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His hands have long since grown numb, the pins and needles fading to cold paralysis that at least brings relief from the bite of the plastic ties tugged taut around his wrists.
Taking up the complaint, his shoulders ache with the discomfort of being pulled back, wrists bound together at the small of his back. The freshly healed flesh of each one of the buckshot wounds burns, flaring with renewed agony every time he tries to adjust his position, adding to the throbbing at his temple from the strike that had felled him.
A commotion above, the faint light around the edge of the door blinking as something passes in front of it. There's a shout, a crash, and then a silence that is somehow worse, the world holding its breath, bracing for the next blow.
The scrape of metal takes a moment to place, but then he is drawing himself up on his knees as the key turns in the lock, grunting as his ribs recall their meeting with an enthusiastic boot and force him to breathe in short, shallow gasps. He might be trussed up like a turkey at Christmas and faint from the symphony of pain, but he'll meet the bastards with all the fight he can muster.
The door swings open, the sudden flood of light too bright, stabbing straight through to the back of his skull. Squinting against the glare, he tries to determine which of the brothers the silhouette belongs to. Not that it matters, they're as bad as each other; quicker with their fists than their wits.
Then the figure moves and he braces for a new onslaught even as his brain recognises the familiarity of those broad shoulders and economical movement, and it's both unexpected and inevitable in a way that has him wondering if he's hallucinating. Until the man speaks.
“Carl?”
That low, mellifluous voice had never sounded more beautiful.
“You took your time.” It's a poor joke to hide his relief and Akram doesn't dignify it with a response. Instead, he drops into a crouch at Carl's side, producing a small knife from nowhere to slice easily through the plastic ties keeping him bound.
Carl pitches forward, arms flopping uselessly at his sides, head swimming. But Akram is there to catch him, bracing him up as Carl presses his forehead to one solid shoulder, hissing curses as the blood rushes back to his hands in waves of fire, heat pulsing with every beat of his heart.
There's the spread of a broad palm on his back, warm and firm, sweeping down his spine and back up to press between his shoulder blades, the pressure grounding.
“It's okay.” The words are a comforting rumble that Carl feels as much as hears. “Just breathe.”
Carl obeys without conscious decision, groans again as his nostrils flood with the heady musk of Akram's scent, the spicy tang of his cologne. It's safety and comfort and fucking embarrassing to realise how desperately he needs it. He leans back into the pain instead, necessity making a masochist of him.
Concerned, Akram pushes him carefully upright again, but only far enough to take his chin in one strong hand and hold him still while he scans his face for signs of damage beyond the tacky blood that's oozed from the split skin in his hairline. His cheek itches where it's dried.
“Are you injured?”
Okay, so he has form, but somehow he has avoided being shot. This time. Quickly aborting the shake of his head before he can make that mistake, Carl gives a grunt instead, aiming for negation, landing somewhere between there and a pained groan.
“Just bruised.”
“Yes,” Akram agrees, tilting his chin up a little and looking him in the eye. He's so close Carl can see every one of his eyelashes, even in the weak light filtering down into the small space. There are a lot of them. Or maybe he's just seeing double. He blinks hard and his vision swims alarmingly. “You have a very impressive black eye.”
“Am I no longer the prettiest member of the team?”
Akram's expression doesn't alter, his response deadpan. “Perhaps it only makes you even more ruggedly handsome.”
Carl's snort makes his head throb anew, a welcome distraction from the warmth that blooms in his chest. It's only a joke, Akram's surprisingly dry wit making an appearance now he knows Carl is unharmed. Relatively unharmed.
“Can you walk?”
Carl considers. Probably. Maybe. He'll crawl on his numb hands and scuffed knees if it means getting out of this dank hole.
“If you help me up.”
Akram does most of the heavy lifting, hauling Carl's arse off the floor with envious ease. Carl attempts to do his part, unfolding his legs and pretending they remember how to do their job.
He feels like a newborn foal, ungainly and faltering as he sways on his feet. Must look like one too, for a large hand takes a firm grip on his elbow, holding him steady. Carl wants to stubbornly shake it off, but the touch is so sure, so comforting, that he instead leans into it, lets Akram support him as he staggers up the concrete steps and past two bloodied, unconscious bodies into harsh daylight that pierces his skull, even overcast and Scottish as it is.
He swears again, hissing like a vampire in sunlight, and stumbling half blind as Akram gently guides him into the car.
“I will just be a moment.”
With that, he disappears from Carl's side to talk to the other officers who are just now rolling up in a blaze of Day-Glo livery and flashing lights, as loudly late as usual. Alone again amidst the mayhem, Carl ignores the empty void Akram's absence has left, flips down the sun visor to squint at his reflection.
Not pretty.
Akram hadn't been kidding about the black eye, the dried blood streaking down his forehead and cheek only adding to the overall gruesome effect. Snarling at the sight, he snaps the visor back up as Akram slides into the driver's seat and Carl's hand is suddenly caught in a firm but gentle grasp.
Too surprised to pull away, Carl watches as Akram pushes the sleeve of his jumper further up his forearm, fully revealing the welts ringing his wrist, red and angry from the bite of the ties. The skin around Akram's eyes tightens, a minute loss of composure betraying renewed anger at the men he's already taken down. In contrast, his touch is gentle as he inspects the damage, and Carl's fingers twitch at the steady brush of a thumb across his palm, his breath faltering.
Regrettably, Akram releases his hand and clicks his seatbelt into place.
“I will drive you to the hospital.”
“No.” Carl drags the word out, so there can be no mistake. “I fucking hate hospitals.”
Unimpressed by his reasoning, Akram frowns at him, unhappy. “Carl, you are concussed.”
“I have a thick skull.”
“Yes,” Akram agrees. “You do.” Rude. “Do you want to go home?”
Christ, he wants nothing more than to faceplant onto his bed and sleep for a week, but it's not only the insomnia that haunts him like Casper's evil twin that has Carl overruling that plan too. “Not until I look a little less Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” He doesn't want to worry Jasper unnecessarily. It'll be easier to convince the kid he's fine when he's not covered in blood.
Akram eyes him, gaze steady and assessing, frown tugging the corners of his mouth down. He hums begrudging assent and starts the car and it strikes Carl somewhat belatedly that Akram's fussing isn't just his typical competent efficiency when faced with a crisis; he's worried about him.
Carl rolls his head to the right, watches Akram's profile as he stares out of the windscreen at the road ahead. Still frowning, jaw clenched, fingers wrapped tight around the wheel. Carl's head aches too much to consider what it means, why it leaves heat pooling pleasantly in his stomach. Instead, he fumbles his phone out of his pocket and types out a message to Jasper, letting him know he might be home late but not to worry.
Not even a second after his message lands, the phone buzzes in his hand with an incoming call.
“Have you been shot again?” Jasper's voice has a barely controlled edge of panic.
“What? No! Why would you think—”
“You don't text me telling me not to worry unless there's something for me to worry about!”
Carl's head pounds at the logic of that.
“I'm fine,” he tries again, but Jasper isn't so easy to fob off. Bloody smart kid.
“Is Akram there?”
Carl blinks at the unexpected demand. “Yes. Why?”
“Give him the phone.”
“He's driving.”
“Put me on speaker then.”
Carl does, fingers still clumsy as he jabs the screen, desperate to calm the kid's panic.
“Has he been shot again?” No greeting, no small talk, just Jasper's concern filling the interior of the car.
“Hello, Jasper.” Akram's voice is steady, soothing. “No, he has not been shot again.”
Jasper's sigh of relief is amplified by the phone speakers. “Thank fuck.”
“I already told you that,” Carl points out, indignant that his own word can't be trusted.
“Yeah, and I believe you. Now Akram's confirmed it.”
Carl's sure he sees a smirk twitch at Akram's lips. He'd roll his eyes, but the effort and pain don't seem worth the payoff.
“So what did happen?” Jasper asks now, and Carl turns pleading eyes on Akram, a silent plea to keep it vague. He'll figure out how much of the story to tell later, when his brain is less fuzzy.
He needn't have worried. “Some suspects did not take kindly to being questioned,” Akram says, and that's putting it mildly. “A few scrapes and bruises, that's all.”
“Carl's crap in a fight,” Jasper says, which is a little unfair considering he took on a guy twice his size to protect the ungrateful sod.
“Carl can hear you,” he feels the need to remind them, too tired to hide his chagrin.
Akram ignores his weak interjection, continuing his conversation with Jasper as if Carl's not there. “I know.”
Carl glares at the side of Akram's head. He's meant to be his partner, for fuck's sake. Akram feels his gaze, and turns to meet his eyes, softening the blow. “Don't worry.” He's speaking now to Carl as well as Jasper. “I have his back.”
Carl can still feel the ghost of Akram's touch on his hand, the comforting warmth of it echoed in his belly. Maybe it's the concussion, but he wants to chase that feeling and keep it close.
* * * *
It's only when the car comes to a stop and the rumble of the engine dies away that Carl thinks to wonder where Akram has been driving to. The street they're on is unfamiliar, even when he squints out of the window to encourage his brain into action. He's still none the wiser as he follows Akram in through the front door of a house, until he's watching Akram hang his coat and place his shoes neatly on a little rack inside the door and his dormant detective skills kick back in.
Akram has brought him to his own home.
It's small but cosy, tidy even with the odd piece of evidence that two young girls live here dotted about, the kind of order and lack of clutter that would make Martin sob with joy.
He's intruding. Suddenly and painfully aware of how horribly grimy and scruffy he is, he regrets refusing Akram's suggestion to take him back to his own flat where he could bleed all over his own furniture and happily ignore Martin's inevitable complaints.
Before he can open his mouth, he's guided into a spotless bathroom, all gleaming tiles and fluffy towels. There's a mirrored cabinet on the wall that Carl turns from before he catches sight of the wreck of a man reflected in its unforgiving silver surface.
Akram tells him to sit, and he does, dropping onto the closed toilet seat while Akram gathers supplies from the cabinet. Satisfied, he perches on the edge of the bathtub, his knee pressing against Carl's thigh as he leans in close. Carl sways, the reflex to lurch away from the contact fighting the urge to fall into that warm touch, and he's completely unprepared for the sharp sting at his temple as Akram daubs the gash there with some evil fucking potion.
“Sorry.” The apology doesn't sound entirely genuine, but the hand that brackets Carl's cheek and jaw to hold him still is gentle. Carl hisses through his teeth as Akram continues to treat the wound with his typical efficiency, keeping his gaze safely on the tiled wall over Akram's shoulder.
“It looks worse than it is,” Akram decides. “You won't need stitches.” Thank fuck. Akram picks up a fresh cloth and Carl flinches as he moves in again, bracing himself for another sting. But this time it's only warm water. Akram diligently cleans the crusty blood from his face and beard, and now Carl closes his eyes, trying and failing to remember the last time anyone but an NHS nurse had treated him with this kind of attentive care, the last time he'd allowed anyone close enough to do so, the last time anyone had wanted to.
It doesn't take long before he no longer resembles an extra on Casualty. If it wasn't for his eye, bloodshot and ringed by a rapidly darkening bruise, he'd look almost normal. Which wasn't a huge leap for him, sure; he was hardly a prime specimen of health and vitality even on his best days before he was riddled with gunshot wounds.
A light touch of fingertips to his left shoulder. Akram is still playing Florence bloody Nightingale.
“How is your shoulder?”
“Fine.”
An eyebrow quirks above those annoyingly shrewd eyes. Any other time, Carl would counter with the full force of his own stubborn pride, but the unconcealed worry written across Akram's face has him yielding embarrassingly quickly.
“It aches a bit. But it's easing now I'm not tied up.”
Akram nods, but doesn't let Carl off the hook quite yet. That barb is jammed right in there and Carl isn't sure when he let his guard down and allowed himself to be enticed by the lure.
“Then there is something else.” Couldn't the bastard save the detecting for the eight thousand case files growing colder by the day down in their basement? Why did he insist on reading Carl as thoroughly and easily as a witness statement full of holes? “You are holding yourself stiffly because it hurts to move.”
Was it that obvious?
“I might've taken a kick.” His ribs gave a sympathetic throb at the memory. “Or three.”
“Show me.” He forgets, or never had any intention, to frame it as a request, but Carl doesn't dare refuse. Carefully, he peels up the hem of his jumper and the sweat-stained t-shirt beneath and hears Akram's sharp inhale, the low rumble of Arabic that he doesn't understand but tells him everything he needs to know. He doesn't look down, doesn't need to see to know there's an impressive bruise painting his side in a sickening palette of green and yellow.
He's not prepared for the stab of pain that lances through his chest.
“Jesus fucking…” He stops to gasp for air and clenches his teeth hard enough to crack as Akram probes again, sure fingers testing each rib in turn, immune to Carl's litany of grunts and curses and offering no apology.
Finally, he stops. Lays his palm softly around the curve of Carl's aching ribs as if to soothe away the discomfort he'd caused. At some point during the torment, Carl had unconsciously clamped onto the swell of Akram's ridiculously firm bicep and now forces his fingers to unfurl.
“There is nothing broken.” Carl is glad to hear it. “It will hurt for a while though.” The brusque words are at odds with his gentle actions as he eases Carl's clothing back into place. His expression has hardened again, dark brows drawn down in an unhappy frown.
“Are you pissed with me?”
Akram doesn't deny it. He only lies with justifiable cause, and sparing Carl's feelings obviously doesn't count. What he does say, however, is laced with the kind of concern not usually directed at Carl. He's not sure what to do with it. Anger is easier.
“I wish you would stop heedlessly walking into danger. You should never have confronted them alone.”
“I didn't know they were going to knock me out, tie me up, and throw me in a fucking dungeon!”
Akram shot him a look that suggested maybe he should have considered that eventuality. And okay, yeah, they did have several witness statements that described in vivid, gory detail what the men they had been searching for were capable of. But Carl wouldn't apologise for prioritising stopping the bastards over his own safety, just like he would never regret stepping between Akram and that shotgun.
Accepting the futility of starting an argument about Carl's lack of a sense of self preservation, Akram fixes him with that unhappy frown again. The one that stirs remorse in him the way a bollocking from Moira never could.
“Maybe next case,” Akram suggests, a levity in his voice that's only a little strained, “you should remain in the office.”
Carl responds with the level of sarcasm that idea deserves. “And risk bleeding out from a paper cut?”
“Knowing you, that is likely to happen.”
Carl rolls his eyes. It's only a token gesture; they've slid into the snarky banter that's quite possibly Carl's favourite part of being relegated to Dept. Q. “I'm not actually accident prone, you know. I just seem to invite violence.”
Akram doesn't disagree. “I think it is your face.”
“Oh, wow. Kick a man while he's down, why don't you?”
“At least try not to get injured next time.” Those big brown eyes fix on him, serious now in a way that has Carl's heart clenching. “Please.”
“You almost sound like you care.” It's a poor attempt at brushing off that unexpected concern, the sincerity behind it still confusing from this man who has no reason to give a fuck what happens to him.
“Of course I care.”
What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?
He's still mentally flailing in a sea of long suppressed emotions when Akram takes pity on him and tosses a lifeline, rising and stepping away to clear up the other mess in the room. Carl spends a minute reminding himself to breathe; it doesn't mean anything except that Akram is a decent human being capable of empathy and compassion.
He almost jumps when Akram rests a hand just below the nape of his neck, thumb warm on the bare skin above the top of his jumper.
“Come.”
Akram ushers him through to a living room that's small but inviting, and bids him sit on a worn yet comfortable sofa. He narrowly misses squashing a lurid pink and purple cuddly cat toy. The poor thing looks as battered as him, but its matted fur and scuffed nose speak of years of love rather than the physical and emotional misery Carl has been subjected to. Often at his own hand.
Determined that he is not going to feel jealous of a fucking stuffed cat, he props it safely up against the arm of the sofa as Akram reappears with hot, sweet tea and takes a seat beside him.
Silence falls around them as Carl sips his tea, comfortable, if a little too awkward on Carl's part to be truly companionable. He feels Akram's eyes on him, probably making sure he's not about to leap up and throw himself into another questionable situation. He needn't worry; Carl lacks the energy for anything more than slouching into the snug cushions and attempting to keep his eyes open.
He's half aware of the cup being plucked to safety before it can drop from his lax fingers, but after that, everything fades away.
* * * *
He wakes slowly, his body immediately filing a complaint and demanding he remain exactly where he is for at least another twelve hours.
Which raises an interesting question: where exactly is he? He cracks an eye open and is first relieved to find he's not in a cold, damp basement. Then everything that's happened since the blunt force trauma to his skull rushes back to him and he realises he's fallen asleep on Akram's sofa.
On Akram.
Careless of his bruised ribs, Carl shoves himself upright — dimly aware of Akram's arm falling away from around his shoulders — and gathers the shredded remains of his dignity. Hasn't he been humiliated enough for one day? He scrubs a hand across his face, forgetting the bruising around his eye. Fuck.
“Shit. Sorry.” He can't bring himself to look at Akram, directs his apology to the rug, rubbing absently at his sore wrist, ears hot. “Why didn't you wake me?”
“It's alright.” Akram doesn't sound at all put out. “You needed rest.”
Catching sight of the clock on the wall, hands edging their way toward four, Carl realises he's been asleep for almost an hour. Which means Akram has been trapped there beneath him, an uncomplaining pillow, for all that time.
“Don't you need to pick your kids up?” It's an obvious deflection. Anything to avoid confronting the reason his heart is kicking behind his ribs.
“They have after school club when I am working.”
Jesus. Does he have to be so competent and organised in every aspect of life? Carl wants to hate him for it, but only ends up hating himself just that little bit more for his own failings as a father.
“Good.” At least this gives him time to make himself scarce. Bugger off before he can inflict himself upon any other Salims. “No risk of them coming home to find some strange bastard on their sofa.”
“You're not so strange.”
“But I am a bastard?”
Akram tips his head to the side. You said it. Then they are smiling at each other and some of the tension finally lifts from Carl's shoulders.
“You are welcome to stay as long as you need.” A warm hand curls around his forearm and Carl's breath catches. “My girls, they would love to meet you.”
Now it's time for Carl's eyebrows to hitch up into the messy fall of his fringe. He's not sure what's more surprising: that Akram has spoken about him with his family, or that whatever he's told them hasn't immediately made them want to avoid him like the plague.
Or that the thought of meeting them doesn't send him spiraling into a panic.
But he's in no state for attempting such delicate socialising right now. Tired, irritable, and in pain, he's far from at his best. Which isn't a very high bar, sure, but this is one introduction he doesn't want to fuck up; it's a feeling he recognises from when Victoria had brought him to meet Jasper for the first time and he'd been convinced the kid would instantly dislike him. Most people did.
Perhaps this shouldn't feel quite as momentous, but the tightness in his chest suggests otherwise, the unfamiliar desire to be accepted rather than written off as an arsey English cunt.
“Maybe when I'm not one giant walking bruise with a headache.”
“Of course.” Akram won't push, but he knows it's not a refusal. The hand on his arm gives an understanding squeeze.
“And right now I should get home and prove to my own kid I'm still in one piece.” Just about.
“I will drive you.”
“You don't have to do that.”
But Akram is already on his feet, hand extended to help Carl stand. “I know.”
Purely to spite himself, Carl ignores the hand, just as he ignores the fluttering in his stomach, only for Akram to grasp his elbow once again as a wave of dizziness washes over him and he wobbles on unsteady legs. Pride insists he shrug it off, but the urge to let it stay is stronger and, in his exhaustion, not one he can currently fight, despite the niggle of fear as he wonders just what that means.
It's been a hell of a long time since he last lowered his guard and risked his heart being ensnared, but right now he's considering offering it up without resistance, a willing captive.