Work Text:
Jamie steps away from the branch and stretches his arms out from the cramp. The ropes’ve dug in, despite his best efforts to stay still, to breathe through the panic.
A few yards away Barnaby is apprehending Leo, and Jamie breathes in. Out. Counts to five, tries to count the beats of how fast his heart is racing. They walk through the forest and uniform ushers the kid into a car, getting ready to bring him in for processing.
Barnaby falls into step beside him. “Winter. You alright?”
Jamie glances at him, rubs his shoulder to indicate a little stiffness in the joint. A stiff shoulder is fine. Expected.
But they chase down murderers daily and he can’t be the one that falls apart because a suspect took a disliking to his presence.
He nods. “Sure. Fine. Lucky shot, wasn’t it?”
They reach the edge of the woods and split off for their cars. Jamie slides into his own car, feeling the fine tremor begin in his hands as he tries to start the car. His hand slips off the key and despite being alone in the car he straightens his back, shoulders straight, clears his throat.
Right then.
The car starts on the second try and he follows Barnaby back to the precinct.
The interview room feels smaller and more airless than usual after being outside in the forest, albeit dangled from a tree with a crossbow pointing at his heart. Leo talks in quick, choppy bursts, venting that his family was being repeatedly caught and pulled apart after his mum died.
Jamie sits opposite him as he vents about Jamie himself getting close to Penny, explaining how Jamie needed to be removed from the field.
He sits quietly and lets Barnaby lead. Doesn’t trust his voice to keep his fear inside.
In the end it’s a simple confession. Leo admits time and places, how and why. It’s all on the record and he’s placed in custody. A couple of the uniformed sergeants escort him to a holding cell and Jamie doesn’t look back at Leo as he leaves the interview room. He’s too busy trying to fight down the nausea.
Too busy hearing the gunshot Ginny fired that saved his life, overall.
Barnaby switches off the recorder and glances at him again. Jamie pulls his shoulders back again, smoothes his expression too late. Something in Barnaby’s expression flickers.
But the nice thing is, he’s not one to pry. They make their way back to their desks to start the paperwork. Jamie pulls the relevant forms and begins filling them in. Name, date, arresting officer -
No. That’s not right. He checks the date against the computer. He’s off by three days.
A fresh form then. His hand trembles as he writes, the letters forming without his usual precision. Minutes pass as he writes, automatically recapping the day’s events, flipping through his notepad to supplement.
And of course. He was a target.
He pulls a fresh sheet of paper and begins writing his own statement, the events leading up to and including his own near-death. The page fills with his writing and he winces at the thought that tomorrow Barnaby will read it, read the changes in his own handwriting.
Well. Not much he can do for that.
He flips the page. Carries on.
One of the uniforms has finished for the day. Jamie only half-hears as they chat with others about evening plans.
The door clicks back into its place behind them and his hand freezes on the pen, replaying the moment the arrow slammed into the narrow edge of the board, missing his heart by inches.
I nearly died, is what he almost writes on the form. Blinks the forest out of his eyes and goes back to describing the incident. That’s all it is now, an incident that happened and he’s recovered from. It’s a footnote. One day, maybe when Barnaby retires, they’ll laugh and reminisce about the time Winter got strung up by a suspect.
He’s fine.
He continues writing. Half explanation, half confession.
Barnaby is packing up his things for the night. “Don’t be all night, will you,” he says on his way out.
“I’m just finishing my statement,” Jamie tells the now-empty room. The pages are covered in his writing - well, nearly his writing. He slots them on Barnaby’s desk with a note, witness statement J.W., and packs his own things up.
Home, when he gets there, is cold and empty. Usually, living alone works for him. There’s no sharing space, no negotiation over who gets what and when, no passive-aggressive fuss.
It also means there’s no-one here to miss him if he had died today. No-one to tell him to sit, “I’ll put the kettle on,” and listen to the day’s proceedings.
And no-one is going to hold him a little tighter in bed tonight.
He pokes through the cupboards and freezer, looking for something for dinner. There’s nothing that takes his fancy. Nothing that really serves to celebrate surviving a bitter murderer. The energy of the last few hours is beginning to wear off and he trails through the house, picking things up and putting them away. Just to remind himself he’s still here.
It’s not late, but he feels tired tonight, that bone-deep tired where you feel older than you are.
He doesn’t bother stripping off and getting changed, when he reaches his bed. Instead, he kicks off his shoes and flops onto the duvet, still fully clothed.
The ceiling offers no respite.
The knot in his throat tightens and he grips the pillow tighter, grounding himself, once again fighting back the nausea.
When he finally does sleep, he dreams of being quizzed on riddles.