#carl morck... such a stupid fucking name

[samsblades]

about to abandon everything to write stupid x reader fics for fucking dept q. two episodes in and wow. i need to fuck that old man. i need to fix him SO BAD. FATHER FUCKING FAILUREEEE OH MY GOD i neeeeedddd to yell at him and i would make everything SO MUCH WORSE !!! it would be awesome <333

[bullet-prooflove]

History: Carl Morck x Reader (Dept. Q)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @1nsanityrising

Summary: Carl turns up on your doorstep after you literally steal his case.

Companion piece to:

The Huntress - You are forced to work with you ex after Carl brings a case to your attention.

Glossary:

Real terms you may not understand if you aren’t from the UK or don’t have knowledge of British policing.

Shetland – A small set of Scottish islands that are popular to visit due to their beauty.

SOCO – Scenes of Crime Officer – person in charge of forensics at a crime scene – UK equivalent to a CSI.

Forensics Archive – the company who oversees storage of  more than four million items relating to historic cases usually managed by local police forces.

Pillock – A stupid person

Child Benefit – A small sum of money paid to a parent by the government for those that have children.

Carl has forgotten that as much of an asshole as he is, you’re also one too. He thinks originally that’s why the two of you worked so well as a couple. You cancelled each other out, allowing for a more deeper and real connection.

Until he fucked it up.

Which is why he’s now standing in front of his empty desk in the basement, with a muddy seat and you, the file and the case box missing.

Two hours, that’s how long he was gone for. Two fucking hours so that he could fulfil his mandatory therapy requirement and not get his arse bounced back onto medical leave, and you’ve stolen his case.

When he turns up at your home he’s full of vinegar and piss. You reside in the basement flat of one of the old Georgian buildings in the city centre, not too far from where the station is located. He takes the stone spiral staircase below street level to the small green space you’ve created in the tiny enclosed area in front of your door. There’s an olive tree in the corner blossoming in the light of the dying sun. It’s surrounded by dozens of pots with colourful flowers he doesn’t know the names of blooming like starbursts under your care.

He's forgotten this about you, how you can take the shittiest of piece of concrete and turn it into something beautiful. It dampens his anger for a minute because you still have the planter he made you for your birthday, the one he cobbled together out of reclaimed wood. The damn thing barely holds itself together, but it’s there, filled with lavender, absolutely thriving.

When he reaches the door he uses his policeman’s knock, the one that would put the fear of God into anyone else residing on the opposite side. It only serves to piss you off when you tear it open, the fires of hell in your eyes.

Carl opens his mouth and closes it again because you’ve changed since the station into those black leggings you like to relax in and a white oversized jumper that slips off your shoulder revealing the long delicate column of your neck.

His gaze fixates on it, because that jumper it’s his.

Christ he recalls the last time you wore it back in Shetland. His rough palms delving underneath, his thumbs caressing your nipples through the black lace bra you were wearing as he fucked you slowly in that chair by the fireplace, your thighs tightening around his waist with every stroke.

“We were supposed to be working together.” He says forcefully. His hand grasping the doorframe so you don’t slam it on his fingers. You’re tempted he can tell form the malicious glint in your stare.

“Isn’t it a bastard when the person you thought you were in a partnership with pulls the rug right out from underneath your feet?” You respond with a ferocity he feels deep in the depths of his bones. He surprised he doesn’t immolate on the spot from the way your ire licks at his skin.

“Do you want to hear me say I’m sorry?” He snaps finally. “That I was so fucked up, that I said horrible things to you, cruel fucking things-”

“I don’t want your fucking excuses Carl.” You respond, holding up your hand, cutting him off. “You probably saved me years of wasting my fucking time on someone who was never going to care about me the way I cared about them. I just wish you’d told me sooner before I invested in you, before I…”

You trial off, biting your lower lip before shaking your head.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You want your fucking case back, it’s on the kitchen table.”

You leave the door open before stalking off down the hallway, expecting him to follow. He steps inside, closing it behind him, shutting out the world as he lingers in the hallway.

Basement flats, they’re supposed to be dark and dingy. Yours is the exact opposite. The huge bay windows in the front allow light to filter in through glass, flooding the place. The rooms are painted with soothing tones like sage and apricot to instil a sense of warmth and calm throughout your home. His boots squeak on the original hardwood floors as he trails after you, his fingertips brushing over the white dado rail that comes with the era of the house.

You aren’t in the kitchen when he steps inside, but the case documents are. They’re spread out cross the small bistro style table alongside the window that overlooks the plush green courtyard where you spend your weekends. It’s the most modern place in this entire building with a deep farm sink and an oven that interrupted the throes of your love making  when it arrived outside the delivery window.

He tilts his head, reviewing the mess on the table, studying your methodology. You always read the written reports first and then look at the photographs. Most people work the other way but you like to have context, to see what doesn’t fit. In the seat where you’ve been sitting is the close up photograph of Van Gogh’s Poppy Flowers, the gold jeweller’s loupe that used to belong to your father resting on top of it. You use it like a eyeglass to look for inconsistencies, the lens is sharper, more honed to the details than your regular magnifying device.

His gaze raises towards the open back door that leads out into the courtyard. He can see you sitting in the wrought iron chair out there, lighting up a cigarette from a battered pack you like to keep on hand for times of stress.

He debates packing up the box and letting himself out but he can tell your attention has snagged on something, something that he can’t see.

The courtyard is still exactly the same as it was on the balmy summer evenings the two of you used to sit out here, sipping that blood orange Frosé you used to make. He remembers the taste of it on his lips as he kissed you, the citrus taste erupting on his tongue as the sound of Jack Johnson filtered through from the open kitchen window.

Plush greenery lines the seven foot stone walls that hide this Garden of Eden away from the public’s praying gaze. Amongst it, up a small set of steps there’s a patio area, with a wrought iron outdoor set and a red and white striped parasol that shields you from the sun.

The smoke from the cigarette curls into the air as Carl approaches, the earthy aroma of tobacco winding its way into his sinuses as he takes his place in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Is it real?” He asks you, rapping his knuckles on the surface of the table. “The painting?”

You shrug your shoulders.

“Looks real enough in the picture.” You tell him, decanting the ash from your cigarette into an empty plant pot. “I’d need to see the actual painting to be sure. The photograph doesn’t catch the texture of the brush strokes, or the true colour of the pigments. I would need to study them both to tell if they’re original to the artist and the era.”

“The SOCO probably collected it along with everything else that was there at the time of the murder. They couldn’t have understood the relevance of the painting otherwise we would have heard about it long before now.” Carl says thoughtfully as he leans back in his seat going over the protocols from way back when. The crime occurred almost fifteen years ago. The two of you would have been back in uniform, walking your respective beats. “It’ll be in cold storage by now.”

Cold storage is the huge evidence lockup located on the outskirts of the city. Housed inside an industrial warehouse that reminds him of the fathomless aisles in that Indiana Jones film Raiders of the Lost Ark is evidence from thousand of cold cases that have been collected over the years. Once a case hits a certain threshold of being unsolved, the evidence boxes are sent there for storage until some pillock like him is given a cold case squad and has to go digging through them again.

“More than likely.” You agree, blowing a stream of smoke out of your mouth into the air. “That’ll be fun for you, I’m sure they’ve become much more structured since the flood they had last year.”

A burst water pipe in the warehouse had revealed decades of mismanagement at the hands of the Sergeant who was in charge of keeping the cases catalogued. The folks from the Forensic Archive has been brought in to take control of the organization efforts but the last he heard they hadn’t even reached the 25% mark, which just makes his job even harder.

“Claire.” He says, watching as you blow a smoke ring into the air between you. “You know I can’t do this without you, I don’t have your knowledge or skillset-”

“Which is exactly why you chose this case.” You say, stabbing the butt of your cigarette into the bottom of the terracotta plant plot. “You wanted to work with me again, why?”

He swallows hard against the ache in his chest, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to meet your eyes.

“You know why.”

He almost chokes on the words, spitting them out as if they’re coated with a bitterness he can’t stand to taste on his tongue. Love, it doesn’t come naturally to him, it never has. It’s tangled up with years of abuse at the hands of a parent who never wanted him, who was forced to keep him or otherwise surrender the Child Benefit that came with him.

“I can’t read minds Carl.” You tell him, taking another cigarette from the packet and placing it between your lips. You pick up the Zippo, flicking open the lid with your thumb, igniting the tip of the cigarette. The gold plating is tarnished, engraved with vines by a hand from a bygone era. “If you don’t want to tell me then take your case and get the fuck out of my house.”

It's not a case of don’t, the truth is it’s really a case of can’t.

He can’t tell you that he was in love with you back then, that he’s still so fucking in love with you it hurts to breathe when he’s in your presence because he can tell how much you hate him, that you wish he had died instead.

What he did to you, how he destroyed you.

It’s unforgiveable and that’s why he raises to his feet and leaves again.

Because Carl, he can’t fix the past, not when he doesn’t have a future.

Love Carl? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee