"Chapter 4"
A/N: This chapter will be more Alec and Ellie-centric this time. Just as an explanation for what will happen in this chapter: I personally write Alec and Ellie's relationship as a platonic one, so I blame the drink Ellie has that leads to her actions later on. I don't know yet whether this story will have any "official" pairings yet. (Alec/Ellie simply won't work for this story anyway.)
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Ellie met up with Alec a couple of days later, careful not to stop at the Traders. If John wanted to come find either of them then he was more than welcome to, but it would have to be when Alec wanted. Her talk with him had helped the other night, for both of them, but Alec's unspoken warning was to not push him. Still, at least Ellie was assured that he would eventually talk with John one-on-one.
She didn't know why she cared so much about the newly-arrived Scot, she really didn't. By all accounts she should have been repulsed by his very presence after he had told her the reason he'd been in jail. He had made a good impression on her, she supposed.
This morning they walked anywhere. Normally the two of them went to a specific place but today they simply were led by their feet. Naturally, their path led them by the ocean; not along the cliffs today, however, but along a tall sandy hill that was flitted through with brittle tufts of grass. The view was just as spectacular as on the cliffs, the people walking below at the town the size of ants and the water so far down it looked like they could step out onto it like a vast blue carpet.
Alec was not paying attention to his surroundings today, however; he looked down, watching the sand shifting beneath his feet with his head bowed. Ellie followed slowly behind him, wrapped in her bright orange coat once again, enjoying the feel of the sun and wind on her face. He was wearing his old jacket (like always) but had declined anything else, which made Ellie want to strangle him. For a very intelligent man he really was incredibly stupid.
"Did you get any sleep last night, sir?"
He was quiet for a long moment, then glanced back at her. "Did you?"
They both knew the unspoken answer for both of them. No. Alec had always had trouble sleeping, his job weighing down on the subconscious; and ever since that disastrous time with Danny's case Ellie had found it hard to sleep in her own bed. It felt wrong to be lying in the sheets she had shared with Joe, even as she sometimes felt like she was lying next to a gaping ravine where he should be that would swallow her whole.
He kept on walking, grim triumph in his silence that showed his point had been made. His breathing was heavier than normal. Ellie wanted to ask him again what was wrong, and whether he should see a doctor, but he had not been pleased hearing her questions the other night. He wasn't one to be pushed.
Together they watched the sun start to set, setting the water aflame with an array of reds and oranges. When finally the light changed they started back down, towards the lights of the town. Ellie spoke before she could stop herself.
"Would you like to get a drink with me?"
Startled, Alec turned to look at her. "What?"
"A drink," she repeated. "You know, just as two mates."
He hesitated, and she realized too late what he was thinking about—and with it came another thought several months late. "Oh god, that morning when you came into work… you'd been hurt. You had one of those episodes, didn't you? You passed out?" He didn't say anything but he didn't have to. She suddenly felt very guilty. "It was that wine you drank, wasn't it?"
He had tried to tell them, in his own bloody stubborn way.
'I can't—'
'Shut up and drink.'
"Not your fault," he finally muttered now. "I didn't pace myself. I knew better."
She sighed. "Never mind, then," she said. "I'll get that drink. You can just make sure I don't turn into a swaggering drunken mess."
That garnered a small grin; clearly he was imagining her as said swaggering-drunken-mess. "I'll try my best."
She bought a bottle of wine. She ignored Alec's raised eyebrow and waited until they settled on a place to go (her home, in case she did in fact become very drunk) to open it. Olly was watching her boys for the night, so they were alone.
For an hour they sat in near silence, as Ellie grabbed a glass and filled it. Even after all these months, awkward silence seemed their favorite companion at times. Alec watched her slow progress with the bottle silently, until finally he reached over and grabbed hold of it, pulling it out of her reach.
"I think you've had enough of that, Miller."
She heard the warning note in his voice; drunk, or very well near it, she didn't hear the concern. The wine had been so good, and the pleasant warmth that had come with it was so lovely she was loath to listen. She hadn't felt this laid-back and satisfied in a very long time. Even Joe seemed a distant worry. She smiled lazily at him. "Going to have some yourself?"
He raised one eyebrow in response, almost scathing. "If I wanted to kill myself, yeah."
"To be or not to be…" She couldn't remember the rest of the saying and trailed off, wondering if maybe those words rang more true than she had originally thought.
"Now I know you're soused if you're quoting Shakespeare." He placed the bottle on the coffee table and gazed at it with distaste before looking quietly at her for a moment. He didn't like seeing her this way, so mellowed out by drink and lounging on the couch. "You know this isn't going to make you feel any better."
His concern fell on deaf ears. She looked at him in irritation. "I think it does," she retorted. "Don't tell me you never turned to drink after you failed Sandbrook."
The jab at his failed case should have made him angry, but he was too concerned for her—frightened, even, because he had never liked drinking and it disturbed him knowing that this time it was Miller who was drunk. He shook his head mutely.
"What was it, then?" she demanded, suddenly becoming irritated herself. She sat up straighter, moving closer to him. "Drugs? Sex?"
Spurred on by drink she did the one thing she had never thought she'd do; she reached for him, wanting to touch him, maybe even go so far as to kiss him just to see what he'd do—and then his cold fingers suddenly closed around her wrist, stopping her short.
"No," he said, and his voice was suddenly very nearly a growl; a warning.
"Afraid, are you?" she challenged him, moving even closer. The wine had given her courage—otherwise she would have heeded the growing irritation in his eyes.
He didn't back away, merely grabbed her wrist in an even tighter hold and thrusted it down. "Miller, you're drunk," he said coldly and stood.
She abruptly felt anger bloom in her gut, furious at his rejection. "Not good enough for you, am I?" she snapped. "Nothing's good enough for you, you bastard—" She found herself suddenly on her feet, old pent-up resentment overflowing its dam. She pushed him hard in the chest, backing him up a step. "Nothing makes you happy, no one's good enough—you dragged me down all through the case—so tell me—what is wrong with me?!"
He had not moved a muscle, had not raised a hand against her; his jaw clenched, but he had simply let her speak. He felt no such kind of attraction towards her, and he was completely sure that, sober, she didn't either. "You're still married."
Finally he had left her speechless—not from anger, which had happened before—but from simply being taken aback. She had never thought he would answer with something like that, and now he was watching her silently watching her, waiting for her to talk herself out. A familiar tactic she recalled from the tense days following Danny's murder. Had his eyes been sad like they were now, had they—like now—asked 'do you think so little of me?'
She realized with a sobering pang that she didn't know.
She let her hand drop to her side and stepped back into the couch, away from him. "What am I doing?" she asked numbly, balling her shaking hands into fists. "What am I doing?"
Slowly he sat down beside her, sensing it was safe again. "Grieving," he answered simply.
The quiet, understanding reply broke what little control she had left. Burying her head in her hands she broke down and cried.
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With a start Ellie jerked awake. Blinking in the dark, she very quickly realized two things: one, intoxication was very quickly turning into one hell of a hangover; and second it had somehow become late night—one thirty-three, if the clock was right.
Sitting up straight—how had she ended up lying on the couch?—she felt a warm light weight on her legs and discovered that her shoes had been removed and a blanket thrown over her. Looking around in confusion, however, very quickly solved the mystery. Her expression softened.
Alec was sleeping in the armchair by the sofa; clearly he had not wanted to leave her by herself and had been keeping vigil before succumbing to sleep himself. Ellie could remember nothing following her breakdown but regardless she felt her heart warm. It couldn't be denied that Alec Hardy was brusque and rude and definitely a stubborn ass—but it was the little things that showed her what he was really like beneath it all.
Quietly she looked at him. She had never seen Alec resting, and him being unconscious at the hospital didn't count. While awake there was always something in his expression moving. Something exhausted and old.
But asleep he looked young. Nothing tense there in his face, no stress or irritation. She marveled at the change and was sorely tempted for a moment to take a picture of him sleeping like this, but really it was still so very comfortable on the couch, and the blanket was warm, so she laid back down and drew the blanket up to her chin, curling up again.
The soft cloth still smelled heavily of Joe—but for the first time since that awful day she found she really didn't mind it.