"Chapter 9"

A/N: Quick little update because it has been far too long since I've touched this story, and I was missing it.

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Ellie was gone for the evening, settled at home with her boys; John sat silent vigil beside Alec's bed, cradling what seemed to be his hundredth cup of coffee in his lap. It was quiet, almost peaceful somehow now. Wrapped in fragile solitude he nearly felt like he could relax a little bit, lulled by the silence of this wing of the hospital, choosing to ignore—however weakly—the situation his old friend was in. By himself he could think and sift through everything that had happened, but now all he wondered was how the hell he had ended up here.

"You're going to hurt yourself thinking too hard."

Alec's quiet mumble startled him, spilling the coffee over his hand when he jumped. Muffling a curse, he raised his burnt hand to his mouth and sucked at the red skin, glaring at his old friend. Alec had barely shifted, hadn't even bothered opening his eyes completely, but John thought there was the smallest hint of a grin hidden there beneath that dark beard.

He rolled his eyes at the old joke. "If I only had a brain to hurt, yeah, I know," he retorted, the well-used reply rolling off his tongue. "I can't help it if you were always better at academics."

Alec snorted. "Bullshit. You just didn't apply yourself to studying."

"Aye, that's what I had you for." It was surprising how the easy bantering came back. It was almost as if their confrontation had never happened. John shifted uncomfortably. "I- uh, I'm sorry for, um, any part I had in that heart attack, by the way."

Alec was silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly as he took a deep breath. Just when John thought he wouldn't receive a reply, Alec finally replied quietly, "It was coming for a while. Just didn't know when."

John stared at him. "The heart attack?"

Alec nodded slightly. In the light he still looked wan. Sick. He was still breathing with difficulty, like he couldn't ever seem to catch a deep enough breath. "They'd already said they couldn't help me," he admitted. "I'd waited too long…"

"What about a heart transplant?" Suddenly agitated, John sat forward. "You're only in your forties, after all, it shouldn't be that hard to get on a list!"

"Wouldn't have the time to wait." For a moment they merely looked at each other. "I'm going to be dead in less than a month. Waiting on a list is at least six months."

"Alec—"

"Don't." There was just enough fire to Alec's tone that John paused before he really started. He swallowed hard. "Remember when you told me about your great-uncle, back in school, about his heart attack?"

John nodded, feeling a little bit sick when he realized where his old friend was going with this.

"What did he say afterwards, in the hospital?"

"'I'm done'," John whispered; his fingers were clasping his cup of coffee so hard he was sure it would start to break. He had never admitted aloud just how much those two little words had scared him. Young, barely old enough to graduate, he had been genuinely distressed by the idea of anyone—much less a well-loved great-uncle—saying they were 'done'. It hadn't been the idea of Uncle Harry dying, nor had it been the thought of being there; at that point, John had been horrified by the idea that anyone could know they would die. Uncle Harry had fought in the Second World War, had witnessed things no one else in the family had, and had seemed to possess more strength than anyone else John had ever known. To hear him say he was done living had been terrifying—because his great-uncle was simply conceding to life, without fuss, without anger, as if it had been the most logical thing in the world to say that of course death could come and claim him.

"But you're not him." He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "I came here, to Broadchurch, to apologize, Alec. For what my actions did to you." He shook his head, reliving those days following his killing Freya. "I still don't regret what I did. I never will."

"John—"

"Just let me finish!" he snapped, shaking. "It was a betrayal to you, I know it was, and I knew afterwards that it would probably cut a rift between us, if I ever got out of jail. And it did. But those fifteen years… well, I had time to think." He chuckled mirthlessly. "It was hell there, Alec. Jail. Absolute hell. I never got the worst of it, there were always other in-mates who were targets, but just being there, seeing everything… it does things to you."

"What do want?" Alec said gruffly. "Sympathy?"

"You haven't had the easiest life either these past fifteen years, either," John snapped. "Ellie says you're divorced, and I've been able to read the occasional paper. 'Worst Cop in Britain', is it?"

He expected Alec to respond with anger, indignation; he was surprised, then, when instead the former cop suddenly seemed to wilt, the fire of just a moment before dying out. He swallowed hard, looking away. "I failed a case."

"Is that all?" It was John's turn to speak a mite snidely.

"My wife was having an affair. She lost crucial evidence and it allowed a girl's murderer to walk free."

Oh. Shit. John was tempted to find something to smash his head against, but ultimately decided that would be a little bit too immature for his age. He settled for a face-palm. "Damn. Neither of us have learned to keep our mouths shut, have we?"

He definitely caught a grin now as Alec shook his head. "Miller told me I couldn't leave the hospital unless I apologized to you first."

Startled, he looked at his old friend. "Strict woman. I like her more every minute."

Alec rolled his eyes. "Shut up, I'm trying to decide whether I can without giving myself an aneurysm."

"Very funny."

"Would it count if I didn't but told her I did?"

John snorted. "Not bloody likely. You're an awful liar." He was amazed how easily they were falling into the old familiar ribbing, but quickly sobered. "For what it's worth, I am sorry I- brought up your dad."

Alec was silent again for a long time. "Suppose I needed it," he admitted quietly. "Miller's right. I can be an arse sometimes." Then, even more quietly: "I'm sorry, too. For what I said."

John couldn't help but grin, leaning in. "Didn't catch that, sorry."

"Don't make me repeat it, so help me…"