Convalescence

Chapter 1

CONVALESCENCE

Ellie becomes aware, very slowly, that Hardy is always watching her.

At first she didn't notice - couldn't notice - because her life has become the sort of nightmare she never could have imagined before. The only thing she's able to focus on, and even this is shamefully difficult, is being a mother. Through those first days she somehow marshals enough energy to care for her boys and that is nearly more than she can handle. She keeps hearing Beth echoing her own accusation back at her: "How could you not know?" She agonizes over that very question through every painful hour. Through all of it, Alec Hardy is a presence in her peripheral, and while there's comfort in that, she can't focus on him. She simply can't focus on anything.

But as the days stretch past that first week (and she had been doubting seriously if they'd ever get through that first awful, brutal week), she starts to notice that Hardy is lingering there, just on the outskirts. Not just lingering, either, but staring with those big, brown sow's eyes.

He's there when she moves to the outskirts of town. He doesn't say much. He simply helps her gather what she and the boys need and take it to the new flat. He helps her settle in, and sometimes he's so quiet that she forgets he's even there. He leaves just as quietly, just: "See you later, Miller," and a quick kiss on the cheek that she had not expected from him. It's a dry kiss, over so quickly and so uncharacteristic of the former DI that she decides she must have imagined it.

More days pass, and he does see her later. He always appears whenever she has to go into town (and she avoids going into town; too many gazes, most curious and some downright hostile). He makes the sort of awkward small talk that she knows is torture for him, but he shows genuine interest in Tom and Fred. She needs these little reminders that he's a parent, too. Sometimes he's so distant that it's hard to remember he has connections outside of his former casework.

Sometimes, now that the wider world is forcing its way back into her life, Ellie catches him staring at her. There is something indecipherable in that gaze of his. It's not pity, no trace of that, and while sympathy and grief are both there, it's neither of those things either. It's as if he's scrutinizing her, taking stock of all the things she can't say even to him. She has no idea what to make of it. Rather than dealing with the implications, she lets it make her angry because that's the easiest thing.

"Stop staring at me all the time," she snaps at him, quietly because they're in the middle of getting groceries and there are other people about. Her tone has no less bite to it, even if she can't yell at him the way she'd like to. "People don't stare like that, you know. It's rude."

Hardy blinks at her as if she's speaking another language. Then he lifts his shoulders in a small shrug and drags his eyes away as though the boxes of cereal on the shelf had become interesting. He doesn't apologize or explain, and she huffs a little.

It takes her a moment to realize that she feels a tiny bit better. For that one moment, things were as they had always been between them: him acting like a bit of an alien, and her calling him out on it. There was no false kindness here. But they'd always been direct with one another. He'd always done her the curtesy of that, of never bumbling through empty platitudes in lieu of something meaningful to say.

He leaves her at the end of the high street, his eyes back on her as she climbs into the car she's called to take her home. He leans down, peering at her face.

"Say hi to the boys for me," he tells her. She nods, her fingers twisting the handles of the plastic grocery bags.

"You should come 'round for dinner," she says, startling them both. He considers for a long, silent moment. Then he nods.