If there’s one thing Carl has ever liked, it’s being alone.

Well, that’s not true. He kind of hates being alone, most of the time, but his whole life he’s preferred to keep people at a distance rather than be vulnerable for even a second and he’s fucking working on it, okay?

That being said, he’s always appreciated the peace and quiet after a long day of chasing horror stories. To light up a cigarette and fall onto his stiff couch, let the exhaustion and nicotine wash over him until he can lull himself to sleep. It’s not luxurious, but it is comforting. Especially after a case like this. Carl takes another drag, holding the smoke in for a moment before blowing it out into the rest of the room. It’s useless thinking about it now—the DNA results aren’t coming for another two days, and there’s not much they can do until then. He’ll just have to wait.

He’s halfway through lifting the cigarette to his mouth when he freezes. The doorbell rings, echoes off the hard surfaces of the empty house before it settles into the cold of the walls. Carl sighs. Leans forward to snuff the smoke into the tray on the coffee table. 

When he opens the door, he’s not sure what he expects. A drunken neighbour who mistook this house for their own; a simple package, even though he hadn’t ordered anything; maybe just fucking nothing because some kid thought it’d be funny to play ding-dong-ditch. He doesn’t expect to see Assad. And he definitely doesn’t expect to see Assad shivering, curled in on himself, leaning against his doorway like he can’t hold his own weight. 

Carl blinks. “Assad?”

His hair hangs over his face when he lowers his head, voice low and rough. 

“May I come in?”

Carl steps back, gesturing a silent welcome. Assad steps inside, steadying himself on the wall before he makes his way into the house. He frowns. Watches from the doorway before a cold breeze rolls in and reminds him to close it. 

He follows a few metres behind. A million questions buzz in his mind, but he holds his tongue. 

They both come to a stop once Assad reaches the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee maker. He says nothing as it begins to brew. Only holds himself on the counter, breathing deliberate but a bit unsteady; his hair, which he’s been tying back as it’s grown longer, hangs loose and unruly around his head. His grip is white around the edge of the granite. 

Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Carl tries to find the words as Assad pours himself a cup. His hand shakes as he holds his coffee. 

“Are you… what happened?”

He shakes his head.

“I… I don’t know. They didn’t—I panicked. I should have…”

Carl steps forward. “What’s wrong?”

He trembles so violently Carl fears he’ll drop the mug. He takes it from his hands, setting it on the counter and placing a hand in his arm to turn him. Assad’s face is firm but cracking. It threatens to buckle under the weight of whatever haunts him. 

“Assad, kig på mig. Look at me.”

That does it. 

Assad tips forward, and Carl grabs his shoulders to steady him. But he isn’t falling.

He clutches the back of Carl’s shirt and buries his head in the crook of his shoulder. His shoulders shake, but he makes no sound. Just shivers in his arms.

His words are so quiet Carl’s half-convinced he’s imagined them. 

“Why this?”

He stutters. “Pardon?”

Assad holds him tighter. “Of all—all the times I’ve been shot… why is this the one that scares me so much?”

Something within his chest cracks in two. Slowly, unsure of exactly what he’s doing, he moves his arms to wrap around Assad’s shoulders. It’s tense, something foreign and strange. He’s not sure when he’d hugged someone last. It certainly hadn’t been for their benefit.

Carl fights his urge to push away. 

“I don’t know.” It’s a pathetic answer, but he can’t muster anything else. Carl offers it up again, as if putting it in company will make up for its own inadequacy. “I don’t know.”

Maybe he should say more. But he doesn’t know what, and Assad goes silent against his shoulder, so he lets it be. They hold one another in Carl’s kitchen, quiet in each other’s company. Assad melts, little-by-little. Cold, hard edges soften once again, and maybe he shouldn’t say more. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe this is enough.

Carl was never good with words anyway.

“Undskyld—I’m sorry,” says Assad. Still, he doesn’t pull away. Carl closes his eyes and wills himself to do this right. This one thing. He takes a breath.

“Don’t apologise. You can’t handle all your issues alone. Trust me, I tried.”

That earns him a wet laugh. He tries not to celebrate too much. 

Assad exhales. His breath tickles the back of Carl’s neck. That strangeness creeps back into his limbs, and he feels for a moment like he’s just come back into his own body.

Assad stiffens a little as well. They stand together in Carl’s kitchen, completely silent.

It’s awkward.

They extract themselves from each other, and Carl puts a few feet of space between them. Assad repeats himself. “Undskyld.”

He takes his coffee again—his hands don’t shake as much as he brings it to his lips. Carl crosses his arms and looks off.

“Um—hungry?”

“No, not really.”

Carl grimaces. He wishes he was better at this stuff.

“You want a smoke?”