole way, hands jammed in the new jeans pockets, muttering about humiliation and curses.

Then he froze mid-step. His head snapped to the side.

An ice cream truck had pulled up at the corner of the car park, the chime playing a cheerful tune as children clustered around it, clutching coins.

Scott’s eyes widened. He turned those same eyes up at Jamie.

“No,” Jamie said flatly, already reading the look.

“Come on,” Scott pleaded, voice high and wheedling. “Just one cone. You owe me after that disaster in the shop.”

Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a detective sergeant. Not a seven-year-old after school.”

Scott huffed, grabbing his sleeve and tugging insistently. “I am a seven-year-old right now, in case you haven’t noticed! Please, Jamie. Please. I’m starving. And traumatised. You can’t deny me ice cream in my hour of need.”

Jamie fought valiantly, but the sulky pout and the tugging at his sleeve wore him down faster than he’d admit. He sighed, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, steering Scott toward the van.

Minutes later, Scott stood triumphantly with a chocolate-dipped cone nearly the size of his face, grinning. He licked a stripe down the side and sighed in bliss. “Worth every second of humiliation.”

Jamie leaned against the car, watching him with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant fondness. “You’ve got ice cream on your nose.”

Scott ignored him, happily demolishing the cone like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. For the first time since that morning, he looked content — and Jamie, despite himself, couldn’t help but smile.

*

Back at Scott’s flat, Jamie half expected him to keep sulking. Instead, as soon as they stepped through the door, Scott dropped his shopping bag and made a beeline for the sofa.

“Remote,” he said, clambering up onto the cushions.

Jamie blinked. “Remote?”

“Yeah. For the telly. I want to watch cartoons.”

Jamie’s brow furrowed. “Cartoons.”

Scott nodded solemnly, already flicking the television on. The screen blared with bright colours and squeaky voices, some Saturday-morning show rerun. He curled up on the sofa, gaze fixed. Within minutes he was giggling — actually giggling — at some pratfall involving an animated rabbit.

Jamie stood frozen in the doorway. Just that morning, Scott had been sulking and barking orders like his usual self. Now…

“Scott,” Jamie said carefully, sitting down beside him. “You alright?”

“Mhm,” Scott hummed, not taking his eyes off the screen. He licked the last of his ice cream from his fingers, leaving a smear on his cheek. “This one’s funny. You’ve gotta watch.”

Jamie studied him, unease prickling through his chest. It wasn’t just the voice, or the size. It was the way his sarcasm had slipped away, replaced with open laughter. The curse wasn’t just shrinking him. It was… regressing him.

Jamie forced a smile, reaching over to wipe the smear from Scott’s cheek with a tissue. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Funny.”

But as Scott laughed at the cartoon, leaning unconsciously against his shoulder, Jamie’s throat tightened.

Because suddenly he wasn’t sure if the Scott he knew was coming back.

Chapter Text

By early evening, the flat was dim and quiet except for the faint chatter of the TV. Jamie sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, staring at the list of names from the festival. One in particular burned at the front of his mind: the grey-haired woman with the jangling bracelets and the sharp eyes.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and stood. “Scott. We need to find that woman from the festival — the one you mouthed off at.”

From the sofa came a groan. Scott was sprawled sideways, socks kicked off, chin propped on the armrest. “Do we have to?”

Jamie folded his arms. “Unless you fancy staying like this forever, yes.”

Scott pouted — actually pouted. “It’s dark out. I don’t wanna.”

Jamie froze. Just that morning, Scott would’ve been halfway to the car already, full of sarcasm about witch-hunts. Now he sounded more like a sulky kid resisting bedtime.

“Scott,” Jamie said gently, crouching down to meet his eye. “I can’t do this without you. I need to talk to her, figure out what she did.”

Scott’s lip trembled before he caught himself, looking away. “Then go. Leave me here.”

Jamie’s chest tightened. Could he? Scott was still Scott, but every hour he seemed to be slipping further. The thought of leaving him alone, small and vulnerable, made Jamie’s gut twist.

“I don’t think I can,” Jamie admitted quietly.

Scott buried his face in the sofa cushion with a muffled whine. “This sucks.”

Jamie rested a hand on his shoulder, torn between duty and protectiveness.

Scott peeked up from the sofa cushions, eyes wide and plaintive. “Can’t we just… stay here tonight? You can look tomorrow.”

Jamie hesitated, caught in the pull of that look. For all the sarcasm stripped away, there was something rawer underneath. The same Scott, but softer, smaller, depending on him in a way that made Jamie’s chest ache.

Scott shifted, chewing his lip. “I’m hungry again.”

Jamie huffed out a laugh, running a hand over his face. “You had ice cream, toast, and eggs.”

“That was forever ago,” Scott whined. “Can’t you make something? Please?”

Jamie’s resolve cracked. He sighed, standing. “Alright. Dinner it is. But you’re not living on sugar alone.”

Ten minutes later, the kitchen was alive with the sound of pans. Scott sat cross-legged at the table, watching with intent curiosity.

“What are you making?” he asked, swinging his legs.

“Pasta,” Jamie said. “Something easy.”

“Not with broccoli,” Scott warned, wagging a finger. “Broccoli’s evil.”

Jamie bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “This from the man who ate an entire stir-fry last week and told me it was decent.”

Scott blinked, then looked away, cheeks pink. “Adult me has bad taste.”

Jamie stirred the sauce, heart twisting. He wanted to joke back, but it lodged in his throat. Because the longer he watched Scott fuss about vegetables and pasta, the more he feared this version was swallowing up the man he knew.

And God help him, he found it endearing. Terrifying, but endearing.

When he set the plate down, Scott beamed, digging in with the same unfiltered enthusiasm as any kid. Jamie sat opposite, chin propped on his hand, torn between smiling and panicking.

He wasn’t sure which was winning.

Dinner left Scott happier, sauce smudged at the corner of his mouth, curls falling into his eyes as he leaned on the table. His voice was softer now, his words looser, the sarcasm gone.

“You’re a cool adult,” he announced between mouthfuls. “Much cooler than any other grown-ups I know.”

Jamie blinked, taken aback. “Cool? That’s not usually what people say about me.”

Scott nodded solemnly, fork waving. “You are. You don’t boss me around like teachers, and you don’t look at me like I’m stupid. You’re… nice.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. “What about your parents? Surely they count as cool adults.”

Scott shrugged, eyes dropping to his plate. “Don’t really remember them. They died when I was little.” He said it plainly, like it was just another fact — broccoli’s evil, parents died — and shoved another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

Jamie froze. The words took his breath. “Scott,” he said carefully, “I… I didn’t know.”

Scott tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Why would you? I don’t talk about it.” He pushed his pasta around. “It was ages ago. Doesn’t matter.”

But Jamie could see the smallness in his shoulders, the way his voice pitched like he was trying to sound tougher than he felt. His chest ached.

“It does matter,” Jamie said softly, almost before he realised he’d spoken.

Scott blinked at him, wide-eyed, then ducked his head again, mumbling, “Told you you’re a cool adult.”

Jamie sat there in silence, watching this tiny version of Scott chew his pasta, his heart twisting with a mix of fear and fierce protectiveness. He thought he’d known his colleague, but now, staring at him like this, he realised there was so much more hidden beneath the bravado.

*

By the time the dishes were cleared, Scott was back on the sofa, curled into the corner with the remote clutched in both hands. The cartoon voices filled the room again, bright and silly, though his eyes were blinking slower and slower.

“Not tired,” he mumbled, even as his head dipped forward.

Jamie sat beside him, watching the remote slip from his fingers. “Right. That’s why you nearly fell asleep into your pasta.”

Scott’s eyes fluttered open, narrowed in protest. “Just one more episode.”

Jamie chuckled softly, rising to his feet. “Come on. Teeth, then bed.”

Scott groaned, the sound pure childlike misery, but let himself be coaxed off the sofa. Jamie shepherded him to the bathroom, handed him a toothbrush, and leaned against the doorframe while Scott sulked his way through brushing. He was a mess of foamy grumbling about unfairness, but when he spat into the sink, he yawned so wide his eyes watered.

“Bed,” Jamie said firmly, steering him toward the bedroom.

Scott climbed under the covers without further fight, curling into the pillow with a small sigh. The oversized shirt had been traded for one of the new pyjama tops, slightly too big but at least not dragging on the floor.

Jamie tugged the blanket up over him, heart tugging at the sight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d tucked anyone in — and never, not in a million years, would he have pictured it being Scott.

Scott blinked at him sleepily. “You’ll stay, right?”

Jamie sat on the edge of the bed, nodding once. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”

Scott’s eyes slipped shut, his breathing evening out within minutes. Jamie stayed where he was, watching the boy who wasn’t supposed to be a boy at all.

For the first time all day, the flat was quiet. Jamie leaned back and let out a long breath, gaze lingering on Scott’s small form beneath the covers.

“Maybe in the morning,” he whispered, voice rough. “Maybe you’ll wake up yourself again.”

But as the moonlight shifted across the floorboards, Jamie wasn’t sure if he believed it.

*

Jamie had meant to stay in the chair by the bed, but by midnight his back ached too much. He shifted to the sofa in the living room instead, pulling a blanket over himself and setting his phone on the coffee table within reach. If Scott needed him, he’d hear.

The flat was still. He was just drifting off when a soft creak came from the hallway.

“Jamie?”

He sat up at once. A small figure hovered in the doorway, clutching a pillow to his chest. Scott’s hair stuck up in tufts, his eyes wide and watery in the half-dark.

“I had a nightmare,” he whispered. “Can I—” He hesitated, then shuffled closer. “Can I sleep with you?”

Jamie’s throat tightened. “Scott…”

But before he could finish, Scott climbed up onto the sofa beside him, squeezing himself into the narrow space and pressing close, as if afraid Jamie might vanish. His little hands bunched in Jamie’s T-shirt, knuckles white.

“I don’t like being alone,” he mumbled into Jamie’s side.

Jamie’s chest ached. He stroked a hand lightly over Scott’s hair, torn between comfort and dread. “Alright. You don’t have to be alone.”

After a moment’s thought, he stood and gently scooped Scott up. The boy clung tighter, burying his face in Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie carried him back to the bedroom, lying down on top of the covers while Scott wriggled under the duvet and pressed himself against him.

Within minutes Scott’s breathing evened out again, one small hand still fisted in Jamie’s shirt.

Jamie lay awake, staring at the ceiling, every nerve buzzing. He’d never felt so protective of anyone in his life — or so afraid.

Because what was he supposed to do if this curse never broke?

*

Morning light spilled through the curtains, warmer than Jamie felt. He stirred first, stiff from lying on top of the covers all night, Scott still tucked against him like a shadow. For a moment, he let himself pretend it had all been a dream. That Scott would sit up, rub his eyes, and grumble about how undignified this all was.

Instead, a small yawn tickled his side. Scott blinked awake, hair sticking in every direction, blinking blearily up at him.

“Morning,” Jamie said softly.

Scott hummed, then wriggled out from under the duvet. “Can we have cereal?”

Jamie’s heart sank a fraction, but he managed a smile. “Sure. Come on.”

In the kitchen, Scott perched at the table in his too-big pyjamas, swinging his legs as Jamie poured cereal into a bowl. He set it down, watching as Scott dug in with eager crunches.

Trying to keep his voice even, Jamie said, “Maybe we’ll check in with Barnaby today. See what he thinks.”

Scott froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Who’s Barnaby?”

Jamie blinked. “What do you mean, who’s Barnaby? DCI Barnaby. Our boss.”

Scott frowned, spoon clinking back into the bowl. “Our boss? I don’t… I don’t know him.”

The words hit like a punch. Jamie gripped the edge of the counter, willing his voice to stay steady. “Of course you do. You’ve worked with him for years.”

Scott only shrugged, picking up his spoon again. “Don’t remember.” He scooped another bite, as if it wasn’t worth thinking about.

Jamie stared, chest tight. Each hour, a little more of Scott slipped away. Not just his body, but his memories, his self.

Jamie forced himself to keep his voice level. “Eat up, then brush your teeth. We’re going out.”

Scott groaned but obeyed, finishing his cereal with exaggerated slurps. He dragged his feet into the bathroom, and Jamie listened to the half-hearted scrubbing of toothbrush bristles. A minute later, Scott appeared in a hoodie and new jeans, hair sticking up, eyes bright with expectation.

“Cartoons now?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” Jamie said firmly, taking the car keys. “We’re going to find that woman. The one from the festival.”

Scott’s face fell. “But I wanted—”

“No arguments,” Jamie cut in, sharper than he meant. Seeing Scott flinch, his chest twisted. He softened his tone. “We don’t have time. Come on, grab your jacket.”

Scott grumbled but obeyed.

*

Scott climbed into the passenger seat. Jamie buckled him in — the belt cut awkwardly across his tiny frame — and then slid behind the wheel.

The drive was quiet at first, but soon Scott’s little voice piped up.

“Look, horses!” He pressed his nose to the window as they passed a field. “Do you think they get cold in the winter? …Ooh, that cloud looks like a dragon. D’you see it? …Why are there so many roundabouts here? It’s silly.”

Jamie forced a smile, nodding or answering with soft hums, but inside his chest ached. Each childish observation was another reminder of how fast Scott was slipping away. Two days ago he’d been mocking witness statements. Today he was counting cows.

His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. What if this is it? What if he never comes back?

Scott turned, eyes wide and earnest. “Hey, Jamie? When we find the lady, will she make me big again?”

Jamie swallowed hard. “That’s the plan.”

Scott gave a small, trusting smile, then turned back to the window, humming along with the radio like any other kid.

Jamie kept driving, jaw tight, praying that he wasn’t already too late.

The road stretched long and grey ahead, hedgerows blurring past. Scott was still half-turned to the window, humming a little song under his breath, when Jamie spoke.

“Scott… do you have any other relatives? Someone who could take you in, if…” He hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “If this doesn’t change back right away.”

Scott scrunched his nose, thinking. “There’s my uncle. Haven’t seen him in ages. Don’t really want to.” He shifted in his seat, small hands fiddling with the strap of the seatbelt. Then, more quietly: “I’d rather stay with you.”

Jamie’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Stay with him. The words landed like a stone in his chest. He pictured it. Mornings making cereal, evenings tucking Scott in, arranging school runs between crime scenes. Trying to work cases while keeping one eye on a child that used to be his partner. The thought was surreal, terrifying… and yet the warmth in Scott’s voice made it ache with something else too.

Jamie glanced at him, but Scott had already turned back to the window, pointing at a flock of birds taking off from a field. “Look! They all go at once. Like they’re dancing.”

Jamie forced a small smile, but his thoughts spun. If the witch didn’t undo this — if the curse didn’t break — he’d have to make choices he’d never imagined. Not just as a detective, but as… what? A guardian? A stand-in father?

He swallowed hard, eyes back on the road. For now, all he could do was keep driving. But the thought wouldn’t leave him: What if he really has to raise Scott?

*

Jamie pulled up near the festival grounds. A couple of patrol cars idled by the green, uniformed officers milling about.

Jamie had barely killed the engine when Scott scrambled out of the passenger seat, eyes wide. “Whoa! Look at that!” He pointed straight at the nearest police car, practically bouncing on his toes. “It’s got the lights on top and everything!”

Jamie winced. “Scott—”

But it was too late. Scott darted toward the vehicle, circling it with unabashed fascination. “Can I sit inside? Do the sirens work? Do you get to use them all the time or just for emergencies?”

A familiar voice cut in behind Jamie. “That’s quite an enthusiasm for police work.”

Jamie turned, stomach sinking. Barnaby stood a few feet away, file tucked under his arm, watching Scott with a faintly puzzled smile.

Scott ran straight over, tugging at Barnaby’s sleeve like any eager child. “Are you a real detective?”

Barnaby blinked. “I should hope so.”

Scott’s eyes shone. “That’s amazing! I wanna be a detective too when I grow up!”

Jamie’s heart clenched. Two days ago, Scott had been one. Now he was bouncing on his heels, firing questions at Barnaby about handcuffs and magnifying glasses and whether detectives got badges like in the telly shows.

Barnaby glanced at Jamie over the boy’s head. His brow furrowed just slightly, thoughtful.

“Still watching Scott’s nephew?” he asked slowly.

Jamie forced a tight smile, nodding once. “That’s right.”

Barnaby’s gaze lingered on Scott a moment longer — the same eyes, the same stubborn spark, just wrapped in a child’s body. Then he looked back at Jamie, unreadable.

“Well,” Barnaby said at last, patting Scott lightly on the shoulder. “If you’re set on being a detective, you’d better listen to Jamie here. He knows what he’s doing.”

Scott beamed, clearly thrilled. Jamie managed a weak chuckle, but inside, dread gnawed deeper.

As soon as Barnaby moved on, Jamie seized Scott gently by the shoulder. “Come on. We’re here to find that woman. Stay close.”

Scott trotted alongside him, small trainers scuffing the grass, eyes darting everywhere but where Jamie wanted. Stalls were half-packed, vendors chatting and laughing, lanterns still swaying faintly in the late breeze.

“Think she’s still here?” Jamie muttered, scanning the crowd for a glint of jangling bracelets.

Scott tugged on his sleeve. “Jamie, look! The ice cream van’s back!”

Jamie exhaled through his nose. “Scott—”

“Can we? Please? I promise I’ll help you after.” His eyes were wide, hopeful.

Jamie crouched slightly, meeting his gaze. “We’re not here for ice cream. We’re here to find the woman who did this to you.”

Scott pouted, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “But I’m hungry…”

Jamie scrubbed a hand over his face. “You just had breakfast.”

“That was ages ago,” Scott whined. “I’ll starve.”

Jamie closed his eyes briefly. Every second they wasted, Scott was sliding further from the man he’d been — and yet it was almost impossible to resist that little-boy voice. He straightened, taking Scott’s hand firmly.

“No distractions,” he said. “If we find her, maybe we can fix this. And then you can buy your own ice cream again.”

Scott’s brows furrowed as if he didn’t quite understand the second half, but he let Jamie tug him through the festival crowd. His head tilted up at the bunting, his free hand pointing out every dog, every balloon, every smell of fried food drifting past.

Jamie’s jaw tightened. The more Scott acted like this, the more Jamie feared the day was coming when he wouldn’t remember he’d ever been anything else.

Jamie stopped at a stall where a pair of women were folding away strings of herbs. “Excuse me,” he said, keeping his voice polite but clipped. “Do either of you know a woman — tall, grey hair, lots of bracelets?”

One of them nodded slowly. “You mean Maura. Lives out by the old mill cottage.”

Jamie’s pulse quickened. “Thank you.” He turned, ready to herd Scott along—

But the space beside him was empty.

Jamie froze. His hand clenched air where Scott’s smaller one had been a moment ago. His heart lurched.

“Scott?” he called, scanning the crowd. No answer.

The festival green stretched around him, children weaving between legs, parents chatting, vendors calling out prices. A hundred small heads, none of them the right mop of hair.

Panic clawed up Jamie’s throat. He shoved past a couple, eyes darting wildly. “Scott!”

No reply.

God, no. Not like this.

He pushed toward the ice cream van, toward the rides, toward every direction at once, pulse pounding in his ears. In less than a minute, Scott was gone — not the man who could take care of himself, but a child who barely reached Jamie’s elbow.

“Scott!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate.

For the first time, Jamie realised how fragile this smaller version was.

Jamie’s voice tore across the green again, raw with fear. “Scott!”

No answer. Just the babble of the thinning crowd, the thump of a generator winding down, children’s laughter somewhere too far away.

He shoved past a group near the fortune-telling tent, scanning every direction.

His chest tightened until he could barely breathe. He’s so small now. He wouldn’t fight back. He wouldn’t even know how.

A dozen images flooded his mind — Scott stumbling into the road, Scott lured away by a stranger. The thought of reporting to Barnaby that he’d lost his sergeant, not to injury but because he couldn’t keep hold of a child, twisted like a knife in his gut.

He darted toward the ice cream van, but the queue was gone, just the vendor packing up. No Scott.

“Damn it,” Jamie hissed, running a hand through his hair. He turned in frantic circles.

Somewhere beyond the tents, a child’s laugh rang out. For a heartbeat, Jamie’s heart leapt, but when he followed it, it was the wrong boy. Wrong clothes. Wrong face.

“Scott!” His throat burned and the name came out more like a plea than a call.

Jamie all but sprinted past the food stalls, scanning every shadow. His chest ached, every second stretching like an eternity. Then, near the edge of the green by the half-collapsed bunting, he saw a small figure crouched by a fence.

Scott.

Jamie’s heart lurched. He closed the distance in seconds.

Scott was hugging his knees to his chest, face blotchy, eyes red. At the sound of footsteps, he looked up — and the moment he saw Jamie, his whole face crumpled.

“Jamie!” His voice broke. He scrambled to his feet and ran straight into him, arms clutching desperately around Jamie’s middle. “I couldn’t find you—I thought you left—I thought—”

Jamie dropped to his knees, pulling him in tight, one hand cradling the back of his head. “Shh, I’ve got you. I’d never leave you.”

Scott clung harder, shoulders shaking, his small fists twisting in Jamie’s jacket. “I was so scared.”

Jamie closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to Scott’s messy hair. Relief flooded through him, nearly buckling his knees. “I was scared too,” he admitted quietly. “Don’t run off again, alright? Stay with me.”

Scott nodded against him, breath hitching. “Promise. I promise.”

Jamie held him a moment longer, heart pounding. The case, the curse, even the witch — all of it felt distant compared to the fragile weight of Scott trembling in his arms.

He lifted Scott up to carry him back toward the car.

Chapter Text

The car engine hummed as Jamie pulled out of the village, headlights sweeping across the hedgerows. Scott was quiet in the passenger seat, arms folded, eyes still rimmed red from crying.

After a minute, he reached across and grabbed Jamie’s hand. His grip was small but fierce, his fingers curling tight around Jamie’s.

“I don’t wanna let go,” he whispered.

Jamie gave his hand a gentle squeeze, keeping the other on the wheel. “Then don’t. Not until you’re ready.”

Scott leaned his cheek against the seatbelt, staring at him through the dim light. “I really like you, Jamie.” His voice was soft, earnest in a way adult Scott never allowed. “You’re the first adult who doesn’t yell at me. Or… or hit me.”

Jamie’s chest constricted. He turned his head sharply, searching Scott’s face. “What?”

Scott shrugged, small shoulders hunching. “It’s fine. Just… before. Teachers. My uncle. Sometimes. Adults always get angry. But not you. You’re… safe.”

Jamie swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. He tightened his grip on Scott’s hand, heart aching. “No one should’ve treated you like that. Not then. Not ever.”

Scott smiled faintly, the kind of soft smile that made him look even younger. “That’s why I wanna stay with you. Even if I don’t get big again, I’d be okay. If it’s you.”

Jamie had no answer. His throat closed around the words he wanted to say, the impossible mix of comfort, denial, and desperate hope.

So he just held on tighter, driving with Scott’s little hand warm in his own, and prayed that the witch could undo what was slipping away by the hour.

*

The road narrowed into a lane of dirt and weeds, ending at a crooked gate. Beyond it, an old stone cottage crouched beneath leaning trees, windows glowing faintly orange.

Jamie parked, heart thudding. He glanced at Scott, who was still gripping his hand, eyes wary.

“Stay close,” Jamie murmured.

They crunched up the path together. When Jamie knocked, the door creaked open almost instantly. Maura, grey hair coiled down her back, stood framed in the lamplight. Her sharp eyes flicked from Jamie to the boy at his side.

Jamie cleared his throat, forcing politeness into his voice. “We need to talk. Something happened after the festival. To him.”

He nudged Scott gently forward.

Maura’s gaze lingered. For a long moment, her expression was unreadable. Then her brow furrowed. “Still?”

Jamie stiffened. “Still what?”

“The charm I gave him.” She reached out, lightly touching Scott’s chin to tilt his face up. “It was meant to teach humility, nothing more. A day, at most, and it should have worn off.”

Jamie’s stomach dropped. “It hasn’t.” His voice was tight, urgent. “He’s been like this since yesterday morning and it’s getting worse. He’s forgetting things. People.”

Maura’s frown deepened. She withdrew her hand, bracelets clinking. “That isn’t my work. A day is all it should have lasted.”

Scott pressed into Jamie’s side, small fingers digging into his jacket. “Jamie, I don’t like this.”

Jamie’s jaw clenched. He looked Maura dead in the eye. “Then what’s happening to him? And how do I fix it?”

For the first time, the witch’s sharp confidence faltered. She glanced toward her shelves crowded with jars and bundles, her lips pressed thin.

“There may be… something else at play,” she said quietly. “Something stronger that’s holding the curse fast.”

Jamie’s pulse pounded in his ears. “Stronger?”

Maura’s gaze flicked back to Scott, her eyes almost pitying. “If he isn’t restored soon, he may not remember he was ever anything else at all.”

Scott buried his face in Jamie’s sleeve, trembling.

Jamie wrapped an arm around him, glaring at Maura with a voice like steel. “Then you’d better tell me how to stop it.”

Maura’s eyes lingered on Scott, who was half-hiding behind Jamie’s arm, clutching his jacket like a lifeline. For once her sharp features softened.

“It shouldn’t have lasted this long,” she murmured. “Unless…”

Jamie’s grip tightened. “Unless what?”

Maura tilted her head, studying Scott as if she could see something invisible threaded through him. “Sometimes curses bind not just with words, but with want. A charm to humble an arrogant man might dissolve quickly. Unless some part of him clings to the change.”

Jamie blinked. “Clings? You think he wants this?”

Scott’s small face pinched, eyes darting away.

Maura nodded slightly. “Children are protected, cared for. Forgiven mistakes. If the man in him craves that — craves safety he did not have as a boy — the curse may linger, feeding on it.”

Jamie looked down at Scott, heart twisting. Scott had gone very still, cheeks pink, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Scott,” Jamie said gently, crouching a little to meet his eye. “Is that true?”

Scott mumbled, barely audible. “It’s nice. You… you look after me. Nobody ever did that before.” His voice cracked, childish and raw. “Don’t yell at me. Don’t hit me. Don’t tell me I’m useless. You just… stay.”

Jamie’s chest clenched so tight it hurt.

Maura’s bracelets jingled as she folded her arms. “If he wishes to return to himself, he must choose it. Deep down. Otherwise no ritual will hold.”

Jamie swallowed, torn between relief and dread. This wasn’t just about spells anymore. It was about Scott himself and the part of him that, for the first time in his life, felt safe as a child in Jamie’s care.

Maura shook her head, bracelets clinking softly. “There is nothing I can undo if he holds it himself. My charm was fleeting, a lesson to sting the pride. What remains now is his own choosing. Until he lets go, he will remain as he is.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “So that’s it? You curse a man, turn his life upside down, and then tell me it’s his problem?”

Maura’s gaze didn’t flinch. “You’re angry because you care. But you can’t force him back. He must want it.”

Jamie stood stiffly, hand protectively on Scott’s shoulder. “Come on,” he murmured, steering him out into the cool night.

The drive back to Causton was dark and quiet, the road stretching empty before them. Scott had curled up in the passenger seat, small hands tucked into his hoodie sleeves. Within minutes, his eyes drooped shut, head lolling against the window.

Jamie glanced at him, throat tightening. Maura’s words echoed in his head. Children are protected, cared for… If the man in him craves that, the curse may linger.

He thought of Scott giggling at cartoons, begging for ice cream, whispering that Jamie was the first adult who hadn’t yelled at him. Of the way he’d clung after that nightmare, trembling, needing reassurance.

Part of him wanted to keep driving forever, let Scott sleep safe at his side, shield him from everything. But another part ached with fear, because the longer this lasted, the less of his partner seemed left.

Jamie tightened his grip on the steering wheel. You’ve got to want to come back, Scott. You’ve got to.

Beside him, Scott sighed softly in his sleep, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.

Jamie stared at the road ahead, wondering if he could bear to be the reason Scott chose to grow up again.

*

Jamie parked outside Scott’s building and cut the engine. For a moment he just sat there, watching the boy doze in the passenger seat, lips parted, cheek pressed against the glass. Then he slipped out, came round, and carefully lifted him into his arms.

Scott stirred, blinking blearily, arms looping instinctively around Jamie’s neck. His voice came soft, drowsy. “Had a nice dream.”

Jamie adjusted his grip, carrying him up the stairs. “Yeah? About what?”

Scott’s head lolled against his shoulder. “Us. Getting ice cream again.” A small, sleepy smile tugged at his mouth. “Can we?”

Jamie huffed a quiet laugh, though his chest ached. “We’ll see.”

Inside the flat, he set Scott gently on the bed, tugging the blanket up around him. Scott squirmed, rubbing his eyes.

“Don’t wanna sleep yet,” he mumbled. “Jamie?”

Jamie sat on the edge of the mattress, brushing messy curls back from his forehead. “What is it?”

Scott’s nose scrunched, his little face twisted. “I don’t wanna be big again.”

Jamie’s breath caught. “Why not?”

Scott’s voice was almost a whisper. “’Cause then you’ll stop looking after me. You’ll… you’ll stop caring.”

The words cut deep. Jamie bent closer, steadying his voice. “Scott, look at me. That’s not true.”

Scott peeked up, doubtful.

Jamie cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the soft skin. “I’ll take care of you no matter what. Big or small. If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

Scott blinked slowly, eyes glassy with sleep. “Promise?”

Jamie swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Promise.”

Scott gave a tiny nod, snuggled deeper under the blanket, and drifted off within moments, breath evening out.

Jamie sat there long after, watching him sleep.

*

Sometime in the night, Jamie had dozed off on top of the covers beside Scott, exhaustion dragging him under.

When he stirred at dawn, the room was quiet except for the slow rhythm of breathing. He blinked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—then froze.

The shape under the blanket was different. Longer. Broader.

He sat up sharply. Scott lay sprawled on his side, hair mussed, chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Adult Scott.

For a moment Jamie could only stare, heart pounding. Relief flooded him so strongly it almost hurt.

Scott stirred, muttered something under his breath, then blinked awake. His eyes met Jamie’s. Confusion flashed into clarity—and then his face went crimson.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he croaked, yanking the blanket higher over his bare shoulders. “Don’t tell me I—was I—” He broke off, groaning into the pillow. “This is mortifying.”

Jamie swallowed, fighting the mix of laughter and raw relief surging through him. “You’re back,” he said softly.

Scott peeked at him through his fingers, scowl already creeping back into place. “Yeah, and I wish I wasn’t. If you tell anyone I cried, or begged for ice cream, or—”

“I won’t,” Jamie cut in, gentle but firm. His lips quirked, though his voice was rough. “But for the record… I’m glad you’re you again.”

Scott’s blush deepened, his eyes darting away. He muttered, “You looked after me. Properly. Don’t know what to do with that.”

Jamie’s chest tightened, something unspoken hanging heavy between them. He reached out, hesitated, then squeezed Scott’s shoulder once. “I told you. Big or small. If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

Scott swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to him.

Then he yanked the blanket up over his head with a groan. “I’m never living this down.”

Jamie chuckled softly, leaning back, relief and something warmer twisting together in his chest. “We’ll see about that.”

The blanket still covered most of Scott’s face, his voice muffled beneath it. “I can’t believe this happened. You must think I’m pathetic.”

Jamie shook his head, leaning closer, lowering his voice. “Pathetic? Scott, you trusted me. That’s not pathetic. That’s…”

There was a pause. The blanket shifted just enough for one wary eye to peek out.

Jamie hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you remember what you told me? About… why you didn’t want to turn back?”

Scott swallowed. He pulled the blanket down to his chin, cheeks still flushed. “Bits. Not all of it. Felt like a dream, sort of. But—I remember saying you’re different. That you don’t… hurt me.” His voice cracked, rough with embarrassment. “Can’t believe I said that out loud.”

Jamie’s chest ached. He reached out, brushing a stray curl from Scott’s forehead. “I’m glad you did. You don’t have to hide from me. Not about that.”

Scott blinked at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard by the gentleness. For once, no sharp retort came. He just breathed out slowly and whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

Jamie smiled faintly, his hand still resting against Scott’s temple. “Then I won’t.”

Scott shifted, finally letting the blanket slip, his gaze lingering on Jamie. “Guess you really are stuck with me, then.”

Jamie chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Scott shifted under the covers, eyes flicking away, voice low. “Thing is… it wasn’t just because I was small. I already trusted you before that. More than anyone, really. I just never said it. Didn’t want to look… weak.”

Jamie’s chest tightened, warmth flooding through the ache. He leaned in, resting his hand lightly on Scott’s arm. “Trusting someone isn’t weak. It’s the bravest thing you can do.”

Scott gave a shaky little laugh. “Funny, coming from you.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “Maybe. But I mean it.”

Scott’s eyes met his, open and unguarded in a way Jamie had never seen before. For once there was no sarcasm, no mask — just Scott.

Jamie’s breath caught. He didn’t know who moved first. But a moment later, their lips brushed, tentative, brief.

When they parted, Scott looked stricken for a heartbeat, then whispered, “You’re not going to let me regret that, are you?”

Jamie’s hand tightened gently on his arm. “Never.”

Scott let out a breath, tension easing, and sank back into the pillow. Jamie stayed close, his forehead resting against Scott’s for a moment, the fear of the past two days finally giving way to something hopeful.

*

Weeks had passed since the curse broke. Life at the CID carried on: murder files stacked on desks, interviews stretched into late nights, Barnaby raised his eyebrows at their banter and never asked too many questions.

But something between them had shifted.

Scott sat at Jamie’s kitchen table one evening, feet kicked up on the spare chair, sipping a beer. “Must have been funny, though,” he said with a grin. “Me, pint-sized, demanding cartoons. You probably laughed yourself sick when I wasn’t looking.”

Jamie leaned against the counter, arms folded, amused. “Maybe once or twice.” His smile softened. “But mostly I worried.”

Scott’s grin faltered just slightly, eyes flicking away. “Yeah, well… guess it wasn’t all bad.” He smirked again, but the smirk didn’t quite hide the warmth beneath.

Later, when the lights were low and they’d drifted to the sofa, Scott tucked himself close, head on Jamie’s shoulder. The easy silence stretched, broken only by the ticking clock.

“You know,” Scott murmured, “I don’t remember everything I said. But I remember how it felt. Safe. Being looked after.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. He pressed a kiss into Scott’s hair, voice quiet. “You don’t need to be small for that. You can still lean on me.”

Scott huffed softly. “I’ll hold you to that.” Then, with a crooked grin, “Just don’t try to tuck me in again. That’s pushing it.”

Jamie laughed, pulling him closer. “No promises.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he didn’t move away.

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both knew the truth: they would always treasure those days. Jamie remembering the boy who clung to him, Scott remembering the man who cared for him.