Work Text:
"Lyn says you've got all Dad's stuff," says the man on his doorstep. The accent is Australian, the tone belligerent.
James gives him a cool stare. "Hello," he says, after a long pause. "I'm James Hathaway. You must be Mark Lewis." He doesn't move from the doorway, continuing to level a calm gaze at his visitor.
Mark's mouth tightens, just like Robbie's used to do after a witness gave him cheek. It hits James like a physical pain in his chest, to see that expression on the face of this hostile stranger.
"I go by Patrick these days," Mark says. "I've come for his stuff."
"And what 'stuff' would that be, exactly?" James asks, giving up on tact.
"All of it." Mark's shoulders and jaw are set, ready for a fight.
"No," James says. In the eighteen days since he lost Robbie, he has drifted around their house vacantly, aware of every cd and dvd that would never again have an audience, every tin of ridiculous soup that Robbie would never eat. How would he even separate Robbie's possessions from his own - the sofa they argued over for days, the side table they bought on impulse that never really fit properly?
"I don't know what you're trying to pull," Mark says. "He wasn't like that, so hand it over."
James may be over fifty and rake-thin, but a copper learns to loom, and he does. Words bubble up into his head. Words about Robbie and love; reproaches to Mark for the pain his long silence had caused Robbie; threats against this small-minded homophobe who wears the echo of his father's beloved face.
He says none of it. Brangle on the doorstep with Robbie's son? The thought is as distasteful as Mark's attitude.
"Talk to Lyn," he says wearily. "She has a copy of the will." He closes the door and waits, shaken and nauseated, until Mark's exasperated oaths and sullen footsteps fade into the distance. Then his eyes close and his long body crumples in on itself, sliding to huddle on the floor. He misses Robbie so much it's like a flame burning him up. He can almost taste the ashes in his mouth.
After a moment he sighs and reaches into his pocket. He should warn Lyn.
His days stretch ahead like some grey purgatory, but what is there to do but keep on going?