Though I Walk Through the Valley (22/38)
Though I Walk through the Valley
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (22/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Happy New Year!
Hope you all get to watch the new episodes soon. I certainly can't wait!!!
Warnings: As some of you have guessed, real warnings for this chapter, namely: past child abuse, incest, and really messed up mental states of all sorts of sick and tired kinds, the latter's description possibly verging on dropping, if you find that a trigger for you.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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“Thanks for coming in Mr Carson. Apologies for the short notice.” Greg shook the Beta Dom’s hand and led him through the Yard to Greg’s office. “Sorry about the fish bowel effect. We can use an interview room if you’d prefer.”
“I’ll be fine.” Michael Carson settled into the chair opposite Greg, looking only slightly disconcerted by the glass walls.
“You remember Sergeant Donovan?”
As Sally politely shook hands Greg took the opportunity to study Michael Carson. The Beta was tall and well built, someone who not only spent considerable amounts of time at the gym, but someone who did so with the intent of achieving a certain build. He was blonde, the natural colour assisted by highlights, and tanned, presumably from sunbeds or a bottle. His suit was professional, but the effect struck Greg as young rather than classic or timeless - whether it was the colour or cut, or whatever, it was a young man’s suit.
Trying too hard Sam had said. Greg could see what he’d meant.
He pressed record on the tape recorder on the desk.
“You don’t mind if I record? It’s easier when we’re asking about so many details we might need to use later in court.”
“Not at all. Anything to catch this Alpha who was harassing Peter.” Michael Carson looked genuinely angry.
“Thank you. We’re not sure whether he was harassing him, but…” Greg let his voice trail off. Carson would fill in his own blank.
After stating both his and Sally’s names for the record, Greg continued.
“Firstly, for the record, when was the last time you saw your nephew?” Greg asked formally.
“About a month ago when he came to stay with me for the weekend.” Carson replied. Greg could tell he was making an effort to annunciate clearly for the tape.
“And did you hear from your nephew after that?” Greg asked.
“A couple of phone calls, a few texts.”
“Did he seem tense, out of sorts, worried at all?”
“No,” Carson hesitated. “The last two weeks he did seem a little forced, as if he were trying to act normally, but I thought he might be worried about uni work.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
“Some time earlier in the week. I can’t remember the exact day, but we talked about my trip so it must have been before Friday. Maybe Tuesday, I think.”
“And on Thursday you were?”
“At home packing for my trip.”
“All night.”
“Yes.”
“Did Peter have a Dom?” Greg smiled politely and looked at the recorder when Michael Carson gave him a confused stare.
“Ah no, he didn’t.” Carson’s eyes cleared and he nodded in understanding.
“Any particular reason?” Greg asked, leaning forward onto his elbows as if he were genuinely interested in the answer.
“Peter is shy. Most Doms frighten him, you see, because of his rocky home life.”
“And you never took him to see a counsellor or a psychologist about it?”
“No,” Carson shook his head. “Peter knew I was there whenever he needed to talk. I’m the exception, you see, he’s not afraid of me.
“Peter has friends who are Dominants.” Greg observed.
There was a microsecond of ugly, sneering disgust on Carson’s face before he smiled his genial smile. Looking at the composed, generous Beta in front of him, Greg found it hard to process what he thought he’d seen.
“It’s taken time to build those relationships,” Carson managed to say through glittering white teeth, “and they’re very fragile.”
“So you’ve had no hints of a new Alpha in Peter’s life?”
The sneer lasted long enough this time for Greg to be sure that yes, he was actually seeing it. This time there was a shift of some sort in Carson’s body language so that even once he’d returned to the more appropriate smile, he radiated a certain aura of smugness.
“None at all.”
“Mr Carson,” Greg fixed a level gaze on the Dom. “I asked you here because you said you wanted to help us find who attacked your nephew. If you’re not going to be open with me then I’ll conclude this interview.”
The back of Greg’s neck bristled as if another of those micro expressions had been focused on him, though he couldn’t say one had been.
“My apologies Detective Inspector. I didn’t realise you wanted to listen to conjecture rather than fact.” The supercilious smile was firmly in place.
Greg chose to smile back rather than reply verbally.
“You’re quite correct. I suspected my nephew might have caught the eye of some over muscled moron. Naturally he did not enjoy the attention, but felt unable to get out of the situation without causing any harm to himself.”
“Did Peter confirm this? I assume you tried to talk to him about it.” Greg schooled his expression into studious concern.
“I tried and he made the situation very clear to me, though he was too scared to say anything outright. I could read behind the words.” Carson’s face fell and his fingers clutched at the arms of the office chair he was seated on. “I promised him we’d talk about it when I got back from Scotland, said he could come home and stay with me for a bit until he was safe.”
Greg sat back in his chair and studied the Dom sitting in front of him. If it was an act, it was a masterful one, yet it didn’t ring true the way Daniel Hill’s desperation had. If Greg hadn’t already met Daniel, didn’t have proof Carson was lying… Being an oily git who set every sleaze alarm blaring wouldn’t be enough on its own, hadn’t been earlier.
Greg had to wonder why Carson had agreed to come in. Was he that confident they knew nothing; that he could sit in front of them, let them see him and get away with it?
“Do you have any idea who this Alpha might be?” Greg kept his eyes trained on Carson so he didn’t miss the slight shift before he spoke.
Discomfort or satisfaction?
“Not a clue unfortunately, else I’d have brought Peter in to apply for a restraining order.”
“Do you recognise this Alpha at all?” Greg slid Robinson’s photo from a specially prepared folder on his desk. “He was seen by several witnesses talking to Peter two days before he was attacked.”
The smug smirk flickered across Carson’s features again before he shook his head. “Never seen him before in my life.”
Did he really think he was that good an actor? His mask was slipping as he got more and more confident.
“I see.” Greg accepted the photo back, but left it sitting out on top of the folder.
“Have you tracked him down yet?”
“Unfortunately he died the night he spoke to Peter.” Greg made a show of tapping his pen thoughtfully against the desk. “It’s quite possible he tried to push things too far and Peter was required to strike out. If one of his friends had seen, they could have gone after Peter later.”
“It would be self-defence, surely.” Carson demurred.
There was an excited gleam in his eye and it made Greg sick to realise he was excited about the prospect of getting away with murder and pinning it on his nephew.
“Depends what the forensics shows.” Greg shrugged and put his pen down.
“Nonsense.” Carson was dismissive of any possibility otherwise. “Peter would never do such a thing without reason. Of course once he is well he’ll return home with me so this ugly turn of events need never occur again. You need not concern yourself about that, Inspector.”
Greg clamped his teeth together hard to prevent himself saying anything pre-emptively.
“Now, if that’s sorted, is there anything else you need me for, Inspector?” Carson smiled his oily, self-assured smile, evidently fully confident he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes and got away free.
“Yes, actually, one more thing.” Greg sat up straight in his chair, throwing his shoulders back in preparation. “You can tell me the truth.”
The confident smile picked up a sullen, defiant twinge. “Detective Inspector I have no idea what you mean.”
“Why don’t we start with this?” Greg slid the photo back to Carson. “Do you recognise this Alpha?”
“I’ve already said no.” Carson slid it back without looking.
“When was the last time you saw your nephew?”
“Over a month ago. If this is-”
“Where were you Thursday night before you left for Scotland?” Greg interrupted.
“I was at home packing.” Carson went to stand. “We’re done here.”
Greg slammed a still shot from the security footage at Illusion onto the desk, causing Carson to jump.
“Care to try again?” He asked mildly. “Because I’ve got witnesses and security footage that place you at the Illusion club the Thursday night your nephew and this Alpha were present.”
“I wasn’t aware he was there.” Carson growled through gritted teeth.
“Really?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Because witnesses can place you at the bar less than five feet from where Peter ordered drinks and this Alpha talked to him.”
Carson glared at Greg and said nothing.
“Would you like to know what I think?” Greg’s voice was hard. “I think you were suspicious that maybe Peter had formed an attachment to an Alpha, so when he avoided your questions you followed him, just to see for yourself.”
“Being at the club is no evidence I stabbed anyone.” Carson lifted his chin.
Greg’s smile showed too many teeth to be comforting. “I never said he was stabbed.”
“It was in the papers.” Caron seemed to realise his misstep.
“No, it wasn’t.” Greg didn’t let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d manage this.
“So your theory is I killed this Alpha for taking unwelcomed liberties with Peter and then his lowlife associates assaulted Peter in turn. That’s preposterous.” Carson scoffed.
“Not at all.” Greg disagreed. “I think you murdered Robinson because you thought he was interested in Peter and then later had a disagreement with Peter, during which you bashed him over the head.”
Carson gaped and then turned an unflattering shade of red. “I was in Scotland when Peter was attacked. You can check with my hotel.”
“Oh, we did.” Greg pulled the time stamped screen shot of Carson entering and exiting the hotel out of the folder. “They were kind enough to send through their security footage. That’s you leaving the hotel at 4:16pm and not arriving back until 6:23 am.”
“This is rubbish and I am leaving.” Carson stood up.
“Do sit down, Mr Carson, I’m not finished. This,” Greg extracted the next piece of paper from the folder, thanking God it had arrived before Carson, even if only by five minutes, “is a sworn statement by staff members at Waverly Park Train Station in Edinburgh who identified a photo of you and will testify they saw you boarding an express to London. Security footage at both ends will bear out both this and your return trip.”
“Hundreds of people pass through-”
“They don’t carry two driver’s licences with different names on them, Mr Carson. The clerk noticed when you paid, cash to avoid your card being traced I assume, and remembered. Fake ID rather backfired on you there.
“So what happened?” Greg leant forward on his elbows. “Peter threaten to come to the police about what you’d done once he realised? Did he rebel, tell you he wanted to live his own life? After all that time looking out for him protecting him, giving him some where safe to stay and a happy life whenever his parents were too out of control, that must have hurt, being told to get lost.”
Carson twitched.
“You’d practically raised the boy, killed for him, loved him like your own. How dare he throw you aside.”
Carson twitched again, gaze locked on Greg.
“You were angry, understandably so. He turned to leave, and you stopped him.”
Carson’s hands clenched.
“I do think I’ll be off, Detective Inspector.” He smoothly rose from the chair. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
‘Dammit!’ Greg swore in his head. He’d been so close. Carson had been so close to some sort of slip up. He could arrest him for Robinson’s murder, and would have to if Carson walked out, but there was very little doubt that if he did Carson would lawyer up.
As Carson adjusted his jacket sleeve, Greg thought he saw a glint of gold around his left wrist.
Wisps of suggestion solidified into slightly less ephemeral ideas. If he was wrong, he’d be showing how weak their evidential base was. If he was right, this was the closest thing to a trump card he was going to get short of a miracle.
“Or is all this because Peter’s an Omega.”
Carson’s step hitched and he turned back from the door.
“Isn’t he?” Greg tossed the gold bracelet in its zip lock bag onto the desk.
“I don’t-”
“Do sit down.” For the second time that day Greg channelled Sherlock and Carson slowly returned to his seat.
“You-”
“Do you know the history of collaring a Sub, Mr Carson?” Greg asked pleasantly, voice hard. “Only given the number of Victorian antiques in your house I rather think you do. I happened to stumble across some while I was investigating that bracelet.”
“It’s a family trinket.” Carson bit out, lips pressed tightly together. “An heirloom. That’s all.”
“Originally,” Greg continued, “people only exchanged collars, yeah, but then engagements became longer and more common, a period of time for the couple to adjust to being Bound. Ah, but Doms wanted some form of visible claim on their Subs, especially the Omegas, so by the Victorian era it was fashionable for Doms to give their Subs make shift collars - bracelets to signify a lesser, but very real claim.”
“So?” Carson snapped.
“So those bracelets, identical to this one in every way, were always made of silver. Except for Omegas.” Greg smiled his best shark smile. “Apparently that’s why most collars to this day have gold Omega tags.”
“That’s not proof that-”
“Mr Carson,” Greg broke across him. “The hospital has already noted and is investigating irregularities in Peter’s blood work. What they’ll find, I have no doubt, is a very sophisticated suppressant, preventing Peter from displaying any symptoms of Estrus. Oh, yes, they exist, used extensively by the military, and as a pharmaceutical rep you would have been well placed to get hold of them.
“But Peter’s still young, his body’s still going through hormonal changes, trying to adjust. Omega’s hormonal levels don’t stabilise until around 25.” Greg went on, trying not to sound like he was slotting the pieces together as he said them. “So even though you had access to the suppressants you couldn’t properly calculate the correct dose. Too much would interfere with his development, maybe lead to infertility problems later, but under-dosing meant nights like the night at Illusion, where Peter covered himself with enough cologne to cause five people to independently comment, trying to hide the tell-tale pheromones as his body tried to go into Heat.”
Greg leant aggressively across his desk. “Only you can’t hide those pheromones from an Alpha, and Robinson was an Alpha, unlike all Peter’s friends. He would have recognised them as he brushed past, identified Peter for what he was, made some comment.
“You couldn’t have that, could you? All those years protecting Peter, getting the suppressants so he could have a real life. Some upstart Alpha couldn’t be allowed to spoil all that.
“But Peter didn’t see it that way did he?” Greg pulled the highlighted phone record out and laid it in front of Carson. “He wasn’t answering any of your calls. So you came down over night to talk to him. He saw you at King’s Cross after they left a friend there, came over to speak to you, ask you why you were back in London.
“He wasn’t appreciative, was he, Michael? After all that effort the little ingrate turned against you, told you to get out of his life, that he no longer wanted your protection, no longer wanted you.”
“The little bitch was MINE!” Carson snapped and made to leap over the desk, face gone purple, arms outstretched as if to strangle Greg.
Sally, deliberately ignored by Greg and forgotten by Carson, grabbed him, copping a fist to the face for her efforts. The room filled with a rumbling growl as Carson, well beyond reason, flailed, trying to get free.
Greg stayed seated as, alerted to what was going on by the glass walls, two officers ran in to help Sally. It wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked during interrogation and he’d learnt over time the best way to retain the psychological high ground was to remain where he sat and let others wrestle the suspect down.
One of the officers, Gregson, after copping some rather painful jabs Greg was amused to note, managed to get handcuffs on Carson and the three forced him to hold still.
“Robinson.” Greg said firmly, maintaining eye contact with Carson and a raised chin.
“Poaching bastard.” Carson swore. A glob of spit flew from his mouth and landed on Greg’s desk. “He was mine. My Omega. How dare he talk to him, proposition him. He’s mine!”
“So you killed him.” Greg remarked flatly.
“He touched my Omega.” Carson thrashed around, making the three Doms holding him to tighten their grip.
“So you killed him.” Greg repeated.
“Yes!” Carson yelled. He managed to elbow Johnson in the solar plexus and the sergeant automatically let go to curl in on himself. Sally and Gregson tightened their own holds until Johnson collected himself. “That bastard doesn’t get my children, my Omega.”
Greg felt nauseous.
“And Peter?” He asked. He knew he needed Carson to say it for the tape, but he wanted him gone, out of his sight.
There was a slight glimmer of guilt, quickly lost among the anger.
“He was mine. If I couldn’t have him, no one else would touch the slut either.”
“Get him out of here.” Greg knew he should press more, but he couldn’t sit there and look at Carson any longer.
“Michael Carson, you are under arrest for…” Sally’s voice was lost among the scrape of furniture and scuffle as the three manoeuvred him towards the door.
“Carson.” Greg interrupted, unable to stay silent and let the insane Beta believe he had at least achieved something. Johnson, Gregson and Sally obligingly held him still until Carson quieted too and Greg could continue. “Robinson died because you believed there was someone else in Peter’s life. You were right, there is. Robinson was a sleaze, but it wasn’t him. You killed the wrong Alpha, and I want you to go away knowing that he and Peter are going to be very happy together now you’re gone.”
The roar of fury prefaced a renewed struggle, but once out the door more officers joined the escort and Carson was marched out of the bullpen.
Greg stopped the tape with shaking fingers, carefully extracting it, labelling it, and storing it for later use. He then stood, walked to the bathroom, and was thoroughly sick.
Sally walked in while he was washing his face, completely ignoring the fact it was the male bathroom.
“I didn’t actually think he was… I just thought…” Greg heaved again and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as his stomach continued to roll. “Family Alphas are always protective of Omegas, stake a pseudo-claim to look after them. I just assumed, even though he was a Beta…”
“He’s insane.” Sally said flatly. “Sick in the head. Peter Carson was his nephew.”
Greg pressed his hand against his mouth again and didn’t say anything, didn’t admit how much worse the thought was because Peter was an Omega. He only hoped that the abuse, he couldn’t call it a relationship, hadn’t gone too far, that Peter hadn’t actually been pressed into service. It was unlikely given Michael Carson had kept him on suppressants, but the idea of anyone abusing an Omega that way made his body rebel again, though nothing further came up.
“It’s an Alpha thing, isn’t it?” Sally asked as he ran the tap again. “Gregson made a similar bathroom dash after we dropped Carson off in holdings.”
Greg nodded, arms trembling.
Sally watched him a bit longer.
“How did you know?” She eventually asked.
Greg tied to shake his head and shrug at the same time.
“I guessed.” He admitted bluntly. “It just fit. The bracelet, the hospital. We said, remember, way back that it was rather an overreaction talking to Car-Peter and Robinson ending up dead, just like that, and Daniel Hill was frantic, beyond normal levels of upset for an injured Sub he wasn’t even Domming, not really.”
“Do you think he knows?” Sally asked quietly.
Greg shook his head and straightened. “No, not consciously. He’d never have allowed an Omega to face the kind of danger Peter was worried about on his own, but I think he subconsciously recognised it, imprinted on him a bit. I wouldn’t be surprised if they Bond during Peter’s next cycle, once he’s off the meds.”
“If he wakes up.” Sally sighed.
“If he wakes up.” Greg nodded, flicking the remaining water droplets from his hands.
They were still shaking, he noticed, and his knees a little too.
Sally ripped some paper towel off the roll and held it out to him with an exasperated sigh. She didn’t let go when he reached for it, studying him with narrowed eyes.
“Why didn’t you Dom him?” She asked. “When he tried to take a swing at you?”
Her own black eye was starting to colour up and looked puffy. Gregson’s was going to look a treat.
“Come on, Donovan.” Greg grabbed the towel out of her hand, tamping down all reaction to her words. It was the closest anyone had ever come to calling him on his lack of Dominance, but at least it was a fight he was accustomed to waging. “He was still in custody. I don’t want that sick fuck using any excuse to get off.”
Sally nodded once, sharply, but didn’t lose the gaze. Greg knew she was still searching for an explanation; possibly identifying dots that he didn’t want anyone to realise were dots, let alone connect them.
“Besides, I’m a pathetic Dom, you know that.” He casually lobbed the crumpled paper into the bin. “You would have managed better than me.”
“True.” Sally relaxed slightly, unconsciously loosening her shoulders as she accepted his argument.
A constable blundered into the bathroom without looking and froze halfway through unzipping as he noticed Sally standing casually next to the sink.
“Maybe we’d better…” Greg pushed her towards the door, steeling weak legs as he went to step.
The walk back to their desks was conducted in a stunned disbelieving silence. Somehow they’d actually managed it, managed more in fact because Michael Carson would be going down for more than murder and attempted murder if Greg had anything to say about it.
They slowed to a stop outside Greg’s office door where Greg leant a surreptitious hand on the door frame. The mounds of paper work glared balefully up at him and he had to bite his lip to stop himself groaning. Sally was sending similar aggrieved looks at her own desk and had subtly placed herself so she was leaning on the wall without seeming like it.
It was entirely probable, Greg realised, that the shaking and general weakness wasn’t only a psychological response to the brutalisation of an Omega, but was a physiological response to his body reaching the end of its adrenaline high and shutting down. He and Sally were pushing 48 hours on too much caffeine and no sleep, and 72 hours on too much caffeine and very little sleep. At least this time, he supposed, they’d eaten properly so the caffeine hangover shouldn’t be too bad.
“I suppose we should…” Sally trailed off.
“Sod it.” Greg pushed off the wall. “We’ve been going for three days, the earliest he can be before a magistrate for bail is Monday, and it’s Friday. Go home and ice that eye.”
“But-”
“That’s an order, Sergeant. Get your arse out of here, or else. I’m heading home too.”
As soon as he said it a wave of exhaustion swept over Greg, carrying with it the need to be home, home, home with Mycroft. Home with his Omega, so he could burrow into his scent and rest shielded away from the world.
Sally opened her mouth to argue out of form, but closed it without a word as she sagged against her prop.
“Home sounds brilliant.” She admitted wearily. “With some takeaway so I can eat, bathe and sleep for a week.”
“Can’t give you a week, but I can try to give you a weekend.” Greg promised, knowing it wasn’t really up to them whether their mobiles went off and they were called in.
“Take what I can get.” Sally pushed off the wall and headed over to her desk to pack up. She was swaying ever so slightly as she walked, clearly reaching the end of her endurance.
Greg ignored the papers all over his desk and grabbed his coat, scarf and gloves. The sticky note reminded him to collect his towel and dirty clothing, just, and ignoring all costs he flagged down a shockingly available taxi cab to go home.
Inside he tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but now that his body was crashing it was crashing fast. He stumbled out and had to have the cabbie repeat the fare three times before his muddled brain could come close to understanding. The door presented its own unique challenge, and Greg was pretty sure with one attempt at getting the key in the lock he actually gouged the paint, but eventually he managed.
By ‘eventually he managed’, the door opened for him, a quizzical Mrs Potts standing on the other side.
She took a few blinks to come into focus.
“Oh you poor dear.” She clucked. “You look absolutely done in.”
She bustled him through the door and had his bag of laundry out of Greg’s hands before he’d managed to properly work out he was inside. Home. Where Mycroft would be in a couple of hours.
My, My, My. The name thrummed through Greg’s body with every beat. He needed Mycroft. Needed to see him, hold him. There was a hollow pang down his left side and he felt so empty, so alone.
“Come on dearie, get those shoes off.”
He was in his room, he realised belatedly, Mrs Potts herding him to the bed like a mothering sheepdog.
“You’ll feel better after a nap. All the same, the whole lot of you. Work yourselves into the ground, again and again. Why it’s a wonder the whole lot of you aren’t sick more often.”
He wanted to be in Mycroft’s room, their room; needed to be where he could smell the comforting scent of his love, but Greg was gently pushed on the bed and Mrs Potts bent down to help with his shoes. Unable to stand for that, Greg toed them off, ignoring the disapproving tutting.
“That’s better, now coat off...or not, but you’d be more comfortable without it. No, never mind.”
Greg slumped down on his pillows, half listening to the voice saying things, mostly wishing inside that he was in Mycroft’s room, surrounded by his scent, but he was too tired now to move. Sitting on the bed had apparently been his body’s Waterloo and toeing off his shoes his last resistance.
He tried to curl up around the echoing empty space, but his body wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes, but his brain was chasing itself in increasingly stuttering circles, refusing to stop, stop, stop. For no rational reason Greg felt hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
‘You’re exhausted.’ The very small coherent part of his mind told him. ‘It’s been half a week and too much caffeine since you slept. You’re so tired you can’t sleep.’
Greg held back a choked sob and forced his eyes closed. He’d been here before, this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d pushed himself to this point where tiredness was almost the same as dropping, and knew all he could do was lie there until his mind gave out and joined his body. Waiting for that, there was nothing he could do except breathe, trying to ignore the occasional tear that broke free and ran down his face.
He didn’t know how much later it was, didn’t know if he was half awake or in a dream, when his bedroom door silently swung open.
In his dream, in his mind, in reality, he could see Mycroft standing in his doorway, suit and features blurred by slit like eyes or dream haziness. He knew he wanted Mycroft, wanted a touch, to be held. He knew he tried to reach with powerless limbs. He could hear himself calling in his mind, yelling for Mycroft to hear him, knowing that the sounds weren’t making it out of his mouth as, whether in the real world or his dream, Mycroft quietly closed the door and left.
This time Greg managed to curl up, wrapping his limbs around the hard emptiness and painful aloneness lodged in his chest.
He didn’t know whether it had been a dream or not, but in his half there state as the tears fell, it didn’t matter and this time he didn’t try to stop the burn.
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Previous - Next
Title:Though I Walk through the Valley (22/38)Series: Still Waters (Run Deep) (Part II of IV)
Author: melody_in_time
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Through S1 only
Disclaimer: I wish, I wish upon a star... but until that works, not mine and sadly no money made.
Author's Notes: Happy New Year!
Hope you all get to watch the new episodes soon. I certainly can't wait!!!
Warnings: As some of you have guessed, real warnings for this chapter, namely: past child abuse, incest, and really messed up mental states of all sorts of sick and tired kinds, the latter's description possibly verging on dropping, if you find that a trigger for you.
If you've wondered here by mistake, you may wish to start at Part I of the series, Rarest of the Rare: Chapter 1.
Prologue - Chapter 10 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29
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“Thanks for coming in Mr Carson. Apologies for the short notice.” Greg shook the Beta Dom’s hand and led him through the Yard to Greg’s office. “Sorry about the fish bowel effect. We can use an interview room if you’d prefer.”
“I’ll be fine.” Michael Carson settled into the chair opposite Greg, looking only slightly disconcerted by the glass walls.
“You remember Sergeant Donovan?”
As Sally politely shook hands Greg took the opportunity to study Michael Carson. The Beta was tall and well built, someone who not only spent considerable amounts of time at the gym, but someone who did so with the intent of achieving a certain build. He was blonde, the natural colour assisted by highlights, and tanned, presumably from sunbeds or a bottle. His suit was professional, but the effect struck Greg as young rather than classic or timeless - whether it was the colour or cut, or whatever, it was a young man’s suit.
Trying too hard Sam had said. Greg could see what he’d meant.
He pressed record on the tape recorder on the desk.
“You don’t mind if I record? It’s easier when we’re asking about so many details we might need to use later in court.”
“Not at all. Anything to catch this Alpha who was harassing Peter.” Michael Carson looked genuinely angry.
“Thank you. We’re not sure whether he was harassing him, but…” Greg let his voice trail off. Carson would fill in his own blank.
After stating both his and Sally’s names for the record, Greg continued.
“Firstly, for the record, when was the last time you saw your nephew?” Greg asked formally.
“About a month ago when he came to stay with me for the weekend.” Carson replied. Greg could tell he was making an effort to annunciate clearly for the tape.
“And did you hear from your nephew after that?” Greg asked.
“A couple of phone calls, a few texts.”
“Did he seem tense, out of sorts, worried at all?”
“No,” Carson hesitated. “The last two weeks he did seem a little forced, as if he were trying to act normally, but I thought he might be worried about uni work.”
“When did you last speak to him?”
“Some time earlier in the week. I can’t remember the exact day, but we talked about my trip so it must have been before Friday. Maybe Tuesday, I think.”
“And on Thursday you were?”
“At home packing for my trip.”
“All night.”
“Yes.”
“Did Peter have a Dom?” Greg smiled politely and looked at the recorder when Michael Carson gave him a confused stare.
“Ah no, he didn’t.” Carson’s eyes cleared and he nodded in understanding.
“Any particular reason?” Greg asked, leaning forward onto his elbows as if he were genuinely interested in the answer.
“Peter is shy. Most Doms frighten him, you see, because of his rocky home life.”
“And you never took him to see a counsellor or a psychologist about it?”
“No,” Carson shook his head. “Peter knew I was there whenever he needed to talk. I’m the exception, you see, he’s not afraid of me.
“Peter has friends who are Dominants.” Greg observed.
There was a microsecond of ugly, sneering disgust on Carson’s face before he smiled his genial smile. Looking at the composed, generous Beta in front of him, Greg found it hard to process what he thought he’d seen.
“It’s taken time to build those relationships,” Carson managed to say through glittering white teeth, “and they’re very fragile.”
“So you’ve had no hints of a new Alpha in Peter’s life?”
The sneer lasted long enough this time for Greg to be sure that yes, he was actually seeing it. This time there was a shift of some sort in Carson’s body language so that even once he’d returned to the more appropriate smile, he radiated a certain aura of smugness.
“None at all.”
“Mr Carson,” Greg fixed a level gaze on the Dom. “I asked you here because you said you wanted to help us find who attacked your nephew. If you’re not going to be open with me then I’ll conclude this interview.”
The back of Greg’s neck bristled as if another of those micro expressions had been focused on him, though he couldn’t say one had been.
“My apologies Detective Inspector. I didn’t realise you wanted to listen to conjecture rather than fact.” The supercilious smile was firmly in place.
Greg chose to smile back rather than reply verbally.
“You’re quite correct. I suspected my nephew might have caught the eye of some over muscled moron. Naturally he did not enjoy the attention, but felt unable to get out of the situation without causing any harm to himself.”
“Did Peter confirm this? I assume you tried to talk to him about it.” Greg schooled his expression into studious concern.
“I tried and he made the situation very clear to me, though he was too scared to say anything outright. I could read behind the words.” Carson’s face fell and his fingers clutched at the arms of the office chair he was seated on. “I promised him we’d talk about it when I got back from Scotland, said he could come home and stay with me for a bit until he was safe.”
Greg sat back in his chair and studied the Dom sitting in front of him. If it was an act, it was a masterful one, yet it didn’t ring true the way Daniel Hill’s desperation had. If Greg hadn’t already met Daniel, didn’t have proof Carson was lying… Being an oily git who set every sleaze alarm blaring wouldn’t be enough on its own, hadn’t been earlier.
Greg had to wonder why Carson had agreed to come in. Was he that confident they knew nothing; that he could sit in front of them, let them see him and get away with it?
“Do you have any idea who this Alpha might be?” Greg kept his eyes trained on Carson so he didn’t miss the slight shift before he spoke.
Discomfort or satisfaction?
“Not a clue unfortunately, else I’d have brought Peter in to apply for a restraining order.”
“Do you recognise this Alpha at all?” Greg slid Robinson’s photo from a specially prepared folder on his desk. “He was seen by several witnesses talking to Peter two days before he was attacked.”
The smug smirk flickered across Carson’s features again before he shook his head. “Never seen him before in my life.”
Did he really think he was that good an actor? His mask was slipping as he got more and more confident.
“I see.” Greg accepted the photo back, but left it sitting out on top of the folder.
“Have you tracked him down yet?”
“Unfortunately he died the night he spoke to Peter.” Greg made a show of tapping his pen thoughtfully against the desk. “It’s quite possible he tried to push things too far and Peter was required to strike out. If one of his friends had seen, they could have gone after Peter later.”
“It would be self-defence, surely.” Carson demurred.
There was an excited gleam in his eye and it made Greg sick to realise he was excited about the prospect of getting away with murder and pinning it on his nephew.
“Depends what the forensics shows.” Greg shrugged and put his pen down.
“Nonsense.” Carson was dismissive of any possibility otherwise. “Peter would never do such a thing without reason. Of course once he is well he’ll return home with me so this ugly turn of events need never occur again. You need not concern yourself about that, Inspector.”
Greg clamped his teeth together hard to prevent himself saying anything pre-emptively.
“Now, if that’s sorted, is there anything else you need me for, Inspector?” Carson smiled his oily, self-assured smile, evidently fully confident he’d pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes and got away free.
“Yes, actually, one more thing.” Greg sat up straight in his chair, throwing his shoulders back in preparation. “You can tell me the truth.”
The confident smile picked up a sullen, defiant twinge. “Detective Inspector I have no idea what you mean.”
“Why don’t we start with this?” Greg slid the photo back to Carson. “Do you recognise this Alpha?”
“I’ve already said no.” Carson slid it back without looking.
“When was the last time you saw your nephew?”
“Over a month ago. If this is-”
“Where were you Thursday night before you left for Scotland?” Greg interrupted.
“I was at home packing.” Carson went to stand. “We’re done here.”
Greg slammed a still shot from the security footage at Illusion onto the desk, causing Carson to jump.
“Care to try again?” He asked mildly. “Because I’ve got witnesses and security footage that place you at the Illusion club the Thursday night your nephew and this Alpha were present.”
“I wasn’t aware he was there.” Carson growled through gritted teeth.
“Really?” Greg raised an eyebrow. “Because witnesses can place you at the bar less than five feet from where Peter ordered drinks and this Alpha talked to him.”
Carson glared at Greg and said nothing.
“Would you like to know what I think?” Greg’s voice was hard. “I think you were suspicious that maybe Peter had formed an attachment to an Alpha, so when he avoided your questions you followed him, just to see for yourself.”
“Being at the club is no evidence I stabbed anyone.” Carson lifted his chin.
Greg’s smile showed too many teeth to be comforting. “I never said he was stabbed.”
“It was in the papers.” Caron seemed to realise his misstep.
“No, it wasn’t.” Greg didn’t let himself hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d manage this.
“So your theory is I killed this Alpha for taking unwelcomed liberties with Peter and then his lowlife associates assaulted Peter in turn. That’s preposterous.” Carson scoffed.
“Not at all.” Greg disagreed. “I think you murdered Robinson because you thought he was interested in Peter and then later had a disagreement with Peter, during which you bashed him over the head.”
Carson gaped and then turned an unflattering shade of red. “I was in Scotland when Peter was attacked. You can check with my hotel.”
“Oh, we did.” Greg pulled the time stamped screen shot of Carson entering and exiting the hotel out of the folder. “They were kind enough to send through their security footage. That’s you leaving the hotel at 4:16pm and not arriving back until 6:23 am.”
“This is rubbish and I am leaving.” Carson stood up.
“Do sit down, Mr Carson, I’m not finished. This,” Greg extracted the next piece of paper from the folder, thanking God it had arrived before Carson, even if only by five minutes, “is a sworn statement by staff members at Waverly Park Train Station in Edinburgh who identified a photo of you and will testify they saw you boarding an express to London. Security footage at both ends will bear out both this and your return trip.”
“Hundreds of people pass through-”
“They don’t carry two driver’s licences with different names on them, Mr Carson. The clerk noticed when you paid, cash to avoid your card being traced I assume, and remembered. Fake ID rather backfired on you there.
“So what happened?” Greg leant forward on his elbows. “Peter threaten to come to the police about what you’d done once he realised? Did he rebel, tell you he wanted to live his own life? After all that time looking out for him protecting him, giving him some where safe to stay and a happy life whenever his parents were too out of control, that must have hurt, being told to get lost.”
Carson twitched.
“You’d practically raised the boy, killed for him, loved him like your own. How dare he throw you aside.”
Carson twitched again, gaze locked on Greg.
“You were angry, understandably so. He turned to leave, and you stopped him.”
Carson’s hands clenched.
“I do think I’ll be off, Detective Inspector.” He smoothly rose from the chair. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
‘Dammit!’ Greg swore in his head. He’d been so close. Carson had been so close to some sort of slip up. He could arrest him for Robinson’s murder, and would have to if Carson walked out, but there was very little doubt that if he did Carson would lawyer up.
As Carson adjusted his jacket sleeve, Greg thought he saw a glint of gold around his left wrist.
Wisps of suggestion solidified into slightly less ephemeral ideas. If he was wrong, he’d be showing how weak their evidential base was. If he was right, this was the closest thing to a trump card he was going to get short of a miracle.
“Or is all this because Peter’s an Omega.”
Carson’s step hitched and he turned back from the door.
“Isn’t he?” Greg tossed the gold bracelet in its zip lock bag onto the desk.
“I don’t-”
“Do sit down.” For the second time that day Greg channelled Sherlock and Carson slowly returned to his seat.
“You-”
“Do you know the history of collaring a Sub, Mr Carson?” Greg asked pleasantly, voice hard. “Only given the number of Victorian antiques in your house I rather think you do. I happened to stumble across some while I was investigating that bracelet.”
“It’s a family trinket.” Carson bit out, lips pressed tightly together. “An heirloom. That’s all.”
“Originally,” Greg continued, “people only exchanged collars, yeah, but then engagements became longer and more common, a period of time for the couple to adjust to being Bound. Ah, but Doms wanted some form of visible claim on their Subs, especially the Omegas, so by the Victorian era it was fashionable for Doms to give their Subs make shift collars - bracelets to signify a lesser, but very real claim.”
“So?” Carson snapped.
“So those bracelets, identical to this one in every way, were always made of silver. Except for Omegas.” Greg smiled his best shark smile. “Apparently that’s why most collars to this day have gold Omega tags.”
“That’s not proof that-”
“Mr Carson,” Greg broke across him. “The hospital has already noted and is investigating irregularities in Peter’s blood work. What they’ll find, I have no doubt, is a very sophisticated suppressant, preventing Peter from displaying any symptoms of Estrus. Oh, yes, they exist, used extensively by the military, and as a pharmaceutical rep you would have been well placed to get hold of them.
“But Peter’s still young, his body’s still going through hormonal changes, trying to adjust. Omega’s hormonal levels don’t stabilise until around 25.” Greg went on, trying not to sound like he was slotting the pieces together as he said them. “So even though you had access to the suppressants you couldn’t properly calculate the correct dose. Too much would interfere with his development, maybe lead to infertility problems later, but under-dosing meant nights like the night at Illusion, where Peter covered himself with enough cologne to cause five people to independently comment, trying to hide the tell-tale pheromones as his body tried to go into Heat.”
Greg leant aggressively across his desk. “Only you can’t hide those pheromones from an Alpha, and Robinson was an Alpha, unlike all Peter’s friends. He would have recognised them as he brushed past, identified Peter for what he was, made some comment.
“You couldn’t have that, could you? All those years protecting Peter, getting the suppressants so he could have a real life. Some upstart Alpha couldn’t be allowed to spoil all that.
“But Peter didn’t see it that way did he?” Greg pulled the highlighted phone record out and laid it in front of Carson. “He wasn’t answering any of your calls. So you came down over night to talk to him. He saw you at King’s Cross after they left a friend there, came over to speak to you, ask you why you were back in London.
“He wasn’t appreciative, was he, Michael? After all that effort the little ingrate turned against you, told you to get out of his life, that he no longer wanted your protection, no longer wanted you.”
“The little bitch was MINE!” Carson snapped and made to leap over the desk, face gone purple, arms outstretched as if to strangle Greg.
Sally, deliberately ignored by Greg and forgotten by Carson, grabbed him, copping a fist to the face for her efforts. The room filled with a rumbling growl as Carson, well beyond reason, flailed, trying to get free.
Greg stayed seated as, alerted to what was going on by the glass walls, two officers ran in to help Sally. It wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked during interrogation and he’d learnt over time the best way to retain the psychological high ground was to remain where he sat and let others wrestle the suspect down.
One of the officers, Gregson, after copping some rather painful jabs Greg was amused to note, managed to get handcuffs on Carson and the three forced him to hold still.
“Robinson.” Greg said firmly, maintaining eye contact with Carson and a raised chin.
“Poaching bastard.” Carson swore. A glob of spit flew from his mouth and landed on Greg’s desk. “He was mine. My Omega. How dare he talk to him, proposition him. He’s mine!”
“So you killed him.” Greg remarked flatly.
“He touched my Omega.” Carson thrashed around, making the three Doms holding him to tighten their grip.
“So you killed him.” Greg repeated.
“Yes!” Carson yelled. He managed to elbow Johnson in the solar plexus and the sergeant automatically let go to curl in on himself. Sally and Gregson tightened their own holds until Johnson collected himself. “That bastard doesn’t get my children, my Omega.”
Greg felt nauseous.
“And Peter?” He asked. He knew he needed Carson to say it for the tape, but he wanted him gone, out of his sight.
There was a slight glimmer of guilt, quickly lost among the anger.
“He was mine. If I couldn’t have him, no one else would touch the slut either.”
“Get him out of here.” Greg knew he should press more, but he couldn’t sit there and look at Carson any longer.
“Michael Carson, you are under arrest for…” Sally’s voice was lost among the scrape of furniture and scuffle as the three manoeuvred him towards the door.
“Carson.” Greg interrupted, unable to stay silent and let the insane Beta believe he had at least achieved something. Johnson, Gregson and Sally obligingly held him still until Carson quieted too and Greg could continue. “Robinson died because you believed there was someone else in Peter’s life. You were right, there is. Robinson was a sleaze, but it wasn’t him. You killed the wrong Alpha, and I want you to go away knowing that he and Peter are going to be very happy together now you’re gone.”
The roar of fury prefaced a renewed struggle, but once out the door more officers joined the escort and Carson was marched out of the bullpen.
Greg stopped the tape with shaking fingers, carefully extracting it, labelling it, and storing it for later use. He then stood, walked to the bathroom, and was thoroughly sick.
Sally walked in while he was washing his face, completely ignoring the fact it was the male bathroom.
“I didn’t actually think he was… I just thought…” Greg heaved again and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth as his stomach continued to roll. “Family Alphas are always protective of Omegas, stake a pseudo-claim to look after them. I just assumed, even though he was a Beta…”
“He’s insane.” Sally said flatly. “Sick in the head. Peter Carson was his nephew.”
Greg pressed his hand against his mouth again and didn’t say anything, didn’t admit how much worse the thought was because Peter was an Omega. He only hoped that the abuse, he couldn’t call it a relationship, hadn’t gone too far, that Peter hadn’t actually been pressed into service. It was unlikely given Michael Carson had kept him on suppressants, but the idea of anyone abusing an Omega that way made his body rebel again, though nothing further came up.
“It’s an Alpha thing, isn’t it?” Sally asked as he ran the tap again. “Gregson made a similar bathroom dash after we dropped Carson off in holdings.”
Greg nodded, arms trembling.
Sally watched him a bit longer.
“How did you know?” She eventually asked.
Greg tied to shake his head and shrug at the same time.
“I guessed.” He admitted bluntly. “It just fit. The bracelet, the hospital. We said, remember, way back that it was rather an overreaction talking to Car-Peter and Robinson ending up dead, just like that, and Daniel Hill was frantic, beyond normal levels of upset for an injured Sub he wasn’t even Domming, not really.”
“Do you think he knows?” Sally asked quietly.
Greg shook his head and straightened. “No, not consciously. He’d never have allowed an Omega to face the kind of danger Peter was worried about on his own, but I think he subconsciously recognised it, imprinted on him a bit. I wouldn’t be surprised if they Bond during Peter’s next cycle, once he’s off the meds.”
“If he wakes up.” Sally sighed.
“If he wakes up.” Greg nodded, flicking the remaining water droplets from his hands.
They were still shaking, he noticed, and his knees a little too.
Sally ripped some paper towel off the roll and held it out to him with an exasperated sigh. She didn’t let go when he reached for it, studying him with narrowed eyes.
“Why didn’t you Dom him?” She asked. “When he tried to take a swing at you?”
Her own black eye was starting to colour up and looked puffy. Gregson’s was going to look a treat.
“Come on, Donovan.” Greg grabbed the towel out of her hand, tamping down all reaction to her words. It was the closest anyone had ever come to calling him on his lack of Dominance, but at least it was a fight he was accustomed to waging. “He was still in custody. I don’t want that sick fuck using any excuse to get off.”
Sally nodded once, sharply, but didn’t lose the gaze. Greg knew she was still searching for an explanation; possibly identifying dots that he didn’t want anyone to realise were dots, let alone connect them.
“Besides, I’m a pathetic Dom, you know that.” He casually lobbed the crumpled paper into the bin. “You would have managed better than me.”
“True.” Sally relaxed slightly, unconsciously loosening her shoulders as she accepted his argument.
A constable blundered into the bathroom without looking and froze halfway through unzipping as he noticed Sally standing casually next to the sink.
“Maybe we’d better…” Greg pushed her towards the door, steeling weak legs as he went to step.
The walk back to their desks was conducted in a stunned disbelieving silence. Somehow they’d actually managed it, managed more in fact because Michael Carson would be going down for more than murder and attempted murder if Greg had anything to say about it.
They slowed to a stop outside Greg’s office door where Greg leant a surreptitious hand on the door frame. The mounds of paper work glared balefully up at him and he had to bite his lip to stop himself groaning. Sally was sending similar aggrieved looks at her own desk and had subtly placed herself so she was leaning on the wall without seeming like it.
It was entirely probable, Greg realised, that the shaking and general weakness wasn’t only a psychological response to the brutalisation of an Omega, but was a physiological response to his body reaching the end of its adrenaline high and shutting down. He and Sally were pushing 48 hours on too much caffeine and no sleep, and 72 hours on too much caffeine and very little sleep. At least this time, he supposed, they’d eaten properly so the caffeine hangover shouldn’t be too bad.
“I suppose we should…” Sally trailed off.
“Sod it.” Greg pushed off the wall. “We’ve been going for three days, the earliest he can be before a magistrate for bail is Monday, and it’s Friday. Go home and ice that eye.”
“But-”
“That’s an order, Sergeant. Get your arse out of here, or else. I’m heading home too.”
As soon as he said it a wave of exhaustion swept over Greg, carrying with it the need to be home, home, home with Mycroft. Home with his Omega, so he could burrow into his scent and rest shielded away from the world.
Sally opened her mouth to argue out of form, but closed it without a word as she sagged against her prop.
“Home sounds brilliant.” She admitted wearily. “With some takeaway so I can eat, bathe and sleep for a week.”
“Can’t give you a week, but I can try to give you a weekend.” Greg promised, knowing it wasn’t really up to them whether their mobiles went off and they were called in.
“Take what I can get.” Sally pushed off the wall and headed over to her desk to pack up. She was swaying ever so slightly as she walked, clearly reaching the end of her endurance.
Greg ignored the papers all over his desk and grabbed his coat, scarf and gloves. The sticky note reminded him to collect his towel and dirty clothing, just, and ignoring all costs he flagged down a shockingly available taxi cab to go home.
Inside he tried desperately to keep his eyes open, but now that his body was crashing it was crashing fast. He stumbled out and had to have the cabbie repeat the fare three times before his muddled brain could come close to understanding. The door presented its own unique challenge, and Greg was pretty sure with one attempt at getting the key in the lock he actually gouged the paint, but eventually he managed.
By ‘eventually he managed’, the door opened for him, a quizzical Mrs Potts standing on the other side.
She took a few blinks to come into focus.
“Oh you poor dear.” She clucked. “You look absolutely done in.”
She bustled him through the door and had his bag of laundry out of Greg’s hands before he’d managed to properly work out he was inside. Home. Where Mycroft would be in a couple of hours.
My, My, My. The name thrummed through Greg’s body with every beat. He needed Mycroft. Needed to see him, hold him. There was a hollow pang down his left side and he felt so empty, so alone.
“Come on dearie, get those shoes off.”
He was in his room, he realised belatedly, Mrs Potts herding him to the bed like a mothering sheepdog.
“You’ll feel better after a nap. All the same, the whole lot of you. Work yourselves into the ground, again and again. Why it’s a wonder the whole lot of you aren’t sick more often.”
He wanted to be in Mycroft’s room, their room; needed to be where he could smell the comforting scent of his love, but Greg was gently pushed on the bed and Mrs Potts bent down to help with his shoes. Unable to stand for that, Greg toed them off, ignoring the disapproving tutting.
“That’s better, now coat off...or not, but you’d be more comfortable without it. No, never mind.”
Greg slumped down on his pillows, half listening to the voice saying things, mostly wishing inside that he was in Mycroft’s room, surrounded by his scent, but he was too tired now to move. Sitting on the bed had apparently been his body’s Waterloo and toeing off his shoes his last resistance.
He tried to curl up around the echoing empty space, but his body wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes, but his brain was chasing itself in increasingly stuttering circles, refusing to stop, stop, stop. For no rational reason Greg felt hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
‘You’re exhausted.’ The very small coherent part of his mind told him. ‘It’s been half a week and too much caffeine since you slept. You’re so tired you can’t sleep.’
Greg held back a choked sob and forced his eyes closed. He’d been here before, this certainly wasn’t the first time he’d pushed himself to this point where tiredness was almost the same as dropping, and knew all he could do was lie there until his mind gave out and joined his body. Waiting for that, there was nothing he could do except breathe, trying to ignore the occasional tear that broke free and ran down his face.
He didn’t know how much later it was, didn’t know if he was half awake or in a dream, when his bedroom door silently swung open.
In his dream, in his mind, in reality, he could see Mycroft standing in his doorway, suit and features blurred by slit like eyes or dream haziness. He knew he wanted Mycroft, wanted a touch, to be held. He knew he tried to reach with powerless limbs. He could hear himself calling in his mind, yelling for Mycroft to hear him, knowing that the sounds weren’t making it out of his mouth as, whether in the real world or his dream, Mycroft quietly closed the door and left.
This time Greg managed to curl up, wrapping his limbs around the hard emptiness and painful aloneness lodged in his chest.
He didn’t know whether it had been a dream or not, but in his half there state as the tears fell, it didn’t matter and this time he didn’t try to stop the burn.
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