#edmiles

Ed chewed his lip a moment, ordering his thoughts. "I have. A method of therapy often employed for those with debilitating phobias or mental illnesses such as post traumatic stress disorder or issues with anxiety." He forced himself to follow that line of thought instead of getting sucked into the memories again. "What exactly are you suggesting, Miles? Because I'm not sure I would want to entertain the idea of that paper mill all over again…"

"No, no! Nothing like that!" Miles' eyes lit up with that compelling fire of his, and Ed found himself captivated. "It's just. Well, okay I'm not gonna pussyfoot around it. That bastard Diggory had you trussed up like a turkey at Christmas. I saw the hardware he had you in with my own two eyes, and I've seen how jumpy you are whenever anyone mentions an arrest or has their cuffs out on the table. It's not like we can avoid the cuffs forever, seeing as how you work in a police station, so. Exposure therapy."

Ed went cold all over. His vision dimmed at the edges, pinpointing narrowly inwards until all he could see was the flash of scotch in his glass tinged red like the light at that hellish mill. His breath fluttered in his chest like a caged beast, and he could feel the press of steel fencing against his bare shoulders, cold and cold and—

"Hey now." Miles' hand squeezed his, and Ed came back to the present under its rough warmth. "It's okay. Shouldn't have said anything — forget I mentioned it."

"No!" Ed blurted out before he could think better of it. "No, I think— well. Let's face it, Miles. I basically had half a panic attack just at the very mention of what happened." He laughed ruefully, heart still going. Apparently a regular occurrence this evening. "I don't want— why don't you tell me your idea?"

"Only if you drink some more scotch first. You've gone white as a sheet." Miles squeezed his hand again then let it go, leaving Ed suddenly bereft of its warmth.

He did as he was told, swallowing down the last of the scotch and relishing the burn. Miles poured him another measure and topped up his own glass, then sat back in his seat.

"Okay, good. Right. So, all that being said: the idea."

Ed laced the fingers of both hands around his glass and took a few deep, steadying breaths in and out. The panic was still there, hovering in the background like a dreadful spectre of his weakness, but he willed himself to focus on Miles' voice. On the glass in his hands and the taste of scotch on his tongue.

"Go on."

"Now, don't go asking where I got these from, because I ain't telling, but—" Miles pulled something out from his pocket and set it on the table, "—there. Exposure therapy."

It was a pair of black leather cuffs, about three inches thick and with a brushed silver buckle and d-shaped ring fixed onto the leather, and Ed couldn't take his eyes off them. Off Miles' fingers, resting against the hardware.

"Now, just in case you get the wrong idea, I'm not about to sit here and suggest I tie you up and leave you or whatever you might be thinking. It's all about the little bits, apparently. Building up tolerance."

"Building up tolerance," Ed repeated, eyes still on the cuffs. He could almost feel Miles' fingers in the dark.

"Just a couple of minutes with one, at first. Take it off any time you need to. And I'd be right here with you the whole time."

It was like Miles couldn't stem the tide of his words now he'd found them, and something about the way he kept on talking, kept on reassuring, brought Ed back into the present with a rush of air.

"You're suggesting restraining me," he said slowly, quietly. "As a way to overcome this weakness of mine."

"Not even as far as that! Not at first, anyway. Just one cuff around your wrist, not attached to anything, nothing like that." Miles ran his finger across the edge of the curled pair of cuffs, and Ed nodded before he could second guess himself, swallowed sharply.

"Alright," he said, mouth incredibly dry. "What harm can it do?" He did not let his thoughts go down that line, just focused on watching Miles' fingers against the leather. On that memory in the darkness. He supposed it was therapy, of a kind. Not something he'd entertained the thought of since… well, since Morgan. One way to cut short any ideas of self-improvement, wasn't it?

"I'm not gonna answer that." Miles smiled and ducked his head to catch Ed's eye. "Had enough Dutch courage?"

"I fear even the rest of that bottle wouldn't be enough Dutch courage, Miles. But nonetheless, I will persevere."

"Alright. Okay, good."

Miles saw Buchan's halt, frozen like a rabbit in headlights, hands midway through putting teabags into two mugs. "Did you?"

"Yeah. Were you hoping I'd forgotten?"

Buchan laughed, a short, sharp sound, and his shoulders curled in like he was making himself smaller. "I hadn't thought you'd forget. More that you might want to forget."

He spooned sugar into both mugs then filled them up with boiling water, resting a teaspoon across the top of one as he went to get milk from the fridge. He took longer than he needed to adding milk, looked like he was gathering himself, then put the milk away and turned to the table, both mugs in hand.

"Now why would I want that? It was my idea." Miles unscrewed the lid of the single malt, then topped off both teas as Buchan set them down.

"Yes, well, regrets are perfectly understandable in situations like this. I wouldn't want you to feel beholden to me." He wrapped both hands round his mug and stared into the steam, studiously ignoring Miles' gaze.

"Good job I don't then, isn't it." Miles tilted his head and watched Buchan. He hadn't shaved in a few days at least; he was looking skinny; he had bags under his eyes to rival Miles' own; and that divot between his eyebrows was deep enough to make him look almost gaunt. Troubled.

Understandable, really, considering everything that'd happened to the guy.

"You're talking bollocks, by the way." Miles took a sip of his tea, enjoying the too-hot scald of it underscored by the whisky. "I don't feel beholden to you, and I don't have any regrets. I think you're scared."

Buchan looked up at him then, sharp, eyes wide.

Miles ploughed on. "I think you're scared of being cuffed again, scared to have another panic attack in front of me. You don't want anyone to see it, I get it. But you ought to know, I didn't mention a thing to Joe about what we did, and not to anyone else either. It's no one else's business, what we do in here, behind closed doors." He jabbed at the table. "It's your business, and mine, and I want—"

Fuck, what did he want? Nothing he could say out loud, not to those scared blue eyes.

"I wanna help, that's all." Bit weak, but it'd do. And it was true. "Felt like it did help, at least a bit, so it'd be a shame to not carry on."

Ed's eyes were on him, and Miles watched over the rim of his mug as he took another drink.

"It did," Ed said, words so quiet they were barely vocal. "I think it did help. I just—" He swallowed and blew on his tea, both hands curved around the mug like he needed the heat to give him courage. "The nightmares, they're— well, they're no better. Worse, if anything. And—" His cheeks went red and he bit his bottom lip, making it invitingly red and wet for a moment.

"Listen, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. This can be all business, no need to make a whole performance about it."