A/N: Sorry I didnt put anything up last week, but I ended up not being happy with the fic I did write, so I hope you guys enjoy this one instead! I've decided I actually really like Hobart, and from here I expect you will see him a lot more in fics playing roles other then kidnapper XD as for warnings, a bit of blood, violence especially shooting and death of a child, as well as child abuse. Leave a review if you enjoyed, or would like to see more Bill Hobart fics!

…...

Bill Hobart's dad was a police man. He was other things, too, but mostly, Bill remembered him as a police man. 12 years old, and holding tightly onto his mothers hand, he watched him march away, and then off to fight in the war.

And he came back different.

And that's usually the time Bill stops remembering.

…

Christoper Hobart was a much better child then he ever was, as his father likes to remind him. The younger Hobart was clever, polite, neat and always had shined shoes. Essentially, he was always the opposite of Bill himself. Not that he minded too much, because his little brother was the only person in the whole world who he really and truly loved.

In return Chris really loved him, although, when he was older, Bill wondered if that was more just his being grateful for the protection against their father. There was an eight year gap between the brothers, but it meant nothing to Bill. Chris was his brother, and he had to protect him.

...

He remembers the last time he saw Chris pretty clearly. They were walking to school, Chris was excited because he was going to be learning letter writing today and he was excited Chris was excited. Small hand clutched larger hand. He said goodbye at the gate. Looking back, he remembers every single detail. Every crease in his shirt (Neither of them knew how to iron, and their mother had a hurt wrist.) Every strand of blonde hair. Every bitten fingernail.

And he waved him off with a smile.

When he arrived home, (Christ got out an hour earlier and took the bus home) Both his parents were on the lounge, silent and drawn.

"Sit, Bill."

He does.

His brother, earlier in the day, had slipped into aliphatic shock and passed away.

It's not the same, after that.

…

The first time he saw Charlie Davis was in the afternoon, the week his request to be transferred back to Ballarat was accepted. His mother was dead. He no longer had any need to be in Melbourne.

Admittedly, his first impressions aren't great. He was pale. Everything about him was pale. Skin to his eyes. His hands were tight and his nails bitten down. He looked nervous, but otherwise unassuming. And vaugely, he missed Parks.

Then again, within a week of meeting him, he was fairly sure Charlie hated him. But he didn't think too long on it.

…

His next impresson comes when they're working a robbery case in a factory. He turns his back to look at something, and then when he turns back around, Charlie is starring up at a crack between the boards in the roof. The sunlight shines across his face, dust dances in the tiny beams of light, and then he smiles.

And he looks young. Almost like a child.

Bill smiles at him, before turning his back, and allowing him to have this little moment, wondering what Charlie's childhood would have been like, how his parents, his siblings, his grandparents shaped him into such a serious young man.

…

It's not until Munro leaves that he really gets to know the young Sergeant. Which Charlie initiated. "Mattie's gone to Melbourne." He said, one morning, while Bill was doing paper work.
"A front page story." He'd replied, with a raised eyebrow. He was an odd man,

"The Doctor is in Adelaide."

"You want to brag about touching yourself in the living room?" Alright. That was rude of him, he'll admit. But Charlie was getting on his nerves.

"You're a pig. I was going to ask if you wanted to come over. I'm making a pie."

"You're making a pie?"
"'S what I said."

"And you want me to eat it with you?"

"I...I don't really have many other friends and I thought you might appreciate it." Pause. "I know where Blake keeps the key to the liquor cabinet."

Apparently, Charlie does not find this an odd thing to say. Charlie did not usually drink, Bill knows this because he does drink and he's invited Charlie out with them several times, usually only to receive some flimsy excuse about Blake needing him. He occurs to him that the kid is probably lonely and just wants someone to talk to.

"Alright."

"Really?" He sounds...hopeful. In the worst sort of way.

"Yeah. When should I come over?" His eyes are truly sparkling now. How lonely did this kid have to be, he wondered.

"Six thirty." Charlie said, clenching and then unclenching his hand. Bill smiled.

"Then its a date."

…

He's only been to the Blake house once before. He vaguely missed Danny. He took the opportunity to wear something other then his uniform, opting for a nice shirt and pants. He even shined up his not-work shoes. He got the feeling from somewhere that Charlie was on the formal side. He also brought a box of biscuits for him as well. Store brought, but maybe he could pass them off as home made.

Charlie opens the door when he knocks and Hobart is struck by how young he really did look when he was out of uniform. Maybe it was the black that made him look like a grown up but in his usual clothes, he really did look like any other youth one would find on the street. Also: Orange. Maybe Charlie just liked warm tones. He wasn't one to judge.

"Come in." Charlie smiles, and welcomed him into the house, and even hung up his coat for him. And something, he's not sure what, smells delicious. He followed Charlie to the kitchen, where a pie had been set out neatly. Apparently Charlie's compulsive desk keeping at the station spilled out into the rest of his life as well.

There was plates set opposite to one another, a glass with something amber in it, and a glass of water. He set his box on the counter.

"I just took it out the oven." Charlie said, in way of explanation. "But I mistimed the potatoes, so they're still cooking."
"It's fine." He smiled. "I didn't know you baked."
"I have brothers." He said, as way of explanation. "Someone had to feed 'em." He doesn't sound exactly bitter, but he's certainly not happy. He doesn't think its his brothers fault, mostly just that Charlie Davis was never really happy.

"I've got a brother. " Bill smiled. Charlie offers him a smile.

"Can't live with em cant live without em."

"Something like that." He said, softly. Charlie doesn't notice, he's checking the potatoes.

Any conversation with Charlie is awkward. He just doesn't understand conversation. But he tries and Bill appreciates it. The drink on the table was sweet. Almonds, he thinks. Charlie's pie is nice. The pastry is crumbly. The gravy is hot. The potatoes may well be the best hes ever eaten. The whole situation was adorable in a sort of way. Poor Charlie trying his hardest to impress him. No ones ever done that before.

After dinner, Charlie stacks everything in the sink, and asks if he'd like to watch TV. He feels light headed. He's had a bit to drink. Although some were lame, all Charlie's jokes about the tv made him laugh.

…

Violence was a part of his life, even from when he was very young. His father liked to thrash him, sometimes he had a good reason, sometimes he didn't. But the violence just seemed so normal to him.

Even as an adult, he's made a name for himself being violent. He's never cared much. It was just him, how his parents made him.

But nothing really prepares him for the look on Charlie's face the first time he thrashes a suspect in front of him.

The second he just looks sad

the fifth, he hardly even blinks, just speaks quietly to the doctor on the phone, because Bill may have broken a rib in their suspect.

…

"It's so cold in here." Charlie complained, as they made their way though the icy building. It's winter. The walls are stone, and the sun went down an hour ago. Usually, he's already gone home by now. He doesn't like working late overly much. But someone has to do it. Frank's been pushing them for later hours lately.

"Hm." He replied, as Charlie shone his torch towards the roof, highlighting partially rotted wood beams and a possum running along it.

"Cute." Charlie said, moving the light away.

"If you say so." He commented, as they kept heading deeper into the building. They were on a call regarding supposed screams coming from the old war factory. Charlie was skeptical. He was tired. Another reason he likes being put with Charlie: No small talk. Charlie, from what it seemed, didn't care much for it, and neither did he, so they spent most of their time in companionable silence.

Behind them there was another rustle. Charlie turned his torch on it, expecting another possum or other bush animal. Instead, his beam of light illuminated a man with a gun, probably about to shoot them. The three of them pause, stunned into silence.

The three of them stand, not sure how to act. Charlie, surprisingly, is the first to recover himself. He lunges at the man, and they tussle. All Bill can do is watch in horror as a sudden ripple makes its way though Charlie's body. He hears the loud crack a moment later.

And then a huge blur. He must have picked Charlie up, because their criminal friend has put them into the basement.

…

Charlie's lips are turning blue.

Bill had done his best to wrap the wound in the torn sleeve of his own shirt, and at least, at the very least, the blood had slowed. It was probably a statement more regarding Charlie's freezing circulation then anything else. He's been standing at the door for ten minutes, according to his watch, shining his torch out the window trying to get attention.

He returns to Charlie's side, and examined the wound again. A shoulder injury. Very close to the top of his arm He slowly lowered himself onto the frozen ground again, and shifted Charlie so he was no longer on the floor, but resting in his lap, with his blazer no longer under his face but over his shoulders.

At least he's awake now.

"The doctor will find us." Charlie's voice is small and sounds like he's trying to talk though a rushing river. Bill wishes he could have that much faith in someone.

"He will." He agrees, running a hand though Charlie's hair in what he hopes is a comforting way.

"He always saves the day." Charlie continues, "Always. His 'good hand' is holding onto Bill's shirt now.

"Why did you throw yourself at that man?" He asks, not intending for Charlie to reply to him.

"He was gonna shoot you."

"You didn't need to do that."

" He was gonna shoot you." A long pause. Bill sighs quietly.

"And now he's shot you." No one has ever taken anything for Bill before. As a child, he took all the thrashings. As an adult, he took all the punishments. And yet Charlie Davis saw fit to throw himself onto a man and risk his life simply because Bill was in danger. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever done for him.

"Will you keep talking to me, please?" Charlie sounds pathetic. Like a tiny child begging for affection. And Bill gives it.

"About what?" He asked, kindly.

"I don't care...Your family."

"Well, I had a mother, a father and a younger brother." Charlie doesn't reply, so he keeps going. "My father was a police man, my mother was a secretary." Another pause. "My brother passed away when we were young."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."

"What happened?" Charlie whispered, pressing his head into Bill's thigh.

"He had an allergic reaction and passed away before anyone could do anything." He murmured. Charlie is quiet for a long time after that.

"I don't know what I'd do if I lost one of my brothers." Bill gently ran his fingers though Charlie's hair again and tugged the blazer up his shoulders a little more. He doesn't respond.

…

Bill wakes up. He must've dozed off. Charlie is still lying still, hands still clutching Bill's shirt. "How long..." He asks, throat to dry to finish the sentence.

"A while." He nods, and slowly cracked his back and then his arms. The leg under Charlie's head has gone numb.

"The doctor will find us." Charlie said, softly, and Bill feels the niggling doubt in his stomach but he doesn't vocalise it, doesn't dare take Charlie's hope away from him.

"How's the shoulder?"Charlie at least looks a little warmer now that he's got the blazer and Bill's body heat.

"I think it's stopped bleeding." He said, softly. "Sorry about your trousers. I'll pay for your dry cleaning." A longer pause, Bill contemplates what Charlie just said,

"It's not your fault."

"Yeah it is." Bill sighed softly. Charlie continues. "Was your dad a good dad?"
"He was alright." Bill said, "He liked to thrash me, though. That was...That was the bad part. The rest of him was fine. He was good to my mother."
"Why would he thrash you?"

"He liked it." Bill replied, after a moment, and then, "He's dead now."

"Oh." Is Charlie's soft reply, and then shifts using his good arm so his face is resting on Bill's stomach. "That's good."

No one has ever condemned his father before. Mostly they just dropped the subject. He rubbed Charlie's good shoulder with one hand, and then paused to think about the feeling blossoming in his chest, one he hasn't felt since Chris. It feels scarily like affection.

…

"The Doctor will find us."

Again. That's all Charlie's said to him in the last however long it's been. Bill feels anger under his ribs, why hasn't Blake come yet? Doesn't he know that Charlie is in danger? Doesn't he know how much faith Charlie has in him? But he doesn't act. His leg is numb and Charlie is shivering again.

"He will."Bill agrees, even though he really doesn't. Charlie doesn't reply. Bill strokes his hair again and adjusts the blazer on his shoulders. Charlie is wearing both their coats now. He's freezing down here. Still no sign of the Doctor.

He begins to think about his brother again. He'd always thought it was probably his fault Chris died. If only he'd known more or done better. But he couldn't change that. He'd then thought that if he cared enough about his fellow police man, if he got angry enough, avenged enough, then maybe they would care about him in return.

They don't. He's not a fool. He knows people don't like him. No one likes him, not really. Blake barely manages to disguise his dislike, Lawson only liked him because he got things done and even then if was begrudging. Danny had only liked him because he got him out of trouble. Carlyle was hard to read, but he didn't such much in the way of friendship there, mostly just his ties to Munro, to Melbourne, his untrustworthyness. And Charlie Davis, well. He wasn't even Charlie's first choice to invite over. Apparently Ned said no.

And Chris?

Chris only liked him because he took the thrashing for him. He smiled sadly up at the roof, and feels the grim trickle of tears on his cheeks. He doesn't want to cry. Crying got a thrashing. But he can't help it. He wonders, if they die down here, who will speak at his funeral? He has no family left to speak of, no close friends, just his work. Will they even bother with a funeral? Maybe he'll just get a paupers grave. He should have put money aside for that, he thinks, glancing down as he feels Charlie's hand pull his down so he could Bill's palm on his cheek.

"Don't cry. Blake is coming."

"Yeah." Bill says, pretending that his voice isn't cracking with pent up tears.

…

Charlie isn't talking anymore. Bill isn't sure he's even breathing, he's too scared to check. God their gonna die down here. He's going to starve to death with Charlie Davis's decomposing body. The tears start again.

He holds them off.

He hears yelling, footsteps. He sits up, suddenly full of energy, because if they're back, if they think they're going to hurt Charlie again then he will kill them first. But it's not them, it's Lucien Blake. And Frank Carlyle

There's yelling and 'They're in here!' and "Bill! Can you hear me? Where is Charlie?" and he can't even reply. Blake tries to take Charlie out of his lap but he can't fight though his protective instinct enough to allow him to take Charlie out of his lap until Blake has to promise over and over and over that he won't hurt Charlie.

Bill finally lets go.

…

"Do you have a family, Bill?" He looks up from where he's been studying Charlie's hand to address the doctor.

"Not anymore, no." A long pause. "If you're looking for assistance about your wife I really can't help you."
"No, no. Nothing like that. I just don't know anything about you, and I've known you for years." A scilence. Bill looks back at Charlie's hand.

"There's nothing to know about me."
"Everyone's got a story to tell." Bill smiles slightly.
"I suppose. Mine's a bit sad though." Blake passes him the glass of orange juice.

"You need to get your blood sugar back up." He warned. "What happened to your family?" Bill leans back in his seat.

"Honestly, I'm not sure they were ever mine in the first place." Apparently that satisfies Blake, because he doesn't ask any more questions, just allows him to hover uselessly over Charlie, who might never wake up until the sun goes down, where he takes him back to his own hospital room for the night.

…

Blake allows him to sit in Charlie's room, but hes not allowed to do anything more strenuous since apparently he was suffering from exhaustion, dehydration and the very beginnings of hypothermia. The toes in the leg that had gone numb had apparently become frost bitten, but Blake assures him that it will return to normal before too long.

Charlie had similar injuries, but thankfully no frost bite. He'd lost a lot of blood, but he wasn't dead. Blake thanks him. He doesn't care about the Doctors thanks. Blake sits next to him a lot of the time, but no one tells him to leave. Blake sometimes tries to talk to him but he shuts it down. He's not falling for this trick.

"You don't talk much."

"Not to you."

"What have I done to upset you?" Blake asks, looking deeply concerned.

"When we were sitting there, the only thing Charlie kept saying was that you were going to come and find us." He whispered. "He really trusts you."

"How does that affect you?"
"Because I don't have that much faith in anyone. Especially not you. He didn't know you when you first came to Ballarat. I do."
"Is this about Con-"

"Shut up!" Bill said, and tugged his knees to his chest in a defensive measure. "Just shut up. You don't know me. You don't know anything!"

"Stop yelling." Blake said, calm as ever. Bill grabbed his glass of water off the table and proceeded to drop it onto the floor so it shattered into a billion pieces onto the sterile floor of the hospital. They both stare in disbelief. His knees shake like he might fall. Anger surges. And then falls. His whole body sags with the weight of pent up anger and sadness. Blake reaches out a hand towards him, but he moves away.

...

"You look terrible." Charlie mumbled softly fro the bed. Bill let out a soft chuckle, and ran a hand over his face. Charlie had been awake for a couple of days now but Blake has only just given him back hovering uselessly around Charlie privileges.

"You look worse." He replied. Charlie smiled slightly and pulled the blankets up to his chin with his good hand.
"Blake says you dropped a glass on the ground."
"Yeah."
"Why would you do that?"
"I was angry."

"Why?"
"Because hes an annoying sod who doesn't know when to piss off." Charlie lets out a tiny, sick sounding laugh.

"That's true." A long pause. "I meant what I said, about your dad."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I just want you to know. I think he's a dickhead." Bill chuckled quietly, and put an elbow on the arm rest of his chair.

"Is that so?"
"Mm hm."

"You're right." He said, and it feels a bit like a weight has lifted. Like he's been drowning for years and he can suddenly breathe again. "But he's dead. What can you do." Another pause. "How's the shoulder?"

"Well pretty good actually. Blake's got me on some good drugs. I can't feel anything." Bill smiles again.

"Well that's wonderful." Charlie nods in agreement.
"He says I'll probably make a full recovery. Be back at work before you know it."
"Does this mean I have to give your desk back?" He teased.

"If I find so much as one pencil out of place, then I will shoot you myself." Bill cant help the harsh bark of laughter that slowly dissolves into tear inducing hysterics.

Charlie is looking at him like hes a mad man. Here he is, talking to Charlie as if he hadn't taken a bullet for him, like he hadn't just been fighting for his life because of Bill, as if they were actually friends.

He almost puts a hole in the drywall, later, thinking about the man who put a bullet in Charlie Davis, but stops himself. Vandalizing a hospital is no way deal with his anger, he thinks. Instead, he smokes two cigarettes, and thinks about his little brother.

The next day, they just sit in silence, because neither of them can be bothered much with small talk and Charlie it too tired to talk about anything meaningful.

…

He spent his whole childhood wanting his father's love. His mother's love. Chris's love. He wanted to be loved so badly and he was ashamed of how it leaked over into his adult life.

…

Charlie was back at work now, much to Blake's dismay. The man was a mother hen if Bill's ever met one. (And he is not jealous, of course) The others are planning a night out drinking as celebration, despite Charlie's occasional "Really, you don't need too." But at the end of the day, they seem to have come up with something, but Bill wasn't paying too much attenion. As they leave, Charlie stops by his desk.

"Are you coming?"
"Coming where?"
"Over. We're having fish and chips to celebrate our not being dead." A pause. Bill hadn't realized anyone cared about his not being dead.

"I'm invitied?"
"Sorry. I thought you knew. Do you want to come?" Bill only hesitates for a moment, before grabbing his hat, and walking next to Charlie out to the doctor's car.