Tom Mathias woke with a start in an Aberystwyth hospital bed, his head pounding, his mouth dry. His ribs ached and his right hand felt like a club—he couldn't move his fingers.

Panic crept in. How? What? He looked over to see a mop of black hair on the bed beside him. It was attached to a rather familiar red parka. He smiled, if only in spite of himself. Mared.

The panic drained away, his breaths slowing. Her warm hand was holding onto his forearm tightly, and he could feel her cheek against his neck. He sighed with relief. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. But he wasn't alone.

He shifted a bit in the bed. Whatever they'd given him was starting to wear off and he was becoming a little bit uncomfortable. His ribs hurt with every breath, his head pounded sickeningly with each heartbeat and his hand felt uncomfortably tight and sore.

He cleared his throat and eyed the plastic cup of water on the table by the bed longingly. He shifted again gently, trying not to wake his DI, still fast asleep against his shoulder. He tried to angle his left arm to grab the cup, but it was no use. He sighed. Then, very gently, he began to wrest his right arm out of Mared's grasp, only to find said hand incapacitated by a thick wrapping of gauze.

Perfect.

He groaned, dropping his arm back to the bed.

Beside him, Mared suddenly woke with a start.

He turned to look at her as she got her bearings, hair tousled and cheeks pink with sleep. He found himself unable to keep his lips from curling into a little smile at the sight of her completely without pretence.

It hit him then just how young she really was. On the job, she wore that practiced façade of professionalism, wanting to be taken seriously as an officer and an authority figure by her two junior officers. But with that stripped from her, her hair a bit untidy, her clothes rumpled, her expression open and almost innocent, years were taken off her appearance. He could see now that she couldn't be that much older than Siân was, or even Lloyd, for that matter.

"Sorry," he said to her, finding his voice scarcely more than a hoarse whisper.

"Oh," came her soft, confused reply. She brushed the errant strands of dark hair from her face. "You're awake," she whispered, a broad smile blooming on her face. "Oh, Tom, thank god." And with no warning, she wrapped her arm across his chest gently, the other circling the back of his neck, burying her head against his shoulder once more.

His eyes closed automatically at the feel of her against him. He sighed deeply, leaning his head against hers. God, how he had missed this. Just how long had it been since he'd been touched like this? Without any forethought, just two people who cared for one another and were unafraid to show it? Intimacy bred from trust and respect.

Even his embrace with Meg at the train station had been just a desperate, bittersweet goodbye. This was different. It felt so good just yield to her, revel in the feeling of being held; warm, safe, and for once, not alone.

He was surprised to find that there was no awkwardness at all between them. It felt almost like relief, like a barrier between them had been broken, finally. After nearly two years of working side by side they'd still been so far apart. There were times when he thought they'd never speak again, she'd been so angry with him, and he'd hated himself for being unable to make it right. There was so much he'd wanted to say but just...never had.

But, she was here now and she cared whether he lived or died. It was a start.

And he wasn't dead. He found himself happy about that, curiously. Another bullet dodged. He had to start being more careful.

He rubbed his cheek against her hair, trying to reassure her.

"I'm okay, Mared," he said after a few seconds, "it's okay."

She nodded her head beneath his, and after a few seconds raised it until her eyes were level with his. Hers were red-rimmed and tired, but the blue of them still shone brightly in the dimly lit room. He gave her a little smile as she rested against the edge of the bed, eyes still on him.

"I thought you were dead, Tom," she said, her voice gaining strength. Her arms were still wrapped lightly around him, careful not to injure but still, apparently, unwilling to let him go. "Do you know how many times I've dreamt of horrible things happening to you? And then when they called I was so sure—"

"Hey," he said, softly, "I'll be fine. And you're not my keeper, Mared."

"No," she said, so close he could feel her warm breath puff against his lips, "I am your partner. You needed me and I went home instead."

"That makes us about even, then. For all the times I've let you down." He moved his head back a bit, looking down at her. She closed her eyes and a soft smile graced her lips. "You really do deserve better."

She let out a quiet little laugh before opening her eyes. "But I don't want better, Tom," she said, her voice low. There was a pause before she spoke again, looking him straight in the eye. "I can't imagine working with anyone else."

He chuckled softly. "Nor can I." Mared smiled. He shrugged. "I guess we're stuck with each other."

She nodded, smiling. Then she set to slowly disentangling herself from him, much, he found, to his displeasure. Immediately he missed the warmth of her against his skin. He shivered slightly, and she pulled the thin covers up around his shoulders without missing a beat.

He found that it was really quite nice to have her here. It'd been so long since anyone had given two shits about him. Really cared, not just looked at him with disappointment and anger, as Meg had, or with that infuriating pity disguised as sympathy, as everyone else had. Even Mared had been guilty of that a time or two.

It was impossible, he supposed, not to pity a man so completely broken as he. But she'd always treated him with respect, even after he'd come back and taken her job. She'd always, always been there for him despite the many times he'd been inconsiderate and foolhardy.

And here she was at his bedside in the middle of the night. He'd known she cared for him, as he did her. As most partners did. But for some time now he had started to wonder just exactly the nature of her feelings for him. He wasn't vain. And he knew that their co-dependency as partners bred a familiarity that could be almost like a marriage at times.

But there were times, alone, at night, waiting for the pills to work, or tossing and turning after they hadn't, that he wondered. The way she looked at him sometimes. Almost like she could feel the aura of pain radiating from him and wanted, desperately, to help, but she couldn't think of what to say. The worry she showed when he was hurt, like now, and the tender concern in her eyes and in her touch when she'd come upon him in the marshes, covered in Dyfan Richard's blood. He hadn't forgotten about that.

And no man was an island; even if he often wished he could isolate himself from everyone for the rest of his life. No one truly wanted to be alone forever. Some endured a solitary existence. But he was not made that way. He needed people, as much as he tried to deny it. He felt that pull with Gwen Thomas, even if it was, in hindsight, merely a connection borne out of shared grief.

He and Meg were finished. He'd come to terms with it. They had been, really, since he'd left. They were two people who dealt with grief in totally different ways. There was no middle ground with them, no way for them to get through this together. They had to be apart to truly move on. And yes, he missed Hannah desperately. But it almost hurt more to be with her than it did to be away from her. Sometime in the future, he knew that would change. But for now she was better off without him.

He grieved for that family that he'd lost almost as much as he grieved the loss of his daughter. It got easier, as time went on, but he missed all those years as a part of something, when he had a role as a father and husband. He knew they'd never get that back. The dynamic between the four of them. The way the girls had been so alike, yet so different at the same time. The little inside jokes they all shared, the holidays and birthdays and the joy and the heartache. Everything being part of a family had afforded him.

He missed it so much it physically hurt to think of it.

And deep in his heart, hidden away, was the desire to have that again. A family, friends. He knew it would never be as it was, never be the same. What they'd had was lost and scattered, just memories now. But he still missed the way children filled a home with laughter and chaos. The busy schedule of football practice and piano lessons. Watching them grow, helping them understand the world.

And, how he missed having a woman who loved him, and whom he loved back, with all his heart. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, to bury himself in and forget about the horrors his choice of career provided him. God, he wanted that more than anything in the world.

Just as much as he wanted those things he was terrified to seek them out. He had lost his daughter. He'd lost Gwen. It could happen again. To love was to open your heart, leave it exposed to the elements, vulnerable to the dangers that lie in wait. After Gwen, he swore he would never get close to anyone again.

He still hoped, though, and dreamed. Every time he saw a little one or a happy family. He still looked for it in the world despite what he'd suffered. Despite what he'd seen. Despite what he knew human beings could do to each other, he still yearned.

Perhaps this was reason enough to open his heart again? He still loved Meg, he couldn't deny that. But it was a different kind of love than it had been. Muted, distant. He knew he could have loved Gwen. But there was no future with either Gwen or Meg now.

But there was this woman at his bedside, who, despite their many disagreements and differences in opinion, still ran to him whenever he needed her to. She still cared deeply for him, even after seeing him at his worst. If anything, everything that had happened since he'd come back had only brought them closer together.

He was pulled from his thoughts when the woman in question spoke.

"Thirsty?" she asked. He nodded as she grabbed the cup of water from the table, tipping it to his lips. He drank it greedily.

"Thanks," he said, when he'd had his fill, and she placed the empty cup back on the table. "I feel like I swallowed a mouthful of fire."

"Well I'd say that's not out of the realm of possibility," Mared said, her trademark disaffectedness returning, bringing a crooked little grin to his face. "Do you remember what happened?"

He thought back to the night before, but he could only see Mared's face as she reluctantly left to go home. Abi Watkins's file, Aron Bowen's interview. The dead man's face in black and white. He'd been going over the case file again. That was the last of it, his last memory. Everything after swirled in his head like a fleeting mist that he could not catch. He shook his head slowly.

"Well, your neighbour noticed the flames and rang 999. They found you next to your caravan, unresponsive, your hands burnt, bleeding profusely from a blow to the back of the head. It would seem you were also beaten badly while on the ground. You've got two broken ribs and extensive bruising all over your body." Tom could only stare at her. "You could have died, Tom."

His caravan. Now he remembered. It had been lit ablaze. He had tried to get the photograph, just like in his dream. His heart rate sped up as the memories came back and he winced at the pain on the left side of his ribcage as his breathing quickened.

"In pain?" Mared asked, already out of her seat, "I'll get the nurse."

"Wait," he said, and she turned to him expectantly. "Just…give me—in a minute. I remember the fire now," he told her.

Reluctantly, Mared returned to her chair.

"What happened?"

"I heard a noise," he told her. "After I'd gotten out of the car. Like a rustling, or something. Like an animal moving about. I couldn't see anyone." He turned to look at her, frowning, raking through his brain for the memories. "The caravan just…exploded. It went up fast. Had to be petrol or some sort of accelerant. Definitely deliberately set, Mared."

Her plump lips pursed together as she frowned. "How did you burn your hand?"

He looked down at it, sitting uselessly on the bed. He sighed. "I went in."

"The caravan?" Her eyes were huge.

"Yes."

"Are you daft, Tom? Or do you just have some sort of death wish?"

His eyebrows went up, surprised by the intensity of the anger that had flared up in her.

"No, Mared, I don't," he told her, unable to keep the irritation for his voice. He sighed, deeply. "Not anymore," he said, softly, mostly to himself.

Her brow furrowed at this with what he realised now was not anger, but fear. She was terrified that one of these days he'd get himself killed. And, he supposed, her fears were not entirely unfounded.

"If you must know," he started, finding the words very hard to get out, "I went to get a photograph. Of my daughters. Hannah and—Sara." He breathed out a painful breath and winced again. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both in frustration at the condition he found himself in and because it'd been months since he'd last said his daughter's name. He didn't like to.

Meg would say it all the time; what Sara liked, what Sara would have thought of this or that. He couldn't. It felt wrong, somehow, to talk about her as if she was still present. Because she wasn't and would never be again. It felt as if they were just moving past her, like she'd never existed.

It was one of the first things he and Meg had rowed about, in those early months. Hannah had just cried and cried as they argued. He squeezed his eyes shut and cleared his throat, trying to get the image of his sobbing daughter out of his head. Then he turned to look at Mared.

She was brushing away tears almost shamefully, her cheeks shining with wetness. He bit the inside of his lip, hard, trying to resist the urge to turn away. He hadn't meant to upset her.

"Mared," he said. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her, but the bloody bandages on his hand prevented that. He sighed with frustration.

"I'm fine," she said, smiling with wet eyes. "I didn't know their names, Tom," she told him, and he nodded with understanding. Their eyes met for a few, meaningful seconds. Then she looked away, wiped at her face and spoke again. "Did you get it?" she asked. "The photo?"

Tom shook his head slowly, mournfully, almost. He held up his cotton-wrapped hand. "Too hot. I stepped away, then there was another explosion. The propane, probably. After that…woke up here."

Mared was perplexed. She looked up at him with a frown.

"Is there anything you're leaving out, Tom?" she asked. "You were found at nearly half one in the morning, and it didn't take very long for the ambulance to get there. I left you at eight o'clock. What had you been up to all that time?"

Tom frowned, leaning back against the bed. Mared had left, bid him good night. But he'd stayed. He'd gone through the whole case file again, reviewed Aron Bowen's interrogation tape. He had been so sure that the answers were in there, in between the lines of Bowen's story. But it'd been late and he'd been so tired…

"I was at the station," he told her. "I must've come straight home from there. I don't remember anything else." He wished he could feel the wound on the back of his head, survey the damage, as it were. Maybe it would spark his memory.

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt you?"

Tom scoffed, and looked up at her. "Only half of Ceredigion," he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He was tired, and he was losing patience. The gravity of the situation was starting to hit home. Someone had attacked him. Burnt his home to the ground. Destroyed everything he'd owned and left him with nothing. Why?

Mared rolled her eyes. "I'm serious, Tom."

"So am I! I've seen the way these people look at me. It doesn't matter that I was born in this country or that I speak the language. I'm an outsider. Spend a few years in London and you're some sort of traitor. Nearly every case has produced some psycho disgruntled enough to blow up my home," he said. Mared watched him, her expression dubious. "Iwan Thomas, Glyn Powell, Harri Jenkins, half of Penwyllt, for god's sake."

Now was her turn to scoff. "I've spent my whole life here, you remember? I know what these people can be like. But what I'm asking is why now? Thomas has had months to make you pay for his wife's death. Why would he wait until last night? Who has the motive and the drive to do this now? I mean, I'd be more inclined to pin it on one of the Bowens. Annes or even Delyth. Or maybe the Watkins…what?" Mared asked, for Tom was sure he'd just gone as white as a sheet.

"Annes," he told her. "I remember now, Mared. I did stay. I watched the tape over and over. Do you remember...when we interviewed her the first time, I asked her what she did after she sent Aron home? She said she'd gone to bed, but there was a hesitation there. I didn't realise it until after. I thought she just felt guilty for chucking her son out, but it was what Aron said on the tape about his mother—"

"She said he'd made a mess of his life," Mared finished, realisation dawning in her eyes, "and she went out and fixed it for him. Annes killed Abi?"

Tom nodded slowly. "That's where I was. I went out to the boatyard to confront her."

"You did what? By yourself? Christ, Tom, it really is a wonder that this didn't happen to you sooner. Why the hell didn't you call me?"

He sighed. "I needed her to know that I knew. Prosser won't allow us to prosecute her, you know that. She's an old woman. One son dead, the other in prison. Granddaughter in a coma because of it all. No evidence whatsoever. And he investigated the original case, Mared. Signed off on it. If I'd called you, I'd be putting your career in jeopardy as well as mine. And you don't deserve that."

"Well that's very noble of you, Tom, but you didn't you stop to think that confronting someone with their deepest, darkest secret at night, alone, could have consequences?"

"It wasn't Annes who hit me, not unless she had an accomplice. There's only one way to get from there to my caravan and I wasn't followed. Whoever did it knew I'd be at the station late, waited for me to get home, then…lit the fuse. And while I was distracted by the fire, beat the living shit out of me." Mared sighed tiredly, leaning back in the cheap plastic chair.

And then suddenly an image flashed in his head. His dream. He'd fallen out of the fire into the grass, felt his head split in two and had turned around to see Brian Prosser staring back at him.

"Prosser," he said, quietly and Mared looked up at him in alarm.

"You think our Chief Superintendent blew up your caravan and bashed your head in? Tom, you're not—"

"He's in trouble, Mared. I see it now. Back when we were investigating Alys's murder, I did some digging on Iwan Thomas. Prosser seemed very keen on keeping him quiet, locking him up when he hadn't done anything to warrant it. Did you know Thomas was the officer who originally investigated those sexual assault claims at Pontarfynach Children's Home?"

Mared's eyebrows went skyward. "He what?"

"You didn't know?" She shook her head.

"Prosser found me looking through the file. Made it very clear without saying anything at all that I was digging too deep. There was part of a performance evaluation in there. Nothing about the drinking. It was a glowing report. I think Thomas has something on Prosser, and that it has to do with the Children's Home. And they fitted him up as an incompetent drunk to discredit him and keep him quiet," Tom said. Mared frowned, looking down at her hands folded in her lap.

"Are you saying Prosser's bent?"

"I'm saying he's got a secret, and he's desperate. I think Thomas is desperate, too. He's lost everything; his wife, his daughter, his career," he told her. "He came to me a few weeks ago."

"Thomas?" Mared asked, surprised. Tom nodded.

"At the mobile home park while we investigating Kasia's murder. I saw him just after I called you at the hospital. He asked me if I'd told Meg about my involvement with Gwen," Mared's eyes widened at this. "He was very keen to know. He's been watching me, Mared, spying."

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"At the time I thought he was just a broken man acting out his grief," he said. "I still think that. But Prosser found me later that day. He knew, somehow. Warned me off Thomas, told me he was a dangerous man that couldn't be trusted." He sighed deeply and leaned back against the bed, squeezing his eyes shut. His head was starting to pound again and the pain in his ribs was making it harder and harder to breathe.

"So what else did Thomas say to you?" Mared asked after some time. She seemed to be having trouble digesting all of this. He couldn't blame her. He hadn't wanted to get her involved in whatever was going on with their Chief Superintendent. Desperate men could be dangerous, and while Tom hadn't been particularly concerned about his own wellbeing, he would never forgive himself if anything happened to any member of his team. He sighed, going back to that rainy day in the trailer park.

"The usual things men say when they're hurting. Blaming me for Gwen, accusing me of being 'one of Prosser's little boys,'" Tom told her. She frowned. "He asked me what I knew about Prosser, what the 'big secret' was. He seemed to think that I was kept on because I was bent, too. 'People are being killed,' he said. 'Gwen, Mari, your own daughter.'" Tom heard Mared's gasp at this. "Then Siân came to find me and he took off."

"How did he know about her, Tom?"

Tom could only shake his head. "He used to be a cop. He could still have connections. Access to the tapes from our interviews with IPCC. Or at least someone who'd seen them. Maybe Prosser is feeding him information, little bits here and there to placate him, keep him quiet. I don't know, Mared. There's something going on and it all points back to my first case here."

"Pontarfynach Children's Home. Catrin John and Jenny James."

Tom nodded. Suddenly something struck him.

"So, why did they call you when they found me? Why not the station?"

Mared sighed, with the air of someone reluctantly starting to believe what she really didn't want to. "All identifying information had been removed from your wallet, Tom. That's what the nurse said when she called. There were only old business cards and a few bits of paper. But whoever took the ID missed the paper I'd written my mobile number on your first day here. You remember?"

Tom nodded. Gods, that day felt like a decade ago. He'd come into the station to fill out forms and get his particulars in order. Mared had been the only one in that day, with Siân off in Cardiff and Lloyd at home. She'd walked right up to him and shook his hand firmly, smiling, saying she was looking forward to working with him. She didn't ask why he'd been sent there, what his story was. He knew the others were gossiping, going on behind his back. But Mared didn't care about the blather. She never had. Only the work.

"So no one else knows I'm here?"

"Nobody. I asked the front desk myself. They said they were still trying to put out the fire. It had spread to some of the old buildings nearby. My guess is as soon as it's out, I'll be getting a call."

"You should go back home. Now, while it's still dark," he said, and she looked up at him, alarmed.

"Why?"

"Because whoever did this to me was trying to kill me, Mared, or at least incapacitate me. They didn't want me to be identified, but yet they left my wallet. They took my warrant card and all my police identification so that for all the hospital staff knew, I was just some poor sod who'd been robbed and beaten. And the culprit had burnt down the caravan to get rid of the evidence."

"And we want to keep it that way?" she asked, though it was more a statement than a question.

"Yes. If Prosser or Thomas or whoever did this knows we spoke, you'll be in danger, Mared. You and your family."

She frowned, deep in thought. "You're sure? You want me to lie to Prosser? To Siân and Lloyd, as well?"

Tom nodded. "If anything ever happened to you—"

"I know," she said, rising from her chair. "I know, Tom." She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to send the nurse in. You need to relax, take whatever they give you. As long as they think you're out of action, you're safe," she said. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Catch on pretty quick, don't I?"

He smiled. "Keep an eye out, will you?"

"I will," she said, "I promise." Then she bent down, and kissed the top of his head so gently, he couldn't be sure it'd even happened. "Take care, Tom," she said, and then she was gone.

He watched as she left the room, spoke to the nurse, then went off down the corridor. He kept his eye on her until he couldn't see the red of her coat anymore.

He started to feel a little sleepy just then, and realised the nurse had come in and injected a dose of painkiller into his IV without him even noticing. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes and laid his head back, giving into the drowsiness of the drug, hoping that when he woke things would be a lot clearer.

λ

Mared took the back exit when she left the hospital, keeping out of the light and surveying the area, feeling like an idiot, but then reminding herself of her partner's current condition. Someone had tried to kill him, and their Chief Superintendent was involved in it somehow.

Her head was spinning by the time she got home, parking some ways down the street, headlamps off nearly all the way from the hospital. She snuck through the neighbour's back garden, through the hole in the fence that Elin used to escape through when she was younger, and quietly entered through the back.

Everyone was still asleep, not surprisingly, as it was nearing five o'clock in the morning and still as dark as a dungeon. She made her way up to her room in silence, sitting down on the edge of the bed and sighing deeply.

Her visit with Tom had left her completely disoriented. She couldn't say that his allegations about Prosser came at a total surprise to her. She'd had her suspicions. The meetings with the local higher-ups, the way he skulked about the station. The way he unfairly pressured Tom for results and interfered in their investigations. She, and she suspected Lloyd and Siân as well, had never felt totally comfortable around him.

But to think that he had been, possibly, influencing the outcomes of cases, circumventing the course of justice? She had put her trust in this man, thought he'd had her back all these years. The thought of it made her sick to her stomach. She changed out of her clothes, draping them over a nearby chair. She'd be needing them again in an hour or two.

She had to at least try to sleep, maintain the illusion that she'd been here all night. She didn't want her parents or Elin getting involved in all this. It was bad enough that Tom was in danger, she didn't want to have to worry about her family as well.

Tom, she thought, as she slipped back beneath the covers, switching off the lamp beside her bed. Tom bloody Mathias.

She was only a little embarrassed at her reaction to him when she'd woken to find he'd regained consciousness. She'd just been so happy to see he was alright. She had resisted the urge to embrace him so many times since he'd come back, to help ease the pain that sometimes radiated off of him in waves. There had just never been a right time.

But she hadn't hugged him simply for his benefit, if she was truthful with herself. Sure, he infuriated her with his inability to follow procedure, going about it all the wrong way with Eluned Roberts and Daniel Protheroe, and then lashing out at her when she'd called him on it.

But he was passionate and he was dedicated, and his although his callous disregard for his own wellbeing left her constantly on guard, she'd found herself growing more and more fond of him. Especially lately, as she sensed the veil of grief had started to lift from around him. Ever since the Protheroe case, she'd seen a shift in him. He had a bit more jump in his step, seemed more focused on work and less despondent.

She supposed it was his tirelessness, really. How he couldn't leave until the job was done, and not to impress his superiors or gain advancement in his career. He did it because he couldn't stand to see a family who didn't know what had happened to their loved one, or see someone innocent go to prison for a crime they didn't commit. He was a good man. A good copper.

As she lay there in the dark, trying to get back to sleep for the third time that night, she knew something was true. She had reached the point of no return. There was a reason they called it falling. There was a time, a moment, when you could step back from the precipice, turn around and walk away.

But she knew, as the adrenaline high began to wear off and her eyelids became heavy, that there was no way she could turn back now. In for a penny, in for a pound, she was with Tom Mathias, no matter what the consequences. No matter if it left her heartbroken, alone, in the same condition she'd found herself in more than sixteen years ago. She couldn't leave him as soon as she could leave Elin, or Aber, or her job.

He was part of her life now, and if she was honest, a part of her heart. How much so? She really didn't know. It had been so long since she'd had feelings for someone that she'd need time to sort it all out.

But something had changed between them. The dam had burst. That wall between the two of them that had left friendship just out of reach had been finally knocked down.

And while it unnerved her, she found herself cautiously optimistic. No matter what happened between them, no matter what happened with this case, it would certainly be interesting, she supposed. Things were changing, coming to a head. The status quo was about to undergo an upheaval. She could feel it in her bones.

But as she drifted off to sleep in her big, empty bed, it struck her that things had been the same round here for a long time. Mared couldn't help but feel a little bit of excitement along with the dread. A change might be nice.