A/N: I wrote this fic after I started making a fan video (lowkey plugging my shit youtube channel under this same name lol) and I was like, what if Charlie wasn't there to pull Blake up again? And then this kind of happened. Not the same but close I guess. shout out to my pal gibbsheroic27 who has a wonderful fic 'talk me down' which probably helped me with some of this fic. Highly reccomended! Anyways, here's some warnings: Major character death, attempted suicide, police inaccuracies. Also, a fun fact: This was meant to be mostly between Charlie and Jean and titled 'Living with Lady Macbeth' but it turned into just Charlie and Matthew. As things I write tend to. Enjoy, and leave a review if you enjoyed it! Feel free to read with or without shipper goggles. Yall know how I lean lmao.
Every night the same dream.
Him and Blake, up on that tower, Blake hanging between life and death, Charlie's arm the only thing stopping him plummeting down down down the tower and splattering on the pavers below. Every night, Charlie calls his name, and tries to pull him up, up, up back onto the safety of the platform. Every night he's able to. Every night, Blake comes over easily, like he weighs nothing. They fall together, and drink from his flask and they take in deep breaths of air, reflecting on what almost became of them.
And then every morning he wakes up.
…
Hanging half off the bell tower, half out of his mind with panic, Charlie bruises Blake's wrist. He's holding on so tight that his fingers, he feels, couldn't let go, even if he wanted to. When he first slipped there'd been hope, his leg had still been on the ledge, but when he'd tried to use it to push himself up, he'd slipped, his feet hanging below him. Charlie's arms were wrapped as tightly around Blake's as they could be, but he was slipping until only his wrist was the thing Charlie was able to hold.
"Doc!" He pleaded, his freshly healed ribs pressing up against the bar. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. "Please hang on!" He's already lost Matthew, and William and his father and he doesn't want to lose him as well. He has a family. A town. He's important and yet he got stuck with Charlie to save his life. There are other people in the building, firemen. He's calling for them as loudly as he can. Lucien loses his footing entirely as Charlie tries to pull him back to the platform.
"You can say I told you so." He goes quiet for a moment. It's such an absurd thing to say. Something so stupid that only Lucien Blake, on the verge of death would say. He wants to be someone else. Matthew, possibly. Frank Carlyle. Someone stronger. Someone who could pull him up. But he can't. Because the person who could pull him up is hanging off the balcony.
"What?" He asked, perhaps sterner then he intended.
"You told me to come back over. I should have listened."
"I don't want to say I told you so, I want to pull you over this railing."
"I don't think you'll be able to, and there's no sense in both of us going over. You're going to have to let go."
"No. I won't. Just…Let me…" Then, to his horror, Lucien begins to squirm in his grip, to break his fingers away. "No! No, Doc! Please, just wait! Think about Mei Lin, about Jean!" He stopped. Charlie let out half a breath.
"Tell them I loved them." Then capitalizing on Charlie's minute pause, he breaks the grip. Charlie can't tear his eyes away from him as he falls. He falls down down down down down down down. And then he doesn't.
Charlie ran down the steps, calling for someone to call an ambulance. He turns the corner, and he expects Blake to get up. To tell him not to worry so much. Because he's Lucien Blake and he always gets up. Right? He lays still. Charlie almost falls over his own feet running to him, then falling to his knees. His legs are all but ruined. But his face is as always, just…stiller. All noise is dull to him. Someone is pulling him away but he's trying to go to the doctor. Time is slow, he can feel every nerve in his body, every single muscle. All of them are screaming for him to go to the doctor. But he can't.
…
They interview him right away. He tells his story over and over. The words won't stop. He's too afraid to blink because that terrible look of acceptance in his eyes is all that he can see. It goes for hours. Frank and Bill. Bill and Frank. Neither of them think he did anything wrong but it doesn't help. Eventually, they're satisfied. But as soon as they leave the room Charlie can't recall one thing he said.
When he leaves, and returns to the main room, he sees both Ned and Matthew.
"Charlie…" Ned.
"Yes, Ned?"
"I have some messages for you." He blinks, and then nodded.
"They're putting you on unpaid leave until this is all sorted out. You'll probably have a hearing in Melbourne. Secondly, Mrs Beazley told me to tell you not to come home." He feels guilty. He hadn't even thought about Mei Lin and Jean. Alice. Matthew. His daughter. Rose.
"Right." He said, aware of his own distance. Like he was a hundred miles in the air above them all. Then, out of nowhere, blue jumper fills his vision. The smell of cheap soap and dark tea. Matthew. He doesn't know who thought to call Matthew. But he's grateful. Matthew is something solid and steady. He fights off the urge to fall into his arms, Matthew might not appreciate that.
"You'll be staying with Rose and I tonight." He said, with one hand on his shoulder. Charlie is forced to look up to him, again.
"Thank you." He murmured, not sure what else to say. He's tired and his wrist hurts. He wonders who is helping Alice with the autopsy. He doesn't ask. "Who told Mei Lin?" He asked, looking around. Everyone looks guilty.
"I will." Frank said, after a moment. "You go home and rest." It's a lie. He won't be able to rest, not in a million years. But he nods away. Lawson leads him out to his cream Holden, and sits in the divers seat. Charlie takes up in the passenger seat and for not the first time he's glad Matthew doesn't do small talk. He's not sure he could cope with that right now. The world travels past them, even though they're only going forty miles an hour it feels like they're going through the very fabric of time and space.
"I'm on your side."
"Thank you, Boss." He said, softly.
"You can call me Matthew." He doesn't reply, just lay his head on the window, staring out at the people, blissful and unaware. They don't know. He supposes he's still in shock and the sadness will come but he can't feel anything. At all. Not even the gratitude he knows he must display to Matthew for being so kind as to let him spend the night.
They eventually do arrive at Matthew's home. It has three bedrooms, but Charlie has no idea who was meant to sleep in them. Matthew is not married and has no children as far as he knows. Perhaps he just wanted a large house? Charlie, again, doesn't know.
They go inside, and Charlie is well aware of the blood, the doctors blood, that has stained his sleeve. He doesn't know what to do about it. He presses down the corner of the rug with one of his feet. Matthew goes to his sitting room, and Charlie follows. The room is minimalistic, a sofa, a chair, a television and a coffee table. There's a fireplace with minimal kick nacks. It's the opposite of the comfortable clutter at the house on Mycroft Avenue. The fireplace has two pictures, one of Matthew and what Charlie presumed where his parents, he's in his police uniform, stripes denoting that he was a constable, and one of a very young child sitting in his lap, Charlie presumed it was Rose.
He sat on Matthew's couch, and then looked down at his hands. Any blood that had been on them had been picked off hours ago.
"I'll go find you a change of clothes." Matthew said, after a moment. "Make yourself at home." Charlie looked around, and then felt a bit bad about how coldly he'd regarded the place. Though the place was minimalistic it still had an air of home about it, and it was obvious that Matthew did actually enjoy living here. There was a couple of decanters on the table with three upside glasses. There was some fresh looking flowers through the door in the dining room that gave the room a nice feeling.
He stood up a moment later, unable to tolerate his own stillness. He went into the dining room and had a look at the chairs, all neatly pushed around the table. There were flowers on the table in a glass vase. He looked out the window to Lawson's garden which consisted of dying pot plants and a slightly overgrown lawn. He wondered if he could do something about that. On his rusted washing line, there were shirts and pants and jumpers all swaying in the days light breeze.
It's a homely sort of place. Charlie liked it. It wasn't homely like the house on Mycroft Avenue, but it was just another type of comfort. Matthew emerged through the kitchen with some folded clothes.
"Here." He offered. "Your clothes are evidence, as well. Doctor Harvey is coming over to photograph your bruises and take them." Charlie nodded, and walked away to the bathroom he saw near the entryway to change.
Once locked away in the tight walls of the toilet, he let out a deep breath, allowing his lungs to drain of every molecule of air before drawing in a breath of air. He lowered the toilet seat, and sat on the soft cover, before undoing his blazer. Noting Matthew had provided him with evidence bags, he slid it inside, pocket contents and all. He followed that with his shirt and trousers. He was at a loss for his boxer shorts, before noting Matthew had provided him some. He puts aside the feeling of wearing another man's underwear for the time being, and dressed again. The clothes were certainly something Matthew would wear. Some kind of fawn-y trousers, a plain shirt, a jumper. The jumper is made of light material and a soft of soft rust colour. It smells like mothballs. There's a burn mark on the left sleeve, which is probably why it was in storage. But it fits him well enough, and he supposed it was likely left from when Matthew was his age, given everything else was a bit too big. He put his hands on his face, taking a moment to rest his eyes and consider
One everything was in the bag, and he was dressed, he stood and looked in the mirror. He's white as a ghost and when he goes to splash some water on his face, his hands are shaking badly. He leaves quickly after that, putting his clothes on the table. Matthew made tea while he was gone.
He returned to the sitting room, and sat. He's barefoot, having put his socks and shoes in the bags with his uniform. Matthew doesn't notice. Charlie picked up his tea cup and put two sugar cubes in, leaving it free of milk for the time being.
"Rose wants you to give a statement."
"Of course she does."
"I hear the two of you get on pretty well."
"She's…Interesting. I've never met anyone so persistent." Matthew gauffed and picked up a biscuit from the table.
"That's true. When she was little, she used to make me give statements for her news paper."
"That's sweet."
"It was, at first." They both smiled into their tea. Charlie feels so odd, he can't place it but it feels like he can feel every single detail of every single thing around him. Like he can feel every drop of tea on his tongue, and every fiber on his skin, all of it telling him to think about what he didn't want to think about. Before he can voice his thoughts, there was a ring from the doorbell.
Matthew limped to answer it. Charlie feels bad for not having reacted faster. It takes a couple of minutes for Doctor Harvey and her camera to come in.
"Sergeant."
"Doctor." She sat, and put a hand on his arm.
"I spoke with Jean." He nodded. "She thinks you pushed him." Charlie looked up sharply from the cuticle he was picking at.
"What?" It comes out all wrong, twisted and cracking.
"She would like it if you sent someone to get your things."
"Doctor." Matthew said in his best warning tone.
"But I didn't." Charlie said, "You believe me right?"
"I do." Matthew said, without hesitating.
"All the evidence from the autopsy points to accidental death." Alice said, "He fell vertically, if he'd been pushed he likely would have landed on his back." Charlie nodded, and allowed her to snap pictures of his bruised arm. He noticed the bruise is shaped like a hand print. His knuckles are slightly swollen. His wrist hurts. Alice strapped it up for him, and told him to keep it strapped for the next week. He thanked her.
…
The day they buried Lucien Blake, there was an epidemic of butterflies. White Caper butterflies flocked to Victoria in the millions to find a mate causing a beautiful phenomenon. Charlie will never not be convinced that the two events were related. He was surprised he was invited to the funeral. For the past week he'd felt as though he existed in a daze, floating through life, unable to hook onto anything to pull him down. He'd done well not to think of anything to do with this, and gone to great lengths to ensure he was always busy. Mowing the lawn, cleaning out the pot plants, baking, tidying, cleaning, he'd made sure he was busy. He had been to town once, but there were so many whispered, to many. Eyes followed him where ever he went, whispered trailed after him. He doesn't have to be a genius to know that Jean is responsible. He could recall a time where she shunned gossip, but he supposed one dies a hero or lives long enough to see themselves become a villain. He doesn't have any malice for her. She's hurting. All of them are. He just wishes she would express it in a less volatile way.
He walked into the Church with Matthew, sticking close to him. Jean had done well as telling people how she felt of him, but no one was likely to talk cruel to him if Matthew was nearby. He was a dominating person, good to have on your team, terrible to be up against. Mei Lin had done most of the hosting for the funeral, and inherited almost everything. Jean had fought it, she was listed as his next to kin, but everything more or less went to Lee anyway, as far as he knew. Mei Lin was still at the Soldiers Hill, not attempting to make peace with Jean or move into the house. The little building is sweet smelling, to perhaps offset the air of death that permeated everything in these sorts of places. Flowers covered every table. He saw the little bouquet he and Matthew selected sitting on one. He stopped by Mei Lin at the entry way. She looked sad, it was true, but there was something else about her as well.
They looked at one another, and she pulled him into a close hug.
"I'm so sorry." He said, into her shoulder, hugging her back. She let him go, holding onto only his hands.
"Thank you." She said, softly. She was a soft woman, Mei Lin Blake. Not in the soft gives up way, but around the edges. She hadn't let anything she'd been through make her brittle. He appreciated that a lot. He wonders how people can do that, be made soft rather than hard.
There was a viewing of the body. Charlie chose not to go up and see. He'd seen all he needed to at the fire station. Bill Hobart pats his shoulder as he passes. Charlie had something to drink while Matthew went up to say his goodbyes. Perhaps naively, Charlie hoped that if he never acknowledged that Blake was gone, then he couldn't be gone.
They took their seat near the front, as both had been requested to give a small speech. Jean was sitting nearby, she gave him the evil eye. He can smell the alcohol on her from here and he instantly forgives her. She was just hurting, and this would pass.
Matthew speaks first, a beautiful speech about the good times. It's war and it reminds him of Autumn. Then Mei Lin spoke, and Derek Alderton and Frank. Then him. He made his way to the podium, most of Ballarat looking at him, putting him on trial.
"I don't know much about giving speeches. I've never been much of an orator, it's not something they ever taught me at the Police Academy." He took in a breath, and let it out, trying to steady his shaking hands on the podium, but is not able to. "So I'm not trying to do that. I just want to say what I feel." He said, finally. "Lucien Blake was a friend to almost everyone in town. I think it was well known that if you needed a mate, then Lucien could have helped you. He seemed to have endless compassion, and kindness as deep as the ocean. I remember once, when we were walking, he picked up a worm from the footpath and put it into the dirt. When I asked him why, he told me that it was because he could be kind, and even if it meant nothing to him, it meant everything to the worm. I think that was a powerful belief to have, a belief in kindness. When I fir- "
"Then why did you kill him!" Charlie can't find the words to describe his stomach falling into his shoes. He can't even open his mouth to speak before Matthew is ushering him out to the car. He sat in the passenger seat, but wound down the window to hear Matthew giving Jean a piece of his mind.
"-And do you think you're the only person who lost someone? We all lost someone, every one of us. You have no right to act like that, especially to Charlie –"
He wound the window back up, and pulled the sleeves on the blazer Lawson leant him down over his hands. His bruises had started to clear up, finally. But he's not pleased about it, it's like the last of him is finally leaving. He hated it. Matthew comes back to the car and sat in the diver's seat. He lit a cigarette.
"I'm sorry." Charlie murmured. "I tried my best."
"I know you did." Matthew replied.
"I wish things were different."
"I know. So do I. But they aren't, and she's going to have to accept that." Charlie can't cough up any more words. Matthew offers him a cigarette, but he says no. Even in a situation like this, he can't bring himself to smoke. Matthew seems oblivious to it, and rolled down his window, possibly because he didn't want to stink up his car.
…
It doesn't usually rain this late into the spring, but Ballarat has uncontrollable weather at best, he supposed, looking out over the town from his perch on the Bell Tower. The building had just been re opened, and while the fireys had been out, he'd made his way to the top.
He adjusted his arms around the beam he was holding onto. He was standing on the wrong side of the balcony, gazing off into the night. His feet were hanging off the edge of the ledge, his hands curled tight on the pole. It's raining hard, and if he moved, he was sure he would fall into the abyss below him. Across town, the smoke was subsiding. An ambulances siren, as someone got their second chance. Cars, blissfully unaware of the aptitude of loss around him. He almost found it peaceful.
He'd woken up feeling ill, after that same dream. That same dream he had every night, the only time he allowed Lucien into his mind. The only time he allowed himself the grief. The image of Lucien Blake stiller then still burned into his mind. He couldn't look away from it, not now, not ever. He just wanted the inside of his eyes to be dark again, was that so much to ask? He'd gone to the door, looked in on Rose, working away still, and Matthew, asleep in front of the TV, he'd probably been there since Game of Champions. Charlie went to bed early, craving the silence, but was unable to find it. He doesn't even know how he got up here. He knew on his way out of the house, he'd grabbed Matthew's police coat to protect him from the light rain, as if It mattered. It was practically a storm now.
Down below the cream Holden Matthew drives pulled up, and he limps out as fast as he is able on a bum leg. Bill is talking to him, and Charlie knows what is happening, Matthew is probably saying that he knows what to say and that he'll come up and see him and get him down. He's right, because it only takes another few moments for Matthew to come up to the railing next to him. Charlie is wearing his coat. It's very big on him, the sleeves are massive, and he looks like a child. His clothes are still at the house on Mycroft avenue. He can't face going to collect them, not yet.
"I wasn't going to jump." He said. "If that's what you're worried about." He has to yell above the driving spring rain. It's not cold. If anything, it's pleasant out. Just a bit wet.
"I didn't think you would." Matthew replied, cautiously approaching him. He's leaning heavily on his cane, Charlie can hear it in his walk he doesn't have to look. He stops a few feet away, scared of spooking him, he supposes.
" I just wanted to see how it felt, to tempt fate." He said, "I don't think I'm going to jump. I'm scared to die." He does want to jump, but he can't. Physically can't remove his arms from the post holding him.
"I would be too." Matthew said. Charlie looks at him. In the half light, he looks like a skeleton, with those high cheeks and pale face. He's inches away. Charlie can't even let go of the beam holding him there.
"I 'spose I'm a coward. He just let go of my hand and off he went. Down, down, down." He recounted. "But me? I can't even jump off a roof. Does that me a coward, do you think? To be scared of dying?" He can almost smell the fear in the air as Matthew inches next to him. It's raining, the driving pellets of water coming into the bell tower. He's wet now, not as wet as him, but still damp. Charlie's hair is soaked, the curls have absorbed the water and his hair has made it's way onto his face. Matthew's hair looks string-y in the rain. It's almost comical.
"I don't think it's cowardly to be scared of dying. I've spent years being scared of death." He said, voice taking on a softer tone, he's using the old police tricks to get him down, Charlie knows this because he's also a police officer and if their places were swapped he'd be using the same tricks. "If you won't come to me, then I might have to come to you." Matthew said, before bracing himself, and then swinging one leg over the wet railing. Charlie will never understand how he did that. It must have been incredibly painful for him, to put so much weight on the leg that couldn't, not as far as they knew. Charlie looks at him, and he looks ridiculous. His cane has fallen a few feet away, but Charlie didn't notice.
"I won't jump."
"I know. I'd still feel better if you were here with me though. It's slippery up here." Down below, people are looking at him and for a second, he wants to throw himself down there as a statement. To watch those people scream and scrabble. His arms loosen ever so slightly.
"Charlie, don't! Two people have already died on this tower. Don't make it three. Wait with me. Please." There's something about that last please, something that scrapes at his very insides. Matthew Lawson lost his best friend, almost his leg, and now he was losing Charlie as well. His stomach swirls painfully. It's such a long way down. But then wouldn't all this be over, if he fell? No trial, no shamefaced mother, no wearing Matthew's clothes because he can't work up the courage to go collect his own. Would he even feel the pain, if he fell? Did Lucien? He took another look at Matthew, sitting astride a railing, desperate to pull him back to the other side. He was standing halfway between life and death and he could have fallen either way. "Please." He knew what he always knew. He wasn't going to jump.
He moved one hand onto the railing, and stepped away from the pole, back to the railing, putting his feet sideways on the narrow, slippery ledge. He climbed back over ungracefully, and fell onto the wet floor of the bell tower. Matthew looks visibly relieved, and then he begins, incredulously, to cry. Charlie has never seen Matthew cry before, and he certainly never wants to see it again. Below, he can distantly hear people cheering. Matthew practically threw himself onto the ground, before he pulls him close and tight.
He smells like rain. He's soaked to the skin in the warm spring rain, just like Charlie. Matthew doesn't even give him a chance to breathe before he's tight up against his chest, listening to the reverberation of his sobs in his chest. It took him a second to realize that Matthew was saying his name over and over again. He starts to cry as well, though he isn't sure why, and tightens his hands in Matthew's shirt.
"I can't lose you as well." He said, mostly into Charlie's hair. Charlie shut his eyes, and took in a deep breath through his nose.
"I'm sorry."
"Never do anything like this again, do you hear me?" It's not as rough as Matthew probably wanted it to be. It's too soft to be his voice, too full of emotion.
"I won't." Charlie whispered, "I won't." He doesn't know how long they sat there in the rain, but it must be hours. No one comes to take them down. No one comes to take him off to be sectioned as he'd believed he would be. Just him and Matthew, sitting together in the beating rain.
Eventually they have to leave the tower, Matthew keeps him close with one arm. It's suffocating and he wants to shove it off. But he doesn't. The coat reaches almost the ground, and it's heavy. Matthew leads him to the car, and people cheer as they pass. Someone tells Matthew well done. His hand tightens it's hold on him. For a split second, he never wants it to let go.
…
One thing Charlie finds, is that he's very good at keeping himself busy. Excellent at it, in fact. He's been keeping himself solidly busy for the last few days. Last week. He's cleaned and mowed and emptied and replanted and baked until he wasn't able to anymore.
"I think we should go into town." Matthew said, from the sofa. Charlie was in the dining room polishing the silver. He already polished them, but he felt like he could do a better job. They'd been struggling though each other's presence since the tower incident. He doesn't know how to be around him, and Matthew also doesn't know how to be around him.
"Why would we do that?" He asked back, setting a spoon in the open drawer caddy.
"I'm tired of being in the house all the time."
"Where would we go?"
"We could go see the grave." They hadn't been yet. Charlie isn't sure when it stopped being him and started being them, but neither had wanted to go see it, not yet. "We could take a picnic. Make a day of it."
"No. I don't think so. You can go, if you want."
"We could stop at Jean's on the way home, go get your things." It was mutually decided on that Charlie was probably going to be moving in with Matthew. In part because Matthew enjoyed his company, and equally so that Charlie just didn't want to be in the spaces where he used to be. He frowned deeply. He didn't want to go to see a stone that said his best friend was dead, he didn't want to go see Jean, and he didn't want to make a day of it. But he supposes it would be mean to stay in Matthew's house then not do the few things he asked if they could do.
He walked to the living room, and then sat next to him on the sofa. Matthew is reading the sports section of the paper, apparently he's invested in the cricket. Charlie himself never had been. Sports had always been for people who had spare time and up until a week and three days ago, he'd not had spare time. Now all he has is spare time and he doesn't know what to do with it. It's a hot day, and both he and Matthew have traded in jumpers for plain shirts. On the table, there is a glass vase with some flowers Charlie got from the garden in it. They're slightly wilted in the heat.
"Alright." He said, after a moment, but they didn't move. He didn't want to go, Matthew didn't want to go. Both of them knew that had to. He's the first to stand, he goes to the kitchen to prepare them a picnic. He made sandwiches, which is all they really have the ingredients for, as well as a flask of tea, since it seemed to be the only drink they really had in common.
The grave is next to his mothers. It's mostly indistinguishable from all the others, engraved with his name, and a simple epitaph. 'Lucien Blake, friend of many. 1917-1960' they didn't have the money for a big one like his mother but Charlie thought it was nice enough. Matthew spread the picnic blanket out on the ground, and then sat, laying his cane to the side. Charlie sat across from him, and then distributed the various grease paper wrapped packages. Butterflies were everywhere he could see, some had even gone so far as to land on the grave. It's nice being around Matthew. He's quiet, and he doesn't require constant talk like some people. It's an easy silence, and he likes it a lot.
"It's a nice stone." He nodded in agreement, and held his hand out one white little butterfly landed on his hand. Matthew gave him a rare smile, and not the mocking sort, that he used to see when he worked at the station. An actual genuine smile.
"You try." Charlie encouraged, grinning back. Matthew did, and a single butterfly followed by landing on his hand as well. It felt weird, to have something so notoriously free so close to him. He has to fight the urge to crush it between his palms. After a second, the butterfly takes off, closely followed by Matthews. He reached down to take a bite of his sandwich. Charlie couldn't help but grin again.
"How's your leg?" Charlie asked, finally. "It was a bit of a hike in here."
"It's alright." He replied, unconsciously reaching down to rub his thigh. Matthew did that a lot actually. When he was nervous, or worried. He nodded,
"I reckon one day you might be able to ditch the cane." Truthfully. He'd made a lot of progress snce the accident. Matthew scoffed, and took a sip from the leftmost flask, which is filled with hot tea. He pulled a funny face, not expecting it to be as hot as it was. Charlie can't help but to scoff right back at him.
"That's hot." Matthew defended.
"It's in a flask, what where you expecting?" He doesn't have a come back for that one, only a wrinkled nose.
It's not as bad as it could be, he thought, gazing around the butterfly filled graveyard. He'd expected this to be a sad occasion, for the two of them to be fighting off tears but he doesn't feel anything. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same as ever. Slightly numb still. A bit dulled. But fine. Air comes and goes. Time ticks by at its usual speed. He felt fine. Perfectly fine. Not good, but not terrible either.
He stops feeling fine at the house on Mycroft Avenue, though. As he expected, Jean is still icy towards him, but at least she isn't being cruel. He doesn't think he could stand it, if she was being cruel. She's kinder, marginally, to Matthew. But again, he's not upset with her. She'll come back to herself sooner or later, that he knows as a fact. She lets them up to his bedroom, where Matthew takes in a small breath.
"What?"
"Smaller than I expected." Charlie rolled his eyes, and pulled his suitcase from the wardrobe. He has more than when he arrived, but it mostly fits into the case. Shirts and pants and shoes and socks. Matthew gathered up the things he knew were Charlie's from his dresser and packed them into the box he'd brought with them for such things. And he was fine. It was just stuff. It didn't matter if that particular book was a birthday gift from Blake, because he had to get away from this place. He stood at the doorway to the room he'd called home for a little under six months. It smells stale. He turned his back.
It takes less than half an hour for the two of them to pack his belongings into a bag and box. Such a small amount. He could it everything he had with him into the back of Matthew's car. He wonders how that could be, but doesn't dwell on it. Jean lets them out, and he wonders how she can stand to be alone in that big, big house with nothing but ghosts to keep her company.
…
Someone is crying. And it's not him. Charlie had been listening to whomever it was for the better part of thirty minutes now. Rose is not home, she was still working, despite it being the early hours of the morning. She was writing for his return to duty, which she was positive he was going to get. Inspectors had come from Melbourne to investigate him, he'd given so may statements that he could recite it by memory. He's desensitized to it. It was horrible, yes, but it happened. It felt like it was a million years in the past, rather than two weeks ago.
The soft crying continued. Logically, it could only be Matthew. He stood at the door to the other room. Hand paused on the knob, it occurred to him. He wasn't the only one to lose someone. Matthew lost his mate. His school mate. Jean lost a love. Mei Lin lost a husband. He'd been so wrapped in his own grief, or perhaps, ignoring it, that he'd forgotten everyone else was hurting as well.
Perhaps he should just let him cry? Face it, he didn't know anything about comforting people. He was too stiff and too still. But surely he can't just let Matthew there to cry, can he? Well he could. But that's not what Blake would do. He cracked the door open. Matthew sat up straight in bed, gripping the blanket in both hands. It's dark, only half his face can be seen in the light cast by his window.
"Charlie. Do you need something?" Charlie leant on the doorframe, looking in. He's not sure how to respond, not now. He doesn't know how to comfort. It's never been his forte, even with his brothers.
"I heard you crying." Matthew Pauses, and wiped his face on the back of his hand. He looked around, before moving to sit on his bed.
"Did I wake you?"
"Can't sleep."
"Sorry anyway." Charlie looked down at his hands briefly, then back to Matthew.
"Would it be fine if I sat with you?" You need it, but he doesn't say that part out loud, he's not an idiot.
"Yes, that would be fine." Charlie made his way across the bed to sit next to Matthew's pillow. Matthew lay back down, as Charlie pulled his legs up to his chin. Silence settled between them.
"He's dead Matthew." Matthew looked up at him, and Charlie is aware that this is the first time he's said it since the day of the incident. He hadn't been able to register that he'd never see the man again. It felt to unreal. Unlikely, even. "He's dead, and gone and not coming back."
Matthew pulled the sheets aside, and grabbed a flask from his bedside table, downing a mouthful. Charlie felt his stomach fill with mild disgust. He can't imagine drinking whiskey with morning breath, though he suspects it's a new addition to the bedside table. He got out of bed, leaning on his good leg, and picked up his alarm clock, before hurling it at the wall. The glass shattered all over the carpet, the metal shell landed with a small thud on the carpet. A perfect metaphor. He leant down, and overturned his side table, its contents landing on the ground as well. A book he was halfway through, change, a pen and paper and a glass of water. Then grabbed his pillow, flinging it at the wall, it fell with an unsatisfying plop. Too soft, not destructive enough. Feathers escaped and fluttered to the ground like a mockery of the plague of butterflies outside the window.
Matthew let out a heart piercing scream, the sort that only comes from raw emotion. Charlie had heard few of them in his life. It occurred to him, at that moment, that maybe he should be scared. Matthew was literally having some kind of breakdown. But he wasn't scared, not of Matthew. He knew that the man would never hurt him on purpose, and besides, it was only going to be a couple more minutes before his leg gave out and he went down.
Falling over his own feet he grabbed his chair he sat in to tie his shoes and get his pants on, and threw it at the dresser. The wooden items collided, the dresser dented, the leg on the chair cracked loudly. He tried to spin around but his leg gave out, it was beautiful, in a way. A swan song, or sorts. Of course the proceeding fall was nothing like a swan, not graceful or beautiful, just a hurting man burdened with so many other hurting souls he forgot to look after himself. He ended up on the floor, screaming and crying while Charlie remained on the bed. He stood, and dropped himself down next to Matthew, wrapping him tight in his arms. Matthew's head ends up pressed to his chest, his hands pull on Charlie's arms but Charlie doesn't know if that means let go, or hold me closer. He doesn't know much about comforting, but in such a situation he would turn to his friend for comfort. The air seems heavy and all Charlie can do is hold him while he let it all out. And there was a lot. He seemed to just yell and cry until his voice gaye way to pitiful little sobs and moans.
Eventually, Lawson is able to get himself back under control. Charlie let out a silent sigh. He was worried it might never stop.
"I'm sorry." Is the first thing he said, barely able to get it through his ruined throat. Charlie's glad Rose isn't here, because he doesn't want her to see someone she idolized worn down like this.
"It's okay." It's my fault, he wanted to say. I didn't see all the other hurt, just my own.
"No. It's not. I had no right to go and do something like that." Charlie sighed softly and let Matthew go. He helped him back up onto the bed, and then sat back where he had been. Matthew lay down, and put his hands on his stomach, fingers laced.
"We'll fix it." Charlie said, after a moment, to break the uneasy silence.
"How?"
"Glue and sticking tape."
"I suppose."
"We could go away for a while." He said, after a moment. "Melbourne, I guess. Maybe somewhere even further away, like New Zealand." It's a sudden thought, but maybe it was what they needed. To leave it all for a while, to let the town quiet down. To heal a bit. He thinks that Lucien would like for them to heal.
"I think I'd like that." Charlie nodded, and let his knees down.
"Come here." Matthew said, after a moment, welcoming Charlie into his arms. Charlie obliged. He could hear Matthew's heart beating in his chest. It's the most comforting thing he's heard all day.
"I miss him." It's both the smallest and biggest admission he'd ever made. He missed Lucien so bad that some days it hurt to know he would never eat across from him at the table, or share a drink, or drive to work.
"So do I." Matthew replied, softly.
…
"According to a statement given by the visiting Inspectors, Charlie Davis has been officially cleared of any wrongdoing associated with the death of Lucien Blake." Rose read, "In a statement given to the Courier, Sergeant Davis said: "I never doubted what the outcome of the investigation would be. I would like to extend my thanks to everyone who gave me benefit of the doubt, especially Matthew Lawson, who has been a good friend to me in these times. I know that Doctor Blake's passing with leave a wound on this community that will take many years to heal, and I believe that now this has come to pass, we can truly start the healing process." Rose read from the paper. Matthew scoffed. She stopped and looked up, confused. Matthew glanced at Charlie, who was picking sultanas from his cereal and putting them on a napkin.
"What?" He asked, not sure what he'd done to inspire such a scoff.
"Nice statement."
"Thanks."
"I imagine you got good marks in school with that bullshit." In response, Charlie just rolled his eyes.
"Yeah well. People wanted to hear me be humble so humble I was." He replied. He felt sunnier, knowing that he was no longer under suspicion for murder. Rose has given up on reading her article allowed. Charlie glanced at the paper to see the image chosen was one from the court in Melbourne where they'd presented evidence. He's smiling, and walking next to Matthew. Fitting. At least he's wearing his own clothes.
The rest of breakfast passes without incident, Charlie has plans to visit Jean later in the day and collect a few of the things he forgot. Perhaps the biggest thing to note was that he was going alone. It wasn't that he didn't want to take Matthew with him for support (he did) but Matthew had other things to do today, and he was going to have to live his life without Matthew to hold onto one day so now seemed like a good enough time to start.
He said goodbye to Matthew and Rose around eleven, and took the bus to the stop closest to the house on Mycroft Avenue. It's a short walk to the house, one he used to enjoy on the days he felt compelled to take the bus into work. He waves at a neighbor, and pet the dog that came up to the fence of the house three doors down.
Jean let him in when he knocked. She looked him up and down and then put a hand on his arm. "Would you like some tea?" She asked, sounding like she used to, abeit sadder
"Yes, thanks" He said, after a moment. She put the kettle on, and they sat across from one another, while the kettle boiled, the only noise in the small room.
"How are you?" He asked, deciding that he didn't want to fight with Jean forever, he was ready to throw in the towel on any feud they might have been having. She gave him a weak smile.
"Better." She said, "I started going back to church." She stood, and poured two cups of tea. Charlie put in two sugar cubes, he wanted something sweet.
"That's good." He said, sipping tea.
"Yes, I thought it was." She paused, "And you?"
"Better now I've been cleared of suspicion." He replied, stirring his cup with a spoon, careful not to clink it on the outside of the cup. He hated that sound.
"I thought your statement was poignant."
"I tried." He said, not having the heart to tell her that most of it was just said as he knew that was what people wanted to hear. He'd never been a very community minded person, but people liked people who at least pretended they were. Pause.
"I don't know how you're going to help the community if you're going away, though."
"Danny told you?" She nodded. While he'd never met Danny personally, he knew that the other had returned to the station in his absence was expected to stay on a while (not that he was complaining.) and had probably overheard Frank on the phone with him.
"Didn't say where you were headed."
"Northern territory. They need someone to be the head bloke up there. Small town."
"Why did you pick there?"
"I wanted to go somewhere where I can build a new reputation for myself."
"How long will you stay?"
"A year, then their boss will be back from his accident. Then I have a placement lined up at St Kilda for six months."
"How?"
"Someone's taking leave to go see the states. Matthew put in a good word for me."
"Will you come back?"
"Maybe." A pause in conversation, "It's likely."
"The Northern Territory is a long way away from Matthew Lawson." Jean commented. Charlie replied by prolonging his pause by sipping his tea.
"I know. That's why he's coming with me."
"With you?"
"Mm hm." He hummed, adding another sugar cube to his drink.
"What about Rose?"
"She's fine alone. In fact I think she prefers it."
"Money?"
"The pension doesn't stop because he's out of state." He wasn't sure he liked the direction of these questions. "we'll be back, though. Matthew could never leave this town forever." As much as Charlie would have liked him to. Jean nodded again. She swallowed a mouthful of tea.
"Do you miss him?"
"Constantly." She smiled slightly.
"Remember when he had you pretend to be a body on your bike?" Charlie laughed at the memory. While it hadn't been funny at the time, it was looking back.
"Indeed." He said, "Or when the electric kettle caught on fire and he came in with just a towel on to put it out?" Even Jean has to laugh at that memory. While it may have been a tad awkward it was one of the good ones. Charlie supposed that there was mostly good memories. He'd rather have those, he decided.
He left around lunch time, because Jean had arrangments in town, as much as he would have liked to stay and talk more about the doctor, something he felt like he hadn't done enough of. After leaving the Blake house by bus, his things in a box on his lap, he went to the graveyard across town. He located the simple plaque, and tossed aside the dead flowers from both Blake and his mother's grave. They were only a couple of days gone, Jean probably put them there. He set his box down, and sat cross legged in the dirt.
"Hullo, Doc." He said, not sure how to start. He didn't know much about how to talk to graves. He'd never even seen his fathers, his mother refused to tell him where it was. "I miss you." He said, finally. It felt weird. "I wish you'd never gone over that railing, but I suppose that means nothing now, doesn't it?" He asked, rhetorically. "I think this is the start of moving on, but I can't be sure. I don't know what I'll be like, when you're not something I'm either thinking about or not thinking about. Please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life getting drunk and missing you, as tempting as that might be. I don't want you to be a wound on my heart. I want you to be a scar that I look at fondly, like a scraped knee. It hurt when you got it, but looking back, you probably had fun before that part. You know? Or maybe not. I've always been a bit shit at metaphors." He paused, and sat back on his arms. "So I'm going away for a while. Don't worry, I'm taking Matthew with me, he'll make sure I don't do anything stupid, and I'll do the same with him. I'll write Jean some post cards. Do you think she'd like that?" He sighed, and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I don't know what happens after you die. I've always thought you went to Heaven if you were good, and you were. You were very good. I hope you did. Because if Heaven is real, then there's a chance I'll get to see you again some day. Not any time soon. But some day. When I'm old and grey, and surrounded by my great great grand kids, I hope. But someday, I hope I'll get to see you again, and hold you and tell you just how important you were to me. I can't do that, right now, and it's eating my heart out, but I suppose that's my cross to bare, isn't it?" He stood, and collected his box into his arms. "I'll see you around, Doctor Blake." He said, before turning his back on the stone, and heading for the bus stop, all around him, white butterflies.
…