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Ellie's seen Hardy in a variety of states and moods, but this has to be the first time she's seen him, for lack of a better word, cheery.
“Morning, Miller,” he says, and although it's still a little gruff, a little flat in comparison to the average human being, she's known him long enough to know that this is practically an exclamation of warmth and delight upon seeing her.
“Morning, sir,” she says warily, looking him up and down. Nothing seems terribly off—yesterday’s suit, Monday’s shirt hastily ironed this morning, spare glasses tucked into his breast pocket after his regular ones were the unfortunate victims of a bored Fred—but something here, something is wrong.
“Did you have—a good evening last night?”
She blinks. Is he feverish? He doesn't look unwell—well, no more so than can be considered usual for an office-bound Scot.
“I did, thank you,” Ellie says hesitantly.
“Get up to much?”
He must be dying, she concludes. Something’s gone wrong with his heart again, the little metal box has broken, or maybe he's got cancer—well, he was a smoker, after all—god, the poor man, hasn't he suffered enough?—but certainly, undoubtedly, to be making small talk at eight forty-nine on a Wednesday morning, Alec Hardy cannot be long for this world. It must be all his good humours leaving him in one go, or perhaps an unfortunate side effect of a last-attempt medication.
“Not much,” she says, suddenly feeling quite guilty about the idea of telling him she played a game of tennis with Beth last night. Oh, Ellie lost miserably, of course, but she'd imagine that the poor man must be forbidden from stepping onto a court now. Thinking about stepping onto a court, even. “Just a—quiet night in.”
“Good, good,” Hardy says, nodding and even giving her a half-smile. The poor, poor man.
“I’ll just—I’ll leave you to it, sir,” she says, trying not to watch too mournfully as he disappears into his office with a hint of a bounce in his step. She almost misses the way he usually drags himself around the place like something only half-living; he must be on terribly strong painkillers to be doing this.
She puts the whole debacle out of her mind as much as she can until everyone's lunch hours roll around, when Hardy pokes his head out of the door, looks around the office and, seeing it mostly-empty, emerges and offers Ellie another of those awkward little half-smiles. It takes years off him. Quite literally, she supposes.
“Er. Miller. I was wonderin’, would you like to—” he seems to realise, at this moment, that the few stragglers lingering on the floor have all turned to look at him, watching intently, and clears his throat. “D’you want to try the new coffee shop on the corner for lunch?”
This is all very nearly too much for Ellie, but she knows within herself that she can't be selfish about this. The man could have months left—weeks, even—days, knowing him, and who is she to refuse him a lunch?
“I’d love to, sir,” she says, trying not to choke on the words.
To make matters even more difficult, he insists on paying for her, as though he’s trying to give her something to remember him by—well, she'll treasure the memory of this caramel latte and bacon bap, that's for sure. He’s drinking a decaf black coffee—oh god, that's not the order of any person in their right mind, whatever it is must have long reached his brain—and has even bought himself a sandwich.
It's a tragic sight, it really is.
Ellie’s nearly finished her coffee without even realising it before he clears his throat again, his previous cheery mood seemingly having taken a break. Oh, god, is he going to tell her? She's not sure she's ready to hear the words.
“Miller,” he starts, and she nods, trying her utmost to hold in a sad little squeak. “Er—you're starin’ at me.”
“Right,” she says quickly, looking down instead at the crumb-covered table. “Sorry. I don't want to make this harder for you.”
“Make—make what harder for me? Miller, you've been starin’ at me all day, are you alright?”
Oh, Lord, if only the world knew; Alec Hardy, on his deathbed, asking after her wellbeing. He’ll be sainted yet.
“I’m fine, sir, don't you worry about me. Just say it, please.”
“Say what?”
God, is he going to make her do this? It's not unfair, she supposes—again, how can she deny a dying man his final wish?
“Sir—Hardy—Alec, listen, it's okay, you don't need to be afraid,” she starts, but her composure slips a little and he seems to seize the opportunity.
“Afraid of what? Why’re you calling me Alec? Miller, what’s goin’ on?”
“Well—you, sir. You're dying, aren't you?”
Hardy is very still and very silent for one horrible, long moment, in which Ellie feels as though her stomach has been twisted into every sailing knot she knows, untwisted again and then sucked right out of her.
And then he bursts out laughing.
“Sir—are you alright, sir, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to startle you—”
“Miller,” he says between laughs which quickly turn into coughs, and she rushes to find her water bottle in her bag for him, “are you saying that—are you askin’ me if I’m dying because I bought you lunch?”
“It's alright, you don't need to hide it from me anymore—I know that last time, you felt you had to be all—closed off about it, but I can tell you’re not well, you don't need to be so secretive anymore, sir—”
“Miller. Miller, I’m no’ dyin’,” he says, half-choking on a snicker. Ellie pushes her water bottle towards him, which he ignores. “God’s sake, I come into work in a good mood and you assume I’m on my deathbed? I must be the world’s worst boss. Or,” he adds, before she can confirm or deny that, “I must be showin’ my age a lot more than anyone's cared to let me know about.”
“No, that's not—you asked me how my evening was. And you're coughing up a lung, sir.”
Hardy gives an amused little snort, clearly holding himself back from laughing for that precise reason. “A youth filled with pollution and cigarettes will do that to a man, but I can assure you I’m perfectly fine. You really didnae hesitate before jumping to the conclusion I’m on my way out, did you? Should I be worried, Miller? Plannin’ on usurpin’ me the moment my body gives out on me?”
Ellie ignores the latter half of his little speech, and drinks the last of her coffee very quickly. “You’re really not—you’re really—fine?”
“I’ll have my doctor notify you as soon as I’m not so you can start plannin’ your takeover.”
“Don't be a knob,” she says, still not really daring to believe it. “You're drinking decaffeinated black coffee.”
“Oi, I happen to enjoy the taste of black coffee,” he says, apparently taking that more personally than any insinuation that he looks to be on Death’s door. “Miller—I bought a new mattress, and finally got a good night's sleep. That's all.”
“You—?”
“My old one was well beyond savin’. Came with the house, I think. Havnae had such a good night's sleep since before Daisy was born.”
“You’re in a good mood because you bought a mattress.”
“A great mattress. I think they said it was memory foam, or something.”
“Well,” Ellie says, looking away, glancing down again at the crumbs on the table. “Well, that's okay, then. That’s fine, isn't it? That’s great. That's just—yeah. Okay. Could you, um, get me another coffee?”
Visibly trying not to laugh, he nods and gets up to go to the counter. It's as he looks back at her, squinting to try to remember what she drank before that Ellie realises what she missed earlier, what was so small yet so off-puttingly wrong about his appearance that, combined with a morning greeting, had her assuming he was dying.
He's not got such deep eye bags today.