A shadow falls over your desk. You look up to see Harry with a friendly expression that you still can't get used to seeing on his face. "Hey Jean, where's Trant today?" he asks.

"Do I look like his mother?" you snap. Harry is only the second person who has asked about Trant today, but that is still too many people.

Harry smirks. "Maybe when you were wearing that blond wig," he says as he walks back to his own desk.

"Piss off. I was undercover."

"More like under cover of a bad wig!" Harry says, holding his hand out to Kim, who remains stoic, but slaps it.

You look back at the report you have been trying to complete all morning. Your heart is hammering, the only discernable effect of the speed you took earlier so you could drag yourself into work.

Last night was difficult to get through. You knew it would be, Trant falling ill had demoralised you in a way that you didn't see coming. After work you'd stopped by to pick up some pharmaceuticals from an illegitimate supplier you know. You downed some sedatives as soon as you got home. They didn't work. You spent the next hour going through your old notebooks, sure that Trant must have given you his telephone number at some point. He hadn't. Or else you couldn't find it. You considered calling the precinct and asking them to put you through. But you didn't want to come across as a maniac, so you just took some more sedatives and drank until you fell asleep.

It's not like you, this stupid obsessive fretting. You want this feeling to go away.

Jules told you earlier that Trant had phoned in sick. You grilled him for the details, but Jules had nothing more to tell you. Trant isn't exactly an employee, so is under no obligation to give any further details of his condition. However your mind was laid at rest, at least temporarily. You know that Trant survived the night, at least.

You have no idea why you're so fixated on him dying. People get sick every day, and most of them survive.

When you go out on patrol later, your horse can sense how rattled you are, and overreacts to every small noise and surprise. It's a long day and you can't wait until it's all over. The day? Your life? Both.

After fixing yourself a half-assed meal when you get home, you find yourself falling asleep on the couch before you've even finished your cigarette. The phone rings. "Shit!" you exclaim as your cigarette falls, burning your leg and your trousers. You pick it up and toss it in the ashtray, then hurry over to the telephone.

"Trant?" you say.

"Jean, how did you know?" It's probably just the line, but Trant's voice sounds thin and weak.

Nobody ever calls you unless it's some kind of emergency. "Must be psychic," you say.

"Would you... mind coming over?" he asks. There is a long pause where you just hear the static on the line. "I'm scared."

A chill goes through your body. You drop the handset.

Nobody said anything when you took the pool motor carriage home with you yesterday, so it's parked outside your apartment building tonight too. Somehow you get to Trant's, but you don't remember the journey.

His voice greets you and he buzzes you in through the main door. Then you're repeatedly stabbing the elevator call button, while considering running up the stairs instead.

When you finally make it to Trant's floor, his door opens as you approach. Relief floods over you.

Trant looks dishevelled and is leaning against the doorframe. He still manages to give you a small smile. "Sorry Jean," he says. "I feel silly now."

You have a sudden urge to hug him. Which you don't. Because that's not the kind of shit you do.

You shake your head. "Want me to leave?" you say, while silently hoping he'll say no.

"As I already dragged you over here, would you like to come in for a cup of tea at least?"

You nod, and he leads you inside.

"So, why'd you call me? Thought you were having another heart attack?"

He frowns and leans on the back of a chair. "Maybe. I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so tired. I slept last night, and most of today. I thought perhaps I had got whatever it is out of my system, but half an hour ago I started feeling short of breath and my heart was beating so fast. Forgive me for calling you, I probably overreacted."

"It's fine. It's not like I was doing anything," you say, folding your arms.

Trant gives you a weak smile. "Regardless, thank you for coming."

"Sit down, I'll make tea," you say.

"Don't trouble yourself, I'll do it."

"It's more trouble for me if I have to scrape you up off the floor," you say.

A worried look crosses Trant's face for a moment. "Okay. The kitchen is across the hall."

Trant's kitchen is full of modern appliances and gadgets, some of which you can't immediately identify. Everything is in matching shades of cream and pale green. It takes a bit of searching to find everything you need. You stare at an abstract painting as you wait for the kettle to boil.

When you pour the water, the tea doesn't smell quite right. You add milk and sugar, figuring that this must be the menthol cigarettes of tea.

"Ah, peppermint, good choice," Trant says when you return to the living room. His expression changes as you set his cup down in front of him. "I've never had peppermint tea with milk before."

"Did I do it wrong?" you ask, perching on the edge of a chair.

Trant shakes his head, but you suspect he is trying to be polite. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

You take a sip of your tea and almost spit it out. If it was alcohol it might be worth suppressing your gag reflex, but you're pretty certain most teas don't have any interesting effects. "Tastes like crap."

Trant laughs. "I'm afraid it does rather taste like crap."

You get up, and hold you hand out for Trant to pass you his cup.

"I needed a laugh," he says. "But try making it without milk and sugar this time."

You go to make the teas again. Once again Trant has made you feel stupid with his superior knowledge of all things. But at least he seemed to enjoy laughing at you. He's sick, so you won't hold it against him.

"That's better," he says, when he tries your second attempt at making peppermint tea. You sip yours, but are not sure you agree. "How have things been at the precinct?"

"You've only been away for one day. Nobody has burned the place down. Yet."

"Well that's good to hear. If there's anything you'd like me to work on, please let me know. If you bring me the documents, I'm sure I can do some things from home."

"You're not coming back tomorrow?"

Trant pauses with his cup to his mouth. "No," he says. "I'm probably being overly cautious, but I think I'd better call the doctor over to see me tomorrow."

You nod, although you are dubious about Trant's certainty that a doctor will come and visit him on the same day.

"My heart's racing again," he says, putting down his cup. "Come and feel it. Tell me I'm not imagining things."

You move over to sit next to him on the couch, resigned to your new role as Trant's personal medic. You reach your hand out, then stop. Even though he asked you, you just don't feel comfortable touching people. He takes hold of your hand and presses it to his chest. The air is knocked out of your lungs at the weird intimacy of the situation. Maybe this is why Gottlieb often yells at his patients instead of examining them.

"Can you feel it? It's fast, isn't it?"

You too distracted by the coldness of his hand clutching yours and the warmth radiating from his chest. Pressing a little deeper, you feel his heart fluttering in his chest. "Yeah, it's fast."

"What am I going to do, Jean?" he asks, still holding onto your hand. "I never get sick. I have too much to do. I have a whole list of things I promised to do with Mikael."

"I'm sure he'll understand."

"Yes, but I don't want to let him down. And I'm letting you down as well."

"We'll cope without you," you say, and feel his heart speed up further in response.

"I don't feel very well," Trant says, dropping your hand.

"Maybe it's just trauma and stressor disorder, lots of people have that," you say. If that's what it is, you suspect you may be the only one at the precinct who's halfway normal. Depression is just a normal response to living as a working class person in Revachol. That doesn't count. When you're gone, the loonies will have to cope by themselves.

"I don't think so, but it's worth bearing in mind," he says, slumping down into the couch.

You both fall quiet. You're not sure if Trant wants you to stay or leave. If you went home, you'd just be staring at your own walls, wanting to die. You can do the same thing right here. Only Trant's walls are more interesting than yours, the paint isn't peeling and the wallpaper isn't coming off. Plus you can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn't die.

Trant's head falls onto your shoulder. He has his eyes closed. One moment he's having a panic attack or something, the next he's falling asleep. That doesn't seem right. Well that settles it, you can't leave now. You feel a strange sense of satisfaction from being useful, even if you're just there in case something happens. Taking care of people has never come naturally to you. You got so annoyed when Harry used to get himself into such a state that he forced you into that position. But you're not sure you could ever really, truly be mad at Trant, and you're not sure why that is.

You stare at the sculptures and knick-knacks and the paintings on the wall opposite. Trant is always regaling anyone who will listen how important art is. And you hate to admit it, but having these distractions make it more difficult to concentrate on wanting to die. Is that what Trant means when he says that people need art? No, you're tired and your mind is coming up with total bullshit. But it's nicer than your place, that's for sure. All that you have to stare at in your apartment are patches of mould and that one particularly interesting crack in the ceiling that will no doubt give way one day.

It's been a while since you had a cigarette and your fingers are starting to grow restless. But the warmth of Trant's body beside you and the rhythmic in and out of his breath are comforting. You close your eyes.

You awake to movement beside you.

"Oh, Jean, you stayed," Trant says.

Opening your eyes, you find yourself still sitting on Trant's couch. Your neck and your back hurt when you sit up. Light is coming in through the windows. You lean forward and rub your eyes. "What time is it?"

"Twenty to seven," Trant says.

"Shit! I'm going to be late," you say, getting up. You look down at yourself. It won't be the first time you rolled into work wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Your shirt is creased and there's a burn mark on your trousers, but who cares.

"Sorry, it's my fault. I should have woke you."

You put your jacket on and turn back to him. "Trant… you'll… be okay, won't you?"

Trant nods. "I'll call the doctor in a few hours, I don't think she'll have started work just yet."

"I'll come back tonight."

A slow smile forms on Trant's face. "You will?"

You feel a shot of adrenaline course through you as you realise this was not the casual statement you thought it was. You clear your throat. "To bring you some files to work on. Wouldn't want you to get bored, would we?"

"Oh," Trant says, getting up to see you to the door. "No. Of course. Thank you. The code for the front door is the first column of numbers down, then up again."

You frown. "Very secure."

"It wasn't my choice," he says, raising his hand in a small wave. "See you tonight."

You want to tell him that it's only to make sure he doesn't die, just to diffuse the odd domesticity of the situation. But Trant doesn't seem as apathetic to the idea of dying as the average cop, so you just grunt in response.

Without a word to anyone else, you gather up the profiles Trant had been working on and copies of some of the more recent reports that he won't have seen yet, and take them home with you at the end of the day. You take a shower, change your clothes, quickly trim your beard. You've been letting a lot of things slip lately. You don't remember the last time you got your hair cut, and wonder how much longer before you start to look like a thirties throwback. Longer than or shorter than the amount of time you plan to stick around for?

You don't have time to finish that thought. You light a cigarette and put it in your mouth, in case you end up staying again and don't find a chance to slip out for a smoke. Not that you're planning on staying. But if Trant needs you to stay, you will.

You let yourself into Trant's building and wait for the elevator. A smartly dressed young woman steps out, glancing at you pointedly, and you remember you are wearing your uniform ready for tomorrow, just in case. You give her a sharp nod, then step into the elevator.

You knock several times on Trant's door. The third time you give it a hard policeman's knock, in case he didn't hear. You wait and listen, growing concerned.

Just as you're about to knock a third time, you hear footsteps. Trant opens the door, dressed in striped pyjamas and a fluffy dressing gown. His hair is sticking out at angles. "Sorry, I drifted off again," he says.

"I brought you some stuff to work on, if you want it?" you say, holding out the folder.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Trant says, taking it. He pauses and looks at you. "Are you coming in?"

You glance down at what he's wearing. "I don't want to disturb you."

Trant shakes his head. "You're not. I'm glad you're here actually."

You follow him inside. He puts the folder you gave him on the coffee table, sits on the couch and gestures for you to join him. You sit on the chair beside the couch.

"The doctor came to see me earlier. I have high blood pressure and my heart rate is fast, but she's really not sure what's wrong with me. Said it could be a number of things, some of which really don't bear thinking about."

"Some fucking doctor if she doesn't know what's wrong with you."

"She says it may just be anxiety and overwork, but I don't agree with that and I told her so. I enjoy my work, and I have nothing in particular to be overly anxious about," he says. "She's going to run some tests. When those come back, she'll have a better chance of diagnosing me. Until then, I am under instruction to rest."

"Do you think it's something serious?"

Trant clasps his hands together and looks down at them. "I hope not."

You drop your gaze to the floor. You hope not too, but you don't say it, in case you come across as fussy and overbearing.

"I think, until I have a better idea of what's wrong with me, I would like to keep this between us."

You nod. "I'll tell the nosy fuckers at work to piss off."

"I especially don't want Mikael to find out, it'll only worry him. Hopefully his mother won't mind having him all week. I'll just tell her I've picked up a bit of a bug and don't want to pass it on."

You glance at him and aren't sure what to say. You've never been good at these things. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment. I'm grateful just to have a bit of company. I'm not used to being all by myself all day. I'm afraid I talked the poor doctor's ear off. She had to be quite sharp with me in the end, I'd made her late for her next appointment," he says, grinning guiltily.

You smile. You've always coped quite well with your own company, but you could imagine Trant starting to talk to himself in the absence of any other options.

"Have you eaten today?" you ask.

"Yes. There's a lady a few streets away who makes and delivers home cooked meals. I do like to cook, but I often do not have the time, so I regularly make use of her services. It's healthier and less trouble than eating out all of the time."

"I can make tea," you suggest.

"Thank you. But no, I think I will go back to bed soon," he says, getting up. "You're welcome to stay in the spare room. Tonight, or any time."

As you get up, Trant catches himself on the back of the couch. "I feel faint all of a sudden," he says.

You go over and take his arm, and he leans on you as you help him down the hall. He suddenly seems much older and more frail than his years.

Emotion wells up in you as you watch him take off his dressing gown and get into bed. You shouldn't be seeing a colleague like this, not unless they're too drunk to walk straight. You turn away to close the curtains, and when you turn back Trant is propped up on pillows.

"Would you… stay for a while? As I said, you can take the spare room, or let yourself out, the front door locks automatically."

You're nodding before he has even finished speaking. Taking a chair from the desk in the corner, you turn it around and sit beside his bed.

"Thank you," he says in a whisper.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Turn out the main light. I'll put the lamp on."

You do as you are asked, then return to sit by his bed. If Trant is dying, you wonder if you have the strength to sit there and watch it happen. Someone ought to, you think. And it shouldn't be his son. No, that's too cruel. But life is cruel and there's nothing that can be done about it. If life was fair, it'd be you who was the one dying, the one who wants to, not Trant who has so much to live for.

"Thank you for being here," Trant says. "It really does make me feel better, not being alone. And if anything happened, I know you'd do your best to help me."

"It's no big deal," you say.

"To me it is."

You avoid his eyes. "Do you want anything?" you ask.

"No."

You sit there for a while. Trant dozes, waking up periodically and looking over to check if you're still there.

"That chair must be uncomfortable. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay in the spare room?"

"What if you need me?"

"I'll shout."

"Are you sure you don't need anything before I go."

Trant looks thoughtful for a moment. "Actually you can do something for me. Would you… come and give me a hug?"

You tense up. The idea of this sort of physical contact with a colleague while completely sober seems squarely inappropriate in your book. But Trant is sick. There's no way of saying no without coming off as an asshole.

But it's too late, he's already sensed your hesitation. "Sorry, I- I'm scared, Jean."

Fuck it. You'll be dead soon, and maybe he will be too. You sit on the edge of the bed and lean over him, putting your arm over his chest and your hand on his shoulder. It isn't exactly a hug but it's the best you can do. Then he's putting his arms around your waist and leaning his head into your chest. You shift a little further onto the bed and put your other arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. You feel his heart beating fast and his breath shallow and uneven.

This is for him, you tell yourself. It only feels good because you're doing a good thing for someone else.

"I feel safer with you here," he says, his head still pressed against your chest.

"Then I'll stay."

"You know, you're welcome to get in here with me."

It takes you several moments to realise what he is saying. God, he really must be terrified if he's inviting you to get into his bed. This situation wouldn't be half as weird if you were both drunk. You've been there, got the fucking t-shirt.

The idea is more appealing than it has any right to be. Trant is warm and his bed is comfortable. You find yourself pulling back the covers and kicking off your shoes.

"Would you hold me? Just for a bit," Trant mumbles, wrapping an arm around you as soon as you get in bed.

You feel like you should say no, but whatever, you're way beyond the line of inappropriate. You promised yourself you wouldn't let this sort of thing happen again. But it's different this time. You're not doing this because you want to. If you keep hold of him, Trant won't have to be scared, and you won't have to worry about him.

You're too wrapped up in your thoughts to realise that Trant is unfastening the top button of your shirt. You swallow. You really weren't expecting this. "What are you doing?" you hiss.

"You'll choke yourself if you fall asleep with your tie on," he says.

You let out a shaky breath and feel your face grow hot. Fuck. False alarm, stupid. Moving his hands away, you yank your tie out from under your collar and throw it over the side of the bed.

Once you both adjust your positions you find that you fit together perfectly. His face pressed into your neck, his warm body in your arms. It's so comfortable. It's been so long since you engaged in any sort of care and affection like this. You wonder, is it really okay for you to enjoy this?

You feel Trant sigh against your neck and it makes your hair stand on end. A warm, contented feeling spreads in your chest, and blood treacherously rushes to your groin.

There's no way he can't have noticed that you're getting hard, not the way you're resting against his belly. "Oh god, I'm so sorry."

"It's a normal physiological reaction," he says, and he pulls you back when you try to move away from him. "That means it's something your body does on its own without you intentionally controlling it. I'm a man of the world, I knew what I might be getting into inviting you to cuddle me, and I'm prepared to deal with it."

You're shocked by his words. What does he mean to say about you? And does he mean he would even let you fuck him? If you wanted to, that is. Which for the record, you don't. You're not even sure if you could right now. Not sober. Not like this. God, this is mortifying. It's a good job you already wanted to die, because there was no way of getting out the other end of this still wanting to live. "I don't know why this is happening," you say, aware of how pathetic you sound.

"Are you comfortable? Otherwise?"

You consider this. And you are. Or else you wouldn't be dealing with this… physiological reaction. "Mm-hmm," you say.

"Yes, me too. I feel more at ease with you here with me."

You try to push the guilt out of your mind, and tighten your arms around him. Trant makes a contented noise in the back of his throat. You might as well enjoy this, because it's going to be the last physical comfort you get that isn't drug-induced and imagined. Even though, all considered, it's a pretty fucked up situation to find enjoyment in.

"Good night, Jean."

"Good night. Trant," you say, almost choking on the cloying intimacy of the exchange.