/I quite like this drunk and despondent Blake storyline that's been floating around recently, inspired me to try my hand at it, of course with way too much angst and Charlie as the protagonist, since that's just how I roll. Shout out to crinklybrownleaves for encouraging me to actually get off my ass and write this :-) if you put your shipper goggles on, you can see the ships in here, but I tried to keep them on the DL. Warnings: alcoholism and abuse, primarily. Charlie does not deal well with either of the main conflicts in this fic so be warned. It's dark.

By Charlie's count, he's been here at the kitchen table for forty five minutes and his tea is cold. He is still holding onto the cup, shell shocked, perhaps even frightened. Unsure. Alone. This is when Mattie gets home. She doesn't stop in to say good evening to the doctor, but he assumes she can hear the clink-clank of decanter to glass as he continued his steady path to black out.

She stops when she sees him, coat still on her shoulders, not willing to loiter near his officer for too long.

"Did he do that to you?"

Her tone makes it sound so much worse. There is a bruise on his left cheek bone, purple and tender and crawling up his face like a caterpillar.

"Yeah."

Mattie is fussing already, in the kitchen, going through fridge they stocked the night before for something frozen. She returns with an ice pack from Mrs Beazley's handy hiding place under the sink and stands, holding it up to his face, even if it may be too late. That's a pretty good description of their lives, actually.

"Should I call Matthew?"

"No, no. I'll be fine."

She doesn't believe him but allows him this. It's a cold comfort.

"What are we going to do?"

"I've got a room at the hospital, you know that Matthew or even Bill Hobart would give you a place to stay if you need it."

Of course she had a back up plan. She always did. He gives a small, grim smile.

"Maybe you should go."

He said, after a moment. "I don't know if I'd be able to contain myself if he so much as raised hand to you in his head." It's a lame joke but Mattie doesn't comment.

"I'm not leaving you here."

She said, dryly, as if Charlie was a child she was scolding. He sighed, and took the ice pack from her as she moved away. She's taking things out of the fridge, putting them on the counter top. He's following with his eyes, wondering how they came to be stranded on such a sinking ship that they are.

…

Matthew Lawson it hit by a car at three twenty on a Tuesday after noon. It is this Tuesday afternoon, at five fifteen, sitting in the hospital room by his side, keeping his eyes firmly away from the nothing where there used to be a something, that Charlie Davis gives up. For a whole moment, for six and a half seconds, Charlie Davis gave up. Lucien Blake is not coming back. There is nothing to wait for. He had thought, when he called him in the hospital, that he would be back to himself, and that he would fix Lawson because Blake always seemed to know when something was wrong.

But he doesn't pick up the phone. He doesn't rush to the hospital. He doesn't save Matthew Lawson's leg. So he gives up. He stops caring. Lucien Blake can drink himself to death for all he cares. Of course as soon as he thinks it he feels bad. How can he give up on someone so easily. His bruise burns again. His pride stings. Lawson shifts, and Charlie looks back to him, hovering in the space of sadness and regret, and like so many people do, he blames himself.

What was he going to do, he wonders, taking a small shuddering breath as he moved and aggravated one of his broken ribs. He was about to have a lot of spare time on his hands after all, with the time of work he was going to have to take to recover from this. The only thing that hurts him worse then breathing right now is the stinging bruise on his face. He hopes Mattie is dealing with him okay.

The afternoon turns into the night, but no one has the heart to tell him to leave. The red head nurse checks on them twice. He ends up falling asleep, arms still folded, still wondering what he was going to do, leaving a stain on his mind that he can't wash out. Lawson, unhelpfully, remains unconscious.

…

When it looks like Lawson is no longer at deaths door, the hospital sends him home. Home, of course, meaning Hobart's place. It's not like Charlie is afraid of Blake, or anything. But Hobart is closer to the hospital and the most understanding of the situation outside of Doctor Harvey, who he was fairly certain slept in the drawers in the morgue.

Hobart's place was nice, if a little small. As per Mattie's orders, Bill has given Charlie the bed and taken the couch without even complaining, which, honestly, is very strange. But his ribs still hurt so he doesn't argue. A few times now he's asked Hobart if he wants to come to the hospital, sure that the new super won't mind, but he always says no, and confesses, one night, that it's because he's not going to be welcome. Charlie disagrees but he doesn't try and force him.

Hobart won't drink with Charlie in the house. His bottles are just as full now as they were the first night he showed up. He supposes that he's grateful, in a strange, strange way. He knows Mattie has moved back into her room at the hospital, even if she still hates her room mate. He wonders if this is what Blake wanted. He wonders if he's even noticed that they're gone.

...

It takes a while for Lawson to be up to staying awake for long periods of time and talking. In this time, he meets the man's niece, Rose. She's fine. He remains impartial. He asks Charlie about Blake and he answers honestly. He doesn't know. Part of him is happy. Part of him wants clean shirts.

At six thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, Charlie has gone to see him and Lawson is alone. He is alone a lot, actually. He claims he doesn't mind but Charlie's not sure. They're talking when Lawson says suddenly:

"None of this is your fault. You know that, don't you?"

That was the exact moment in time where every paper thin shred that had been holding Charlie Davis together, every moment, every thought, ever smidge of guilt bubbled up to the surface. He tumbled to the ground by the bed, resting his cheek on the bed sheet. He feels disconnected from his body. Like he's floating above it, actually, looking in, looking down. He can hear himself begging, begging, pleading for forgiveness. Lawson is shocked, he doesn't understand why this is for several moments.

Then he realises that it's only part about him. It's part Jean. It's part Blake. It's part Doug Ashby. It's part Munro. It's part Charlie Davis himself. Spread out bare on the over washed cotton sheets at the Ballarat hospital. Lawson reaches out one hand, and put it in Charlie's hair, as comforting as he can be. His ribs hurt from the sobbing. He hurts, all over.

"It's not your fault that we aren't enough for him."

Somehow, hearing it out loud is enough to make the wound all the deeper. His rib cage hurts from the force of the sobs. Lawson is as comforting as he can be. At least this will never change, Charlie tells himself. Eventually, he calms himself enough to apologise. Lawson, however, has pushed himself against the wall. He was moved to one of the two bed rooms a while back, but Mattie has so far managed to keep the other bed unoccupied.

"Here. Lie with me."

Charlie does. He puts his face into Lawson's neck and closes his eyes, debating if he could stay right here forever. There is an arm around him next. It's out of character. But then again. So is the crying. He doesn't complain.

"It's not your fault that he doesn't see you, Charlie. It's not your fault I lost my leg, and it's not your fault that Munro tried to push me out. None of that was your fault, do you understand?"

He doesn't reply, just sniffles, and shuts his eyes for a moment. Lawson seems to take a cue and starts telling him a story about the war, when he stood up to a commanding officer, believing that they were doing the wrong thing. He's heard this story a million times before, it's his favourite. But Charlie doesn't complain, he just enjoys this nice moment for as long as fate will let him have it.

…

Lawson goes home three days later, and they throw a small party for him. There are only really police men there, plus Rose, Mattie and Doctor Harvey. It seems to be going quite well, in Charlie's opinion. Blake is not there. Hobart had said he would call, but some how Charlie didn't think he would pick up.

There's just this little part of him that wants the old Blake back. Apparently, Mattie called Jean, who said she was staying out of town for the forseeable future. Even Blake's condition didn't phase her. And he supposes he cant be too cross with her. He just wishes that it wasn't him that was going to have to take the brunt of it.

He had hoped at least one of them would come, but perhaps that was in vain. Blake drove himself to drink, Jean threw herself into family life. Where did that leave him?

It is at eight forty three that Mattie tells him her news. They are standing on Lawson's back poach, taking a small break. The moon is out, but he's not sure if it's waxing or waning, the half light shows Lawson's untamed grass and rusted clothesline like a jungle ready to be explored.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

It comes out as a rush, before he can even say anything. He wants to ask why. He wants to beg her to stay. But he does neither. He lets her keep talking.

"I got a job offer, a really great one."

"Melbourne isn't far."

"It's in London. St Barts. The Doctor...Used to speak highly of it, and it's once in a life time and...I'm sorry."

Silence falls over the grassy jungle, the only sound is the soft and distant creak of the unused washing line as it spun, fused metal arms holding fast against the disintegrating metal, outstretched, as if it were trying to fly away.

"Oh."

"I'm scared."

He doesn't have a reply to that, just looks up to the moon. The moon shines back. It doesn't reply.

"I'm not. You'll do great."

He is not sure that's true. He's very scared, but not of London. Not of leaving. Of staying. Of going crazy. Not in the getting locked up in Mayday Hills kind of way, but in the three day old bruises covering week old bruises and saying he can change kind of way. That terrifies him. But he coughs up a smile for Mattie, who pulls him into a hug and kisses his left cheek. Then his right.

"I'll write. I promise. Every single week. If you do the same."

A pregnant pause.

"Just promise me you won't let him hit you ever again."

"I won't."

"Promise me!"

It occurs to Charlie, that as the district nurse, she must see a lot of abused men and women and children. It occurs to Charlie that she is scared he will bend and break and let Blake get away with it. He steels his resolve.

"I promise."

"No one would blame you, if you never went back."

The worst part is that she's right. No one would. In fact, Lawson has offered him the downstairs room for a good price, better then Blakes (which was probably the idea) on the condition that Charlie would cook for him. But his pride would never let him take it. Lawson has already leant Charlie his cream Ford to drive around while he can't and Blake won't. He can't take any more of the injured man's kindness. Anyway: He'd never forgive himself if he let a friend suffer when he could be saved. What kind of friend is that?

"I can't."

She gives him a sad smile, and pats his cheek gently with one hand.

"I knew you would say that."

Silence returns to the jungle.

…

He spent the night at Lawson's house. The following morning, Lawson tries to pitch his housemates idea again. Again, Charlie shoots it down. It's not that he doesn't want to live with Lawson, the idea is actually very appealing to him, but he also has to look out for the doctor, his pride demanded it of him.

He spent the rest of the morning tidying up after last nights party, not that there was an awful lot to do. Most of it had been done by him and Rose last night. Truth was: he was avoiding the Blake house. He didn't want to go back and realise that Mattie was gone or perhaps worse: Bump into her as she was leaving. Did that make him a bad person? Probably.

As he heads to the door, he stops to look back at Lawson and Rose. Lawson has had her push him to the door so he can see him off. He stops Charlie by grabbing his arm and looking into his eyes with those intense grey ones. Charlie wonders if his eyes buckle under the pressure like he feels he will.

"You are welcome here any time. Call me, and I will send someone to come and get you."

He nods. What else can he do? He heads to the car, and waves, before he concentrates on driving away. The car is nice, actually. It smells clean. Lawson has leant it to him for the time being. He wonders how Rose gets around, seeing that she is, if one believes Hobart, everywhere. Maybe she has a car of her own? It's a wonder. Perhaps even an interesting thought. But he also needs a car so he's never inquired. It was strange, really. He'd never considered how he'd gotten around before. He'd just caught rides with Blake or Lawson or even Mattie. Now none of them were able to take him anywhere.

He wonders if he should head home or to Hobart's. He chooses to go and see if Blake has managed to survive without him.

The house is dusty. Fine. He was, somehow, expecting this. He doesn't linger in the hallways, he doesn't look into the office, he just hurries on his way to the kitchen. There is a note on the table addressed to Blake in Mattie's handwriting. It's unread. He leaves it be for now. In the sink, there are dirty dishes and pans, so he has, in fact, been eating. That's good Charlie supposed, that he wasn't starving himself. There is a receipt on the bench for booze, more then enough for someone who was trying to drink himself to death, he supposed. But then again, he's never known an awful lot about alcohol.

Deciding to bite the bullet, he made his way into Blake's office, and realised he had passed out. He hovers, not sure what to do, not wanting another fight, but not wanting to leave him here like this either. He sat in the crowded chair opposite to him and too the doctor in. He was unshaven and undressed. He looked as though he was sick he was that pale and grey. His beard was grown out and uncared for. His hair was a mess. He looked exactly like Charlie would have thought and alcoholic would look like. It makes him sad, so sad. What was he going to do, he wondered, leaning his arms forward on the table so he was leaning on the desk, and he put his head down.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what for. He wonders, if this is the beginning of him going crazy.

"I'm sorry that we aren't enough for you."

He's blinking back tears that are threatening his eyes now, building up.

"I'm sorry that me, Mattie and Lawson... I'm sorry we weren't enough to keep you here."

He realises, about then, at two fifty three on a Saturday afternoon, that he is speaking as if Blake himself is dead rather then simply drunk because, Charlie thinks, he might be. Drunk, dead. Dead, drunk. Lucien Blake would never kill himself, that is what people will tell you, he is far to selfish for that but Charlie disagrees, he thinks that Blake just likes being drunk too much to kill himself and never be drunk again.

He wonders, why not just get it over with, since that was clearly what he was trying to do. Why not just kill himself, with that pistol in the third draw of his desk, throw himself into oncoming traffic, wade out to the Lake with stones in his pockets. Why this? Why drink himself to death and make the people who love him sit by and watch, unable to help, unable to help him. Charlie sat up, finally, and sniffed, before wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve.

"If all of us, if all of Ballarat isn't enough for you, then what hope do I have?"

Blake, unhelpfully, stayed unconscious. Charlie watches, unable to even look away from the death taking place before his eyes. He can't get up and go. He can't stay and watch. Seemingly, anchored in his place, the beginnings of a plan begin to form in his mind and he wonders, he wonders, he wonders.

At some point, Blake wakes up, and comes into the kitchen where Charlie is sipping tea from a cup. He's still not sober, at least, not sober enough to be kind to him. He opens the fridge, and examines the contents, then looks at Charlie, and then at the dishes in the sink, as if to ask him why he hasn't done the shopping or cleaned and he wants to say it's because his ribs are broken and he's tired but he doesn't. Just stays as he is, sipping his tea.

"Have you eaten?"

There's something accusatory there, in his words, hidden. Charlie doesn't care.

"Not hungry. Would you like me to make you something?"

Perhaps this is an olive branch. Perhaps it's not.

"Only if you're making something for yourself."

He stumbles back to his office. Charlie can hear the clinking of bottles long after he's gone to bed, and he still hears them when he's fallen asleep.

…

The following morning, Charlie is up at seven. He assumes Blake will be hung over, but he does feel a slight bad for not feeding him the previous evening. Jean used to make him bacon and eggs when he was hung over, so he decides to avoid that and go for something easier, like pancakes.

It's simple enough to make, but he comes to see that the pans in the sink, some have seemingly rusted. He tosses those ones, not trusting them. He scrubs whatever pans are left, and decides that they will not be having pancakes this morning. He instead digs out the blue two tone toaster and loads it with toast. After it pops, he coats one piece with honey and butter, and the other with butter in jam. He leaves them on the counter top for the doctor, along with Mattie's note, still not sure what he is going to do, given that Frank Carlyle is not letting him come back into work.

Blake doesn't emerge for hours. But this time, Charlie has begun to clean up the house, dusting this, and taking the rugs out side to be beat over the rail. He's always liked doing that. A free pass to be violent, all things considered. He'd always thought that Bill would do a good job at beating rugs.

He does show his face at lunch, when he hears Charlie in the kitchen making sandwhiches. He takes one with no thanks, and vanishes into his office again. Charlie is stuck, looking at the back of his dirty, sweat stained shirt as he leaves. He cleans up the lunch dishes. He wonders what he should do.

He thinks about calling Lawson late in the afternoon. He might be able to take him up on the house mates offer still, he thinks, but he doesn't know for sure. Probably. But he doesn't. He can't, or, perhaps more so, he won't.

It's at exactly eight sixteen that Charlie takes the first steps of his plan. He walks into the office, and that little bit of sadness bubbles in his gut, taking over his body slowly, before becoming anger. Why not? Why is Blake doing this to himself, he thought. He misses Mattie like a phantom limb, he wants Lawson to be working at the station and, in his search for someone to blame, his heart settles on Lucien Blake.

Blake is awake, for once, and seems annoyed to be interrupted at first, but he soon forgets it, to drunk to think an awful lot of it, actually. But Charlie isn't. He walks over to the slumped man, and speaks, while he stands over him.

"Get up."

Blake doesn't reply, just looks up at him like he might be joking. Charlie continues to stare at him. Somewhere in his heart, he knows that he has to do this, he has to save the day because no one else will if he doesn't. Lucien Blake will be nothing, as good as dead if Charlie doesn't at least try because that's what he's found that he does best He tries. He looks at Blake with steel in his eyes.

"Get up, you miserable oaf."

Still noting, not even bothering to reply, and that is probably what pushes him over the edge. He snatches the glass out of Blake's hand, and knocks it back himself, for courage.

"I am not going to let you waste your life get up!"

When he still doesn't reply, Charlie leans forward, and, grabbing him by the back of the shirt, He wretches Blake to his wobbly feet, and drags him to the downstairs bathroom. He turns on the shower at full blast. This seemingly sobers him up a little. But Charlie doesn't give up.

He thrusts Blake under the icy stream, shirt and all. It's winter, the pipes sometimes freeze, if they're really unlucky. He never thought that fate would do something good for him before. Blake seizes up, and swears and yells. Charlie stands his ground and counts down the seconds until he decides enough is enough.

"Get out."

He passes Blake a tow. Now, seemingly more alert, he takes it. Charlie wonders if this is what power feels like, but he doesn't hover on the thought.

"Go put something clean on."

what he can do to create a buffer, so he can speak to the not drunk Blake.

He heads to Blake's room, and passes the man, pulling back the sheets on the bed, exposing the unslept in bed that smells musty. It's not great, but it's a start, he decides, pointing to the bed.

"Sleep."

Blake follows the command, and Charlie might not understand why he does but he's grateful. He tucks the sheet up to his chest, and then sits on the end of the bed near his feet for several minutes, watching him drift off into the void that is provided when one falls asleep. He then makes his way to the laundry, picking up the metal basket, and setting it on his hip.

He heads back to Blake's office, and opens his liquor cabinet. Surprisingly, most of the bottles are in there, not all of them, but a lot. He wonders, for a man who can't even be bothered to wash plates, he would be bothered to put his bottles away. But he doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth too much, and tucks them all away into the basket, before he goes around to the other side of the desk and begins to gather up the ones around there are well. Dozens of them fill the basket to the total limit.

With the basket full, he does a once over of the house, and then heads outside with the basket, tipping it's contents out onto the grass with little care for them. He heads to the back shed, where he selects Danny Park's old cricket bat as his weapon. the moon is but a small sliver in the sky, a tiny white smile in the total inky blackness that surrounded them. And he brings the bat down, over, and over, and over onto the bottles, all of them are broken and he's screaming with what he suspects might be joy.

The neighbours must thing he's crazy, yelling so loud, so late at night. But he also finds that he doesn't care as much as maybe he should. He just wants to speak to Blake, the way that they used to be. And so be it. A crazy man, smashing bottles in the early hours of the morning. It's better then the alternative.

…

The following morning, Blake is in the kitchen while Charlie is poaching eggs. They didn't have a lot of food, but they had eggs. Eggs are a start. He's never much cared for poached eggs, he'd always been scared of under cooking them and getting sick, but Blake likes poached eggs so there you go. After all, he basically just trashed about a hundred pounds worth of alcohol, he was expecting some blow back. Perhaps his favourite breakfast would improve things? Probably not. He was just distracting himself until the explosion.

And explosion it was.

"Charlie!"

Oh boy.

"Why is my cabinet empty?"

For a man with a hangover, he was talking pretty damn loud. Charlie almost wants to tease him.

"Try outside on the back lawn."

"Why the fuck -"

Pause.

Charlie scoops the egg out of the pot and onto toast with a side of bacon. He was pleased with how it looked. He set it on the table with Mattie's note and a glass of juice. Peace is disturbed by Blake crashing in through the side door.

"Did you do this?"

Charlie cracks an egg into a small bowl, spins the water with his spoon, before tipping the egg into the water. The clear yolk turns white, wrapping around the yolk, protecting it from popping. Hm. Maybe he should make poached eggs more often?

"I don't see anyone else here."

Pause.

"Do you?"

He was expecting a slap, like before. He was not expecting to be shoved to the floor. He was not expecting the first blow to get him right in the cheek. He was not expecting this, and yet somehow this could still play out in his favour, he thinks, trying to get his hands under Blake's chest and shove him off, after all: Charlie is the stronger of the two, currently, at least. A second blow to his face, he tries with his legs now but it's no good: He's pinned.

A fourth blow, this one to his chin, he is yelling, he thinks, he can hear himself, screaming, begging. Blake is speaking as well but he can't make it out. Lying still he wonders if this will kill him. He wonders what Mattie is doing in London. He wonders if Blake even knows. He wonders how Jean is doing, if Lawson went to his physical therapy today. Then he feels that anger again, the sort that rolls his stomach into knots.

"Look at yourself!"

Screaming, yelling, hurling truths.

"Look at what you're doing!"

Miracle of all miracles, Blake stops. His hand is raised, coming in for strike number three. He looks at Charlie, and something spreads across his face. His hand drops, he scoots backwards, until his back his against the fridge, breathing heavily. Charlie sits up, slowly. Blake has drawn his knees to his chest and there are tears on his cheeks.

"Oh God."

God is long gone, he wants to say, but he can't force the words out.

"Oh God."

Repetition.

"Oh God."

Realisation.

He drags himself into the sitting position, scooting away from him, leaning up against the cupboard under the sink. He's watching Blake, Blake is looking back. Both. Neither. Something in the middle. A peace.

"She's gone, Doc."

He knows.

"And maybe she's not coming back."

He knows.

"But I'm still here."

He knows now.

"I know that I'm not enough. I know I'm not Jean. I know that I am not enough to keep you here."

Admission; deathly serious. Deathly bitter.

"But I need you."

Admission; sadness, quiet sadness.

"Alice Harvey. Matthew Lawson. Bill Hobart. Ned Simmons. We all need you."

Pause.

"Ballarat needs you."

The kicker.

They have not moved. Blake is looking at him, one hand on his face, the other clutching his knees and Charlie hopes. He hopes he has gotten through. He doesn't know what he'll do if he hasn't.

"I'm sorry about the bottles. But I needed this time, this buffer, to speak to you sober."

Still no reply, Blake leans forward. He slumps back, putting his face into his hands, like a child. Charlie wonders what Blake was like as a child, was he like how he is now? Was he braver? Precocious? Funny, silly? He doesn't linger on the thought.

"I'm sorry, Charlie."

It sounds as if Blake has tried to compress everything inside of him into one sentence, like his whole soul has been crushed, compressed, bundled up tight and thrust out on an open palm, like sugar cubes to a horse, or a child paying for sweets with coins.

"I miss her. I thought I...I don't….I can't."

"I don't need an explanation. I just want you to come back to me."

Long pause. The day is pleasant, not to hot, not to cold. Charlie's egg is still cooking, though probably over cooked now. It seems unreal that all of this has unfolded in a matter of minutes, it feels like years have passed since he tipped the egg into the simmering water.

Outside, birds are singing their happy songs to the sky, which is clear. White clouds rolling across, soft and fluffy and taking on the shape of things that they want. The sun shines in through the kitchen window onto the ground in front of him and the table, warming, heating.

"What will you do, now?"

A good question.

"I will call Lawson, and Bill Hobart will pick me up. I will stay there for a week, gather my thoughts, wait, see how I feel, then, assuming that you haven't been drinking, and intend to not drink, I will move back in."

If you'll have me. Unspoken.

"And if I have?"

"Then I'll stay away. I won't stay with someone who hits me."

The line in the sand, his foot is down, weighed with stones.

"That's a good call."

He knows it is. Really, he shouldn't move back in at all, but he supposes that he does like it here, and he does like Blake, who is still pressed up against the fridge. Charlie stands, and walks to the phone, only now, finally, thinking about his broken ribs.

"Try A.A."

Lawson answers on the first ring.

…

Lawson is icing his bruises because Charlie's hands are shaking. It's a strange image that reminds him of when Mattie did the same thing, trying in vain to undo damage already done. They are in his living room, sitting on his couch. Lawson is as serious and drawn as he always was, but there is something soft in his eyes, something that Charlie finds he likes.

He supposes that this is more a bid for closeness on his part then it is an actual need to ice the bruises. They'll turn into swirling galaxies of black and purple and then green and brown and they'll heal. The swelling is bearable, honestly the thing that hurts him most is his ribs.

"Are you going back?"

"I think so."

He doesn't need to ask why. When Hobart came to pick him up, Blake was lucky that the other man didn't give him a taste of his own medicine. Charlie wonders if he's right to leave and come back, if he should have stayed.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

"What I think doesn't matter."

"That's what my mother used to say when she didn't like my hair."

It's a statement perhaps too light hearted for this conversation, but he can't help it. Lawson sits back and sighs at him, leaning his weight on the space between the armrest and the back of his couch for a moment.

"I think that you're very brave, trying to save him. He has no idea how lucky he is, having you on his side."

This seating arrangement only works because of Lawson's nothing. His missing leg. He supposes he should think of it as what it is, other then an elephant in the room. A conversation for another time. Lawson's other leg hangs off the lounge suite, bent at the knee and resting on the floor.

"Am I an idiot, to go back?"

"No. I don't think so, thought some may disagree. I know Blake. He'll think about this for the rest of his life. He'll never forgive himself. Damn right, I say."

This makes Charlie smile a little. He looks back at Lawson, and uses one arm to move the arm with the ice bag away, and turns halfway around, so he can hug him.

A pause.

Lawson hugs him back, putting his chin on Charlie's head, closing his arms around him, pulling him closer still.

"Thank you."

Lawson doesn't reply for several moments, as if he's hovering, unsure.

"Don't mention it."

They sit like this until Charlie's back hurts, and he has to let him go.

…

A week rolls past at the speed of spilled honey. Charlie spends his time with Lawson, before being allowed back to work on the Tuesday.

Frank Carlyle introduces himself, and Charlie finds him likeable. He asks a lot of questions about Blake, but he doesn't mind answering them too much.

Alice Harvey is pleased to see him in one piece, and even offers him a rare smile when he heads to the morgue to get tests done on a bloody sock.

Bill Hobart is pleased to see him back at work and offers to take him out for lunch. It's pleasant, they have sandwiches on the fire escape.

Mattie's first letter arrives at Lawson's place. She's doing well in London, everything is fine. Her flat is nice, her room mate is kind.

Rose Anderson comes to him for the Police Beat, she's odd, forward and clever. He liked her, likes her more now. She is very obviously Lawson's niece.

All of this is a funny reminder that time still passes, life will go on, regardless of the outcome to his trip to the Blake house this weekend. Because life just keeps rolling on, no matter how much we try and stop it. Drinking, drugs, sex, it just keeps on rolling. Time stops for no man.

…

Blake is sober when they arrive. Lawson is there for moral support. Hobart for the physical. The front garden is weeded. Blake is waiting on the poach.

"Charlie!"

His name sounds the same as it always was, coming from his mouth. Warm and toasty.

"Doc!"

There is fear, and Lawson must sense it because he looks up at him with those steely eyes, determination as strong as it ever was.

"Matthew. Bill."

Two nods.

Blake comes down the steps, and stops a few seconds away from touching Charlie. Charlie looks into his eyes and they're clear. He closes the gap between their bodies. Shared warmth; quiet closeness. Blake reaches up one had to his bruised cheek.

"I did this."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

A quiet exchange, all cards laid out on the table. Blake knows Charlie's point. Charlie knows his.

Not forgiveness, maybe one day, but not yet.

…

Later, they are sitting in front of the fireplace, a toasty glow coating the room, all of them are drinking tea. For a moment, just one moment, Charlie realises that they're going to be okay, eventually. It will be slow going and he suspects he will be a regular at Lawson's place in that time, but eventually, some how, they will be okay.

Maybe it won't ever be like it was. Maybe it doesn't need to be. He puts his head onto Lawson's shoulder. Blake smiles at them, and Lawson launches back into his war story, one that Charlie has heard a million times before.

He thinks of Jean Beazley and he hopes, with all his heart, that she is happy, because he knows, that with, or without her, things are going to be okay.