Work Text:
“Alright, go on then. Off with your shirt.”
“Sorry?”
“I’ve got to see the damage, haven’t I?” Carla approaches Lisa as if she’s a frightened animal about to run, meeting her head-on with outstretched hands and a calm, even tone. “I was doing a bit of Googling while we were waiting for Gobby. I’m practically a trained medical professional at this point.”
Lisa might have looked amused if she didn’t look so much like a deer caught in the headlights. They’re in the Swains’ bathroom, door closed to prevent Betsy from seeing the full extent of her mother’s injuries, and Carla eyes her expectantly, waiting not-so-patiently as Lisa works to avoid her gaze.
“All I need is a cool compress and a soft place to land,” Lisa insists, though the paleness of her face, the gauntness of her cheeks suggests otherwise. “I hardly need all the theatrics.”
“Theatrics?” Carla asks, mildly offended. “Last time I checked you couldn’t even lift your arms above your head. How were you planning on changing clothes?”
“I’ll manage.”
Lisa says it with all the fight she can muster, which means she does that thing where she attempts to make herself look a little taller, a bit meaner, like a toddler trying on their father’s clothes. The sight of it is so oddly endearing that Carla wants to laugh. Though she knows that would make things worse.
“Is it really so hard for you to accept help?”
Lisa’s signature raised eyebrow is all the answer she gets. “Something tells me I’m not the only one in this room with that problem.”
“Hey, you know what? Stop trying to distract me.” Just as Carla takes a step forward, Lisa takes a step back—the same dance they’ve been caught up in since they first met. “Jesus, would you hold still?”
Lisa takes a deep, impatient breath that Carla mirrors, delivering a withering look and acquiescent nod as she finally allows Carla to pull the jumper up and over her head. It hangs off of her arms for a moment before Carla can wrestle her free and, despite her gentleness, Lisa still has to close her eyes against the twinge of pain caused by every movement.
And then there's the dress shirt underneath. Carla shakes her head at the amount of layers Lisa always insists on, popping each button with little fanfare. She pushes it back and down her shoulders, leaving Lisa standing only in her bra. It’s plain, Carla thinks briefly. A dozen superior options from Underworld quickly spring to mind.
She makes a show of folding the clothes, setting them neatly beside the sink, and it’s only then that she lets her eyes wander across the other woman’s bare midsection. Looks into the mirror to catch a glimpse at her back.
Lisa has a grouping of tiny bruises scattered across her shoulders like stars. Scabbed over scrapes on her sides where she must have been dragged across the pavement. The distinct outline of someone’s boot near her kidneys—as if she’d been stomped into the ground. And then there was the original bruising she’d seen back in the car, somehow even worse looking under the artificial light. The sight of it all leaves Carla with a heady dose of anger and awe.
“How are you still standing?”
“Sheer force of will.”
Lisa‘s beginning to look a little green, her body trembling from the mixture of sudden cold and shock, and despite her best attempts to appear unfazed, Carla can tell she won’t last much longer. Sees it in the way her knees all but knock together, the look of waning determination in her eyes. She finds herself stepping closer, letting her hands come to rest on the bare skin of Lisa’s hips.
It’s as if the touch flips a switch, and soon Lisa’s typical tough front is soon replaced with unbridled panic. She lets out an audible groan that bounces off the tile, gripping hard enough on Carla’s forearms that she briefly wonders if she’ll be gifted with her own set of matching bruises.
“It’s okay,” Carla says, arms moving to wrap around her back, hold her upright. “I’ve got you.”
There’s a knock at the door, and the sound of it causes them both to jolt, nearly losing their balance. Carla does her best to keep her hold as they find their footing, but over-corrects, twisting Lisa at the waist in a way that has her eyes filling with silent tears as she bites back a sob.
“Mum?” Besty calls from the other side. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Lisa replies through gritted teeth. “We’ll be right out.”
Carla shakes her head manically back and forth, delivering a set of wild, incomprehensible hand gestures that leave Lisa looking at her as if she’s grown two heads.
“We? You mean Carla’s in there with you?”
Carla practically stomps her foot, shoots a look in Lisa’s direction that says, way to go. She bites the inside of her cheek, resigns herself to a response.
“Yeah, love. I’m in here too.”
Betsy’s disgust is audible even from the other side of the door. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Lisa’s eyes grow confused at the unspoken allegation. “Betsy, we’re not—“
But it’s too late. The sound of sullen teenage footsteps disappear down the hall, the telltale slam of her bedroom door shaking the walls soon after. Lisa forgets herself for a moment, letting her head fall forward to rest on Carla’s shoulder.
“That’s going to be fun to explain,” she says, words muffled by Carla’s hair.
“Tried to warn you.”
“I’m not exactly in my right mind at the moment, alright?”
“Glad we can agree.” Carla takes her by the shoulders, gently pushing her back toward the toilet. “Now sit down.”
Removing Lisa’s trousers is a much easier process, and once they’re off Carla kneels wordlessly in front of her, overwhelmed with the staggering amount of scrapes and cuts, the littering of even more bumps and bruises that adorn Lisa’s calves and thighs.
“What’s this?” she asks, eyes drawn toward a length of puckered scar tissue across Lisa’s left knee.
“Old work injury. Fell from a fence while chasing down a suspect. Completely dashed my dreams of becoming an olympic rugby player.” She hisses as Carla applies antiseptic to one of the nastier wounds, leaning her head back against the wall. “At least now I always know when to expect rain.”
“Oh, so you do have something going for you.” Carla nods toward a particularly bad set of bruises beneath her knees, trying to appear nonchalant. “Did you fall?”
“He shoved me. Lost my balance.”
Carla tears into a package of gauze, the dormant rage from earlier reigniting in her gut. She cautions a glance at Lisa's face, can tell that wherever she is, it’s far from here. She wonders what else there is to the situation that Lisa’s not admitting to. Wonders, equally, if there’s anything she could say that would make Carla want to be anywhere else but here, bandaging wounds that won’t likely be healed even after they’re gone.
By the time they emerge from the bathroom, Lisa is nearly post-verbal and dressed comfortably in her pajamas. Carla settles her on the couch while Betsy petulantly meanders around the kitchen, pretending not to watch the two of them as she scrolls unconvincingly on her phone.
“I should go,” Carla says, uncomfortable with the weight of the teenager’s eyes on her. Even moreso with what it is she thinks she sees.
“Please stay,” Lisa blurts, the words coming out clumsily as she tries to find a comfortable sitting position. “I mean, it wouldn’t be any trouble. I can sleep on the couch.”
Carla’s eyes sweep over Betsy in the kitchen as she lowers her voice, leaning in to tersely whisper, ”I’m sorry, were you not there when I had to carry you down the stairs just then? And you think I’m going to make you sleep anywhere but your own bed?”
“Fine, we’ll have Betsy bunk with me for the night. You can have her room.”
“Not happening,” Betsy interjects from the kitchen, where she’s most definitely not listening in on their conversation.
“Why does it matter if I stay or not?” Carla asks frustratedly. She can feel herself growing more impatient, suffocated, as if at any moment she might snap in half. Perhaps she was the small, frightened animal all along.
“Because it could be dangerous,” Lisa offers.
Carla puts her hands on her hips, unconvinced. “Right, and what’s the real reason?”
Lisa closes her mouth, chagrined at being seen through so easily. She looks over her shoulder to Betsy, then back to look up at Carla. Her expression is one Carla’s never seen before: a terrified, vulnerable thing that makes her chest ache just by looking at it.
“Cards on the table? I think I’d…feel better if you were here. With us.” She looks as if she’s just sucked on a lemon. “Happy?”
Carla doesn’t have time to wade through all the possible meanings behind the statement. Can’t bring herself to look too deeply into what it is about her that Lisa’s so attached to and, similarly, what’s making it so impossible to give in to her natural inclination to abscond. Especially when Betsy is still watching them like a hawk.
“Fine,” she says.
She attempts not to consider the look of relief that flashes across Lisa’s face before Betsy approaches her, socked feet padding across the hardwood.
“Do you cook?” she asks.
“I know my way around a takeaway menu, if that’s what you mean.” Carla digs through her bag, handing her phone over to the teen. “Take your pick. Don’t go crazy. And hey—” she says as Betsy settles in next to her mother to no doubt put a dent in her credit card. “No. Snooping.”
“Whatever,” Betsy replies, though she says it with a smile that reminds Carla she’s still very much a child. Her heart floods with fondness.
“There are some boxes in the hallway with clothes you could sleep in,” Lisa says, leaning back with a hand over her eyes. “Most of our things are packed, but you might at least find something comfortable there.”
Carla takes that as her cue, adjourning to hunt down something to wear. She takes a deep breath before beginning her search, letting the tension in her shoulders dissipate, and digs through a few boxes. There are old reports, trophies, a few framed photos she can’t bring herself to look at. She's a bit tickled by the disorganization, the way it was all so haphazardly thrown together and pushed to the side. Despite her very public search for order, DS Swain's house was a bloody mess.
Eventually, Carla decides on a worn t-shirt and a pair of silk pajama bottoms that end up hitting her awkwardly right above the ankle. She shakes her head as she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, rubbing her temples as she talks herself out of jumping from a second story window as a means of escape.
Because it’s not as if she’s incapable of all this. Not as if she doesn’t want to enjoy a night in with takeaway and a good film—all in the company of other people, for once. Just that she feels a certain other person’s presence here. Occasionally catches her ghost out of the corner of her eye.
It’s no wonder Lisa was so ready to leave.
“I’m back,” Carla announces herself as she rejoins the Swains. “And no smart comments about the fit, eh?” She tries not to feel ridiculous as she finds her seat on the far end of the couch.
Betsy looks her up and down with cold, untrusting eyes. “But that’s—“
“—perfect, Carla,” Lisa cuts her off, patting her daughter’s hip. “Why don’t you go on up to your room until dinner gets here, Bets.”
For once, Betsy doesn’t offer much of a fight, though when she gives Carla her phone back it’s more of a throw than a toss. The sudden change in behavior stings as it usually does, but Carla’s come to understand it rarely—if ever—has anything to do with her. She watches as Betsy stomps up the stairs, only daring to speak once they’ve heard the girl’s door close.
“Okay, what is it now?” she asks. “Did she go around snooping like I told her not to?”
“It’s nothing,” Lisa insists.
Carla shoots her a disbelieving look. Lisa has the gall to only smile back. And god, how this woman frustrated her to no end. As if every honest answer had to be painfully extracted like an impacted tooth. Lisa sighs once she sees Carla won’t be letting it go, dropping the facade almost as soon as she’d adopted it.
“That was Becky’s shirt,” she says, nodding in Carla’s direction. “One of the few that didn’t make it into the skip.”
Carla lets her eyes fall shut, heart dropping to the floor.
“Well, no wonder she’s just given me the look of death.” Carla shifts in her seat, suddenly feeling as if she’s wearing someone else’s skin—uncomfortable and ill-fitting. She feels wholly out of place. “Look, I really do think I should go.”
She’s expecting more of a fight out of the detective at the admission, but is taken aback when she only answers with a soft, “Okay.”
Carla crosses her arms, tapping her foot on the floor.
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing,” Carla says, motioning annoyedly in Lisa’s direction. “With your face.”
“What am I doing with my face?” Lisa puts a hand up to her cheek, as if touching it will reveal whatever it was Carla saw. “If you want to go, then you should go.”
And it’s not about what Carla wants, necessarily, but what she feels she can handle. Because how much longer can she sit here and play house, take up the space that was previously reserved for one specific person?
But then she flashes back to the look in Lisa’s eyes when she’d asked her to stay, and against her better judgment, she reaches forward to take the remote off the coffee table.
“Well? What are we watching?”
. : : .
They lay parallel to each other in Lisa’s bed, having decided through a lengthy thirty minute argument that the only solution to the who sleeps where problem was to sleep together.
“Sorry about Betsy,” Lisa says as soon as Carla turns off the light.
“It’s fine. She reminds me of myself at that age.” Carla settles into her pillow. “My mum always told me I’d someday be gifted with my own carbon copy. Had a few months where I thought that might come true.” She sighs. “Somehow I don’t think this is quite what she had in mind.”
“She really likes you,” Lisa says, and at Carla’s incredulous scoff, she adds, “I’m serious. Can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her take to someone so quickly.”
“And by that you mean blackmail and a bad attitude?”
“Precisely.”
They lay together for a moment in the silence, and Carla can’t help but fidget. She twirls her ring around her index finger, thoughtlessly picks at the skin of her thumb.
“I was an awkward kid,” Lisa’s voice breaks through the quiet. “An even more awkward teenager. Quiet, solitary. Nothing like her.”
“Ah, we would’ve gotten on then.”
“What, were you a nerd?”
“No, I just always seemed to flock toward the oddballs.” She delivers Lisa an insinuating glance that she can’t see. “Still do, it seems.”
She hears Lisa’s smile before she sees it. “That would explain Roy.”
“He’s a special case.”
“I am sorry, you know,” Lisa says. “You were right that day at the station. It might not be medals and accolades I’m after, but I do always feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m trying to make Becky’s death mean something.”
Carla turns to face her, bringing her hands up beneath her head. “Seems like a lot of pressure though, doesn’t it? I mean, take it from someone who’s dealt with their fair share of loss. Most of the time there’s no sense to be made. It’s meaningless. Devastating.”
“And yet we keep limping along,” Lisa agrees. “Do you miss your husband?”
“Which one?” Carla asks, and Lisa lets out a laugh that clearly leaves her ribs aching, the tell tale wince of pain obvious even in the dark. “If you’re asking about the most recent, it’s a complicated question. I miss feeling understood. Miss coming home to someone that wants to hear about my day. Miss feeling safe. Miss him? Depends on the day.”
Lisa hums next to her, and it reminds Carla of their closeness. She’s glad the lights are off, that the darkness hides the pink tinge of her cheeks.
“What do you miss most about Becky?”
“The same, really,” Lisa says, and the fondness in her voice feels like another ghost Carla has to account for. “She had this…uncanny ability to get me out of my own head.”
“Sounds more like a superpower, knowing you.”
“Yeah, well.”
Carla finds herself reaching out in the dark, fingers making their way into Lisa’s shirt sleeve the same way they did earlier in the car. She’s not sure why she does it, just that her fingers run over the soft skin of her forearm mindlessly, her eyes drooping more and more with every stroke.
“Lisa?” she braves.
“Yeah?”
She wants to say thank you for not letting me run, for allowing me to put you back together, for asking about my day. Instead, she looks up at the ceiling, says:
“Your feet are fucking freezing.”
Lisa lets out a heavy, rattling sigh, her ongoing faux annoyance with Carla quickly becoming one of their biggest constants—like a cosy blanket at the end of a long, cold day.
“Goodnight, Carla,” Lisa says pointedly into the dark.
And somehow, despite everything, it is.