Monday morning started off well. After the long drive back to Broadchurch and the long afternoon before in Liverpool, Hardy had dropped onto his bed at home to stretch out his cramped spine at about nine in the evening and woke sometime around one, still clothed, cotton-mouthed and cold. Without doing more than brushing his teeth and changing into sleep-wear, he'd gone back to bed – underneath the blanket this time – and woken in the morning when Daisy had banged on his door and threatened to take the car on her own if he didn't wake up. With ten solid, nightmare-less hours of sleep under his belt, he felt refreshed and somehow excited to be back at work. It had been a long time since he'd felt that way, and it was a good but odd feeling.

By the time he arrived on his floor, though, most of that mood had changed into his usual gloomy frown. After bumping into Lewis Parker and his intense anger-issues along with his wife Sally, who'd once more come to bail him out despite the bruise on her jaw, it had pretty much gone downhill. His growl of 'Stop hitting your wife, Lewis!' had been met with a glare and a 'None of your bloody business, Hardy' from Sally. He was pretty sure she'd have kicked him if there hadn't been witnesses nearby.

He sighed. At least in Broadchurch they only had about three to four regular cases of domestic violence, not half the city as it had been in Glasgow or Sandbrook. It was a small solace, though.

With the tea in the pot being left over from last night - possibly even Friday – and not feeling desperate enough to re-heat it or make a new pot, he'd grabbed a juice from the fridge and had barely sagged into his chair to make a phone-call when Miller trudged into his office and placed herself in the chair in front of him.

She looked a lot better than the last time he'd seen her, but her face wasn't happy and he hung his head with a sigh. "What is it?" he asked the desk, hoping she'd have something besides family-trouble that was bothering her. Something he could actually do anything about.

"Sir, what happened in Liverpool?"

He looked up, wearing a frown. "What? When?"

"With … with Joe and Tom. Something must have happened because he's … I think he's even worse than before he'd disappeared. Didn't react at all to being grounded and kitchen-duty. Just nodded. He won't talk to me or Dad, didn't eat last night and no breakfast and is just…" Exhausted, Hardy thought. "So, something must have happened. What is it?"

If something similar would have happened with Daisy, he would have wanted to know, too. Still, would it be a breach of trust to relay Tom's words to his mother? It wasn't like he'd deliberately listened in and Tom hadn't explicitly asked for secrecy. Did his loyalty to Miller surpass the feeling of dept he carried for Tom?

Hardy blew out a breath. No, those words were Tom's and only his. But he could give Miller the important thing, the part that was likely behind Tom's state. "Joe told him he killed Danny."

Shocked, Miller dropped her purse and cursed when everything spilled out. "What? What! He … are you sure?" Hardy nodded. She bent down to pick up her knick-knacks, buying time to think about the implications. "What did he say? What were his words! Hardy!"

"I don't know," he glared. Miller was wide-eyed and angry and …elated? Yes, she looked elated. A little scared maybe as well, but definitely elated. "I didn't hear the words."

"So how do you know, then? Maybe he said something else! Maybe he… he threatened him or something…"

"Miller."

She bit her trembling lip and sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "He didn't threaten him," he said, voice softer and certain. "He told him."

"How do you know? How can you be so certain? Did Tom tell you?"

He shook his head. "From Tom's reaction."

Miller frowned, clutching her purse with whitened knuckles. "How did he react?"

"He left him."

Miller looked at him as if she were waiting for more. "What? He left him… where?"

Exasperated, he threw up his hands. "At the bottom of the ocean, Miller, what do you think. He got up and left. That's all."

She was silent then and after a moment, Hardy started to go back to check his e-mails. When, after another five minutes, Miller still hadn't gone to her own desk, he looked up again. "What?"

"Really, that's all? He … left?"

"Of course that's all! What, you thought he'd lay into his father and give him a proper walloping, maybe break a few more ribs, that's what you want?"

"No! Of course not, and don't even suggest that's what I want, you bloody grumpy git!" she yelled. Then she reigned her temper in and took a deep breath. "Just seems so… anti-climatic." Not enough Hardy thought he read on her face. "It's a bit meh, isn't it?"

"You think so?" He leaned back and rocked with the backrest of his chair. "Your son somehow made the effort to find his father, ran away from home to see him and was really clever about it, too. He planned it all out and saved money to get there and it was only luck and chance Daisy spotted him on that rest-area. He went to all this trouble, risking you never forgiving him for it, suffered through a mind-numbingly boring birthday with his mother's boss and gnawed his nails off all day, and when he was there and finally able to talk to his father, after maybe five minutes he left him sitting there alone and never looked back."

I can't not love you, Dad. But I really wish I could.

"No," Hardy shook his head, thinking about how deep those words would cut him if Daisy felt forced to say them. "No, I think Joe would have rather taken another beating."

Miller looked at her hands and chewed on her lip. There might be a hint of vicious satisfaction, but it was so slight that he didn't think she was even aware of it. Instead, she was thinking and he guessed she was imagining how she might feel to be so outwardly rejected by her child.

He wasn't feeling any sympathy for Joe. What was left of that had been destroyed by his cowardice in court, but that didn't mean he couldn't understand his feelings on a rational level. And Miller, Hardy was certain, would be able to do so even more. Had she not been rejected by Tom during the trial as well?

"Well." She said finally. "Well, if that's all… then it's all. So, I'll just… wait until Tom talks to me?"

Hardy nodded. "All you can do, really. Now get out. I've got to make a call, and if I'm right, we might actually catch our chicken-murderer." He was already dialling and before she could leave, the person on the other end picked up. "Hello? Mrs Brightham-Viscant? Here's Detective Inspector Alec Hardy from the Wessex Police. We met… yes. Yes, Abby's brother." He glared at the phone and made shooing motions to Miller, but she refused to leave and just watched him, amused. "Yes, wee Alec. Listen, I've got… what? No. No. No, this is…" By now, Miller was soundlessly laughing at him and it soured his mood to listen to that annoying woman prattle on in his ear. "Mrs Brightham-Viscant, stop talking! … Thank you. Now, this is about the talk we had on Saturday, about your husband's hobby. Not the flowers – the chickens!"

He smirked when all of a sudden, Miller's silent laughter was wiped away and she slipped into her seat to listen, primed like a predator smelling its prey.

O

Ten days later, when all was wrapped up and done, they were once more the talk of the town. Not in a necessarily bad way – not truly. But they were famous, had been in the papers again – thanks, Maggie! – and Miller had even been on the telly for a minute or two.

Tess, when she came by to pick up Daisy so their daughter could take the wheel back to Sandbrook for a weekend with her, was openly laughing at him and for the first time in ages, Hardy laughed with her without feeling hurt and resentful.

Daisy left with a long list of instructions how to take care of Ellie, and he scowled at her and playfully shoved her out of the door. He had taken time off for a week between Christmas and New Year and booked a four-day-trip to Disneyland in Paris, one of the bigger dreams Daisy'd had when she'd been growing up. He was hoping she still wanted to go, but just in case Mickey Mouse and Grouchy Dad were not enough, he'd invited Chloe Latimer along after awkwardly asking her parents. Now he only had to think of a way to survive that horror himself. Maybe they had a parent-daycare-centre or something.

He was hoping it would make a dent in the dept he owed his daughter for keeping him levelled in the good things of this world and making him happy.

"Now, what are we going to do today?" he asked Ellie, who was sitting on a chair at the table. He had been adamant that it wasn't the right place for her, but she'd refused anything else and Daisy had pleaded with her big, misty eyes and Hardy hadn't had a chance so the chair was now hers. Ellie didn't answer.

There was a knock on the door and Hardy grinned, knowing who it was going to be. "Miller," he said, trying to look surprised but failing at the sight of her grumpy expression and truly impressive glare.

"This is all your fault, Hardy! You put them on my trail, you bloody traitor! And here I thought you were finally starting to become a decent human being!"

He laughed out loud and she startled, blinking at him completely speechless as if she hadn't seen him laugh before.

Maybe she hadn't. It wasn't a habit he often got a chance for during work, and their social interaction, while getting more regular, was still more hit-and-miss than anything.

"Right. Laugh, you bloody wanker! But the next reporter coming to ask me about the bloody chicken-killer will be sent to your own doorstep! And there's a chicken on your chair, did you know that?"

She was inside now, staring with disbelief at the new, brightly-feathered addition to his household. He rolled his eyes. "Harrington insisted she belongs to me and Daisy refused to have her adopted by someone else who actually wants her. So, apparently we now have a tame chicken." At her giggle, he gave an amused snort. "Bloody bird is even potty-trained. She pecks on the door when she wants to be let out."

Ellie – and there was no way he was changing the name; he'd thought it was perfect once he'd heard it from Harrington – had been one of only two survivors of what the press called the 'Dorset Chicken Massacre'. Desmond Kaine, Britain's first serial chicken-killer, had been caught literally red-handed when he was on his way to display another brutally murdered Sussex hen. He'd moved through England and wherever he stayed, Kaine had killed and tortured chicken, taking them only from hobby-breeders and never from the big chicken-farms. He'd said in his confession that it was easier because nobody secures their henhouse the way a chicken-meat-farm would, but Hardy thought it was more because Kaine's twisted mind needed the knowledge that he was taking someone's pets and causing the owners extra-agony.

Every stop he'd made in his journey, he'd taken one more bird than the previous stay. At first it had only been one hen from his neighbour in Sheffield, and when he'd reached Birkenhead and the Brightham-Viscants, he'd taken seven. After Hardy had talked to Eloise's husband, it hadn't been difficult to find the trail of dead poultry and follow it to Dorset, where only one person had taken recent residence who'd also been in all the other places the police had records of killed chicken.

Every time Desmond had acted on his urges, he'd gotten more and more inventive and cruel about killing the poor things. The first bird had just been a quick snap of the neck, but the twisted fucker hadn't been satisfied. The hut in which Dr Ingram had found Oscar the cock and the speckled Ellie, the last survivors, had looked so horrific that two of his DCs had run out and puked out their breakfast. Even Hardy had had to step out and take a deep breath of air.

Two days after delivering the chicken back to their owners, Clive Harrington had come to his house and insisted the two were too traumatized to live back with his remaining flock, saying they deserved to get a new start. And though Hardy had outright refused the cock – bloody hell, he wasn't having one of those loud buggers at his house! – with Ellie looking so pathetic and alone in her little carrier, Daisy had been adamant and he'd been left without a choice. Oscar got adopted by Dr Ingram.

"Daisy's building her a pen, though," he grumbled, offering Miller a cuppa with a head-tilt. She shook her head, probably still minty about him shoving the 'Farmer's Times' in her way, telling them she'd be perfectly happy to do an interview. "She wants even more of them now, says they're not meant to be lonely. But – and I'm quoting here, so don't even start – she insists that Ellie has to choose her own friends, or she'd be bullied and even more traumatized. So for now, she's the only one."

Until next week, when they would go to the farmer's market a few towns over with the silly thing in her carrier, introduce her to other chickens and buy all those Ellie would like. Hardy wasn't quite sure if that was going to be horrific or hilarious. Maybe they could take the Millers? With any luck, Fred would insist on having a few chickens in their garden as well.

Miller was laughing so hard now, tears were streaming down her face. "A chicken! I could have imagined you with a dog as a pet, sure. Some sad rescue from a shelter, mangy and a bit wobbly. But a chicken is even better," she giggled, and he crossed his arms and glared at her to no avail.

"Was there something you wanted, Miller?"

"In fact – yes." She wiped her eyes and composed herself, but a cluck from Ellie had her snorting once more. "You're invited for dinner tomorrow," she finally managed, and Hardy raised his eyebrow in surprise. That had come completely out of the blue. "Tom insists to cook for you, and so you will bloody well come and bloody well behave like a human being, and bloody well like what he cooks!"

He hadn't even intended to refuse, so her swearing was completely unfounded. He glared at her. "Fine."

"Good." Miller turned towards the door and gave a quick grin over her shoulder before opening it. "I'll let him know not to make chicken." With another cackle, she was outside and made her way back to her house, the wind sweeping through her curls and making them look even unrulier than usual.

He watched, waiting while he stood in the open door to let the bird out as Ellie liked to roam about the area in the morning to look for seeds and insects and whatever it was that chickens ate. Miller was not far away at all when she suddenly stopped, turned and – probably, hard to see from the distance – glared at him.

"Wait, did you say that bloody bird is called Ellie?"

His cackle was probably more irritating than the name of the chicken, and as he watched Miller trudge away muttering insults, he felt a distantly familiar sensation in his limbs and chest.

If pressed, he might have called it 'being happy'.

~~~End~~~

A/N:

Hello all of you! This is it, my first and so-far only Broadchurch-fic. I think I'll do one more (it's already at 15.000 words, so...) because I like it and when I first watched the series, these two topics (Joe & Tom and the new one that I won't tell you about yet) were in my head for a long time.
Thank all of you who have already commented and favorited, and those who still will in the future. As any writer will know - that's what keeps us going!