"Stroking their hand" for carraville? 🥺
You asked for it </3
***
“N.eville? N.eville. We gotta get a move on.” G.errard’s voice seems distant, far; Gary doesn’t register his words.
He looks through a window into a room with several beds. He watches as, beside one of them, a man is rearranging the blankets on another man, asleep. He can faintly hear the beeping sound of the machine, a steady companion in the otherwise silent room. He doesn’t miss the hand stroking the stranger’s forehead, his cheek. The other covering the patient’s limp one.
“You’re a downright twat, C.arragher.” Gary blurts out.
His arms are crossed, the leather of his jacket almost squeaking from the tight position. He faces a window, looking at little dots hurrying to their everyday life, deformed by the glass tiles. They go on as if nothing has happened. Gary is not naive to believe people can ever truly be safe at all times- he was a detective after all, he knew monstrosity and danger could take many shapes and forms- but today, people below continue their errands, their chat with a loved ones, with one weight less hovering above them.
It had taken them time to gather evidence and piece the puzzle together, working endless days and nights looking at the board in their shared office. Photographs, spidery writing and links covered the whole surface in an intricate, logical, enigma. A sad tale of a swindle gone wrong. It wasn’t the culprits’ first attempt, they were real pros- the reason why the investigation took so long.
“Your behaviour was unprofessional and reckless. Can’t say I’m surprised though… You lot are all the same.” He goes on, still looking through the windows.
He sighs, as he glances at Jamie.
They had hopped in their car- an old unmarked Ford Sierra that had seen better days. A lead, finally. In their precipitation, Jamie had raced him to the driver seat and Gary had spent the whole drive clutching the handle above the window.
(“Oi, don’t be such a drama queen, N.eville. I’m not that bad.” He’d said with a grin induced by adrenaline.
“No.” Gary had answered, his grip on the handle softening. “No, you’re not.”
Something that Jamie never heard as he had put on the siren to cut through the traffic.)
Gary sighs again. The heel of his shoes echoes on the cold marble floor as he abandons the window. He looks up at the ceiling, not sure what to say next- he considers Jamie, right in front of him and gulps.
They had called for backups on their way, as was the procedure in a case like this. In hindsight, they should have waited for them.
(“C’me on N.eville they’re leaving, we can’t wait.”
“Should I remind you we’re outnumbered?”
“We can take them! Just like the burglary in Salford.”
Silence had reigned in their car.
“Look, Gary. I am not throwing away all of these months of work because backup’s too damn slow.”)
They were armed- simple as that. And as Gary’s gun got sent flying in the air, he only had time to hear his name called out before he hit the concrete. And then the screeching sounds of braking tyres, shouts. And the siren blaring.
And Jamie, crawling a bloodied hand towards him.
And the sirens blaring.
Gary jumps, shaking the memory away. The sirens are replaced by the regular beep from the machine near the bed. It’s slow and steady, just like Jamie’s chest rising and falling. He sits on the old plastic chair next to the bed. It’s so strange, too weird. His partner is usually so… full of life, so vibrant and loud. It’s not right. Unconsciously, Gary passes a hand over the cut on his cheek.
“Come on, you’ve fooled around enough, you muppet.”
He looks at Jamie’s peaceful face, looking even younger than he already is. His eyes travel from his closed eyelids to his broad shoulders, shielded by a crumpled gown. Gary’s eyes land on the Scouser’s limp hand. The doctors told him it wasn’t as bad as it looked, that he’d wake up soon and that he’d be up and running in no time. But still, his stomach twists and turn and he reaches tentatively for Jamie’s hand.
The skin is rough, hardened. But the blood is gone at least- damn knives… Gary somberly muses about the interrogations with their newly arrested culprits.
He checks his partner’s vitals, trying to make sure everything looks normal based on what little he knows about EEGs. He reports his gaze back to Jamie. He is still, apart from when he breathes. Gary’s thumb slowly goes up and down Jamie’s hand, his eyes solely fixed on his partner’s face.
“C’me on, wake up now. You’ve rested enough.” Again, he’s not sure why his stomach hurts despite the doctors’ reassurances.
…
“I miss you.”
...
Three little words. Uttered, murmured, yet it feels he has just screamed. Gary gasps and has trouble breathing, shocked at his own admission. Panic rises through his veins and he looks everywhere around the room, making sure no uninvited guest has heard him.
“What N.eville, missing me already?” A voice croaks, coughing a little.
Gary looks up, almost cracking his neck. He’s not dreaming: Jamie C.arragher is giving him a funny look, his lips curved in a lopsided cocky grin.
“I wasn’t out for that long anyway.” He croaks some more.
“Actually it’s been two years. Too bad, you missed United winning back to back Champions League.”
Jamie laughs then, but it soon turns into a coughing fit as he clutches his left side. Gary bends to reach for water but Jamie stops him with a hand.
“You wish, N.eville.” His eyes are glinting with the same brightness as usual and something lifts in Gary’s chest. “So… Missing me, still?”
Gary withdraws his hand, as if burnt, and pokes Jamie’s shoulder.
“Getting used to one Scouser is more than enough, I’m not doing this again. So whatever you do in the future just don’t die.” He says, indignant.
Jamie chuckles again, clutching his side again.
“I think it’s a bit more complicated than that, N.eville. Is that what they tell you lot in Manchester?”
And it’s easy to fall back on the banter, to go back to their routine. Words don’t fail them for this, they have plenty of lines in store. Still, Gary’s smile is a bit longer and he feels lighter.
He seems to call him.
N.eville
...
Gary
...
Gary
...
“Gary! Come on.” Gary jolts again, looking away from the couple on the other side of the window.
He looks haphazardly around him, feeling dizzy. A man grabs his arm.
“N.eville, are ya daft? We gotta move, there’s been a new breakout on the case.”
G.errard. Steven G.errard. That’s right, they’re investigating together. It’s not the nineties, it’s here, the present. The bleak, hollow, present.
Gary nods and gives one final look to the window, the two men’s hands clasped together. He follows the younger detective outside of the hospital.
...
His stomach twists. Bile rises up his throat.
His hands are cold.