Disclaimer: Kudos, the BBC and/or Monastic own them

A/N: As the interminable wait for series two continues, I found myself wondering about a character who might be waiting too.

Many thanks to both Lucida Bright and Allofmyheart for casting their respective eyes over this.

Waiting

He wondered if he'd just remain here until he grew into the chair and his eyeballs had seized up, so long had they been focused on the indeterminate modern print on the wall opposite. He shifted slightly in his seat, but to no avail. Stacking chairs; who needed to believe in unseen evil forces playing games with the lives of men when mankind was able to come up with such an instrument of torture under the misguided belief that it was making life that little bit better?

He was conscious of a movement on his right. Molly, plugged into her iPod like ninety-nine per cent of the youth in the Western world. Evidently the current song didn't meet with her approval and she was skipping on to the next. He envied her the apparent detachment from the present. It wasn't real though, of course it wasn't; he knew her well enough to know it was a front. Just like her mother, not wanting to show weakness. Just like her grandmother. He still envied her. Although some music now would just about add the finishing touch to this epic he'd found himself a starring role in. Probably Mahler's fifth. Not a very original choice, but sufficiently dramatic and miserable. And seventy minutes in which to lose himself. Maybe he could go to Venice and lean moodily on the parapet of the Rialto Bridge? If he could find a babysitter.

With difficulty he refrained from swearing out loud. How could this be happening again? How could one mistake still be haunting him twenty-seven years on? How was he to blame again? One mistake. One. And its ramifications still rumbled on. It wasn't as though he was unique; God knows how many people had affairs every day. It wasn't as if he'd stolen fire from the gods, was it? No, he'd stolen Tim's wife. Stolen? Was it stealing if she'd virtually handed him the key to the metaphorical chastity belt? No. Yes. Hell. But who was to know Tim would act like a spoilt, selfish prick? That he'd cut off his nose to spite his face. That he'd... How could anyone imagine a man doing that? It was... outrageous. An affront. The presumption that he had the right to take two lives. How dare he? And how dare he make such a cock-up of it.

Another familiar weight of guilt was added to the already heavy burden. Here he was, Alex's daughter sitting right next to him, trusting him completely, and he was wishing she didn't exist. Wishing that Alex had never got out of the car; never run to retrieve her balloon; never lived to see her ninth birthday; never met her husband; never had Molly. Who was sitting right next to him, trusting him completely. He mentally shook his head. No, take it to its conclusion. Never had Molly; never been at a hostage negotiation; never met Arthur bloody Layton; never been shot; never left another orphaned little girl. Was that really such a bad thing to wish for?

But she wasn't orphaned. Yet. Alex might survive. She might have a perfectly normal life. Or she might... The elephant in the room of his mind lumbered into view and he shied away. Coward. Think of something else. Molly wouldn't be orphaned anyway; there was her father.

Neil Drake. Another selfish prick. It was ironic really; Alex always complained she hardly remembered her father, and yet she'd unerringly picked his doppelganger for a husband. Maybe that was the Achilles Heel for Price women? Frighteningly intelligent, except when it comes to men. Their ability to make use of other people with so little qualm; that was another one. No, not a weakness. A fault. Yes, certainly a fault, and one he seemed to have spent his life suffering under, but not a weakness. He chastised himself; it wasn't Alex's fault if she used him. He'd fallen over himself to be the one to look after her, hadn't he? Hadn't got a clue what he was letting himself in for, but what did that matter? He wasn't doing it for her. He knew that, in the dark watches of the night; pretended he didn't in the cold light of day. It should have worked. It should have paid the debt, eased the guilt. Instead it merely added resentment to the mix; the prime of his life spent bringing up someone else's daughter. And resentment brought with it an extra helping of guilt. Oh yes, he needed that like a hole in the head.

And what now? How the hell was he supposed to know Layton had a gun? What should he have done? Submitted to blackmail? A twisted bastard like Layton would never let him go. What else could he do? He was twenty-seven years too late in letting the truth come out, and it had come back and bitten him again. And now was he to spend the rest of his life bringing up another little girl? Neil was about as useless father material as it was possible to imagine; he wouldn't want Molly. Already he could imagine the excuses. What about her friends? Her schooling? Her life's there, with you. Alex would have wanted it to be you. You've done it before. Except this time he knew what it involved. This time he could see the future teenage tantrums, the aching worry when she wasn't home on time; the struggle to bite back the truth in the face of words calculated to wound. I hate you. You're not my dad. He wanted to sink his head in his hands and cry; indulge in the self pity. But that only brought more guilt, didn't it? Keep staring at that print instead. Whatever it was.

"Mr White?"

His head jerked up and he tried to focus on the nurse in front of him.

"Mr Sutcliffe is just coming."

He smiled in acknowledgment. The automatic response of a man programmed to give reassurance. Everything's fine, while inside the world's falling apart. Molly was removing her ear phones and looking at him in query, but his eyes had strayed to the end of the corridor. The big double doors were flapping back and forth as figures in blue scrubs appeared. They consulted briefly, then one broke away and started to walk towards them. The surgeon walked steadily, his footfalls echoing along the deserted corridor, as he came to bring the news. Evan tried to read the man's face and see his future.

Headaches. Paralysis. Brain damage.

Release.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

The End.