A Night Alone Is So Much Better With Two

1.

When the world around him starts crashing down, Detective Llewellyn Watts has his coping methods. He turns towards his work, his street food. And most often, he turns towards his wine. He pops open the bottle, letting out a satisfied noise when the drink hits his tongue. The flavor is exquisite, a fine aged wine that reminds him why he saves it for evenings like this. When emotional exhaustion hits, he loses the will to do anything except go home and drink himself to sleep. 

Today it's the case they've been working on- a series of women brutally murdered by a sequential killer. The killer targets women abandoned by her family and stabs the women repeatedly with a long bladed knife. It reminds him of himself, in a way. A person left behind by their supposed loved ones, a tragic life, and a dreadful conclusion.

For the first time in his life, some things have gone right. Since he's become a detective- and gotten out of Station House Number 1, the corrupt, incompetent fools- he’s found exciting work and close colleagues. Even sort-of friends in the form of John Brackenreid, George Crabtree, and- well.

That's all that he dares to hope for, people who can stand him; who can stand being in his presence for more than a minute.

And there's the root of his feeling. Who would ever want him? He was abandoned by his sister after their parents' death. She didn't want him. His landlady looked after him, but there was no warmth, no acceptance of his eccentricities. No acceptance of him. Later, he had gone to college and never found his shtick. Instead, he got a degree in Language. And although he enjoys learning about cultures and words especially, it isn’t his true calling. He had set off on his own, trying to get a job as a translator. No one had wanted him, his odd behavior pushing away any potential employers. He had lived on the street for a while, miserable and alone. That’s when he first took a fist to himself. It was all his fault he has ended up alone, that these things happen to him. He deserves to rot away alone forever. No wonder his sister hadn’t wanted him. These were constant mantras during that dark period of his life. If he’s honest, they haven’t completely gone away.

He downs another glass.

His odd behavior has caused many to think him insane or abused. Does self hate and harm count as abuse?

He doesn't think so. If it was, he'd already be locked up.

The night passes quickly, as it often does when one is in the deep depths of a bottle.The knock sounds from his door right as Watts is about to become tipsy; his cheeks are a bit flushed from the wine, and everything is a bit dulled. The knock reverberates around the room, startling him from where he had been in the middle of downing his who-knows-what number drink of the evening. Attempting to stand, he barely makes it out of his chair when the knock sounds again, more impatient this time. Muttering quietly to himself, Watts starts towards the door. 

"One moment!" He yells to the still unknown person banging on his door far too late at night. He really wants to be alone right now. He pulls open the door with a sigh and barely looks at who's at the door, normal precaution dulled. Then his glance snaps back to the man standing in his doorway. Well, this is certainly new.

"What can I do for you Detective?" Watts asks. He realizes he must look a mess when Murdoch continues to stare at him for a minute.

“I apologise for, uhm,” Say something, he berates himself. He has know idea what he’s supposed to say. It’s not a new problem for him when it comes to socialising. But this should be easy. This is a good… colleague. “The, uh, mess. And well me I suppose. This isn’t exactly the finest hour.” That’s safe. Something a normal person would say. Someone who isn't struggling with their existence and self hatred, and drinking it away at 12 o'clock at night no less. 

“Well, it is late after all.” Murdoch responds with a strained smile. He fiddles with his gloves for a moment until Watts realizes that they probably shouldn’t be standing in the hallway in the dead of night.

“Would you like to come in?” He offers with a small grimace. No doubt the Detective has put two and two together already and realized Watts has been drinking, but there is no reason to  throw it in his face. He doesn’t need to know how bad it is. Besides, no one ever enters his apartment. Especially not fellow detectives, regardless of the hour.

Watts rushes across his apartment to clear the wine bottle and glass from his living room table, taking no mind to the concerned look on Murdoch’s face when the wine sloshes much too low in the bottle for only one person to be drinking. He retreats back to his previous chair, folding in on himself just a little bit more than normal.

Murdoch takes the chair across him, folding his coat across the back neatly, before setting his hat on the table. The silence stretches on for a moment, before Murdoch breaks it.

“I noticed you seemed a bit disturbed at work today. Regarding the case we worked on.” He clarifies. Watts looks up sharply at him. Then he shrugged.

“Life is but a series of tragedies broken only by a few moments of happiness. Our line of work just presents more chances for tragedy, and less so for happiness. That is why we must savor the good things. Like good food and wine.” He scratches his chin, a habitual movement he doesn’t know where he picked up. The excuses disguised as philosophical meaning flow from his mouth with practised ease. “We must not dwell on those things.” He continues “I admit, I did have a moment of weakness today, but it has passed. Everything passes.”

Murdoch looks unconvinced, but lets out a contemplative hum all the same- indulging Watts.

“Yes, I suppose everything does pass. If that were not so, then death, for example, would have different meaning. If life is but a series of moments, happy, sad, or anything in between, death is an everlasting moment of nothing at all.” For a moment, it looks as if Watts may be in the clear, but then Murdoch’s gaze hardens as looks up straight into Watts’ eyes. “Lying to me is not going to work, Detective Watts.”

Murdoch has caught him, plain and simple. Watts feels like a scared criminal caught in one of Muroch’s neatly executed plans. He never had the patience for setting up such an elaborate trap like Murdoch does, with all the fancy technology and blackboard equations. Watts admires his ability, though, however different from his own.

Murdoch continues to stare directly into Watts’ eyes. His eyes are like a bottomless pit, Watts notices, dark and unfathoming. But then his gaze softens, and a kind spark returns to his eyes. He doesn’t seem as dangerous anymore to Watts.

“I suppose I can’t demand you tell me. I apologise for my late hour of arriving, I stayed late to work and to find your address. I assumed you would still be awake. When I feel… disturbed at work I usually don’t get a lot of sleep.” Murdoch says wryly. “Although I can’t say I’ve ever resorted to drinking.” He adds.

Then he smiles, clapping Watts on the shoulder in a familiar friendly gesture. With a quick, "good night Detective," Murdoch is walking out the door in quick concise strides. But there is a lingering hurt in the way that he carried himself, and before he can stop himself, Watts calls out to Murdoch.

"Stay?"

Murdoch jolts back as if he has been struck.

"Stay?" He repeats in surprise.

"Just a little while." Watts says. "Only if you want to, of course." He adds quickly. He's afraid of overstepping, but Murdoch has been mostly nice to Watts, especially this night. Murdoch had made a trip to his colleagues apartment on the slim chance that he would be awake so he could offer some words of comfort in the middle of the night, after all.

"Okay."