A/N: It's been a while since I've updated but as you might know, I've been keeping myself busy otherwise. This chapter took me a bit by surprise… Thank you to KTROSE and THEDELIRIUMTENNANTS for fixing my errors again. (see more notes at the end)
Chapter 11 – Pieces
Hardy stood in the middle of the empty room, his two small bags sitting next to him on the worn wooden floor. The late afternoon sunlight flooded the small space and his tall figure cast a long shadow. He prodded the collection of his meager possessions with his foot. There was a storage unit somewhere in Sandbrook that held a few more things, but even that was mostly empty.
Looking around, it dawned on Hardy that his plan of moving into his new flat had a fatal flaw. He had no furniture – no chair to sit on, no bed to sleep in. Rubbing the back of his head, he sighed deeply. He couldn't remember the last time he had to deal with setting up a home. That's what he'd had Tess for. In a different lifetime.
He lowered his lanky body onto the floor, pulled up his knees to his chest, and hugged them tightly. Maybe he should have looked for a furnished flat, but he was getting tired of living a borrowed life. A place to call his own needed more than solely the few things he'd carried around in his nomad existence over the past two years.
The sound of his mobile clattering onto the wood startled him. He snatched it up, and without giving it much thought he typed a message.
Where would you go to get furniture?
Miller's reply didn't take long: ikea
Hardy frowned at the acronym, trying to figure out what on earth it stood for. Bloody texting.
Eyebrows raised and holding the phone at arm's length, he replied with a disgruntled question: What's that supposed to mean? Can't you use real words?
This looked like it was going to be a longer conversation. He fished out his glasses and got up. His feet took him in a slow circle around his bags, waiting for her next move. A buzz announced the incoming text and he stopped his restless roaming.
Perched on the windowsill, the sun warming his back, he read her reply: I have no idea what it stands for. Google it if you need to know. It's probably a bloody town in Sweden.
It didn't take him much imagination to picture her exasperation with him. Hardy's brows puckered into a frown. Her answer made even less sense.
Confused he typed: Sweden? What does Sweden have to do with it?
You're kidding, right?
A memory of Miller's incredulous expression flashed through his mind. His eye-rolling was almost like a reflex, reliving a moment they had experienced countless times. He grew more and more suspicious that he was missing a crucial point in their conversation.
With an indignant scowl on his face he wrote back: No. I'm not.
Mere seconds later his mobile rang. Readying himself for the bollocking, he picked up with a sigh.
"Hardy, you're not serious are you?"
Amusement laced her voice and provoked instant annoyance in Hardy, as predictable as a knee jerk.
"I'm bloody well serious. I have no bloody idea what you're talking about. What would Sweden have to do with furniture?"
Ellie sputtered into the phone, unable to hold back her laughter. "Don't tell me you've never heard of IKEA?"
Pouting, Hardy tugged on his ear. "Oh, for fuck's sake Miller, I don't know all these stupid texting –"
She interrupted him, stifling a chortle. "Hardy, IKEA is the largest furniture company in the world. They are Swedish and make meatballs."
Hardy banged the back of his head gently against the window he'd been leaning on. He wouldn't mind if an abyss was to open up in front of him to swallow him. A barely audible groan escaped his throat and his face burned with his embarrassment. Of course he'd heard of IKEA, but he'd never been to one and his addled brain didn't make the connection.
Moron, he chastised himself.
"Where are you right now?" Miller's casual tone reminded him of her questioning suspects.
A sudden bout of homesickness fluttered through him. God, how he missed being a proper detective.
"My new flat," Hardy muttered sullenly, his eyes closed and his head resting on the warm glass.
"Let me guess. You don't have any furniture?"
"Yup," he sighed.
"Ah, another brilliant Hardy plan. Fully thought through and executed with precision."
"Millah!" he cried out indignantly which provoked more chuckling on her end.
"'S not funny," he grumbled into the phone, contemplating if he should hang up and end the torture.
She was enjoying herself too much though, and Hardy was secretly happy to play the victim.
"Oh, it totally is," she countered, her words slurred by laughter.
He growled as a response but let her have her go. He had to admit, he quite liked listening to her being so carefree.
"Where are you going to sleep tonight?"
"Oh, I dunno. The wood floor seems rather inviting." His sarcasm was scathing, fueled by embarrassment and self-loath.
"I think they do same day delivery," she informed him, her mocking tone replaced with something that Hardy couldn't pinpoint through the tiny speakers.
"They do?" he asked in disbelief.
"Hold on."
A tapping and then some clicking noises filtered through the speakers.
"There isn't one near Sandbrook. The closest is either Birmingham or Bristol. Do you have someone who could drive you?"
"No," he moaned.
She was silent on the other end. When she spoke again, regret rang in her words.
"I'm sorry, Hardy. I can't come there. I've got Fred and –"
"You don't have to do this, Miller," he cut her off roughly.
Alec Hardy, the charity case. That's what it had come down to. Her well-meaning offer had stoked the frustration with his own sorry existence and left him with instantaneous bitterness.
"Oh, don't be a knob about it. You don't have many friends and you're sitting alone in your empty flat. You recently had surgery and are not supposed to exert yourself. You can't really afford to turn down help," she fleshed out his situation with way more pragmatism than he could ever have mustered.
He remained mute though, stewing in his own misery.
Miller sighed deeply and then asked, "So, where are you going to sleep tonight?"
"Hotel, probably," he mumbled and dragged a hand over his face.
The idea of spending yet another night in a foreign bed tired him. He needed a home, not another temporary solution.
"Do you have someone you can stay with? Maybe Tess could –"
"Absolutely not," he interjected vehemently. "Not staying on the sofa in my own bloody house while she and Dave shag in what used to be my fucking bed!" he blurted out before he could even think about it.
"Right. Not the house," she acknowledged drily. "A friend then?" she suggested, trying to brush over the awkwardness of his outburst.
He could ask Baxter. Wouldn't be a first. His friend's guestroom had become a place of refuge more than once in these past years. He'd feel home enough.
"I have someone who might be willing to put up with me. I stayed with him after... after I came back from the hospital," he said.
When Miller's hum made him realize that 'coming back from the hospital' in his case was sadly vague, he added quietly, "After I found out about Tess."
"I see. Good. Call him when we get off. Don't be alone today," she ordered warmly, speaking to the fact that she genuinely seemed to cared.
Hardy's lips curled up. "Miller, that's my line."
"Not any more," she quipped.
Hardy rolled his eyes. She must have heard it through the phone.
"Stop rolling your eyes and ask your friend if he can take you furniture shopping. You'll need some moral support for going to IKEA."
"Miller, it's a furniture store. I don't need moral support."
She snorted "Ha. Talk to me again when you're there."
Hardy tugged on his reddening ear. She must think him an utter fool.
"I've gotta go, Hardy. Have to take Fred to the child minder and go to work. Got the late shift today."
She was still in Devon, directing traffic and handing out tickets. What a waste of talent that was. It pained Hardy to think of what had driven her to give up something she was so passionate about. He wouldn't have minded breaking another one of Joe Miller's ribs for doing that to her. Hardy had contacted Craig Murphy shortly after the verdict to keep tabs on Joe as much as he could. He was in Sheffield, doing way too well for Hardy's taste.
Taking in a deep breath, he focused on the only thing he could do at the time, helping Ellie Miller.
"Are you considering going back to the Broadchurch constabulary?" he inquired carefully.
There was dead silence on the other end.
"It's all right. You don't have to answer. Shouldn't have asked."
She remained mute.
"Miller, just think about it, would you?" he persisted, despite knowing that he probably shouldn't.
"I gotta go," she announced curtly.
Hardy sighed into the phone. She hung up before he could say goodbye properly. It bothered him how much at times she nowadays reminded him of himself. The echo of her laughter rang in his ears, arguing against his glum thoughts. Healing wasn't easy, he should know.
He dialed Baxter's number and readied himself for his friend's teasing. Two hours later, he was enjoying Louise's incredible food and quietly listening to the family banter. Emma had joined them, excited to see Hardy again. There had been lots of hugging, and for the first time since returning to Sandbrook, a feeling of coming home settled in.
Miller had been right. It was good not to be alone.
Two days after her last call with Hardy, Ellie was handing out a speeding ticket to the driver of a silver sports car who'd mistaken the windy roads of Devon for a race track. She did not derive any pleasure from it. The drizzle matted her curls onto her head and crept into every crevice of her uniform, adding to her misery.
Hardy's words had stuck with her. She shouldn't have hung up on him, but talking about her current career choices was too uncomfortable.
She shook off the water and climbed back into the police car. Her partner had stopped trying to cheer her up with mediocre jokes, resigned to her sullen attitude. Ellie was giving Hardy's grumpy demeanor a run for the money. At the moment, she was winning the race. It was a sad victory.
Her mobile pinged. A message from an unknown number together with a picture came through. Ellie opened it and burst out with laughter, making her partner nearly lose control over the car.
The text read: This is Ed Baxter. I stole your number from Hardy's phone. Your assumption was correct – he does need moral support :)
The image showed Hardy blankly staring at the vast display of furniture, interspersed with crowds of unnerved adults and screaming children. His wide eyes spoke of sensory overload and utter horror at the prospect of facing the mayhem of a weekend shopping spree at an IKEA store. His arms dangled down along his lanky figure, fists tightly wound around the telltale minuscule pencil and note paper that every IKEA customer was familiar with.
Ellie's partner shot her a surprised glance but didn't ask what had her in pieces. Ellie contemplated what to reply. A grin stole over her face. She hit the forward button for the image and typed a message to Hardy:
Enjoying yourself?
It didn't take too long for him to answer: I'm going to murder Baxter. And no. I'm not.
Tell him I would pay money for a picture of you building a bloody Billy shelf.
What's a Billy shelf?
His frowning face was embedded in his words, entertaining Ellie more than she'd been in a long time.
You'll see, she wrote back, well aware that it would rile him up more.
Stop wittering, Miller.
You're cranky. Go have meatballs. And before you can say anything – I know they're not rabbit food.
All she got as a reply was another ';p'.
With a smile, she put her phone away and let her gaze drift over the dreary countryside. The green of the rolling hills seemed more vibrant than it had, and she didn't mind the grey sky as much as she had earlier. Hardy was serious about starting over, maybe so should she.
A day after his trip to furniture hell and back, Hardy kneeled among the scattered pieces of a Billy shelf. He squinted at the instructions which didn't make any sense to him. Baxter had offered his help which Hardy had declined. The world didn't need more compromising pictures of him, and certainly not in either Miller's or Baxter's treacherous hands.
He snatched up the paper, trying to identify what to do next. Cursing wholeheartedly, he was ready to throw the bloody Allen wrench across the room. The buzzer of his mobile prevented him from finding relief for the pent up frustration.
As expected, it was a text from Miller: How's the shelf coming along?
The Allen wrench hit the wall.
His chest heaved with his aggravated breaths when he hit the call button.
"What do you think?" he barked into the phone as soon as she picked up.
"That bad, ey?" she chuckled.
"Don't ask. It's a bloody nightmare," he growled in response.
Her clear laughter drove away his anger. "Is your friend with you?"
"No, Miller. No paparazzi this time."
"Shame," she retorted. When she continued, her teasing tone had changed. "Are you even supposed to be doing things like this by yourself?" Concern trickled through the line.
The six weeks after his surgery that he wasn't supposed to do any heavy lifting with his left arm had just passed, but that probably didn't mean he should engage in putting up furniture.
"Maybe not," he mumbled embarrassedly. She'd caught him in the act.
"You're impossible. After all you went through, I can't believe you're being stupid about this." She paused and then added, "Scratch that. Actually I can. It's the typical wanker horseshit you would pull."
Hardy's shoulders drooped. "It's only that one shelf. Everything else is done. Ed made sure I didn't do it alone," he defended himself.
"At least he is a sensible man," Miller commented. "How come he puts up with you? Do you know any dirty secrets about him?"
"He used to be my CS at South Mercia," was all he offered, hurt by her implication that Baxter couldn't simply be a friend.
"Why can I not picture being your former boss as a true motivation to go to IKEA with you?" Miller asked sarcastically.
"Oh, I dunno. Maybe he wanted to make sure I'm off the street; so that I don't mooch off of him any more?" Hardy scoffed.
"Hardy, don't be an arse. I asked you a simple question."
"No, you didn't," he argued petulantly. "You can't think it possible that I actually might have a friend who cares enough to help me out voluntarily."
Miller's breathing crackled through the line while Hardy was losing his patience. It was wearing him out to have to prove constantly that there were people from his past who might – god-forbid – like his sorry arse.
"I gotta go, Miller," he eventually said. "Finish the bloody shelf."
He was about to hang up, when she spoke.
"I'm sorry, Hardy. I didn't mean to imply –"
"But you did," he cut her off, ending her apology before she could get going.
"It's just…," she hesitated, "It's just I don't know anything about your life before you came to Broadchurch whereas you know everything about me."
Hardy stood and walked over to where he'd hurled the Allen wrench. He stooped down and scooped it up. Miller's life had been presented to him all torn apart in pieces, very much like the stupid shelf in front of him. However, that didn't mean he had a clue how to put it together, not even with instructions. He twirled the small wrench in his long fingers.
"Ellie, you're wrong," he said softly.
A myriad of tiny details from Tess' life tumbled through his mind, the little things one started to know about the other half after being their best friend forever. He missed that sort of intimacy.
This conversation was treading on uncharted territory and Hardy was unsure where it was going to take him. Regardless, he went on, wearing his heart on his sleeve.
"I don't know everything about you. I don't know what you did on your eighteenth birthday. I don't know who you snogged for the first time or when you got drunk for the first time. I don't know who your favorite band is or what the first concert was you went to. I don't know why you went to the academy. I don't know why you stayed in Broadchurch all those years. I don't know what makes you happy, only about what makes you cry. There are many things that I don't know, and I'm not at some odd advantage because I witnessed the horror of your life falling apart over the last year."
He paused briefly and sucked in some air, then he decided to do something he hadn't done in years. Before he could lose his courage or she could budge in with another snide remark, he began to share.
"Ed Baxter is one of my best friends. He made me DI when I had come to Sandbrook after needing to leave Glasgow because of an incident that happened there during a drug bust. We became friends over the years after I helped him out one night when he thought his child was dying. After the pendant was taken…" – he swallowed, having a hard time talking about those days – "… He found me after Tess told me what happened. If it hadn't been for him, I probably wouldn't be standing here today," Hardy concluded his confession.
Miller still didn't say a word, and Hardy was worried he'd pushed her too far. Sharing wasn't necessarily a one-way street, and he wondered if she was prepared for it. After all, she'd been safe from walking down that path, thanks to Hardy's closed off self. Rubbing his tongue over his teeth, he contemplated revealing one more detail with the hope to draw her out.
"Baxter also helped me to get your job," he added, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut.
It worked.
"You wanker! Both of you. You two little shits conspired to take away the position that was rightfully mine. Unbelievable!" she yelled into the phone.
The corner of his lips curled up. Maybe one day she'd stop being sore over the job, not today though.
"I could try and make amends," he suggested hesitantly.
"What do you mean?" Suspicion laced her words.
"I could have him talk to Jenkinson about you, to take you back. They know each other," he offered, taking the risk of her blowing up in his face.
"Don't you dare! I don't need anyone pulling strings for me. And besides, I'm back as DS in Devon. I'm starting Monday," she added triumphantly.
Hardy's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected that. A broad smile brightened up his face, crinkles bursting from the corners of his eyes.
"Oh, that's great. Congratulations." He hoped his voice would convey his enthusiasm more than his meek words.
He was happy for her, but it didn't sit right with him that she was still not welcomed in the place that used to be her second home.
"Thanks, Hardy. I tried out something new."
Puzzled, he asked, "And what would that be?"
"I listened to what you said," she replied smugly.
Hardy sniggered. "I thought I would never live to see the day."
"Seriously? You're the last person who should use any language containing figures of speech relating to death or dying," she lectured him.
He grunted in response. She had a point though, he couldn't deny it. He wasn't prepared for her next question.
"How about you? Any plans for work?"
"No," he squeaked. He cleared his throat. "I haven't seen the CMO yet. My cardiologist doesn't think I'm ready for it," he informed her curtly.
"Are you going back to teaching?
He kicked a screw and sent it scattering over the floor. He'd not go back to that. He'd rather rot in this flat. The image of his shaggy-haired, full-bearded self cowering in a corner and bored into oblivion called for a certain response to her question.
"Over my dead body, Miller."
A smirk played over his face when she groaned, "You said that on purpose."
"Possibly," he allowed while he hunted down the screw on all fours.
Where had the damn thing gone? Hopefully they'd packed a few extra ones. At this speed he'd never finish the bloody shelf.
"Can't you ask your fr-"
"No. Not this time," Hardy cut her off and stood up, dusting off his knee caps. "Ed's stuck out his neck more than once for me. I can't drag him into it again."
Hardy toed the heap with the remaining screws. They rolled away, disappearing under the sofa out of his reach. Hardy cursed inwardly.
"Besides, someone else got my job," he huffed irritatedly.
He lowered himself onto his stomach and peered under sofa. Of course the screws had rolled all the way back to the wall. His long arm stretched toward them, not quite making it.
Bollocks. His irritation grew.
"Ha. So you do know how that feels," Miller egged him on.
"There is nothing funny about it," he pressed through gritted teeth while giving the screw rescue mission one last try. "Irvine got my job while I was still with South Mercia, right after the case was closed. We were co-DIs for a while until I…" – he hesitated not wanting to get into the sorry story of his rushed departure from Sandbrook – "… until I had no choice but to leave."
His fingertips finally made contact with the screws and he tugged them out from under the sofa.
Rolling over onto his back, he blew out some of the dusty air through his nostrils. Then he clued Miller in on one other piece of the puzzle.
"She's responsible for Tess coming back to CID after I was gone."
"Oh," Miller breathed into the phone.
As always, curiosity won the better of Miller and she wittered on. "How did that go for you? Working as co-DIs, I mean."
"Poorly," he moaned and clambered to his feet. He was done with this.
"I don't wanna talk about it," he growled.
He really didn't. He had no inclination to share the details of Irvine's pathetic witch hunt against him. It was in the past, and he was trying to move on.
"Right."
Hardy sighed. It seemed inevitable that they would end up at a point in their conversation when both felt the urge to avoid touching upon old wounds. Nobody spoke, but neither one of them made any move to hang up. He listlessly sorted through the pieces of the wretched Billy shelf and used the little pegs for the boards to measure the time it took for Miller to break their silence. He'd made a pile of seventeen, when she gave in.
"Hardy, do you really think we'll be all right?"
Her soft words catapulted him back to a late night in CID when she'd asked him if he thought they'd solve the case. His fingers hovered over a peg and he looked up as if he could meet her eyes.
"We will, Miller," he reassured, just like he had back then.
"You weren't after Sandbrook," she questioned his statement.
He inhaled deeply, talking while letting the air out. "No. Sandbrook was different and you know why. But what counts is that I'm better now, right?"
"Are you?"
There was a desperate tone in her voice that reminded him of how broken her life was and how much she needed to see that there was a way out. A ragged breath gave away that she was crying. Hardy rubbed his fingers over his eyelids. His body ached to comfort her with a hug, but she was miles away. Again, his only option was to resort to using words, something he had never been good at.
"Yes, Ellie. I am," he stated as firmly as his own lingering doubt allowed him to. "And you will be too. You trust me, don't you?"
She hummed an agreement in-between her sobs.
"You know I wouldn't lie to you. Not with this," he added quickly, considering how often he'd kept the truth from her.
Another noise of agreement found its way through the ether, and he was grateful for it.
"You know why I am certain that you will be all right?" He didn't give her the opportunity to answer his rhetorical question, out of fear he'd lose the courage to say the next words. "You are one of the strongest persons I've met. What you've been through was horrific and many would have given up. You didn't. You stubbornly kept going. You took care of your children, you held down your job, you took back your home, and stood up to the bastard that did all of this to you. And all of this without anyone helping you. You're –"
"Not true," she interrupted him quietly, "I did have someone who helped. You did."
It took the wind out of his sail. He sank down onto the floor, heedless of boards, pegs, and other colorfully named shelf pieces.
"Thank you, Alec," she whispered.
He passed a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the memory of another whispered female voice uttering his name in the dark deep night on the cliffs. He swallowed hard and made every effort not to tell Miller off about using his given name that had been taken from him all those decades ago.
"Don't mention it," he managed eventually, a slight quiver roughening up his Scottish accent.
"Quite right," she muttered.
A few heartbeats passed. Then she took in a deep breath and added in a much lighter tone, "Look at us. Mulder and Scully."
"Let me guess. I'm Mulder," Hardy growled, wondering what secret strength she was drawing from to fearlessly attempt to change the mood.
"What? No. You're the grumpy one. You're Scully."
"Seriously? Miller, you don't get to be Mulder. Not until you learn how to do some solid brooding on the cliffs and get a proper coat instead of that orange crime against humanity. Besides, you have to fully subscribe to 'Trust no one'."
"I've certainly learned my lesson from the master in that respect," she scoffed.
"'M sorry. I didn't mean to…," he trailed off, hating himself for having ruined her efforts.
"It's fine, Hardy. You were right all along."
"Told you I was Mulder," he quipped.
Miller laughed, and a small victory smile played over Hardy's face.
"Yeah. I'll buy you a plush alien next time we meet." She sniggered.
"Don't think I won't remember." His grin grew wider. "You still owe me a T-shirt."
Miller huffed. "Smart arse."
A loud crash in the background interrupted their banter.
"Shit," Miller cursed and then yelled, "Fred! Get off the bloody washing machine!"
"I bet you twenty quid he'll use his first swear word before he turns two," Hardy commented, remembering the day when his little pink three-year-old princess happily told her preschool teacher that the latest Peppa Pig episode had been bloody shit. Fred was facing the same fate.
"Oh, shut up. His birthday is in a month; he barely can put two coherent words together," Miller told him off.
"Fred! What did you do?" Miller exclaimed when she must have encountered the havoc her little wildling had wreaked.
"Want phone. Wanna talk to Tom." Fred shrieked into the microphone, and Hardy had to move the handset away from his ear.
"Fred, let go. It's not Tom. It's Uncle Alec."
Hardy rolled his eyes. When he heard what Fred excitedly crowed next, he burst out in laughter and Miller nearly choked.
"Knob! Wanna talk to Knob!"
"Miller, you owe me not only a T-shirt, a plush alien, but also twenty quid," Hardy stated as drily as he could, considering the circumstances.
"Go to hell, Hardy."
Hardy snorted. "Done that. Took you with me on my way back."
"Oh, wow. Look at you being all witty."
Another deafening crash rang in his ears and saved him from the need to prove his non-existent wit.
"Miller, you should go before wee Fred sets your house on fire."
"Quite right," she moaned.
Nobody made any attempt at saying goodbye.
Eventually, Hardy found his words. "Good luck with the job then."
"Good luck with the shelf. Bye Hardy," she uttered and hung up quickly.
Hardy held on to the phone that had become hot on his ear. The lingering warmth faded away, taking with it Miller's bickering and teasing. When he picked it up hours later after he'd finally finished the bloody shelf, it was long gone.
He was alone again.
A/N: A/N: Weeks ago in a long night at work I was thinking about Hardy sitting alone in his new flat and what he would do faced with the emptiness… an endless number of little chat posts to KTRose later the skeleton for the IKEA scene was born and KTRose woke up to a million and one notifications. Not even knowing how popular IKEA really is in the UK (turns out that a careful estimate states that every other child in the UK is being conceived on an IKEA mattress) and where the closest IKEA to Sandbrook would be (pinpointing an IKEA location near an imaginary town somewhere in the UK was a wild goose chase to say the least and reminded me yet again of Chibnall's geographic wibbly-wobbliness) presented their own interesting challenges. Thank you KTRose for entertaining my dorky nerdiness. What I was left with was a decently long scene which seemed rather comical for the two lovable idiots which I planned to put within another chapter.
And then I started revising it – and those two just didn't wanna shut up. And in the end I found myself gasping at the shippiness of the final product and wondering where that had come from. Alas, I liked where they had taken me. And if anyone wants to complain that this doesn't fit, they are OOC or too silly… duly noted. I still like what I did with it and I regret nothing (and if anyone wants to do some fan art on the picture that Ed took, I'd be squealing). Hope you enjoyed it, because I sure did.
Oh one last thing - in case you're not reading "A Million Holes" - Rebecca Irvine became DI at Sandbrook after the case happened... her and Hardy's difficult relationship is chronicled in MHPS 3 - in case you're interested.
