Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dangerous Curiosity

9:48 PM

The room stank of cheap takeaway, burnt coffee, and stale frustration.

Carl rubbed the bridge of his nose hard enough to see stars, blinking past the headache hammering behind his eyes. The folder splayed across the table was thick with photos, timelines, and maps that offered nothing new. Just the same girl, the same stretch of waste ground, and the same sick sense that they’d missed something.

"She was sixteen," Hardy muttered, thumbing through the forensics again.

Carl flinched before he could stop himself. Same as his boy.

Hardy, perched on the edge of the desk like he owned the place, shot him a look. “Sorry.”

Carl waved him off. “No, you're right. Except she won't ever make it to seventeen.”

A silence settled between them. Familiar. Heavy.

They’d been at it for hours—back and forth, theory after theory, and none of them stuck. The victim, Keeley Moran, had been found in a storm drain four days ago. And no leads that held water longer than ten minutes.

Hardy stood and stretched with a crack of his neck. “We’re getting nowhere.”

Carl grunted.

Hardy eyed him. “You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“Why don’t you go home? See your kid. You promised him a movie night, didn’t you?”

Carl’s head shot up. "Fuck."

Hardy raised a brow. “So that’s a yes.”

He looked at the time, then swore under his breath again. “I was meant to be back at seven. We picked a film and everything. Some awful sci-fi thing. He was actually excited.”

Hardy’s expression softened. “Carl—”

“I just—forgot.” His voice cracked. He stood, knocking his chair back a little harder than needed. “Jesus Christ.”

Hardy moved to the doorway. “He’ll understand. He knows your work.”

“That’s the bloody problem.”

From across the room, a soft knock. Moira stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face sharp as ever.

“You two still flapping in here like pigeons with a head wound?”

“We’re being productive,” Hardy said cheerfully.

“Uh-huh. Go—home. That’s an order. I don’t want to see either of you back before ten tomorrow.”

Carl hesitated.

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make me mean it.”

Hardy gave him a nudge. “Go on. He probably hasn’t even started the movie without you.”

Carl sighed, gathering up the file, still open to the crime scene photos. He paused, then shoved them back in the folder without really looking.

“Yeah. Right. Home.”

—

The porch light was still on, it gave him a pang—like a beacon for someone who didn’t deserve to be welcomed home.

He let himself in with his usual clatter, keys dropped into the bowl by the door, coat slung over the back of the chair before it had finished swinging shut. The house didn’t answer him. No TV. No music. No angry teenager waiting on the sofa with arms crossed and sarcasm locked and loaded.

Just stillness. It was close to midnight now.

He stepped into the lounge and saw it sitting there.

The Blu-ray.

That ridiculous sci-fi flick Jasper had picked out two days ago. “You’re going to hate it, Carl, but you promised.”

The case sat on the table, flat, untouched. Like an accusation.

Carl exhaled. He sat down on the edge of the couch but didn’t lean back. His back hurt. His head pounded. His stomach curled at the thought of going upstairs.

Not because Jasper would be waiting to tear into him. No, that would be easy. Yelled at, glared at, stormed away from—he could handle that.

What he couldn’t take was the quiet disappointment. The shrug. The nothing. The slow way Jasper had started giving up on expecting him to come through.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Martin had said once. “He’s going to stop asking again.”

Carl ran a hand over his face. Maybe he already had.

He stood again, too restless to sit still, and carried the case into the kitchen, leaving it on the table with a guilty glance. Beside it, the open folder—Keeley Moran’s life, death, and half a hundred dead ends all waiting in greyscale. He meant to pack it up, but instead he turned off the light and left it there.

He climbed the stairs slowly, hoping—not for the first time—that tomorrow would be better.

Or the weekend.

Or someday.

—

Jasper didn’t mean to wake up early.

But his body had started doing this thing—getting up before anyone else, like it wanted to check the house still stood. Like it didn’t quite trust that nothing had shifted overnight.

He wandered through in pyjama bottoms and an old hoodie that might’ve once been Carl’s. The house smelled like cold tea and forgotten dinners. It was familiar. Comfortable, in its own crap way.

He padded into the kitchen, yawning, and stopped.

There was something on the table.

He didn’t need to read the folder to know what it was. The logo, the layout, even the worn edges—it was a case file.

He hesitated.

He knew he shouldn’t.

It was Carl’s work. Not for him. Not his business.

But the girl—Keeley Moran—he’d seen her on the news. Sixteen. Same as him. Same hair colour, even. She’d gone missing not far from a place he passed every week. There’d been candles and flowers by the train bridge. A photo someone had left that looked like it had been laminated against the rain.

Before he knew it, he was pulling the folder closer.

The first few pages were official—time of death, location, a vague summary that gave him chills even without detail. He skipped past the photos, quickly turning them over. He wasn’t stupid. He’d seen crime scene stuff online, knew what he could stomach and what would leave him haunted. He tried not to look at her face.

Instead, he focused on the notes.

There was something handwritten in the margins—different pen, slanted script, Carl’s messy scrawl. Next to a blurry image of graffiti, he’d written: “Matches old Southside tags? Check Vickery files.”

Jasper blinked.

He knew that tag.

He’d seen it just a few days ago—spray-painted on the side of the old substation behind the skate park. He’d even taken a photo of it to show a mate who liked tagging.

He stood suddenly, heart skipping.

He should tell Carl, right?

…But Carl hadn’t even come home until past midnight. Jasper had waited. Listened for the key in the door until he gave up.

He swallowed.

No. He’d find out more first. Just in case it was nothing.

Just in case Carl didn’t listen anyway.

The kettle gurgled as it cooled, long forgotten.

Jasper hadn’t moved in nearly twenty minutes.

He’d drawn his knees up into the kitchen chair, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway down his hands, face bathed in early grey light as he studied the file. His tea had gone cold. His toast, untouched, curled at the edges on the plate beside him. But his eyes remained fixed to the words on the page.

Keeley Moran.
Sixteen years old.
Lived on Churchstreet.
Two younger sisters.
Attended St. Catherine’s.
Went missing on a Tuesday afternoon after walking home from school.

That could’ve been me. That could’ve been Joanie. Or Keira. Or any of us.

He'd probably seen her on the street once. Maybe they’d crossed paths at the chip shop on Allison Street.

Her whole life was in this folder. Or what was left of it. And now it sat in front of him like a puzzle no one had cared enough to solve.

He knew Carl cared. Of course he did. But this case—it was heavy. It had carved shadows into his face. Made him snappish, gruff, distant. Jasper felt it—how Carl was carrying it around like it was stitched under his skin.

The photos… he'd taken them out when Jasper first opened the file, not ready to see that kind of pain. But now, after reading about her sisters, after tracing the hand-drawn map of the alley where she was found, something tugged at him.

He had to look. To know. To not flinch away when she hadn’t had the chance to.

Slowly, hesitantly, his hand crept toward the nearest photograph.

His fingers brushed the edge—just a little—then a hand came down. Hard.

Crack.

Jasper yelped, jerking back startled in the chair as the sharp sting bloomed across the back of his hand. “What the hell?”

“The fuck are you doing?!” Carl’s voice was a bark, low and rough and full of fury.

Jasper’s wide eyes shot up to meet his. Carl stood over him, jaw clenched, breath short, and murder in his stare. Before Jasper could stammer a word, Carl snatched the entire file off the table, including the upturned photos and loose notes.

“This is not for you,” Carl snapped, folding the folder closed with more force than necessary. “This is none of your fucking business.”

Jasper opened his mouth—rage already curling in his gut—but Carl cut him off again.

“You’re not a bloody detective. You don’t touch this.”

“You left it out!” Jasper hissed, hand cradled against his chest. “If you didn’t want anyone to see it, maybe don’t leave your fucking murder cases where people have breakfast!”

It happened fast.

Carl moved without thought—just instinct and heat—and yanked Jasper upright by the arm.

“Oi—!” Jasper struggled, but Carl wasn’t having it. He spun him toward the table and bent him halfway over it before Jasper knew what was happening.

The smacks came fast. Five of them. Not gentle. Not performative.

Hard.

One after another, each landing across the thin seat of Jasper’s pyjama bottoms with a sharp thwack that echoed in the tiled kitchen.

By the second, Jasper stopped breathing. By the fifth, his cheeks were flushed, hands gripping the edge of the table, body stiff with defiance and shame.

Then Carl let go. Jasper straightened fast, hand instinctively rubbing at his stinging backside, but glaring.

“Don’t ever touch that again,” Carl said through his teeth, holding the file close now, like it was something fragile. “Not the photos. Not the notes. None of it.”

Jasper didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Carl took a breath, tried to calm his voice, and added, “This is not for little boys who think they’re men. Got it?”

That one stung worse than the smacks.

Jasper bristled, almost said something. Almost lashed out.

But Carl was still brimming with anger. With fear. Jasper could see it now—underneath the roughness, the worry. The kind that sat deep in the chest.

He didn’t speak. He just nodded, jaw tight.

Carl pointed toward the hallway. “Get dressed. Go to school. Get out of my sight.”

Jasper didn’t wait for more. He ran out, still upset, still sore.

And more curious than ever.

—

Downstairs, just past eight

Carl wasn’t expecting quiet.

That was his first clue something was off.

Usually when Jasper was up first, the morning started with music—something moody and indecipherable pouring through the floorboards. Or the rattle of dishes being put away too loudly, as if to remind Carl someone else was keeping the house running.

But today… silence.

He descended the stairs with caution, bare feet creaking on wood, his t-shirt clinging slightly to a back still sore from sleeping on the wrong side. He rubbed a hand through his hair, half-expecting the TV to be on with some garish anime flickering across the screen.

But when he reached the bottom, he heard nothing.

No kettle boiling.

No fridge door swinging.

Just the slow, near-silent turn of a page.

He stepped into the kitchen.

And paused.

There was Jasper.

Curled up in his chair, knees drawn close, hoodie sleeves swallowed his hands. His face was tilted downward, jaw slightly slack, utterly absorbed in something.

Carl felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Little bastard. He’s actually reading?

He took a step closer, expecting to see a comic book. Or maybe a discarded homework file he’d forgotten to finish. Something completely out of character that Carl could rib him about later.

But as he came around the table—his amusement froze in his throat.

It was his file.

Open.

Spread wide.

Keeley Moran.

The words were unmistakable. The layout. The logo. The side column of notations.

Jasper was reading about the case.

Carl’s stomach dropped so fast he felt winded. His pulse surged in his throat.

He wanted to speak. To shout. To snatch the thing right then and there.

But he was frozen.

Jasper leaned forward, unaware.

He turned another page, slower this time.

Carl took a step, like wading through water.

Jasper’s fingers hovered—trembling just slightly—over the stack of photos that were placed face-down beside the folder.

And Carl knew what was on those prints. He knew the colour of the bruises on Keeley Moran’s neck. The way her face was twisted. The position of her hands. The blood on the bricks behind her.

Jasper didn’t.

He didn’t need to.

“No.”

Carl moved fast. Fast enough to startle a gasp from Jasper.

He slapped his hand away, hard. The sound cracked like a whip in the quiet kitchen.

Jasper jolted in his chair, wide-eyed, confused—then furious.

Carl snatched the file in one movement, folding it closed with force, grabbing the photos and notes like they were smouldering coals.

“What the hell?!” Jasper hissed, clutching his hand.

Carl didn’t answer. Couldn’t—not yet. He just glared, seething, shaken.

“The fuck are you doing? This is not for you,” he bit out finally. “This is none of your fucking business.”

Before Jasper could hurl anything back he stepped closer. “You’re not a bloody detective. You don’t touch this.”

Jasper recoiled, then rallied—because of course he did. “You left it out! If you didn’t want anyone to see it, maybe don’t leave your fucking murder cases where people have breakfast!”

Carl’s hand clenched tighter around the folder, slamming it down next to the stove.

He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t plan to.

But suddenly Jasper was up, mouth running, anger flaring—and Carl just snapped.

He grabbed the boy, ignoring his shriek, bent him sideways halfway over the table with muscle memory he hated having, and let his hand fly. Five quick, heavy swats, right where they’d sting.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

“Stop—!” Jasper protested, fists clenching the edge of the table, his voice wavering more than he’d want.

Carl let go.

Jasper straightened, breath short, blinking furiously.

Carl softened—but only a little. “You don’t get to see what I see. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.”

Jasper didn’t reply.

“Don’t ever touch that again,” Carl said through his teeth. “Not the photos. Not the notes. None of it.”

Jasper didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Carl took a breath, tried to calm his voice, and added, “This is not for little boys who think they’re men. Got it?”

Something in Jaspers look cracked but Carl couldn't afford to be soft now.

Then he pointed toward the hallway. “Get dressed. Go to school. Get out of my sight.”

Jasper didn’t argue. Just left, stiff and quiet.

Carl stood in the kitchen, file now clutched in his hands like a bomb. His heart thudded, his jaw clenched, his shame already seeping in.

But God help him—he couldn’t take the thought of Jasper seeing those photos. Carrying that kind of weight.

Not his boy.

Not that soft, good-hearted kid who still sometimes picked flowers for Martin’s windowsill and cried over wildlife documentaries.

He’d take Jasper’s anger.

He’d take the yelling and the sulking and the silence.

He just couldn’t let the darkness get to him.

Not like that.

Not through him.

—

He wasn’t not going to school.

Not at first.

He’d left the house when he was meant to. Bag slung over his shoulder. Walked the same route, turned the same corners. He passed the bus stop where a girl from his year was vaping behind her sleeve and waved to him like everything was normal.

But inside, Jasper was still burning.

The sting of Carl’s hand hadn’t faded entirely, but it was the other part that stuck. The way he’d looked at Jasper—not just furious, but afraid. Like Jasper had done something wrong just by wanting to know.

“You don’t get to see what I see.”

He kicked a stone hard enough it ricocheted off a fence.

He didn’t mean to change direction. Not really. He told himself he was just taking a detour. Avoiding the traffic near the school. Maybe grabbing something from the shop.

But somehow, his feet just went.

The substation sat behind the old skate park, rusted and forgotten, its fence bent from a decade of bored kids climbing over it. He remembered it from the file. The graffiti tag—distinct and uneven—bit there.

He stood across the street for a long time.

The alley beyond it was the one from the report. The same shadows. The same walls. He could feel it, even without the pictures.

Keeley had walked home from school that day. Probably listening to music. Probably thinking about nothing. And she’d ended up here.

Jasper’s chest was tight.

The photos flashed behind his eyes—just a glimpse he’d gotten before Carl had snatched them away. Not enough to see everything. But his brain filled in the blanks anyway. He imagined blood on the bricks. Fingers scraped raw. A backpack lying open on the pavement. And the stillness.

He shouldn’t be here.

But he was.

—

Carl had been useless all morning.

He’d tried to focus. He’d really tried. He’d opened the case notes. Cross-checked interviews. Sat through a briefing. But his mind kept drifting back to the kitchen. To the way Jasper had stared at him—not scared, not even angry, but like Carl had betrayed him.

Because maybe he had.

He rubbed his face hard and reached for the lukewarm coffee Hardy had set down for him.

“Did you tell him anything?” Hardy asked, not looking up from his notes.

Carl shook his head. “Didn’t get the chance.”

Hardy’s brow furrowed. “Then how the hell did he end up reading it?”

“I left the file out,” Carl admitted, voice low.

Hardy froze, turning slowly. “You what?”

“On the table. Last night. I was—fuck, I don’t know—I was wrecked, I didn’t even think.”

Hardy put down his pen. “You let a sixteen-year-old read a case file on a murdered girl?”

“I didn’t let him.”

“But he did. Because you left it there. Jesus, Carl—Moira would have your balls.”

“I know,” Carl snapped, more at himself than Hardy. “I know I fucked up.”

Hardy watched him for a moment. His expression softened—only slightly.

“What happened?”

Carl sighed, rubbing his temples. “He was going to look at the photos.”

Hardy winced.

“I couldn’t let him see it, Harry. You don’t get it. He’s... he’s good. He’s got this big, soft heart he keeps pretending he doesn’t have. He sees that girl lying there like that—he doesn’t come back the same.”

Hardy didn’t argue.

The silence between them stretched.

Then Carl’s phone rang.

He checked the number and swore under his breath. It was the school.

He answered.

“Yes—Morck.”

Pause.

“No, he left this morning. Before eight.”

A longer pause.

Carl’s face went hard. “Right.”

He hung up.

Hardy raised an eyebrow. “He bunked?”

“He never showed.”

Hardy folded his arms. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

Carl stood, already grabbing his coat.

“If he did what I think he did,” he growled, “then this morning’s smacking is going to feel like lovepats.”

Hardy followed him out. “You think he went to the site?”

Carl didn’t answer.

He was already running.

Chapter Text

Carl turned the corner onto Allison Street like a man possessed.

The alley was just ahead—grey, narrow, choked with bins and shattered glass. It looked smaller than he remembered from the photos. More real. Worse.

Let him be gone already. Let him have walked past it. Let me be wrong just once—

He saw him.

Sixteen, slight-framed, hair ruffled by the wind. Standing right in the middle of the alley, staring down at the place where the blood had pooled. One hand gripped the strap of his backpack like it might anchor him.

Carl’s whole body flooded with cold.

It’s her again.

Not Keeley—but Jasper. His boy. Blond. Pale. Wide-eyed. Walking the same steps as a girl who’d never walked back out.

The same bloody alley.

The same—

“Jasper!”

His voice cracked the silence like a whip.

Jasper startled, head jerking up, shoulders snapping tight. He spun, eyes wild with guilt and fear.

Carl stalked forward, fury and adrenaline making his voice raw. “Don’t you dare,” he barked, “don’t you bloody dare make me chase you!”

Jasper hesitated—for half a second.

Then turned and bolted.

“God—damn it!”

Carl took off after him, boots skidding on gravel, heart pounding like a sledgehammer in his ears. “Jasper Stewart, you little shite—!”

But the alley was narrow, slick in places, and the kid was fast.

Too fast.

Carl swore.

Like a trap snapping shut, Hardy stepped out from behind a dumpster near the alley’s far mouth. Calm, composed, arms folded—and then not. Because Jasper practically ran into him chest-first and started thrashing the second Hardy grabbed him.

“Let go of me!” Jasper yelled, voice high, panicked. “I didn’t do anything!”

Carl stumbled up seconds later, panting hard, dragging one hand down his face as he caught his breath and glared at the wriggling teenager in Hardy’s grip.

“Jesus—what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Carl growled, stepping in.

Jasper twisted toward him, wide-eyed. “I didn’t do anything! I just looked, alright?! I just stood there—”

“You weren’t supposed to be here at all!”

Hardy gave Carl a look, still holding the boy. “You sure you don’t want to calm down before you kill him?”

Carl ignored him.

He stepped forward and yanked Jasper out of Hardy’s hold by the back of his school blazer. “Fine then,” he said, fury reigniting. “If you haven’t done anything, then this smacking’ll be for nothing at all.”

“What?!” Jasper shrieked, but Carl had already bent him over his hip.

Hardy turned around with a mutter of “Right, I’m out,” and walked a few feet down the street, pretending not to hear the sharp whacks echoing off brick walls.

“Ow—Carl!”

“Don’t Carl me now!” Whack.

“I just wanted to understand!”

“You don’t belong in a place like this!” Whack.

“You left it out—”

“And now it’s very much put away, isn’t it?!” Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack.

Jasper was panting by the fifth or sixth. Not crying. Not quite. But biting his lip so hard his jaw twitched.

Carl gave him one last swat, then yanked him upright, face close.

“You ever do something like that again,” he said, low and shaking, “and I swear to God I will drag you home by your ear and tan your hide on every street corner between here and the flat. Do you understand me?”

Jasper stared at him.

Eyes wet.

Breathing shallow.

Then a miserable nod.

Carl let go, heart still galloping.

“Get in the car.”

Jasper didn’t argue this time.

—

The drive was short, silent, and thick with heat and shame.

Carl didn’t even turn on the radio. The quiet between them pulsed like a bruise.

Jasper shifted miserably in his seat. Each bump in the road made him wince. His hips angled awkwardly, trying to keep his sore backside from pressing into the leather.

Two spankings in a single morning. That had to be a bloody record.

And what was worse—

Carl hadn’t waited until they were alone.

He’d done it in the alley. With Hardy right there. Holding him. Like a toddler about to bolt into traffic.

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of the school lot. The building loomed ahead like a prison.

Carl finally spoke. “You’re going to stay here. The whole day. And you’re going to keep your head down.”

Jasper didn’t look at him.

“If I get another call from the office, if I find out you’ve gone missing again—” Carl paused, voice hardening, “—you’re not going to like the outcome.”

Jasper bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.

“What,” he snapped, “you gonna come get me again? What’s next, a third smacking? Round three before lunch?”

Carl’s knuckles flexed on the steering wheel. His voice was like iron. “If I have to, yes.”

Jasper snorted.

Carl turned, eyes dark. “And if I do, then next time it won’t be my hand.”

That stilled Jasper.

His breath caught.

Carl didn’t soften. “I’ll take my belt to you. And you will not be sitting comfortably for a week.”

Silence.

Jasper’s face had gone pale. His eyes flicked toward the gear shift, anywhere but Carl’s face.

“You’ve never used your belt,” he muttered, voice smaller than he meant it to be.

“Not yet.”

Carl leaned in slightly, locking eyes. His voice was low. Serious.

“I don’t want to. You know that.”

Jasper blinked quickly, jaw tight.

“But if that’s what it takes to keep you from walking straight into the same alley a girl your age died in—if that’s the price for keeping you alive—then yeah, I’ll do it.”

Jasper’s throat bobbed.

Then, suddenly, he grabbed the handle, shoved the door open, and jumped out with more speed than grace.

“Whatever,” he muttered, not looking back.

The door slammed behind him.

Carl flinched, then exhaled slowly.

Hardy, from the passenger seat, watched the retreating figure of the sulking, limping boy stomp toward the building.

Then he muttered, “You’re a mean asshole, you know that?”

Carl didn’t argue. His fingers still gripped the wheel like he needed something to hold onto.

“I know.”

They sat there for another moment, the distant sound of the school bell cutting through the silence.

Carl closed his eyes, just for a second.

“I just don’t know what else to do,” he added quietly.

Hardy didn’t have an answer.

—

The flat was quiet when Carl returned.

Martin was working late. The TV was on in the sitting room, tuned to something Jasper wasn’t really watching. The boy sat curled into one corner of the couch, hoodie pulled tight, legs tucked under him. His eyes flicked toward Carl as he walked in, but he didn’t say anything.

Carl stood there for a moment, the weight of the day still in his shoulders.

He sighed. “You eaten?”

A small shrug.

“I’ll sort something in a bit,” Carl said, then nodded to the TV. “Still want to watch it?”

Jasper hesitated.

Then gave the barest nod.

Carl grabbed the Blu-ray case from where it had been abandoned the night before and popped it in. The screen lit up with the film’s opening credits, soft colours washing the room in a flickering blue light.

Carl settled beside Jasper—not too close at first. But a minute or two in, Jasper edged over. Just a little. Enough that Carl noticed.

He didn’t comment.

Didn’t need to.

He let his arm rest casually behind the boy, the way he used to when Jasper was younger, and when Jasper finally leaned in, Carl’s heart squeezed painfully.

The film rolled on.

Neither of them really watched it.

Jasper spoke first, voice low and flat. “You didn’t have to smack me this morning. Or again at the alley.”

Carl didn’t look at him. “Didn’t want to.”

Jasper’s lips twisted. “Then why do it?”

Carl shifted to face him slightly, the boy still half-curled under his arm.

“Because I love you too much to lose you.”

Jasper blinked.

The flicker of anger still sitting in his expression softened, curling into something smaller. Sadder. His eyes stayed on the screen, but his shoulders dropped ever so slightly.

“You could’ve just said that,” he mumbled.

Carl made a sound—dry, close to a laugh, but not quite. “You wouldn’t’ve believed me.”

Jasper said nothing. But he didn’t pull away.

They stayed like that a while. The film rolled on and Carl thought maybe the kid had dozed off, he was so still.

Then Jasper spoke again, voice quiet.

“Keeley won’t be watching movies with her family ever again.”

Carl didn’t answer right away.

What could he say to that?

He just turned, pulled the boy tighter into his side, and pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

And Jasper—his too-big heart bruised and stubborn and aching—closed his eyes and let himself be held.

Carl kept his arms firm around him, head resting lightly against the boy’s crown.

His kid.

His soulful, stupid, infuriating kid.

And right now, he didn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Things had been easier.

Not perfect—they still got on each other’s nerves, Jasper still left wet towels on the bathroom floor and Carl still barked at him for leaving dishes in the sink—but something between them had softened. Like scar tissue slowly starting to heal.

They’d watched two more films. Ordered pizza. Carl even gave Jasper a night off from curfew, so long as he kept his phone on and checked in.

Jasper had gone to school every day.

Carl tried not to act too surprised.

Still, he kept the leash short. He said he trusted the boy, but there were limits—and while he’d backed off on the belt-threats and barking, there was a watchfulness now. A quiet scanning of moods. A sense that Carl knew what it meant when Jasper’s shoulders tensed just slightly, or when he tapped his fingers against the sofa like something inside him was buzzing too loud.

And something was.

Jasper couldn’t let it go.

It wasn’t just curiosity anymore—it was her.

Keeley Moran. Blonde. Sixteen. Smiling in the photo before the ones he hadn’t dared look at. Her life had been right next to his—same part of town, same shops, probably passed each other on the high street.

And the graffiti.

He kept seeing it. Crude symbols, painted over in bright colours, scrawled across walls near the school, around the edge of the old industrial park—places kids went to bunk off or smoke or worse. They weren’t ordinary tags. No artist’s name. No gang signs he recognised. The same symbol over and over.

So one night, after Carl had gone to bed and the house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant rattle of the heating, Jasper sat at his desk and looked for the photo he'd snapped a while ago to show his friend. Hidden in plain sight.

He posted it on a student forum he knew wasn’t totally safe, but wasn’t completely public either. Nothing about Keeley. Nothing about the alley. Just:

Anyone know what this means? Seen it in town.

He didn’t even use his usual screen name. He made up a new one.

Within twenty minutes, someone replied.

Might do. Why you asking?

He hesitated.

Typed: Just curious. It’s all over the old buildings near the school.

Another reply came almost instantly.

You local?

He paused again.

Sort of.

You see it on the one by the canal?

Yeah.

Interesting. I can tell you what it means. Might be better to talk in person.

Jasper frowned.

He started typing: Sure, maybe we could— but before he could send it, another message popped up.

You got a name?

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he closed the tab and went to brush his teeth. But when he came back, three more messages had appeared.

Apparently, they were going to meet.

—

Carl was halfway through a second cup of bitter coffee when Moira poked her head into their shared office.

“Cyber unit wants you,” she said, tossing a file on the desk. “Something from the forums we flagged.”

Hardy grunted from his chair. “Thought we weren’t pulling forum kids anymore.”

“Not usually. But this one might link to the Moran case.”

Carl looked up sharply.

He opened the file.

A few printouts of a forum thread. Blurred images of graffiti—Carl’s stomach clenched. One was of the wall behind the canal. One that matched the photos from the alley.

“Was this posted anonymously?” Carl asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Pseudonym,” Moira replied. “No traceable IP yet. Cyber’s still combing it.”

Hardy whistled under his breath. “Could be something.”

Carl flipped the pages again, staring at the username. Nothing about it stood out. Just a random name and a question.

But it gave them something to think about.

—
It was one of those rare moments when the boards started to talk back.

Hardy was hunched over the desk, shifting files like puzzle pieces. Carl stood at the whiteboard, tapping a marker against his palm. There were now five photos pinned in place. All girls. All blonde. All young.

All gone.

Keeley Moran.
Sasha Hayes – Bristol.
Lina Grant – Aberdeen.
Freya Lennox – Dundee.
Nora Ashton – Inverness.

Dates ranged from 2016 to last month.

Different cities. Different years. Different families.

“No link,” Hardy muttered, eyes scanning the pages again. “No shared social media. No holiday camps. No group homes. They didn’t know each other, no overlap in family names—hell, two of them were only children.”

“But look at this.” Carl jabbed a thumb toward a printout. “Same symbol. This photo was taken behind Sasha’s flat. This one? On the fence two blocks from where Freya was last seen.”

Hardy looked up. “You’re saying this isn’t random.”

“I’m saying it’s been organised. Quiet. Careful. But it’s the same pattern.”

Carl didn’t know what it meant yet, but his gut told him it was something.

“Whoever’s behind this—they’re smart. They don’t take two girls in the same place. They space it out, years apart. But they always leave a mark. Sort of a signature.”

Hardy rubbed his jaw. “We’re not just looking at Keeley’s killer. We’re looking at a serial offender.”

“Worse,” Carl muttered. “We’re looking at someone who’s been hiding in plain sight.”

Hardy nodded. “I’ll get Moira. We’ll need to involve other jurisdictions.”

Just then, Carl’s desk phone rang.

He grabbed it on the second buzz, expecting admin or the records team. “Morck.”

“Cyber Crimes Unit,” came the clipped voice on the line. “You asked to be alerted if we got a trace on that post?”

Carl straightened. “Yeah. You’ve got something?”

“We’ve confirmed the IP address. It’s yours.”

There was a pause.

Carl frowned. “What?”

“IP address matches the one registered to your home router. The post was made two nights ago at 23:16.”

Carl’s heart stuttered.

No.

He blinked, mind racing backward.

That night. Late. Quiet.

Martin had gone to bed early.

Carl had been asleep.

But Jasper...

“Christ,” Carl breathed.

Hardy looked up sharply. “What?”

Carl hung up the phone, face draining of colour.

“It was Jasper.”

“What?!” Hardy was already moving. “If he’s talking to someone—”

Carl didn’t even let him finish.
He didn’t say the rest.

He didn’t need to.

Because suddenly it wasn’t a board full of missing girls or symbols or the slow, maddening crawl of investigative work.

Suddenly it was Jasper.

His Jasper.

Sixteen. Head full of ghosts and bravado. His kid who still muttered "whatever" like it could protect him from the world, who still flinched when Carl raised his voice even if he’d never admit it, who’d asked about Keeley with such pain in his voice—

—who might be in real danger now. And it was slowly getting dark outside.

Carl grabbed his coat and keys in one smooth motion.

“Call Moira. I want him looked for. I’m going home.”

Hardy followed. “You think he’s there?”

“I think,” Carl said grimly, “that if he’s not in danger already—he’s about to be. And if he’s not, then I’m still going to tan his backside so hard he won’t be able to sit until his final exams.”

Chapter Text

The streets were still wet from earlier rain. Water pooled in the corners of uneven pavement, shining under the flat grey of a late Scottish afternoon.

Jasper shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket, tugging the sleeves down. His trainers scuffed the concrete as he walked.

He wasn’t scared. Not really.

He kept telling himself that.

It was just a meet-up. A chat. The guy had said he could explain the graffiti—how it started, what it meant. Jasper hadn’t told him anything personal, just that he’d seen the symbols before and wanted to know if they were part of something.

Just curiosity. That’s all it was.

The messages had been short, clipped. Nothing too weird. The guy—whoever he was—used a screen name that sounded like a student blog handle. No photos. But Jasper didn’t think twice. It was a student forum, after all. Most people were teenagers or kids.

He hadn’t really thought someone older might just pretend.

He checked his phone.

Three missed calls.

Carl.

And now a voicemail bubble blinking at the top of the screen.

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket without unlocking it. Right. That’ll be another lecture. Maybe a grounding. A shouting match at best, a smacked arse at worst.

He’ll get over it. He always does.

Martin had barely blinked when Jasper mumbled something about needing to go out for new PE trainers. But Martin wasn’t Carl. He didn’t chase every lie down.

So here he was. Five minutes from the meeting point.

A quiet park behind a disused church, near the railway tracks.

The guy had suggested it. Said it was easier to talk somewhere "not full of nosy bastards."

Jasper didn’t love the sound of that. But still. He wanted to know.

He needed to know.

So he kept walking.

—

“Voicemail again?” Hardy asked as Carl lowered his phone, eyes sharp.

“Eighth bloody time,” Carl muttered, gripping the wheel tighter as the car took a corner too fast. “I swear to God, when I get my hands on him—”

“He could be ignoring you,” Hardy said. “Doesn’t mean he’s in danger. Yet.”

Carl’s jaw ticked. “He read that file. He went digging. Then he posted about it online, and now he’s not answering his phone.”

Hardy didn’t argue.

Carl hit dial again. One hand on the wheel, the other holding the mobile like it might finally behave.

Voicemail.

His voice was a growl when he left the message.

“Jasper. You pick up this bloody phone right now. Or you come home this second. If I have to come drag you back, you’ll be very sorry. Don’t push me, boy.”

He ended the call and threw the phone onto the dash.

Hardy didn’t say anything right away.

Then, softly, “You’re not just angry.”

Carl stared ahead.

“I told him to forget it,” he said quietly. “Told him it wasn’t for kids. Thought that would be enough.”

“Thought he’d listen?”

Carl gave a dark laugh. “He never listens.”

Hardy let out a slow breath. “He’s not stupid.”

“No,” Carl said grimly. “But he’s sixteen. And stubborn. And curious. And he doesn’t know how far this goes.”

—

The front door slammed against the wall as Carl barged in, Hardy right behind him. The living room was dim, one lamp casting a warm cone of light across the carpet. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

“Jasper?” Carl called out, already knowing.

No answer.

Carl strode into the hallway, checked the kitchen, then headed for the stairs, calling again—louder this time. “Jasper! You better be in here, boy!”

Still no answer.

Martin appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a cup of tea and looking vaguely concerned. “He’s not here,” he said. “Went out a bit ago. Said he needed new shoes for PE.”

Carl stopped in his tracks and stared up at him.

Hard.

Then he blinked once, slowly. “That,” he said, voice cold and rising, “has got to be the shittiest lie I’ve ever heard. And you let him go?”

Martin’s face pinched. “I’m not his mother, Carl. Or his bloody nanny. He said he needed—”

“He doesn’t need anything!” Carl barked, storming into the kitchen, slamming a hand against the table. “Except maybe the grounding of a lifetime!”

Hardy watched him carefully, letting him spiral a few seconds before stepping in. “Alright, let’s focus.”

Carl’s hands gripped the back of a kitchen chair. “How do we find him? If he’s had a conversation with someone in that bloody forum, it’ll be on his phone, which he has with him. Or his laptop—which is here, but locked. Brilliant.”

He looked like he might hurl the kettle through the window.

Martin cleared his throat quietly. “I... might know his password.”

Carl blinked. “You what?”

Martin shrugged, sheepish. “He’s used the same one since he was nine.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. It’s... uh. It’s 1234.”

Carl closed his eyes like he might pass out. “You are kidding me.”

Hardy didn’t wait.

He strode to the hallway where the laptop sat on the side table, flipped it open, typed in the numbers, and—“We’re in.”

Carl bolted over as Hardy pulled up the browser, quickly finding the tab still open to the forum.

The inbox was right there.

Carl scanned the conversation, eyes flying over the text. The username. The tone. The details.

Hardy was already jotting down the meeting point. “Disused park behind St. Agnes’ chapel.”

Carl’s throat went dry. “That’s out near the old railyards.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s isolated.”

“Yeah.”

Carl was moving before the laptop even closed.

Hardy grabbed the car keys off the hook. “Let’s go.”

—

The gravel crunched softly under Jasper’s trainers as he stepped into the shadowed clearing.

The old park was long dead—no swings, no benches. Just a weedy patch of cracked concrete near the back wall of a crumbling chapel, train tracks humming faintly in the distance.

He checked his phone again.

Nothing.

No new messages from the guy.

He bit his lip and shifted on his feet.

He’s just late. Probably just… y’know. Another teenager being awkward. This was fine.

A branch cracked behind him.

Jasper turned.

His breath hitched.

The man who stepped out of the shadows wasn’t sixteen. Or seventeen. Or even twenty.

He looked closer to Carl’s age. Maybe older.

Tall. Thick arms beneath a dark shirt. Tired eyes that didn’t blink.

Not smiling.

And something about him—everything about him—felt wrong.

Jasper took a step back. “You’re—uh. I think I got the wrong—”

“No,” the man said, calm. Too calm. “You’re in the right place.”

Jasper barely had time to blink before the man surged forward.

Rough hands gripped him and slammed him to the ground. His back struck gravel, hard. Pain bloomed in his ribs and elbows. He gasped—but before he could make a sound, the man’s hand clamped over his mouth.

“Stay still.”

Jasper thrashed beneath him, heart hammering, legs kicking, but the guy was strong—easily twice his weight and built like a wall. Every movement just dug the gravel deeper into Jasper’s skin.

Then came the slap.

Hard. Open-handed. Across the face.

His ears rang. Tears sprang into his eyes.

“Now,” the man hissed, breathing heavy, “so you think you got anything on me? Huh, boy?”

He yanked something from his pocket—cable ties—and with terrifying speed, looped them around Jasper’s wrists and cinched them tight behind his back.

Jasper gasped again—but the hand clamped over his mouth kept it silent. He tasted earth and sweat. His own blood.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to snoop where you don’t belong?”

Jasper whimpered, eyes wide. The pain, the fear, it was all too fast—too real.

The man leaned in, voice low and vile.

“I usually like girls. Better. But you…” His fingers brushed Jasper’s hair. “You’ll do just fine. Fair skin, blonde hair—bit too long, don’t you think?”

Jasper bucked, screamed against the hand—but the sound was swallowed.

“And those eyes. Those lovely blue eyes.” He chuckled. “Now now. No need to cry.”

But Jasper couldn’t stop. Hot, frightened tears streamed down his face.

This was wrong.

This was all wrong.

He hadn’t meant to—

He just wanted to help.

To understand.

And now everything had turned to shit.

The man adjusted his grip, pressing down harder.

Jasper struggled again, but it was no use. His wrists burned, his chest heaved.

Somewhere behind the pounding in his ears, a distant noise—he wasn’t sure if it was a train or just his heart breaking.

He was cold. Shaking. Terrified.

And entirely alone.

The man didn’t speak again.

He just grunted, yanked Jasper roughly by the arm, and hauled him up off the gravel like he weighed nothing at all.

Jasper kicked—once, hard—but the man barely stumbled. Thick fingers clamped around the backs of his thighs, lifting him like a sack of grain and slinging him over one broad shoulder.

“No—no, please—”

His voice cracked.

“Please, I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—please don’t—”

He squirmed, twisted, tried to throw his weight sideways, but the arm across his back just squeezed tighter. The edge of the man’s shoulder bit cruelly into Jasper’s stomach, his breath coming in shallow pants. The cable ties dug deep into his wrists.

The man started walking.

Away from the clearing.

Away from the faint lights of the city.

Away from anything safe.

Jasper had never felt such terror.

Not when Carl first shouted at him. Not when he’d run off. Not even when he was sure Carl hated him.

This—this was different.

He knew how this ended.

He’d read Keeley’s file.

And now he was walking into the same fate.

“No—please! Please!” he cried again, louder now. “Don’t do this, I’m sorry! I’m just a kid! Please—somebody help!”

That stopped the man.

Only for a second.

The arm unwrapped from around him, and Jasper hit the ground hard, shoulder first. He yelped, scrambling to sit up, still trying to get his legs under him—

But the man loomed above him.

“You be quiet,” he growled. His voice had changed—low and cold, with the promise of real violence. “You want to keep your tongue, boy?”

Jasper froze.

The man leaned in.

“I’ve ripped one out before. Don’t think I won’t do it again.”

And then he grabbed Jasper’s ankles and started dragging him.

No effort.

Just cold purpose.

Jasper’s arms, bound behind his back, kept him from resisting properly. His hip scraped over dirt, gravel, leaves. His shirt rode up. His cheek met the ground and dragged—stone slicing across soft skin.

It burned.

But that didn’t matter.

He barely felt it, not compared to the icy certainty seizing his lungs.

He wasn’t going to make it out.

He was going to die out here.

His body would be found days from now. Cold. Broken. Just another case file with photos Carl would have to study.

And maybe, if they didn’t find him, there wouldn’t even be that.

Just a missing person report.

He tried to cry out again but bit it back—bit his own tongue to stay quiet. He couldn’t risk another blow, another threat.

Tears poured hot and silent as he was dragged across the dirt.

His cheek burned. His ribs ached. His heart screamed.

And all he could think was—

Mum. Carl. I’m sorry.

Chapter Text

Carl’s boots hit the wet grass hard.

They were close now. The coordinates from the forum post had led them just past the derelict park, down the slope toward the old service tunnel. No cameras. No traffic. Perfect place for something to vanish.

Carl’s pulse was a jackhammer.

He hadn’t said a word since they left the car.

Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t. Not with the sound of Jasper’s name pulsing in his ears. Not with the thought of what might already be happening.

Hardy’s voice cut in as they neared the overgrown fence.

“We’ve got to be smart now, Carl,” he warned, his breath steady even in the run. “Not angry. Smart.”

Carl didn’t look at him. “I can be both.”

Then they heard it.

High. Wet. Raw.

“No—please—please, I’m sorry—”

Jasper.

His voice.

Sliced through Carl like a blade.

Then—silence.

No footsteps. No cries. Just the creak of wind in the dying trees.

Both men moved without a word.

They split instantly—Hardy melting right, Carl low and left. The world narrowed to breath, boots on wet dirt, the faint buzz of adrenaline in his ears.

Carl’s hands shook.

Not from fear. From fury.

Then he saw it.

A shape.

Looming.

A man. Big. Built like a boulder. His back was turned, hunched over something writhing, something small.

No sounds now.

Just struggling.

Carl’s hand twitched toward his weapon—but Hardy, from the brush behind the man, was already ahead.

Crack—

The shot ripped through the clearing, clean and close.

The man jerked.

Then slumped, slow and monstrous, crashing to the ground like a felled tree.

Carl was moving before the echo faded.

He scrambled across the clearing, heart thudding as he reached the crumpled figure underneath the man’s bulk.

And then he saw—

“Jasper.”

His boy.

On his side, knees curled up, face smeared with blood and dirt, wrists still brutally bound behind him.

The cable ties had dug deep. His cheek was torn and swollen, tear-streaked and grimy. His trousers were wet.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Carl didn’t even realise he was crying as well until he tasted the salt on his lips.

“Jesus, son.”

He threw himself to the ground, grabbed the man’s dead weight and hauled him off Jasper’s legs. The bastard was not moving. Carl shoved him aside, breath ragged.

“Jasper. Jasper, I’ve got you. It’s alright. I’m here.”

The boy flinched at first, a soundless sob catching in his throat—but then Carl’s arms were around him, holding tight, wrapping himself around the trembling form.

The ties were brutal—too tight. Carl fumbled, his fingers slick. “Hardy! Knife!”

Hardy was already there. In one clean movement, he cut the binds.

Jasper gasped as his arms fell free—but didn’t move. He just curled into Carl, his breath hitching and then breaking in long, painful sobs.

Carl pulled him close.

Held his head.

Kissed his filthy hair, not caring.

“You’re alright now. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Jasper was sobbing still. The full-body kind. Shoulders shaking, breath skipping, chest hitching like a little boy.

“I—I thought—I thought I was gonna die—” he managed, voice high and breaking.

Carl cupped his face.

“No, kiddo. No one’s laying a hand on you ever again. You’re safe. It’s done. He’s done.”

He couldn’t say the rest.

Couldn’t even look at the body lying a few feet away.

All he saw was Jasper—his boy—shaking in his arms, bruised and scraped and so small.

Hardy stepped back, already on the radio. His voice was sharp. Steady. Getting the medics. Getting cleanup. Telling the others what they needed to know.

Carl didn’t let go.

Not when Jasper pressed closer.

Not when he whispered, brokenly, “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help…I'm sorry Dad.”

“I know,” Carl said, fierce and soft all at once. “But no more. No more helping like this.”

He kissed his hair again, and Jasper didn’t fight it.

Didn’t even try.

Because he was sobbing.

Still so young.

But still alive.

—

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold, pale glow on the curtained-off cubicle.

Jasper sat motionless on the narrow bed, small and hunched, a thin sheet drawn up to his waist. The hospital gown hung loose on his skinny frame, exposing the red marks blooming on his arms where the cable ties had bitten deep. A smear of dried blood over scraped skin traced along one cheekbone. Cleaned, but not forgotten.

Carl stood beside him like a sentry.

One hand gripped the boy’s shoulder. He hadn’t let go once.

Across from them, a plainclothes detective scribbled something in a notebook. His voice was even, quiet—but Jasper flinched at every question. His answers were clipped, barely audible, each one a painful whisper.

Carl’s jaw clenched tighter with every passing minute. He could see the boy unraveling—bit by bit. Holding it together with sheer grit and shame.

He’d had enough.

“That’s it,” Carl said sharply, interrupting the next question. “He’s done. He’s given you what he could. You want more? You wait.”

The detective looked like he wanted to protest. One glance from Carl changed his mind.

With a nod, the man closed the notebook and backed away. “We’ll be in touch.”

As the curtain dropped back into place behind him, Carl looked down.

Expected maybe a relieved smile, some spark of life returning.

But Jasper just sat there. Staring.

Quiet.

Still trembling.

The shame rolled off him like fog. Carl knew that kind of silence. The kind where the words were too ugly to speak.

He moved closer, crouched beside the bed. “What?” he asked softly. “What is it? You don’t want to go home?”

Jasper’s head lifted slowly. His eyes were wide, glassy.

“I…” He swallowed, then looked away. His eyes flicked toward the corner chair, where his clothes sat bundled. Jeans, hoodie, trainers—filthy from the dragging. Torn at the sleeve. The front of the jeans visibly stained, still damp.

Carl followed the look.

And then he understood.

The boy’s ears burned red.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jasper said, almost inaudibly. “It just… happened.”

His voice cracked.

Carl didn’t speak at first.

He just moved—slow, deliberate.

He pulled the boy forward and wrapped him up in his arms, gently but firmly, cradling Jasper like he had when he was little and frightened of monsters and thunderstorms. And Jasper didn’t fight him.

Didn’t even tense.

He just sank into it—so young, so shaken, and so deeply ashamed.

“No,” Carl said, low against his hair. “No shame. D’you hear me? None. You were frightened for your life, Jasper. That… that bastard had his hands on you. You did nothing wrong.”

Jasper shuddered, face pressed to Carl’s chest. “I hate that it happened. That I—I couldn’t—”

“Shh,” Carl murmured, pressing his lips to the top of his head. “It doesn’t make you weak. Or stupid. Or anything else your brain’s trying to tell you.”

He kissed him once more, then reached into his pocket.

“Stay right here. I’m calling Martin. You’ll get a clean set of clothes. And then we’ll go home.”

Jasper clutched a handful of Carl’s shirt, still holding on even as Carl straightened and stepped away to make the call.

—

The door creaked open as Martin stepped inside the hospital room, a gym bag slung over one shoulder. He took one look at Jasper—curled in on himself, ghostly pale, clinging to Carl’s side like a lifeline—and his throat worked silently.

“Hey, kid,” he said gently, crouching to Jasper’s level. “Brought your comfiest. Hoodie's fresh from the dryer.”

Jasper didn’t speak. Just took the bag, eyes flickering with something like gratitude.

Martin touched his knee, a brief press of reassurance, before stepping back.

They gave him privacy to change. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was in the soft grey hoodie Carl always threatened to bin and matching joggers that hung loose on his frame. He still looked pale. Hollowed. But his chin wasn’t trembling quite so badly now.

He stayed close to Carl on the walk out. Close enough to brush elbows, then shoulders. By the time they reached the car, he was holding on again, his hand wrapped tight in Carl’s coat.

Martin didn’t comment, just drove.

The car was quiet. No one spoke. The roads were empty, the city painted in orange streetlight and long shadows. In the back seat, Jasper leaned into Carl like he might disappear if he didn’t. Carl curled an arm around his shoulder, fingers stroking through sweat-damp hair.

“You did good,” he whispered at some point, barely audible. “You stayed brave. I’m proud of you.”

Jasper didn’t answer, but he pressed closer.

At home, Martin unlocked the door and hovered awkwardly in the hall. “I’ll make some tea,” he offered quietly, heading for the kitchen.

Carl steered Jasper toward the stairs, speaking softly. “You want to shower before bed?”

Jasper hesitated.

Then nodded.

Carl waited nearby, just outside the bathroom, until the water turned on. The sound helped ease something taut in his chest. The kid was trying. Still upright.

He emerged twenty minutes later, face flushed, hair damp and sticking up in soft spikes. He looked a little more like himself—but still wouldn’t meet Carl’s eyes.

Then came the whisper:

“Are you… are you going to spank me now? With—the belt?”

Carl froze.

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t expected the rawness in the boy’s voice, or the way he still couldn’t look him in the eye. Shame and fear and the echo of something much deeper sat thick in the air.

Carl closed his eyes.

Then crossed the room in two long steps, rested his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“No,” he said firmly. “No, I’m not. I know I said I would… but Jasper, it’s been a lot tonight. That’s not what you need right now.”

The boy gave a jerky nod but didn’t move.

Carl dropped his voice. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah? We’ll talk in the morning. Just talk. I promise.”

Another small nod.

Still, Jasper stayed rooted to the spot.

Carl studied him carefully, then spoke—soft, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “You want to sleep in my bed?”

He expected resistance.

Expected the usual flinch or bark of protest or prickly sarcasm.

But this time, there was nothing but a tired nod.

Carl led him down the hall, pulled back the covers, and let the boy climb in first. Jasper curled on his side, facing the wall, stiff as a board until Carl slid in behind him and put an arm around his waist.

That’s when he melted.

Back against Carl’s chest, one hand twisting in the sheets, the other reaching back to grip Carl’s arm. Just to know he was there.

“You’re safe,” Carl murmured into his hair. “I promise. I’ve got you.”

The boy didn’t answer.

But for the first time since that terrible alley, he breathed without shaking.

Chapter Text

The first time Jasper cried out, it was barely a whisper—just a broken “No” breathed into the dark.

The second time, Carl was already half-awake, reaching out before the boy could thrash too hard. “Jasper,” he murmured, voice low and calm, anchoring. “It’s just a dream, kid. I’m here.”

But Jasper wasn’t waking.

His limbs jerked beneath the covers, breath coming fast and sharp. One arm flung out as though trying to ward something off. Carl gathered him close, one arm around his middle, a hand on his chest to ground him.

“I’ve got you. You're not there. It’s over.”

Jasper let out a high, broken whimper, curled in tighter, and then finally blinked awake with a gasp.

His eyes were wide and wet. His skin clammy.

Carl just pulled him closer.

They didn’t talk—not then. Carl didn’t ask what it was about. He already knew.

He stroked the boy’s back, slow and steady, and whispered whatever grounding nonsense came to mind: you’re here… in my room… safe… I’ve got you… I promise, I’ve got you.

Eventually, Jasper stilled. His breathing evened. And they slept again.

When morning came, it was slow and grey, and Jasper lay still under the duvet, eyes already open but dull.

Carl was on his side, facing him, one hand draped over the boy’s arm.

“You awake?” he asked gently.

A nod. Barely.

There was a long silence. Then Jasper’s voice, low and hoarse:

“I was so stupid.”

Carl blinked, shifted onto his elbow.

“I just… I just went, like an idiot. The guy was already there. And I didn’t even fight, I just let him grab me. Like a useless… bag of shite.”

His voice broke on the last word.

Carl sat up a little straighter.

“Hey. Stop.”

Jasper flinched at the firmness in his tone.

Carl softened, but didn’t back down.

“Yeah, you were foolish. Yes, I wish you’d made a different call. Or—for once in your bloody life—listened to me.” He reached out, caught Jasper’s shoulder. “But don’t you sit here tearing yourself apart. That’s not on.”

Jasper looked at him, eyes wet again, lip trembling. “But—”

“No. You don’t get to rewrite what happened. You’re sixteen. You were scared. And someone hurt you. That’s on him, not you.”

Jasper’s mouth opened, then shut.

He looked so young just then.

Carl sighed, pulled him close again, tucked his chin over the boy’s head.

“You’re here. That’s what matters. And you didn’t let it break you.”

“I wet myself,” Jasper whispered, voice thick.

Carl didn’t even flinch. “You were terrified. Doesn’t make you weak. Makes you human.”

They sat like that for a long time. Curled in the warm hollow of the bed, sunlight slowly pushing through the curtains.

Eventually, Carl said softly, “We’ll talk more. Not all at once. But we’ll talk. And you’ll heal.”

Jasper sniffed, pressing his face into Carl’s chest.

“You promise?”

“I swear.”

—

Carl stood just behind Jasper as they entered the station. It was early, the place still yawning into the day, phones beginning to ring, footsteps echoing across the scuffed linoleum floors.

Jasper hovered, shoulders a little hunched under his hoodie, hands in his pockets, eyes darting like he might still bolt for the exit. Carl kept close—without crowding—but when Hardy spotted them from the main bullpen, Jasper didn’t have a chance to retreat.

Hardy was there in a flash, wrapping the boy up in one of his enormous hugs.

“Jesus, kid,” he muttered roughly. “You scared the hell outta us.”

Jasper stiffened for half a heartbeat, then slowly, awkwardly, let himself be hugged.

“You done good,” Hardy added, voice gruff with something a little more than gratitude. “Thanks to you, we can finally put Keely Moran to rest.”

Jasper pulled back, eyes unsure. “I didn’t really do anything.”

“Didn’t you?” Hardy asked, eyebrow rising. “Funny, ‘cause I don’t remember you being in the victim column.”

Carl watched it all silently, jaw tight but his heart full. His boy. Still upright. Still breathing.

That was enough for now.

Then Moira appeared.

Sharp blazer. Sharper eyes.

“Carl,” she said coolly. “Moran’s file is ready for handover. Press will get their statement today.”

“Good.”

She looked down at Jasper, who blinked up at her like a startled lamb in a lion’s den.

“Jasper, would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?”

Carl stiffened instantly. “He’s underage. If you’re questioning him, I’m coming with.”

She sighed like she’d been expecting this. “It’s just a chat, Carl. Relax. Try it sometime.”

Jasper tried very hard not to laugh.

Carl gave him a look, but Jasper’s grin broke through anyway.

“Come along,” Moira said, already heading for her glass-walled office.

Jasper hesitated, glancing back at Carl, who looked ready to murder someone.

“I’ll be fine,” the boy muttered. Then he followed her in.

Hardy chuckled behind him.

“Simmer down, tiger,” he muttered to Carl. “Let the kid breathe.”

“I don’t like her tone.”

“I think that’s just her default setting.”

They watched through the glass. Moira didn’t seem to be grilling Jasper—just talking. He nodded, fidgeted. Then sat straighter. Carl hated how small he looked in the huge leather chair.

After ten minutes, Jasper emerged again. Carl pushed off the wall.

“Well?” he asked, trying not to sound like he was preparing for a battle.

“She’s cool,” Jasper said.

Carl blinked. “Cool?”

Hardy burst out laughing. “That might be the first time anyone’s said that about Moira.”

“She said I was brave. And that I should think about what I want to do in the future. That I might have a good instinct.”

Carl opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Well,” Hardy said, clapping Jasper on the shoulder. “You heard the boss. Maybe we’ve got a junior detective on our hands.”

Carl gave Hardy a withering look, but Jasper smiled.

On the way home, the car was quiet.

Carl kept glancing over at him. The bruises were still dark. The scraped cheek was an angry pink.

“I really wanted to stay with you today,” Carl said at last, his voice quieter than Jasper had expected. “But the paperwork’s gotta be done. We need to give Keely’s family some closure.”

Jasper nodded. “I get it.”

Carl looked at him again, really looked. “You doing okay?”

Jasper considered lying. “Not really.”

Carl reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “That’s alright. You don’t have to be.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, but it was the good kind.

The kind with space to breathe.

Chapter Text

It had been three weeks.

He was back at school. His bruises had faded. The scratches had scabbed, peeled, and left only faint, angry pinks behind. He even laughed sometimes.

But Carl saw what others missed.

The flinches when doors closed too loudly. The way Jasper never let himself be alone in unfamiliar rooms. The silence. The damn, loaded silence that filled the house like fog. Not the sullen, bratty kind from before—not that Carl preferred that, but at least it had been honest.

This was something else. Something raw and damp and aching.

And the obedience? That was the worst part.

Carl would say something—anything—and the boy would nod and do it. No complaints. No eye-rolls. No sarcasm. Just: “Alright.”

It set Carl’s nerves on edge.

He watched Jasper at dinner one night, pushing vegetables around with his fork. Carl tried to joke. Nothing. Tried to tease. Nothing. Martin tried too, but even he had stopped after a while, and now the house was quieter than it had ever been.

The kid was... fine. And yet clearly not.

Therapy had been Martin’s idea. Expensive as hell, but Carl hadn’t argued. Maybe it was helping. Jasper went. Came back. Never said a word about it. Carl didn’t push

Which was exactly why Carl was so goddamned uneasy.

Jasper was quiet. Too quiet. Still skittish. Still wouldn’t look Carl straight in the eye. And while he didn’t flinch from a touch, he never sought one either. Not like before, not like when he'd tuck himself close under Carl’s arm during a film, or lean on him half asleep while Carl grumbled about the state of the world.

Carl had tried to crack it—tried small talk, ridiculous movies. It didn’t stick.

It wasn’t that Jasper wasn’t trying. Hell, the kid was trying too hard. To be good. To be fine. And Carl, for all his blunt edges and whisky moods, wasn’t stupid. He knew something was still stuck inside the boy, something heavy that hadn’t worked loose, even with Martin’s help or the therapist’s polished words.

So when the knock came at his bedroom door, soft and hesitant, Carl sat up straight in bed before he even answered.

“It’s open.”

Jasper eased the door open just wide enough to slip through. His hair was sticking up on one side, the result of sleep or anxious hands raking through it. He was in sweatpants and that hoodie that seemed to be a second skin lately.

The boy entered like he was crossing into enemy territory. He twisted his hands together, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Carl watched, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

Carl tried lightly. “You want to confess something? Robbed a bank? Crash my car? Join the bloody circus?”

That earned him a twitch of a smile. Not much, but enough to make Carl hold his breath.

“No,” Jasper said softly. “It’s not... that.”

Carl waited.

He didn’t speak right away.

Jasper looked down, twisting his fingers again, knuckles white. He took a breath. Let it out. Then tried again.

“My therapist… said I should… I mean—she said I can’t let go of the guilt if I don’t face it. That I can’t pretend I didn’t do what I did. That it’s still weighing on me.”

Carl blinked. “You feel guilty… for nearly being murdered?”

“No. I mean, yeah, that too…” Jasper’s voice was quiet but firm. “For lying to you. For sneaking around. For ignoring everything you said and acting like I knew better. You told me not to stick my nose in. I did anyway—and for scaring you. I know I did.”

Carl sat back a little, watching him. “You’ve been punishing yourself enough, haven’t you? You’ve been doing everything right since.”

“I don’t feel right.”

Silence lingered. Jasper licked his lips, then squared his shoulders like he was bracing for impact.

“Iwantyoutogivemeaspanking,” Jasper rushed out, the words crashing into one another in a mortified blur.

Carl blinked. “Sorry—what?”

Jasper’s gaze dropped to the floor again. He looked like he might spontaneously combust. He stared at the floor and forced the words again, slower this time. “I want you to spank me.”

Silence.

Carl exhaled. “Jasper.”

The man leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to piece it together.

“You think that’s what’ll make it right?” he asked slowly. “Getting walloped?”

Jasper gave the tiniest nod.

“You said you would,” Jasper added, voice quieter now. “Before—before everything happened. And I kept waiting. And then I thought maybe you didn’t care anymore. And I know that’s not true, I know it was because of everything... but I still felt like I was just getting away with it. And I don’t want to. I need to know we’re back to... normal.”

Carl stood up, slowly. Walked the two steps between them and gently tilted Jasper’s chin until the boy met his eyes. He saw the guilt, the shame, the hope—all of it sitting heavy behind those blue eyes.

“You think getting a sore arse is gonna make this go away?”

“No,” Jasper whispered. “But I think it’ll help me stop punishing myself every day. And I’ll know you’re not... scared of hurting me.”

Carl sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Jesus, you stupid, beautiful little idiot.”

Jasper blinked fast, but his mouth twitched again.

Carl sighed, rubbed his hands over his face. He wasn’t a stranger to this between them. Discipline wasn’t new. But this—this was different. It wasn’t about punishment or consequence anymore. It was about release. The kid felt like he needed it to forgive himself.

“You’re sure?” Carl asked. “This isn’t me making you, Jasper. This is you asking. I need to know that.”

Another nod, firmer this time.

“Alright,” Carl said quietly. “Then let’s do it properly, you know the drill. But I'm definitely not using the belt.”

He patted his thigh. “Again, I want you to understand I’m not doing this ‘cause I’m angry. I was. Christ, I was. But not now, ok?”

The boy nodded and then moved on instinct, already tugging at the waistband of his joggers with shaking hands, shame creeping red-hot up the back of his neck.

Carl took his arm and guided him gently, carefully, over his knee. “You can keep the boxers, it's fine.”

There was no struggle, no flailing this time. No cheek, no stomping, no bratty backtalk. Just stillness. Trust.

The boy was already breathing fast, already blinking against the burn in his eyes.

Carl didn’t speak for a moment. He just rested a hand on Jasper’s back.

Then, quietly: “You scared the life out of me, you know that?”

“I know,” Jasper whispered.

“I could’ve lost you.” A pause. “That’s not a thing I ever want to feel again.”

Carl didn’t go easy. He didn’t believe in half-measures. His hand fell with firm, even rhythm. Jasper hissed through his teeth but didn’t resist.

It wasn’t brutal. But it was deliberate. A solid sound that echoed in the room.

Carl delivered each swat slowly, methodically. Not in anger. In love. In steadiness. Each one punctuated by his voice, low and sure.

“For lying.”

Smack.

“For sneaking out.”

Another flurry.

“For ignoring every damned thing I said—”

Harder now.

“For thinking you didn’t matter.”

Smack.

“For scaring the shit out of me–”

Smack.

“—and nearly not coming home.”

That one hit harder again. Jasper yelped, breath catching. He was already sniffling, his legs kicking a little, hands fisted in the blanket and Carl could feel the way his shoulders trembled under his hand.

It didn’t last long.

“And now,” he said gently, “it’s done.”

Jasper slumped down and turned to bury his face in Carl’s thigh, tears wetting the fabric of his pyjama pants. Carl rubbed his back until the tremors eased.

“I’m sorry,” Jasper whispered.

“I know.”

Carl helped him up, helped him back into his clothes, then wrapped him in a hug so tight Jasper could barely breathe. The boy didn’t hesitate—just folded straight into his arms, hiding his face in Carl’s shirt, crying like he had three weeks of tears stored up and nowhere to put them.

Carl just held him.

“You’re not a bad kid,” he said. “You messed up. Sure. But you’re not bad. And this doesn’t make you forgiven. Because you already were.”

Carl kissed the boy’s hair.

“Alright now,” he murmured. “It’s done. Let it go.”

And Jasper, finally, did.

—

It was late, nearly nine, when Carl finally shoved his key into the lock and stepped into the flat.

The first thing that greeted him wasn’t silence, or the smell of takeaway, or even the soft murmur of Martin reading in the lounge.

It was music.

Horrible, teeth-grinding, brain-curdling music. Loud and unapologetic, pulsing through the walls like a seismic event.

Carl stopped in the doorway, frozen in place. Then—

“JASPER!” came Martin’s furious shout from somewhere down the hallway. “Turn that bloody racket down or I swear I’ll start singing along!”

The music dipped—barely—before returning at the same catastrophic volume. Carl couldn’t help the huff of laughter that broke from his chest. He shut the door behind him, dropped his keys in the bowl, and let himself lean back against it for a second.

The weight in his chest, the tight coil that had taken root three weeks ago, began to unspool.

That terrible music—Jasper’s terrible taste—was blaring again.

Which meant Jasper was finally playing music again. Maybe even doing homework to the beat of screaming vocals and distorted bass.

He wasn’t walking around like a ghost anymore. He wasn’t flinching from touch or clinging like he might vanish. He wasn’t avoiding Carl’s eyes or tensing every time someone raised their voice.

He was here. He was healing.

Carl shrugged off his coat and stepped out of his boots, heading toward the kitchen with the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Martin appeared, disheveled, holding a mug of tea like it was a weapon.

“You have to tell him he’s not allowed to listen to that filth in a civilised home,” he grumbled.

“I could,” Carl said, “or I could let the boy be happy for once.”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “That’s not happiness, that’s a cry for help.”

Carl chuckled and patted his shoulder on the way to the fridge. He paused, hand on the door, glancing down the hallway toward Jasper’s room.

He didn’t knock.

He didn’t call out.

He just stood there for a moment, letting the noise wash over him. Letting it fill all the spaces that had been far too quiet. And for the first time in what felt like years, Carl let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, they were going to be alright.