author's note: hello lovelies! I have had some time this week to write and I've seen this requested on tumblr by a couple - as nobody else seemed to be writing it I figured I would. generally just putting it out there, I am NOT in support of where the writers are going. there is too much misery on the show at the moment but what has been filmed is what will soon be on our screens, and so I felt I needed to do a more comforting take on events that seem to be depicted in the trailer. obviously not everything has a happy ending, but I writing this one-shot from a solutions and strength perspective is much more appropriate than being all horrifying and dismal. tackling this as sensitively as I possibly can. it's quite different from my usual style and is solely from Ethan's point of view. difficult to handle the inner thoughts of a character as an entire fic. again, tenses and grammar *may* be iffy in places but I have tried to get rid of anything obviously wrong as I go. do let me know what you think as this is very different for me! happy to take more suggestions when I have the time if you'd like to leave them

(a big thank you in advance to TheBeautifulNerd and Panic-at-casualty for contributing in whatever way - you stars)

rated "T" initially as conflict and specific events are implicit and not graphic - trigger anyway just to be on the safe side

-x-

One big stride is all that is needed from Ethan and he is there. For a fleeting moment he wonders if it is all a mistake. Praying, visiting the dead, gazing at the sky as if his brother will float down and unclip his wings and decide to stay. Meddling with drugs and science has served him well in his lifetime, for he is now holding down a respectable profession, but his capabilities are limited within the four walls of a hospital. He can't save his brother now. Nobody could at the time. Now he is long gone. Human existence — how silly and curious a thought all in one. For the sake of brotherhood he plods duly on, brogue-clad and thoughtful.

He stops still at what catches his eye in the distance.

Spring breeze lifts the wisps of hair from the back of Alicia's neck. Her body shivers a little in recognition of how chilly it has dropped. The sunset behind her is transfixing in its size and glory; rich hues of oranges and pinks spill upwards from the bottom of the sky. Night is coming.

Grass gives a little under his feet as he nears the sight before his eyes. The graveyard is a desolate place to be but then, he supposes, she is fiercely independent. Likely reasoning is that she wanted to pay her own tribute on the anniversary of Caleb's death. She never did get a chance to express her own sorrows because he himself forever hogged the first place limelight for "most hurt", and quite rightly too. Grief is relative to the individual and it is wholly possible it is only hitting her now. His four years of clinical practice tell him that much, notwithstanding his impressive experience of bouncing back after yet another relative flees earth to this stars.

He is fixed to the ground rather awkwardly, a mere several feet behind her. Alerting her to his presence now would be embarrassing. A "hey" instantly makes him look pathetic, "didn't see you there" definitely sounds like something only a stalker would say and a clear of the throat is just rude. Any sudden noise in a graveyard is disrespectful and certainly wouldn't adhere with his own standards of courtesy. Mute is far from ideal but the favourable option in this situation.

Instead of sensing his presence like he fears, she kneels down just a little bit more in inspection of the engravings. Incredibly heartfelt words reside there — he knows because he created it himself. Twelve whole months later and still just as monumental as the sore day it was planted there.

She shifts awkwardly. Oh, how he feels the need to say something. Anything. His mouth opens in quick succession then clamps shut again as she moves. Her ankles look red, burned from prolonged crouching, so she relieves them and sits on the dewy grass. A bunch of cellophane-wrapped flowers are still clutched tightly between her hands. Ethan pictures it: his brother looking down all scornful and amused at her sentimental gesture. Plants belong in the garden, he'd say, and not for people. They roll from her hands and land on the nearby grass with a disconcerting thud, like his internal ridiculing has been sensed by her. Admittedly they're lovely. Deep and pink and not very Cal but bought with only the best intentions.

The swallow she takes is audible.

'Thought I'd come see you Cal,' she begins, lightly caressing the headstone and then breathing a little sigh. 'Quickest and slowest year of my life has managed to pass in the time you've been gone. Time can be weird.'

The trees dangle their budding arms and sway gently as if listening.

'Feels like forever though. I've certainly changed. You always were the best listener, even though you liked to play it down sometimes. Patient and caring and offering advice worth its weight in gold. I never meant to do you wrong and I valued your comic relief. You were like a tonic to my life. I miss that so much. Not a second of our days together were boring. I-I really need help right now. It is much easier talking to you than it is someone who can answer. Something happened and— and I feel worthless, and embarrassed, and disgusting, and all open. I can't voice this to anyone else because they all have their own agendas. Even your little brother moved on. He has this girlfriend — or person anyway — you would have liked her. Big things happened and he became consultant and we rowed in the worst way. We rowed in the worst way. Must be a blow considering you took a knife for the pair of us whilst we were out drinking to know that we're nothing anymore. You were so selfless. All this made it so that he happened. Cause and effect. Anyway... I was in the pub having a drink the other night. I guess you would've been proud of me for putting myself out there.'

Defensively, Ethan stiffens a little. He happened? Is the 'he' supposed to mean him? Is he really such a regret of hers? And proud. Odd way to term a response to a borderline alcohol problem. Attempts at intimacy with a concrete slab— laughable. He feels like scoffing or declaring loudly that he isn't there. Out of everybody in the world, if there was any trace of Caleb Knight left, he would be the one to know. He's tried reaching out enough times after all.

'—two drinks from the bar. Bearing in mind I'd already had three, including spirits, so I was tipsy in my usual way. Then I can't really remember. I must have fainted or something and... I wanted you—'

'I'm not the same, but I'm here. Unless I'm the problem of course.'

The words tumble out his lips before he can stop them. Her neck jerks around, blue eyes simultaneously widening and watering at the sight of him. Shakily she rises, expression wobbling. 'You're too late.'

'Woah, woah,' his legs spring into action and he is following her, weaving in between each grave as if it were a maze of morbidity. 'Too late for what? I didn't mean to disturb you in the slightest, I just couldn't help but speak up. He's my brother too.'

Her words are carried by the wind. 'You shouldn't have heard any of that.'

'If you need to talk, whatever it is, I am all ears. I just want to help, Alicia—'

'Don't touch me!' She snaps, vaulting away from him as if by reflex. More than a subtle flinch. A clear signal of leave me alone, received like a punch to the stomach.

He accepts he is wholly to blame after putting the walls back up between them. If she doesn't feel able turn to him with her troubles then it is obvious she feels she can't. His feelings of betrayal over the blog pale into insignificance as he hears every choked out syllable. Irony of the situation is almost too blatant to bear — his brother's motto was always "don't sweat the small stuff", yet here they stand, in the same man's grave, after Ethan drowned them both with enough perspiration to fill several small lakes over such trivialities like her articles.

His reaction drove her away.

And she had every right to express herself via the blog. It only ever was a cry for help, written with levels of undiluted passion and eloquence that sent him reeling before the anger set in. Maybe it was his jealousy that she'd been in a position to voice her opinions so freely. Maybe it was down to secret admiration of the gutsy traits she owns being displayed with such flair. Maybe frustration. Maybe anger. Maybe his own sense of isolation. But inexcusable, he knows, for it has pushed her away, and now she has promoted the marching to sprinting. Out and away from the cemetery.

Cursing himself for all the times he's slacked off at the gym, he too picks up the pace until he is in the entrance. Shit. She has vanished out of sight. His lungs begin to burn so he stops still. Running like children. Like it's some sort of sick game only nobody is winning or losing. Like he — the professional, suit-wearing and stubble-sporting individual — is a young boy yet again. Only mildly demeaning. This aside, he's more than prepared to swallow his pride and continue. Though his breath has returned, his chest hasn't relaxed. It is sheer panic.

He would do anything for her and he is certain she knows this, albeit perhaps deep down. Is that the problem? Could radiating too much care and benevolence make him nothing better than a doormat? Could she be trying her luck just to test his feelings? He swallows and fumbles for his car keys. Insinuation might be fatal in such a situation. Something is amiss with her. Of course he knows that. If he is honest, his intuition knew ever since he noticed her there in the first place. Visiting dead people is an activity reserved for those who are weak or soul-searching or both. He, of all people, knows that for certain. He swallows and fumbles for his car keys.

'Sorry it was a flying visit Cal,' he mumbles into the open. 'I need to go.'

-x-

A slow and steady stream of swear words escape his lips as he ascends the multi-storey car park to the very top level. He is exhausted now and bed is calling. It is after nine and two hours of trawling the streets has been both tiresome and excruciating. His strange hunch is sadly proved true as soon as the unmistakable figure comes into view. Just standing, looking out. Not about to do anything stupid. Alicia likes going on roofs to contemplate and has for as long as he's known her.

He winds down the window and leans out, immediately noticing how much colder it seems to be.

'Pop Princesses 2008 or Cheryl. What is it to be?' Ethan calls.

She doesn't even turn round. Granted, he sees it was a bad joke, but she'd normally giggle anyway.

'Or is it pizza — garlic crust of course?

His attempts at engaging her are futile and she continues to ignore him. Despair starts to take hold. Sure, he could try every trick in the book, but simple cajoling always used to be enough to edge her into cheeriness. Her hunched shoulders, matted hair and general absence of response is enough to tell him it is something that food can't fix.

'Lots of stars out tonight,' he comments, closing the car door gently and standing beside her. 'Sort of thing that Cal wouldn't notice, or would notice, but would quickly forget about it.'

'They're really bright.'

The three words take him aback and he nods slightly too ambitiously. 'Yes they are. The longer you look, the more you see.'

There is a long pause and he wonders if he should say something to break the silence that has again settled. Car engines buzz down below faintly and she rests her chin on the back of her hands.

'A-are you not feeling a little chilly?'

Her eyes are still glassy and unmoving.

'For my piece of mind then, if nothing else,' he begins, 'let's go back to mine where we can talk properly. It's a bit, uh, isolated... up here. Not great to be here in the dark by yourself.'

'What's the worst that could happen,' she mumbles back, more of a statement than a question.

She sounds jaded and rightly cynical, but the monotony of her tone sends shivers up his spine. All the same, she numbly opens the passenger door and climbs in. He knows better than to try and ask her again just yet.

The drive is quiet but by no means peaceful. He is tormented by thoughts, what ifs, concern, questions. Old CDs do work wonderfully at breaking up silence, he thinks. Even if it is terrible music.

He glances in her direction when the car rolls to a stop at traffic lights. 'Rihanna was going through a mid-life crisis at this point I think. I remember packing to go to med school when this was top of the charts. So... aggressive.'

'I was still in school,' she comments quietly. 'First year of A levels maybe.'

'And were you a fan at the time?'

'Were you?'

He smirks a little before conceding. 'Don't answer a question with a question. But of course I was. Bom bom bia all around the uni campus, what's not to adore?'

She halts the nail biting for a moment and sniffs quietly. 'Hearing is believing.'

'Huh? Oh, no... no! You have my word. I'd only do it in private.'

Somewhere in between her quietness and his own realisation that, in actual fact, he was a hypocrite, and how would she ever open up if he couldn't even sing, he concludes that bursting into song is the only way forward.

It truly is terrible: his own ears are ringing with every missed note. But her hands are back in her lap and she is facing forwards again. Something makes her lean across and buckle the seatbelt. Discreet but he notices. Almost as if his dreadful singing is enough to make living feel a little more worth it.

It is very much a guessing game, following the unfamiliar roads until he ends up somewhere he vaguely recognises.

The passenger is most unhelpful. Only six months ago would she have been furiously brandishing a map, cursing men, specifically Ethan, on their poor spatial awareness and direction skills. He would follow her lead, though disgruntled, and they would definitely end up in another part of the country.

The lack of light certainly doesn't aid him in familiarising himself. Digging out the SatNav from the glove compartment would be silly, but he is conscious they can't simply drive round all night long.

Two more minutes pass.

Relief sets in when he turns a corner that leads them back on to a main road. His flat is only a few minutes away now. Good, he thinks. Nine is late. In fact, it's so late he half thinks he should be heading off to her flat and not his.

Alicia is now dozing in the passenger seat aside him. Deep purple shadows encasing her eyes are a telling tale of abundant restless nights, for she never tires easily. The heating is on full in the car, which he realises has likely helped her along the way. Still, her expression isn't relaxed: she frowns a little and every last facial muscle is tensed.

The journey ends at his flat. As the car judders to stationary, he finally exhales.

His phone.

He hasn't checked it in hours. Since last April, he resolved that he would. It's fallen through. It is pitch black dark and after everything, he should know better.

One missed call from Charlie. Probably minor. Two missed calls from Leigh-Anne and a text that reads: 'Kiegan has smiled.'

He glances upward slightly and notices yellow light pooling out the bedroom window. Of course she's there. They are, rather, if you include the baby. No choice though. He has go to go in. But Alicia can't go too, it would be too awkward, and too much bad blood.

Making a mental note to hurry, he hops out the car and locks it for good measure. He buzzes the door, feeling weirdly dependent on the woman inside his own flat who is little more than a stranger.

It crackles and he is in, over the threshold in a few strides.

'Hey.' Leigh-Anne appears in a dressing gown, holding an almost-empty Avent bottle. 'Long shift? Thought you finished at four.'

'Mm,' he replies, finding himself in the bedroom quickly. Drawer after drawer is nearly pulled clean off its hinges and with no success. Every square inch of carpet has been taken over by tiny garments and nappies and clothes and hairdryers and cardboard boxes. It felt fine at first, when his guilt was the strongest, but it is highly irritating now he can't find the one thing he wants. The quicker she finds a flat of her own, the better.

'Can I help? Tea, maybe? How many sugars is it again? It's two, isn't it?'

'No, thanks!' He forces out with a smile she doesn't recognise as contrived.

'Alright. Just in the lounge with Kiegs, just got him off so please try not to wake him. Um, let me know if there's anything I can—'

'Yep. Will do.'

His living room. His place. Ruled by a woman and her baby. What an impetuous call, to actively encourage them to stay. Based on his own loneliness. He wasn't thinking straight and now he is bitterly paying the price. Alicia would know that it was one sugar not two.

Alicia.

More rummaging and rooting finally upturns a pair of glasses. They are wonky and the lens is a little cracked but it doesn't matter. He slides them on his face in the hope it will make her feel like they've rewinded time just a little. He then glances around the room for anything else he might need. An old top, just in case. The spare toothbrush and a rogue aerosol deodorant. Phone charger. Everything gets shoved in a plastic carrier and he wills it not to break. 5p and flimsy but strangely vital for him.

He thuds into the hallway and peers in the lounge for good measure. The baby is mewling pitifully, not even relaxing in the arms of his own mother. It is like someone has wrapped a band tightly around Ethan's head. Before the throbbing takes a worse hold, he catches her eye and gives her a little wave.

'I'll be back tomorrow.'

'Where are you going?' She instantly replies with a frown.

He just shakes his head. 'Someone close needs my help.'

-x-

It takes less than twenty seconds for him to reach the car. Easing open the handle, he is greeted with the sight of her. But not as he thought. Horror fills him at once.

Quickly he clambers in, eyes blazing wildly with panic.

'Whatever is the matter?'

She continues to wail, a keening sound that resonates throughout the entire car. Neighbours will come outside and any extra attention is definitely undesired. He has to act quickly.

'Right, I'm going to get us back to yours as quickly as I can. I understand you might not want to tell me, but talking will feel better, I promise. Whatever it is can be fixed, a-and I will help.'

The ten minutes journey is made all the more excruciating by her unrelenting sobbing, which proves a huge distraction. Despite being a careful driver, his eyes struggle to stay fixed on the road and mirrors.

Crying stops abruptly when they reach her flat and he isn't sure silence is any better. The pitch of it, how distraught she had looked and his complete lack of power in the situation all contribute to the shivers now making their way up his spine.

They both walk inside of their own accord using the spare key of his that he never did hand back. Instead of limbs hanging by her sides, they are tightly crossed over her chest. A burglar alarm starts to blare in the distance. She flinches. He gently closes the door behind them and puts it on latch.

Plumes of must waft down and he splutters a little. She's gone to sit down but he hangs behind to look around. Last week's washing up glares from the draining board. Eerily untidy for a devout cleaner like Alicia. Surely not, he thinks. She has forever been scrupulous with the housework, even after completing a series of night shifts. Making a tidy home had been her way of keeping control: lives are saved and lives are lost but her same sparkling living space could be returned to after each day. Maybe it's changed. And what would he know, after all? The distance between them has only grown over the months.

He is about to offer a cup of tea but notices something. A black bin bag protrudes from over the stairs, bulging and smelling in all the wrong ways. It is none of his business, and, judging by the state of the flat, it is more than likely just old food. Or even discarded clothing — perhaps she hasn't had the time to browse and donate to the charity shops at her leisure. He crouches down hoping curiosity killed the cat will not apply.

He reels at the stench before he even touches it. Smoke. Unmistakable.

Hours of coaxing her out of the odd cigarette after a tough day all in vain. It would make sense if she had a smoking or drugs problem, and would explain both the secretive behaviour and the crying. Bad habits die hard, after all. Yes. He half feels excited, as if he's figured it out. Of course, he still highly disapproves, but it's relatively straightforward to get her back on the right track.

Almost excited, he rips open the bag. Black ashes tumble onto the carpet and around his socked feet.

Hearing the noise, Alicia appears in the doorway. 'Don't go near that, come away! Ethan, please—'

He squints a little, readjusting his glasses. 'What is it? Clothes clear out? Are my old tops mixed in with these? Say the cream shirt was spared, those cuff links—'

She collapses against the wall with head in hands.

Guilt twists his insides and he goes to sit with her. 'I know I've hurt you and I wish I could change things. I didn't quite realise it was bothering you this much though. I just assumed you had moved on like I had about the blog. I don't want to be enemies, far from it.'

No answer. The noises of grief drown out his words.

'It's something else, isn't it?' He urges, trying to keep the wobble from his voice. 'The condom that night, a baby—'

Her body judders with the pain, hearing every word but still not replying.

'—my baby?'

'No,' she manages. 'Nothing like that. I wish it was. You– you're being too nice to me, Ethan, and if only you knew.'

'Knew what? You could have put me up for sale, sacrifice me, leave me to mentor Rash, abandon me in Primark on a Saturday — that one with the four floors and countless escalators and heating full blast — and I'd never stop caring or being your friend. I have thought of so many possible reasons for your pain but I'm truly lost. Confide in me. You won't lose my support ever. I promise.'

His hand scrambles for hers. It is progress that she doesn't pull away, even though she isn't squeezing back. She sighs a little shakily and he takes a last glance over at her before she breaks the news.

Something bubbles deep down, akin to how he felt when he saw Cal stagger in 4am with a kebab. A bit of "you are so deeply flawed", and "you get yourself into some terrible situations" mixed in with "that's my person" and "I'd move mountains for you".

The corners of her mouth are down turned and her skin is blotchier than he has ever seen it before. Seeing her so morose makes him feel it too. And then his own additional feelings of responsibility.

'You know how I went to the pub after that shift with Eddie and we got drinks?'

He nods, stroking her thumb with his.

'I got a bit drunk. Like, drunk for me. I mixed them and I was already on antidepressants, so—'

Ethan pulls a face. 'Did he not stop you?'

New tears spring to her eyes and he realises this question was a mistake. Frantically, she wipes them with a jumper sleeve and continues. 'No, he didn't stop me drinking. He never wanted anything to stop. He just wanted lots of things to start.'

'A-and how did you feel?'

Yet again her face crumples. In less than a second, he is holding her close and stroking her hair. His worst fears are brutally confirmed. It is nearly as bad as walking in and seeing his brother on the table, in fact, worse, because he was the only one hurting then. The knowledge that Alicia is at all scared or sad is enough to ruin him.

Everything makes sense now. The running away. Burning garments — of course not his, for God's sake. Sobbing so violently in the car that she was even sick a little, because waking up trapped in an unfamiliar place in the dark was enough to bring back memories.

His head is so clouded he can scarcely begin to process the practicalities. Concrete advice will be no use. All he can do is hold her a little tighter and hope it communicates what he wants it to.

A woman so independent, so fiercely full of life, reduced by someone so worthless. Autonomy gone in a second. It all feels very wrong and he wants to glue all the pieces back together and rewind time to months earlier. His upset about the blog seems pathetic.

Regret surges through his veins as he thinks of all the shoulds. Should have been there. Should have been in the pub with her instead. Should have never taken the blog to heart. Should have never let her go.

'It isn't your fault,' he murmurs into her hair. 'None of this could ever be your fault.'

She nods. 'I know it's not.'

'I've killed a man before,' Ethan says quietly. 'The way I'm feeling at the moment—'

'Don't fight this for me, Eth.'

His expression hardens. 'How can I not? You can't just tell me something and expect me to keep schtum, I will have him and—'

Her lip wobbles. 'You promised you would just hear me out without reacting.'

True, he realises, but he never could see this coming.

'It was two nights ago since everyone went to the pub. At his place? So I'm presuming 48 hours... have you been to the police?'

Silence.

'I will go with you and we will do it tomorrow morning, not now. It's probably the last thing on your mind — sorry to be personal — but are you physically hurt—'

'Couple of bruises,' she mumbles.

'You haven't been checked for those either then?'

A head shake.

'That can be sorted tomorrow too. Elle, or me, or someone you've never met before can— we will sort this. You are not any weaker. I can't believe you even thought for a second that I wouldn't want anything to do with you. You are amazing, a-and you will heal from this. People will only support you.'

'I only went to see Cal because it felt easier. I thought you were tied up with Leigh-Anne and that baby, and—'

'Forget about them. I don't mingle with my enemies and let all this be proof. Sometimes it feels comforting to speak to someone you've lost, but they're a bit rubbish with answering. Cal would fight anyone off that hurt you, I assure you that much, there would be no stopping him. He always loved you, even when he let us be together. That was because he loved me too. Good guy underneath the foolish exterior. Even if he did steal from me and push us all out just to brown nose Sam Strachan...'

She giggles lightly. 'Remember when he did those accents?'

'Yes, and they were horrific. He always used to fancy himself as a Geordie though even before we met you. He'd strut around doing his "way ayes", genuinely. Only because he loved the football team as a kid.'

'What, he supported Newcastle? I'm from Newcastle and I wouldn't dream of that! It's a sin!' Alicia says.

'Well, he was a man with hidden depth. Or shallowness.' He chuckles for a second fondly. 'You must be starving. When was the last time you ate?'

She shrugs.

'Slept?' He asks tentatively.

'A good half week.'

'It's half ten. Might just catch the takeaway, pizza or a Chinese?'

'I don't think I could stomach either.'

He gives a sigh. 'You can't just not eat. I'll order food and then see how you feel when it gets here. We can save it for your breakfast tomorrow if you don't want it tonight.'

She nods. 'Yeah, okay.'

He leaves the room to order in the living room, because all the vouchers are kept in the drawer under the coffee table. Unlike his own room's upheaval, hers seems to remain pristine against the rest of the house. Everything is in order, but of course it has to be — food deals are important.

There are few phone numbers he knows well enough to recite: his brother's old number, Lily's, Alicia's, the E.D and the takeaway. Storing all the names of drugs and chemicals eats up a large chunk of his brain space, so he never has really been good with numbers since university. The stuff that matters takes up its own space in his brain, and food is definitely fundamental.

After ending up on hold a while, he orders way too much food once he finally gets through. It has been hours since he last ate, so as not to digest his own stomach, he impulse bought. A reckless spend of 40 but he doesn't mind parting with it tonight. Not really. Alicia will not turn her nose up at wedges and she definitely won't object to cookie dough — no matter how upset she is.

He puts the phone down and makes sure to tidy away the leaflets again.

'I'm off for a shower, I think. I probably should. Rinse the day off.' She says, forlorn, hanging in the doorway dithering a bit.

Her uncertainty breaks his heart — she is never indecisive yet that's exactly what she's been reduced to now. Even over the littlest of things.

'Okay,' he nods. 'You know where I am. I've locked all the doors so nobody's getting in, except the delivery guy. That's all it'll be if you hear the buzzer.'

She manages a weak smile. 'Thank you.'

-x-

He decides to tidy up a bit whilst she's in the shower. Simply because he knows that, if the tables were turned, he would too want someone to care. And she fussed around him for weeks after his brother died: made him eat properly, brought him glasses of water, washed his clothes, made him shower. It is only right that he does the same back.

Surprisingly, it doesn't take long to lift all the clutter. By the time the sound of trickling water stops, everything is more or less in order. Food still hasn't arrived and it is nearing eleven. He isn't averse to eating at any time of the day — night shifts have made him that way — yet it still feels a little too late.

The handle of the door begins to move so he plonks down on the sofa and fast averts his eyes back to the TV screen.

Lines are in place and he is mindful not to cross them. They are all the more prominent now and so he doesn't turn round. Her vulnerability doesn't need to be capitalised on by him, of all people.

'Are you okay?' He calls instead, pausing to hear her response.

'You can look at me, it's fine.' She whispers a little shakily.

He won't. Why the sudden change of heart? She didn't even want to be touched on the shoulder earlier. Not one bit of her is thinking straight and he has to be the one to make the decisions.

'Uh,' he begins. 'Why don't you go into your room, a-and...'

There is another long pause while she mulls this over.

'You think I'm disgusting. You are put off even by—'

'No, Alicia, don't be so ridiculous. This isn't about me. It is about you and your dignity. Your control. Natural assumption would be that another male seeing you anything less than dressed would be enough to make you feel terrible again – what does that make me if I let that happen? I wouldn't do it to you because I care.'

'But you're different,' she argues quietly. 'I know for sure you wouldn't hurt me.'

Exasperated now, he shakes his head. 'You are completely missing the point. Go and put something on. One of my big T-shirts if you still kept any. Then we'll talk.'

Hearing the pitter patter of feet tells him she has given in and is sloping off, albeit reluctantly.

In many ways, he feels a bit cruel. Obliging to her every ask feels mandatory in the circumstances, but he is inadvertently taking on more of a brotherly role than a friend or a partner. It is what's needed, and he is using his best judgement in the situation, but it is tough when she doesn't cooperate.

Aside from this, he knows he is woefully unequipped to handle any such case. He has never had it happen to a loved one. And he wasn't there. There was such a gaping separation between them. Nobody is to blame now that it's happened, but the knowledge that it could've been so easily avoided makes him feel sick to his stomach.

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock to the door. Leaping up, he makes his way into the hallway and swings back the door.

'Sorry it's late, fella!' The driver enthuses.

He hands him the money in exchange for the boxes. 'Honestly, it-it's fine. We must be your last drop off. Busy shift?'

'Average,' the man nods as he sifts through his change. 'Late time to order on a Wednesday. Normally it's only teens at this time of night.'

'Well, we're doctors, so, no time is late—'

And we have been driving round the town for hours and talking and crying.

'I get it. You're appreciated, man. Keep up the good work and enjoy.'

'Thank you. Safe drive.'

Ethan is relieved to close the door and put an end to the exchange. Interaction exhausts him at the best of times, but making small talk about his career feels ridiculous. Still, he recognises that he could hardly say the real truth. That would have just been strange.

He bumbles back through into the living room, opening the boxes on the floor and sitting back on the sofa. The array of pizzas and side dishes tell him there will definitely be waste, but money is money and he can always take it round to the staffroom in the morning. Every last piece is guaranteed to be devoured if he does that.

Soon, Alicia emerges from the room with towel-dried hair and rosy cheeks. Her choice of top is interesting: the long sleeved one that neither of them had ever really liked. But it is the most sack-like of them all, definitely covering to at least her knees and all of her arms.

'Food's here. I say you try and pick up a new skill.'

'Meaning?' She replies, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a wince that doesn't go unnoticed.

'Guinness World Record for most amount of slices with garlic crusts eaten in one sitting. I have every faith. I bet there's an award for it.'

Predictably, she meets this with a look of scepticism and an eye roll. A piece is quickly in her hand nevertheless and she is chewing, though slowly.

He feels a sense of delight at this. His passing comment probably is having a similar effect as when you convince a toddler that their disgusting puréed food is in fact an aeroplane. Only the sound effects are missing.

Between them, they manage at least two and a half pizzas and five of the side dishes. Eventually, the boxes are lifted through into the kitchen to be discarded. It is nearing the next day, but everything is clearer and feels a bit better now they have eaten.

He pops back through to settle himself on the sofa.

'I- uh, I'm not going anywhere tonight. I will sleep here if that's okay.'

Her eyes widen. 'You don't have to. You have done more than enough, honestly, and I will be fine—'

'Let me for my peace of mind then if not yours.'

She sighs. 'Now I feel guilty, you're fussing like a mother hen and it isn't even your place to. We were so distanced, I-I don't want you to feel any sense of responsibility towards me now. I will lock the doors and I will be fine. I was only so hysterical earlier because of not eating a thing and desperate lack of sleep.'

'This is what friends are for, alright?'

Friends.

Their eyes fix on each other for longer than they should, curious and a little sad, undermining that very term in a heartbeat. He clears his throat a little and corrects himself.

'This is what I am for.'

-x-

It is beyond late now. So late that, a better way of describing the time would be early. Ethan's eyelids sting a little more with every blink. All the foolproof tricks insomniacs use are failing him, so he is resigned to staying up. His mind won't switch off. He is still livid and contemplating the best course of action when daylight comes once more. There isn't one that will keep everybody happy. His head and his heart hurt. Sleep is a thing of the past for him anyway.

Three hours have passed since he and Alicia went to their respective rest spaces. The night is agonising and slow, but he has no desire to leave. He pushes his toes to the end of the sofa and wriggles his legs a bit, uncomfortable. Heating is on full blast because neither remembered to turn it down. Switching it off would involve turning on lights and it would be selfish to even risk waking her up.

Occasionally he hears a sniff or two, but he can't be sure whether it is involuntary or not — she is no stranger to funny noises in her sleep. With a weird sense of nostalgia, he recalls the one liners she uttered in her sleep well: "where is my pasta", "do not wear those stupid odd socks in public again", "sod off Ethan" and "my degree is a lie". The last one he checked up on to be safe, which involved a very odd conversation with a confused Geordie receptionist, and it transpired that she did in fact have a medical degree, and a first at that. Something he had no clue about until that day.

His mobile vibrates against the sofa, trapped underneath his thigh. The glare of the screen against his glasses makes him squint and hold it away from his face. The glasses. He never did take them off. Just to be Nibbles again. The boy she knew last year. He hopes she saw the symbol and felt comforted by the sight of their return.

One new message sent at 3:03am. A minute ago. It's from Alicia.

Can you come through?

He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and plods on through, wondering why

'You could have just shouted,' he says. 'Can I get the light?'

'Please do.'

He switches it on and rubs at his face, managing a smile, and perches on the end of the bed.

'How you doing?'

'Just wide awake, that's all.' She sighs. 'Constantly have this feeling of dread, like something bad is going to happen.'

'That's a natural response to what has happened, but I can assure you, you are perfectly safe. Out of harm's way.'

'You don't know that,' she shakes her head, anguished. 'It has happened once and could easily again.'

'But it won't. You must reframe your thinking, okay? Sleep isn't coming to me either. All those fried carbs were dripping with salt and it's sent my digestive system into a bit of a coma. Can't be helping.'

That sounds even more pathetic out loud, he thinks. He has to follow it up.

'I'm going to get some water, do you want a glass? Or anything else to eat, maybe?'

Alicia thinks for a second. 'I have a massive bottle of water down here under my bed. One litre for emergencies.'

'Okay, I'll get glasses then—'

She bolts up. 'Just stay.'

His eyes widen with surprise. 'The sofa isn't too bad at all.'

Tears spring into her eyes again, enough to dissolve the shielded front he has managed to hold up all evening. 'I want you to.'

'You don't have to say that if it's not what you feel comfortable with—'

'It would make me feel better. There isn't much point in being awake in separate parts of the flat. We might as well keep each other company a while.'

'Yeah,' he replies with a nod. 'As soon as you are bored of me though, you know where to send me back to. Promise you will. Don't do anything if it's not what you want—'

'You don't have to tiptoe around me — I'm not that delicate,' she says, 'never have been and vow to never be in the future either.'

'There is a difference between being confessing to fragility and embracing self care. I just want you to do the latter. If my intentions are misconstrued, it is likely because I'm near delirious myself. I know your strength and I have learned from it in the past. Force to be reckoned with, you are.' He stops fiddling with the loose thread on the duvet cover and gives her a rueful smile.

She chews her lip, pensive, before deciding to go ahead anyway. 'I get why you wouldn't look earlier, you thought you were doing it for me,' she says, wriggling out of the top. 'You could probably do to have an idea before tomorrow. I know what happened with us- happened, but I still trust you. We see all these patients in our job that become distrustful of those around them when something similar happens, but it's not like that. I have bottled it up and been scared for two days and I'm ready to lean on those around me. That won't change.'

'It-it seems like you've really thought a lot. It is up to you who you let in though. Nobody can judge you for that, do take your time,' he says uneasily.

He hasn't much time to formulate the right response and all his words have turned to jelly. Though far from life changing, there are marks there, and he wants to hurt the man responsible in the same way - if not worse.

'Uh, they will heal.' He nods, propping himself up on his fist. 'They will be gone in a matter of days. I- you've taken something, yes? Paracetamol, or-or ibuprofen?'

'Co-codamol. Need to get some more from work the day after tomorrow.'

'I really don't think that's wise, working so soon,' he says, 'I did it after Cal died and I wasn't ready to go back. I see it in retrospect, you ought to stay home and do things that will help you feel better.'

She pulls a bigger jumper back on and wriggles down under the covers. 'You're a pal, but I don't want to draw any more attention to myself. I'm on shift with Rash, he will keep me on my toes the whole day long. Look, I've got most the hurting out of my system. It can only get better. After all, life goes on.'

'Optimistic.' He nods, carefully refraining from calling it inspiring just to be clear he doesn't advocate it. There is potential for tension to arise, and this, he doesn't want. 'Anyway, aren't you out this weekend?'

'It's meant to be Charlotte's delayed first birthday party. I am godmother and all, so I should probably make an effort. I'll be straight there if Louise delivers her promise and actually bakes cakes, proper ones, not ones she's bought from Marks and Spencers and is fobbing off as her own. She did that last time, did you know?'

Ethan chuckles a little. 'That is just like her. Does she know you caught her out?'

'Pfff- she will do on Saturday. I have photographic evidence of her smuggling them in from the car in the branded plastic carrier. Well, Max sent me it, and I thought I'd save it for future times of need.'

'Maybe she was reusing the bag. I do that instead of paying the tax every time.'

'Oh, you don't, do you? It's five pence! Don't be tight.'

'Not tight on the environment,' he replies with a smirk. 'Wonder how she would react if I issued a formal praise in commendation of Nurse Taylor, for being so environmentally friendly and setting the precedence for other staff members.'

Alicia gasps. 'You wouldn't dare! Imagine her face though.'

'Would be a bit of much needed comic relief.'

'Jokes aside though, she's a good friend to me. Always has been. I admire how feisty she is.'

He snorts. 'One way of putting it.'

'Seeing strong women makes me appreciate feminism, especially at times like these.' She mumbles blankly, taking a swig out of the water.

'Yeah. Recognising how great women are doesn't have to be that, though, it's just statement of fact. You don't need a name or any reasoning for being admirable. You just need to be you and not take on board the setbacks or experiences with people who don't know your worth. You are fiercely independent, brave, loyal, intelligent— not least, you're a wonderful daughter and friend to many. I have all the respect for you. Feminism won't pull you through in itself. You will.'

'You're in the wrong job,' is all she manages in retort, but warmth has reappeared in her eyes where it wasn't before. 'Wasted in your profession. Should have done politics.'

'I'm only being truthful. Back to what I said all those months ago - you should always take on board the nice things about yourself.'

They both stop talking, but it is a comfortable quiet. He doesn't need her verbalised thanks to tell she is appreciative. And even if she wasn't, it wouldn't make a difference to his levels of care in the slightest. It is refreshing that neither feels the need to speak for the sake of it, yet this sentiment of ease alone is enough to make his heart swell and break. God, he has missed it. And it was so stupid to ever let it go. His best friend sits before him on the bed, complete with bed hair and insecurities, and he has never loved another human with quite so irrevocably. Declaring his feelings would be distasteful at present, so he settles with expressions that she comfortingly mirrors right back. Things are far from perfect, but he is there to fix things now. Better late than never.