Chapter 64: Fading Fog

He would do it this time—he really would. How hard could it be? It was just a moment, that was all. How hard could it be? Almost—but Troy took his hand back. Not just yet, he thought, falling back against the settee's cushion. Ridiculous—and he knew it. What was the worst that could happen? Sitting up straight again, he drew a deep breath. Troy had already unwrapped the first layer of gauze, leaving the thinner strip the attending physician had lain across the fresh gash. Even after it was rinsed with antiseptic (somehow, that was less enjoyable the tetanus booster injected into his upper arm a few minutes later), the bleeding had continued to seep through slowly. He had wiped away a few drops before finally catching a lift back to the station with a passing constable.

Pinching the very end and peeling the first centimeter back, tugging it— "God!" he snapped, dropping the feathery cotton and pinching his fingers back over the cut. The crusted blood caught on the stitches and skin and a new jolt of pain sliced through his palm as the thread pulled on his flesh. Even though the doctor had discharged him with a small bottle of paracetamol to guard against any lingering twinges, the tablets he swallowed earlier had worn off some time ago. Fitting end to the day, he thought, grabbing hold of the bandage again. If I'd known he'd tumble down into that, I'd have gone round the bloody hill. And if he had known a rough waist-high stone wall lay at its base…

Troy seized loosened end again, biting his tongue between his back teeth. How much can it really hurt? A couple stitches at a time, the gauze came free, his skin still pale from the pressure of the first bandage. With half of it stripped off, he clenched his eyes and yanked the rest of it away, grunting at the pain. The dark line of stitches lay dark and ugly; where the sutures disappeared beneath his skin, a few tiny fragments of blackened dried blood still clung to his palm. "Guess I'll have something new for Mum next time she remembers to call," he muttered, running a finger over the faint ridges of the thread woven through his skin, faint pain rippling beneath his touch. It was just sore rather than properly hurting—thank goodness for small favors—but the mark where the two halves of the wound met was raised beneath the deep blue thread and dark pink. God only knew when his mum would call again. "Probably another time I can't answer."

Retrieving his discharge papers from his suit coat's pocket—he had tossed it and his tie aside almost as soon as he walked through the door of his flat, for once not carrying how they landed or if they wrinkled—Troy skimmed through the care instructions hadn't really listened to a few hours earlier, advice for both his hand and the new spot smarting on his arm.

· Keep your sutures covered for 24 to 48 hours. (He didn't have anything similar to the gauze he had just stripped off. Of course.)
· Keep them dry for the first 48 hours. ("How the hell do you shower?")
· Wash sutures only with clean water; do not apply hydrogen peroxide. ("What sort of git would do that?")
· Set an appointment 7 to 10 days later to have your sutures removed. ("Might just be used to them by then.")
· Pain at the injection site for a few days is common following a tetanus booster. ("What I need more of.")
· Mild fever of up to 38° C is not uncommon. If it persists or you experience other symptoms such as difficulty breathing, swelling, or racing heartbeat, please seek medical attention as soon as possible. ("Well that's useful.")

Troy threw them onto the table beside him, burying his mobile as the loose pages scattered. Smashing the power button on the remote control, he turned on the television across the room, closing his eyes as voices he didn't quite recognize filled the air. It was too quiet and the air was growing thick in the silence, heavy and harsh.

More than once as the evening wore on, something he still wasn't watching droning away on the telly, his own hands and fingers trembled, eager for a new mouthful of searing grey smoke. The crushed package sat just opposite his hidden phone on that table, an arm's reach away. "No," he told himself time and again. As his shoes had torn through the tangled weeds that afternoon, his lungs had constricted in his chest, and when he finally had Huhes to hand, his own coughing was thick and dank, enough to match his suspect's. And it would only continue to worsen. That much, he remembered well.

Troy closed and opened his hand a few times, struggling to stretch the muscles against the stitches across his palm and the lingering pain around each tiny incision. Part of the ache was the result of his drive home; even with the gauze and the outer bandage as a cushion, each changing of gear sent a shiver down his spine. "And it would be the busiest traffic of the night," he said, releasing a pained breath through his nose. Wasn't this when he wanted—

The quiet was heavier now, like gloom gathering overhead. He missed her voice desperately, more than he ever thought he could: its rise and fall as she transformed into someone new; her laughter when she sometimes teased him; its calm while explained some detail of a play or nuance of the theater he didn't understand, or inquired about whatever had landed on his desk; and her wordless cries as she took his breath away. But for their short conversation Tuesday, he last heard it thrown at him in fury—even before it erupted, Cully had sounded tense on the other end of the line, anger bubbling underneath. God, why hadn't he rung her on Sunday, like he said he would? The same reason you said you'd call her tomorrow, not tonight, he thought. Waking to her brief messages yesterday morning, he hadn't known what to do. can we talk this weekend? God yes, but—what was there to say? Stammer on again that he was sorry? "Lot of good that did on Saturday." Or tell her again he wished more than anything he'd had more time to spend with her over the past weeks? "Don't try and—"

Bzzt. Bzzt. As his mobile rang, cutting through the noise from the telly, Troy checked his watch. Half eight. Bit late to hear his solicitor's complained about anything, he thought. Or I might really be out of luck today. Flipping the small phone open without glancing at the front display, he muted the telly. "Hello?"

"Hi, Gavin?" Her voice, quiet and tired. And unexpected.

"Hey," he managed after a few seconds, quickly pressing the power button on the remote beside him.

"You sound surprised."

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to stop its twitching even as he flinched when the cut he had suddenly forgotten grazed his head. "I just—wasn't expecting to talk to you tonight."

"I could always ring off and call you tomorrow—"

"No, Cully, that's not what I meant." Another flicker of pain shot across his palm. "Dammit," he whispered, crushing his fingertips against the sutures.

"Is something wrong?"

Troy shook his head, as though anyone was there to watch him. "No, it's fine."

"Dad said—something happened today?" she asked slowly.

"Well, that's one way to put it."

"Then what? He didn't say exactly."

He stopped, licking his dry lips. It was the last thing he wanted to do, this: tell her everything that had transpired since mid-afternoon. "I tumbled down a hill after a suspect then fell into a wall and nasty nail." Almost a nursery rhyme in his head. But wasn't that the problem, Saturday, not saying anything? He still heard it echoing: "When you won't even tell me what's bothering you—when you're pushing me away..." Do you really want this, Cully? he wondered, peering at his palm and the harsh line scratched across—

"Gavin? What is it?"

"Wound up in A&E for a spell," he said slowly, testing his fingers anew. The pain remained fresh—his hand had run cold for a few seconds, remembering how he clenched that stone wall before the blood flowed.

"Are—are you all right?"

"Yeah. Attending says the stitches should be out in a week or so."

"Stitches?" Her voice rose higher. "Gavin—"

"I'm—" Don't, he reminded himself as he choked back that last word. "I didn't mean it to sound like that. He—the doctor—said there's nothing to worry about."

"At least for you."

"You don't have to either."

"I understand that, but..." Her voice trailed into silence, her breaths louder in its place.

Troy understood what she couldn't quite say. She was remembering that night months ago when after driving her father to...that doctor's house—he'd forgotten her name—his foot lead on the accelerator, he had delivered the man home, woozy from the brandy with a darkening bruise circling the base of his neck. And for those few moments before he stepped away, he watched Cully's face blanch, her hands tremble, and tears he never remembered gathering in the corners of her eyes, though she scrubbed them away with her sleeve. "It wasn't like that, Cully," he said quietly.

"What else did you expect I'd think? Or did you think I wouldn't be upset?"

"It's not anything like that." He was almost smiling, even with the sting every now and then in his hand and the blooming ache on one of his shins as the bruises surged. At last talking with her again on Tuesday, the real pain hadn't been seeing this beautiful woman he had lost—not that she had ever been his in the first place—but how somber and flat she had become. If she cared enough to worry..."It was a lot simpler, really. He did a runner that ended up over then down a hill. I didn't expect to run into a stone wall and—" No, just stop. That's more than she knows she's asking about.

"What?"

"At least—well, I didn't catch myself on it with my face like he did—just my hand."

She laughed weakly, and it was as lovely as he remembered. "Was it worth it?"

"Can't say yet. If it was at all, that depends on what happens now."

"In court?"

"There's that," Troy said, rolling his right shoulder against a new ache in his upper arm, "but there's the magistrate and a pair of search warrants first."

"For what?"

"Battered car he says his—" Troy gulped down his breath. "The car his—friend drives too—"

"Gavin, I already know you're thinking it."

"Well, that car and his—gran's house." He shivered just using that word. "Only place he has to stay in Midsomer when he's here."

"Only place? What..."

Even without taking a step into the tired house, hearing her yell into the warren of rooms of even an ancient village house, Troy knew what lurked in the shadows. Sagging chairs, cobwebs and stale ash huddling in the nooks and crannies of each untidy room, a stack of letters and bills threatening to collapse onto another pile of newspapers, impatiently awaiting their collection day. And his feet dangling in the air as his socks sagged wrinkled at the ankles—too short to reach the carpet—his knuckles white as he clutched his latest comic, struggling not to hear the raised voices in the other room as his nose itched with the dust...It was the weekend he dreaded each month, bundled into the back of the car, his mum and dad snarling at one another as the rough road went on and on into the far corners—

"Gavin? Are you still there?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, closing his eyes—and seeing that road again, wandering into an anxious silence that never stayed very long. The recollection had swarmed over him, crushing him like the gloom until Cully's voice had banished it. Usually, the past lay buried deeper.

"Is something wrong?"

"I just—it brought up some things I don't think about much, if I'm honest."

"I'm listening—if you want, that is."

"It's nothing important," Troy said quickly. The memories were more than just memories, when they broke through; sometimes, they were poison, acrid and bitter, swallowing almost everything else until he shoved them into the darkness again. They always found a pathway to resurface, no matter how deeply he hoped he had buried them this time.

"If it's troubling you, then it is, at least to—" Cully paused. "It should be."

He had stand, his fingers trembling worse than ever; after all, hadn't his mum and dad been the ones to teach him to chase the darker thoughts aside? Just once more for this—

"I don't break that easily, Gavin."

"I know—"

"So why won't you tell me what's bothering you?"

"It—" He started again. It wasn't that important, after all—he'd seen so much worse in every corner of the county, so many times over—but he always remembered those weekends as stark and barren and empty. "It reminded me of being a kid, visiting my own gran for the weekend. The house, how they talked to each other—about each other..."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was softer.

"There wasn't any happiness—they didn't even seem to like each other. I can't think they'd like anyone."

"I'm sure that wasn't true."

He could still see that woman, turning around, yelling for her grandson. And hear his own, with the same lined face stained with the yellow of cigarette smoke and ash. "You'd be surprised, Cully."

"About who?"

"Probably both."

"Gavin, that's not really an answer."

It jolted him from him memories as he remembered seeing her smile: all of her that never changed— Stop, he told himself. "It's the start of one," he managed after a second. I can't do this to you, Cully. Not all of it, not today.

"Fine." It vanished, replaced by a frown as he remembered that voice. "Should I ever expect the second half?" she asked.

"Only if you really want it," Troy said quietly, taking a few steps as he found another breath. Don't, he thought, his left hand still curled around the cut. Not again, after all that. "But—how have you been, Cully?" Please let it alone?

"I've—been good," she said slowly. "Nothing new really, just finishing up with my new audition piece."

New? he thought, loosening his fingers. His palm still ached around the threads. "Are you?"

"Yes, my last piece wouldn't work too well with a comedy. Didn't I tell you?"

"No, I don't think so," Troy said, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. He didn't quite remember what it must have replaced. Wishes, something like that—he'd read through it once with her, or he thought so. Something had interrupted them, just like it always did. Probably a pointless phone call.

"Are you sure?"

"Not on Tuesday, and not on..." He didn't need to say anything else; they both knew.

"I—thought I remembered telling you about it." Her voice was shakier.

"Well, then what is it about?" Troy asked. He turned his face from his phone, coughing sharply into his elbow, muffling it from her ear he hoped. Anything, really, he thought he would listen to her talk on anything for a few more minutes, ahead of the past circling around to crash into the future. After all, hadn't they been through this before?

As he paced away his cigarette cravings to her lovely voice and the synopsis of a play he didn't recognize, Troy struggled to hold in his opinions...badly. But it still chased the memories and their nastiness away. "...and by the end, she's shot him three times—" "Only a flesh wound first, was it?" "And then his body disappears before his daughter comes home to visit with her new fiancé." "He would do—" "Gavin." "All right, then what?" "A police officer turns up with a missing cat—" "What?" "A false looking dead cat—" "I never thought that was our job." "It's only a play, and a comedy at that—it's supposed to be fun..."

As Cully's rendition of...he'd already forgotten the name she just mentioned wound down, Troy shook his head. "I definitely don't remember that. I'm sure I would have done."

"I suppose, but I thought after I read it last week—I mean, never mind."

"You still haven't told me how it ends."

"Where's the fun in that, Gavin?"

"Didn't you say that already?"

Troy's chest was loosening as Cully laughed. For the next few minutes, he still listened as she spoke, wishing things weren't as they always were: across the same divide, wishing and imagining her here. Her words meandered through memories of Cambridge, some of them were faint and faded to his ears like she was struggling for clarity herself. Not that he could say much about it: he had only been up that way two or three times and never paid it that much mind. Once, she started outlining when might happen after next Saturday before biting her words back, muttering something he thought was along the lines "I didn't mean to bring that up." He didn't ask anything more.

"What else happened today?" she said suddenly.

He turned around. "Hmm?"

"What aren't you telling me? I know there's something else."

I don't want to worry you, Cully, he thought, kneading again at one of his eyes with the heel of his left hand, the threads scratching at his eyebrows. But I know you'll hear it all eventually. "Some idiot thought it was brilliant to pound a few nails in the mortar, top of the wall right where—"

"Gavin!"

"I didn't want to worry—"

"Well I'd call that something to worry about!"

"Caught myself on one, just in the same scrape. The doctor said—I was lucky none of it was too deep," he said—to no answer. "Cully?"

"Promise me you'll be more careful, Gavin," she said quietly, rustling mixed with her voice. Where was she now? "Please?"

"Whenever I can, but I couldn't do anything else today."

"Don't go tumbling down a hill after one of your suspects."

He turned around, the sharpness tightening against his ribs again. That's why, Cully, that's why I didn't want to say. "I didn't know I was going to."

"Then try?" she asked.

"Well, I didn't do it on purpose—"

"I understand that—"

"—and you're the one who wanted to know the truth," he finished.

"I suppose you'll say I deserved that one," she said after a moment.

"No"—he shook his head again—"but if you wanted an answer—that's the answer."

"Even if..."

He heard it again, the worry she didn't fully voice. And it still...surprised him, somehow, after all the anger and the hurt of the past week or so. Something was still lingering: warm and biding its time on the other side of the horizon, waiting for another day and something new, something more. "You don't need to," he said softly. "You really don't."

"Shouldn't I?"

Something. "If you do, Cully..."

"What?"

I miss you, Troy wanted to say, and...what else? I hope you feel the same? His fingers still trembled, ready to snatch a fag from the pack buried beneath the pages of discharge instructions on the side table. But what of it? Saturday, even just begging to discuss everything—anything!—had been shoved away. There hadn't been a chance for anything. Yet a few days later: concern, not indifference; care, not apathy; worry and... "I just—a lot happened today. And you know as well as I do—sometimes, it does."

"I know. Then can't I—worry, sometimes?"

Occasionally on an evening, Troy still remembered the chief inspector's angry words—accusations, almost—the warning to stay away. "She has a choice, now, and she didn't before." But what was he supposed to do, after all these months and years, seeing her again and again—struggling to keep his distance and somehow always failing. Not that he was the only—

"Gavin?"

"Sorry—I mean, I didn't..." he started quietly, shivering for a moment and ignoring the growing heat on his cheeks. It was the same every time—every single time—except deeper and further, learning and uncovering more and more. "Of course—I mean, if you—"

Cully laughed again. "I don't even need to see you right now."

"Does it make you feel better?"

"Maybe, but I think I should—"

"I'll still call you tomorrow afternoon—once you're home?" Troy couldn't wait for the end of her sentence. Just let me have this, Cully—please.

He heard her take a quick breath. "That—would be lovely."

Even after he rang off, Troy still reached for a cigarette, hissing as he folded his left hand around the lighter and its tip. After a few deep drags, he smashed the embers out in the ash tray he had retrieved from the back of a cupboard a week ago. It turned his stomach as the last wisps burned their way from his throat to his lungs—and his hand was still shaking.

After all, where did they go from here? Up?

A/N: Though there are little clues about Troy's childhood just like his contemporary family life, this is mostly creative license. Also, as a reminder from many years ago, when Cully smuggled him into the Pygmalion dress rehearsal, he forgot to turn his phone off and his mother called in the middle of it. And he is a proud manual transmission man in book canon. Stick shift drivers of the world, unite!