Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A near endless spread of pine blankets rolling hills, a tumbling, lazy sprawl of forest, painted all in dappled greens and gold-browns. The landscape is rocky, but only the largest of boulders manage to peek up out of it to turn their grey, lichen-speckled faces to the chilly morning sun, tiny islands of stone in an endless emerald ocean. 

It feels like eons since he landed in Augusta, and set out on the final leg of this journey, a three hour drive that travels directly down the interstate before veering off to trace the coast. 

He’s close now, been off the highway for nearly half an hour, and he’s starting to see the actual sea peeking in through gaps in the tree line, cool grey waves cresting white against an infinite horizon, catching hints of brine amongst the heavy, resinous scent of untouched woodland.

The army of evergreens is starting to get hypnotizing, so in vain he throws back the dregs of his cold gas station coffee, grimacing as he sets the empty styrofoam cup back into the cupholder, gripping the steering wheel with both hands and trying his best not to accidentally drift off of the road.

The battered old Ford makes a concerning stuttering sound as it crests the top of the next hill, and then flat out dies at the peak, the engine whining and sputtering the whole way.

Swearing, he coasts onto the soft shoulder, pulling the handbrake up and bringing the car to a juddering stop. He leans forward, eyes closed, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, cursing the used car salesman, this backwater northeastern highway, and any deity who just so happens to be listening. 

There’s no response. 

He’s just about ready to get out of the car and pop the hood to try to stare the engine back to life when he hears the distinctive whoop-whooping of a siren and in a moment there’s the crunch of boots on gravel and a tap on his window. 

A woman with a long dark pony-tail and beige campaign hat waves at him through the passenger window, looking expectantly in at him over her sunglasses. He can see her badge peeking out from under an official looking leather jacket that’s being worn over a brown uniform shirt, the little gold star polished to a mirror-shine. 

He stretches across the passenger seat, awkwardly rolling down the window, suddenly keenly aware that he hasn’t changed or so much as seen a razor since San Francisco; the woman smiles easily, leaning one arm against the roof of the car, peering inside at the dark dashboard, blue-green eyes flicking over piled suitcases and carpet bags in the back. 

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a bit of car trouble; need a hand?” He grimaces, gesturing futilely at the vehicle as a whole.

“I’d love to accept but I don’t even know what's wrong with it. I only just got it, and I’m not really handy with cars…” He trails off, watching as the woman nods. 

“I figured, those aren’t exactly a mechanic’s hands. I don’t suppose you’re heading out to Portswick?” He blinks in surprise. “I am, actually.” He sticks out a hand, “Doctor Philip Boyce. I’m supposed to be taking over the old practice there.” She blinks, then grins, firmly gripping his hand, “Una Chin-Riley, your new Sheriff. Pleasure to meet you, Doc.” She takes a closer look at the car, and shakes her head, tutting. “Tell you what. We’ll pile your things into the back of the squad car, and I’ll drive you over. There’s a mechanic in town that can come over and take a look at this, but it’ll take hours for her to get out here.”

It’s the best offering he’s heard all day, so he pops the trunk, negotiating stiff legs out onto the road. 

Piling all his trunks into the black and white Crown Vic is no easy feat, but they manage, and the old squad car shudders and bumps on the pockmarked road.

He glances out the window, taking in the view as they ride parallel to the bay; the steep, rocky beach is cold and austere, wild waves crashing endlessly against grey cliffs, spray thrown up into the air and pelting back down into the churning surf. Wood piles, dark with age, with rusty chains stretched between them, are the only things between the car and a deadly fall into the ocean below, and he leans subconsciously away from the window, mesmerized by the swirling grey-blue-green landscape. 

A flash of yellow fabric. 

He does a double take, snapping his head back to look over his shoulder out the back windshield, and, sure enough, that’s a man half-sitting on one of the piles, yellow rain jacket flapping in the wind, dark hair spilling out from beneath a worn knit fisherman’s hat, gnarled walking cane bouncing against one leg. He fancies that he can see a lit cigarette glowing in a scowling mouth, but the road curves, and in seconds, the man is gone. 

“What-” Una chuckles. 

“That’s just Pike. He comes up here on walks sometimes, and spends hours roaming the cliffs. He’s our harbor master, so I don’t imagine you’ll be crossing paths a lot. ”

“Shouldn’t he be out watching for…” He doesn’t actually know anything about ships, and finishes lamely, “Watching for sailors or something?” The sheriff just shrugs, slowing the car and turning off the road onto a side lane, “No come in or out of the harbor on Sundays, it’s kind of a town rule. ‘Sides, it’s not like he’d listen to anyone telling him otherwise,” she snickers, nose crinkling, “But you’re welcome to try.” He’s about to enquire further, but the thin conifers and craggy cliff sides suddenly give way, the view opening up to reveal a bright little seaside town.

Humble, colourfully painted square houses sit in little clusters along the coastline, connected by winding lanes, all facing an old wooden pier with small fishing boats bobbing up and down alongside.

The squad car takes a sharp turn down a narrow road, and stops with a squeak of tires in front of a somewhat grander two story house, shake siding painted a deep navy blue, wide-framed sliding windows and red door all shining in the early afternoon sun. Again, picturesque. Una thumbs off the ignition.

“This is you. You want a hand with your bags?”

“Yeah, thanks…” He isn’t really listening, looking up at double doors, still cast in shadow and dusted by frost,  the tarnished brass nameplate engraved with Dr. Sarah April, MD

“Doc?” Una’s watching him, brow furrowed.

“Coming, sorry. Still a little jetlagged, I think.” Una pulls out his suitcases as he fumbles with the unfamiliar ring of keys, trying a few before finally slotting an awkward looking one into the slot, and tugging at the door handle. It’s a struggle, old wood swollen and sticky with moisture, but it finally gives, swinging open with a pop, and he’s greeted by a dim entry hall and the slight smell of mildew and dust. 

It takes a couple seconds to find a light switch, and he flicks it on experimentally, blinking as warm incandescents flicker to life. The small hall transforms, with warm wood panels lining the walls, a wide doorway opening onto a tidy waiting room, all padded wooden chairs and faded wallpaper. 

Two trunks clunk down behind him, Una heaving them over the steps. “The apartment is up those stairs, I think, through the door at the end of the hall.” He helps her with his cases, and it’s just as she’s tugging the final bag over the threshold, setting it down on scuffed tiles, that there’s a burst of static on her radio. She listens for a moment before grimacing and stowing the device back onto her belt. 

“Shoot. Sorry Doc, duty calls.” Turning neatly, she claps him on the shoulder, “Call me up the station if you need anything, it’ll give us something to do other than working the radar gun. And Doc? Welcome to Portswick. We’re glad to have you.” 

Bemused, he thanks her, waving farewell as the squad car starts its slow rambling journey back up the hill, leaving him alone in the quiet house. Old wooden steps creak beneath his shoes as he drags the suitcases up, bumping them over each step and piling them in a heap on the landing. It’s spacious enough, the stairs come up to a central kitchen and living space, and further exploration reveals two bedrooms, an office, and a tiny bathroom, tucked away in a corner. It’s sparsely furnished and a little dark, but it looks clean enough, and he collapses into a lonely armchair. His suitcases need unpacking, and the clinic downstairs needs to be cleaned and sorted, but he can’t quite bring himself to start. There’s a large bay window that’s letting a warm sunbeam sluice over the room, and the armchair feels like it’s getting deeper, softer, swallowing his weary body, practically inviting him to sleep…

He’s woken by the very insistent hollowness in his stomach, a gnawing hunger that reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since that meagre hotel continental breakfast. 

The cupboards are bare, (and even if there still was food here he definitely shouldn’t be eating it) and he knows there isn’t a crumb in any of the cases or the car. His watch ticks accusingly, a quarter after eight, second hand cruising mercilessly around the face, and he staggers up onto his feet with a groan.

The sun has very nearly disappeared behind the rolling forest, the buildings casting long shadows across the cobbled street. Chill air nips at his exposed skin, and he half-jogs down the road, collar upturned, making a beeline for the main street, street lamps quietly flickering to life as he passes by. The little grocery is closed, lights dark, as is the corner newsstand, and the array of picturesque little restaurants. Even the diner at the edge of town is closed, the one lone busboy barely even looks up as he unenthusiastically pushes a mop across grubby black-and-white tiles. 

The hunger is a dull ache, and he slumps against a faded wooden sign post, catching his breath. It’ll be fine, he just has to make it back to the doctor’s office, he can try and sleep through to morning and grab something as soon as he wakes up, it wouldn't be the first time- 

“You lost?” 

He jolts back to his feet, caught in the gaze of a pair of sharp blue eyes set in a lined, grizzled face. Blearily, he recognizes the yellow raincoat and knit hat of the man who’d been on the road earlier this afternoon. He shakes his head.

“No… no, I was just seeing if the diner was still open.” The other man clicks his tongue, slowly looking Phil up and down. “You’re from the city? it’s a little different out here; no one’s open past six on Sunday.” 

“Oh.” His vision swims for a second, and he briefly clutches at the sign for support. “Thanks. I’ll give it another shot tomorrow.” He gives the man what he hopes is a chagrined smile, not some kind of rictus grin, and starts to totter back down the road. There’s a beat and then a quiet sigh, a muffled curse, and a hand catches his arm.

“Hang on. Sit down for a sec.” He’s being pulled, only a little roughly towards a wooden bench, and pushed down onto it, the man sitting heavily next to him, leaning the walking stick against his leg. 

The rich, bitter smell of coffee, tinged ever so slightly with the scent of tobacco as a thermos is shoved under his nose. He blinks.

“Take a drink, c’mon. It won’t kill you.” He obliges, taking the thermos with both hands; the dark liquid is lukewarm, and obviously sweetened, but it’s the best coffee he’s had since San Francisco, smooth and rich, and he drinks greedily, only stopping himself when he realizes the thermos is very nearly empty. He coughs an apology, but the other man just laughs, and takes it, dropping a small bundle of grease-proof paper into his lap. 

“Here. I wasn’t gonna eat it anyway.” With shaky fingers, he unpeels the paper, revealing a slightly squashed sandwich, bits of cheese and onion spilling out of the sides of two thick squares of brown bread.

There’s a brief moment where pride battles ravenous hunger, but hunger wins and he falls upon the sandwich, demolishing it in a matter of seconds. The man snickers, and sticks out a hand.

“Chris Pike, by the way.” Phil blinks numbly at it for a second before furiously wiping his own hand off on his pant leg and shaking Pike’s.

“Philip Boyce. Phil. And I’m not some wandering vagrant, promise, I’m supposed to be the new doctor, I’m just still getting used to the country schedule, I guess.” Chris shrugs.

“It’s your first day, don’t sweat it.” Now that he doesn’t feel like he’s going to immediately pass out, gives Pike a proper once over; he can't be much older than Phil is, dark hair that’s only just starting to fleck with grey, face that's a little lined and weather stained at the edges, dark stubble shadowing a strong jaw. There’s something sorrowful swimming in those blue eyes, something that ages him more than the unkempt hair and grubby clothes. Phil half smiles, and crumples up the paper, tossing it into the nearby garbage can.

“Yeah, well. Thanks anyway.” Pike shrugs, and takes the walking stick in hand, pulling himself up.

“Don’t mention it. See you around, Doc,” and with a slightly awkward hop-step, Pike starts down the road, limping as he heads vaguely in the direction of the sea. Phil watches him go, and it isn’t until the uneven tapping of boot heels and the yellow raincoat have disappeared into the middle distance that he realizes he’s still clutching the battered green thermos in both his hands.

Chapter Text

The first thing he does as Portswick’s newly minted general practitioner is to jog down to the corner store, and buy an armful of provisions, cart them up the stairs, and then, bolstered by the power of instant coffee, start to sort through the downstairs clinic.

The second second thing he does is pick up the phone, and call for help. He dials the number that the sheriff had scribbled on a scrap of paper and pointedly pinned to the waiting corkboard yesterday, and waits as the phone rings, once, twice-

It’s a young woman who picks up the phone, her voice stern,

“Sheriff's office, Deputy Noonien-Sing speaking.” He coughs, 

“Hello, this is Doctor Boyce, I was wondering if I could speak to Sheriff Chin-Riley..?” 

“One moment.” A scuffle, a brief pause, and then a warmer, more familiar voice emanates from the speaker, 

“Hiya, Doc, how’re you settling in?” He eyes the office dubiously.

“Fine, fine. Look, it’s, uh… It’s a bit of a mess over here, I was wondering if you knew anyone in town who’d be willing to help me tidy up and then maybe stay on as a secretary? I can pay in advance.” 

“That bad, huh? I’ll see what I can do. Hang tight.” A click, and the drone of the dial tone. He hangs up the phone, and turns towards the examination room. That, at least, he knows how to deal with. 

It’s just as he’s taking an inventory in the supply closet (oddly still well stocked, like it was just up and left abandoned), when there’s a knock on the front door. He starts, nearly dropping a box of cotton swabs, stepping carefully around the stacks of boxes and clicking the lock open.

There’s a girl on his doorstep, fashionably dressed, fiery red hair that's been neatly twisted into a tight bun. She sticks out a hand. 

“Jen Colt. Sheriff Chin-Riley sent me over.” He takes her hand, shaking it, then steps aside to let her through. “Good to meet you. Do you have any experience?” Colt pokes her head around the corner of the office, and inhales through her teeth. 

“I fill in for Miss Uhura at the post office sometimes when she’s on vacation or out on delivery. And I’ve done some filing in the town hall.” He looks over her shoulder, at the overflowing filing cabinets, a torrent of paper spilling out onto the dusty carpet. 

“You’re hired. Mostly you’ll be responsible for manning the phones and scheduling appointments, but for now we’re gonna try and get this mess sorted out. I’m still working on the supply closet, if you could start with the waiting room?” She nods, rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, eyes steely.

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t stand a chance.” 

He definitely owes Una a drink. Colt is almost scarily efficient and thorough; she manages to root out the stash of cleaning supplies (tucked away in a hidden cupboard under the stairs), and the entire first floor is flooded with the sharp scent of lemon polish and bleach. For his part, he gets almost all the medical equipment sorted and stored, and as the sun is flooding in through the west facing windows, joins Colt for a second time in the office doorway. He sighs.

“You can head home; it’s almost six, and the rest of this is something we can tackle tomorrow.” She nods, and yawns. "Sounds good to me, bet I can catch a rerun before the sun goes down. Have a good night, Doc.”, and with that she’s off like a shot, shoes squeaking on newly polished floors, the front door clicking shut behind her. 

He makes his own way back upstairs, slapping together a bologna sandwich, and it’s only as he’s swiping stray crumbs into the sink that he catches sight of the green thermos, abandoned next to the microwave. 

Una had said Pike was the harbor master, and he can practically see the ocean, the harbor can’t be that hard to find… 

He rinses the dregs of cold coffee out the thermos, patting it dry with the corner of his sweater, and tucking it under one arm as heads down the stairs. 

Warm orange sunlight is still pouring over the cliffs, and it warms the back of his neck as he jogs down the cobbles, following the winding street to a u-shaped length of wooden dock that stands as a final barrier to the churning sea. Fishing boats creak, pulling idly at their moorings, gulls crying as they glide over the lapping of water, and he’s hit with the mingling scents of brine and woodsmoke, blowing in off the sea. 

Two men, grizzle faced and rubber booted, wander past, blue smoke puffing up from twin pipes, one of the pair tipping his flat cap amiably in Phil’s general direction.

There’s one last house on the pier, two storied and bedecked in worn red painted shiplap, black framed windows peeking out from the sides. Connected to it, sticking out onto the dock, is a kind of shed, with a low slanted roof, and a few words painted in white on the side: ‘Harbor Master’s Office’ . 

He walks down towards it, and pokes his head around the corner; there’s a door, and a large sliding window, and through the uneven, streaky glass he catches sight of a man, dark haired, chin in hand, head bowed over a desk covered in paper. He raps his knuckles on the window, and Pike starts, looking up. Phil raises the thermos as the window is slid open. 

“Thought you might be wanting this back.” Blue eyes flash as Pike grins, a calloused hand reaching through and the thermos is pulled inside, and set down somewhere amongst the jumbled mess of papers and nautical instruments. "Thanks. Figured you needed the rest of the coffee, and you probably wouldn’t be too hard to find. I appreciate the delivery, though.” 

“Yeah, no problem.” He catches a glimpse of a small wall clock, hanging underneath the patchwork of maps, the hour hand just touching seven. “It’s getting late… How long are you going to stay at this?” Pike just shrugs, glancing out at the open water. 

“Until the last boat comes in. Probably won’t be until nightfall, there’s some tourists who took a boat out this morning.” and Pike leans back, the errant flecks of silver in his hair catching the dying rays of the setting sun, 

“Have a good night, Doc. Rest up, I got a feeling you’re gonna be swamped for the next couple weeks.” Phil nods, following Pike’s gaze out, into the endlessly swelling surf, and tries to ignore the ominous tune of that last sentence.

“Right. Thanks. See you around.”, and with that, the little window slides shut, and, summarily dismissed, he turns to make the slow, ponderous journey back up the road.

Chapter Text

Pike was right on the damn nose, and that’s something that’s beginning to look suspiciously like a pattern. 

He and Colt get the office ship-shape and operational on the fifth of July, open on the sixth and by the seventh he’s been booked solid for the next month. His waiting room is almost always jammed packed; Colt’s restocked the little coffee shelf nearly three times over, and he finds himself suddenly intimately familiar with very nearly every citizen of Portswick, and its surrounding farmland. It’s good to be back, to be helping again, even if it’s a steady gauntlet of aches, rashes, bruises, odd moles and runny noses.

The reason for this is very thoroughly explained to him in the dingy garage at the edge of town, by a short woman (introduced by Una only as ‘Pelia’, and no last name seems to be forthcoming) with wild, curly grey hair, half shouting in a thick, unidentifiable accent as she roots around elbow deep in the engine of his Ford. 

“The thing is, Doc,” A puff of smoke as the cigarette in her mouth bounces wildly, and he inwardly cringes at the thought of embers falling into the engine bay, “Portswick hasn’t had a proper resident doctor for nearly a decade now. We pay to have someone come down from the city three times a year or so, but it’s not enough, and not everyone can travel inland, y’know? So all the little things that’ve been piling up are finally comin’ due.” A loud clunk, as wiry arms bring a wrench roughly to bear, “But I’d bet you’ve gotten through the worst of it, should be smooth sailing from here on in.” A loud ka-chunk, and she smiles, a sharp-toothed tobacco stained grin, “Now, as for this old lady, you’ve gotten yourself a bit of trouble, but not a troublemaker.” Pelia hops down from the milk crate she’s been standing on, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. 

“It’s a solid car, but your carburetor is a piece of junk. Good news, easily fixable. Bad news, it’ll take a couple days for it’s replacement to be brought in. Downside of living in a picturesque little town by the sea. ” She slams the hood down, taking a final draw on the cigarette, before stamping it out with her boot and giving the car an affectionate smack. “But don’t worry! Anyone’ll give you a ride if you ask, you’re the toast of the town right now!” 

He follows her back outside, passing shelves heaving with unnamable tools and assorted parts, the faded, stained posters that have been papered over each other, old ads for cars, in English, French and Cyrillic, propaganda papers for the Wrens and the WAAF, and a few scattered news clippings, too yellowed and crusted over with dust and grime to read. A glance at the yard’s many junky, half-assembled vehicles, and he politely declines a lift back, opting instead to mosey along the trail that passes over the bluffs before descending back into town. Jagged grey stone cut into odd sharp angles, slowly but surely being softened by the wind and rain. That same wind buffets around him as he follows the dirt track, blowing away the worst of the mid-summer heat. Los Angeles is probably baking by now, but here, the breeze is cool, and he watches the tiny colorful dots of boats as they trundle along the shoreline, gulls wheeling white specks in the clear blue sky. It’s quiet, despite the rushing wind in the pines, crashing waves and chirping songbirds, the not-quiet of wilderness he hasn’t experienced since before ever stepping foot in California. It’s calming, but he can’t help but feel a deep loneliness in it, the endless expanse of sky, the wide maw of the open ocean, and he gazes off into it, getting lost in the never-ending grey. 

A falcon cries, diving off a cliff somewhere, and he shakes himself. He needs to get back, he’d given Colt a home furnishings catalogue and what he’d considered to be a ‘reasonable’ budget, (although her eyes had widened and the ensuing smile was slightly worrying), and he should really start thinking about unpacking the rest of his trunks. Most of the clothes and essentials have been done for weeks, but all the books, the flat case of paintings… It’s another busy day tomorrow, and he knows better than to face it fueled by caffeine alone, so he resumes the descent, hands in pockets, shoes crunching rhythmically along loose gravel.

Chapter Text

The sudden rush of work, such as it was, more or less dries up as summer drags on, and he finds himself sat in his office, every other day or so, twiddling his thumbs in the stifling August heat. The sun is merciless, baking the town and the forest alike, creating a kind of heady, dusty, resinous miasma that engulfs the county, and possibly the entire state, as a whole. It’s in this state that he finds himself one evening, picking his way down the street, making slow, desperate pilgrimage towards the local tavern; one of the few places in town that both has air-conditioning and is open past six o’clock.

It seems like nearly every person in town has had the same idea, because it's a struggle to get the barkeep's attention, but he manages, trading a dollar bill for a brown bottle. . 

Cold longneck acquired, and condensation already dripping all over his hand, he starts to look around for an empty seat. The main room is packed fit to burst, so he finds himself wandering out into a side hall, mostly empty save for the entrances to the bathrooms, what’s probably a broom closet. Walls are paneled in gleaming dark-stained pine, old photographs hung up along the length of it, pinned right into the plaster. His shoes squeak on black and white checkered tile as he searches fruitlessly for a bench or empty chair, and he’s more or less about to give up, take the beer and try and find some shade outside, when he catches the muffled tail-end of a conversation coming from the ‘closet’, a woman’s irritated voice saying,

“-you’re an ass, Pike.” He takes a few careful steps closer, head tilted, 

“It’s not my fault you can’t read me. And y’know, you can stop anytime you want.”

“And let you win? Hell no.” Muffled laughter, Chris’ voice and more snickering, 

“Pretty sure Pelia’s gonna end up walking away with the entire pot anyway, but sure.” 

He’s just about to take a step closer when an elbow jabs sharply into his ribs, and he half crumples, his vision suddenly filled with a tornado of flying tangles of curly grey hair and Pelia’s toothy grin. She tugs him down by the collar and whispers conspiratorially into his ear,

“Eavesdropping, are we? That’s good, I like eavesdropping.” Her voice tickles his ear, and the stale-coffee-beer-cigarette scent of her breath makes him wince. She cackles, and grabs him by the elbow, her grip like a vice. “But y’know what’s even better than listening in? Being in. ”

“Wha-” He opens his mouth to protest, but it’s too late, Pelia’s already pushed the closet door wide open, and is dragging him over the threshold.

The room that greets him isn’t much bigger than a closet andit’s dominated by a round wooden table and a cluster of chairs. There's a single lightbulb on a chain hanging from the water-stained ceiling, but most of the light is coming in from a small window set high in the wall; it’s been propped open, letting in the sound of distant waves and air that is only slightly less stifling than the air in this tiny room. 

Chris Pike, Una Chin-Riley, and an older man all look up at the door as they enter; Chris’ hands are casually shuffling a deck of cards, the red-backed paper edges well-worn and softened by use,  and small piles of assorted chips, bottle caps, and coins are scattered around in small mounds, although the one in front of one of the empty chairs is noticeably larger than the rest. Pelia pushes around him and slides right in behind it, and The old man turns to look at her, eyebrows raised, 

“ ‘S not exactly a secret poker club if you keep bringing in random people, Pel.” Pelia waves a dismissive hand as she produces a flask from an inner pocket, 

“Doc’s not exactly a stranger, is he? Besides,” and wicked eyes gleam across the table, in a look that's only a little predatory, “He’s a doctor. He’s got money .” 

Una snorts, taking a sip from her own drink. “That’s your death warrant, signed and sealed, Doc. Do you even know how to play?” 

He sets is beer on the table, and stretches before leaning forward, hands clasped on the table, 

“Sure. I’m from California, aren’t I?” Pike scoffs, grinning as he starts to deal cards around the table, waving Phil into an empty chair,

“Alrighty then. Siddown, Doc, and we’ll see about that.”

The experience of a few casual games of poker at the occasional dinner party is not, as it would turn out, nearly enough to take on the combined prowess of Portswick’s backroom Thursday poker club. The sun has long-since set, cool night air trickling in through the open window, and the loose pile of coins and chips sitting in front of him is scant, at best. Pelia is unrivalled, and Chris, Una and the other man (introduced to him only as ‘Old man Archer’) aren’t that far behind.

Pelia is cheerfully arranging her pile into neat stacks, sorting the loose change and stowing it into the many pockets in her raincoat, and Una pats him on the shoulder as she counts her own smaller pile of winnings, 

“Bad luck, Doc.”

He grimaces, draining the final dregs of a third beer and setting the bottle carefully on the table. “Mm. I don’t think luck had much to do with it.” 

“Nonsense!” Pelia has clambered down off her seat, and donned her coat, the hemline sagging with the weight of coinage, “Bad luck happens to all of us. You deserve another chance I think, I will bestow upon you an open invitation to poker night. Every Thursday!” 

Chris laughs, blue eyes glinting as he gets slowly to his feet, retrieving the cane from the wall it’s been leaning against. 

“Guess we’re seeing you next week. ‘Night all.” 

A small chorus of goodbyes, Pelia and Archer following suit, and he finds himself meandering into the hall with Una, the wood paneled walls warm in the light of incandescent bulbs. They stop in front of all the pictures, idling, and his gaze traces over a sea of faces, in black-and-white and colour, mostly men. Some are in uniform, formal pictures, but most are candid shots, an eclectic mixture of framed photographs and pinned polaroids. He looks questioningly over to Una, and she sighs, gazing up at the photos. 

“All local boys who left with the service and never came back,” She points to the far left,  “Starting as far back as World War One, all the way past ‘Nam, ending right about there.” He looks up at them, at the names and dates written neatly on each one. There’s one last photo on the very end to the right, ‘ Robert April, 1978’ neatly lettered underneath the image of a handsome young man with dark skin and black hair that’s been buzzed regulation short, dressed in a blue uniform.

“I thought we got out of Vietnam in ‘73?” 

Una looks up at the smiling face, her face suddenly drawn, eyes downcast as she murmurs, “We did. Bobby was in the coast guard when he died.”  

“Oh.” They stand for a moment longer, until distantly, he hears the shout for last call, so he gives Una’s shoulder an awkward pat before turning away, leaving her, a statue perfectly poised in a leather jacket and gleaming black ponytail, holding silent vigil for the parade of faces who’d never see this little tap room again.

Chapter Text

He’s sitting at his desk, barely awake, nearly halfway through the day’s first cup of coffee when Colt bursts through his office door, fresh faced and practically sparkling, clutching a massive banker’s box in both hands. 

“Doc! You’ll never guess what I found under my desk!” 

He shakes himself, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before looking up.

“A box?” Colt rolls her eyes. 

“No duh. But it’s full of files! I took a peek, some of them go back at least three decades.”

He sits up straight, setting the chipped mug down on the desk, clearing enough room for her to set the box down. She pulls the dusty top off and he starts thumbing through it, and sure enough, folder after folder, all neatly stuffed with paper. There’s names he recognizes from in and around town, some that are entirely new, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Damn good find, I’ve been trying to find these since I got here.” Colt beams. “There’s six more of them! Want me to start sorting them into the filing cabinets? There’s only two appointments today, I’ll have time.” He looks up in mild horror. 

“Six?! Holy… Yeah… Get a jump on it please, I’ll give you a hand when I have a minute. 

The evening is wearing on, his office clock’s minute hand ticks mercilessly onward, and he’s still drowning in paper. He sent Colt home over an hour ago, and in her absence progress has slowed to a crawl. Apparently nearly fifty years of medical history had been stashed away behind that desk, and they’re still barely halfway through, and there’s a pounding ache starting to form at the forefront of his skull. 

There’s a knock at his door, knuckles tapping out a quick and familiar rhythm, and Phil looks up, 

scowling at the lopsided grin of the man darkening his office doorway. 

“I’m swamped, go away.”

 Chris cheerfully ignores this, breezing in and settling into the nearest chair, cane tapping pointedly against the side of the desk. 

“This isn’t the big city, Doc. It’s eighteen-thirty. All the boats are back and every reasonable person is done for the day, so drop the papers and let’s get out of here.” Phil glowers. 

”There’s nearly twenty years of files that my secretary just found. This is crucial information that-“

“That can wait until tomorrow. C’mon.” Chris raises a paper bag and wiggles it, “I brought dinner.” It’s an evil trick, and Chris knows it; Chris has been stopping by almost weekly with a home cooked something or other, originally under the pretense of getting ‘An actual unbiased opinion’ , and at some point Phil just stopped asking. He sighs, slowly setting down the stack of paper. 

“Did you make whatever’s in there?” Chris shrugs. 

“Only one way to find out.” 

So he finds himself rambling up the bumpy sidewalk, hands shoved into his pockets, trailing behind Chris as he bounce-steps with surprising speed up the steep incline. Cool wind is blowing off the sea, and a setting sun is giving out the very last of the day’s warmth, soft orange light shining off the metal rooftops and reflecting in the paned windows of all the little houses.

It’s been, well, years since he spent autumn out east, and although it’s still a little early, he can see the beginnings of fiery oranges and reds starting to take hold of the leaves, and there’s a crisp, earthy smell as they pass under spreading branches. 

He picks up the pace, panting a little, to fall into step next to Chris. 

“I thought we were having dinner.” Chris smiles evenly, paper bag held just out of reach. “We are. And we’re almost there.” 

“Almost where?! You have a perfectly good house. We were just in my perfectly good house!” 

Chris waves away the complaints, undeterred as they crest the top of the hill and swing left onto a side path, “You spend too much time inside, you’ll go crazy. C’mon. It’ll be worth it.” Phil grumbles, but speeds up to keep pace,

“It’d better be.” 

It’s another ten minutes of pushing past branches and walking past the occasional backyard before the trees clear, and they come out of the brush. It’s a little clearing, on top of a cliff and overlooking the town, the docks, and the vast ocean, stretching out from one corner of the horizon to the other. The sunset is in its full glory, fiery oranges, pinks, and yellows swirl and layer like an oil painting, glittering on the endlessly churning waves. 

There’s a small bench, weather-softened wooden boards and twisted iron, and he settles next to Chris, stretching out his legs and taking the offered wax paper-wrapped sandwich. 

He unwraps it carefully,  and falls upon it like he hasn’t eaten all day, (which is more or less true, given that coffee isn't technically a meal), savouring the blend of cold cuts, veg, and a generous slathering of some kind of tangy mustard. It’s exceptional, and he tears through it in seconds, folding the paper and shoving it in his pocket. Chris laughs, passing over the battered green thermos. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. There’s a couple snickerdoodles in the bag too, if you want em’.” 

Phil turns towards Chris, who’s still picking away at his own sandwich, eyebrows raised in disbelief. 

“A couple of what ?” Chris smirks. 

“And I thought you big-city west-coast folks were supposed to be all ‘cultured’. Snickerdoodle. It’s a type of cookie.” 

“Right. Sure.”

He pokes around in the bottom of the paper bag, pulling out a round sugar and spice encrusted cookie, sniffing it dubiously. Chris rolls his eyes. “Christ’s sake, I made it, it’s not going to kill you.” Phil grumbles, “That’s exactly what a murderer would say,” but bites into it anyway. 

It’s soft, crumbly, and he’s suddenly taken with the sweet, ever so slightly tangy flavour, all wrapped up neatly in a crisp sugar-cinnamon crust. His surprised delight must show on his face because Chris grins, and nudges his shoulder. “Not bad, huh?” 

Not bad at all, amazing, actually, and he pours himself a capful of coffee before passing the thermos back.

It’s pleasantly warm, his dark sweater absorbing the last few rays of sunlight, and they sit in comfortable silence, Chris leaning back, whistling, idly bouncing his stick over thin grass and gravelly ground. He could probably sit here forever, sipping coffee and listening to Chris sending quiet snatches of melody out onto the wind, but all too soon the sun has slipped beneath the water, and blue twilight swallows up the sky. 

Chris sighs, getting slowly to his feet. 

“We should be getting back.”

“Yeah.” He takes a minute though, looking out into the endless night before following Chris back down the path, enchanted for a just moment by the twilight horizon spreading out over a rippling blue abyss. 

Chris scrambles easily down the path, and Phil follows carefully behind him, picking his way over the tree branches and holes that Chris hops over and dances around, but he catches up by the time they hit the main roadway, and matches Chris’ pace until they get to the red door and navy shiplap of his office. He turns to Chris, catching the eyes that are glowing a stormy grey beneath the yellow porch light.

“Thanks. I needed that.” Chris shrugs. “I just had a couple things in the fridge that needed using up. See you around, Doc.” He waves, watching Chris’ silhouette disappear into the night, the sound of his cane tap-tapping against the cobbles before heading inside. There’s still files M-Z to chew through, and he settles into it, mind numbing as he combs through them, paper by paper.

It isn’t until later, after he’s crawled beneath the heavy duvet, that the part of his mind still fighting for consciousness realizes that even though he’s cleared out all the ‘P’s, Chris’ file is still missing almost a decade’s worth of information. In fact, there hadn’t been a single entry since October of ‘78, a fairly constant record of information cut off abruptly. But it’s late, and he’s too tired to theorize , and besides, the missing papers are probably still here, and have undoubtedly worked their way behind the filing cabinets or into the walls somehow. They’ll be found. He closes his eyes, and drops off into a dreamless sleep, the missing parts of Chris’s file disappearing from his thoughts, forgotten.

Chapter Text

It’s the end of the day, and he’s standing in front of the medicine locker, notepad in hand, pen tapping irritably against the paper.

Monthly inventory has finally come around again, and for the very first time since he started practicing here, he has a surplus of a prescription medication. 

It’s a bit of an odd situation, he hadn’t initially considered that this little office would be both the doctor’s and the pharmacist’s, but that first week of June, he’d barely sat down at the desk before being confronted by the pile of order forms. Mostly it’s been fine, sometimes trucks and ferries get delayed, some days he spends hours on the phone with supply reps, but for the most part, it’s been nothing more than a little extra paperwork. Until today. 

It’s two small tubes of cortisol cream, still sitting sealed in their little paper boxes, about four weeks worth, in all. He squints at them, frowning. 

It only takes a few minutes to find mention of them in his records, prescribed to one Malcom Reed, on the twelfth of September, for a rash. Fine. But there hadn’t been any extra in last month’s shipment, and he doesn’t remember dispensing any other ointments like this. 

He peeks his head out of the office door, looking into the waiting room, where Colt is idly sorting through paper, mouth working at a piece of pink bubblegum. 

“Hey, do you know if a Mr. Reed stopped by to pick up a prescription?” 

She half turns, pausing mid bubble, 

“No, I haven't seen him since he came in last month. Why?” 

“He never picked up his meds. Do we have a telephone number on file?” The rattle-clink of the filing cabinet, rustling of paper before Colt looks back, 

“Nope, nothing. Not even an address. Pretty sure he’s down south of the cliffs but I couldn’t tell you where.” She makes a face, head tilted to the side for a second before continuing, “You didn’t hear me say it, ‘cause it’s mean, but people say he’s kind of a crackpot. We never see him in town.” 

Phil wracks his memory, conjuring the vague image of a wiry, grey-haired man with piercing blue eyes, tracking his every move with an air of general suspicion. 

“He didn’t seem that weird.” Colt shrugs. “The woods do funny things to people.” He leans over her shoulder, tries briefly to decipher the color-coded schedule, and promptly gives up. 

“Do I have any other appointments for today?” 

“No-pe.” Colt pops the ‘p’ as she resumes chewing, twirling a pencil between her fingers. 

“Great. If anyone wants me, I’m out on a house call.” 

“Whatever you want, boss.” 

He retrieves the tubes of cream from the cabinet, tucking them into his black doctor’s bag and shrugs on his coat and scarf, waving Colt goodbye as he steps out the door. 

The post office seems like the most logical place to start, and he sets off, crisp autumn air blowing past on a slight breeze, leaves dancing along the road and getting stuck in the gutters. 

The town is a vision in orange, yellow, and red, foliage fiery in the mid-morning sun, the slight earthy-mushroomy scent of damp soil the only remaining indication of last night’s rain. 

The post office is already busy, a small line of people who he greets amiably as he waits his own turn, watching letters exchange hands. The postmaster, one Nyota Uhura, sorts through it all with clinical precision, perfectly manicured hands neatly stamping, sealing, sliding envelopes in place. She is beautiful, and seems to always be effortlessly stylish, ebony skin glowing and black hair perfectly coiffed, and she smiles brilliantly up at him, dark eyes sparkling, as he approaches the counter, 

“What can I do for you, Doc?” He smiles back, shuffling his feet, 

“Bit of a weird ask, but I don’t suppose you know Mr. Malcom Reed's address? He has a prescription I was hoping to drop off.” She hums, pensive. 

“I do, but I don’t know how much good it’ll do you. It’s really only accessible by boat.” He shrugs. 

“I’ll figure it out.” Uhura shrugs, and clicks her pen, scribbles for a second before passing over a sticky note, address neatly inked onto it. “Good luck Doc, I’m sure you’ll track him down, there’s- Oh. Oh no. Not again.” She’s looking over his shoulder, out the window, and he follows her gaze, looking just in time to see Pelia lugging a large, heavily taped cardboard box up to the front steps of the post office. The bell above the door jingles as Pelia shoulders it open, and Uhura calls out, 

“That’d better not be going overseas, I told you I can’t ship random machine parts internationally, not without some kind of documentation-“

Phil slips out the door with an apologetic glance in Uhura's direction, retreating out onto the street and heading down the road. 

Water laps up gently against the struts of the pier as he walks along it, watching the occasional buoy bob up and down on the surface, colourful islands of orange and white riding the swirling grey. He knocks on the side of Chris’ office window, and steps back as Chris looks up, smiles, and slides open the glass panel, all glittering blue eyes, thick wool sweater and salt-and-pepper hair. There’s an assortment of maps scattered across the desk, and Chris taps his pencil idly against them, looking up expectantly.

“What can I do for you, Doc?” 

Phil slides the scrap of paper over the windowsill, “Any idea how I can get here?” 

Dark eyebrows rise as Chris’ eyes flick over it. 

“You’re gonna need a boat, and I’m guessing someone willing to sail it for you… Give me a second.” The squeak of small wheels and Chris slides out of view, a click, and a brief, muffled conversation. Phil waits, awkwardly, shivering slightly as a cool wind blows off the sea. 

Chris slides back into view, grinning. 

“I got you a ride, he’ll be here in about ten minutes or so,” he picks up the address for a second time, “Why’re you going over to Reed’s place anyway? It’s more than a bit out of the way.” 

Phil shrugs. “He was supposed to pick up a prescription a few weeks ago. I figured I’d just check in.” Pike blinks.

“That’s good of you; but y’know Reed’s kind of a recluse, he barely comes to town. He doesn’t even have a phone out there.” A beat. “He has a radio, though. Want me to try and signal him? It might save you a  trip.” 

“Sure.” Chris reaches under the desk, pulling a pair of oversized headphones, slipping them on, and starts flipping switches on the two-way radio to his left. The half-smile slowly turns to a frown as dials twirl back and forth, Chris double checking a list before trying again, and he finally pulls the ear-phones down, 

“I can’t raise him. It’s just static.” Phil pokes his head in. “Is that bad?” 

“Maybe. Could be nothing, his radio could be broken, could be interference, he might just not have been around to hear the signal. But still… It’s good you’re going.” Chris glances up, at waves at something behind Phil, and for a second time Phil turns to see a familiar face, this time the figure of Archer puffing his way down the dock, ruck sack thrown  haphazardly over one shoulder. 

He’s ushered over to a boat that can’t be much more than a rubber dingy with an outboard motor, and there’s a hushed conversation at the office window between Pike and Archer as Phil climbs gingerly into it. 

Archer marches back down the dock, and jumps in, setting the boat swaying as he settles in the rear, the little engine stuttering to life, 

“Hang on tight Doc, water’s pretty calm today but the tide's starting to go out, so it might get a little choppy.” Phil nods, opens his mouth to respond, but is suddenly cut off by the roar of the engine as the little boat shoots out of the little harbour, cruising out into open water.. 

They glide out onto the waves, hugging the coast for the most part, rugged grey-black cliffs towering up, unforgiving ramparts with water foaming white as it crashes against the base. It’s hard to see from this angle, but he can just barely catch glimpses of the forest growing above, pine trees standing like silent watchmen, broad-winged birds soaring in slow circles above them, riding the wind as it gusts up off the sea.

There’s not much he can hear over the roar of the motor, and there’s the stink of diesel and hot metal as they race along the coast, but he raises his voice to shout as they pass a particular cove. There’s the decaying form of a ship rising out from the shallows, the structure rising up like a skeletal hand, wood blackened by moisture and rot, metal twisted, muscles and barnacles climbing up the sides like silver scale. Archer glances to the side, and grimaces, 

“That? Ship ran aground, oh, nearly a decade now. Normally they pull em’ out, but the rocks ‘round Pitt’s bay are too dangerous, so they left it.”

Question answered, and the rocking of the boat is starting to get a little bothersome, so he settles back and tries his best to quell the swelling nausea.

It can’t be more than an hour before they start to slow, a large, craggy outcropping of an island coming into view, and on it, a grey tower rising up into the sky, its top the glittering, sunshine reflecting in walls of glass. It’s not far from the mainland, no more than fifty meters, by Phil’s reckoning, but the sharp rocks and sheer cliff make it impossible to cross. Instead, there’s a small wooden landing, and Archer kills the engine and they get carried forward by the momentum, bumping up against the dock, next to a very similar-looking boat, and Archer ties up to a post, before jumping out, rucksack in hand. He offers a hand up, and Phil takes it, staggering up onto the wooden planks, swaying slightly. Archer gestures towards a rough path, misshapen stairs cut out of the stone.

“Up, this way, lad. And be careful on the rocks.”

The lighthouse’s door is painted a deep blue, and Archer bangs the brass door-knocker, once, twice.

Silence. Archer knocks again, calling out, 

“Malcolm? It’s John, are you in there?” There’s the click of a latch being slid, and the door swings open, revealing the familiar form of a thin man, iron-haired and face pinched, sharp eyes flicking from Archer to Phil and back again. 

“Can I help you, Doctor? Captain?” Archer slides past Reed, letting himself in, dragging Phil by the sleeve along with him, 

“We couldn’t reach you on the radio, and Doc says you were overdue to pick something up.” The little entry room he’s been dragged into is immaculate, jackets, coats and boots all arranged with military precision, but his breath catches in his throat at the sight of a gun barrel poking casually out of the closet, some kind of rifle, long wooden stock polished and oiled to perfection. Reed turns, closing the door behind him, right leg dragging stiffly as he does, 

“I sprained my ankle getting off the boat, and my radio transmitter blew a few days ago.” He glances down at the offending foot, “I would have been able to go in for a replacement in a day or two.” Archer shrugs off the bag. 

“I’m sure. But while we’re here, Doc could take a look at the ankle, you could make us a cup of tea…” Reed raises his eyebrows.

“And you’d actually drink it?” Archer grins, and fishes a tin out of the bag, “No. But I brought cookies.” Reeds eyes widen as a gold-yellow criss-cross pattern catches the light, “Are those pineapple?” Archer’s grin widens, “What else?”

“Well,” and Reed starts up the stairs, “I suppose you’d best come up, then.” 

The little kitchen is warm, Archer is settled comfortably in one chair, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, humming cheerfully as Phil sets down his mug of tea, along with the two boxes of ointment, and pushes over another chair so Reed can lift his foot up onto it. He waits as Reed eases his boot off, and starts to inspect the wrapped ankle, 

“Your technique is great, this looks professionally done.” Reed sniffs, “Sure. Doesn’t take a genius to wrap an ankle.” 

Archer cuts in through a mouthful of cookie, “Don’t listen to him, Doc, he just gets cranky when someone else is in charge.” 

“That’s rich, considering-” 

Phil tunes out the bickering, familiar enough to be friendly, and focuses on the foot resting on the chair. Definitely sprained, swollen, but not badly, and after a thorough examination he relays that back, re-wrapping the ankle. Reed nods, satisfied if not a little smug, and Archer slugs back the rest of his coffee, getting to his feet with a grunt. 

“Right then. Malcolm, we’ll be out of your hair, but if I don’t see you in town in the three days-”

 Reed follows suit, grumbling, “You’ll be back, hunting me down, I know. I won’t walk you down, but watch yourselves on the water. It’s getting late, tide’s going to be changing.” 

The ride back is indeed rougher, the waves choppy, and he’s properly seasick by the time they’re tied up in Portswick.

He climbs back up onto the pier, staggering a little on shaking legs, taking deep breaths, trying to settle the roiling nausea, and half-collapses on a nearby bench. 

“Hey.” A warm hand on his shoulder, and he turns to look directly into Archer’s earnest face, “I really appreciate you doing this, Doc. Malcolm's an old friend, he’s not… He’s not the most personable, never was, but he’s a good man. It’s good of you to look out for him.” He tries to look up at Archer, which only makes his vision wobble, so he waves a hand vaguely in Archer’s general direction, 

“Don’t mention it. Just my job.” 

The hand on his shoulder squeezes, briefly, before sliding off, 

“You do it well, lad.” A pause, and then the sound of boots on wood as Archer disappears. Phil doesn’t even try looking after him, just staying firmly planted on the bench, willing his stomach to right itself, hands white-knuckling the wood, black bag resting between his ankles. 

A change in the air, as someone sits suddenly down beside him, and a mug is pressed into his hands. 

“Archer said you were looking a little green. Sip on that. There’s no cure for seasickness, as I’m sure you know, but it’ll help. And I got some crackers too.” Chris is still in the sweater, jacket thrown loosely over his shoulders, and he nudges Phil’s arm, “I used to get seasick too. Got better, after I was out on the water for a while, but I do remember.”

Phil takes a sip from the mug, just cool water, and grimaces. “I’m never getting on a boat again.” 

Chris laughs. “I hate to break it to you, but you live next to the ocean. You’ll probably end up on another one at some point.” 

“I’ll swim.” 

“Uh-huh.” Chris snickers, looking out into the water, “I look forward to seeing that.” Phil doesn’t deign to respond, just focuses on taking deep breaths and Chris just sits, staying silently, patiently beside, watching the waves lap gently up against the shore.

Chapter Text

The envelope is innocuous enough, cheap white paper, a plain stamp, no return address, dumped on his desk along with all the other business of the day. He tucks it under an empty mug, turning instead towards the pile of other correspondence that he’s been meaning to get to, and immediately forgets about it. 

It isn’t until later in the evening, after he’s closed up shop and Colt leaves with a pointed reminder (or threat, depending on how he chooses to look at it) to corral all the cups and mugs in the office or else, that he remembers the envelope. He grabs it, carrying it upstairs along with the small horde of coffee cups, and tears open the side, sliding out the contents into one hand. 

It’s a piece of newspaper, neatly clipped and folded, and on top is a yellow sticky note, two words scrawled in black ink:

I’m sorry. 

He peels it off, dread curling in his stomach, and unfolds the paper. 

A small black and white picture of a young man, pale haired and grinning at the camera, catches him like a punch to the gut as his eyes flick over the words 

It is with profound sorrow that we announce the passing of Edward Banks, who peacefully entered into eternal rest on September 12, 1989. A devoted follower of Christ, Edward leaves behind a legacy of faith, love, and service. A memorial service will be held on September 15th at 8:00 at First Baptist Church, where we will celebrate his life and the hope found in God. Edward is survived by-

Rage and guilt smolder in his chest, bitter tears burning in the corners of his eyes as he crumples the paper into a ball and throws it in the vague direction of the wastepaper basket. They’d used a picture that was nearly eight years out of date, of course they did, and not a single mention of California. Nearly a decade of Ed’s life expunged from history, the shining, smiling, glittering man painted over and enshrined in a picture of holy perfection. 

Fuck. He needs a drink, a smoke, to walk out the door and to storm all the way to that pretty town where Ed’s life disappeared. 

The drink would be the easiest, though. 

There’s a nearly full bottle of rye tucked away in the cabinet above the fridge, and he tosses the stopper vaguely in the direction of the sink, splashing nearly four fingers of the honey-amber liquid into a glass, not bothering with ice, letting it burn freely down his throat and settle, fiery and hot in his stomach. The corners of his eyes prickle, tears threatening to spill over and run down his cheeks, a cruel parody of the drizzle outside. 

Whiskey spills onto the counter as he refills the glass for a second time, the reflection of the overhead bulb glittering in the puddle of liquor like marquis lights, and he glares at it, throwing back another measure... 

He’s nervous. Perched on a slightly sticky barstool, trying not to white knuckle his nearly-empty martini, he looks up as someone slides in next to him, all lithe, slender limbs and wicked smile. The man’s hair is so blond it’s nearly white, and strands of it are falling into his sparkling grey eyes.

“I haven’t seen you around here. And trust me, I’d remember a face like yours.” Heat, unbidden rises in his cheeks, and he takes a sip of the drink.

“Just moved here from the East coast. Friend of a friend said this was the place to be.” 

“Mm. That, it definitely is. I’m Ed, by the way. Let me buy you a refill?” 

There’s a twinge of trepidation, of fear, he shouldn’t have come here, but the man, Ed, is smiling softly, one finger twirling the straw in his own drink, and he can’t bear to say no-

“Phil. And sure.” 

Ed is brilliant. Quick and witty, laughing as he pulls Phil onto the dance floor, turning and swaying to the upbeat tempo that’s been filling the bar all night long. He feels like he’s been caught in a spotlight, like they’re the only two people in the universe, twirling beneath a kaleidoscope sky of twinkling multi-colored string lights.

The couldn’t have been there for less than two hours, but it feels like no time at all has passed as they tumble out into the cool street, and there’s an invitation in Ed’s eyes and the heat in Phil’s face has travelled south, fueled by liquor or something else entirely, and he takes the proffered hand, letting himself be led through the winding maze of dark streets, up a few flights of cramped stairs, and into a dimly lit studio apartment. He catches a flash of canvas, stacked paint and brushes before hands are teasing their way across his thighs and his attention is entirely forfeit, too focused on the hungry mouth tracing its way up his neck…

It’s different, nothing like the guilty kisses stolen behind the shed at boarding school, or even the slightly shameful liquor fueled tumbles of his college years, this is easy and sweet, Ed giving and taking in turn, leading them both to spine melting ecstasy. 

It isn’t until after, sweat having long since cooled and dried, and the stolen cigarette reduced to mostly ash does he look back into the face of the man sprawled languidly on the other side. Grey eyes glitter as Ed rolls over, pulling himself up and stealing a slow kiss, letting Phil taste the salty, bittersweet aftermath that’s still lingering on his lips before pulling away, and whispering into the dark, voice low and laden with mirth.

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Phil. We’re happy to have you.” 

The moon is up in the sky, burning harsh and white, cold wind blowing off the ocean, stinking of salt and the sea. The bottle clutched clumsily in his hand has a scant inch left sloshing in the bottom, and he nearly drops it as he stumbles out the back door. 

He’s not really sure why he’s out here, to get some fresh air, maybe, or possibly to walk off the nearest cliff, but regardless, he doesn’t make it farther than the doorstep, collapsing heavily into an awkward seated position on the rough concrete. 

Someone coughs.

He looks blearily up, gazing wretchedly into the dim light, and looks directly up into disbelieving blue eyes, peering at him from over the fence. Chris raises his eyebrows, kicks open the gate and stomps up the path, standing over him like an avenging angel.

“You missed poker.” 

It’s an accusation, not a question. He groans, tries to remember how to make his mouth move at the same speed as his brain.

“Didn’ feel like going.” Chris doesn’t look impressed. 

“So you decided to get shit-faced, by yourself, on a Thursday night. Clinic’s gonna be really fun for you tomorrow.” 

“Fuck off.” He spits the words, but they leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth and he shakes his head, but it does nothing to clear the liquid smog that’s filling his head, “No, sorry, I didn’t… I don’t…” Chris sighs, and then there’s a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s fine. I’ll get out of your hair. But after you go back inside. And after you drink something that can’t be used as an accelerant. C’mon.” He’s being lifted, against his will, his legs fumbling around beneath him, trying the catch ground that’s weirdly uneven, and Chris curses under his breath as he hauls Phil over the threshold and practically carries him up the stairs, his uneven gait bouncing Phil painfully against the banister with every step. He’s dumped unceremoniously into bed and a mug of water is shoved into his hands, Chris staring him down until he brings it to his lips. There’s the scent of something sour in the air, and a wet spot on Chris’ overcoat, but his vision blurs as he’s rolled onto his side, and those blurred shadows grow into real darkness, and the last thing he hears is the shuffle thud of Chris making his way back down the stairs.

Ed passes in and out of his life like a dream, a roll in sheets on the rare nights he’s not working, a quiet meal on the odd days they pass within each other’s orbits. It’s always the same, though, those dancing silver eyes, the clever, wicked mouth, calling him in like a siren. It’s the taste of sweet red wine, the scent and smudges of oil paint and turpentine, the easy rhythm that they fall into every time they’re together. 

Until, they fall out of it.

There’s an undercurrent of something at the hospital, whispering amongst the department heads, a spike of a rare type of pneumonia. 

It doesn’t go away. 

There are more and more cases, and those quiet evenings seem to disappear in a tidal wave as the years of his residency are consumed by furious work, both in and out the hospital, even as the trickle of cases becomes a stream, even as the wan and worried faces start becoming those of personal friends, and he finds himself standing on plot after plot of hallowed ground, the cuffs of his black suit flecked yellow-brown with grave dirt.

But the horrible whirlwind comes to a grinding halt, on a sunny evening in late June, when he walks into the ward and is immediately caught by a pair of silvery grey eyes, sunken and hollow, but heart-wrenchingly familiar. There a wisp of that old smile as Ed looks sadly up at him,

“Come here often?” 

The antibody test, (still new, a massive step forward and possibly the only respite they’ve gotten in months), comes back positive. Ed doesn’t seem surprised, and together they fall into a horrible parody of what was, as the man Phil knew is slowly consumed, a phantom, slowly withering away, until one day, nearly three months after Phil’s spirit died, he walks in to an empty bed, sheets tucked, pillow fluffed, every indication of Ed’s existence erased with clinical precision. 

He assumes the worst, how could he not, and the last little shred of his soul disintegrates. It’s only when one of his nurses finds him in one of the maintenance stairwells (red-eyed, staring blankly into space), that he learns that Ed didn’t die, that he’d been transferred. When? Almost half an hour after Phil left, yesterday. Where? They don’t know, patient confidentiality, but there were parents and mention of somewhere she heard Ed calling ‘Back home.’

Back home. A place Ed only spoke of in passing, with varying degrees of disgust, buried deep in the south, where men were men and the lord was law and where Phil would never be able to so much as inquire, an unmarried man fresh from the heathen streets of Los Angeles. 

He thought he’d be standing in front of another tombstone, rose in hand, heart buried six feet below him. But he’s not, and somehow, this is worse. 

He sticks it out for nearly another three years, slowly suffocating in a home that’s been ravaged, and suddenly, seemingly apropos of nothing, he breaks.

An ad, an opening for a family physician in a town buried deep in the woods of New England. Something else. Anything else. It’s not like he’d be the first to run away. Mendelson left for New England last year, and Phlox went on sabbatical a month ago. 

He disappears.

Chapter Text

Miraculously, he doesn’t wake up lying face-first in a pool of his own vomit.

 In fact, he wakes up in his own bed, the curtains drawn and the window cracked open, letting in a whisper of blessedly fresh morning air.

There’s a glass of water on the nightstand, and an aspirin, and he takes them both, wincing as he sets the cup back down, squinting at the little alarm clock. 

10:47. Shit.

He rushes through a cold shower and throws on the clothes that smell the least stale, practically running down the stairs and into the waiting room-

It’s empty. Just Colt, nonchalantly typing something out at her desk, but she looks up as he collapses against the doorframe.

“Hey Doc. You look terrible. Mr. Pike called and said you were sick, so I went ahead and rescheduled your appointments.” 

“What?” She repeats herself, deliberately slowly.

“I rescheduled all your appointments. Because you’re sick. Go back upstairs.” He shakes himself. 

“Yeah… Sure. Thanks.” 

He spends most of the day collapsed on the sofa, nursing a mug of tea and a sleeve of plain crackers, listening to the rain as it beats against the windows.. 

At around six, he hears a small kerfuffle downstairs, the sound of the back door opening and the familiar thud-thump of Chris making his way up the stairs. He rolls off the couch, weaving slightly as he stands just in time to greet the man dripping on the kitchen tiles.

Chris ignores him, dumping a bag on the table and shucking off his raincoat and boots, setting them up next to the wood stove to dry, and only then does Chris stop to glare at him from over one shoulder.

 “Well? Feeling better?” Phil does his best not to look too sheepish.

“Yeah, thanks.” Chris grunts, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater and starts rummaging through the bag.

“Don’t thank me; I was doing the community a service. You wouldn’t have been much good listening to heartbeats and whatever the hell else it is that you do.” Phil winces.

“I deserved that. Sorry about your jacket. And everything else.” 

Chris shrugs. “It’s seen worse.” He’s rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, pulling out bowls and spoons and pouring steaming soup out of the battered green thermos. He's moving stiffly, his limp heavier than usual, but before he can comment, a bowl has been placed pointedly in front of him, a spoon levelled threateningly in his direction.

They eat in relative silence, and it’s not until Phil’s stacking dishes in the sink that Chris clears his throat, and pulls an odd-shaped bundle out of the bag, opening it and carefully laying out the crumpled paintings out on the table.

“I found these at the bottom of the stairs last night. Figured you might want to decide what to do with them when you were sober.” The swirling oils are still as bright as they were five years ago, drooping tropical palms in golden sunsets, dancing figures and the smiling faces of people long gone. Gifts, although he’d tried to buy them, only to be rebuffed and refused over and over again, and he can almost see Ed now, laughing, coaxing beautiful images out of cheap paint and dingy canvas. 

He takes one of the paintings, scrubbing a hand across his eyes and wiping it off on his pants before tracing a finger over the textured surface, trying to smooth out the corners. He’d painstakingly unpinned them from their frames so they’d fit in his luggage, but all that hard work has been undone, the canvas curled and creased at odd angles. 

“Thanks… Christ, I really was drunk, wasn’t I?” Chris chuckles. “Out of your mind. Did you make those? This some kind of ‘tortured artist’ thing?” 

“Oh, god no.” He starts carefully flattening another, the portrait of a man, shiny ebony skin and glittering gold earring reflecting an odd blue light. 

“A… friend made these. A long time ago.” Chris is silent for a little while, watching as Phil sorts through the paintings, and then says, apropos of nothing,

“I found the obituary when I was emptying out the trash can. Same friend?” His hand stills, midway through smoothing another fold of canvas. 

“Same friend.” Chris grimaces. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” A droplet of water splashes onto the canvas, and Phil scrubs the corner of his sleeve across his eyes. “It was a while ago.” A hand reaches over, calloused and worn, gently tugging the canvas out of the line of fire. 

“But you only found out yesterday.” Phil looks up sharply, eyes still burning, and Chris shrugs. “You mentioned it last night.” Phil shakes his head, dragging the sleeve across his eyes for a second time, “I wasn’t there. I should’ve been, I could’ve tried harder, done something-” Chris’ hand is clenched firmly, almost painfully on his shoulder

“Hey. Listen to me. You’re a doctor. You of all people should know you can’t save everyone.” There’s a bitter twist to Chris’ words, and the face he looks up into is inexplicably forlorn, icy blue eyes turned to shadowy slate.

“But of all the people, I should’ve been there for-” Tears are falling in earnest now, but Chris doesn’t say anything about it, just leans in closer, pushing the rest of the paintings away. 

“Doesn’t matter how many people you see die, at some point it’s gonna be the ones you ‘should’ve been there for’. And what's worse? You not being there, or being there, watching, and not being able to do anything about it?”

“You don't know that. I don't know that.” Chris shakes his head.

“I’ve seen a lotta people go. Lotta friends. Sometimes it’s better this way, better that you don't have to see the pain of it.” Phil looks up, at the warm kitchen, the little sitting room, the soft fall evening outside, too picturesque, too beautiful. 

“I can’t accept that.” 

“You should try.” Chris looks suddenly distant, his voice hollow as he follows Phil’s gaze out the window, “You’ll get stuck if you don’t. There’s nothing you can do about it now.” The hand leaves his shoulder, reaches down to swipe the tear splotch off of the painting. “Well. Almost nothing. You’ve still got these left, and it’d be a shame to throw them out. They’re good paintings.” 

“They are.” He wipes his eyes one last time, and arranges them in a careful pile. “I’ll get them fixed up properly, just… In a bit.” 

“Sure.” There’s a hint of a spark back in Chris’ eyes as he stands, “C’mon, I’m gonna go walk the pier, make sure everything's ship-shape before turning in, it’s a lot more fun with company.” 

It’s clear that Chris probably isn’t going to leave without him, so he gets begrudgingly to his feet, throwing on a jacket and following Chris as he marches briskly down to the coast, cane tap-tapping rhythmically against the stone. It's a gentle evening, and he lets Chris narrate their journey, pointing out the differences between the moored boats, the shorebirds picking at today’s leavings, giving names to the cliffs looming grey-blue hazy in the distance. 

It’s also Chris, two weeks later, who manages to find someone who must be the only classical oil painter and carpenter this side of the state, an older man who patiently stretches the old canvases, perfectly fitted into maple frames, who waves him away when he asks about payment, just seems happy enough that Pike owes him a favour.  

He hangs the paintings with reverence, arranging them all over the walls of the second floor, scattered by the old wood-stove, the kitchen, his bedroom…

And the house feels just a little more like home, and, in some small way, Ed isn't gone. 

Chapter Text

It takes nearly three months for him to clue in to the fact that Chris’ visits aren’t exactly random. 

That is to say, Chris visits consistently, dropping in in the evenings, always after the last boat has trundled into the harbour, usually with dinner or a couple beers, but only on days with clear weather. 

During those last few days of summer, and throughout the stretch of fall, Chris had been by often enough that Phil hasn’t barely had to even so much as touch a pan at dinner-time. But when the real cold finally comes in November, blowing in from the north, sleet falling in sheets, thick and wet and heavy, Chris is conspicuous only in his sudden absence. 

There are lights on in the harbour master’s house, and the boats come and go as they always have, but still he rarely sees Chris anywhere but in the little grocery store or down by the water. 

Then comes December, and on the very first day heavy snow clouds roll in off the ocean and stubbornly plant themselves over the coast, dropping buckets and buckets of sticky flakes, muffling the forests and burying Portswick in a deep sea of white. It’s been snowing, nonstop, for four days and three nights, and nearly all of his appointments cancel, most of the town retreating into temporary hibernation. He willingly joins them, giving Colt a few days off and curling up on the second floor next to the old wood-burning stove and his battered record player. 

But the fourth day dawns, his cupboards bare and fridge empty, he’s forced to confront the outside world in all its frigid, snow-blown glory. 

His battered boots sink into the snow, and he trudges nearly knee deep down the lane and up the main street, canvas bag clutched stubbornly in one hand. 

The little town looks like a postcard, tree branches bowing, roofs and gardens coated with white, and he makes slow progress, fighting his way through the sidewalks until he gets to the little grocery store. 

He pushes open the door, setting the cluster of sleigh bells hanging from the doorframe jingling, and breathes in a deep sigh of relief as a rush of warm air cascades over him. 

Mandy Kellowitz, seated behind the cash register with slippered feet propped up on a milk crate, eyes him over her crossword, looking distinctly unimpressed. 

“Forgot to stock up before the storm, huh?” He shrugs. “I thought I had enough, I didn’t think it’d still be going four days in.” 

Mandy’s lips quirk up, her grey eyes twinkling, crows feet etching deeper along the corners. “That’s the coast for ya. It gets blown in off the ocean and gets caught on land. I’d get enough supplies for the next three t’four days if I were you, this storm feels like it’s a few days left still and then it’ll take a couple more to clear the roads.” He nods his thanks, and starts to work his way up and down the aisles. 

His basket is nearly two-thirds of the way full by the time he gets to the meager produce display, mostly waxy looking apples and root vegetables, but there is a pyramid of California oranges, bright and inviting, the sharp, bittersweet smell of citrus filling the air around them. He pauses, then calls out over to the front counter, 

“Pike been in at all?” Mandy clicks her tongue. “No, he wouldn’t be out and about in this weather, think the last I saw him was about three or four days, not since the snow started. But I wouldn’t worry Doc, he’s survived nearly thirteen of these winters, he knows the drill.” Phil tosses a couple more items into the basket before walking over and heaving it onto the counter. 

“Think I might stop by anyway.” Mandy’s hands move like lightning, sorting through his items and punching in buttons on her register. “You do you, Doc.” A little bell dings as the cash drawer slides out and she takes the offered bills, lacquered nails clicking as she picks out his change. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. He can be mighty grumpy when it’s snowing or raining like this; try not to get offended if he’s short with ya.” Phil waves a hand, bundling up the groceries and pulling the bag over one shoulder. “I’ll manage. And I’ll stop by for a real chat once the weather’s cleared up a bit.” Mandy waves him goodbye, getting up to pull the side open so he can maneuver the oversized bag out the door. 

“See that you do. Travel safe out there, watch yourself on the boardwalk it’ll be icy under all that snow.”

It’s a long trek back to his house, only stopping briefly to dump most of the groceries onto the floor and to fill the empty space with his doctor’s bag before heading out again.

The trudge over to the house on the end of the pier is a long and slow one; wind whips mercilessly out from the open ocean, and cuts through him the second he leaves the shelter of the Main Street. Grey-blue ocean churns, stirred up and angry, sloshing up against the barnacle covered salt stained pilings, fine spray immediately crystallizing in the air. 

By the time he gets to Chris’ door, he frost nipped and chilled to the bone, and he doesn’t so much knock as hammers on the dark wood. 

No response. He knocks again. Nothing. 

He stands there, rubbing his a hands furiously over his arms when suddenly the little window at the very end of the house pops open, right where the tiny harbour master's office overlooks the sea, and a man’s voice calls out, barely audible over the wind,

“It’s open.” 

He turns the doorknob, then has to put his full weight against the door, as ice has crusted along the seals and moisture has swollen the wood to stick the door shut. 

It finally opens with a ‘pop’, and he stumbles over the threshold, slamming it shut behind him, stamping his boots on the mat and looking around. 

He’s never actually been in Chris’ house, dropped him off on the step plenty of times, sure, but never inside. 

It’s surprisingly homey, a little dark, maybe, there's snow covering the windows and no lights are on to brighten up the corners, but the dark wood paneled walls and floors are friendly enough, if a little dirty. 

A radiator gurgles, and he shucks off his heavy overcoat, hanging it on the coat rack that’s already nearly full to burst, pulling off his boots before padding down the hall that looks like it leads directly to the office. 

He catches a fleeting glimpse of a few framed photos, mostly cast in shadow, pale faces in green and blue uniforms looking for all the world like specters in the dim light, and he presses onward, half-hoping that there’ll be time to snoop later. 

The door at the end of the hall is slightly ajar, and he knocks his knuckles on it before pulling it open; the office is small, chilly, and  practically stuffed to the brim with equipment, papers, logs, a two-way radio that pops and crackles, pens, pencils, maps, abandoned coffee mugs and Chris, sitting right smack in the middle of it all, the center of this chaotic swirling galaxy.. 

He’s planted in a battered office chair in front of the desk, bundled in a thick, cable knit sweater, jeans, and as Phil’s gaze travels downwards, he sees Chris’ right leg is propped up on a stool, stretched straight out and stiff. Chris half-turns in his seat, eyes as the same grey-blue as the sea, stormy and tired. 

“Oh. It’s you. What do you want?” Phil shrugs, moving into the little room, glancing at the sprawl of papers on the desk.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, figured I’d stop by. How’re you holding up?” Chris rolls his eyes, and turns back towards his desk, refocusing on the paperwork. The hand holding the pen is shaking.

“Fine.” Phil leans casually against the door, glancing at the crutches tucked away by the doorframe.

“Mandy says you haven’t been to the store in nearly a week.” Irritated eyes flash back towards him.

“I've survived winter before, not everyone around here is as green as you are. I’ll go when I need to.” 

“Uh-huh.” It’s cold, now that the doors are closed, the tall paned windows letting the chill air bleed through, and a niggling concern is growing, enough concern that he brushes off Chris' surliness.

“And you’re clearly managing just fine; can you even get around on that leg?” 

“Yeah. Not that it’s any of your business.” Phil keeps his tone even, talking to the paperwork in front of him,

“How’s about I take a look at it anyway? I’m already here.” 

“ Doctor. ” Barely contained anger laces Chris’ voice as he snaps back, “Believe me, if I wanted your help I would’ve asked for it, so how's about you mind your own business an-”, Chris is turning around, hands on the arms of the chair, but he moves with too much momentum, and his right leg gets jerked, very nearly falling off the stool, and Chris blanches, his retort cut off in a low gasp, knuckles white as his hands clench the arms of the chair. Phil darts out of the doorway, kneeling on the chilly floor and carefully scooting the stool closer, making up the distance so Chris’ leg is stable again. Phil sighs, and looks up, Chris’ eyes are still clenched shut, face still pale. 

“You know I can’t just leave you like this right?”

“Fine.” Chris grits out the words, teeth clenched, “Do whatever you want. But it won’t fix anything.” 

Carefully, Phil rolls up the leg of Chris’ jeans, breath hissing through his teeth as he reveals Chris’ knee, swollen red and purple, skin shiny and bruised-looking. He palpates it gently with his fingertips, but there’s too much fluid to really feel anything, and Chris hands are clenching the armrests again, so he rolls the pant leg back down and sits back on his heels. 

“Are you taking anything for this?”
Chris shoots him a look of disbelief, “I didn’t know there was a cure for permanent disfigurement.” 

“Of course not. But there are some medications you could be taking to try and manage the symptoms. Did your previous doctor prescribe anything?” Chris’ face… crumples, all the anger bleeding away. “No… No she didn’t. She was already gone by the time I got back.” 

“Well.” Phil gets back to his feet with a grunt, and holds out a hand. 

“We’re changing that now. C’mon, the cold’s only gonna make it worse, let’s get you somewhere warm, and I’ll see if I have anything in my bag. Alright?” There’s a moment, just a second of hesitation, Chris looking at Phil's extended hand, eyes fixed…  And then a trembling hand is in his own and Phil slowly pulls him up, draping Chris arm around his own shoulders. 

They make slow progress back down the hall, and Chris nods towards a doorway; there’s a small galley kitchen that opens up into an even smaller living room. Old leather furniture, bookshelves heaving with elderly, dog-eared books, dusty windowsills, cluttered side tables, and a battered wood burning stove, still with a few embers smoldering orange-white behind the grate. 

He settles Chris into the armchair nearest the stove, clearing a space on the coffee table and levering Chris’ leg onto it. He starts poking around stack of wood next to the stove; old, very old, memories of scouting guide him to pick out the smallest pieces. There’s old newspaper tucked away in the stack, and it only takes three or four tries to get a small blaze going, flames crackling as he stacks the stove with larger and larger pieces of split wood. 

“There. Hang tight.” Chris flaps his hands, in a ‘Where else am I going?’ gesture, and Phil strides through the kitchen, setting the kettle on to boil as he goes, and heads back out into the hall to grab his bag. He drops it on the threadbare rug at Chris’ feet, and rifles through for the empty hot water bottle and a small bottle of pills. He shakes out two, and passes them and a glass of water to Chris, who eyes them with obvious distrust. 

“Just aspirin, a bit stronger than what you’d get over the counter, but the same stuff. Depending on how well this works I’ll look into ordering something more specialized.” The kettle is starting to whistle, but he waits until Chris swallows them before leaving, pulling the iron kettle off the heat and filling the hot water bottle, and starts poking around the kitchen for a dishcloth. Chris’ flatware is old, mismatched, but immaculately clean and organized, and the pantry is nearly full to bursting with herbs and spices, half of which he doesn’t even recognize, half-faded labels written in various foreign languages. 

The dishcloths are in the fifth drawer he tries, and the one he grabs is made of thick cotton, sizable enough to wrap completely around the hot water bottle as he rests it over Chris’ knee. 

Chris is leaning back, eyes closed, arms folded loosely over his chest, taking slow, shuddering breaths. 

Phil waits, patiently building up the fire until it’s crackling merrily, and he plunks a few larger logs on before closing the little metal door. It’s comfortably warm now, and Chris sighs, opening his eyes and flexing his right leg. Phil raises his eyebrows. 

“Any better?” 

“Yeah, actually. I’m not about to jump up and click my heels or anything but it’s… bearable.” 

“Mm.” He reaches over, lifting the cloth to peer at a knee that’s slightly less inflamed; “That’s good, but later, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to try a couple other meds that are a little more specialized. But later. For today, I brought along a different kind of prescription.”

Chris raises his eyebrows, and Phil stands, walking back out into the hall and rummaging through his grocery bag, pulling out a couple of cans, a net bag of fruit and a box of crackers. 

He presents them to Chris, who snorts. 

“Really? I give you home cooked meals and you’re paying me back with canned soup?” Phil shrugs, and starts rummaging around the kitchen for a saucepan. “Trust me, this is about a hundred times better than anything I would try to cook for you. We’ll be lucky if I don’t burn these.” That earns him an actual laugh, and Chris settles back, apparently to enjoy the show. A small twinge of satisfaction curls in his chest, and he sets about the task. 

He doesn’t burn the soup. 

They’re both in armchairs now, empty bowls, orange peels and stray crumbs joining the circus of clutter on the coffee table, watching the fire in amiable silence. Or at least Phil is. Chris’ eyes closed some time ago, and his breathing’s evened out, soft and low in the quiet room. 

Phil stands, stretches. He collects the bowls and spoons (as well as a couple of mugs, and a plate), and washing them as quietly as he can, stacking them on the dish rack to drip dry. He leaves the bottle of aspirin on the counter, next to a note of instructions and a promise to see Chris soon. 

There’s a heavy wool blanket folded over the back of one of the two kitchen chairs, and he picks it up, shaking it out gently (and giving it a cursory sniff, but there’s nothing amiss), unfolding it and gently tucking it around Chris' shoulders. 

He looks so peaceful… Any of the snarl and gloom from earlier have been erased by sleep, and as he stops he can see the smoothed brow, soft curve of his mouth, and for the very first time he’s taken aback by how young Chris looks. Not youthful, not by any means, he can’t be less than forty, but without that air of world-weariness that he seems to carry, weighing down his shoulders and twisting his features he just seems… Younger. 

Here, in the soft grey glow of winter sunset and the warmth of the room, Chris is beautiful. 

The thought springs into his mind without invitation, and Phil shakes himself, turning away. He throws a couple more logs on the fire, closes and latches the grate, and makes his way back to the entrance, packing up his things, such as the are, bundling up, and intending to head back out into the wild, wind-swept town. He doesn’t see the box, resting next to the door, and he only barely manages to catch himself on the wall as he goes sprawling over it. The top spills open, papers flooding out and scattering onto the floor. Cruising silently, he stoops low to gather them up; they’re mostly letters, hand written and typed, but there’s a smattering of photographs too; black-and-white polaroids, a dark-haired boy seated on a white horse, legs barely long enough to stretch over the broad back. A wide shot, printed photo, of a row of schoolchildren, (and there can’t be more than twenty of them in all) standing on a bench, the words ‘Mojave Primary, ‘56’ . The dark-haired boy is there too, looking disheveled, thin and tired, glaring sullenly at the camera. But mostly the grey photographs are of scenery, a battered old barn, rotting wood and peeling shingles, dusty roads, scrub brush and stunted trees, twisted and foreboding. 

There are colour pictures too, shots of a tropical jungle, all thick green foliage and deep muddy brown, a handsome young man in grey-green fatigues, thick black hair pulled back away from his face, dog tags bouncing as he makes a face at the camera. There’s at least several years worth, the man, now definitely recognizable as Chris, has grown out of the leanness of youth, muscle filling out his uniform as the pictures progress. 

There’s another man too, occasionally, well built, with dark skin and black hair, buzzed regulation short, wearing the same uniform, but with stripes on the sleeves. 

Chris holding an automatic rifle, the cigarette in his mouth set at a jaunty angle. Burned buildings, their charred husks stark against the rippling green of rice paddies. Bubble topped helicopters, hanging heavy in the sky like bloated flies, glittering in the tropical sun. 

He collects them carefully, trying not to read the letters, shuffling them into some sense of order. There’s one more, it’s managed to slip under the boot rack, and he stretches to reach it, feeling around blindly until his fingers close around a thin edge. 

Its colour is faded, edges worn, and he holds it up to the dim light, squinting at the smudged faces. Three people, sitting half sprawled on a wooden pier, buildings in the background that look oddly familiar. There's a young woman, her hair red and flowing, laughing at the camera, arms draped around the dark skinned man from before, black hair that’s still buzzed short, but he’s dressed in a blue uniform this time. Chris is there too, dressed in the same uniform, a long-necked brown bottle in hand, grinning broadly, his own dark hair just a smidge longer than it probably should be, falling into his blue eyes. None of them can be any older than thirty, and he turns the picture over in his hands, squinting at the neat cursive tracing it’s way across the back

First weekend at Portswick, me, Bob, and Chris - July ‘76

He tucks it back into the box, and replaces the lid with reverence, gently setting it back where it was before he tripped over it, and pushes open the front door, heading back out into the snow.

Nothing seems to come of that evening, not for a good long while. He signs the refill order for the prescription every month or so, but it’s not until late February that he notices any change. The heavy snows have turned to slush, and merciless, pelting sleet has settled over the bay, a wall of water that he staggers through, one cold Monday morning, on his way to a house call, his sopping bag clutched in one hand, useless umbrella in the other. He’s halfway up the hill when he catches a flash of yellow in the distance, hop-stepping at speed down the pier, pale hand raised in greeting. He waves back, bemused, and watches Chris make his way over to a boat that’s been moored haphazardly to a post, and haranguing the disgruntled owner, arms and stick waving wildly in the air in a way Phil hasn’t seen him do since last summer.

Chapter Text

There's the rap of knuckles on the frame of his office door, and an old woman (Pelia, of course it’s Pelia, who else could have gotten past Colt), sails in. 

“I’m having a birthday party. You’re coming.” He looks up from a particularly mind-numbing order form, 

“I am?” 

“Yes.” Pelia plops cheerfully into the seat across from him and starts flicking through the papers on his desk, “Six o’Clock, April seventh, at the ‘Arm and Anchor’. I will be expecting a gift.” 

“Uh-huh.” He plucks a folder out of oil-stained fingers, pointedly moving the rest of the papers out of her reach, “How old are you anyway?” Pelia sniffs. “It’s rude to ask a lady such questions.” He rolls his eyes, spinning in the chair towards the filing cabinets,

“I’ll check your records-” 

Pelia’s up in a flash, between him and the cabinet.

“That is not important, and medical ethics swear you to secrecy. I am a year older than I was last year, and more than old enough to deserve a few free drinks with some friends.” He raises his eyebrows. “And I suppose Chris is invited too?”

“Of course!” She opens her mouth to go on, but there’s the scrape of a chair outside and the sound of pounding feet, Colt appearing like a red-haired specter in the doorway,

“Doc, Sheriff Chin-Riley just called, the coastguard’s picked up an injured hiker, they say he needs urgent medical attention, and we’re the closest town.” 

“Damn.” He throws on his coat, snatching the black bag from the side table it usually occupies, “Did they give you specifics?” Colt follows him down the hall, Pelia trailing behind them both, 

“They said a broken leg, and that there was bone showing. And that their ETA is about 15 minutes, tide permitting.” 

“Great.” He shoves on his boots, swinging open the front door, “Stay here, keep an ear on the phone.” 

Pelia keeps pace with him as he runs down the road, and they arrive at the dock just as the pale blue boat becomes visible on the horizon, cutting through the rolling waves. A trickle of people are gathering on the edge of the pier, a few sailors, the stern, impeccably uniformed figure of constable Noonien-Singh, and cluster of women murmuring as the boat starts to slow, letting momentum bring it alongside the quay.

He’s right up next to the edge when the boat pulls up next to them, Noonien-Singh and Pelia peering over behind him, and a man in a navy blue uniform is jumping off, rope in hand, starting to tie a quick knot to the nearest mooring.

He lets himself be pulled onboard, only stumbling slightly as the small craft rocks with the added weight, and he kneels down next to the prone figure wrapped in emergency blankets at the bottom of the boat. Noonien-Singh has followed, and is watching cautiously, hands gripping the railing. The young man is pale, but conscious, face pinched and eyes red rimmed, and he moans softly as Phil pulls on a pair of gloves and exposes the broken leg. 

It is a bad break, there is indeed the pale glint of bone poking through oozing shreds of torn tissue, but the bleeding is sluggish, blood dark and thick as it congeals on the man’s skin.

“Any idea when this happened?” Another man in blue, presumably the captain, given the extra bars on his sleeve, kneels down on the man’s other side.

“We picked him up about half an hour ago, got spotted by one of my boys at the base of a cliff, his driver’s license says he’s called Elias Sandervall, and he’s from New York. Couldn't tell you anything more than that.” Phil sits back on his heels.

“Right. There’s not a lot I can do for him here, besides wrapping this up and doing a bit of pain management. How far are we from a hospital?” 

“That’d be Pullman general, almost an hour along the coast.” Phils clicks his tongue, starts unpacking the syringe and a small glass vial, “Then I’ll ride with you. So long as he’s stable I’d grab some hot water bottles and blankets while we’re here, though, that’s a long ride.” A crisp turn and swish of hair and La’an is off calling out people from the crowd and heading towards the town. Pelia grins, sidling up to the boat and peering inside.

“She’s a menace, that one. You’ll all probably be set to go in less than ten minutes.” He nods, sliding the needle home, keeping two fingers on Elias’ pulse point waiting for the lines of pain on his face ease,

“You’re gonna be alright kid.”  and Phil gives the wrist a squeeze before starting to unpack gauze and a roll of bandages.

The younger member of the crew, the one who had jumped off to moor the boat, is leaning over the edge, peering out at the pier.

“Hey, isn’t this Pike’s harbour? Where is the old man?” Pelia reaches up and swats the man. “Mind your own beeswax; he’s probably doin’ his job, like your supposed to be. Shouldn’t you be standing at alert? You could be leaving any minute now.” The man flushes, and hops back down onto the worn wood of the dock, but Phil doesn’t miss the worried glance Pelia casts towards the harbour master's office, the shadowy figure barely visible in the window. 

The sound of running feet, and Noonien-Singh is leading a small army of people down to the boat, and they’re soon packed with more hot water bottles, blankets, and thermoses than he can count, and the boats being untied, drifting away from the dock. He looks up from the bottom of the boat, where he’s trying to keep Elias’ leg from rolling as they hit the first wave, just in time to see Pelia disappear into the red door at the end of the pier. 

It’s a rough ride down the coast, all spitting rain and heaving tide, and he’s relieved when they’re finally able to give Elias to the waiting paramedics. 

He accepts the captain’s offer for a ride back, frankly there’s more items that need to be returned than he could carry onto a bus or taxi, and they set off, the overcast sky just starting to darken. It’s smooth sailing, and he settles onto a bench, looking out at the towering tree-topped cliffs. 

A grunt, as the captain sits next to him, leaning back with one arm over the railing. 

“You’re new to Portswick, right? Don’t suppose you know a Chris Pike?” Phil glances over at the man, a lined face, greying sideburns peeking out under his navy cap. 

“Yeah, I do.” The captain hums. “How’s he doin’ nowadays? Keeping well?” Phil shrugs noncommittally; mostly Chris seems fine, just the odd days where he becomes strangely distant…

“Well enough. He’s a friend of yours?” The captain laughs, pulling a small hand bite carton out of an inner pocket, shaking out a cigarette and offering the box. Phil shakes his head and he shrugs. “You could say that. We used to serve together back in the day. “ He flicks open a lighter, lighting the little glowing ember and taking a slow drag, exhaling blue smoke. “He was a bit of a legend back then, a lieutenant commander when I was just a seaman.” A low chuckle, “Though, infamous might’ve been a better word.” Phil raises his eyebrows, sitting up a little straighter, turning away from the spray, “Oh? I didn’t really take him for being a daredevil.” The chuckle turns into a deep laugh, 

“Oh, yeah. Reckless bastard, but was damn good at his job. Him and ol’ Bob April used to be the terror of Cross island station, drove our XO to distraction, but say what you will, they were still the best men out on the cutters.” He sighs, “It’s a damn shame Pike never made Captain. Would’ve made a hell of a commander.” The boat shudders and jumps, and the captain swears, pushing himself onto his feet and marching towards to help, cigarette still hanging out of the side of his mouth. Phil follows behind him, awkwardly and on unsteady legs, gets there just as he’s dismissing an underling, taking control of the boat himself. Phil grabs onto a railing, half-shouts over the roar of the engine,

“Why’d he never make Captain?” The boat hits another wave, jerking violently up and back, and the captain glances back, 

“Almost got his leg torn off, didn’t he? Hard to come back after that. Go strap in Doc, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride the rest of the way back.” He does, retreating from the barked orders and scurrying seamen, clambering into a seat and trying his best not to heave onto the deck as the ocean roils beneath them. 

He’s more than a little green by the time they bump up against a more familiar pier, and he teeters off the boat, letting more able hands collect all the borrowed blankets and wave of the crew. It’s late, and a bitterly cold wind is blowing in off the sea, and a pair of weathered hands are tugging him up, away from the dock, a wild shock of curly grey hair, dragging him back up the road. He shakes himself free midway, smiling reassuringly into fierce eyes, 

“It’s ok, I’m fine, just a little seasick.” Pelia squints at him.
“Anyone can see that, you’re greener than new spring pine. Best be getting home Doc. Storm’s blowing in.” 

The wind is whipping his hair back, cold rain is starting to fall, so he doesn’t argue, just hurries home as quickly as the nausea will allow, scrambling up the street, and retreating back into the little office.

Chapter Text

The night air is crisp and clean, a soft breeze rustling bare branches and new grass. He shoulders open the swinging tavern door, and is immediately greeted by a burst of light and sound, lamps glowing warm orange-yellow, glittering off of glassware as liquor is poured, cups raised, and he cranes his neck, trying to peer into the revolving sea of faces, when his view is suddenly blocked by a very familiar shock of curly grey hair. 

The long gift bag in his hand is deftly snatched and rifled through, Pelia pulling out the dark, long necked bottle and casting an appraising eye over it. She grins, and sets in on top of a small horde of mostly bottles, some food, and a bouquet of flowers, burning red roses and zinnias clustered together in a glass vase. She plucks one of the roses out, breaking off the stem, and stretches to stick it into Phil’s lapel. 

“Good choice. Get on in here, Doc, the party's just barely started.” 

He dodges the dancefloor, looking for a familiar face and finding Una at the bar, and settles on the stool next to her. He side-eyes her distinctly non-alcoholic sparkling water with lime, and opens his mouth to comment, but she cuts him off at the pass. 

“I’m still technically on duty.”

“You couldn’t get the night off? Aren’t you the ‘boss’?” 

She takes a casual sip. “I am. But by the end of tonight, you’re gonna wish that you had a reason not to drink either.” 

“What’s that supposed to mea-”

An empty glass goblet is slammed down in front of him, and a very generous measure of clear liquid is splashed in, Pelia looking up at him, pointedly gesturing towards it. 

“Drink, Doctor! This is a party! It would be insulting of you to refuse me hospitality.” Una smirks at him over her glass, and, suitably coerced, he takes a tentative sip of the drink.

White fire sears it’s way over his tongue, and he nearly chokes, but after it comes a taste that’s almost sweet, like musty and fruity, with traces of spice. It’s not half-bad, and Pelia’s still watching him expectantly, so he downs the rest of it, coughing as it smoulders it’s way down his throat. Pelia grins, and pours him another measure, raising her own glass, 

“Good! Salud, Doctor!” 

She disappears back into the crowd, leaving them both alone, Una snickering as Phil furiously wipes away tears. 

“There’s more where that’s coming from, too.” 

“Great.” He takes another sip. It’s honestly not terrible, and he swivels around to watch as more people pile in through the entryway.

Something upbeat, heavy on the fiddle and what has to be an accordion, is belting out of the jukebox, giving the revelry only a vague sense of rhythm. 

At some point he’d been pulled onto the dancefloor, and it hadn’t seemed like a half-bad idea at the time (something the fourth or fifth glass of liquor is probably to blame for), but he’s lost count of how many dance partner’s he’s been cycled through, and the overhead lights are starting to take on a painful, flashing glare. It’s been fun, but drunken exhaustion is starting to set in and if he has to swing around again that clear liquor may just be making a reappearance. 

The juke-box clicks, and for a merciful second goes quiet, but another record is almost instantly inserted and he’s being pulled back into the fray. 

“I’m cutting in.” A man’s voice, and he looks up into Chris’ face, cheeks ruddy and hair messed, clearly just as drunk as he is. The woman Phil’s been dancing with makes a disappointed face, but surrenders Phil’s arm and saunters off to find another dancing partner. 

For a mad second, he thinks Chris is going to lead him into the next dance, but he only grips Phil’s upper arm, and starts tugging him towards the sidelines. 

“Thought you were looking about done. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Thank god. Please.” They catch Pelia for a final goodbye, and he almost gets trapped in conversation but Chris pulls him bodily out of it, and onto the chilly street.

He hasn’t been this drunk in forever, not quite as bad as when Ed’s obituary arrived last year, but it’s close, and by the looks of it, Chris isn’t that far off either. 

They’re making their rambling way further and further from the warm lights and loud music; the night air is cool, the sky clear, stars hanging in a twinkling speckled tableau, stretching across the blue-black heavens and dropping off into the sea. Surf crashes endlessly against the rocks, but the sound is distant, his attention is already consumed by the sound of Chris, snort laughing at something Phil barely remembers saying. He half stumbles, and Phil reaches out to steady him, but instead they both lurch forwards, overbalanced, landing in a heap on the damp pavers, something that only makes Chris laugh harder.

“You’re drunk, Boyce.” The ground is cold, gritty, slick with dew and the omnipresent mist that never really goes away. He pushes himself into a kneeling position, wiping his hands off on his jeans. He tugs the rose out of his lapel, and tosses it vaguely in at Chris’ dimly lit silhouette. 

“Like you’re any better. Bet you pass out in that office tomorrow. Right on that giant log book.” Chris rolls his eyes,

“Sunday. Tomorrow’s Sunday,” then, pointedly, “No boats on Sunday.”  

“Yeah, yeah.” Phil gets to his feet, wobbling dangerously as he does, and grabs Chris’ arm hauling him up, tugging him onwards down the road. 

They only make it a few more feet before there's a mischievous twitch of Chris’ grin and he pokes Phil’s side, following as he half collapses onto a nearby bench. Phil smacks a hand blindly in Chris’ general direction, groaning as he slumps back, 

“It’s late. W’should be getting home.” 

Chris cackles, “What? You afraid of the dark?” A beat, then, “C’mon. S’nice night. Take a break for a minute. Look out at the water.” Phil swivels, mouth stretched with disbelief, about the retort, when the sight of Chris stops him dead in his tracks. 

Blue irises have gone indigo, shimmering with reflected stars, the odd streaks of grey in his hair glowing silver in pale moonlight, standing out in a sea of rich black. There’s tilt of his chin, a sweet slant to his smile, a soft crinkle around the eyes that Phil’s never noticed before. And he’s clean shaven, that’s new too, there’s always been some kind of five o’clock shadow on that jaw. A low whistle, Chris’ hands toying idly with the red rose. 

“You’re staring.” Phil blinks, shakes himself.

“I’m drunk.” 

“Yeah, well. Me too.” And Chris is suddenly leaning closer, head tilted slightly to the side, and lips, soft and warm, are brushing against his own, and there’s the smell of sweat, the sea, the sharp taste of whisky and the sweet, fruity liqueur that Pelia had been passing around.

It’s not an unpleasant surprise, not by any means, but he’s caught wholly off guard and Chris is pulling away before he has time to react, before he has time to reach up, cup Chris’ face in his hands, take what he’s been wanting since... Well. Since forever. But the softness in Chris’ eyes is gone now, Chris shaking his head, regret and shame passing in waves over his face as he reaches blindly for the cane, pulling himself up onto unsteady feet. 

“ No, ‘course not. ‘M an idiot. Sorry.” Phil’s struggling to his feet, trying to reach out, but Chris is already gone, moving at a speed that, frankly, isn’t fair, not now, not when Chris was at least two drinks ahead of him, not when he’s caught a glimpse of something he’d been so sure he’d never see again. He collapses, ass on the pavement, just in time to see Chris’ silhouette turn the corner, and disappear.

Chapter Text

Morning arrives, earlier than it has any right to, with golden sunlight shining unforgivingly through his open blinds, cutting through his closed eyelids, and he rolls over, groaning, trying unsuccessfully to hide from the glare.

Memories of last night float up from the fog, a swirling cesspool of images, warm and blurred by the lingering liquor, stale and sickly, sticking to the back of his throat. 

There’d been the pub, of course, a few bad rounds of of pool, Chris laughing, Pelia pouring generous measures of some kind liqueur into glasses, something sweet and fiery and pungent, being pulled off of his stool, dancing with Pelia, Una, Pelia again, Chris rolling his eyes, grabbing his elbow, pulling him out of the swinging doors, stumbling out into the cool street, all smiles and laughter, falling onto a bench-

Oh.

Oh no. 

A memory, crystal clear, the hurt in Chris’ eyes as he retreats, his lonely shadow disappearing into the maze of buildings. His hands clench around the mug, anger and frustration flaring; he can’t give this up, not when he’s so close to something that he thought was impossible, not now-

The chair scrapes as he stands abruptly, slugging down the remains of the coffee, and marches back to the bedroom, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a sweater, resolved that this isn’t how this ends. 

Cold spring wind gusts off the ocean, dark clouds hanging low in the distant horizon. Remnants of this morning’s fog blow by as he picks his way over the damp cobbles, determination fueling his steps, marching past the little parade of fishing boats moored to the dock, their hulls creaking as they bump gently against worn wood. 

The house at the end of the pier is dark and silent, but he goes right up to the door anyway, tapping the red-painted surface sharply with one hand. 

Nothing. 

He hammers again, shouts, walks around the side to peer in through the sliding office windows, but the building remains void, an empty shell, not a single sign of the man he’s come all the way to see. He’s just about to start trying to pick open the side door when there’s a shout from behind him, a man’s voice, to deep and weather-worn to be Chris, calling out above the sounds of the surf, 

“Doc! Hey, doc!”
A man, whom he recognizes as Jim Harley, flat capped and rubber booted, is waving from the side of ‘La Sirena’,

“You lookin’ fer Mister Pike?” Phil jogs over, stopping as close as he dares to the edge of the dock, “Yeah, you seen him?” Harley nods. 

“Sure. Saw him leave early this mornin’, heading out up the road that runs along those south cliffs. Had his bag with him, figured he was goin’ out for a wander.” Grey eyes, set deep in a tanned, weather-stained face sharpen, peer into his own, “Is something wrong lad?” 

Phil shakes his head. “No, no, just wanted to see if he was in.” 

“Your wearin’ two different shoes.” He looks down, the mismatched pair of loafers staring right back up, accusing. He laughs, awkward, 

“Guess I was in a hurry. Well. I’ll see you around.” Harley shrugs, turning back to a pile of twisted netting, “Sure lad, sure. But keep off of the beaches, looks like a storm’s bein’ blown in. Don’t want to get caught in it.” 

Phil nods, waving goodbye, retreating back up the road. Heaven only knows where Chris is now, no one else knows the by-ways, winding trails on the cliffs as well as he seems to. There’s Una, maybe, but there are few roads to patrol on that side of town, and less people who drive on them. Besides, to hear Chris tell it, half of the the hiking trails intersect with ancient paths, making a spiderweb mess that only someone who’s lived in this town for ages would be able to decipher- 

Pelia. 

His old ford starts with a cough and a whine, the engine rumbling to life as he drives, as fast as he dares, riding the scarred and pitted asphalt, his jacket, black bag and thermos tumbling around in the front passenger seat. He drives up the curving road, past scraggly pines and tumbled rock, keeping an eye out for Chris all the while, all the way to the scrapyard turned garage at the very edge of town.

The rusted front door does open, (after the third round of hammering on the dented surface), and a bedraggled, wild-haired wraith glares up at him, shielding her eyes as a sunbeam sluices in through the crack in the doorway.

“ Dumpkof. What the hell is it you want?” 

“I need your help.” He raises the thermos, holding it in front of himself, as both peace offering and shield, “I brought coffee.” 

“Hmpf.” Fingers, spidery and shockingly nimble, snatch the thermos out of his hands, and Pelia turns on her heel, stomping back into the dark recesses of the garage. He pauses on the stoop, unsure, feeling the telltale cold spotting of raindrops on the back of his neck, but a muffled “Well?!” has him starting forward, swinging the door shut behind him.

He’s suddenly enclosed in stuffy, grease-scented darkness, but there's a brief rattle, a clunk, and a set of blinds are twitched open, and meager amount of cold, grey light bleeds through to illuminate the little kitchen, Pelia settling into one of the battered metal chairs. He follows, wincing a little at the scrape of Pelia’s chair as she looks up. The same thin hand gestures towards the stove, an empty cast iron, and an open carton of eggs.

“Go on then. Make yourself useful.” 

He sets about the task with no particular grace, producing a plate of scrambled eggs, all while Pelia nurses cup after cup of black coffee. It’s been ages since he’s been in front of a stove actually, now that he thinks of it; how long ago did leftovers start regularly appearing in the fridge? Even when Chris comes over for dinner it’s always Chris who cooks, and it’s always enough for the next day…

He sets down the plate of eggs, which Pelia tugs over, sticking in a fork, taking a bite, chewing pensively. 

“Passable. Next time, send Christopher. He’s much better.” The occasional tap of rain has increased in tempo, a rhythmic pattering on the tin roof as he pours himself a few fingers of coffee. 

“I would if I could; but I can’t find him. 

“What do you mean?” Pelia’s voice is muffled, words spoken around mouthfuls of egg, “You two are basically joined at the hip; didn’t I see you leave with him last night?” He can feel his cheeks pink, and he tries to hide it in another sip of coffee, but sharp grey-blue eyes flicker, and a smirk curls Pelia’s lips, “And yet, you can’t find him. Bet he took off. And you,” The fork is raised as she gesticulates, very nearly poking him in the chest, “And you want my help hunting him down, either cause you screwed up, or he screwed up, or you both did. That’s no easy task, Doc, you’re trying to corner an eel in a barrel of oil. And I’m an old woman, hell of a thing to ask me to go gallivanting in the woods. In the rain. After I’ve had a big night out.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly, and he’s about to open his mouth to respond when there’s a sharp, electronic screech, and Pelia jumps out of her seat, running over to a desk overflowing with assorted electronics, loose wiring, odd blinking dials. Things are clicked into place, knobs twirled, and then static is suddenly cleared, and he can hear a tinny voice coming from a little speaker. He joins Pelia, leaning close, catching a man’s voice through the fog, 

“-Guard Station to Portswick Sheriff's office; we have private craft signaling a distress just south of Pitt’s bay, rescue crew has been dispatched but progress is slowed by weather conditions, please coordinate-” The voice descends back into static and Pelia curses, fiddling with the dials, 

“Storm’s interfering, I think I lost the signal.” Phil gapes. “You’re tapping the coast-guard?!” 

She rolls her eyes, plugging and unplugging wires, “No, I tapped the police radio, and it’s not really tapping, their signal’s just out there. I just happened to stumble upon it. By accident. But Doctor,” Pelia looks up, brow furrowed, “We need to go. Pitt’s Bay is very dangerous, very difficult to navigate. There’s been wrecks before. They might need you.” He’s torn, the desire to find Chris still strong, but nothing ever seems to beat the sense of duty, and he scrubs a hand across his eyes. 

“Right, fine. I’ll go start up the car-”

“No.” Pelia’s already pulling out boots, bags, her heavy green jacket, “We’ll take my bike. The fastest way to Pitt’s bay is over the trails. Go get your things, I’ll meet you in the garage.”

He jogs outside, head ducked against the rain, grabbing his bag and tugging on his jacket and dodging newly-formed puddles as he runs back across the yard, ducking under the half-open  garage door.

Pelia’s there, true to her word, pulling a set of bug-eyed goggles down off of her helmet as she mounts the rusted green bike (he’s almost certain it’s the exact model that he’d seen in propaganda posters almost a decade ago, there’s even a splash of fresh green paint where it’s serial number and star should be); she hands him another helmet, and a large, clunky pair of binoculars. 

“We’ll be taking the old trails that go over the bluffs and cliffs on the south-west side. It’s a bumpy ride Doc, I hope you don’t value your arse!” He climbs gingerly on behind her, but before he can answer, leather-handed gloves have revved the engine, and he’s clutching for dear life to her battered green duffle coat, spitting the wildly flying grey hair out of his mouth as they speed out of the yard. They’re travelling at a breakneck pace, the bike easily eating up paved road, then dirt track, only slowing slightly when they start to climb the steep tracks that’ll take them out of the valley and up onto the tops of the cliffs. Pelia looks back, voice shrill and hoarse as she yells over the wind and engine,

“Keep yer eyes peeled! Use the binoculars in that bag next to your knees to scout the bases of the cliffs, wind or tides could pull a boat off course!” He does as directed, holding the binoculars with one hand, squinting, but he sees nothing, not as they navigate the maze of tracks and trails the Pelia seems to know by heart. 

The ride  is rough, chilly spring weather has turned to a bitter winter cold, wind whipping off the churning sea, carrying the scent of salt and the threat of tempest. The motor whines as they scale a particularly craggy clifftop; this particular section of the coastline is unique, less rock wall and more cascading spires of stone, sloping down towards a sharp and gravelly shore. It used to be a popular hiking spot, once, according to Una, but had been closed nearly a decade ago. The dark sky and setting sun are making it hard to see, the rocky pillars casting deep shadows, but he squints through the binoculars anyway, peering out into the gloom…

A glint, the curve of a reddish metal handle catching the last rays of the dying sun, and his hand flies up to grip Pelia’s shoulder.

“Stop! I see something!”

She slams on the breaks, and they spin to the side, tires screaming, coming to a sharp stop. He’s jumping off the bike before Pelia’s boots touch the ground, peering through the binoculars, and sure enough, there’s a flash of yellow, a bright raincoat standing out like a beacon in the small field of craggy grey stone, Chris, standing on a large boulder, arms waving, and past him, on the storm tossed sea, a boat bucking wildly, out of control. Behind it all, the ghost of an old shipwreck, blackened ribs sticking up out of the waves, reaching up to clawing the sky. He squints through the lenses; at Chris’ face and it’s not a look of fear or panic, but fierce determination. The movements of his arms are deliberate, not unlike a conductor, and the boat he's gesturing to is making minute movements, following his lead, through the incoming tide- 

The binoculars are tugged out of his grip, Pelia peering through the lenses, and hisses through her teeth, 

“Mad bastard… Of course he still remembers.” She passes back the binoculars, “That’s a rough shore, but if he can guide them around the worst of the rocks, into open water, they can probably limp back towards town.” 

And sure enough, despite the driving wind and rain, they watch the little ship slowly redirect itself, back out into the open ocean, bobbing out past the bay. Pelia lets out a low whistle, and Chris’ arms fall, determination replaced with pure relief as he wobbles, unsteady, catching himself with his cane. Pelia’s speaking into what has to be some kind of ramshackle portable radio, so Phil keeps looking through binoculars, watching as Chris takes one last look out at the sea before turning back, starting to clamber down the rock. Back to the ocean, he doesn’t see the surging wave as it rushes up behind him, doesn’t hear Phil’s shout as water reaches up, catching Chris from behind, sucking him back into the the churning blue-black swell, the yellow raincoat the only thing keeping him visible as he’s pulled back, along the coast. 

Pelia is swearing blue murder, but she catches his jacket as Phil starts forward.

“Neyn, no, no, stop! He'll already be gone by the time you get down there, and you're no good drowned. He knows how to survive a riptide, it’s better to follow the coast, we can find him once he gets out of it, back onto shore. Get back on the bike, I’m going to call in the cavalry while I still have a signal.” 

He mounts the bike, Pelia hopping back on not long after, and they take off at breakneck speed, tracing the cliffs as best they can, riding against the bite of wind and rain, lightning flashes the only illumination against a darkening sky. They ride for nearly half an hour, and he’s soaked to the bone, dread pooling in his stomach as he peers desperately out at the ever-shrinking shoreline, rocks blackened by rain, blurring together with an angry sea…

A glint, a flash of lightning reflecting off something metallic, and he grabs Pelia’s shoulder. 

“There!” 

They come skidding to a stop, and he’s already running, because that’s the copper handle of Chris’ walking stick, poking out from behind a boulder about halfway down the cliff-side, and he peers desperately down, Pelia hovering at his shoulder. She mutters, "I see the cane, don’t see ‘im.”

“I know.” The clouds are getting darker, and there’s salt in the air, rain drops being blown against his face. He tugs his bag off of the bike.  “We don’t have a lot of time, I’m going down to look, you radio the station.” Pelia’s face is twisted in apparent indecision as she looks from the walking cane, to the sky and back again. She sighs. “Be quick. If you don’t see anything, come right back. Here,” She rummages around in one of the various bags hanging off the bike, handing him an old, heavy flashlight, “Take this. And be careful, please, I don’t need to be rescuing two of you.” 

He turns, leaving her and the sound of crackling static behind, making the first few tentative steps down the gravel path. It’s slick, loose rocks on smooth stone, and he carries the flashlight with one hand, using the other to balance himself against the sturdier looking boulders. It takes nearly fifteen minutes to pick his way down to the walking stick; it’s been stuck into the ground, sunk almost five centimeters deep, and there’s a gouge in the soil, where the path has crumbled and given way to the abyss below, fresh clay glistening in the beam of his flashlight, and he raises the flashlight, pointing the flickering beam down into the gulley.

“Pike? Can you hear me? Chris?” He strains his ears, trying to listen over the sounds of the rushing wind and roaring surf, dim light reflecting off sea-slicked rocks, the swelling tide. There are no voices, no cries for help (Or hurled insults, either), but maybe it’s his imagination, there’s a low grunt, a huff of pain and he swings the flashlight around, pointing down towards the far left, and the light lands on a spot of brown in the sea of grey and black, a brown boot, poking out from behind a rock. 

He all but slides down the rest of the slope, landing with a crunch on the gravel shore, scurrying over the rocks, until he stops, panting, shining the flashlight on the still figure, half-leaning up against a pier of lichen blackened stone. Chris is pale, sopping wet, jacket torn, right leg bent at an odd angle. Phil’s down on his knees in a second, and he can see a thin red streak, tracing it’s way down the side of Chris’ temple, even as he presses two fingers to a limp wrist. 

There’s a pulse. Weak, and thready, but there, and Chris jerks as Phil carefully pushes his dripping hair up to investigate the trickle of blood. 

“Chris? You with me?” Glassy blue eyes blink, slowly, and Chris shifts, trying to sit up on uneven ground. 

“Yeah… I… Phil?” 

“Yeah, it's me. Do you remember what happened? Did you hit your head at all?” 

“No…” Chris coughs, and shivers, grimacing as Phil quickly shines the penlight in both his eyes. “I got caught by the tide, swam with the current until I washed up here, I think my leg got caught on something, I was trying to climb back up but it just gave out on me. I think it might be broken.” The leg in question is resting awkwardly on the ground, bent at an impossible angle and he doesn’t have to be a doctor to see the obvious, but he carefully rolls up Chris’ pant leg anyway. Sure enough, he’s greeted by a bruised and swollen limb, bones, while not breaking through the skin, are sitting at weird disjointed angles, and Chris hisses as Phil carefully probes his lower leg.

“Definitely broken.” 

Chris’ brow furrows. He’s shivering in earnest, now, teeth chattering, he’s only wearing a thin shirt under the jacket, a shirt that looks suspiciously like the one he was wearing last night, and Phil files that particular detail  away for later examination, shrugging off his own coat and wrapping it around Chris’ shoulders. 

“We need to get you out of here. I think I can get back up the way I came…” They’re close to shore, he can see the glint of waves lapping at the rocky shore, not three feet away, “Pelia has a radio, I think the easiest way to get you out is gonna be by boat-“

“ No! ” Chris’ face is suddenly wild-eyed and frenzied. “It’s… you can’t, the shore… it’s not… the storm…” His breathing is coming fast and hard, panic rising, and Phil can hear the beginnings of wheezes at the end of each inhale, and he grips Chris’ shuddering shoulders, “Alright, it’s alright. We won’t call a boat, we’ll figure something out, ok? I’m going to go back up to see what our options are, don’t move, and stay awake.” His breathing slowing, Chris nods, wincing. “Fine, just… no boats. Not here.” 

It’s a scramble to get back up, but he manages it, making the slow ascent up the remaining trail. Rain is starting to fall in earnest now, cold droplets being blown against his cheeks, soaking into the sweater. Pelia has the bike running, and he staggers towards the beam of the headlight. 

“He’s down there, he’s got a broken leg, exposure or shock, probably both, but he’s alive.” Pelia lets out a low whistle, half-whispering something in a language he doesn’t understand before pulling the radio out of her pocket. “Everyone else is still a ways behind, we’re the only ones out here, but I think if we call ahead someone can meet us out on the main road, we just have to get there; no chance they’ll send a helicopter out in this weather. You think you can get him up here?” She turns to rummage around the bike’s bags, pulling out a carved wooden walking stick. “Here. It might help.” He takes it, feeling the weight and intricate grooves, worn smooth. 

“Any reason we can’t bring a boat out? It would probably be easier on his leg.” Pelia looks up sharply. 

“Here? Now? In this weather? No. The shores are rocky and steep, and the tide would push you into them. There was… an accident, nearly a decade ago. It’s why the trails were closed originally… No. You’ll have to come up.”  Her accent is thicker, words heavy as she looks out into the night, and he wants to ask more, but for now he heads back down the trail, his flashlight beam reflecting off the glistening ground. He grabs Chris’ cane on the way down, and slides down the slope for a second time, landing with a squelch on rain-softened ground. Chris is bone-white, shivering violently, but hazy blue eyes still manage to track him as he slides over, coming to rest kneeling down next to Chris’ legs. 

“Hey. How’re we doing?” Chris shakes his head. “I’ve been worse.” 

“Right.” Phil sets down the two walking sticks, and starts unpacking gauze and bandages from inside his bag. “Our only option is climbing back up, and to do that I’m going to have to splint this leg. It’s going to hurt-”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.” Blunt, but determined, so he wastes no time aligning the two sticks and carefully straightening out Chris’s right leg. Chris pales further as the bone shifts, grey face screwed up with pain, but he barely makes a sound, just a quiet groan as Phil secures the bandages to complete the splint. His own hands are becoming stiff and numb, and he rubs them together for a second before crouching down at Chris’ eye-level. “Alright. We’re going to take this slowly, don’t try to take your own weight at first, lean on me, we’ll do this together.” Chris grunts, and that's as much acknowledgement as he needs, and he pulls Chris’ right arm over his shoulders, wrapping his own arm around the shuddering torso. And carefully rising to his feet. His knees scream in protest, the rocks are slippery beneath his boots, but they somehow manage, Chris leaning heavily against him, and he pulls him close, for shared body heat if nothing else. 

“Right. We’ll take a second, and then we’ll go. Slowly.” He feels Chris’ nod against his shoulder, and he silently counts to thirty before gently nudging Chris’ side. “Ok. Let’s get out of here.” 

Somehow, they do, Chris moving with an uneven, loping gait, half-lifting the broken leg with every step. Phil more or less pushes him up the sharp incline of soft clay and loose stone, but they finally make it back up to the path. Rain is falling in earnest now, and they splash through newly formed puddles, water streaming down raw rock in tiny waterfalls and rivers, making the path slick and treacherous. 

The climb is a slog. Chris isn’t light, and Phil’s panting and dripping sweat by the time they finally reach the top, fists bunched in Chris’ jacket, pulling him up and over the final steps. Chris is listing, and he can feel his own legs shaking, but in seconds there's a flurry of scarves and grey hair, wiry arms tugging them forwards, pushing them nearly into the motorbike. “ Hashem Yeracheim … Doctor, he’ll have to sit between us, it’ll be tight fit but it’s the only way we’re getting out of here. Christopher, we’re almost there, just one more big step over… good.” He takes a seat behind Chris, balancing awkwardly in the very edge of the seat, pulling Chris close so that Pelia can squeeze in front, and grabbing onto the back of her jacket to pin Chris between them. She revs the engine, taking off at speed down the hill, swerving into an unfamiliar muddy lane that takes them due west, away from the ocean. He can barely see, the night sky even darker for the storm clouds and pouring rain, but Pelia barely slows, guided by memory, or possibly blind luck, speeding through mud and water with practiced ease. He doesn’t know how long that hellish ride lasts, soaking wet and clutching onto slippery fabric for seat life, but the track starts to level out, and in the distance he can see a dark strip cutting across the field, and two yellow pinpricks of light casting a warm hazy glow in the pouring rain. He blinks at them for a second before his mind finally catches up. Headlights. 

Pelia pulls up to the rusted green pickup with a scream of tires on asphalt, hopping off and kicking the stand down on the bike. A large man, who he’s relieved to recognize as Archer, steps out of the truck to greet them, all red face, and bluster. 

“Sheriff's waiting for us on the main road, some trees toppled a few miles back and her squad car couldn’t get over, but she’ll escort us to the hospital in Brunswick. How’s the lad?” Phil shakes his head. “Not good. Help me get him into the back?” The man nods, all but scooping Chris up and depositing him into the back seat, stepping back so that Phil can follow in behind. It’s blessedly warm inside, a large checkered blanket is stretched over the seat, small cracks and tears crisscrossing brown leather, another blanket folded up on the far side, and he pulls the door closed behind him, sealing out the wind and rain. He sets about buckling Chris in, mercifully just an over the lap belt, and wrestles off the soaking jacket and sweater, bundling Chris up in the scratchy blanket that was resting on the seat, finally straightening out his leg as much as possible in the cramped space. There’s some hubbub outside, some clunking, and he peers through the back windshield, watching as Archer rolls the bike up a ramp, and into the truck bed, pointedly ignoring the incensed woman gesticulating wildly on the ground behind him. Bike secured, tailgate slammed shut, and there’s a gust of cold air as Pelia scrambles into the passenger seat, Archer sliding in opposite her. 

“ ‘ere. Share these between the three of you, it’s a real shitstorm of a night to be caught outside in, and I reckon you’ll be wanting something to warm you up.” Archer tosses back a thermos and grease stained paper bag before he takes his foot off the break and starts rolling forward, the truck clunking awkwardly into first gear, wind and rain beating against the windows. Chris grimaces, slumping to the side, landing on Phil’s shoulder, blue eyes tired and half lidded. He sneaks a hand over to check Chris pulse; still weaker than he would like, but steady, so he unscrews the lid of the thermos and takes a cautious sip, pleasantly surprised to find tea, sweet and hot. He swallows a quick mouthful before nudging Chris, holding the thermos so he can take a few sips. It's only as he’s screwing the lid back on that he notices Pelia, watching, eyes wide, over the shoulder of the seat, but before he can say anything a hand is flapping in front of him, and he deposits the thermos into it and turns his attention to the paper bag. It contains, inexplicably, a few sausages and two scotched eggs, and he passes that back up as well, pulling Chris a little closer so he’s at a little less of an angle, and settles in for the drive.

At some point, they must’ve  reunited with Una, because red and blue lights start flashing ahead of them as they speed down the highway, windshield wipers beating a staccato, squeaky rhythm that fills the cabin. It’s nearly half an hour before he starts to see the warm glow of street lights, but they don’t slow as they pass the ‘ Brunswick Welcomes you ’ sign, the squad car parting the sparse traffic as they speed into the town, taking a sharp turn and careening to a stop directly in front of the hospital’s ER entrance. Una’s out in a second, her broad-brimmed hat and rain-slicked leather jacket filling the open doorway as she peers inside, blue eyes scanning before stepping back,

“You two stay put, I’m going to go get them to bring out a stretcher. Keep the engine running so you can get the truck out as soon as they unload Chris, yeah?” Archer salutes, “Yes ma’am.” 

He tries to keep out of the way as the orderlies carefully load Chris onto the stretcher, but he keeps pace alongside them as they rush inside, past the sliding double doors. 

It has to have been a quiet night, because Chris is admitted within seconds, sequestered into a treatment room, and descended upon by an army of nurses. He hangs back, all too aware that he’s technically a visitor, watches as Chris is bundled up, hooked up to monitors, vitals stable if sluggish, but does a double take when the doctor comes in. 

A wide man, brown-eyed and open faced, glances up from a clipboard, recognition sparking in his eyes, 

“Well I’ll be damned. Philip Boyce? They said the Portswick GP came over, they didn’t say it was you.” Phil shrugs, shaking the proffered hand, “Guilty. It’s good to see you Pat. Catch up after..?” 

“Right, yeah. C’mon, you can probably tell me more than this clipboard can.” 

He does, speeding through what happened on the cliffs, the ride over, all the bits of pieces of Chris’ medical history that he knows. There’s a brief examination, Chris is summarily pronounced hypothermic, his leg broken, and that he’ll be going in for x-rays in a couple minutes. Most of the nurses have cleared out, and he’s just reaching over to look over the monitor readout for the umpteenth time when a warm hand settles gently on his shoulder.

“You’re soaked to the bone, y’know.” 

It’s the truth, and he feels it for the first time, the way his jacket and sweater is clinging to his skin, cool drops dripping onto the back of his neck, dampness pooling in his socks. 

“There’s some spare clothes in the on-call rooms. We don’t need a second case of hypothermia.” Phil nods, suppressing a shiver, really feeling the cold for the first time. “That would be really nice, actually. And there’s some people who’re probably waiting outside for me.” He casts a worried glance over the pale figure lying on the bed. Pat gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. “He’s in good hands. And I’ll call you if anything happens.” He gives a grateful nod, “Thanks. I should be back in ten minutes or so.” 

Chapter Text

It’s closer to half an hour. He finds the stash of spare clothes, and pilfers a pair of slacks and a sweater, all reeking of disinfectant but suitable enough. Pat Mendleson waves him into a sideroom as he passes, so he ducks through the doorway, into the darkened space, 

“Come in a sec, the x-rays just came in.”

There's a small cluster of people, all looking at the wall, where radiographs have hung up against a backlight. It’s a pair or legs, Chris’ presumably, the right leg has a clearly visible diagonal fracture; it's a clean break that hasn't broken the skin or severely damaged any tissue, by the looks of it, but the left leg… Pins and screws stand out, burning bright white against the dark background, fused into bone that's healed irregularly, lumpy and twisted a patchwork of scarring and loose metal. He stares for a moment, hand over an open mouth as the man in surgical scrubs confers quietly with Pat, hushed voices still very audible in the silent room. 

“It’s an easy fix, shouldn’t take more than an hour. How soon can we get him in?” 

“Soon, we’re just waiting for his vitals to stay steady for a little longer, maybe half an hour.” A nod. 

“Great. Let me know when he’s ready.” The surgeon ducks out, followed by nearly everyone else, and Phil finds himself alone with Pat Mendleson, staring into the glow of the radiographs. 

“Why’d you take an x-ray of both the legs? Did I miss something on the left?” Pat shakes his head. “No, no, just some inflammation, thought it’d be best to double check. But it all matches what we have on record, albeit with a little more scarring.” Phil hums, about to ask more, when a nurse pokes her head in, 

“Doctor Mendelson? There’s some people inquiring about a Mr. Pike-” Phil sighs, and clasps Pat’s shoulder. 

“I’ll get it. I owe you that much.” A grateful look from his counterpart, and heads back out into the He makes his way out to the urgent care waiting room, through the double doors, and is immediately set upon by the trio waiting just outside the entrance. 

Pelia descends, a styrofoam cup of coffee sloshing dangerously in one hand. 

“Well? How is he? What’s the verdict?” He clears his throat. 

“A complete oblique fracture on his right tibia, hypothermia, and dehydration. He’ll be going into surgery to realign the bone as soon as his blood pressure is stable enough. A bad break, but it could’ve been a lot worse.” Una is watching him carefully, and Archer grunts,

“But he’ll be alright?” Phil nods. 

“Outlook is good, he’s looking at a solid eight weeks in a cast, and physical therapy after that, but there’s no reason he shouldn’t regain the level of mobility he had before.” 

“Good… good.” Una and Archer share a quick glance before Archer responds, all while Pelia leans to the side, trying to peer around him and through the windowed doors to the emergency wing. “Don’t suppose we can go in and see the lad?” Phil shakes his head. “He’s asleep, and about to go into pre-op. Depending on the surgery, it’ll probably be a few hours before he’s in recovery, and they’ll be keeping him at least overnight.”

“Right, then.” Pelia spins on her heel, snatching the bundle of damp clothes out of Phil’s hands, and snags Archer by the arm. “We’re going back to town to pick up some extra clothes and things for the both of you, and you two can keep an eye on him here.” He wants to point out that they’re in a hospital, that Chris couldn’t possibly be any more supervised, but Pelia is already marching off, Archer raising an apologetic hand as he’s whisked away. Phil watches them disappear into the throng, “That’s awfully considerate.” Una snickers. 

“Pelia’s been looking for an excuse to snoop through your office since the very day Dr. April left. I sure hope you didn’t leave any personal journals lying around.”

“I did lock the door to the clinic before I left.” Una’s grin only widens. “Yeahhh… That’s not going to make much of a difference.” There’s the hum-buzz of muffled static, and the grin fades as Una reaches for her radio. “Look, I gotta check back in with the station, can you keep an eye on Chris? He doesn’t like hospitals.” Phil rolls his eyes. 

“Why am I not surprised? I’ll see you in a bit.” 

Chris’ room is dim, the light turned low, cool blue shadows slipping into the corners and around the bed. Tired eyes crack open when he knocks on the doorframe, tracking him as he steps across the linoleum.

“How’re you feeling? They fill you in?” A grimace, limbs shifting underneath the thick blankets.

“Yeah. Broke another leg. Feelin’ like I’ve been drugged up to my eyeballs.” Phil chuckles, settling into the visitor’s chair, “That’s probably because you are.” 

A lull, the slow beep of a monitor, Chris’ quiet breathing, a ghost of a wheeze at the edge of every exhale. A soft sigh, and Chris flicks his gaze over to the chair.

“You’re dressed wrong.” 

Phil raises his eyebrows. “What?” 

“Those aren’t your clothes. You don’... You don’t look like you.” Phil follows Chris’ sightline, looking down at the grey sweater and ill-fitting pants. 

“They’re just clothes, Chris. I wasn’t going to sit here, dripping a puddle onto the floor.” 

“You're always so put together. S’wrong.” 

“Yeah, well.” Phil leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I can’t be perfect all the time.” 

Chris shrugs, sinking back into the pillows.

There’s a knock at the door, and a nurse pokes her head in, “Doctor Mendelson’s given the go ahead, five minutes and we’ll go get you prepped.”

Phil nods his thanks, the nurse disappears, and he turns back to Chris.

“That’s your curtain call. You ready?”

“Sure.”   Chris’ tone is nonchalant, as casual as he could be, but Phil can see the creases around Chris mouth, the tension thrumming in his neck and shoulders.

“You nervous?” Chris shrugs, eyelids half closed. 

“This isn't my first time.” Dismissive, but the stress isn’t gone. 

“Doesn't mean it isn't stressful.” He says it quietly, his tone gentle, and Chris looks up, something new and vulnerable shining in those blue eyes, breaking through the fog of pain medication. 

“I’ll be ok, right?” Chris’ hand is resting on top of the blanket, fingers twisting in the fabric, knuckles white, and without thinking Phil reaches over, enfolding the cold fingers in his own. “You’re going to be just fine.” Chris’ gaze drifts, wandering off somewhere to the left as he mutters, 

“It wasn't fine last time.” 

Phil reaches up, gently nudging Chris’ cheek until he refocuses. 

“Yeah, well. From what I saw, last time was a lot worse. This is a clean break. It’s an easy fix and you're in good hands here. I promise.”

Chris grunts, but the muscles in his hand relax, slowly, easing out just as staff start to filter in. He stands, gives Chris’ hand one final squeeze, then steps back, watching as he’s wheeled out, and wanders back into the hall.

He finds Una again, sitting stiffly in a chair in the corner of the waiting room, bouncing her hat impatiently on one knee.

Dropping into the chair next to her, he grimaces and stretches out

“He should be out of surgery in an hour or so. What news from the western front?” The hat on Una’s knee stills. 

“That boat’s been safely docked. The storm's still going, but otherwise all is well.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Mm.” Una looks over, studying him. “You look beat. If you want to take a quick nap, I’ll wake you up if anything happens.” He waves a hand, yawning,

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Been awake through a lot worse.” She shrugs, and the hat resumes its slow, rhythmic dance on her knee. 

Phil settles deep into the chair, hands clasped together, willing his eyes to stay open. They blink sluggishly, at the dimly lit room, the little wall clock, it’s hour hand just ticking over to twelve. This is possibly the most comfortable waiting room chair he’s ever sat in, and it’s so warm, it couldn’t hurt to close his eyes, just for a few minutes, and then he’ll stand up, stretch, talk to Una…

Chapter Text

“Hey. Wake up.” 

A hand is insistently shaking his shoulder, and he grumbles, shifting stiff limbs, pins and needles flaring like firecrackers as he sits up. He blinks Una’s face into focus, then glances behind her, at the clock that now reads one-thirty, and the form of Pat Mendelson, hovering just in front of it. 

The chair squeaks as he struggles to get to his feet, but Pat just waves him down, dropping into the seat next to him. 

“The damage has been repaired without any complications; we’ve set his leg in a cast, which’ll stay on for about eight weeks, as you know. We should be able to discharge him tomorrow, and I’ll have a detailed copy of his file sent your way.” Pat nods his head towards another set of double doors, “He’s in recovery, the anesthesia probably gonna wear off in an hour-” 

Una’s already on her feet, pulling her jacket off the back of her chair, 

“We’ll wait with him.” Pat shrugs, and grimaces as he slowly pushes himself back up. “Fine, fine. Follow me.” 

The lights in the recovery room have been turned low, soft light creating dim shadows around curtains and carts of equipment. Chris is the only occupant , lying in the farthest of the three beds, a thin blanket pulled up to his chest. He’s pale, purple smudging the undersides of his eyes, dark hair falling loosely over his forehead, the odd silver strands glinting as they catch the light. Pat squeezes his arm, and passes over a manilla folder. 

“The report, so you can add it to your own files. My shift ends in half an hour, so I might not see you tomorrow, but I stuck my number in his folder. Call me? It’d be good to catch up properly.” Phil nods. “I will. Take it easy, yeah?” 

“You too. Thanks.” 

The door slides shut, cutting off the quiet but constant noise of a hospital at night, and he turns to see Una dragging two chairs over to Chris’ bedside. He joins her, sitting in silence for a while, flipping through the documents, watching the slow, even rise and fall of Chris’ chest. There’s an obvious mound in the blanket where Chris’ right leg is, thick plaster making an odd cylinder, pushing up against the sheets. 

Phil blinks, coughs, side-eyes Una, who’s gone back to rhythmically bouncing her hat on one knee.

“What happened to his leg, anyway? The other one.” Una glances up sharply, lips pursed 

“That’s a long story, Phil.” 

“Yeah, I saw an x-ray, looks like it almost got torn off. But we have all night, and frankly, I would really like it if someone would actually tell me something.” 

Una sighs, and looks slowly over at Chris’ sleeping form, pensive. She’s silent, for long enough that Phil seriously starts to doubt if she’ll acquiesce, but finally, she slumps, the fight going out of her posture. 

“Fine. But sit down. It really is a long story.” 

He obliges, waiting as she pours a styrofoam cup of water, settles cross legged in the other visitor’s chair.

“You knew he served in Vietnam?” He nods. “Sure. Saw those pictures at the bar.”

“Yeah. Well. He volunteered, believe it or not, shipped out in ‘68, stayed on right ‘til the war ended in ‘75. Came out of it relatively unscathed, about as whole as anyone could be, and went right back to the recruiting office and joined the Coast guard. Now. I don’t suppose he’s ever mentioned a Robert or Sarah April?” Phil eyes her carefully. “Once, when we were drunk, said they were colleagues, and I knew Sarah was the doctor in town before me.” 

Una chuckles. “Yeah. Sounds about right. Sarah was the doctor here, and Chris and Robert did serve together in the Coastguard, but they met in Da Nang. Bob joined the coast guard so that he could be closer to home, and Chris just… followed him over. I never met Chris before the war, but Bob came back changed, quiet, with Chris practically glued to his hip. We still don’t really know much about his family, just that he’s from the west coast, but he never went back. Not even once. He and Bob were always together, even when Bob married Sarah, the three of them were practically inseparable.” She lets out a soft chuckle, looking sadly out the window. “I was just a deputy then, but my old sheriff had a hell of a time chasing those three around whenever they had leave. I think Bob’s still got his name carved into one of the barstools in the pub. But anyway.” 

Monitors beep softly, and Chris shifts slightly, then settles again, eyes still closed. 

“It would’ve been in ‘78, I think November. It was a bad year for storms, at least three private vessels were wrecked during peak season, and plenty more damage to the local boats besides. But it finally levelled out in the fall, there was just one last squall before winter, and it was a bad one. The rain was heavy enough to wash out most of the hiking trails down the southern cliffs, we had to close down a few roads too. Anyone with any sense stayed ashore, right from the get-go, but there was one ship, a yacht, called the Narada , that set out from Brunswick early, before the storm really took hold. We didn’t know they were out on the water, not the coastguard or my office, not until we both got their distress call, that’d they lost control just a few clicks out from Pitt’s Bay.” Her gaze travels over to Chris, and her tone is almost fond as she continues, 

“Despite all their antics, Chris and Bob ran the best rescue crew out of Cross Island. They got sent out, found the Narada capsizing in gale winds and surging tides. Passengers were already crawling out onto the side of the ship, so they brought their boat alongside to pull the passengers onboard. It was going well, but they got broadsided by a rogue wave just as they were getting the last passenger on board. Bob fell through the gap, and Chris got caught, crushed between the two boats-”

“That’s not what happened.” A low voice, rough with disuse, coming from beside them. Chris is shifting, blinking groggily, and Phil immediately moves to adjust the bed so that he’s at a forty-five degree angle. Una sighs, and slumps, elbows coming to rest on her knees. 

“It’s what the official records say. It’s what the passengers said happened.” Chris shakes his head, “No, I told them and I told you, It was my fault. I saw the wave coming, I-”  Una’s brow furrows,

“You saw the change in the water, rushed to pull the last passenger onboard but didn’t have time to warn Bob. I remember.” Her tone is soothing, but Chris is still shaking his head, real anguish shining in blown pupils, 

“There could’ve been time, if I had paid more attention-”

“No one blamed you. Ever. Both you and Bob knew the risks and you were doing your job. He was the only casualty that entire night. You saved lives, Chris.”

“But Sarah-“ And Chris’ voice cracks in a way that makes Phil’s heart clench, makes him settle a hand onto Chris’ shoulder as Una marches doggedly onward, 

“She was grieving, she’d just lost her husband, none of us would’ve been in our right minds. She shouldn’t have said what she did, true, but she wasn’t thinking straight! It was an accident!” Chris balks, struggling upright, “That doesn’t change anything-” 

“Chris.” The shoulder beneath his hand freezes as Chris turns, eyes bright and filled with anguish. “Take a minute, you just got out of surgery, and we’ll all be in trouble if your doctor has to come back in here. Breathe. And listen to me.” He waits, patiently, for Chris to settle back, for the insistent flashing of the heart rate monitor to slow before he continues, 

“This is the first I’ve heard about this, so I can’t speak to the specifics, but I know this much. You can be well-trained, well-funded, well-organized, you can try your best, work yourself to the bone, but there’s still a chance that it all won’t be enough. You can’t save everyone. That’s the unfortunate truth. But that’s not what defines you.” Chris is staring, transfixed, mouth half-open, and Phil holds his gaze. 

“The Chris Pike I met two years ago was kind, honest and sincere. And everyday since then he’s shown this resiliency, this strength that I can’t help but admire. I was a stranger, and you took me in. And don’t get me wrong, you can be a hard-headed, stubborn bastard, but in every way that matters? You’re a good person. And none of what happened changes that.” 

Chris blinks, turning away, one shaking hand reaching up to cover his eyes, and Una’s softer voice echoes from the other side of the room,  

“He’s right, Chris. We’ve been trying to tell you that for years.” 

Chris is surreptitiously rubbing a hand across his eyes, and his voice breaks as he whispers, 

“Right. Alright. I hear you. It’s just… Some days…” 

“It doesn’t feel that way. I know. Believe me, I do.” 

Hundreds of faces, friends, companions, lovers, washed and wasted with illness, a hundred failures, losses, who walk with him every day and wait for him at night-

For a second time, his hands move without thought, catching Chris’ and enfolding them in his own, “But you make it through. You try your best everyday, put your best foot forward, try and build up the world around you, and that’s what defines you. It’ll still take time, but it’ll be alright.” 

Chris nods, blinking furiously, and Una sighs. 

“Good. Glad we’ve reached an agreement.” She’s looking down her nose at her small notebook, only looking back up once Chris has resettled, and taps it once with a pen.

“Your doctors say you should be good to go home tomorrow afternoon. A couple roads got washed out, so it’s going to be a long drive and I have no intention of being stuck in a car with you when you’re tired and cranky, so do me a favor and go back to sleep. We’ll still be here in the morning.” Pike scoffs, but he’s sinking back into the pillow, features surrendering to unconsciousness even as he retorts,

“Bold words from someone who can’t function without her morning coffee.” Una rolls her eyes. “Like you’re any better. Go to sleep, idiot.” Chris makes a halfhearted attempt at an obscene gesture, but the hand falls limply back onto the sheet, eyes firmly closed. Una sighs.

“You better get some rest too, Doc. Pelia and Archer will be back early tomorrow, and you should go back with them to make sure Chris’ house is ready for someone with two bum legs.” 

“What about you?” She half-smiles. “I’ll be fine. Go get some shut-eye.”

It doesn't seem worth fighting the weariness, not when Una seems to have decided that she’s staying up, so he makes himself as comfortable as possible in the chair, and gives in to the overwhelming exhaustion.