Chapter Text
Carl lets out a long breath through his mouth as he hangs his jacket on the coat rack by the flat door. It’s the kind of sigh that says, ‘This day can go fuck itself, I’m gonna plop down on the couch with a cold beer and not move again for the foreseeable future, and god forbid anyone dare disturb me.’
He drops his keys and phone onto the table, tries to ignore that the kitchen and thus also the living room smell too strongly of garlic and cumin. There are plastic containers in the fridge that tell a corresponding tale but Carl ignores them and instead grabs a beer.
He’s already on the way to the living room, the beer can cool and damp under his fingers, when something on the table catches his eye. An envelope with a handwritten address. He stops short, takes a closer look. It’s addressed to him by name.
He places the beer on the table and turns the envelope over. The sender address is, at first, unfamiliar, but then something dawns on him. Douglas Tucker. Paul’s husband. That’s odd.
Carl sits down and tears open the envelope, the beer momentarily forgotten.
Inside there’s a neatly folded handwritten letter. Carl recognises Paul’s handwriting as he unfolds it. He hasn’t heard from Paul in a while, wonders what this is about as he starts reading.
No. What? No. Carl’s throat is suddenly dry, his stomach an empty pit with a knot the size of a grapefruit.
Carl’s hand is shaking a little. There’s a lump in his throat. No, this can’t— This has to be a cruel joke. This can’t be true!
The writing starts to blur in front of his eyes, his hand with the letter sinks down. His other hand, balled into a fist, comes up to his face and he presses it against his mouth to try and stifle a scream that builds there. His breaths are shaky now, he’s— Fuck.
He picks the letter back up, forces himself to read on.
There’s something ugly and hollow and painful in Carl’s gut and the memory smarts like it was yesterday. His stint with oxy—a lapse in judgment that Paul fought tooth and nail to get him out of. He hasn’t thought about that in a very long time. And no, he hasn’t broken that promise, at least not wilfully. They gave him opiates after the shooting. He asked them to wean him off as soon as he could.
By the time he sees Paul’s sign-off, his chest wants to explode with something undefinable, something that makes his insides writhe around a dark, empty pit of despair and shock. That scream he’s been trying to hold inside coalesces into a wild roar that unleashes as he takes the next best thing he can find and hurls it across the kitchen.
The bottle of soy sauce explodes all over the kitchen counter, the stove, the wall, the cupboard doors. Ugly brown liquid drops to the floor with a sour smell that mingles with the acid in Carl’s stomach.
“Carl?”
Jasper is suddenly there, in the kitchen doorway.
Carl didn’t even know the boy was home. He jumps up from the chair in a hasty motion, the chair scraping across the kitchen floor.
“What happened?” Jasper asks, obviously oblivious.
Carl can’t say, can’t speak, can’t tell him. Even if he trusted his voice to work right now, Jasper wouldn’t know how much Paul meant to him, would start asking questions, and Carl is not equipped to handle any of that right now.
“Carl? What the fuck happened?”
Jasper’s voice is getting more urgent, so Carl snatches up the letter, hastily grabs his keys and flees. He pushes Jasper aside more forcefully than he wanted, takes his jacket and leaves. Leaves down the stairs, across the street, across the park.
He isn’t paying attention where his feet are taking him. His fingers are clutching the letter, and his mind is reeling. Reeling with a million thoughts, memories, questions, silent screams. His breaths are coming in fast succession and he can’t even tell if he’s panting or sobbing or maybe both.
He stops, has to stop, rings for air, bends over to rest his hands on his knees as another scream forms and breaks free. It pierces the air around him with a ferocity that surprises even Carl himself.
He straightens up, presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, sways back and forth on his feet and then keeps walking.
There’s grass under his soles, gravel, concrete. He doesn’t notice, doesn’t know how long he moves aimlessly but eventually finds himself on the small stretch of beach off the side of the busy road. He stops walking when he nears the water of the Forth, when there’s nowhere left to go.
Suddenly bereft of all strength, he sinks to his knees, feels them digging into the soft, damp sand underneath. The moisture that slowly seeps through his jeans is cold but at least it’s something tangible, something that feels less harsh than the hollow ache that has taken a hold of the rest of his body.
His hands sink into his lap, he bows his head and wants to scream again until his voice gives out, until there’s nothing left inside of him anymore.
He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, until there’s a voice somewhere next to him.
“Excuse me. Hey, are you alright?”
He looks up, sees a middle-aged man with a black labrador on a leash next to him, his hair tousled by the wind.
Gentle waves are lapping to the shore, soaking Carl’s knees as the man asks him, “Do you need assistance? Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
“No,” Carl croaks. “I’m okay.”
Okay? Fuck. He’s a far cry from okay. The farthest he’s possibly ever been.
The man eyes him with concern. “Are you sure? I could call someone to—”
“No,” Carl says again, trying to sound more insistent. “I just need a minute.”
He tries to push himself to his feet, accepts the hand that is being proffered by the stranger. He stands on unsteady legs for a few seconds, the wet fabric of his jeans clinging to his knees. Carl lifts a hand to indicate he’s good on his own now.
The stranger gives him a last once-over, then decides to give Carl the benefit of the doubt and turns away to keep walking his dog.
Carl scrubs a cold hand across his face, realises immediately that it was a mistake when grains of sand scratch across his skin. He wipes his hands on his thighs, then momentarily panics. The letter. What did he do with Paul’s letter?
His right hand finds it in his jacket pocket, slightly creased but intact. A small wave or relief is there somewhere. He can’t even remember when he stuffed it in there. He tries to smooth it out as best as he can with cold and numb fingers, then folds it up and puts it back in the pocket. He can’t lose that letter. Ever.
Pressing both heels of his hands against his eye sockets, he inhales sharply, then exhales through his mouth.
Home. He should go home.
Now that his brain is working a little more clearly again, he figures he should give Jasper a call—he’s probably worried. With some trepidation, Carl realises that his phone is still on the kitchen table.
The walk home feels like forever, the wind making it harsher than it should be, and the evaporation from the damp fabric of his jeans makes it even more cold and miserable. Dusk is turning to dark as he reaches his tenement. He fumbles to unlock the door with unsteady hands.
Both Jasper and Martin are waiting for him in the kitchen, a sharp look of worry on Jasper’s face that’s replaced with tangible relief as he lays eyes on his stepfather. Carl doesn’t know what to say or what to do, feels suddenly incredibly out of his depth.
Jasper is up from his chair, takes a step closer as Carl stands on the threshold to the kitchen, vaguely noticing that the mess of soy sauce has been cleaned up but a faint acidic smell is lingering nonetheless.
Carl bites his lips, wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. Finally, he mumbles, “Sorry. Didn’t have my phone.”
Jasper’s voice is low, the concern still all over it. “What happened, Carl?”
His brow creases with sudden emotion, he has to swallow. “A friend died.”
There. He said it. It still doesn’t feel any more real.
“Who?”
“Paul,” Carl says, his voice about to break.
That softens Jasper’s expression. Did he think it was Hardy? Surely, he would have already called him or Donna after Carl went MIA. Carl isn’t even sure if Jasper remembers Paul. He met him a twice when he was younger. Then Jasper grew up and became less interested in Carl’s personal life.
Jasper takes another step closer, and Carl is afraid he’s going to hug him. He knows with absolute certainty that he can’t. It shouldn’t be so complicated, but he can’t do that right now. So he pushes past Jasper, goes to his bedroom and grabs a set of dry clothes. Jasper and Martin are still in the kitchen as he wordlessly goes into the bathroom to shower.
The hot water feels good, he lets it run down his back until the bathroom fills with steam and Carl feels like he’s no longer chilled to the bone.
He takes his time to towel off and put on more comfortable clothes, wishes he could evade the watchful eyes of his lodger and his stepson. He wants to sigh with relief when neither is in sight as Carl exits the bathroom and goes back to his bedroom. He picks up Paul’s letter and his phone on the way.
With a heavy heart, he puts Paul’s letter in his nightstand drawer. He doesn’t think he can read it again. Not now, anyway.
Unsurprisingly, there are a number of missed calls and messages when he unlocks his phone. He doesn’t think he can deal with any of that right now, so he sends brisk texts to Donna and Hardy to at least let them know he’s in one piece. Well. Barely.
As he sits down on the edge of the bed, he tries to remember his last conversation with Paul. They didn’t speak all that much anymore, got wrapped up in their own lives, and the physical distance surely didn’t help. They last met in person years ago, at Paul’s wedding, before the pandemic.
Their most recent phone call was probably too short and too mundane. Carl thinks it’s fucking ironic that Paul doesn’t even know about the shooting because Carl hadn’t been able to get himself together enough to reach out and tell him about that. Because he knew Paul would ask uncomfortable questions, might even come up to see him.
He thinks it’s stupid now, it’s fucking wrong. With his back hunched, he lets his head sink into his hands. He should have reached out, he should have—
There’s a knock on his bedroom door. Jasper’s voice says his name. “Carl?”
He wants to tell Jasper to fuck off, wants to just sit here and not deal with anything right now, but even that feels like it takes too much energy, so the door opens and Jasper hovers there.
“Can I come in?”
“What do you want?” Carl says more sharply than he intended.
“I, uh… I wanted to see if you needed anything.”
An acrid huff escapes from Carl’s mouth but the sarcasm to take it further just isn’t there.
Jasper takes a step closer, hesitates like it’s an intrusion on the uncharted territory that it is. “I, uh… I’m here if you wanna talk about it.”
Carl doesn’t look up. “Why the fuck would I want to talk about it with you?”
“Because I’m fucking here.”
“Jasper, leave me the fuck alone, okay?”
“I know you say that, but you don’t always mean it.”
Carl lifts his head when the mattress dips from Jasper sitting down next to him. “Someone you cared about just died. Maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”
“And what?” Carl shoots at him, his voice harsh and unforgiving. “What do you think you can do? Do you even remember him?”
“Not really, but I wish I did.”
“Oh yeah? Now that’s my fault?”
“No,” Jasper says in a low voice.
“Then what?!” Carl bristles and shouts at him. “What the fuck do you want from me?! I just lost someone super fucking important and you think I’m too fucking secretive, that I should have fucking bared all my innermost fucking feelings to you, that I—”
Carl’s voice breaks, and he suddenly realises he has tears in his eyes and his chest is heavy and constricts with something he can’t control, a sob working its way out of him. He tries to get more words out, but they get tangled up in the angry grief that suddenly racks his body and chokes whatever he might have wanted to voice.
He feels a warm hand on his back, vaguely senses Jasper’s quiet presence in a way that’s more comforting that Carl wants to admit.
He keeps sitting there, a steady hand grounding Carl as he works his way through the sobs until he can draw in a calming breath that stops wavering, until he can regain some composure and wipe the tears from his face.
Jasper stays until Carl says in a hoarse voice, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”
Jasper’s look is compassionate and way too forgiving. “It’s alright.” He withdraws his hand. “Do you want me to stay?”
Carl subtly shakes his head. “No.”
Jasper gives him a small nod. “Okay. But Martin and I are here, alright? If you wanna talk or… you know, need anything.”
Carl tries for an encouraging smile that probably falls short. “I know. Thanks.”
Jasper gets up and quietly leaves the room, but he’s back a few minutes later with a cup of tea and a plate with a ham sandwich that he puts on Carl’s nightstand. He leaves again wordlessly, and Carl has to fight back more tears.
He reaches for the tea and takes a sip. It’s perfect with just the right amount of milk. This is all fucking bleak, but this is something he can hold on to, if only for a short moment.
Suddenly bereft of all energy, Carl lies down on the bed. He can’t stop thinking about Paul, can’t stop the thoughts and questions that swirl and rip through his head with cutting precision. He bites into his index finger knuckle to feel something other than the all-encompassing anguish and guilt that tears through him.
He must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing he remembers is waking up with a raging headache. It takes only a second for him to recall what happened the night before, and the weight that crushes down on him feels too heavy to think about even getting out of bed.
He closes his eyes again, tries to hold on to something that’s more numbness than pain. Numbness he can take. The world outside, he can’t.
He’s roused from a slumber by a knock on his door. It’s Martin who pokes his head in. “Carl? You awake?”
Carl just groans, then adds, “Fuck off, Martin.”
The door opens fully. “Jasper went to school but he wanted me to check on you. Can I get you anything?”
“No. Fuck off.”
Martin sighs, then takes the half empty tea mug and the untouched sandwich from Carl’s nightstand and vanishes with them. Annoyingly, he leaves the door open. Carl wants to throw objects but doesn’t have anything within easy reach, so he just keeps lying there.
Not surprisingly, Martin comes back a short time later with a fresh cup of tea and Carl wants to punch him in the fucking face when he hovers near Carl’s bed.
“Listen,” he starts, and Carl wants to punch him in the face even more. “I don’t know if you want to go to work today but you don’t have to be alone. I’ll be here until the afternoon and Jasper will be back after school. I know you’re not big on food, but I’ll have breakfast with you if you like. We don’t have to talk.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk,” Carl snarls.
“Look, I know this is hard.”
“Oh yeah, what the fuck do you know about any of this?” Carl spits at him.
Martin stays quiet for a moment, then says in a low voice, “My boyfriend died 11 years ago. I think I may know more about this than you think.”
Fuck. He didn’t know. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know much about Martin’s past at all. Carl sucks in a breath and curls up to lie on his side with his back towards Martin. He doesn’t want breakfast or platitudes or fucking life lessons. He just wants this all to go away.
Martin tells him, “Just knock if you need anything, alright?”
He leaves and this time closes the door behind him.
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Somehow, Carl whiles away most of the day in bed. He knows he should have called in sick, hopes that Hardy said something to Moira. His phone vibrates a few times but he ignores it.
At some stage, he hears the flat door and it doesn’t take long for Jasper to come into his room.
“Carl? Martin and I are gonna have tea now. I brought chow mein from that place you like. I was hoping you’d eat with us.”
Carl closes his eyes. He doesn’t want chow mein. He doesn’t want Jasper or Martin. He just wants to be left alone.
Jasper is already on his way out when he adds, “Please don’t hide away like you normally do.”
That hangs there, and it fills the space with something that hits home. He did a lot of hiding after he was shot, those three months he spent at home. He didn’t think Jasper noticed much – or cared, for that matter. He might have underestimated that.
He sees Paul’s handwriting in his mind, blue on white. Fuck.
Paul would have been all over him, would have dragged him out of bed. Carl wrestles his tired body to the edge of his bed, sits there, scrubs a hand over his face. Least he can do is honour Paul’s fucking wishes.
He heaves himself up, gets some clothes from his dresser and wardrobe, then makes his way to the bathroom. He realises how parched he is and drinks a few gulps of water straight from the tap, cleans himself up as best as he can without actually taking a shower.
Jasper and Martin are already at the kitchen table, eating Chinese takeaway straight from the boxes. Jasper shoots him a look that’s half concern, half relief when Carl starts listlessly eating the chow mein. A glass of water appears before him. There isn’t much conversation, none that Carl needs to partake in, and he is thankful for that.
When they’re done and the food boxes have been discarded in the rubbish bin, Jasper slides a note across the table to Carl with the words, “It was in the envelope.”
April 30th. That was five days ago.
There’s a phone number below. And yes, of course he wants to attend the funeral. He needs to. There isn’t much in his life that he’s needed to do more than that.
Quietly, Jasper asks, “Do you wanna go?”
“Yes,” Carl says just above a whisper.
“Can I come with you?”
It prompts Carl to look at him. Jasper’s gaze on him is expectant but also tentative, like he expects the immediate rebuttal. “You barely even knew him.”
“No, but he meant a lot to you. I called Mum and asked her. She told me a few things.”
Carl shakes his head. Of course the boy is too curious for his own good. Carl doesn’t know how to feel about that.
Jasper adds, “It’s a long drive down there all on your own.”
Carl inhales slowly, releases the breath through his nose. Jasper’s probably right. It is a fucking long drive. He could take a plane if there’s a decent connection but he fucking hates airports and he hates flying even more. Ironic that it’s how he and Vic met in the first place.
“You’ve got school,” Carl adds vaguely.
“So what? You can write an absence note.”
Carl rubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know, Jasper.”
Jasper looks down at the table and mumbles, “I just think you shouldn’t go alone.”
Martin adds, “For what it’s worth, I think Jasper is right.”
Carl’s first instinct is to tell Martin to shut the fuck up, but he bites his tongue, not just because of what Martin shared earlier. Carl bites his lip to keep the thing in check that washes through him and makes his facial muscles constrict.
“Okay,” he finally says in a low voice.
He takes the note and goes to the bedroom to pick up the phone, dials Doug’s number. He answers on the fifth ring.
“Hello?”
Carl’s mouth is suddenly dry, he has to harrumph. “Yeah, uh, it’s Carl.”
“Carl,” Doug says. “Thanks for calling.”
Carl only has good memories of Paul’s husband – a fairly average looking guy, leaning towards pudgy – brown hair and beard, full cheeks, a round face and an ever-present twinkle in his hazel eyes. He thinks back to their wedding, how happy they were.
“I’m so sorry, Doug,” Carl says, knowing it won’t make any fucking difference.
“Thank you,” Doug says, his voice sounding beaten like someone who just went through the kind of hell he’s experienced.
“I got your note, I would really like to come down for the funeral, if it’s not too late.”
“No, not at all. The service is on May 11th. I hope you can make it.”
“I’ll be there,” Carl confirms.
“Will it be just you?”
“No. Me and my stepson.”
“Okay, I’ll make a note of that. Will you need accommodation?”
“Yeah, but I’ll arrange that myself if you text me the details.”
“Yes, of course. Listen, I’m really sorry for not…” He stalls there for a moment. “Paul was very adamant. I didn’t want to go against his wishes. I, uh… Let’s talk more when you come down.”
Carl swallows, manages to get out a meek, “Yeah.”
“It will be good to see you.”
“Likewise,” Carl says before they say they say goodbye and hang up.
Phone in hand, he gets up with a sigh. In the kitchen, he tells Jasper. “Next Monday. That work for you? I’d like to drive down on Sunday and come back on Tuesday.”
Jasper nods. “I have an exam that Wednesday.”
“That a yes or a no?”
“I guess I could study in the car.”
Carl narrows his eyes. “You should be studying right fucking now if you have an exam next week.”
“I know,” Jasper says defensively. “And I am.”
“You better.”
“Carl. Seriously. I’m on it.”
Carl gives him a long look, tries to decide if he should give Jasper the benefit of the doubt but decides to trust him. There haven’t really been any further complaints regarding Jasper’s attendance in the past few months. Carl hopes the boy got his act together to do halfway decently for his Advanced Highers but he’s not the type to breathe down Jasper’s neck about it.
“What subject?”
“Chemistry.”
Carl makes a face. “Yeah, I’m no help with that.”
Jasper’s mouth curves into a small grin. “I didn’t think you would.”
Carl sits down at the table, opens the browser in his phone. “I’ll find us a hotel.”
“We’re not sleeping in the same bed, are we?”
Carl shoots him a look. “Fuck no. I’m getting us separate rooms.”
“Do I need a suit for this?”
“For the funeral? Up to you.”
“Are you wearing one?”
Fuck. He hadn’t thought about that. “Well, I’m not going in jeans and a hoodie, if that’s your question. You need money for a suit?”
Jasper considers this for a moment. “Nah. I have something suitable.”
“You sure?”
He nods. “Yeah. You might be the one who needs to buy a new suit, though. I bet you haven’t worn one since your wedding.”
Jasper might actually be right about that. He wonders if that suit still fits. Then again, it was dark blue. Not the most fitting for the occasion. “You offering to take me shopping?”
“Shopping? With you? I’d rather poke a pencil in my eyeball.”
Carl sighs. Jasper probably has a point. Carl has a deep loathing for any shopping experience, especially that related to attire. Martin offers, “I’ll offer to carry that burden if I have to.”
Carl looks at Martin. “No offence, Martin, but I’d rather poke a pencil in both my eyeballs before I go shopping with you.”
Martin lifts his hand defensively. “Suit yourself. I’m just offering.”
“I’ll ask Donna.”
“Who’s Donna?” Martin asks.
“Hardy’s wife.”
“Heh,” he says.
Carl decides not to comment.
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Much to Carl’s relief, Jasper and Martin do a fairly decent job of keeping him distracted for the rest of the day. They watch some TV together, there is light conversation. It’s actually the most time the three of them have spent together for quite a while – and that’s fucking ironic, too.
Towards the evening, Carl takes a walk through the park, folds the letter open again that he took with him. He hasn’t read it since the first time, thinks he may be ready to look at it again.
It’s still raw and it still smarts like a fucking serrated knife to his gut, going over it again. He has tears in his eyes and wipes at them before they can fall. It’s just so fucking unfair. A life cut way too short, the life of the best fucking person he’s ever known, who saved Carl’s own life a million times over.
Paul told him not to feel guilty for not being in touch more often, but that’s easier said than done. Of course he feels guilty. How did he let this slide? And of course he knows there’s nothing that can be done now, these regrets will never be rectified, no matter how much he lets it gnaw at him. That’s Carl’s life now in a nutshell – a road paved with regrets and caffeine.
He can acknowledge that Paul is proud of him, of all that he’s accomplished. And a lot of that is Paul’s doing, because Carl knows with unwavering certainty that he would not be where he is without Paul Harris. That he’ll forever be thankful for that and he’ll never forget it. He vows to try and remember it a little more often.
He should probably come up with something to say at the funeral. Because he wants to do that. He wants people to know what an extraordinary human being Paul was, wants him to be remembered for that.
He should probably also get his own shit in order, so he pulls out his phone and calls Donna, leaves a message to ask her to call him back. Which he knows she will. If there’s anyone you can rely on, it’s Donna Hardy.
He folds the letter up again, puts it in his jacket pocket and makes his way home.