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The hospital room feels wasted on Rose. She's fine, she keeps telling everyone she's fine, but they're not really listening. Fair enough. It's their job not to listen, not to the woman who just tried to kill herself.
Rose leans back against the pillows and stares at the corner where plain white ceiling meets pale blue wall.
Blue wall. White ceiling. Ugly painting. It'd be nice if she could have her own trousers back, not the papery ones with no drawstring from the hospital, but again, fair enough.
The doctor said Hardy was the one to call, the one to find her slumped in the bathroom in a tiny puddle of her own blood, but that doesn't mean Rose expects him to walk through the door of her room looking like he's not sure he's allowed in.
“Hardy?” Her voice comes out too high and too hoarse all at once.
“Hey. How are you feeling?” he asks, soft, but casual. Like she's just come back to the office after a day off with a cold and not… this.
Rose opens her mouth to speak, and promptly bursts into tears.
“Hey, hey, it's alright." Hardy is by her side in an instant, hands clumsy and chaotic in their attempts to soothe this young woman he hardly knows. Sobs shake her body, heavy as they are pitiful, and he wonders if it's more appropriate to offer a hug, or squeeze her hand, or what. Hardy settles for a hand on Rose's shoulder and an outstretched tissue. He ignores the bandages on her arms when she reaches out to accept it.
“Sorry,” Rose mumbles, dabbing at her eyes. Her face is flushed, both from crying and from embarrassment.
“I'm the one that should be sorry.” The words are out before he can stop them, and Rose looks up in surprise.
“Sorry? I mean-no, you don't get to feel bad about anything, not when I'm-”
“I should have noticed!” Hardy says. He reaches out and touches her hand, just lightly, just enough, and Rose blinks hard and fast.
Please, not again, he prays to whatever deity follows around poor sad young detectives and decides if he's the one meant to handle their tears.
“Some detective I am, not to notice you were in such a state, yeah?”
“Not exactly in your job description,” Rose sniffles.
She wipes at her nose, and Hardy marvels at the amount of snot the human body can produce.
“Still. I'm sorry you couldn't tell me. I mean, not like you're meant to have a heart-to-heart with fucking Carl, right?”
Rose half laughs, half hiccups and manages something that she hopes resembles a proper smile.
“Guess not.”
“They said they're keeping you here for a bit. I'll visit when I can, alright?”
“You don't have to-”
“I know,” Hardy cuts off whatever excuse Rose might make as to why she doesn't matter. “But I will.”
“Thanks.”
It's barely a whisper. Barely there at all. But it's something. She's still here. Maybe it's worth it.
Hardy is true to his word; he visits almost every day. Sometimes Donna comes along, sturdy, stable, an anchor in the storm. She's everything Rose isn't. She's got things together. All the pieces where they belong. It's no wonder Rose likes her. Rose has always liked when things are in their proper place. Shame she can't seem to manage that kind of order inside herself.
She's half watching a cooking show, half doodling circles on a napkin with an amusingly flexible pen when there's a knock at the door.
“Come on in,” Rose calls. She's in the psych ward now, and even though the door doesn't lock, Hardy always knocks. Thank God, because if he walked in on her half-dressed, Rose thinks she might just pass away on the spot, and wouldn't that just be a lovely waste of all these nice psychiatrists' time?
To her surprise, it's Carl. The last person she wants to see. The last person she expected to see. Certainly not holding a vase of fucking daisies.
“From Vic,” he says, gesturing to the flowers in lieu of a proper greeting.
Vaguely, Rose remembers him complaining about his wife and wonders why she's sending flowers. Carl hands the bundle to her, then takes it back and sets it on the table when she fumbles doing so herself.
“Thanks. They're lovely.”
She's not allowed to have glass in the room, but Rose doesn't mention that. A nurse will probably be by to swap out the vase eventually, but until then, she can pretend she hasn't completely fucked everything up.
The look on Carl's face is far less contemptuous than Rose expected, less disgusted by her weakness. He just looks… uncomfortable. It might have been satisfying to see, if not for literally everything else about the situation.
Rose clears her throat, desperate to break the silence. “So…”
Per usual, Carl just has to interrupt. “Jesus fuck, Rose.”
She laughs, and he turns to her with an incredulous look. That's satisfying, despite everything. To know that Rose Dixon, even now, especially now, could make the devil himself drop his jaw.
“You do realize you could have fucking died,” he says, slowly, as if speaking to someone very, very stupid.
“Well, that was the plan, wasn't it?”
Rose surprises herself with her boldness, and evidently, it surprises Carl too, because now it's his turn to bark out a laugh. Then he shakes his head, changes his mind and turns it into a nod. He scratches the back of his neck and looks around the room as though one of the corners will tell him what to say in this situation.
“Thanks for coming,” Rose offers.
“Yeah…yeah.” Carl looks at her, and for a moment, it seems like he might say more, but he doesn't, and then there's a nurse coming in to check Rose's bandages and make sure she's taken her meds, and Carl manages to slip out the door without saying goodbye. Later, when all is quiet and Rose has the room to herself, she'll stare at the flowers and wonder if Carl's wife was the one to make him come.