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the-dork-neko · 5 years

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The Hardest Path (Father Brown, one-shot in English)

[Sinopse] Basically, The Owl of Minerva (S03 E15, season finale) with Sid's point of view, a bit of slashy twist, and some drama that could give a nice Mexican soap opera a run for their money. Sorry for it. :3

[Word Count] 4,444

[Disclaimer] Father Brown belongs to the family of the writer G.K. Chesterton (books and short stories, published between World War I and II), and to BBC (adaptation into the very groovy TV series, since 2013). This is just a fanwork, meant for some pleasure, enjoyment, entertainment, and maybe some tears, absolutely without any intention of financial profit whatsoever.

Cross-posted to AO3 and FFN.

- Kembleford, 731.

Wasn't it easier just to say “Hello?”

He never knew how to react to any joke, to the point of making his pranks lose any trace of fun.

He also never did anything the easiest way.

Probably had never been allowed to go through the easiest path, never had been given any opportunity to play, relax, chill out, try to live a normal life. And for some reason, as absurd as the iron-hard discipline imposed on him, he just never have spared any time to complain, or to rebel.

It was unbearable, to see that stupid act of a trial, with tons of false evidences and bought testimonies, could be taken to the last consequences. Who could see a murderer in the most upstanding man in town? How could such an uptight, unable to turn a blind eye to some useless, silly rule, be unable to disrespect the sacred gift of life? Even more, the life of a fellow copper, an apprentice who also swore to serve and protect innocent civilians?

The house that they have temporarily given him would remain empty, until the arrival of the next Inspector.

For a few weeks, it'd be, again, an old, empty cottage. Just as dead as any of the graves in the cemetery behind the Church.

Regardless of how many people would be living there, for Sid, that house would never come back to life again.

The next time that the phone would ring, it wouldn't be that boyish voice, affecting cold and authority, that would answer the unlucky interlocutor. That lost expression, a tired attempt to keep people at arm's lenght, would never repeat the address, instead of trying to keep a normal conversation.

If Sid picked the lock, with his good old magic trick, instead of a key, like the previous resident, or any "honest person", he wouldn't have to worry about the nearly empty cupboards, always forgotten by the owner, neither about the ancient plumbing, which would never spend more than a month without breaking, and giving an unpleasant but never unexpected surprise.

He'd never see the well-known mugs stained of coffee or tea, or the plates of pancakes in the sink; and would never listen to the sound of big bands, easy listening or jazz, and never would get weirded out by the otherworldy voices of an opera, because any part of the small and smart collection of long-plays would spin lazily in that old turntable again.

The slim and well-known figure would never come back to nap or brood in the armchair in the sitting room. There would never be another trenchcoat, wet with dew or rain, or any well-tailored suit jacket, in any dark, austere colour, hanging in the rack by the door. And the sofa would never be laden with that mess of old books full of markers and scribblings.

The next occupant of the police cottage would never have time to stop and enjoy their own home.

And Sid would never have to worry about other nightmares but his own.

Because the person for whom he used to make the nest of blankets that was not in the bed anymore would never come back home, seeking shelter for another cold and sleepless night.

When Her Ladyship answered the phone, soon after breakfast, Sid feigned the typical mischievous smile, thinking that the call had no more news than another wave in Mrs. M's, or another of Lady F's informants, eternal river of gossiping.

However, when she fell instead of sitting in the sofa, and raised those beautiful green eyes to her loyal servant, the sadness in the precious face became a telepathic message. A single mind, heavy with affliction, multiplied into two.

To the contrary of Sid's fear, the endangered person wasn't the Father, but the person involved in his new "amateur" investigation.

The man that Sid though as gone to never be seen again; condemned to death, for a crime he'd never even think to commit. A man who finally raised in riot against the useless machine that chewed him up, and spat no more than an empty shell back into the world of the living.

Fragile, subdued, dirty, covered in bruises. He was beaten, wounded and broken, physically, mentally and spiritually, in the unjust prison. Didn't look, even in the slightest, like the equivalent guarded in Sid's memory, heart and senses.

Nevertheless, the tired voice had the same timbre, and the hazel-coloured eyes, the same innocence, for which the driver would never be able to resist.

His smart eyes devoured that exhausted shadow, and focused instantly where the suit sleeves couldn't hide parts of horrible red marks in the other man's wrists.

Blood boiled in fury, destroying impulse without a certain target, the need to protect someone who ignored his own closeness to death. An infinite conflict on sentiment, silenced by the former petty criminal.

It was easy, too easy, to fake a joke with the absurd irony of the situation, and even easier to open the cuffs, in less than five seconds.

Look into the well-known eyes and see them full of pain was hard, too hard, and fight the will to soothe the wounded innocent, dress, balm and clean his wounds, almost impossible.

Like always, the black-haired young man ignored his needs, and went on with his story. After biting back a tired sigh, he exposed the free-masons' conspiration, and his own desperate masterplan to clean his name, and get his honor back.

Good God. He still thought about going back and serving the stupid machine of "justice"? With his own life, probably??

Carter felt even angrier, and questioned the prisioner's sanity even more vehemently. The fugitive broke out of jail... to refuse all other offers of help, and go back to the enemy's lair, in a few hours, to get the only and last true evidence that still remained for the case.

A clue that costed two lifes, and his could perfectly be the third.

"Have you forgotten which one of us is the police officer?"

Why did he come and ask for help and shelter, to the found family he despised, for all the time he lived in the town, if he was planning to go alone, in a damn suicide mission, first thing in the morning?

The Father offered a conciliatory answer, soon ignored by the kamikaze; a blanket and the presbytery's sofa, and a break for sleep, and plan a more appropriate counter-attack in the morning.

Sid could see Sullivan, though the shadows in the curtains; his vague outline, curled up in a tight ball of tense muscles, painful bruises and restless nerves. Could feel him struggling in insomniac silence. Both man had been unable to sleep that night.

Sidney was already used to see the stubborn officer working until falling to exhaustion, every time an enquire proved to be more complex than usual. It was obvious that he haven't had even a nap in the previous few days, and that his conscience hasn't gotten off for even a moment of rest, since the start of that perverse circus act.

During the brief, but lovely time they spent nearly living together - in clandestinity, of course - the repentant scoundrel learned to use all sorts of silly and sly tricks and persuasions, to get his constantly tense companion some time to rest, or to eat, even if it were just once in a while. He definetely saw no bother in the fact that the only place where the enslaved policeman could have a proper night of sleep was in the warm nest between a certain thief's chest, and one or two fluffy blankets.

The few exceptions were the annoying, unnecesary situations he spared to make his very best Inspector pose, and be more resistent than his usual.

The bloke was an Atheist and came to ask for sanctuary in the Chuch; to beg for the blessed interference of a man whose kindness and wisdom he overlook and misunderstood.

But he didn't ask for help to the man who know him better than anyone, who kept the most precious and most dangerous secret of his wounded heart.

The silent rejection, a quiet goodbye, sounded loud and clear in Sid's heart. The pain in the con artist's chest was not new. Seeing the Father go back with the Army, to the War; watching Susie go in a bus to London. Biding farewell to a beloved person always hurt the same.

Although, the family had an urgent problem right now. Thomas Sullivan was an innocent man, who brought them a case to solve, and a need of justice to be attended.

The man came, in a moment of despair, to ask the protection of the family. Regardless of how many times he'd soon ask to be abandoned again, none of them would leave him in his darkest hour. Even less a penitent rascal.

When the Father organized the family's combined efforts, Sidney adored the idea of playing the living dummy, a running bait in the police's man hunt. He was already well-used to playing tag with the coppers; a fox could easily run away from a troop of mastodonts.

Throwing the recalcitrant's suit and hat in the river was just a bonus. Such a typical, perfect specimen of well-bred city boy, always obsessed in keeping an immaculate elegance, would be livid after the end of the situation, when he came back home, put his things back in order, and noticed that the coat and the fedora were missing.

Nobody needed to know about the miliseconds of hesitation spent by the young rogue, because the hat and the gabardine still smelled like their owner.

A whiff of that mixture. Cologne, tea, ink from the fountain pen, rain, aftershave. The atmosphere impregnated in the cottage, when it was still a living house. An attractive perfume, painfully calling to his missing heart, and his needy senses.

The sounds of whistles and runnings brought him back to reality.

Whoever saw the shambles of dark blue fabric, floating in the peaceful early morning currents of the river, could only think that the runaway, in an act of despair, threw himself in the cold waters of Hambleston, to avoid the hangman's rope.

When Carter got back to the presbytery, he'd expose the found family's smarts, and maybe he'd succeed at calling Sullivan back to reason.

May God have mercy of the person who needed Sidney Carter, Agnostic hedonist, professional madcap, and reformed criminal, to be adviced back to the common sense!

Lady F. brought news and evidence. The Father, a perfect deduction. Mrs. M., a newly-sewn disguise, and Sid, the overview of enemy territory, and a perfect distraction to cover the theft.

... Naturally, he didn't listen to the voice of wisdom.

He reacted just like his predecessor, Valentine. An unkown observer would think that the younger officer was interested in no more than getting another accomplishment to his starry curriculum.

A distant illusion.

Of course that he'd get back into damn "copper mode", and refuse the family's help, to carry an impossible burden alone, and risk his life in vain.

"Do you really think I'd let a cold case loose in my Evidence Room?? Besides, he doesn't know what he's looking for!"

Despite the extreme situation, the reluctant accomplice was still an adorable sight, and a lovely company. The grumpiness with which he hid the obvious vulnerability broke the trespasser's heart. And the ironic answers to all bickering amused him to no end.

Of course, that sourpuss would get even sourer if Sidney remarked on how he looked like an excited thief carring his prey, when he laid avid hands in the clue, and got distracted with the possibilities it opened.

In reality, both got distracted. They went away safe and sound, because they owned their lifes to Sgt. Goodfellow. Two more souls who'd vouch for the giant's pure heart, when God welcomed him into Heaven.

Sullivan was not an ungrateful man, although his inflexibility could inspire envy in a stone; and his stubborness, in an immortal entity.

He went alone to the station, in the pursuit of the dead jounalist's briefcase. Like that wasn't enough, followed the Father, whom he'd mistaken for an interested trader in favour of the conspirators, and nearly got both killed by Harriet Greensleaves, an evil woman successfully disguised as a victim of domestic abuse.

Sidney would like that the stubborn innocent could learn to trust the family without the cost of more lifes.

Sid would also like to be free of the need of waiting an entire week, in bitter suspense, after going back home... or to his caravan... in a cold night, of rare clean, starry sky, after drinking his last pints at the Red Lion, before the court and the stay of some months in the fridge, and finding a brown paper bag on his tiny, wobbly table.

The intact, labled package, exactly as it was in the shelf at the police station. Inside, the evidence, plus a bonus, the case file.

He still was the most upstanding, honest man in town, and paid all of his debts accordingly. On the other hand, he was susceptible to the bad influence of a cheap thief, who now smiled from ear to ear.

Immediately sober, Sidney ran up the field and the dusty road after, in a mad dash to the police cottage.

Didn't even need to think about picking locks in doors or windows. There was the lonely inhabitant, sat by the back door, with a mug of cold tea in a hand, and a star map, just like the one kept by the Father in St. Mary's library, in the other. A rare sight in shirtsleeves, an insomniac, unsheltered and placid, sitting in the cold night, playing a staring contest against the sky.

The quiet stare flew to the newcomer, just for the time needed to sign that his arrival was noticed, before it went back to the counting of stars and galaxies. Like this was more natural than a worker resting in bed, after a long, tiring day.

Regardless of the light, or its absence, around the two man, Sid known that his interlocutor hadn't slept in days, maybe weeks; and that he refused any superior orders, medical attention, or other disciplines that came with a prescription for barbiturates.

He knew and felt the extension of the dark circles under the hazel eyes, the pain and oppresion, physical and mental, the wounds, the scars, the bruises, as well as if they were upon his own flesh.

Also knew that he'd need a silver tongue to convince the benefactor of the sincerity of his gratitude, and his offer of caring feelings.

A simple, modest thief, a man of insignificant crimes and petty ambitions, had his little skills in his hands, not in his words.

There was only the easiest way to start. He sat in the stone floor, close to the back door of the cottage, and closed the distance between the policeman and himself with the package.

"Evening, Tom."

No answer, but at least now he had some attention.

Practically every single person with whom the austere Inspector had interacted with would hate the intensity of that stare. A silent, gloomy attention, thal almost never blinked, and reminded the unlucky observer of a loud, clear, constant warning of "Keep away!".

Sid also had a body language that went misunderstood by most of the people who passed through his life. And, for the sake of his hard-earned livelihood, learned to discern other postures that went off the beaten path. Among them, there was Tom's unique way to keep people at arm's lenght, to evaluate the people around him, to calculate all possiblities to reveal the minimum possible about himself, and to avoid to get even more hurt, at all costs.

Nothing could be more appealing, more unresistible, to Sid, as the potential of the shy stargazer giving him his hurt trust again.

All at his reach was gratitude and retribuition.

"Thanks, handsome. Thank you, a lot. You saved my sorry skin..."

The compliment, to his aesthetic beauty, or to his gentlemany, thankless honesty, made him look away.

Or maybe was he blushing? How sweet.

"Without your goodness, I'd spend six months in a damn cell."

The other voice failed in a hesitant answer.

"I thought you saw it as just the payment of a debt... Nothing more."

So, that was the poor sweetheart's problem, all the time. He haven't let him down, he lost all hope, before everyone, and bid him farewell. After all, he had all reasons to believe he'd come back dead, after the encounter with the "Enlighted". At the end of the hellish ordeal, the clueless upstanding didn't know how to thank the beloved accomplice for the victory.

The same innocent of always.

Relieved and even more grateful, Sid grinned and shaked the package.

"No way! We were in the thing against the Illu... Illumi... Illumi-whatever... those guys..."

It was so good to see him trying to hide a smile, trough the corner of that beautiful mouth, no matter how briefly.

"... 'cause you came to us, and asked for our help. You got into the family, you're one of us now. And we never let each other down. You'll never see any of us, left to get drown, in the boiling water..."

While his attention was still into holding back some mirth, Sid could hide his own blush, and gather the bone to say the few words still missing from his speech.

"I'd get into your thing anyway, 'cause I love you, and I wouldn't sit still and watch you get arrested for something you'd never do!"

The usual guarded expression in the stoic face opened in naive stunning.

"What??"

It wasn't typical, seeing a man who could force confessions from cold-blooded killers, getting speechless after a talk with a small-time thief. However, it was even funnier than stealing evidence, or exchanging banter with him.

"And now, because you're family, I have even more reason to love you, and take good care of you."

Sid ignored the discomfort of his burning cheeks, and smirked again, before getting up, and taking the other unprotected body with his.

"That's it, mate. When have you last slept? Or ate? Or had any medicine for these wounds??"

"I can't remember... "

Merciful Lord. He felt so cold and rigid. Felt, now more than ever, like a figure cast in stone, marble, or some rusty metal. If all he could do was answer his questions with a weak voice, he was terrible exhausted, maybe even sick.

Or just a bit stunned, with the feelings that neither of them had never confessed.

"Your working hours are already over, Tom. Get over your Inspetor mode. Let's go home. Come back to me."

The cottage was still bereft of the mismatched fusion of order and mess, zeal and forgetfullness; the environment of an inhabitant who was nearly always out, who could almost never stop for a while and enjoy its comfort. The atmosphere Sid remembered and missed was still not there.

Tom was very shy and introverted, and Sid didn't want to think on how devastated he felt, going back to the place that slowly became his home, and see it invaded, nearly destroyed, brutally ransacked by the search of evidence that had never even been there.

First, the kind-hearted rascal would take good care of the living. And after, he'd help him... as much as possible... to take care of the home. Their home, with some hope.

The door closed behind them, and he sheltered the slightly smaller body in a long, timeless embrace, a hug like they missed for uncountable days, lived by both like infinite, bitter years. Adored each inch of the body melted against his own, molded in a perfect fit, and the quiet relieved sigh, impossible to discern from whose mouth it went, and Sid didn't care; too busy in feeling dematerialize, in his body, the tension he didn't know that was guarded there for too long.

Bending down, just a little, he got drunk in Tom's smell, before kissing his hair, his forehead, his temples, his lips, and delight in the heat that slowly, so slowly, enveloped both their bodies.

Under any other circunstances he'd love to caress, spoil and venerate each little part of that delectable body, before pleasing them both in loving possession. He'd love to watch the quiet, stoic expression melting into innocent, stunned pleasure. With some reluctance, the former con man let go of the luscious mouth, and fell even more in love with it and its owner, and the needy murmur it couldn't bite back. Also let go of of their embrace, just enough to open the cuffs of the black-haired man's shirt sleeves, and to let his braces loose, before resting a hand in his still bruised wrist, and the other in the back of his neck, and call both their attentions to other needs, more urgents in that moment.

"Come here. Let's give you a nice warm bath, and put something in these wounds."

The insomniac still had some complaints, something about not being a child, neither being under no pain and suffering no wounds;and the ultimate proof of his clean bill of health was his presence at home, instead of the Cottage Hospital in the nearest town.

Or maybe that was what Sid could telepatically guess, from his lover's rough, broken voice, and the words suffocated by the face pressed against the crook of his neck, and the desperate hands squeezing his back.

“It's all right. I'm not letting go of you any sooner. Come here.”

He dozed in the warm water of the tub, and was totally unaware of Sidney's furious, horrified gaze. Was just too lost, far away from the borders of conscience, trying to find out, why was him in the water, and not in the backyard, counting stars, like usual, or in the armchair in the sitting room, curled up with a book, or in the bed, under the cocoon of blankets that he hid under in the coldest nights. Didn't notice the loving, careful hands washing and massaging his body, neither the pained eyes full of empathy, making an inventary of his cuts, bruises and wounds.

Didn't feel the ointment in his hurting flesh, nor the new bandages in the wrists, ribs and right hand. His very tired, green and naive eyes opened up on their own accord, well-fixed, but completely blind to his beloved. Like he dreamed of his presence, but the solidity of the dream was more strange than its irreality.

Wasn't used to sleeping, even less dreaming. There was never a safe, peaceful place to do it. Lived in constant alert, kept his eyes open, for the maximum of possible time, and when he closed them, only nightmares appeared before his eyelids. Usually, the creatures there were, indeed, pretty solid, and had really big hands. But their touch was cold, bloody and painful; never warm and soothing.

Since his eyes were unable to show him a logic image, they went closed again.

Sid washed himself in a hurry, quickly got rid from the smell of alcohol in his body and breath. Had years of practice into going to work, absolutely functional, after a good, long night ot drinking and brawling. Got up and off the tub, taking Tom with him, before getting them both dry, and dressing his wounds in new bandages.

Tried to tell his own heavy mind that dressing him in some pyjama bottoms was hard because he was a very, very attractive image, so perfectly into his reach, so effective at getting him distracted. Both the petty man and his conscience knew that it was the relief of finally, finally see that he was safe and resting. The usually tense muscles, the sinew that was dead cold not too long before, were now warm and malleable to the touch, like Mrs. M's homemade bread dough.

Sid chuckled with his own comparation, and with how it'd affect both people who were the subjects in his figure of speech. His delighted mirth grew when he felt Tom's hands tangling in his torso, searching for him in a tired, slack grip, treading his chest like a sleeping cat.

He retributed the kind caress, in a continuous, careful touch on the young man's naked back. His hands roamed carefully over the recent bruises, and other scars, older, probably from the War, things that Tom was terribly ashamed of talking, even more of showing. The con man delighted in feeling the body nestled in his chest relax even more, in warm docility. Threw the blankets over them both, and fell asleep, enjoying the shelter of mutual conforting, healing warmth.

Tom took several hours to get back even a shred of his conscience. Didn't remember when was the last time he slept trough the night. His head felt like full of cotton. His already very off notion of time went away, along with the sunlight streaming through the window. Tried a clumsy movement to sit up in the bed, and after waking Sid up, accidentally, ended back in the lazy brunet's chest.

"Morning, handsome. It's your day off. Come back here!"

"??"

Sid exulted. He wouldn't lose his freedom, nor the contact with the family, nor even the man he loved even more, after fighting those darn conspirators.

They were both alive, whole, free, cleaned their wounds that were slowly closing, while they could rest to fight another day.

Regardless of the adventures, news, or dangers brought by the next sun, Sid was feeling optimistic and well ready to face whatever would appear in their way. Being a petty, mediocre small-time thief haven't made him unable to fight world-level conspirators, for the sake of the safety of his beloved and his family.

Tom couldn't struggle for more than some seconds, trying in vain to awake his blurry conscience. Hands, enormous, kind and warm, ran over his back, the hands from the dream, counting, feeling, playing with his vertebrae and his shoulder blades. Their caress molded and rebuild his nerves and bones, transforming him into a shapeless, thoughtless mass of confort.Didn't stop to ask himself about why was him in bed, instead of the tub, or why Sid was there. Didn't have strenght to more than fall back asleep.

The reformed criminal smiled to his innocent lover, adoring the pleasure of watching him, and the illusion of protecting him, while he finally got some rest after his hellish ordeal.

#my fics #fanfiction #fanfics in English #Father Brown #Sid/Sullivan #otp: arrest yourself; you stole my heart

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