Chapter Text
It was a normal early spring day in Broadchurch: breezy and raw, with a cold sun shining in a blue-white sky.
Alec Hardy and Ellie Miller had walked Harbour Cliff Beach on their lunch hour, as they’d been doing often since that visit with Dr Jones. The lump in the chest pocket of his dark grey mac had bothered him all through the walk. He’d swear it was burning, like an ember.
This was the fourth day since Catriona’s package had arrived from Paisley; he had carried the little box to work every day since, and over to a jeweller in Dorchester one afternoon to make sure the ring could be resized if necessary. That was as far as he’d got.
Now that it came down to it—the thing he’d contemplated doing for months—he didn’t know how to start. He knew what he wanted to say, and he was almost sure he knew what she’d reply, but the saying of it was another matter.
He hadn’t asked anyone such a question for something like 17 years. He hadn’t expected ever to ask it again. He’d never really thought that Ellie Miller could love him back.
He had spent all those weeks investigating Danny Latimer’s murder, slowly becoming intrigued by her even as she was exasperating him. All those weeks re-investigating Sandbrook, falling in love with her even as she was pushing him away. All those months back in Sandbrook, resigning himself to a flat, tedious existence without her. All those days after returning to Broadchurch, irritated by the effort of pretending he wasn’t feeling the stupid things he was feeling, which had stubbornly refused to die.
And then the unimaginable had happened—fracturing his defences, taking him apart, and reassembling him into a person he wasn’t sure he knew. A person whom his daughter had described as “smiley.” A person who would visit the pub with co-workers on a Friday night, watch Saturday football with Tom Miller and David Barrett, read endless bedtime stories to wee Fred, and send dirty texts to his DS.
Every morning an unfamiliar man looked out from the mirror: the Alec Hardy who was loved by Ellie Miller. The more Alec considered that man, the more he realised how fucked up the prior Alec had been: angry, walled off, bitter, sad. Her love had knocked seven bells out of that bloke.
Of course, the whole business was risky. Trust was risky. Marriage, he knew, was incredibly risky. Yet he had found himself unofficially proposing to her back when they were barely a couple—blurting it out like being married was their natural state.
Better the risks than the alternative, he’d decided. He had already lived the alternative.
So they sat, after their brisk beach walk: typical East Pier bench, typical grey suits, typical orange jacket, and his grey mac hiding a burning box in the chest pocket.
Ellie was talking about the case that had been developing this week: a string of burglaries involving empty houses broken into and nothing stolen but women’s shoes. Lots and lots of women’s shoes.
“It’d be different if the person was only taking Jimmy Choos and Manolos,” she was saying. “That might be some kind of resale scheme. This person probably just has a kink. Don’t you think?”
“Probably. My kinks don’t run in that direction.”
She slapped his arm, smirking. “Let’s not be discussing your kinks on duty, sir. Save it.”
He was tired of waiting. He knew she'd been wondering why he hadn’t done it already. He took a deep breath. He could feel his heart pounding. He was pretty sure it wasn't from the walk on the beach.
“Never mind,” he said. “We have other things to discuss.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the worn blue velvet box.
“Oh my God,” said Ellie, eyes wide. “This is it, then? Here? Today? Right now?”
“Stop witterin’ and let me do this, Miller,” he said.
“I had to call Catriona to send this, and she had to get it out of the lockbox at the bank, or I’d have asked you sooner,” he continued. “I thought about takin’ you someplace nice, and we should go someplace nice to celebrate. But this seemed like the most fittin’ place. So I’m askin’ you officially, Miller. Ellie. I love you. Please marry me.”
As unsurprised as he knew she was, she still teared up. “You know I will. Yes. I would actually love to marry you. Sir.”
She grinned, then put a hand behind his neck and pulled him towards her. The kiss was soft and sweet, and neither of them cared who might be watching.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “I didn’t just wear you down?”
“I know my own mind, Hardy. If I didn’t want to marry you, I wouldn’t have said yes. I said yes.”
She waited a moment, wiping her eyes, and then asked, “What’s in the box?”
“Sorry. Freaked out.” He opened the box and handed it to her.
The ring was a white gold filigree setting with two central square-cut red stones flanked by small diamonds. “They’re just garnets. It belonged to my gran. My mother’s mother, Alice. She died when I was young. I can barely remember her, but she told my mum that it was intended for me, and Mum told Catriona.”
“Oh, I love that. That is such a pretty ring.” She slid it onto her left hand and put the box in her pocket.
“If you’d rather have a diamond, or somethin’ else, just say so. We can go shoppin’ for whatever you’d like.”
“Absolutely not. It’s special to have something from your family. I don’t want anything else. Tiny bit loose, though.”
“Jeweller can fix that,” he assured her. “I checked.”
She moved her hand around to make the stones catch the light. “Tess really didn’t want this?”
He recalled how unimpressed his ex had been. “Tess was all about the diamond. Didn’t fancy art deco. Never meant for her, I think. Meant for you. “
She smiled and kissed him again. “I love you so much, you bloody sentimental Scot. You have no idea.”
“I might,” he said. “I love you, too. I have done for a long time.”
He put his arm around her, and she snuggled in. He felt satisfied but tired, as if he’d run some sort of race.
“Do we really have to go back?” she asked.
“Your supervisor says you may take an extra half hour for lunch. Reward for good behaviour.”
They sat, not talking, her head on his shoulder. He thought about all the hours they had spent together and all the hours yet to come. He had been with her on the day her world collapsed; she had been with him on the night his heart almost died. They had been together on so many terrible days. He wanted them to be together for thousands and thousands of good days. Even boring days would be good days. God knew, they could do with some peace.
“Damn,” she sighed, finally. “We’ll have to tell everyone all over again.”
“It can’t be any harder than last time."
“Good point, detective.”
She looked up at him. “We’ll have to spend extra time discussing this with Tom, Alec. Fred will be thrilled, but ...”
She let the sentence die.
That situation undeniably worried him. Still, he could see some of himself in Tom: the hurt son who nevertheless missed the father who had inflicted the pain.
“We’ve got to be sure he’s goin’ to be able to deal with us livin’ all together, or we’re in trouble,” he agreed. “I know he’ll be headed to uni in a couple years, but meanwhile, we need to get along. I'll be talkin' with him.”
“Thank you. I know he’s not easy, but he’s my heart.”
“I know.”
They sat for a while longer, aware that they’d soon have to get back to the office and investigate those silly missing shoes. This was life at CID in Broadchurch: endless weeks of small cases punctuated by the rare blockbuster. It was mostly petty thefts and break-ins, not murders and assaults. Alec had been thinking seriously about what CS Clark had told them regarding NCA Missing Persons and the related cold case work. He wanted to try it. Miller was amenable; they were planning to ask the guv to make calls on their behalf. He found the prospects exciting.
The light was growing stronger as the high, thin overcast dissipated in the fresh breeze. They listened to the waves and the gulls and the laughter of a young couple taking selfies at the end of the pier.
He said, “If you wanted, we could just do the registrar. For the weddin’.”
“Is that what you want?"
He shrugged. “Tess and I had the registrar. She was already pregnant with Daize. Risin’ in the force. Too busy to plan anythin’.”
She reached for his free hand. “Alec,” she said, gently, “do you want to do it at St Bede’s?”
“I’ll do whatever you want, Miller. I’m just glad we’re doin’ it at all. But if you don’t have a preference, I’d rather do it at the church.”
“All right, love.”
“You’re sure? Registrar’s less public.”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks anymore. We could ask Paul to officiate. It’s such a beautiful old church. Joe and I had the Methodist Chapel; Mum’s family were members. Not as historic as St Bede’s. I’d be happy to marry you there.”
Alec knew a real wedding would require a whole new series of conversations, about dates and flowers and food and music and God knew what-all. And they’d have to find a house with room for all of them: him and Ellie and Daisy, Tom and Fred and David Barrett. He hoped they could go forward with some speed; he needed to be with her every night and every morning, as soon as possible. He wanted another chance at a family. He was determined not to screw it up.
He watched Ellie’s hand, curled around his, with his gran’s garnets flashing whenever she moved. For the briefest instant, he saw both of those hands looking ancient: wrinkled, thin-skinned, blue-veined.
“That is the hand that will be holding yours on the day you die,” he thought.
It was surreal: the vivid picture, the words in his head, the sense that time had slipped. Alec Hardy was a skeptical man, but with a rush of clarity, he knew it would all come true. They would be married, and live together, and work together, and she’d be by his side until the end. If the hands were any indication, the end wouldn't come for a long, long time.
“Alec?” She sounded puzzled.
"Thank you," he said. "For everythin'." He was talking to her, but maybe not just to her.
She gave him a classic Miller smile. It was a gift, that smile: full of promise, full of joy. He would never stop being grateful.
“You’re welcome,” she said.