#ittefaq

Dev Verma (Akshaye Khanna from Ittefaq) x OC

Is love enough? Dev believes so but his beliefs alone are not enough to sustain a marriage. But how can he ever think about moving on from her when she is all he has ever known?

TW! illness, hospitals, depression

Masterlist

Enjoy, my shonas <3

A low, hoarse groan leaves his lips as he feels the morning light sneak its way beyond the dark curtains of his room and hit his eyes. Sits up and stretches his arms above his head before opening the curtains. 

"The sunlight sets your circadian rhythm, Mona," he says to himself, closing his eyes, repeating what she would tell him while opening the curtains, much to his annoyance. She is everywhere, all at once, all the time. In fact, she had been the one who had purchased the blackout curtains; she could not sleep in the light of the city at night. Protima Roy, his beloved ex-wife. He can still feel his eyes on her, even though they do not live together anymore, her delightfully sharp eyes, which have a mysterious sort of hold over him. 

Washes his face with the same cleanser she used to buy for him, Cetaphil Gentle Skin Cleanser. She had told him he had dry skin, and he had no reason to doubt her; women know the best when it comes to these matters. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment before wiping his face with a towel. Verbally sighs, closing his eyes. Every moment spent alone is a moment being haunted by memories of her; perhaps it would have been easier to forget if he had not been so involved in her life to this day. 

"Aj chutti hai na?" his mother asks the moment he steps foot into the dining room. It's a holiday today, isn't it? 

"Haan, lekin hume kaam hai," Dev says dismissively, sitting at the table and picking up the newspaper. "Kyu aapko kuch chahiye tha?" Yeah, but I have work. Why? Did you need anything? 

"Tumhare liye ek ladki pasand ki hai," she says tentatively, pouring him a cup of tea. I have found a nice girl for you to consider marrying. 

Dev bristles, looking at his mother with an annoyed expression before taking a sip of tea. "Aapko pata hai hume yeh shaadi waadi nahi karna," he says dryly. You know I don't want to get married. 

"Magar kyu? Protima ke liye? Woh tumhe chod kar chali gayi toh," she insists. But why? For Protima? She has left you. 

"Pehli baat toh yeh ki aap usko Protima kyu bula rahi hai, kabhi toh aapki bahu thi, ab paraya hogayi hai kya? Sheuli naam hai," he says, irritated now. "Aur haan, Sheuli ke waja se hi mujhe shaadi nahi karna. Ab kya?" First of all, stop calling her Protima; she was your daughter-in-law at one point. Is she a stranger now? Her name is Sheuli. And yes, I don't want to get married because of her. Now what? 

"Puri zindagi akele reh loge?" she asks, frustrated. Will you stay alone for the rest of your life? 

"Papa ke jaane ke baad aapne kaunsi dusri shaadi karli?" he asks sarcastically, not looking at his mother and reading the incredibly uninteresting sports page. Not like you remarried after my father died. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, taking a deep breath. They have had this conversation several times over the last three years since Protima left him.

Sitting in the outdoor section of the restaurant, he waits; he has seen the menu, and he knows what he will order. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Protima says with a smile, walking to his table. "Late again, I was finishing up laundry." Sits across from him. 

"Nah, you're barely ten minutes late," he smiles. "Why? I just did your laundry two days ago?" he inquires. 

"Bedsheets," she sighs. "Phir se wahi, heavy bleeding. I hope I get some answers today." Same thing again...

"I hope so too; that last gynaecologist was so full of crap, dismissed your pain and concerns," he sighs, handing her the menu. 

"Yeah, doctors suck like nine out of ten times," she smiles sadly. "Remember the eight doctors we changed before finding my rheumatologist?" She chuckles, opening the menu. 

"Yeah, what a wild goose chase," he laughs, but it does not reach his eyes. He remembers the intense pain she had been in, all the throwing up and crying. Painkillers had not worked, the heated pads, the massages; nothing had given her relief for months on end. 

"What have you been up to the last two days?" she asks, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

"Working on a murder right now, actually," he hums, taking a bite of his lasagna.

"Oh, what do you think happened?" she inquires before chewing on her grilled chicken. 

"I think the husband did it, as it always happens with upper-class housewives mysteriously dying," he shrugs, taking a sip from her Diet Coke. 

"You are such a cynic, you know that?" she laughs. "What if it is a crime of passion? Maybe the husband had an affair, and the mistress killed the wife in a fit of possessive anger?" 

"Tum na yeh sab true crime podcasts chod do, please," he laughs, shaking his head. Please stop listening to true crime podcasts. 

"Yeah, but consider that angle too, come on," she chuckles, her dimples making his heart clench. 

"You are impossible," he says fondly, his eyes never leaving her.      

At the hospital, he sits in the sterile sample collection room, next to Protima. Her arm is stretched in front of her, the nurse tying a tourniquet on her bicep before feeling for a vein in the bend of her elbow. This doctor had listened to her concerns for once and had ordered a series of tests ranging from thyroid function to ultrasounds. He holds her free hand as the nurse inserts the needle into her vein; he winces. 

"I'm fine, Dev," she smiles, squeezing his hand. 

"It doesn't get easier to look at it," he sighs. 

"Then don't look at it," she chuckles. "Look at my stupid face." 

"You don't have a stupid face," he breathes out, looking at her face. She has changed over the years, more mature, thinner now due to her illness, but still the most beautiful woman in the world in his eyes, regardless of everything. 

"Husband?" the nurse asks, drawing the last tube of blood before taking the needle out gently and placing an alcohol wipe on the spot. 

Dev freezes, still looking at Protima. "Best friend," she smiles as the nurse applies a small band-aid on the needle prick. 

Two years and nine months ago

Dev enters the bedroom to find his wife lying on the bed, her hair a mess as she cries into the pillow. He crosses the distance between the bed and the room in seconds, sitting next to her, his hand on her back. 

"Kya hua, meri jaan?" he asks, stroking her back. What's wrong, my love? 

"I'm sorry," she sobs.

"What's wrong?" he asks again. 

"I can't be your wife anymore," she cries. 

"What do you mean, Sheuli?" he asks, alarmed. 

"I am not a good wife anymore," she sobs, her back to him still. 

"What are you on about?" he asks gently. 

"I am sick, and I am in pain aur hum dono ek saath kuch bhi nahi karte, bas hospitals aur physiotherapy," she bawls, her body trembling. ...and we don't do anything together, just hospitals and physiotherapy. 

"Sheuli, stop," he says in a choked voice, lying down next to her, pulling her close. 

"When's the last time we had sex? Hell, when's the last time we made out? The last time you touched me because you wanted me and not because you were trying to relieve me of pain?" she asks in a broken voice, turning to look at him. Even with her smudged kajal and sindoor, she looks like a dream, a dream he is about to lose as it seems. 

"I don't care about all that," he says, tears in his eyes. "I just want to be with you, Sheuli, just you." 

"Agar humare kabhi bacche na huye?" she wails, her voice cracking from the sheer pain she cannot seem to get out. What if we never have children? 

"I don't want to lose you," he sobs, his hand on her cheek, wiping her tears. 

"You'll hate me; you'll hate that you have to care for me, and I give you nothing in return," she insists, sobbing again. 

"I love you," he whispers, crying silently, pulling her closer. 

"Love is not enough. I am not the woman you loved anymore. You're doing this out of some obligation," she whimpers. 

"Sheuli, do you not know me at all?" he asks, appalled. 

"I know how it'll go five years down the road," she says softly. "Rose-tinted glasses are obstructing your CBI instincts." 

"I love you, Sheuli, yeh kyu nahi samajhti?" he asks desperately. ...why don't you understand that? 

"Then let me have my dignity and let me go," she says softly. He does not say anything further; he knows she has made her decision and he cannot stop her. Not in good faith anyway. Of course, he could force her to stay, not sign the papers, claim she is unstable in court; separation would be off the table. But alas, he does love her. Very dearly.

Present day 

That night, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling; the curtains are drawn, the room is pitch black. He had dropped her off at her flat from the hospital. In fact, he had stayed behind to cook and meal prep a couple of meals for her in case she was in too much pain to cook. She always insists she does not need him, but he worries for her anyway, does not enjoy the fact that she lives alone, and fears for a day when she might faint or be in too much pain to even move.

He turns to lie on his side, turning on some playlist on shuffle. The first few chords are enough to send chills down his spine. Protima loves this song, specifically the acoustic version—Hairye Jawar Gaan by Anupam Roy. He knows the lyrics by heart because of how often she used to play it on the grammophone; she loved music in general, Bengali classics always played in the house as soon as the sun set and until dinner had been served. He walks down memory lane whenever he is alone because he loves running into her; he thinks, taking her into his arms and spinning her around until she laughs. The way she used to make him laugh. 

Often, she would take his hands and dance with him in the living room, her georgette and silk saris swaying under the ocean breeze, her infectious laughter. He would be entirely enamoured every time, fully believing it was her world that he lived in because no matter how tired he was, the moment she would pull him into the space of the living room, he would come alive, all to make her happy. When she had left him, it had not been as if he had just lost his wife; his life had been split into two. With Protima and Without Protima. They had grown up together in the same neighbourhood, in the same school, in the same college, in the same university. And she had been right today; before he had been her boyfriend and then her husband, he had been and still is her best friend. 

Ofc lmk if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, wouldn't want to spam anyone.

#ComicsByte #Ittefaq #MovieReview #RajeshKhanna #Mystery

https://comicsbyte.com/ittefaq-1969-a-must-watch-murder-mystery-with-brilliant-storytelling-and-fantabulous-performances/

SAALA SEARCH KARU TOH KHUD KI HI EK FIC AATI HAI!! 😭😭😭

KUCH NAYA LIKHNA HI PADHEGA!

Pairing:Dev Verma x Reader

T.W:Mention of murder?, Does not justify criminals

Chapter two, The Jasmine

Dev wakes up twenty minutes later, his neck cricked from sleeping against the seat, and his first thought is to pull you closer. But he felt a void, his eyes fly open. The backseat is still warm from your body, but you’re gone. He fumbles for her confiscated phone, which he no longer holds possesion of. He face palms himself, staring at the faint red lipstick mark you left on his collar, and his chest tightens.

He’d known there was something off, but he’d let you manipulate him anyway, let his heart override every investigator’s instinct he had. He pulls out his notebook now, flipping to the blank page where he was supposed to write your statement, and finds a tiny pressed jasmine flower you slipped into it. Which he knew was your favourite flower. He slumps back against the seat, jaw clenched, and laughs bitter and rough.

“Madarchod....poora chutiya bana ke gayi.”

Dev fixes his clothes and buttons his jeans, runs a hand over his head then steps out of the SUV and heads back inside the station. Kohli comes rushing over when he sees him, frowning and asking where you went. Dev leans against the desk, crossing his arms, and lies smoothly, his face set in a tight mask of frustration.

"Woh bahar nikalne ke baad... woh bhaag gayi meri pakad se. I got distracted for a minute, couldn’t catch her. I’ll put out an all-unit alert, we’ll find her soon," he tells Kohli, waving off the man’s questions and heading back to his office.

When the door clicks shut behind him, he drops his notebook on the desk hard, the jasmine flower falling out onto the wood. He sinks into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, and the regret hits him like a freight train.

"I should’ve never taken this goddamn case," he mutters to the empty room, staring at the flower, his throat tight. "Main jaanta tha woh kuch chupa rahi hai, par maine uspe yakeen kiya." He cursed at himself, in vain and regret.

_________________________________________________

The next morning, Dev walks into the commissioner’s office, his tailored clothes sharp but his eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. He sets the case file down on the mahogany desk, hands clasped behind his back, and asks straight out to be taken off the lead position. The commissioner leans back in his chair, frowning, and shakes his head immediately.

“Bilkul nahi, Verma. Y/L was one of the most powerful industrialists in the state, Press mera gala daba rahi he. You’re our best lead investigator, tumse hi yeh solve hoga,” he says, tapping the desk. Dev’s jaw tightens, and his mind drifts back two years to when they first met.

He’d been brought in to investigate a threat on her father’s life, assigned to shadow the family for a week until they found the culprit. He’d picked her up from a college event when the threat level spiked, and she’d started teasing him about how serious he looked, sharing her fries with him in the car, laughing at his dry jokes. By the time the case was closed, they’d been sneaking around meeting in secret, and he’d fallen hard, she was the first person who’d ever seen past the gruff investigator to the man underneath, and he’d thought she loved him just the same.

“Sir, I’m too close to her. My judgment will be compromised—” the commissioner cuts him off.

“Compromised or not, you’re still the best man for the job. If you step down now, it’ll look suspicious. Get back to work, that’s an order.”

Dev nods stiffly, picks up the case file, and turns to leave the commissioner’s office. He walks back down the station hallway, the paper heavy in his hands, all the old memories flooding back. He remembers the first time he kissed her, behind the college library after she’d brought him lunch during the protection detail.

She’d pulled him down by his tie and kissed him soft and quick, then grinned up at him and said she’d been wanting to do it for days. He remembers the nights they’d spent sneaking into each other’s apartments, her stealing his shirts and leaving them on his couch, laughing when he pretended to be annoyed. He’d even started looking at rings a month before the murder, planning to ask her to move in with him.

He stops outside his office, leaning his forehead against the cold door, and takes a shaky breath. He pushes open the door, tosses the case file on his desk, and stares at the jasmine flower he pinned to the bulletin board, his throat tight.

“Kya karoon main iska...,” he mutters to himself, pulling out his phone to check the missing person alert he filed. No sightings yet. Of course there aren’t, she was always smarter than him, even when he thought he was the one in charge.

In the afternoon, Dev drags himself to forensics, the forensics lab head Ramesh calls him over, tapping the new autopsy report on the metal table. The bullet pulled from your father’s body matches a service revolver registered to a retired police inspector.

Dev scribbles the note in his notebook, then heads out to question the retired inspector at his chawl apartment.

The man’s neighbor says he left town the night of the murder, paid off with a thick stack of hundred-rupee notes, Dev tucks that away, jaw tight.

That night, he calls all of your father’s business partners in, one by one, questioning them until his throat goes dry. He finds out your father was embezzling millions from worker welfare funds, and you’d found out three months before the murder. No one ever suspected you’d have the guts to arrange the hit. He sits back at his desk after everyone leaves, staring at the evidence spread out, all of it pointing straight to you but he still hasn’t put it in the official report.

______________________________________________

NEXT DAY

Dev leans against the break room counter, sipping chai, when Kohli bursts in, his face pale and his radio crackling. Dev straightens immediately, already knowing it’s bad news by the way Kohli won’t meet his eye.

“Sahab...woh retired inspector mil gaya, par vo dead hai. Uski body khet mein mili hai, goli lagi hai sar pe," Kohli says, wiping sweat from his brow. Dev’s jaw tightens, his cup clinking hard against the counter.

He’d known you’d cover your tracks, but he didn’t think you’d kill to do it, not even after everything. He shoves his cup down, grabbing his coat off the hook.

“Chalo, chalo site pe. Koi kuch haath nahi lagaye jab tak main nahi aa jata,” he barks, already heading for the door. His stomach twists, every loose end you leave just makes it harder for him to protect you, and you know it. You’re cleaning up, and he’s left picking up the bodies.

A group of local farmers was out early this morning cutting back overgrown cane for the new season, when one of their bullocks stepped on a soft patch of earth and sank in. They started digging to free it, and found the man’s blue cotton shirt wrapped around his corpse, just under the top layer of soil. They called the station immediately, panicking, which is how Kohli got the alert before anyone else.

Dev kneels to brush a crumb of dirt off the man’s worn boots, his throat tight, you’d even made sure to leave him where you knew the body would be found eventually, all evidence pointing to the ex-inspector as the killer who was then killed by accomplices.

“Humare pehle koi idhar aya tha? To disturb anything?” Dev asks Tambe, not looking up from the body. Tambe shakes his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Nahi sir, Humne area seal karvaya tha, kisine kuch haat vaat nahi lagaya he sivay un shetkaro he .”

Dev stands up, brushing dirt off his knees, and walks over to the tree at the edge of the cane field to stare out over the green rows. He tugs his phone out of his pocket, scrolls to your contact, and hovers his thumb over the call button for a full minute.

He knows you’re watching, that you probably drove out here this morning to make sure the body was hidden well enough, that you’re probably somewhere right now looking back at him. He shoves the phone back into his pocket without calling, jaw set.

“Bag the body and send it to forensics. Get the bullet out, match it to the one from her father,” he calls back to the officers. They nod, and Dev turns back toward the SUV, his shoes crunching on the dry dirt. Every step he takes just wraps him deeper in your web, and he knows it, he’s still choosing you, even after two bodies.

That night, Dev drives back to your empty bungalow, the gate creaking open when he pushes it. He walks straight to your bedroom, the air still smelling like your jasmine perfume, and opens your wardrobe.

He runs a hand over your hanging dresses, and pulls out the old blue shirt of his you left there, the one you slept in more than once. He folds it slow, tucking it into his bag, when he notices a loose floorboard under your bed, peeking out like it’s been moved recently.

He kneels down, pries the board up with his pen knife, and his breath catches. Underneath, there’s a thick stack of cash, and a handwritten ledger full of your father’s embezzlement notes, and a small empty jewelry box, along with a note addressed to him, in your familiar looping handwriting. He picks it up unfolding the crumpled paper slowly, the scent of your jasmine perfume still clinging to the ink. His face hardens with every line, cold dread settling in his gut as you spell it all out:

you’d lured the ex-inspector in with a bribe, shot your father point blank in the study while he was reading, wiped your prints and called the station knowing Dev would get assigned the case, then shot the ex-inspector in the head a day later and buried him in the cane field.

At the bottom, you wrote your father earned every bullet,he’d stolen millions from workers who built his company, left them starving when he cut their pensions, and you didn’t regret a single death. The only regret you have is lying to the man you love.

He crumples the note in his fist for a second before smoothing it back out, his knuckles white. You don’t apologize for the murders, just for lying to him you make it clear you’d do every bit of it again if you had to, that those men got what they deserved.

You wrote that you left the ledger with all the proof of your father’s crimes for him to leak to the press if he wants, that it’ll clear the public if he turns you in. At the end, you give him hand-drawn directions to the cottage, hidden deep in the hills outside the tiny village of Chandar, only accessible by a dirt track in the monsoon. You warn him not to bring any other officers with him.

“If you bring anyone, I’ll put a bullet in my head before they can cross the threshold. You’ll either get me alone, or you’ll just get my body. I’m not going to hang for this, Dev. I meant what I said, I love you, but I don’t regret it. Come find me, or don’t.”

_______________________________________________

Very chaotic and rushed ik 🫩 but in my defense idk I don't have a defense 😔.

Kya maal hai yaar 😩