A/N: A quick short fic in two parts inspired by Febuwhump's day 1 prompt Head wound. Timeline would be around season 3 ep 3, though it is not strictly adhering to that.


Good Intentions

He was trying to be helpful, that was all. Make a good... well, if not a first impression as a copper then at least a first good impression as a tenant. Sadly, it wasn't working out at all how he envisioned. Mrs. Beazley still seemed to be holding quite a grudge against him. It wasn't surprising, seeing how he had accused her son of committing murder, but come on... that was over two weeks ago. And Jack was quite an ass as it turned out, not that it mattered. Charlie had still tried to be on his best behaviour around the housekeeper since then.

But it all felt like bringing water to the well. Useless.

Mrs. Beazley was giving him suspicious looks during breakfasts, while Mattie enjoyed taking pot shots at him during dinner conversations. If she was around. And he couldn't even blame them, because fact was, Chief Superintendent Munro did pressure him to throw Blake under the bus at any opportunity.

With a tired sigh, Charlie rubbed at his eyes and looked at his watch. It was nine in the morning, on a Sunday. The house was silent, because Mrs. Beazley somehow managed to convince Blake to join her at the church and then head to the market. Well, not like Blake needed all that much convincing... though Charlie was pretty sure the man's eyes would be only on Jean and not the Bible. Charlie had to smirk at how transparent Blake could be on some occasions, and absolutely unreadable at others.

Mattie went on some weekend girl trip to Sydney that Charlie wasn't privy to and didn't care about. That meant he had the house to himself, perhaps for the first time since he moved in.

If Munro had managed to convince him about turning on Blake, this would be the perfect opportunity to go snooping on the man.

Fact was though that Charlie had no intention to do that at this point.

He might have some respect for Munro based on his work... and Charlie agreed that the man went by the book at least. He also felt some kinship because Munro knew and worked with his father. Charlie would've loved to just sit down and have a good talk about that... but then Munro went ahead and fucked it all up. By throwing Charlie's father into his face.

Charlie didn't like that at all.

He didn't like a lot of things lately. Namely having to be pulling a bloody nightshift for the whole week. It wasn't like he disliked nightshifts per say. It was always calmer than during the day and he didn't have Munro or anyone else breathing down his neck. But it also meant he tended to sleep through half of the day and wasn't there to be the shield between Munro and Blake. It spelled trouble. Charlie thought the only reason those two survived the week without any serious issues was the fact there was no dead body and no case that Blake needed to be involved with. Fortunately.

What was less fortunate about it was the fact Munro could give Charlie the wonderful task of pulling all the case files Blake was even slightly involved in and leaving them on his desk for later perusal.

Charlie did his best to curate the files... if he forgot or missed one or two, who could fault him really? It was the middle of the night after all. And he also had to peruse other reports, dot all the I's, cross all the T's.

In one word, the night shift had been tediously boring and sleeping in the morning was nigh impossible. The sun was up early and with no real cases, Blake spent most days at home. Either taking patients (and boy, some of the old ladies were louder than the little kids when they were getting their shots), or entertaining himself with one of his experiments. That often involved being loud.

So it was a bit of a wonder Charlie couldn't fall asleep now that the house was empty and silent. But his mind refused to turn off and the pillow was too warm and the room was too light-

With an angry groan, Charlie rolled over on the bed and sat up. He might as well get up, before the annoyance over the inability to fall asleep drove him crazy. Perhaps this was a good thing. If he stayed up all day, he could get back to his usual sleep schedule. He would have to anyway, seeing that he had a day shift on Monday.

Charlie looked at his watch and grimaced. It was well past ten in the morning. Mrs. Beazley and Blake were supposed to be back in few hours. He wondered how he could keep himself entertained. He felt like wandering the house idly would feel like snooping. It was bad enough that Mrs. Beazley was so wary of his presence. Blake might've pretended that he was welcome by everyone, but Charlie had caught the tail end of a few of their conversations. He could also feel the unusual coldness coming from Mrs. Beazley. She was still angry about the thing with her son, Charlie thought. Or maybe about his presence being suddenly dropped on her.

Charlie wasn't sure which, but he knew he had to do something. He could live with Blake being suspicious of his motives for now; after all, he had a right to be. The man most likely used to be a spy. He could definitely pretend friendliness if he wanted to and Charlie didn't really feel any animosity between them. Maybe careful guardedness on occasion.

But he was getting anxious by what amounted to be a cold shoulder from Mrs. Beazley. It just felt wrong, not to have her approval about his presence. Even though it wasn't her house. But it was her home and Charlie didn't want to feel like an intruder. It was enough he had felt like one when he went to visit his family back in Melbourne.

He needed to fix this. And maybe he didn't have a grand plan, but there were small steps. His mother always appreciated the small gestures.

Decision made, Charlie got up and put on some of his home clothes. Plain trousers and a comfortable short sleeved shirt. It was warm enough for that and he had a feeling he might get his hands dirty.

The idea of sleep gone from his head, Charlie walked downstairs, towards the kitchen. Perhaps he could help with the lunch?

But Mrs. Beazley already had everything prepared. The roast was in the oven, all it needed was being turned on at the right time. Potatoes peeled and waiting in the pot. Charlie sighed. Nothing there to do, unless he wanted to run the risk of messing something up. He wasn't sure when exactly was the couple due to return either so starting lunch too early could easily backfire on him.

He was about to leave the kitchen when he noticed the apples and peaches. A whole bunch of them. And he remembered hearing Mrs. Beazley pester the Doc about bringing her the box of jars from the attic. And if he was on it, he could also take the boxes full of books that used to be in Charlie's room up as well, because they were taking up space in her sewing room.

Blake had said "Sure, right after we come back," but he had the tone of a man that wasn't really listening.

Maybe there was something Charlie could do for a start. He was also a bit curious about the attic, as he hadn't been there before. Who knew what lurked there. Hopefully not a bunch of skeletons.

He pulled a face at the thought and headed up to Mrs. Beazley's sewing room. If the boxes weren't there... well. He could maybe put on the wash. Or make a quick dessert. Charlie wasn't sure what would endear him to the woman and he pushed back a yawn. If he didn't figure it out today, he would try tomorrow. After some sleep.

Luck seemed to be on his side. As soon as he stepped inside the small room with the sewing machine, he spotted three boxes full of books. And the irritated looking note scrawled on the side of each one.

To the attic! Books!

Charlie chuckled at the passive aggressive tone of the scribble.

He picked up one of the boxes, grunting under the weight of it. No wonder Mrs. Beazley didn't take them up herself. They were bloody heavy.

He hoisted the box up a bit and went for the attic.

Honestly, it was a bit of a letdown. No skeletons anywhere, only boxes upon boxes. And dust. Lots of dust.

Charlie put down the first box and decided to bring up all the rest before looking for the jars, if they were there. After two quick trips, he spent the next ten minutes squinting and rummaging through boxes. Most of them had the content written on the side thankfully, but he couldn't locate the one Mrs. Beazley was asking for at first sight. He noticed a box of files that looked eerily similar to police reports, but when he peeked at the first one he realized they were old patient files. Charlie didn't look further. He did sneeze though when the dust from the file reached his nostrils. The sneeze was followed by another and as Charlie turned away, he caught sight of a box near the entrance that was partially covered by a piece of cloth. Most likely to keep it safe from the dust.

Bingo.

A box filled to the brim with empty jars as far as he could see in the shadows of the attic. He grabbed it, juggling it carefully on his arms and grimacing at the loud rattle of glass. It wasn't as heavy as the books, but there was something sitting heavier on the bottom. As the movement of the box dislodged a cloud of dust, Charlie sneezed twice in quick succession. His eyes watered and he sniffled, trying to clear his sinuses. Having just about enough of the attic, he headed for the stairs. No wonder Blake kept putting this off.

Charlie stood at the top of the stairs and only then realized that the box was in his line of vision. He tried moving it a bit to the side, but the glass clinked and the weight of it just felt unstable in his arms. Charlie sighed and resolved himself to simply go slow. He was getting curious about what was at the bottom of the box, because he thought he heard some sloshing. Maybe there was a jar still full of preserves. He hoped it wasn't one of Blake's weird projects. He'd rather not see some body part or baby animal floating inside the glass container, thank you-

His right foot stepped down what must've been the second to last stair. He could feel the wooden stair dislodge as he put his weight towards the edge of it. The board moved along with his foot and Charlie felt himself slip.

Without the box, he could've balanced it out. Or perhaps grabbed the railing on the wall.

His hands were full and his vision blocked. His reactions just a tad slower due to lack of sleep and weariness.

Charlie's right foot went down, his left already mid-step. The box went up in the air as Charlie's back hit the stairs. There was a rush of pain, but that was quickly gone as his head followed with a dull thud. He didn't hear the box land, or the loud crash of breaking glass.

The lights went out.


He smelled alcohol. The stench was so strong at first Charlie thought he was drowning in it. His stomach rolled and he grimaced, turning his head away in an attempt to escape the odour.

It didn't help. But it brought to the forefront the fact that he was in an awkward, rather painful position. Charlie's hand twitched, his back feeling as if he'd pulled a muscle or two.

Charlie groaned and opened his eyes.

Where the hell was he?

Above him was a ceiling, around him narrow walls. He was lying down but... he wasn't horizontal. Not at all. Something hard and edgy pressed against his back.

Stairs.

He was on the staircase, bringing down the box-

Charlie uttered a curse. His left hand reached up towards his head. It hurt a bit, but the pain was strangely dull. Almost far away. What was there instead was a fog surrounding his brain and thoughts. Like waking up mid-dream and not knowing if it was morning or night.

Charlie blinked, slowly lifting his head to take a look around.

Sure enough, he was sprawled out on the staircase. The box lie somehow awkwardly lodged between his side and the wall. Charlie could see several jars had fallen out and were now littering the floor below. Several of them were somehow still in one piece. Same thing couldn't be said about the content still inside the box however. Charlie moved his right arm, trying to push the box away as it was pressing uncomfortably against his ribs. He paused mid motion though.

The smell wafted into his nostrils again and he almost gagged.

Whiskey.

He wasn't a fan of the stuff, even less so when he realised he was soaked in it.

"What the hell?" Charlie asked out loud and wondered if he had finally lost it and went on a binge. But no. His eyes were burning and he was still tired. There were jars... and a box he wanted to take down. To make Mrs. Beazley like him just a bit more.

Well, he doubted that would work out now after he broke her jars.

Charlie let out a frustrated sigh and rolled onto his side. His vision felt a bit blurry, but it was rather dark on the staircase anyway. And he hadn't slept for ages it felt like. He still saw a large wet spot on the side of the box. Touching it then bringing his fingers up to his nose made him cringe.

Yeah, definitely Whiskey.

Damn.

Did he break Blake's secret stash?

He knew Mrs. Beazley would be pissed but he had hoped at least Blake would be on his side. But what were his chances if he just destroyed a bottle of his favourite drink?

Charlie wondered what it was doing in the attic anyway and an even more scary thought occurred to him.

What if it had been some gift? Or a bottle that meant something to the man?

Charlie groaned, rubbing at his eyes.

Wonderful.

No better way to start his tenancy than by breaking things.

'Atta boy, Charlie' he heard his dad's voice and winced. Was he losing it? He really ought to catch up on sleep.

Just as soon as he dealt with the damage.

With a sigh and more resolve than he thought being capable of, Charlie somehow clambered up into a standing position.

He was facing the door to the attic and the stairs seemed to loom above him, swaying in some strange rhythm. Charlie gulped, one hand searching for purchase on the wall. He grasped the railing and turned around, but the sight below wasn't much better. The floor looked as if it was ready to jump away from under his feet at any moment and there were broken shards of glass right in front of him, blurring together then coming apart...

Did they move?

No, that was ridiculous. Charlie blinked then took a few very careful steps away from the stairs. He turned slowly to grab the box then cursed as he felt the wet cardboard give way under the weight of its content.

The rest of the jars and one empty bottle of whiskey crashed onto the stairs, some rolling down, the rest coming to a halt with clinking cacophony.

The sound felt too vivid, too loud, and Charlie wanted to grab at his ears and cover them, but he still had the now empty box in his hands.

Finally, all sounds ceased, except for Charlie's ragged breath.

"Fuck."

Hearing the word leave his lips out loud startled him.

He didn't curse.

Not unless the situation was dire. Or messed up.

Some glass on the floor should not be reason enough.

Still, he felt as if the world was about to crumble. Charlie closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he had stayed in bed after all. Wishing he could just return there now and forget this whole mess.

All he needed was to rest his head a bit and catch a snooze-

Charlie's chin hit his chest and he startled awake, barely stopping his body from tipping over. He was close to taking a header right into the shards of glass.

Shaking his head, Charlie turned around, stepping over the glass.

He had to clean it up. Afterwards he might rest, he told himself.

The broom and the dustpan were downstairs, in the kitchen. Charlie sighed. Perhaps there was something like that in the bathroom as well, but he didn't felt like wasting time searching. It was easier to brave the stairs again.

This time, he was gripping the railing and taking one step at a time. He waited until he felt his left foot stand on a solid stair before moving his right one to join it. His sight was still a bit blurry and squinting down made his head dizzy, so he opted to watch the railing during his slow descent.

Finally he reached the ground floor. Now all he needed was to find something... then bring it back upstairs and get rid of evidence... all before Mrs. Beazley and Blake returned. From town.

Charlie frowned, having a bit of trouble remembering where they went... or when they were due to be back.

Helooked at his watch, but the face was blurry and time hard to read. With a shrug, he went to the kitchen. Grabbing the broom and dustpan was quick, but he worried if he had to repeat the trip down the stairs with dustpan full of shards it wouldn't end well for him.

Charlie grabbed the half empty trash bin as well and lugged it back up with him. Going up was easier... he could do it with his eyes closed, which he actually did.

Now leaning over and cleaning up the mess he made was a whole different matter. Charlie heard something crunch under his shoe as he squatted down, but more worrisome was the fact he kept swaying. Keeping his balance was a chore and for a moment Charlie's mind sent out a warning signal that perhaps something was amiss. Perhaps he should be paying more attention to the fact his brain was mush...

Of course, said mush erased that thought almost as quickly as it came, pushed it far behind into the fog. Charlie huffed, cursing the long night shifts and his bad luck. His back felt sore and he wanted to lie down right now, but there was a floor to sweep. And a broken bottle of whiskey to deal with.

Frowning, Charlie looked at the label. It seemed familiar. Perhaps he saw that in one of the shops?

A thought was gnawing at him, one that was eerily similar to his six year old self when he wanted to try and make a surprise breakfast for his parents, but managed to spill a whole bottle of milk down the drain. His first thought was how disappointed his parents would be. The second one was that he should cover it up. Of course at six he couldn't just go out to the shop and buy the milk so early in the morning. He didn't have the money anyway. What he could do was peek out of the door and see if their neighbour Mrs. Janice forgot to take in the milk, as she often did on Saturday mornings.

Back then, Charlie had somehow managed to pull the heist and grab the milk with no one the wiser. He gave up on the breakfast, because there was not enough time and decided that pretending sleep would be the best course of action.

Of course, his parents had figured it out somehow. Perhaps because he had left the empty bottle in the garbage. It didn't matter though, Charlie's bad conscience made him fess up the same day. He got punished for stealing and had to apologize. It was an overall cringy experience.

But Charlie wasn't a child anymore. He could go out and buy a new bottle for Blake, and maybe get some empty jars for Mrs. Beazley as well. He wouldn't have to lie and cover up then, if he fixed it all before they came home surely.

With the plan in mind, Charlie swept the glass up and threw it into the bin. He glanced once more at the whiskey bottle, trying to remember the brand then chucked it out with the rest of things. Satisfied that there was nothing more crunching under his feet, Charlie put down the dustpan and broom, pushed the trash bin to the wall, so it wasn't in the way, and without another thought made his way downstairs.

His light jacket was on the hanger. He patted his pockets to make sure he had some cash and his keys and exited the house.