Work Text:
Pathetic. Alec was fucking pathetic. Again, again he’d let a family down. He had been one hour too late, one small hour, and now he was dead. Wee Jay. Jay Niven. Jay, 14, nearly 15, who was a brilliant student and flute player, and days away from getting a pet dog on his birthday. As he’d dreamed of, after years of volunteering at the local shelter. But that dream would never become more than just that -a dream, because Alec failed, he found him too late. If he hadn’t taken so long locating the father, who had left and broken contact entirely with his wife and children after a messy divorce, then Jay would be breathing, laughing, moving. Alive. Not lying on a slab in a morgue, pale and cold.
And the dad, who had kidnapped and molested him, was still out there. He killed his own son in rage, because he didn’t want to be raped. Then left the body in a bin bag in the basement and fled. Now he was free, somewhere, anywhere. Because of Alec.
Alec let out a small sob as he stumbled into his home, dropping the car keys into the dish by the door. It was sunny, mid-august, he felt cold. And wet. A strangled gasp escaped him. He felt water cling to his clothes, push its way down his throat, seep into every fibre of his being. He clawed at his throat. Fumbling. As weight pushed down on him. A familiar weight. Damp, pink, 12. His vision suddenly cleared and air returned to his lungs when he managed to release his neck from the grip of his tie. But the wet did not. Nor the weight. It grew heavier. 11 years heavier. Then 14, nearly 15 heavier.
Alec threw his jacket and his shirt to the floor -he needed to get the waterlogged clothes off, or he would suffocate from the feeling of the bloated body and crumble under the smell of the river. He stumbled, half naked, to the kitchen. Tea. He always made tea when he got home. He just needed to fill the kettle, grab a cup and tea bag while the water boiled, then pour it into the cup. He could do that, he could make tea, he made tea several times a day -albeit sometimes with a microwave, not kettle.
He never got to the second step. He opened the wrong drawer, one too much to the left. And he found himself gripping a knife, instead of a tea bag. He paused, watching as the soft rays of morning that filtered through the blinds turned such a mundane and dangerous object into something almost welcoming and familiar. But a different kind of familiar to the weight; this familiar was woven with relief, not fear, although both held guilt. He hadn’t truly felt like this in several years -since Sandbrook was solved- and his mind was hazy, but his muscles remembered.
With each cut, the weight lifted. Blood soon stripped his forearms, warm, silencing the buzz of his mind. Just as he pressed the knife to the upper half, a knock sounded on the patio window. It tore through the silence and the haze in his mind, and the weight came crashing down again.
Shit.
There was blood.
A lot.
Shit.
What had he done?
Shit!
He hadn’t meant to, really, he just- the knock sounded again and he looked towards the door, seeing an orange blob through the curtain
“Wait!” He snapped, grabbing some paper towels from the roll on the counter and pressing them to his arms.
“I might have something!” came Miller’s voice.
“Great, just wait there, Millarh!” He called back sharply as the last of the fog cleared and he felt guilt trickle down his arms. He’d cocked up. He fumbled, running to the bathroom as the reality struck him and he realised what he’d done. Panicked, arms throbbing, breath short, he started hastily cleaning and bandaging the cuts.
“Hardy are you alright? Can I come in?” Miller called after a minute.
“I’m fine! I said wait!” He shouted, then added “I’ve just finished having a shower, I’m getting dressed!” to dissuade her from entering the house anyway. He soon finished bandaging the wounds and ran to the front door. He grabbed the discarded shirt, jacket and tie and put the first back on, throwing the other two onto a chair as he went to the patio door. He pulled the curtains open and opened the door, scowling at Miller.
“What?”
“Might have something...” His colleague replied as she pushed past him and entered without asking.
“Aye, what?”
He closed the door behind her before heading to the kitchen. He paused as he saw all the blood on the counter and cursed under his breath. “Go and sit, I’m making tea, I’ll be there in a sec.” Miller couldn’t see this.
He heard her footsteps go to the living room as he put the kettle on and got two cups and teabags out. Soon he joined her and handed her a cup. She barely glanced at him before starting to explain hurriedly. Alec nodded along, although he couldn’t focus, his arms throbbed.
“…so, we should check CCTV and…”
His shoulders ached, he wasn’t listening, just kept seeing the kid’s face. Neon blue hair, messy, roots starting to return to their usual chestnut colour, like the eyes, a still somewhat round face, a little scar under the brow, from a riding accident.
“…maybe he then…”
Alec hummed, chest feeling tight as another face swam before his eyes. Harder, older, evil- Joe? Or was it Lee? His arms ached, feeling wet. No, no it was Henry, Henry Balcom. Lee was in prison, and Joe was far away. It was Henry Balcom, father of Jay Niven.
“…so that means- sir, are you listening?” Miller’s voice came back to him.
“Y-yeah, yeah go on.” He replied, although his voice was off, gaze starring ahead, unfocused.
“Are you ok? You look pale, should I come back later?”
“No, no keep going, I’m fine. This is good.”
“Good? It’s good that the father has experience evading police and hiding evidence?”
“… what? Uh, no of course not-”
“Hardy, are you sure you’re ok? You look sick.”
“I’m just tired.”
“…ok.” Miller said, clearly doubtful, then stood and added “I’ll get you some water.”
Alec nodded, then it registered. Miller, getting water. Water was in the kitchen. And so was blood.
“No wait! I-” He started, but it was too late, her voice cut him off.
“Shit what- is that blood? Bloody hell, that’s a lot! Hardy, what the hell-”
“It’s nothing, I just cut myself making dinner last night!” He replied hastily as he stood, arms aching and damp.
“There’s a lot and-” She paused, eyes freezing on the faint red colouring the usually blue sleeves of Alec’s shirt. Alec noticed her gazed and looked down too. Oops. The wet hadn’t been his brain playing tricks. He’d done the bandages too hastily. Or he’d underestimated the depth of the cuts. He’d really fucked up. He hadn’t meant to hurt himself, never did! But now his only friend, his best friend, would think he was sick- she would think he’s weak, the whole town would know, he’d be scoffed at, shamed, lose his job, his life, his daughter would hate him. Daisy, poor Daisy, he was pathetic, she deserved better than him, than an irresponsible, pitiful, awful father, who abandoned her time and time and time again- His arms hurt and his shoulders felt heavier as she pulled his sleeves up and tore the bandages off. Panic gripped his heart, hands shaking, breath short, throat tight, body weighted and wet. He chocked as rough, invisible hands tightened around his windpipe, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing-
“ALEC!”
He flinched at the familiar voice but unfamiliar name, wide eyes snapping up to her. His vision was blurry, from tears or lack of oxygen, he wasn’t sure, but he was certain he would see anger and disgust in his friend’s face. But instead, he saw pain and tears, and then he was pulled into a warm hug.
“Shit, Alec-” she said, but this time his name didn’t sound like a reproach, angry and fatherly, it sounded like comfort, soft and loving. He let out a sob, wrapping his own arms around her, despite the pain.
“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry-” He stammered, salt running down his cheeks.
“How long?” She asked. No why, no you’re a failure, no I hate you. Just understanding, kind, concern.
“First time since Sandbrook.” He mumbled between sobs.
“That’s 3 years, Alec, that’s great.”
Alec was silent for a few seconds -save for the sobbing and sniffling- but then asked “You don’t hate me? Y-you don’t think I’m pitiful and weak a-and-”
“No, no you’re strong, one of the strongest I know- the strongest.” She replied, then pulled away from the hug and gave him a stern look. “Now shut up, I’m still your best friend, you’re still a knob, and I’m not letting you bleed out on your floor and all over me. Besides, Daisy would have my skin.”
With that Ellie gently pulled Alec to the bathroom and got him to sit on the edge of the bath. She then gently pulled up his sleeves and removed the hastily wrapped bandages properly, to get a clearer look at the cut and asses. They were bleeding a little bit, although it wasn’t bad enough to warrant stitches, but deep enough that they would probably leave scars. Silently, Ellie grabbed the first aid kit Alec had left discarded on the floor earlier, and started cleaning and bandaging the wounds properly. All the while, Alec watched, still, not talking, but crying noiselessly. His partner was soon done, and she put everything away. She then looked at Alec and gave him a look that said “Move and I’ll murder you.”, before disappearing to his bedroom and fishing through his drawers. She found many shirts and suit trousers, but opted for a casual loose t-shirt and jogging, thinking it would be more comfortable. She soon got back to Alec and handed him the clothes.
“Get changed, I’ll make some more tea. Don’t do anything stupid, I need my grumpy best-friend and detective partner. And call if you need help.” She told him, before stepping out and closing the door.
Alec nodded, not looking up at her as she left. His gaze remained fixed on his bandaged arms and bloody rolled up sleeves. God he was pathetic. He’d fucked up, that much was sure, but he felt oddly relieved. He starred at his arms for a minute, mulling over those thoughts, fighting back more tears, but eventually snapped out of it. He got changed, struggling because his arms hurt, but didn’t call Ellie for help. He was still a stubborn bastard, even after breaking down in front of her. Once he was done fighting with his clothes, he exited the bathroom. He found Ellie in the kitchen, cleaning the side as the tea infused. He opened his mouth, about to speak, but she turned around, raising a finger, and cut him off.
“Ah-ah! No! You’re not fine, and I’m not leaving you, don’t even try.”
“I wasn’t-”
“Yes, you were.”
Yes, he was, but he wasn’t going to admit it.
“No, I-”
“Shut up. You’re not fine, I’m getting you a therapist. And, I’m not leaving you, because you’re coming to live with me, until you’re no longer a liability to yourself. And no- you can’t stay here even if there’s Daisy, she can come to mine too. Besides, Freddie will love having Uncle Alec around all the time, he’s always asking for you.”
Alec wanted to protest, hated depending on people, but knew from her tone and face it would be useless and would require energy he didn't currently have, so he just nodded as she poured the tea and handed him a cup. “Drink, while we talk, then we can pack some of your stuff. You’re getting the help you need.”