A/N* Just kind of shrugs and slides away*

He undid the buttons one at a time, slowly watching at his chest appeared though the slit where the sides of his shirt met. Tugged it off, and spent a moment examining himself in the mirror. What sort of a man are you? He asked himself, as he ran a slow hand down his exposed chest, over freckles and muscle, over curves and dips to the waistband of his pants. He stripped those off as well, looking down at his pale legs or several moments too, and hated every inch of exposed skin. He has the same body type as his father. Broad shoulders. Small waist, long fingers, prominent veins hands and arms. Not a lot of hair on his body, thick eyebrows, slightly rounded chin. Even the shape of his lips could probably be traced back to him. It was just who he was, it seemed. A whole other person trapped inside of his father's body.

He looked back up at his face in the mirror, and ran his fingers along his nose and across his cheek. He looks a lot older then twenty eight. He looks a lot more tired as well. Ran a hand though his hair, before he sighed quietly and turned around so he was leaning on the sink, facing the peeling wallpaper of the other side of the room. God he hates it here.

He wonders, if this was how his father felt, before he left. If he ran his hands over similar imperfections and saw what Charlie saw. Wonders if his father hated himself as much as he did. Just...Wondered. Considered, if maybe Davis's aren't meant to be happy. To his knowledge no one in his family ever was. Maybe he's just continuing the tradition. He had thought that maybe he was happy, maybe he deserved to be happy. Maybe his happiness came from Ballarat and the Doctor and Mattie and Mrs Beazley and Lawson. Maybe that was what his father had lacked. But now he doesn't know. He probably never will. After this week, he doesn't really deserve to live here, either. It annoys him that he had liked Blake. It annoyed, should say. No point in liking someone who doesn't like you back, he wants to think, but the unfamiliar fondness in his chest hasn't left. Hasn't vanished. Might never vanish. But he doesn't want to stay here and live in shadow of polite conversation any longer. He turns back to the mirror, and comes to a conclusion so quickly it startles him.

He flings the cabinet open, and takes a pair of nail scissors into his hands, and looks at his hair in the mirror, before taking a handful of it and cutting it off. He dropped it into the sink. He grabs his trademark waves I one hand, holding them away from his face and cutting the scissors though the wax, taking a moment to wonder if maybe he should have washed it out before he started this. The scissors are rendered useless by the end, but it's fine. Without his curly hair, he looks like his father. He'd always known he'd inherited his hair from his mother, but his face from his father. His father had much lighter hair then him. At least, that's what he can remember. Maybe that's just how boys are meant to be? Just like their fathers. Blake is. Lawson is. It hardly seems like such a leap that he would be as well. After all, why was it that he'd joined the police force? Why had he bothered listening to Munro and taken the letter off of Blake's desk? Taking a comb in his hand, he parted it on the other side of his head, and looked at himself for a long minute before grabbing Mattie's bottle of hair dye from the top shelf.

As far as he knew, Mattie used it to do highlights in her hair, but he was going to use it for something much bigger. Looking at himself in the mirror, he looked ridiculous. His haphazard hair cut plastered to his head with the dye. He sniffed slightly, and let it sit for almost half an hour, on top of the toilet seat with his knees pulled up to his chin. He wondered why things had to turn out the way that they did. Why he was such a coward, why he was so afraid of Munro, why he hadn't been able to punch Blake back, why he didn't tell him. Then, he turned on the shower, and stepped under the icy cold spray.

The red dye gives him the impression of bleeding. He watches it swirl down the drain between his bare feet. He wonders if this apathy he feels is what his father felt when he left them. Just went out one day in his police uniform. Never went to the station. Never came home either. Just left them. Just like that. He's probably going to be just like that, he thinks, just leave. What will Blake think of you then? He wonders, as the water running though his hair finally comes away clear.

He steps out, and takes a blue towel from the rack and runs it though his hair. It's lucky there's no one else here, he thinks, as he looks at himself in the mirror. Yeah. That was him. And yet it wasn't, as well. His hair was so much redder then he'd intended for it to be, but that was fine. His new short hair feels funny under his fingers, as he parts it on the opposite side of his head then he usually would. After a second, he goes though his discarded pants for a lighter, and drops it into the sink, watching as his hair went up in flames. The room quickly becomes smoky, but he lets it be, ignores the smell and puts his hands up to the fire, pretending it's a symbol for the bridges he's going to burn.

He leaves the hair in the sink, and slowly makes his way up the stairs now, towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He wonders if he should bring a bag, but decides against it in the end. Why give them more to trace? He selects his favorite slightly grey shirt, and a pair of kind of tan trousers, before topping it off with his plaid coat. He sits on his bed, and puts on his running shoes, after he pulls black socks over his pale feet. He ties the laces in the way he usually would. One loop. One loop. Pull the first though the second. Repeat. Pull it tight.

Running. If there was something he loved more then police work, it was running. Running laps. Running distances. Just...Running. Perhaps he got that from his father as well. Running away was, after all, what Richard Davis did best. Ran away from the police. Ran away from the Army. Ran away from his mother. Ran away from him. He did the same thing, hadn't he? Ran to Ballarat and right into Blake's waiting arms, rather then stay in Melbourne and deal with his problems like a grown up.

Standing now, he made his way over to the counter top, and put his watch on. It was the same watch every man on the force seemed to own. Good quality, but inexpensive. On the back of his, it read a simple 'C.D.' it wasn't a gift or a memento. Just a watch, like a chair is just a chair and a man is just a man. Except when that man is not just a man, he thinks, as his eyes fall on the picture stuck to his mirror. Himself and Blake, taken a crimescene looking at a body. He'd been developing pictures when he saw it. He knew, logically it was just a test picture, to ensure the camera was working, but somehow, seeing the pair of them crouching by a body on print was amusing to him. Enough so that he kept it. He takes that as well, tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat.

Several seconds pass before he takes his gloves as well. They were good quality too, soft on the inside and warm. He doesn't put them on quite yet, however. He still has one last thing to do. He looks around his bedroom one last time, at the dresser and bed. He doesn't take his comb, razor or small tub of wax. He leaves them, with the rest of his clothes, and his suitcase. He doesn't even look over his shoulder. He stops in the hallway, and takes his wallet from the hall table where he's tossed it earlier. He takes his cash, and his bank card. He left everything else behind.

He finally arrives in Blake's office. He slowly passed though to his office, before sitting at his desk. He watches from Blake's perspective. It's late in the afternoon, and the orange sun casts a golden glow over the room and its lone occupant. The whole world just seems different now. He unacps the black pen on the desk, and opens his notepad. He writes a simple message.

'If anyone asks you why, tell them, he is his fathers son.'

He signs it with his name, in his nicest handwriting. 'Charlie.' He rips it out of the notepad and sets it in the center of his desk, before reaching into the top drawer of his desk, removing one final keepsake, and then heading out.

Walking down the street, Blake's car passes him, but the man doesn't, or pretends not to see him. Then again, he didn't alter his appearance for nothing, he thinks, as he continues to walk towards the train station. As he walks, he wonders where his father ended up. Wonders if he should find him, just to show him how much damage he'd done to his only child that he claimed to love. He thinks about his small brothers and frazzled mother. He realized, rather belatedly, that they look more like a family without an awkward not father, but too old to really be a good bother either. It just feels like for everything he'd done with his life, there was nothing left for him to love.

It's not until he boards a train headed to Bendigo, that there's any kind of sign that someone has even noticed his absence from the house. Blake emerges from the crowd of well wishers, Lawson by his side.
"Charlie?"

But it's too late. The train is already pulling away from the station and if they saw him, it's too late now. They continue to drive away from the station, and away from Ballarat. Away from Blake and his warm hands and Lawson's perpetual scowl. Away from Mattie's high pitches laugh and Mrs Beazley's cooking.

He gazes down at his final keepsake. A single silver flask, taken from the top drawer of Blake's desk. His fingers leave marks on the shiny surface as he runs them over the flask once worn close to Blake's body. He stares at it all the way to Bendigo, and he knows deep down in his soul that one thing will always be true.

Sons turn out like their fathers, regardless of how much they wish they don't