Rough Waters and Rougher Company

"Sometimes the people you least expect show up when you're drowning — even if they're the last lifeboat you'd ever want to grab."

Glen's car smelled like stale fast food, cheap air freshener attempting to mask cigarette smoke, and something vaguely mechanical that suggested the vehicle was overdue for servicing. The interior was cluttered — takeaway containers shoved into door pockets, a collection of parking receipts scattered across the dashboard, several empty coffee cups rolling around the footwell with every turn. It was exactly the kind of car I'd expected Glen to drive: functional but neglected, serviceable but slovenly.

I sat in the passenger seat, my bag clutched on my lap like a shield, staring resolutely out the window as we pulled away from the Pafistis residence. The elegant colonial home receded in the side mirror, Sharon's silhouette visible briefly in the doorway before the tree-lined street swallowed the view entirely.

Battery Point's streets were picturesque even in my current state of exhaustion — historic cottages with their neat gardens, the glimpses of harbour between buildings, the afternoon light filtering through established trees creating dappled patterns on the pavement. It was beautiful in that particularly Tasmanian way, understated and enduring, architecture that had weathered decades with quiet dignity.

None of it registered properly. My mind was elsewhere — trapped in the loop of Karl's text message, Claiborne's warrant refusal, Sharon's careful evasions, the mounting evidence connecting Luke Smith to multiple disappearances whilst bureaucratic machinery ground too slowly to prevent whatever came next.

"So," Glen said, breaking the silence with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, "rough day at the office, eh?"

His voice carried that familiar tone — somewhere between genuine inquiry and performative concern, always leaving you uncertain whether he actually cared or was simply fishing for information he could weaponise later. I'd learned to assume the latter. It was safer.

"Something like that," I replied neutrally, offering nothing. The less I gave Glen, the less ammunition he'd have for whatever game he intended to play.

We drove in silence for perhaps thirty seconds — an eternity in Glen's world, where quiet made him uncomfortable, where he seemed compelled to fill every void with words regardless of whether anyone wanted to hear them.

"Karl looked pretty rough this morning," Glen continued, his tone deliberately casual in that way that suggested anything but. "Showed up late, hungover. Not like our boy, is it?"

The possessive pronoun grated — our boy — as though Karl were somehow communal property, as though Glen had claim to familiarity beyond professional acquaintance. But I recognised the probe for what it was: Glen testing boundaries, searching for reactions, trying to determine how much he could deduce or leverage from Karl's uncharacteristic behaviour.

"We had a big case day yesterday," I said carefully, keeping my voice level. "Forest pursuit. Physical exertion. Long hours. Takes its toll."

It was technically true whilst revealing nothing of substance. The kind of non-answer that satisfied social obligation without actually answering anything.

Glen made a noise — half grunt, half chuckle — that suggested he wasn't buying the explanation but wasn't going to push. Yet. "Yeah, I heard about that. Chasing shadows through Myrtle Forest. Sounds like a right cock-up if you ask me."

No one had asked him, but that had never stopped Glen from offering opinions.

I didn't respond, just continued staring out the window as we turned onto Davey Street, heading back towards the city centre. The harbour appeared between buildings — blue water catching afternoon light, boats bobbing at their moorings, the whole scene postcard-worthy in its tranquility. The contrast between the peaceful vista and the churning anxiety in my chest felt almost obscene.

"How's the head?" Glen asked suddenly, and there was something different in his tone — less performative, more direct. "Heard you took a proper knock the other day. And the hand too, yeah?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd been braced for innuendo or invasive personal questions, not genuine inquiry about injuries. My right hand was indeed still bandaged, stitches pulling uncomfortably whenever I moved my fingers. And my head... well, the concussion symptoms had mostly resolved, but I still got occasional dizzy spells and headaches that suggested my brain wasn't quite ready to forgive the trauma.

"I'm fine," I said automatically, the stock answer that meant absolutely nothing.

"Bullshit," Glen replied bluntly, and I heard him shift slightly in his seat. "You've got that look. The one people get when they're running on fumes and sheer bloody-mindedness. Seen it plenty of times. Usually right before someone makes a stupid decision that lands them in hospital."

I turned to look at him properly for the first time since getting in the car. His profile was familiar — the greying beard he kept trimmed but substantial, the thick neck disappearing into shoulders that strained his shirt's seams, hands gripping the steering wheel with the casual competence of someone who'd been driving these streets for decades. His expression wasn't mocking or leering. It was... assessing. Clinical, almost. The detective beneath the crude exterior, evaluating evidence.

"I'm managing," I amended, offering a marginally more honest response.

"Yeah, you and every other stubborn bastard in the department," Glen muttered. "Managing right up until you're not, and then someone else has to pick up the pieces."

We stopped at a red light, the car idling with a faint rattle that suggested something under the bonnet wasn't quite right. Glen used the pause to properly turn his head and look at me — really look, with that same dissecting stare I'd seen in the past, the one that stripped away pretence to examine what lay beneath.

"You should take proper time to recover from head injuries," he said, and there was zero mockery in his voice now. "My old man took a knock on a fishing boat back in the nineties. Thought he was fine. Kept working. Three weeks later he collapsed on deck. Subdural hematoma they said. Nearly died because he was too bloody stubborn to admit he needed rest."

The anecdote was offered without drama or expectation of a response — just information, shared because it might be useful. I found myself reassessing Glen slightly, recognising that beneath the performative crudeness existed someone who'd accumulated decades of life experience, who'd seen the consequences of ignoring warning signs, who maybe — possibly — actually gave a shit beneath all the defensive posturing.

"I saw a doctor," I said, which was true. "Got cleared for active duty."

"Cleared doesn't mean healed," Glen countered. "Just means they reckon you won't drop dead immediately. Big difference."

The light changed, and we rolled forward.

"So what's the story with the Pafistis case?" Glen asked, shifting topics with jarring abruptness. "Karl buggered off and left you there to handle the grieving widow solo?"

The question contained judgment — whether directed at Karl or the situation generally, I couldn't quite determine. But it touched the raw nerve of abandonment, of being left behind whilst Karl pursued leads without me, of the unwelcome pattern that had formed over the past forty-eight hours.

"He went to secure arrest warrants for Luke Smith," I explained, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice. "We got phone records linking Smith to multiple missing persons. Plus ATM footage showing him using Jamie Greyson's card after his alleged disappearance. It was time-sensitive."

"And Claiborne knocked it back," Glen finished, demonstrating that station gossip travelled faster than official communications. "Typical."

"You knew?" I asked, surprised.

Glen shrugged, the gesture making his shirt strain further. "Heard Karl in Claiborne's office earlier. Walls are thin. Sergeant's got his reasons, I'm sure. Probably wants more evidence before authorising action against someone who might have resources to make the department look bad if we balls it up."

The cynical assessment was probably accurate. Claiborne operated cautiously, always aware of political ramifications, protective of departmental reputation sometimes at the expense of immediate action. It was pragmatic but frustrating — particularly when every delay potentially meant another victim.

"So Luke Smith just... walks around free whilst we dot i's and cross t's," I said bitterly, unable to keep the frustration from leaking through.

"Welcome to modern policing," Glen replied with dark humour. "Where the forms matter more than the bodies. Well, until there's enough bodies that someone important notices. Then suddenly everyone's asking why we didn't act sooner."

The bitter truth of it settled between us — the impossible position police found themselves in, damned for inaction and damned for overreach, expected to prevent crimes before they happened whilst also respecting rights and procedures that sometimes protected the guilty as much as the innocent.

We drove in silence again, but this time it felt less hostile, less like Glen searching for weaknesses to exploit. More like two people who understood the frustrations of their shared profession, even if they approached it from vastly different angles.

"You and Karl," Glen said eventually, and my entire body tensed immediately, preparing for whatever crude observation or invasive question would follow. "You make a good team. Professionally, I mean."

The clarification surprised me. I'd braced for innuendo, for knowing smirks, for Glen weaponising the secret he'd used against me before — the knowledge of my relationship with Karl, the envelope of money I'd handed over to buy his silence about observations he'd made, the power imbalance that still existed between us because of information he possessed.

"We work well together," I acknowledged carefully, neutral territory.

"Better than well," Glen continued, and there was no mockery in his assessment. "You see things he misses. He provides structure you sometimes skip. Complementary skills. Makes for effective investigation."

It was... accurate. Surprisingly insightful, actually. Karl's methodical approach balanced my intuitive leaps. My willingness to push boundaries complemented his careful procedures. When we functioned properly as partners — when personal complications didn't interfere — we were genuinely effective.

"Though lately..." Glen trailed off deliberately, leaving space for me to fill the silence if I chose.

I didn't. I just stared out the window.

"Lately you both seem off," Glen finished when I didn't take the bait. "Out of sync. Like partners who aren't quite partnering anymore."

The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. He'd seen something — maybe not the full picture, but enough to recognise dysfunction where partnership should be. I wondered what exactly Glen had noticed. Karl's distance? My barely-concealed hurt? The careful way we avoided certain topics, maintained professional boundaries that felt performative rather than natural?

"We're fine," I said, the lie transparent even to my own ears.

Glen snorted — a sound that conveyed exactly how unconvincing he found the assertion. But he didn't press, which I appreciated more than I'd admit. Instead, he took a turn I didn't expect, pulling into a servo rather than continuing straight toward the station.

"Need petrol," he explained, cutting the engine. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Want anything? Coffee? Food? Reckon you look like you could use both."

The offer was practical rather than manipulative — no subtext I could detect, just Glen recognising someone running on empty and suggesting refuelling in multiple senses. My stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, reminding me I'd consumed nothing but tea at Sharon's house, nothing substantial since... God, when had I last eaten properly? Yesterday's lunch? The timeline blurred.

"Coffee would be good," I admitted. "Thanks."

Glen nodded and climbed out of the car, his movements revealing the physical toll of years and weight — not quite graceful but competent enough. I watched him lumber toward the servo shop, and found myself reconsidering my automatic contempt for the man.

Yes, Glen was crude. Yes, he'd behaved inappropriately in the locker room incident. Yes, he'd leveraged knowledge about my personal life for financial gain. Yes, his humour often crossed lines and his presence made people uncomfortable. All of that remained true.

But he'd also noticed I was injured and struggling. He'd offered practical concern without making it weird. He'd provided accurate professional assessment without judgment. He'd recognised dysfunction between Karl and me without exploiting it. And he was buying me coffee without expecting anything in return.

People were complicated. Glen Crosswell especially — a man whose worst qualities were obvious and whose better ones only surfaced if you looked past the performance to find them. The locker room predator and the bloke who noticed when colleagues were hurting could somehow coexist in the same body, the same career, the same uncomfortable package.

I didn't have to like him to acknowledge that sometimes he showed up when needed.

Glen returned minutes later carrying two large coffees and a paper bag that smelled promisingly of pastries. He handed me a coffee — flat white, which was actually what I preferred — and the bag.

"Cheese and bacon roll," he said, nodding at the bag. "You look like you need actual food, not just caffeine."

"I'm alright—" I started to protest.

"Sarah," he interrupted, and the use of my first name — without mockery or innuendo — made me pause. "Eat the bloody roll. You're running on empty, you've got injuries that need fuel to heal, and you're about to walk back into whatever shitstorm is waiting at the station. Take the win."

He was right. Pride was stupid when your body was screaming for sustenance. I pulled the roll from the bag — still warm, smelling delicious — and took a bite. The combination of melted cheese, crispy bacon, and soft bread was perhaps the best thing I'd tasted all day.

"Thanks," I said around the mouthful, genuinely grateful.

Glen started the car, sipping his own coffee whilst navigating back onto the road. "Yeah, well. Can't have you collapsing on shift. Paperwork would be murder."

The deflection was pure Glen — unable to accept gratitude without defusing it with humour, uncomfortable with genuine connection, retreating behind crude pragmatism whenever emotions threatened to surface. But I understood it better now. This was how he protected himself from the vulnerability that came with actually caring about people, how he maintained distance whilst still showing up when it mattered.

We drove the remaining blocks to the station in companionable silence, me eating my roll and drinking coffee that was actually decent, Glen handling the car with easy familiarity. The food and caffeine worked their magic, blunting the worst edges of exhaustion, providing enough energy to face whatever awaited.

As we pulled into the station car park, Glen cleared his throat — a deliberate sound that meant he was about to say something he found uncomfortable.

"Look," he began, then paused, seeming to wrestle with phrasing. "I know I'm... not everyone's favourite person around here. I know I've..." Another pause, longer this time. "I've crossed lines. Said shit I shouldn't. Done things that were... inappropriate."

The admission hung in the air between us, more honest than anything I'd heard from Glen before. I didn't fill the silence, just waited to see where this confession was heading.

"But I'm not blind," he continued. "I see when people are struggling. When something's off. And whatever's happening with you and Karl — that's your business. I'm not going to... I'm not going to make it harder than it already is."

The implicit promise — that he wouldn't weaponise whatever he'd observed, wouldn't leverage my obvious emotional distress, wouldn't make crude jokes or invasive comments about the dysfunction he'd clearly noticed — felt significant. Glen was offering something resembling respect, however awkwardly packaged.

"I appreciate that," I said quietly, meaning it.

Glen nodded, killing the engine but not immediately moving to exit the car. He sat for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, staring through the windscreen at the station's back entrance.

"My dad used to say that the ocean doesn't care about your problems," he said suddenly. "It's just there. Does what it does. You either learn to navigate it or you drown. People are a bit like that too, I reckon. Some of us are rougher waters than others. But we're all just trying to stay afloat."

The maritime metaphor was quintessentially Glen — his father's fishing heritage bleeding through into philosophy, the sea providing a framework for understanding human complexity. It was more thoughtful than I'd expected, revealing depths beneath the surface crudeness.

"Your dad sounds like he was a wise man," I offered.

"He was a stubborn bastard who nearly killed himself by ignoring warning signs," Glen corrected. "But yeah, sometimes he got things right."

We sat there for another moment — two colleagues who'd never quite been friends, would probably never quite trust each other, but had somehow found temporary common ground in the carpark of their workplace.

"You should take tomorrow off," Glen said finally. "Properly off. Not working from home, not checking emails, not thinking about cases. Your brain needs recovery time."

"Can't," I replied automatically. "Too much happening with Luke Smith investigation."

"Sarah," Glen said, and again the lack of mockery caught my attention. "You're no good to anyone if you burn out completely. And you're heading that direction. I've seen it enough times to recognise the signs."

He was probably right. The exhaustion wasn't just physical — it was emotional, mental, the accumulated weight of too much happening too quickly without space to process any of it. The case, Karl's abandonment, my injuries, the bureaucratic frustrations, all of it piling up without an outlet or relief.

"I'll think about it," I said, which was as much commitment as I could muster.

Glen nodded, apparently satisfied with the non-promise. He grabbed the door handle, then paused.

"For what it's worth," he said, not looking at me, "Karl's an idiot if he doesn't realise what he's got in you as a partner. Professional capacity, I mean," he added quickly, that familiar discomfort with genuine sentiment making him retreat into clarification.

But I heard what lay beneath — the acknowledgment that I was competent, valuable, worthy of respect and proper treatment. From Glen Crosswell, whose approval I'd never sought and whose opinion I'd actively dismissed, the words carried unexpected weight.

"Thanks, Glen," I said, and this time the gratitude was completely genuine — not polite social performance but real appreciation for unexpected kindness in the middle of a thoroughly shit day.

He nodded once, sharp and decisive, then climbed out of the car with his characteristic lack of grace, already back to being the Glen everyone expected — loud, crude, taking up space without apology.

I gathered my bag and the empty coffee cup, finishing the last bite of the bacon roll before following him out. The walk from car park to the station entrance felt less daunting with food in my stomach and caffeine in my bloodstream. Small mercies in the middle of chaos.

As we approached the back door, Glen held it open — a gesture that was simultaneously courteous and automatic, ingrained habit from decades of practised civility that coexisted somehow with his capacity for inappropriate behaviour.

"After you," he said, and there was no subtext, no leer, no uncomfortable moment. Just a colleague holding a door for another colleague.

I walked through, and for the first time all day felt something other than exhausted dread.

Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was Glen's unexpected humanity reminding me that the colleague you reflexively despised might occasionally show up when you needed someone to simply see you struggling and offer practical help without making it complicated.

"Glen," I called as he started to move ahead.

He turned back, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Thanks," I repeated. "Really. For... all of it."

His expression flickered — surprise, discomfort, something that might have been pleasure at being genuinely appreciated. Then the familiar mask reasserted itself, the smirk returning, the defensive armour snapping back into place.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't go getting all emotional on me, Lahey. You'll ruin my reputation."

But the gruffness couldn't quite hide the faint smile beneath his beard, the slight relaxation in his shoulders that suggested the gratitude had landed, had been received, had maybe even mattered more than he'd admit.

I watched him lumber off, his characteristic heavy tread announcing his presence before anyone would ever see him. Back to being Glen Crosswell, the department's reliable problem, the relic of old-guard policing that made people uncomfortable.

But also: the man who'd noticed I was hurt and struggling. Who'd bought me coffee and food without making it transactional. Who'd offered surprisingly insightful observations about partnership and recognising when colleagues were drowning. Who'd promised not to make my situation harder than it already was.

People were complicated.

Glen Crosswell was particularly, frustratingly, unexpectedly complicated.

And somehow, despite everything, I was genuinely grateful he'd been the one to collect me this afternoon.