Blake thought the day was going splendidly. Well, besides the fact he had to sit through a rather boring sermon, but then he used the time to sneak a few looks towards Jean. Just being in her company made it all better. And it was only an hour... afterwards, they could enjoy a walk through the market. Blake didn't want to admit it, but he was getting more and more smitten by Jean. He knew she got his heart for quite some time now, but it had all come to the head when Jack Beazley appeared in town and caused all the trouble. The moment Blake arrived home, only to see Jean and Mattie being attacked by an angry mob, he saw red.
Later, when everything settled down and they were all safe and relaxing in the living room with a glass of something nice, he knew he would do anything for that woman. Even go to the church on a Sunday morning.
Though he was pretty sure it would not be a regular occurrence, especially after the puzzled and somehow huffy look the priest was giving him as he and Jean left.
The day was great for a walk. It was nearing summer, but the sun was downcast and the heat wasn't crippling yet. Blake wished he could just get up the courage to actually take Jean out on a date... or hell, just ask her if she felt the same. Instead they chatted idly as she shopped, while Blake lugged the bags with the fresh produce.
He was in a good mood when he entered the house and probably wouldn't have noticed anything amiss for a while. There was a whiff of something familiar in the air, but it wasn't strong enough to be recognizable and Blake dismissed it right away.
Jean's nose twitched and she had a little grimace on her face but it quickly vanished as well as she shook her head.
"Put the bags on the table please," she asked Blake as she did the same with the one paper bag, already pulling out the produce and putting it in its place. "I'll go change then start the lunch," she said once everything was put away.
"I'll do the same. Well, go change. Not sure I'd be much help in the kitchen," Blake said with a smile and received a knowing snort.
"Not unless I want something smashed or poisoned," Jean joked as they headed upstairs.
Five minutes later, Blake decided to go finish up some paperwork in the surgery. He was on his way there when he heard the front door open and shortly after heard Jean's surprised voice.
"Charlie? What's the meaning of this?"
The tone was tinted with a hint of annoyance, even apprehension and Blake quickly changed his route. What on earth did his new tenant manage to get into now? He hoped it wasn't anything terrible, seeing how he still had to smooth some ruffled feathers about Charlie's presence. Jean had calmed down enough to accept the boy as their tenant, but she was still suspicious towards him. Even standoffish at moments. And it was strange enough coming from Jean that even Blake picked up on it.
As Blake rounded the corner, he came to a halt. The scene in front of him wasn't one he'd expected. Surely not seeing Charlie sway slightly in the doorway as he struggled to put his jacket on the coat hanger and kick off his shoes. What made it most bizarre though was the smell of alcohol coming off of the man. Blake's mind flashed to the smell he felt when entering the house and he frowned.
Had Charlie really been drinking like that in the middle of Sunday? After a night shift at that?
Jean was standing only few feet from Charlie, her brows pulled into a frown as she most certainly took in the poor state of their tenant.
All that was missing was Charlie hiccupping and getting sick right then and there. Blake was sure Jean would not appreciate that at all.
Fortunately, Charlie had the presence of mind not to do anything of the like. Once he managed to hang his jacket, he looked at them. There was a lopsided grin on his face, looking almost apologetic.
"Sorry 'bout the jars, Mrs. Beazley," he said and it came out a bit slurred. Blake cringed while Jean's frown deepened.
"What are you talking about, Sergeant Davis? And why on earth are you drunk this early in the day?" Jean asked, putting an emphasis on his title, as if that should shame the boy. It went totally over his head though. He did wince at her loud tone and quickly walked past her, towards Blake. A bit like a kicked puppy.
"Sorry, Doc. This' the best I culd get to replace you's."
Charlie held out his hand with a brown paper bag. Blake automatically took it, frowning at the slurred words.
"Think I'll go lie down now. Things are moving too much," Charlie grumbled and headed upstairs.
It felt so surreal that both Blake and Jean stood there, at a loss of words as they watched Charlie somehow drunkenly brave the stairs.
"What on earth was this supposed to be?" Jean was the first to find her voice, albeit it did sound shocked.
"Did he really just get sloshed after a night shift?"
"That doesn't seem like Charlie," Blake protested with a frown.
"Well, he definitely looked drunk. Smelled it too. And what's that?" Jean nodded towards the paper bag.
Blake had felt the weight of it already and could tell by the shape it must've been a bottle. He peered inside and frowned at the off-label Whiskey.
"I don't drink this," he commented, feeling more puzzled than anything. What could've happened to drive Charlie to drink? Was it Munro and the pressure he was exerting on the Sergeant? Or did something happen to his family they didn't know about yet?
There were too many possibilities, but only one way to find out. Still, Blake wanted to first see what clues he could get on his own.
"I'm going to look what he was trying to replace," he commented dourly and went to check the bar. It looked the same. There was no sign of the bottles being moved at all and no smell of the alcohol either. Puzzled, Blake walked into the kitchen to find Jean looking around with an equally puzzled look on her face.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing I can see... except we are missing out trash bin?" she raised a brow then let out a sigh. "Lord help me, Lucien, if he ends up being more trouble than you, I'll require a raise."
Blake chuckled, rubbing her shoulder soothingly.
"Don't worry. No one's more trouble than me," he replied cheekily. Jean snorted.
"I'll wait with my conclusions on that. Either way, what on earth is he doing getting drunk at this time of the day? I thought he was sleeping off the night shift, not going through your liquor cabinet."
"He didn't," Blake said thoughtfully. "Nothing's missing. Whatever he drunk, it wasn't mine. This makes the bottle of Whiskey all the more confusing."
Jean huffed, still walking around the kitchen and searching for the bin. Blake could tell she was agitated.
"Look, this must be some misunderstanding. Perhaps something happened while we were gone. He got a phone call with bad news? It's really not like Charlie to hit the bottle this way."
Jean paused in her search and her agitation turned to some concern.
"Bad news? But he didn't say anything-"
Blake shrugged.
"He wasn't making much sense either. I think I better check on him in any case. Perhaps I can at least find the missing trash bin. It wasn't outside, so it must be somewhere in the house."
"I hope he didn't puke in it... or he will be cleaning that up," Jean huffed.
Blake grimaced at the picture it put inside his head and quickly left the kitchen. Charlie did look peaky enough to get sick somewhere and he'd rather not have to deal with that.
He headed upstairs, straight towards Charlie's room, though he was looking around the hall to spot anything out of place. Everything looked the same, but the smell of alcohol was somehow stronger. Blake probably could've followed the smell to the source, but it led the opposite direction from Charlie's room and right now that was his first priority.
He knocked on the door but there was no answer.
"Charlie? Can I come inside?" Blake asked, mostly just to make sure he didn't catch Charlie by surprise. There was still no reply, or even a sound, so he decided to better just check.
The room was empty.
Charlie's bed was rumpled a bit, so he at least made an attempt to sleep at one point, but there was no sign of Charlie. Blake's concern grew a bit, but he thought he had a pretty good idea where he could find the wayward sergeant.
True to his thoughts, as soon as he reached the door to the bathroom he could hear some noise from behind. He grimaced when he recognized it as someone parting with their breakfast.
Though he was also slightly relieved that Charlie managed to reach the bathroom and didn't make a mess somewhere else. He would have quite a hard time trying to get Jean to like him if she had to clean up puke from the carpet.
Blake was of half a mind to leave Charlie in his suffering and come back a bit later, but decided to stay. Charlie might've messed up with getting drunk, but he was still his tenant and even though there were some underlying doubts and concerns, Blake thought he could call him a friend as well. Not to mention he took the Hippocratic Oath. He better at least make sure Charlie made it safe to bed and didn't get alcohol poisoning.
So he waited until the sounds calmed down and knocked on the door.
"Alright there, Charlie?" he called out. No answer, just a moan. He took it as an invitation and opened the door, peeking in. Charlie was leaning over the toilet, eyes closed and looking truly miserable.
Blake sighed and stepped up towards him.
"Are you finished you think?"
Charlie squinted up at him and gave a very small nod and a grunt. Blake took him by the arm and helped him up, then manoeuvred him towards the sink. Charlie grasped at the porcelain, just leaning there, swaying slightly as if he was on board of a ship during a storm.
"Too fast," he muttered with a grimace, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head against the cool mirror.
Blake rolled his own eyes. He flushed the toilet then turned back to Charlie.
"Feeling dizzy?" he asked, with a slightly provocative tone.
If possible, Charlie seemed to blanch. That was enough of an answer and Blake couldn't help the disappointed sigh.
"What did you expect after drinking all that liquor?" he asked while he reached out and turned on the water. He grabbed a glass from the shelf near the mirror, swished it out with water then filled it up halfway and pushed it against Charlie's arm, until the man opened his eyes and took hold of it.
"Sip and spit," Blake nodded at the glass.
Charlie did so, albeit slowly. And he kept squinting at Blake.
"I don't drink the hard stuff," Charlie said as he put the empty glass back on the shelf, with a slightly more force than necessary.
Blake huffed.
"Trust me Charlie, liquor is one smell I can certainly recognize. And you reek of it..."
Charlie's nose twitched and he paled a bit more, as if just realizing Blake was right.
"Ugh that smell..." he scrunched up his nose then pulled at the hem of his shirt. Before Blake knew it, Charlie was caught mid struggle with trying to get the shirt off. Blake watched him, genuinely puzzled now.
"What are you doing?" he asked with a hint of disbelief just as Charlie finally managed to free himself.
"Stinks," Charlie said and threw the shirt away from himself in disgust. "Got it all over me."
Blake blinked, looking at the crumpled shirt on the floor. Now that the light hit it at a different angle, it was clear there was a rather large splotch covering a better half of it. Well, that could account for the smell...
"Just how much did you spill on yourself?" Blake asked, perplexed.
Charlie shrugged, seemingly careless.
"Dunno. The box broke," he said and splashed some of the running water on his face before turning off the faucet.
"What box?"
"With the jars," Charlie answered and blinked lazily. His eyes were drooping and he sounded more like someone suffering from sleep deprivation than actual drunkenness.
"I'm tired, Doc. Sorry for the bottle. Gonna get you a better one after payday," Charlie muttered then pushed past Blake out of the bathroom. He headed towards his own room, seemingly unaware of the fact he was parading himself shirtless in the hallway.
Blake shook his head and followed behind him, frowning as he saw what looked like the beginning of a bruise just under Charlie's shoulder blades and above his flank. Though the way the man was moving and the shadows in the hallway, Blake wasn't really sure.
He caught up with Charlie as he entered his room.
"Wait up, Charlie," Blake said, wanting to get a proper look. He reached out but Charlie didn't seem to hear him. He headed straight for bed, seemingly ready to plop down, trousers and all.
"Charlie?" Blake called out and this time got his attention.
"Hm?" Charlie turned around to face Blake.
"Oh. Hey, Doc. How was church?" he asked, as if nothing had happened before.
Blake looked at him, perplexed, a frown now marring his face.
"Are you feeling alright, Charlie?" he asked, stepping closer.
Charlie shrugged, his gaze locked somewhere behind Blake who had an irrational urge to turn around and make sure no one was standing behind him. There was only Charlie and him.
Charlie blinked then focused back on Blake, as if he'd just noticed him.
"Hey Doc," he said with a slightly confused look. "Didn't hear you arriving," Charlie said with a sheepish smile and Blake felt the alarm bells going off. Something wasn't right, and it most likely wasn't the alcohol. He moved right in front of Charlie, seeing him sway a bit.
"Why don't you sit down?" Blake asked and Charlie seemed to ponder the idea then gave a serious nod. But instead of sitting down, he went straight ahead and crawled into his bed, lying down. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes.
"Charlie?" Blake asked and Charlie startled, clearly having forgotten Blake was there.
"Doc? What's wrong?" he asked, looking around then rubbing at his eyes and yawning. "What're you doing here?"
Blake's concern only grew, so he moved to the side of the bed. He reached out to touch Charlie's forehead and check if he wasn't spiking a fever that would explain his behaviour. But Charlie's temperature seemed to be normal and the man shot him a look of confusion at the gesture.
"Doc?" Charlie sat up in bed, frowning.
"Can you look at me for a moment, Charlie?" Blake asked, gently tipping Charlie's head so he could look into his eyes. He noticed the slightly dilated pupils but they were both equal. The whites of his eyes were also slightly red, which could be caused by alcohol, but also by the simple fact that Charlie had a night shift and didn't get much sleep. Blake's confusion grew as he took a whiff and didn't smell alcohol on Charlie's breath.
"How much liquor did you drink, Charlie?" He finally asked him.
Charlie's frown deepened and when he replied, the irritation was clear in his tone.
"What are you talking about? I don't even like liquor."
"Then why are you drunk, Charlie? On a Sunday morning?" Blake asked, stepping back slightly, giving Charlie some space. He didn't want to agitate him any more than he already was after all.
"It's Sunday?" Charlie pondered then shook his head as if that was inconsequential. "I don't drink, Doc," he said with a huff.
"Not usually, I don't think so. Did something happen at work last night?" Blake kept prying.
"Last night?"
"You had a night shift."
"Oh. Right. I uh... nothing happen'd."
"Are you sure, Charlie?"
"Yes! What the hell's your problem?" Charlie snapped suddenly and Blake was taken aback. There was anger in Charlie's eyes and that wasn't something he had seen before. Irritation, yes. Almost constantly, when having to deal with Blake himself. But anger? Not unless there was someone innocent coming to harm.
"Why is everybody in this house fucking assuming I'm up to no good?" Charlie glared at Blake then with a huff turned his back on the man and lie down angrily. "Let me sleep. My head hurts."
The alarms in Blake's head were now ringing loud and shrill. Charlie did not swear and he did not lash out. Especially didn't tend to have such quick mood swings.
Blake's mind was going over possible causes, from head injury to possible drugging or a stroke. Unless Charlie was a violent drunk with outbursts, this didn't fit into Blake's theory.
"My apologies Charlie. But you're acting rather strange and I'm worried."
"I just wanna sleep," Charlie said morosely, face half buried in the pillow. Now he sounded like he was sulking.
Blake patted him on the shoulder carefully, aware Charlie could just as well lash out as ignore him. Instead, Charlie turned around giving him a bleary look.
"What happened this morning, Charlie?" Blake asked.
Charlie sighed then reached up to rub at his forehead, wincing.
"I'm not sure," he muttered. "D'you have something for headache?"
"Did your head hurt when you came home? You didn't grab any breakfast, just headed up for bed," Blake said, trying to figure out if there was an issue they missed earlier.
Charlie looked like he was trying to remember.
"I couldn't sleep," he finally said. "The house was empty."
Blake nodded encouragingly.
"What did you do?"
Charlie shrugged, shaking his head. Then he hissed, rubbing at the back of it.
"What's wrong?"
"Uh... stairs. I think. I spilled the bottle."
"You spilled it on the stairs?" Blake asked with a frown, because he didn't remember seeing any sign of that coming upstairs.
"From the attic. I grabbed the boxes," Charlie supplied, looking as if coming up with the memory itself hurt him. He rubbed at his eyes.
"I don't know. Just woke up smelling like booze. Bottle empty, jars broken," he said with a sigh. "Mrs. Beazley will hate me even more."
Blake snorted.
"I doubt some broken jars would be the reason." Then he frowned.
"You woke up? But you said you couldn't sleep."
"Huh?"
"Where did you wake up, Charlie?"
"Stairs," he finally supplied.
"And you didn't drink?"
"I don't drink liquor, Doc," Charlie growled, fed up.
"Did you hit your head by any chance?"
Charlie paused. Ran his hand over the back of his head again. Winced.
"Uh. Maybe?" he asked a bit uncertainly.
Blake reached out and ran his hands over Charlie's skull. Didn't take long to find the bump at the back of his head. It was quite an impressive size. Blake sighed while Charlie hissed in discomfort, trying to pull away.
"Why didn't you say something, Charlie?" Blake asked with a frown as he regarded the man with fresh eyes. The thought he might've ignored the uncharacteristic behaviour and hadn't come up to clear the air made him shudder.
"Say what Doc?" Charlie asked, shaking his head slightly, his eyes clearing up just a bit. "Think I got a migraine," he muttered unhappily.
"More like a concussion," Blake corrected him and raised a finger in front of his eyes. "Can you follow it please?" he asked as he moved the digit from side to side. Charlie's head automatically moved, following the motion. "Just your eyes, Charlie," Blake admonished slightly.
Charlie did so, though it was obvious by the increasing pallor that the movement didn't help him any. But Blake was relieved he seemed to be tracking well, albeit sluggishly. He wondered whether all the symptoms he initially inscribed to alcohol were caused by the concussion, or perhaps if lack of sleep and food, or even stress might've exacerbated them more.
"Can you turn off the light Doc?" Charlie asked, squeezing his eyes shut. He had lowered himself back down to lie down on the pillow, but as it put pressure on the bump, he grimaced and turned onto his side.
"I'm afraid my ability to turn off the sun hasn't manifested yet," Blake joked.
"Huh?"
"Never mind, Charlie. Just a second."
Blake pulled the heavy curtains over the window, blocking the light and throwing the room into a more acceptable shadow. Charlie's shoulders relaxed a bit and he muttered something under his nose that might've been a thanks.
Blake sighed, running a hand over his hair, thinking. He would've preferred taking Charlie to the hospital, to get a better check-up and make sure he hasn't been hurt more seriously. But the man was already half asleep and Blake didn't think getting him into the car would be that easy. If he knew something about Charlie it was his dislike of admitting being hurt. He did so if pressured, but never seemed to ask for help himself. Still, he had to try at least.
Blake sat down on the edge of the bed and gave Charlie's shoulder a gentle shake.
"Charlie? Can you stay awake for a bit longer?"
Charlie grunted but after a bit more prodding turned to face Blake. He cast him a bleary frown.
"What?" he asked gruffly.
"I was thinking perhaps it would be better to make a quick trip to the hospital?"
Charlie blinked.
"Why?"
"I'd like to make sure you didn't hit your head too hard."
Charlie frowned and it was clear he was trying to make sense of his words. Blake was getting worried. If Charlie didn't know what was happening, it was a sign of a more severe concussion-
"I'm fine, Doc," Charlie said with a sigh. "Tired from nightshift."
"That's one thing. But you remember the stairs?"
"Hard to forget," Charlie huffed. "Still smell the booze." His nose wrinkled in disgust.
"You seemed a bit confused earlier," Blake said carefully.
Charlie just shrugged.
"Don't need hospital. Don't wanna go," he said obstinately. "Let me just sleep."
Blake sighed, but in the end nodded in agreement. Outside of getting an x-ray, there was not much beyond observation at this point. Of course there was the risk of a bleed... but Charlie seemed to be getting more lucid instead of less and his pupils were reacting accordingly to a mild concussion.
"Alright then... we will wait. But I'll be around waking you up shortly for a check, alright?"
Charlie's eyes were already closed. He grumbled some response and Blake knew he was talking into deaf ears. Resigning himself to coming round and bugging the man more than either of them would've liked, he left Charlie sleeping. Though he did move the bin in Charlie's room next to his bed in case he got sick and also left the door to his room open enough to hear if there was some problem.
Blake headed towards the stairs, feeling the need to explain Jean what happened and clear the air a bit, but paused in the hall. The smell hit him stronger there and he realized it was coming from around the corner where the stairs to the attic were hidden.
Sure enough, as soon as he turned the corner he spotted the missing bin from the kitchen and the dustbin with the broom. He cast a look at the stairs and spotted the still wet puddle of liquor. He was a bit relieved not to see any bloodspots, despite there still being small glass shards on the ground. Charlie did try to clean it up, but did seem to miss a few.
With a sigh, Blake leaned over the bin and saw the box with the broken jars and an old bottle of whiskey. He wasn't sure where it came from and didn't really care. He was more annoyed by the fact Charlie got hurt while trying to do something Blake was supposed to take care of. He did remember Jean's pestering about the boxes but he had no desire to go up into the attic. It held memories he'd rather not face... also dust. Lots of it.
Grimacing, Blake grabbed the bin and the cleaning utensils, which he put on the top and dragged everything down the stairs.
Jean had already managed to change out of her church clothes and was just about to turn on the oven with the roast.
"Well, I found the missing bin," Blake said, putting the thing down with a huff.
Jean raised her brows.
"If it's full, perhaps you can take it out first?" she asked with an amused tone as she saw him put it down.
Blake groaned.
"In a bit," he said, rolling his eyes.
Jean pursed her lips, her nose twitching as she leaned over and looked at the content of the bin. She blinked, surprised.
"What on earth? Is that my box of jars?"
"Indeed, it is," Blake answered with a grimace.
"Well? What happened to it?" Jean asked, noting the broken glass with some dismay. "I know you didn't want to lug those boxes, but really. It would've been easier to just tell me. Breaking everything is a bit of overkill, don't you think Lucien?" she looked at him, miffed, though there was a touch of humour in her voice.
"I can't really take the credit for the mess," Blake hedged then waved his hand towards upstairs. "But I do think we made some... premature assumptions and owe Charlie an apology."
"Apology? For what?" Jean frowned, her arms crossing over her chest.
"See... there was no drinking involved. Seems like he just... wanted to help."
Jean looked dubious.
"By breaking my jars?"
"By bringing down the boxes you wanted from me."
"You are starting to make even less sense than that boy, Lucien. Is it contagious?"
Blake snorted, pointing towards the table.
"Why don't we sit down? And I will try to explain. You know the saying No good deed goes unpunished?" he asked as they both settled behind the kitchen table and Jean gave him a confused nod.
"Of course."
"Well, I'm afraid Charlie might've found out firsthand how true that is," Blake said and with an increasing feeling of responsibility explained to Jean just what had occurred while they were gone.
Charlie wasn't really sure what had happened. He had a vague recollection of the attic; a strangely hazy and probably very embarrassing trip to the nearest gas station because the usual shop was closed on Sunday, then feeling sick as a dog. He really hoped no one recognized him there or that word didn't get back to some of his colleagues about him stumbling around and trying to buy booze on a Sunday morning. He wasn't sure he could handle the embarrassment, or face the consequences at work.
Charlie had no clue how he had managed to return home in one piece either, seeing as by that time everything was blurry and his head ached with passion. But he did and then there was Mrs. Beazley and Blake, looking oddly disgruntled. Well, perhaps that wasn't so odd for Mrs. Beazley when dealing with Charlie, but he couldn't really remember Blake giving him that strangely disappointed look before.
Charlie huffed and rolled over onto his back, eyes blinking open.
Daylight hit him, despite the curtains pulled in, so it must've been midday. Charlie cringed, raising a hand to rub at his eyes until they adjusted.
It took a minute or two, but when he chanced a peek, his eyes didn't feel like watering anymore. And the room looked still. This was a vast improvement over the last day or so.
God, Charlie hoped he hadn't been out of commission for too much longer. Blake had reassured him repeatedly - perhaps even too many times, if the man's tone was anything to go by last night - that he had excused his absence to Munro and that he was given a medical leave for the next few days.
Charlie cringed at the thought of what that meant for him once he returned to work... or what trouble Blake might've managed to get into while he was busy sleeping or gritting his teeth through the nasty headache and nausea that hit him anytime he tried to crawl out of bed.
Though perhaps not all that much trouble, Charlie thought as his eyes landed on the empty chair pulled up near the foot of his bed. He was pretty sure he had seen Blake in that chair a few times, waiting for him to wake up and get a chance at giving him the twenty questions. Charlie could've sworn he was being interrogated about something or other almost constantly, but he couldn't remember any details, which left a bad taste in his mouth. Did Blake use his moment of weakness and ask something about his original assignment? Or did he ask about Munro?
Charlie wasn't sure he wanted to know an answer to that. He wasn't even sure what answers he might give Blake if asked now, unless it was about where his loyalties lay. It was hard to think with the headache that was still thumping inside his temples, especially about Munro. Because every time he thought about the man, his mind instantly brought up the fact that his father was this man's friend and partner. That perhaps this man knew Norm Davis better than Charlie did... that maybe his words about Charlie's father were true.
The groan that escaped his lips brought him back to the present. Whatever Munro was trying to do with Blake, Charlie could only try and mitigate the damage. If Norm Davis could be his own man, Charlie could do it as well. But perhaps he would leave it for another day. When his brain wasn't feeling like one big bruise, sloshing around inside his skull.
Charlie shuddered at that image and decided it was time to join the living. Or at least attempt to shuffle down the stairs and figure out what day it was. Someone was bound to be around after all... he could hear the dull tones of a song coming from the radio.
With a bit of trepidation and lot of self persuasion, Charlie slowly sat up. He closed his eyes as the headache ratcheted up a bit, but was relieved when the pain settled back down shortly. When he opened his eyes the room was still as well.
Charlie let out a sigh. It looked like the nausea and dizziness had finally abated. His tongue darted out to lick at his chapped lips as he realized how thirsty he was. Fortunately, or well, thanks to some good soul, there was a glass full of water on his bedside table. Next to it was also a bottle of pills.
Charlie didn't think twice and grabbed both greedily. He shook out a couple of pills but stopped himself and returned all but one. He knew it most likely wasn't anything strong as the Doc wouldn't have just left it out like that, but he still didn't want to risk knocking himself out accidentally. Once was quite enough.
He popped the pill and drank the water then stood up. The room stayed steady and although his head gave a stronger throb, Charlie didn't feel like he was riding a rollercoaster anymore, which was good.
For a moment he just stood there, thinking of whether he truly wanted to face some of the house's occupants. He wasn't sure what all had transpired in the last... day, he hoped... and while he was fairly sure Blake would be acting like normal, he dreaded having to face Mrs. Beazley or Mattie.
There was a hazy memory of a somehow perplexed, almost horrified look on the housekeeper's face. Charlie really hoped it was a product of his imagination and nothing else. He wasn't sure how he could've offended or horrified the woman now, and he didn't want to know either.
His stomach growled and Charlie realized he was actually kind of hungry. That meant he would have to go downstairs whether he liked to or not. With a sigh, he shuffled towards the dresser and picked out some of his house clothing. He was not going down in his sleeping attire.
Several minutes later, after he managed to change into a comfortable pair of trousers and a button less shirt (he was not messing around with buttons, no way), he was ready to face the world. Well, almost. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and cringed at the state of his hair. He reached up automatically to comb it with his fingers at least, but he accidentally brushed right over one hell of a goose egg.
The resulting pain wasn't worth the looks. Cringing, Charlie gave up and headed out of the room. He moved slowly, carefully, especially once he reached the stairs. His depth perception still felt a little bit off and there was the too familiar sensation of his foot slipping and the gravity pulling him down. He had absolutely no wish to relive that.
Charlie let out a slightly relieved sigh as he reached the bottom without tripping. He could hear Mrs. Beazley in the kitchen, singing softly to the tune coming from the radio. Charlie didn't know the song but it sounded upbeat and so did Mrs. Beazley. He hoped that was a good thing.
The smell wafting through the house indicated something good was bubbling on the stove. Charlie's stomach growled again. He wasn't sure he could eat all that much, though even a simple toast sounded enticing. Charlie made his way down the hallway slowly, looking around, searching for anyone else in the house but there was no sign of them. He knew it was childish and cowardly. He hasn't done anything bad... at least he didn't think so. Or didn't remember. Yet he felt as if he had been caught red handed trying to steal from the cookie jar. It was a rather disconcerting feeling and he tried to shake it off as he stepped inside the kitchen.
Mrs. Beazley was in the middle of chopping vegetables, a pot bubbling on the stove next to her as she hummed and occasionally sang along with the radio.
Charlie felt bad for disturbing her, but he came this far and didn't want to turn back empty handed. And anyway... he would have to face her sooner or later if he wanted to keep his living arrangements.
He didn't want to startle her too much though, so Charlie cleared his throat, standing somehow awkwardly in the doorway.
Mrs. Beazley still jumped at the sound, twirling around. The smile on her face had wavered slightly, but it didn't slip totally. Charlie hoped that was a good sing.
"Oh, Charlie! You're up?"
She sounded... normal. A bit embarrassed perhaps, but she cast him an apprehending glance and suddenly it was Charlie who felt self conscious. Especially at her raised brow.
"I hope you're not planning on going out to work?"
"Uh... no," Charlie replied, with some confusion. "Was I supposed to? Did we get a case?"
He felt slight panic creeping in. Maybe his brain was muddled more than he thought... didn't he have a day shift on Monday? What day was it now?
"No, no case, don't worry," Mrs. Beazley raised her hands, cringing when she realized she was still holding the knife in the right one. She put it down then turned back to Charlie.
"You're off duty for a few days, Charlie. Lucien took care of that, so you don't have to worry," she said reassuringly. Charlie nodded but he was still feeling slightly lost and a myriad of questions was running through his head. But the kitchen also swam a bit and Charlie felt a wave of tiredness hit him all of a sudden. He leaned against the counter, letting out a breath. He could feel Mrs. Beazley's gaze on him, but as soon as he looked up, her eyes flickered away from him.
"Alright there, Charlie? You shouldn't be out of bed yet. Lucien said the concussion might take several days to clear up-" she was talking fast, but Charlie was more surprised when she stepped up to him and made sure he got settled in one of the chairs.
Sitting down felt better, especially when Charlie could lean his head against his hands resting on the table.
Mrs. Beazley stood in place, looking somehow torn. She opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but then closed it again and shook her head.
"Cup of tea?" she asked all of a sudden and Charlie knew by the tone that it wasn't what she wanted to ask. But thinking over the delicacies of their strange relations was just painful.
"Yes, please," Charlie replied and watched as she turned around, seemingly relieved. Her shoulders still looked tense as she poured him a cup, but Charlie didn't persuade it yet. He was just happy when she put down a plate of biscuits in front of him as well, without him having to ask for them.
"Thank you, Mrs. Beazley," he said with a grateful smile, reaching for one of the biscuits and basically inhaling it. His stomach did a flip and Charlie took more time with the second one, but the sugar already made him feel a tiny bit more awake.
Mrs. Beazley watched him with a strange look on her face. Charlie brushed at his face, hoping he didn't have crumbs there.
"The soup should be ready in twenty minutes, Charlie. Or I can heat up a plate for you from last night's dinner."
Charlie's stomach already felt almost full and he took the third cookie, but let it rest next to his teacup, not wanting to risk it.
"That's okay, Mrs. Beazley. The soup sounds fine."
Mrs. Beazley nodded and turned back to the chopping. She didn't resume her singing, obviously not feeling in the mood anymore. Charlie was thinking about leaving her to the cooking and just returning to his room, or perhaps wait in the living room, but he wasn't sure how much longer he would stay awake. He already had to stifle a yawn and his eyelids felt a bit heavy. He didn't understand why, he must've slept for ages-
Charlie's head popped up when he heard the spoon hit the porcelain of the cup.
Mrs. Beazley glanced around but he had managed to straighten up on the seat and gave her an apologetic smile.
"This might sound a bit weird, but... what's today, Mrs. Beazley?" Charlie asked somehow sheepishly.
"Why, it's Tuesday," Mrs. Beazley replied, giving him a somehow concerned look. "Are you feeling alright, Charlie?"
Two days. Somehow, Charlie had slept or well... missed... two whole days.
"Uh... yeah. Just a bit confused there," Charlie shrugged away the concern.
"Well, no wonder. Lucien said you must've hit your head pretty hard, coming down those stairs..." Mrs. Beazley once again paused, taking in a deeper breath, but once again she seemed to shake off what was on her tongue.
"Where is the Doc?" Charlie asked, hoping at least that question won't bring out the strange reaction. He was getting used to a standoffish housekeeper, but her current behaviour was weirding him out. He couldn't figure out if she was mad at him or not. On one hand, he knew she was particular about certain things... she was snapping at him for dragging boxes with books. How one could mess that up was beyond him, but he was pretty sure it wasn't about the boxes at the time. On the other hand... he knew she could be nice. Hell, she had been pretty great to him, despite some unfortunate happenstances involving her son... or Mattie. Charlie might've ignored the cold shoulder altogether, but truth be told he wanted Mrs. Beazley to like him again. Or at least accept him. Because he missed his family somehow awful... the meals, a friendly chat with his mum while preparing food, just... being part of something.
He had spent almost a year alone at the boarding house. Well, perhaps alone wasn't the best description... one was never alone in the boarding house if the noise and smell was anything to go by. But it was a far cry from a house with three younger brothers larking around. And a caring mother that was always willing to lend him a listening ear if he wanted to vent about work or friends.
A hand touched his arm and Charlie startled.
"What?"
"You zoned out on me. Maybe you should go back to bed?" Mrs. Beazley suggested.
"Uh, sorry. I'm fine. You were saying?"
Mrs. Beazley pursed her lips but didn't fight him on it.
"Lucien went on a home visit to check a patient. He should be back in an hour or so."
"Oh, okay. Thank you," Charlie said with a small smile and looked down at his half-empty cup. The biscuit next to it lost its appeal and he wondered if going to bed wasn't the best solution after all. It would definitely be preferable to the awkward silence...
Charlie glanced up and noticed that Mrs. Beazley was watching him, ignoring the chopping board and the bubbling soup. The look on her face was puzzling to say the least and Charlie could almost physically feel the awkwardness.
He wasn't sure he could handle this much longer.
"I'm sorry-"
"I think we need to talk-"
They both spoke at the same time and they both came to a halt mid sentence, looking at each other with surprise.
Mrs. Beazley had brushed her palms over the top of the apron, visibly uncomfortable. Charlie wondered what that was about.
"Go ahead, Charlie," she nodded at him, clearly hoping to postpone whatever she had on her mind.
"I wanted to apologize," Charlie started, a bit taken aback when she shook her head, but he kept on. "I'm not really sure what happened. I mean, I know I wanted to help out, but then I slipped and stuff broke. I'm sorry if I broke anything that had any value. I'll try to replace it-" Charlie rushed out in one breath.
"Oh Charlie, no-" Mrs. Beazley looked as if she had eaten something sour. She looked almost... remorseful and Charlie's stomach twinged. Did he really break something important?
"You didn't. There was nothing important in that box, not even the bottle. You have nothing to apologize for," she reassured him but Charlie was confused. If the box wasn't important then why was she acting so strangely? And what about his memory of her disappointment, bordering on disgust when he came home that day? Or was that just his imagination?
Charlie cursed his brain. He wasn't sure what had happened during the last few days.
"Did I do something strange or wrong? While I was... out of it?" he asked outright, unwilling to just go back and not know where he stood with the woman. "Did I offend you in any way, Mrs. Beazley?"
Mrs. Beazley blinked, taken aback. Hurt... and regretful?
Charlie wasn't sure but it was doing his head in and the headache was returning.
Mrs. Beazley sighed and pulled up a chair opposite Charlie. She sat down.
"I think we got off on the bad foot right away, Charlie," she started and Charlie couldn't help but nod. Indeed, their first meeting wasn't the most fortunate. "I love Mattie like my daughter, so hearing you put her in a cell was quite... jarring."
"About as much as her elbow to my nose I think," Charlie said, his eyes instantly widening when he realized he spoke aloud. "Sorry. I didn't mean-"
Mrs. Beazley chuckled.
"That's quite alright, Charlie. Mattie can be quite a handful if she wants to be. A bit like Lucien."
Charlie snorted. That was a rather fitting comparison.
"What I was trying to point out... with Jack's arrival, in quite a short time you somehow managed to put under suspicion two people I care about very much."
"It wasn't personal, Mrs. Beazley-" Charlie started but Mrs. Beazley raised a hand to stop him.
"I know that. Just as I know you are a good man, Charlie, who wouldn't try to purposefully hurt me and my family."
At that Charlie felt like her eyes were boring into his soul. Searching. Burning. As if making sure what she was saying was true. Charlie didn't dare to blink. He just nodded.
She seemed satisfied with that and gave him a slightly crooked smile.
"It still didn't stop me from making the wrong assumptions. I'd like to apologize for that."
Charlie frowned, confused.
"I don't really understand, Mrs. Beazley," he admitted. "What assumptions?"
Mrs. Beazley looked away, cringing. Then with a sigh, she asked.
"Do you remember anything after the fall on Sunday?"
Charlie thought about it. He was pretty sure he went to the gas station and made a fool of himself, trying to come up with the right change. He remembered the headache as the light hit him in the face on the way back. Then there was the memory of Mrs. Beazley, looking angry-
He frowned.
"You were angry with me?" he asked, just to make sure he remembered right. At the time he thought it was because he broke the items in the box, but now that he thought about it... she couldn't have known then. And the items weren't important anyway. So why was she mad at him?
"Not angry... but perhaps taken aback, yes," Mrs. Beazley admitted, sounding a bit sheepish.
"Why?"
"Well... you came home, reeking of alcohol, holding a bottle of the cheapest Whiskey and swaying around like a drunk. I might've... come to the wrong conclusion," she said.
Charlie blinked.
Then chuckled.
The sound definitely wasn't what Mrs. Beazley expected, because she looked at him startled.
"You aren't offended by that?" she asked, perplexed.
Charlie shook his head, his lip twitching.
"Well... the way you describe it... I would've probably come to the same conclusion. I bet the Doc thought the same?" Charlie hazily remembered Blake asking him about the liquor. Perhaps the man felt bad as well and that was the reason why he tried to make sure Charlie's brain wasn't scrambled by constantly waking him up with stupid questions. Charlie would take guilt on all sides over suspicion honestly.
It was actually quite a relief.
"Lucien was the one who insisted that wasn't a typical behaviour for you," Mrs. Beazley said, looking apologetic. "He went to check on you almost instantly. I should've realized as well-"
Charlie shook his head, trying not to wince at the discomfort of it.
"Nah. It's not like you know me all that well, Mrs. Beazley. I spend quite a lot of time with the Doc... and even he thought I was drunk. I can hardly blame you."
Mrs. Beazley gave him a long look and Charlie tried to hold her gaze as well, but his eyes started blurring a bit so he rubbed at them. That broke the moment and Mrs. Beazley cleared her throat then got up from her seat.
"No hard feelings then?"
"Not if you don't have any," Charlie said with a smile, wowing to himself that he will try and spend a little bit more time around Mrs. Beazley so they get to know each other better. Maybe that would ease any remaining tension and uncertainty between them.
"I think we will be okay," Mrs. Beazley said. "Unless you try to lock up my other son or Lucien too," Jean added jokingly.
Charlie looked at her, a bit startled, but quickly recovered.
"To be fair, both Mattie and Jack were doing something illegal when I brought them in," he said and Jean raised a brow, though the corner of her mouth twitched up in a smile.
"Well, they did have good intentions... albeit Jack's could be argued-"
Charlie rolled his eyes.
"I've had good intentions last weekend too. Look how well that played out," he snorted, running a hand gently over the back of his head. Yup, the goose egg was still there and still painful.
Jean cringed but nodded.
"I'll give you that. What's important though is that in all three cases, the outcomes worked out. Mostly," she added with a sigh and a faraway look, but Charlie didn't take that one personally.
He knew she was just missing Jack.
He nodded.
"Good intentions... just poorly executed," he muttered and Mrs. Beazley chuckled.
"Sounds about right, Charlie. Sounds about right," she sighed and turned back to finish chopping the vegetables. The tension from her shoulders was gone and as Charlie excused himself and headed into the living room to rest on the couch before supper, he was heartened to hear her hum along with the radio once again.
As he lay down onto the soft cushions, listening to the sounds from the kitchen, he thought perhaps next time he could try and do something less dangerous to offer help. Like make sure that Lucien Blake didn't get himself caught on the wrong side of the law.
The end
