Work Text:
1. Chain of Command
"No."
"Yes."
"No, I'm not babysitting the English prick. Ask Moira."
"Moira's partner didn’t retire last month."
"Pair me with her partner! She can deal with—"
"Hardy, do I look like I asked?"
DCS Miller definitely did not look like he asked, and while Hardy was usually on good terms with him—no professional relationship could entirely survive helping your mate find his keys in a cow's stall while drunk out of your mind—he remained very aware of the existing hierarchy. Especially when Miller tried to overcompensate for having smooched one the cows in front of Hardy.
"Nah, you don't."
"Good. So you're partnering with—" Miller turned to his desk to check his file.
"—Sergeant Carl Morck," Hardy completed, barely keeping the judgment from his voice. "C'mon. He was introduced this morning."
"Aye, this one. Try not to let him puke on the scene." Miller eyed the English man on the other side of the glass door, his arse on someone else's desk, visibly bored, fidgeting with the sleeves of a grey vest that was probably not even enough for a summer day. "He looks like he can only handle golf courses."
The bloke did look far too pretty for the job. Clean shaven, short and well-kept hair, fitted jeans over legs that seemed to go on for ages. Even bloody boots that had probably never seen the light of day. Just came out of a fuckin' men’s wear magazine.
Hardy turned to leave, already tired at the idea of keeping tabs on everyone at the scene.
"Oi, Hardy?"
"Aye?"
"Watch the guy for me, okay? His file is screaming punched his boss in the face before leaving."
Hardy tried to remain impassive. Miller couldn't remember the name, but could still remember he was a potential threat to his authority. What power could do to a guy.
2. Scene manners
If the bloke sneered one more time, he was going to gag him. For real.
Sneered at the station’s coffee. Sneered at the gloomy sky. Sneered at the sight of the car they had to drive.
Sitting like a normal human being seemed to be out of his skill set, too. In his defence, folding that long, slender body of his into the car was probably uncomfortable. And he looked constrained in his clothes, as if he was confined into the fit more than inhabiting it. Why the fuck would he wear that, if he was going to be such a cunt about it?
"So, what brings an English policeman to our station of primitives?"
"Not calling me fucking sassenach or something?"
His pronunciation was horrendous. Hardy scoffed.
"Never heard anyone use that word except for my granny. She'd be really disappointed I'm working with you."
"You going to push me out of the car?"
"Nah. Too much paperwork."
Morck had a small smile and showed the ring on his finger. "I got fucking married to one of yours."
"Man or woman?" Because talks about same-sex marriage laws at the station were still echoing in Hardy's head, too fresh, too loud, infuriating but reducing him to silence, and really, he just wanted to fuck with the guy. Test him, that is.
Morck didn't even flinch. "Woman. Had to follow her." He extended his hands around him, "What's not to like about even more rain, cold, and people who don't even sound like they speak English?"
Hardy had many things to answer about the ear-slaughter that was the Queen's English, but barrier tapes were already standing in the way, and his new partner was out of the car before he could really park. God, that man was going to be a handful.
Apparently, Morck didn't care about introductions, waving his badge at every single person trying to protect the scene, and Hardy had to run after him, making excuses for the bloke with a period film face and the attitude of a motherfucker owning the place. Which. Not surprising.
Damn sassenach, Granaidh would have said, stabbing her Victoria sponge cake like an English heart.
The scene wasn't pretty. Far from the worst Hardy had seen, but the victim had tried to escape, crawling across the floor, leaving a bloody trail through the whole living room. Signs of a fight. Knife still on the floor. Unpremeditated. Messy.
He checked on Morck. His face hadn't even greyed, his eyes still sharp, clinical, encompassing the whole scene, examining the details. Clearly aware of everything Hardy had just noted. No puking then. Good lad. Kept his hands in his pockets, leaning over things but never trespassing. Good scene manners too.
"Victim has a full cabinet of drugs in the bathroom, not talking about over-the-counter painkillers, how surprising!" the current apprentice proclaimed behind them.
Fuck. So Hardy had to deal with the first day of the English arsehole, and the last day of the Deputy Mayor's son, whose internship with them he still didn’t really understand. And he was already liking the new guy more than the apprentice.
"People are fuckin clichés, right?" Apprentice continued.
Morck raised an eyebrow and turned to the guy, "Oh yeah? What cliché?", roughening his accent for the occasion, and Hardy almost liked this voice. At least this one didn’t make him want to warm up for a drunken debate.
Apprentice glanced at Hardy–new guy, it's fine–then back at Morck.
"Look at the bloody neighbourhood. All fucked up, and he's…" Apprentice gestured at the victim. "You know."
"Black? Poor? Dead?"
"Well…"
"So, you've checked his bathroom, great. Found the kid?"
"The what?" The guy stared at them with something that looked a bit too much like contempt for someone who’d just arrived.
He crouched down and pointed underneath a cupboard.
"Legos, yeah, great. Your guy probably kept his toys from childhood or something," Apprentice scoffed.
If looks could kill, and Hardy wished they could, Apprentice would have joined the victim on the spot.
"My stepson's obsessed with them. The one with the coppers and the dogs is recent, he was a fucking pain in the arse to get it as soon it got out. Our guy bought this for a kid this year. Brother? Son? Cousin?" Morck raised his voice. "Anyone knows the family or what? Started research?"
"Uh…"
"Oh, c'mon!" He got up, motioned vaguely at the outside. "Am going for a smoke. Join me?"
Hardy hated the smell, shook his head.
"Who the fuck is the prick?" Apprentice whined as soon as Morck went out.
"Don't know. A good copper, at least."
—
"What do you mean, you bought weed?"
"Needed to loosen up the man down the street. Basic interrogation technique."
Hardy blinked. Searched for words that eluded him. Scots didn't speak English, his colleague had said. Right. Maybe it was the effect Morck had on people, and it had nothing to do with countries, or accents.
Hardy wondered if he should pinch himself to check if he was still awake. Wondered if he should kick the prick out of his car for being such an idiot. Weed. In his car. Bought from a potential witness. What the fuck was going on in the English police? What the fuck did Morck—
"Want some?"
"No!"
"Too bad." He pocketed the bag, saw Hardy's alarmed look. "Oh, come on, I'm throwing that away as soon as I can. I don't smoke."
"But you…"
"Yeah, I was going to punch that arsehole’s face if he went on with the whole—" fine hands circled in the air "—incompetent motherfucker thing. So I left. And I found us a witness. So, win-win, yeah?"
Hardy was glad he wasn't driving at the moment, because the zigzags his mind was doing would not have looked good in the streets. Decided he was not starting the win-win conversation.
"Okay. Fine." He was definitely talking to DCS Miller. "What did you learn?"
"Mary Strong. She used to come to the house every day. She played with the kid in a park close to here, something like that. She stopped coming a week ago. Dealer was sad, she was a fucking good client."
"Didn't know dealers kept their client's full name."
"Some of them like having IDs. You know, to check backgrounds."
Hardy peeked at the guy, noticed the ruffled hair, the uncuffed sleeves. Something raw in his demeanour that wasn't there on the way to the scene. Something that didn't go well with the clothes, and the shaved look, and the tidiness. Something that, finally, didn't make him want to ask for Scotland's independence.
"And you would know because…"
Morck shrugged. "'Cause I'm a good copper who knows his people. Mary Strong. Can't we do some research?"
3. Evidence collection
"I assume you have a warrant for that?"
"She probably has a fucking kid with her for fuck's sake! What the fuck's wrong with you?"
Again with the who is this guy? look, from the social worker this time. Hardy was starting to wonder if he should give the bloke a bigger badge. A shirt with "I'm a copper more than a prick." And a glowing, red sign screaming, "The other guy's not responsible."
Instead, Hardy just nodded at Cassandra. She was a good lass, just needed to respect all procedures. Which was useful if they wanted the case to hold up in court.
But there was, indeed, a kid.
"We just need an address, Cassie."
"And I just need a warrant, James."
"Unbelievable," Carl muttered, kicking an invisible ball while turning his back to them.
"Sergeant Morck, why don't you go—"
"Nah, I'm not going the fuck out. The woman's a fucking addict. Do you know what a fucking kid risks in cases like these?"
Too much urgency in his partner's body, the need to be heard, the anger at not being. Hardy would have to ask. Now wasn't the time.
But maybe it was time for something else. Maybe they could figure it out, together.
"Och," he raised his hands in surrender, "let's just calm down for a sec', okay. Cassie, shall we have a cuppa? Just to talk?"
"What?"
"Tea. That thing with herbs that smells good. You always insist we have it together. Even comes with biscuits, if I remember the break room correctly." Morck sniggered, discontent radiating through the room. "Sergeant? Do you want some?"
Morck frowned at him, and Hardy tried to convey all he could, blinked at the door, then focused on his eyes. They were way too blue, he realised. Electric blue under that light. Blue like he shouldn't look at them. He stopped. Hoped it would be enough.
"Am not a tea drinker. Guess I'll wait for you outside."
—
"So, buying weed and forcing your way into a social worker's office, all in one day?"
"You wanted me to."
"Aye. I did."
Hardy sped up, pushed the car to its limit, and Carl got the lights and alarm out before he had to ask.
(+1) Accurate reporting
It was not a pretty scene either. But the new guy was good with people drugged to the brim. Better than Hardy. Better than he'd seen many medics be. He would have expected only anger, resentment, blame, from the arsehole who seemed ready to express all of the above against absolutely everyone. None of it was there. Firmness, sure. But also a very needed calm. Sitting the woman down, waiting with her as medics arrived. Not compassion, it wasn't the word. But presence. Keeping her present; out of her mind, but present.
And he was good with kids, too.
They should have gone back to the police station immediately. Interrogated the child, started the report. But the poor lad was trembling, tears and snot barely wiped from his face, and they didn't have to talk to know they were not taking him to a claustrophobic, lonely room. They were not making him wait for a social worker to be freed from the hundreds of cases they needed to treat, not in the bloody environment they would never wish on their worst enemy's kids.
So, here they were, sitting at a checkered table between white paneled walls, in a way-too-cosy ice-cream parlour which Carl seemed to know pretty well, given he'd advised both the child and Hardy on the flavours.
And now Hardy had toffee swirls on his tongue, and a candied cherry on the rim of his glass which made Carl snort. And now he could look, really look, at his new colleague telling stupid jokes to the kid, too stupid to deserve the amusement Hardy felt.
"What's his name?"
"What?" Carl made his ring disappear in his palm, moved long, elegant fingers in the air, and the ring reappeared next to an unused spoon. A thin smile emerged on the kid's lips, revealing two spots where shed teeth were waiting to be replaced. "It's my only trick, mate, don't get your hopes up."
"Your son, what's his name?"
Carl reproduced the move, much slower. "Jasper, and he's my stepson. Came with the wife." He opened his hand, showed the ring. "And here we go. You got it, yeah?" The kid nodded and took the ring to try on his own while Carl turned back to Hardy. "Father's a piece of shit. Left when he heard he would be a Dad. I didn't really have a choice. Besides, Jasper's a fucking great kid."
The ring clanked on the floor, and the boy immediately looked horrified, tears welling up again despite Carl's reassurance. Carl folded under the table to fetch the ring, and Hardy moved his legs away, squeezed a bit to avoid a creeping, out-of-place awkwardness.
"Mate? Keith?" he tried instead, catching the boy’s eyes. "Fancy some of my ice cream?"
Keith stopped crying. "You don’t want it?"
"Nah. I ate too much at lunch. Come on, eat some. You're saving me from heart burn."
The kid wolfed down his cup with no further question. Carl's eyes met his. How long since the kid's last meal? How could you fuck it up that bad?
He thought of Donna's pregnancy. How scared he was, frankly. Hoping he would be good enough, hoping he wouldn't fuck it up. Four more months to go, an eternity and a fleeting second. He'd talked to every single parent in the station, learnt that most of them were definitely not role models, turned to his sister before remembering the father was not in the picture anymore. And he was not becoming their work-obsessed Da. Decent, sure. He barely had the opportunity not to be anyway. No real model either.
Maybe the new bloke could be. Just a bit, Hardy was not stupid enough to trust him. But maybe they could at least talk. He was a good copper. A good Da, apparently.
Carl was building a Saint Andrew's cross with straws on the table, telling Keith that the British had improved it a lot on the UK flag.
A cunt, too. Of course.
But when they handed the kid to the case worker, he wasn't crying anymore.
In the car, on the way to the station, Hardy commented on the apprentice's handling of the evidence. Really, losing the phone on which we found the suspect's name and address? Really? He’d write the report to make sure it was presented in a civilised, blameless way, of course. And Carl didn’t need to do fuck all about the reports, not on his first day.
Carl smirked and nodded, didn’t comment.
The smile grew wider, mischievous, as he took his first sip of the beer Hardy brought him in the nearest pub, down the street from the station. Hardy tried to focus on his own drink.
"So, I heard that you guys aren’t over that '66 match?"
Okay. They would need to talk. A lot.