Archive of Our Own ^beta

Reverend Paul Coates wasn’t accustomed to seeing people walking around Broadchurch in the middle of the night, but tonight he’d seen no less than three people. Mark Latimer had been moping along the high street with a bottle in his hand. Paul had crossed the road and stood back in an alleyway to let him pass. Mark could be unpredictable at the best of times but he was known for getting into fights when he’d had a few and Paul didn’t fancy yet another run-in with him right now. 

Then when he’d reached the Coastal Path he’d come across Susan and Vince, out for a nighttime walk. She hadn’t noticed him but Vince had. He liked Labs and wouldn’t have minded saying hello to the dog, but Susan was another matter. She was so abrasive she made DI Hardy look positively friendly.

Speaking of whom, as he walked across the pier entrance to reach the other side of the cliffs, intending to walk up past Jocelyn Knight’s house and back home, he spotted the DI himself. He was sitting on the beach, which Paul thought was strange, given it was past 3 a.m. and it wasn’t particularly warm. 

He continued walking, but something about the way Hardy was slumped where he sat, his entire posture giving off a certain air of defeat, made him pause. He stopped, crossing his arms, half turned towards where the DI sat, watching him and fighting with himself. Hardy was one of the most objectionable, anti-religious, snarky and downright hateful people he’d ever met. 

And yet…

Paul had read the article about Hardy in the Echo, and commented to Maggie that whoever the DI had covered for, must have been very close to him, because he didn’t seem like the type to just martyr himself for any random person. That’s when Maggie had told him the person in question had been Hardy’s wife and that he had been protecting his daughter, and everything had fallen into place. Perhaps between being sick, exiled and in the middle of a murder investigation hadn’t been the best time to meet him. Maybe he’d be more civil in the middle of a chilly October night, now that everything had settled down.

He was still trying to decide whether to go and talk to Hardy when he heard something he recognised. It was the cry of someone who had been to Hell and back; or perhaps got caught in Purgatory on the way. 

He turned and walked quietly towards where the other man sat. Either Hardy would tell him to piss off or he would accept some compassion. Paul wasn’t sure if he cared which he chose. But he wasn’t about to abandon his duty to help a tortured soul.

Hardy didn’t look around when Paul came up behind him. On the sand in front of him were five miniature bottles of Bells Whisky; four of them empty. He picked up the full one and stared at it.

”Should you be drinking?” Paul asked quietly. It was a simple question, no accusation, no admonition, no scorn. A quiet check in. 

Hardy shrugged, sniffing back what might have been tears. Paul decided that was enough of an invitation and sat down beside him, legs crossed, elbows on knees. He waited.

“Stole them from the minibar ‘n my room. ‘Fore I left.” Hardy’s voice slightly slurred, body slightly trembling, eyes slightly reddened. 

“You’ve left the Traders?”

Hardy nodded. “Got a hut. Blue. By the river.”

Paul nodded. He knew the one. He’d looked at it himself when he’d first come to Broadchurch, but his own cottage was closer to the Church so he had chosen that instead. 

“You’re staying then?” Paul didn’t really know how to make conversation with Hardy. Their interactions so far had been terse, accusatory, bordering on argumentative and mostly about Danny’s case. He suspected Hardy and chit-chat were not close acquaintances, but perhaps one hundred fluid ounces of Scotch had loosened his tongue.

“Nowhere else t’go,” he said. Had it not been for the desperately miserable tone in his voice, Paul might have chuckled at the comically sad look on his face. Instead he frowned.

”No plans to go back to Sandbrook?’

Hardy turned to look at him, with the slightly glazed over look of the inebriated. It was a look Paul knew only too well. 

“Why? ‘M divorced. M’ daughter won’t talk to me. Parents’re dead.”

“Don’t you have friends up there, at least?” Paul asked, trying to inject a modicum of hope into Hardy's mood. He failed.

Hardy snorted loudly. “Not anymore. Had one. ‘Til he shagged m’ wife when we were still married.”

”Ah. Right. Yeah, I can imagine that would be a deal breaker.”

”No friends here either ’course.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. There’s Ellie-“

”No.” Hardy cut him off. “She’s gone. Took Fred. Devon somewhere.”

“And Tom?”

”With… whassername? Sister. Lucy.”

Paul nodded. He had seen Tom earlier that day with Lucy and Ollie and just assumed they were on a day out or something. He hadn’t realised that Tom was now living with his Aunt while his Mum, like Hardy, had gone into exile. 

“I’m sure there are others, Hardy. Beth is incredibly grateful to you for solving Danny’s case,” he was about to go on, but Hardy was already shaking his head. 

“Not friends. People hafta like you to be yer friend.” He swayed a little as he turned to look at Paul again. “Mos’ people don’t like me. Don’t care. Don’t like mos’ people.”

”Hmm. Do you like me?” Paul asked.

Hardy frowned deeply, as if he’d just been asked to calculate the square root of a very large number in his head. Eventually he came up with an estimate. “Don’t really know you.”

Paul nodded. “Yeah. Until a week or so ago I would have said you were one of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever met,” he paused as Hardy snorted. “But I’ve come to know a bit more about you and I think now that I’ve got some distance from the emotional aspects of Danny and everything else that’s happened, perhaps you’re not such a lost cause. At least I can wholeheartedly say I respect you.”

Hardy’s eyebrows disappeared up behind his fringe. “Respect me?” he asked, his voice comically high.

”You refused to give up, despite media criticism, professional obstacles, physical limitations-“

”Nearly dyin’,” Hardy interjected.

”Nearly dying,” Paul conceded. ”But you got the job done. And then, when you found out that the answer was not something anyone would like, you protected the person who needed it. That earns respect in my book.”

Hardy blushed, though Paul couldn’t tell if it was from his words or the whisky. 

“Y’stood up t’me.” He slurred, then admitted. “Not many people do that.”

Paul did chuckle this time. “I’ve never been afraid of people.” He reached over and picked up one of the discarded bottles. “This? This terrifies me. This I can’t reason with.”

Hardy rolled his head around, evidently trying to be more sober than he actually felt. “Yer said I’ve no faith. I do. Always had faith in God. No faith in people though.”

”And why is that?” Paul asked, genuinely curious. 

“Can’t trust ‘em. Even people you love. They leave. They hurt you.” Hardy’s voice cracked as he said this last, and Paul leaned his shoulder against him briefly; partly in comfort, partly in solidarity.

”Yeah. They do that.”

They sat quietly for a while, watching the first streaks of light beginning to glow on the horizon. Eventually Paul stood up.

”Probably a good idea to go home and sleep that off,” he said, indicating Hardy’s bottles. 

Hardy picked them up and stuffed them into his pockets, then accepted Paul’s hand as he reached to help him stand. He swayed slightly as the blood rushed to his head and he waited until he was certain it wasn’t going to make his heart stutter. It had been doing that a lot lately. 

“No,” he said suddenly. 

Paul looked at him, not sure if he was answering an earlier question - he did that, Paul had noticed - or talking to himself.

”No…?”

”Shouldn’t be drinking.”

”Ah. Right,” Paul said, strolling along beside Hardy as they headed toward the pier. In a mock confidential tone he added, “Me neither.”

Hardy turned to look at him, frowning. It took him a moment to get the joke. When he did, the corner of his mouth twitched and he snickered in the back of his throat. As they passed a bin, he made a big show of pulling all the bottles out of his coat and putting them in the bin. Then he faced Paul and gave him a solemn nod. 

Paul nodded back in acknowledgement of the gesture. 

“Would you like me to walk you back home? Make sure you get there without ending up in the river?” he asked tentatively. He was wary of offending Hardy, especially now they appeared to be getting on reasonably well. But he wasn’t convinced the Scot could make it home sober, let alone in his currently inebriated state. 

Hardy paused, apparently considering the idea. A blush crept up his face.

”I don’t remember where it is,” he admitted sheepishly. 

Paul laughed lightly and after a moment Hardy joined in. It was an absurd sound, the sort of giggle-snort people who didn’t drink very often tended to give. 

“Tell you what. Why don’t you come to mine? It’s only just up the hill there,” he said pointing up the cliff. “By the Church.”

Hardy frowned and blinked, looking confused. “Why?’

Paul gave him a wry smile. “Perhaps you’re not the only exiled insomniac, with very little faith in people, in Broadchurch,” he said quietly. 

Hardy gave him an appraising look, appearing remarkably clear headed for a moment. Then the haze of alcohol clouded his eyes again and he nodded, almost losing balance as he did so.

”Aye. Mebbe you’re right.” He pointed wildly up the hill. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

Paul sighed quietly and shook his head. “You’re really quoting ‘MacBeth’ at four thirty in the morning?”

Hardy shrugged. “As good a time as any.”

The walk to Paul’s cottage at the bottom of the hill leading up to St Bede’s was a short ten minute walk under normal circumstances, but given Hardy was inebriated and struggling with a heart condition, it took about three times that. 

By the time Paul unlocked his front door and gestured for Hardy to go ahead of him, Hardy’s mood had soured and his habitual frown had returned in place of the almost personable demeanour he had demonstrated earlier. Paul indicated towards the sofa and went into the kitchen to make some tea, returning to find Hardy perched awkwardly on one end of the small leather Chesterfield. 

“Nice sofa,” Hardy acknowledged. 

“Not mine, sadly. I didn’t have any money to furnish the place when I came here, so I ended up borrowing a few pieces from my mother. Mrs Imelda Coates believes firmly in craftsmanship and quality,” he said, with mock solemnity. 

“Imelda?” Hardy wrinkled his face in something like disgusted disbelief. “The fuck kinda name is tha’?’

”German.”

”Oh,” Hardy said, as if that explained everything. He sipped his tea, put his mug down on the coffee table and slouched back into the sofa. Beside him, Paul did the same.

“It’s my birthday,” Hardy said eventually. “Was. Day after now.”

”Belated birthday greetings,” Paul said, deliberately avoiding the usual glib and obviously incorrect saying.

Hardy grimaced. “She didn’t call.”

Paul frowned for a moment. Who was he talking about? Ellie? Doubtful, even though they were friends. The ex? No! The daughter! “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, with genuine feeling. “What’s her name?’

”Daisy,” said Hardy, a soft, dopey smile gracing his face as he said it. “Fifteen. Beautiful. Lives wi’ her mother. Doesnae speak to me since- Well, ‘s been awhile…” he trailed off, his bottom lip pouting out slightly. From his tone, Paul could tell that this was probably the central reason for both Hardy’s misery and his drinking. It was his birthday, he was a father, he had hoped for a call from a daughter he had all but lost his reputation to protect. But she hadn’t reached out. 

“That’s harsh. Teenagers can be like that, I’ve heard. Rather unforgiving,” Paul said.

Hardy shook his head vehemently. “Not her fault. ‘S mine.”

”How? You were protecting her, and her mother.”

”Aye. But she doesnae know tha’ does she?” Hardy turned to face him then, eyes brimming with tears and Paul’s heart clenched. He wasn’t a father, he didn’t even have any siblings; it had been him and his Mum for as long as he could remember. But he knew loneliness. He knew what it felt like to have those who mattered to you let you leave, and not miss your absence. 

Without really thinking about it, he sat up slightly and put his arm around Hardy’s shoulders, mildly surprised when the Scot didn’t push him away. Rather, he leaned into him, a droplet of saltwater falling from his cheek and landing on the sleeve of his mac. They sat like that for a while, one giving and one receiving comfort, with no more words exchanged.

As they sat there, each lost in their own thoughts, Paul made a decision. He was going to befriend this irritating, obtuse, grumpy man. It would solve both their problems at once. They were an equal match intellectually, in similar situations that came from different corners of life experience, yet mirrored one another almost exactly, and they were both, it seemed, desperately lonely; even if Hardy was the only one to admit it out loud.

After a while Paul noticed that Hardy was falling asleep and, not wishing to deal with the backache he knew would cripple him tomorrow if he didn’t address it, he stood, nudging the other man and encouraging him to stand. He pushed him through into the next room, his bedroom, where another loan from his mother (an enormous four poster king size bed) took up almost the entirety of the space. 

“Come on,’ he told Hardy, taking off his jumper and shoes and moving to the other side of the bed, removing his belt as he did so. He reached under the bed and pulled out two quilts, placing one of the far side for Hardy to use and then lying down on the fully made bed with the other, getting comfortable. 

Hardy hovered awkwardly for a moment, frowning in confusion as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

“Go ahead and take off your shoes and coat, Hardy. We’re both far too old and tall to subject our backs to an uncomfortable couple of hours on a rigid sofa and this bed is big enough for four, never mind two. You’re welcome to grab the other half and get some rest.” 

Hardy’s shoulders seemed to drop slightly, though Paul couldn’t tell if it was in relief or defeat. Hesitantly he took off his mac, suit jacket, belt and tie, then sat on the edge of the bed, presumably taking off his shoes.

Paul closed his eyes, not wishing to make the evidently self conscious man feel any more awkward than was necessary, and after a long pause he felt the mattress shift. There was a rustling of fabric and a slight waft of air as Hardy threw the other quilt over himself. When Paul opened his eyes again to hit the light switch, Hardy was curled up on his side facing him, only the top of his head poking out from under the quilt. 

Paul was just drifting off to sleep when a muffled voice that he could tell was choked with emotion said, very quietly, “Thank you.”

— — — — —

Hardy knew he was going to have a hangover even before he was fully awake. Merely breathing was making his brain pound against his skull, and each inhale made his chest ache like he’d run a marathon. His mouth was dry and worryingly furry, and there was a sharp, metallic taste that he recognised as his heart medication. 

He groaned quietly, gradually realising a few other things, and began bullet pointing them, albeit very slowly, in his pounding head. 

• He didn’t know where he was
• He was almost entirely certain he wasn’t in his new home
• Or the Traders
• And he was not alone

Oh God….

He was also keenly aware, now that he was slightly more awake and much more perturbed, that he was not merely ‘not alone’, but actually cuddled up to someone. He could feel their body moving under his cheek as they breathed and his arm was definitely wrapped around a slim waist. This thought was interrupted by his torso reporting that he was, somehow, fully dressed, which seemed slightly anomalous to the general situation. 

His still foggy Detective brain deduced that, whilst apparently very drunk last night, he had ended up going home with someone, and made his way into their bed. Fortunately this didn’t appear to have resulted in anything intimate happening, which was good, but could potentially lead to awkward breakfast conversations. He decided the easiest thing was to make a hasty exit, citing having to get home and ready for work, and hope he didn’t know the person in question. Given the only straight women he knew in Broadchurch were either married or no longer in town, he hoped it would be someone he’d be unlikely to ever see again. 

Then it happened. 

The other person woke up and coughed slightly.

Hardy froze. That was not a female cough. 

‘Oh God,’ he thought again. What on earth had he done? Granted it wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a man’s bed, but that had been back in his college days, before he’d even met Tess. Part of his mind, the part that was obviously still drunk and should stay quiet right now, reminded him he’d never been fussy about gender, it was the person he’d always been interested in. He told that part to be quiet and not speak again until it was sober, but he had to admit, it had a point. 

While all this was going through Hardy’s very painful head, the person next to him stretched, gave a slight chuckle and nudged him.

A familiar voice said his name. “Hardy? It’s past lunch time. Probably best we get up. I’ll go make some tea.” 

Oh God, no. The bloody Vicar? Seriously?

Hardy gave a non-committal grunt, hoping Coates would assume he wasn’t awake yet, and pulled the quilt over his head. The Vicar extricated himself from Hardy’s grip (which Hardy had, somewhat embarrassingly neglected to pull back from), and could be heard padding around the room. Hardy held his breath, pretending to be asleep still. Apparently he didn’t pretend well enough.

“If you look under the bathroom sink you’ll probably find a toothbrush. Help yourself to a shower or whatever once you’re up. I’ll be done in about ten minutes and I’ll throw some food together.”

For a few minutes he could hear various sounds of the Vicar walking around the room, leaving it, returning and so on. As soon as the door finally clicked closed, Hardy pulled the quilt off his head and looked around, blearily, taking in the sparse but tasteful real wood furniture, and then caught sight of a large glass of water and a packet of ‘Resolve’ hangover cure on the bedside table. He sat up gingerly, pouring the powder into the glass and stirring. Then he downed it.

He hated the taste of it, had never liked anything lemon flavoured, but it would kill his hangover in about twenty minutes. He sighed. Of course the Vicar was thoughtful enough to leave him something for his hangover. He couldn’t be one of those ‘hold a grudge forever’ types, who had one run-in with Hardy and refused to be cordial ever again. No, he had to be bloody understanding. 

He heard the water shut off in the room next door, signalling he was done in the shower. Hardy would give the hangover cure another ten minutes to kick in, then go and take a shower himself. Hopefully it would make the walk of shame home a bit more bearable. 

By the time Hardy had showered, redressed and found the still-wrapped spare toothbrush under the sink as promised, he felt a bit more human. On opening the bathroom door, he had planned to put on his mac and shoes and make any excuse he could to leave, but there was a delicious smell wafting from the kitchen and he suddenly realised he was hungry. Coates had said he was going to make some food, perhaps for once he should not be rude and simply eat and say thank you. At least the Vicar wasn’t a chatty type. He only seemed to speak when he had something worth saying, which made Hardy inclined to actually listen rather than tune him out. 

He slipped on his shoes, then wandered through to the kitchen. The fresh smell of autumn leaves and early morning rain filtered in through the open top of a stable type door, over which were hung a couple of blankets. 

Hardy walked over and peered out. Coates was seated at a wooden bistro set up on a small patio. He was wrapped in a blanket and nursing a steaming mug, while staring out at the simple, tidy garden. Tall trees surrounded the perimeter, dropping golden leaves across the lawn and the afternoon sun was sloping through the ones that still clung on against the elements. He unlatched the stable door, picking up a blanket and settling into the chair beside Coates. 

The other man said nothing, just placed a travel mug in front of him. 

“Thanks,” Hardy said, flipping the lid and was immediately hit by the smell of a spiced latte. Before he could say anything Coates spoke.

”It is decaf. But it’s filter coffee, not instant, so it actually tastes quite good. Thought you might appreciate something cosy after last night.” 

Hardy flicked his gaze to him, then back to the coffee. He took a sip and couldn’t help letting out a ‘Mmm’ of satisfaction. Maybe it was because he hadn’t actually had a latte in nearly three years and he’d just forgotten what actual coffee tasted like, but he had to agree it was good, and very welcome. He tried to ignore the way Coates turned and smirked at him. 

“Lunch will be ready in about twenty minutes. Just waiting for the bread to finish.” 

Hardy nodded. “Smells good.”

”Vegetable chilli and fresh bread. Seemed like the weather for it. And it’s all healthy, made from scratch.”

Hardy looked at him, eyebrow raised in surprise. “You cook?”

Coates nodded. “I grow vegetables over there,” he said, pointing to the rear of the garden where a series of Grow Bags and plastic covers were neatly arranged. “Make a lot of basic stews and such this time of year. Always have a dough started in the fridge. It keeps me busy when I can’t sleep.” There was an odd inevitability to his tone that Hardy couldn’t quite place. He was silent for a few minutes then started the conversation up again. 

“‘I also walk, which is how I bumped into you drowning your sorrows on the beach last night.”

“Ahh, right,” Hardy nodded. He knew he’d gone to the beach, taken that mini bar scotch he’d swiped from the hotel before he left. He’d tried to piece together the rest of the night but could only pull together hazy bits of information. “It was you I was talking to on the beach?”

Coates nodded. “For about an hour and a half. You’re quite a miserable drunk, but even that’s an improvement on your disposition mid murder investigation.” Paul gave him a wry smile that softened the blow somewhat.

A buzzer went off in the kitchen, saving Hardy from having to comment. “That’ll be the bread. I assume you’re hungry?” Coates stood up and Hardy nodded. “Two minutes then. Alright to eat out here?”

Again, Hardy nodded. It was pleasant sitting here in the Vicar’s quiet garden, no noise or traffic, just the birds and the leaves rustling and the far away sound of the waves. Coates brought out a tray of dishes which he put on the table, then returned to the kitchen, presumably to fetch the food. Hardy set out the dishes and cutlery, leaving the tray empty. When Coates returned he put the food tray down on top of it and gave Hardy a nod.

”Ah, you’re well trained,” he said, laughing slightly. 

“Fifteen years of marriage does that,” Hardy said, dishing out some of the chilli while Coates turned out and cut the freshly baked bread. 

“Yes, I imagine it would.”

They ate in a slightly less awkward silence than Hardy had anticipated, though he would not say he felt comfortable; not after the way he’d woken up earlier. He felt the colour rush up his neck and onto his cheeks, and took a sip of his now cool latte, hoping his sudden flush could be explained away by the chilli. Maybe if they ignored the elephant it would get bored and wander away. 

“This is good, Coates,” he said, hoping that if he had to say something then at least sticking to the food was a safe bet. 

“I think I can allow you to call me Paul after last night, don’t you?”

Hardy froze with his bread half way to his mouth. “I’m sorry?’ he managed to croak out.

”Well, we did talk about quite a lot. Drinking, or rather not drinking,” Paul said pointedly. “Not having any friends. Not being able to trust people. At one point you started quoting ‘Macbeth’.”  Hardy groaned.ss

Paul  shrugged. “At least you quoted it correctly. Most people think the line is ‘Lead on, Macduff’. So you got some bonus points there.”

”I was in the play. In school.”

”Ahh. Difficult to imagine you as a thespian, but having had a bit of a dabble in ‘Jesus Christ, Superstar’ myself, complete with very dodgy glue-on beard, I’m not going to say anything that could come back to bite me later.”

”Wise choice,” Hardy agreed. “So… how did we end up… here?” 

If Paul caught on that he was actually referring to how they had woken up together that morning, he didn’t let on.

“You said you’d moved into a shack by the river and I didn’t think you were in any state to navigate walking around that close to water. I suggested coming up here and you agreed.”

Hardy finished his food, shaking his head when offered seconds. 

“I assume what you really want to know is how we ended up in bed together?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Hardy almost choked on the mouthful of coffee he had just taken and the Vicar immediately apologised. 

“Sorry, sorry. Look, it’s really not that big of a deal, I promise. I’m actually not in the habit of propositioning people I’m not sure would welcome it, and who are too drunk to remember either way. I generally prefer to avoid the embarrassment of assuming which teams people might play for.” Paul’s tone made the nature of his comment clear, without saying it directly. 

Hardy shifted uncomfortably, unused to being vulnerable with people, but feeling compelled to be honest with Paul, for some reason he didn’t want to take the time to analyse right now. 

“Was never much of a team player,” he said. “Just went with whoever picked me for their side.”

”Good to know,” Paul said, giving him a curiously appraising look, then continued filling in the missing parts of Hardy’s memory of the night before as if they hadn’t just shared some incredibly personal information with each other.

“Anyway, we came back here, we had tea. Got talking somehow about family…” he frowned, as if trying to remember himself. “Oh, that’s right! You mentioned the sofa and I talked about borrowing it from my mother. You mentioned that it was your birthday yesterday and talked about your daughter. You… uh… well, you got pretty upset. You told me it was your birthday yesterday and your daughter hadn’t called you.”

Hardy stared down at his hands, feeling his cheeks reddening yet again. Upset? Oh God. Had he cried? On the bloody Vicar’s shoulder?

“I did what I’d do for anyone. I offered you a hug. Surprisingly you accepted, which of course, was fine, but then when you calmed down you started to fall asleep. I decided to save both our middle aged lumbar regions from a few days of hell and moved us to the bed. Where, as I’m sure you are fully aware, we both slept, fully clothed, on top of the bed, with separate quilts.”

Hardy looked up finally, somewhat relieved that he hadn’t completely embarrassed himself much more than he already knew. It seemed, in fact, that Paul wasn’t even going to mention it. He was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when Paul continued. 

“As far as I remember we fell asleep like that. So how you ended up treating me like your very own priest plushie, is between you and your maker, I’m afraid.”

Hardy closed his eyes. There it was. The crippling embarrassment he’d been waiting for. His chest chose that moment to become tight and he wheezed slightly as he fumbled in his pocket for his tablets. He popped two out and swallowed them dry, hoping they would kick in before his heart faltered. He was vaguely aware of a movement to his left, before his vision blurred and he ended up putting his head down on the cool wooden table top. 

“Hardy?” There was a hand on his shoulder and a glass of water being pushed into his hand. He took it, spilling some then drinking deeply, even though he didn’t really need to, he had long ago learned to swallow the chalky tablets whole. But it didn’t mean he liked doing it.

When his heart started to find its rhythm again, he put the glass down and looked up at Paul, nodding to confirm he was okay. Paul looked more relieved than he would have expected and Hardy felt his throat constrict, not because of his heart this time. Not his physical one at least. 

Paul sat beside him again, pulling his blanket around his shoulders. He had refilled their coffee and the steam rose up on the light breeze, glimmering in the fading sunlight of the afternoon. 

“You okay, Hardy? Sorry, if I caused that, it certainly wasn’t intentional.”

Hardy shook his head. “No. No, it happens a lot. Bad timing is all.” He wasn’t sure that was true, but he didn’t want to make Paul feel bad for teasing him. Despite his embarrassment he was actually enjoying spending time with Paul, here in his garden. It was the most peaceful he had felt in a long time.

Paul regarded him momentarily and picked up his coffee, the incident apparently forgotten. 

Hardy picked up his own coffee, pulling the blanket around himself and finally relaxing fully for the first time that day.

”You know,” he said eventually. “After last night, I think I can let you call me Alec.”

True to form, Paul said nothing. He just nodded.