Chapter Text
Robbie filed out of the lecture hall slipping in behind two middle aged women who were chatting quietly together, the tap of their shoes measuring out the long corridor that led into the quad. It had pretty much been what he’d expected; your typical academic type talking about ideas and theories to a bunch of people sat in polite rows. Interesting enough but probably nothing he was likely to make a habit of.
The women paused at the college gate and he passed them with a polite nod, receiving a half smile in return. Seemed like that was going to be the sum total of his evening, one distracted, half smile. He turned left down Merton Street, winding his way along the cobbled street intending to strike out across the meadows, back toward the station and his car. He thought about phoning James, seeing if he fancied grabbing some fish and chips and maybe a pint, they could deconstruct his evening as James would say. All normal people would have called it moaning or having a chat over a pint. But his bloody overeducated sergeant had dashed out of the office at a little after four with a half wave, his attention unwaveringly glued his phone screen. He’d just have to deconstruct it all himself then.
The audience hadn’t been quite what he’d expected. Not just a gaggle of middle class people with corduroy jackets and sensible shoes. Quite a few younger faces, some so young they could be nothing but students. A lot of couples, a few groups of friends but enough single folk that he didn’t stand out. Enough people like him, people looking to fill an evening, fill a gap in their knowledge. There’d been a blue haired lass with a midlands accent who’d asked a couple of questions about neo-liberalism. Seemed to needle the lecturer a bit which had instinctively made Robbie warm to her. But there’d been no blonde haired lad to interpret the undercurrents and subtleties of academic rivalries for him. Out here, alone in the gradually dimming evening it was suddenly harder to pretend he hadn’t been scanning the audience for a familiar face. Hadn’t been hoping not to have to leave on his own.
He sighed, pausing by the wrought iron gates that led down to the river and turned away from his set course. The Bear was close by and he wasn’t quite ready to go home yet. It was daft, a bloke at his age feeling like he did, all off kilter and off balance. No obvious reason for it either, just a lingeringly melancholy, an inexplicable sense of wanting something, of needing something. Like this couldn’t be all there was in life. He really shouldn’t be craving company and staring morosely into pint glasses. Sure, he had drinks with James and Laura, but they’d all too soon go their own way. James had his band and other enigmatic pursuits; Laura her friends and a sister she saw every month or so. People, pursuits. And all he seemed have was tea in front of the telly and conversations with his daughter’s answerphone.
Which is why the lecture had seemed like a good idea, a way to get out of the house, perhaps meet a few people. Only you didn’t socialise at events like that. Who was he kidding, whatever it was he was missing he wasn’t going to find it in a sodding lecture. Not likely to find it in a pub either he acknowledged ruefully, but he ignored that little voice and pushed open the bar door.
It was crowded inside but that was hardly a surprise. Like half the pubs in Oxford it was old enough to claim links to Shakespeare or Chaucer. And that meant wooden beams and barely enough space to fit two tables. He elbowed his way to the bar and waited to be served. Music drifted in from the beer garden and he peered through the open back door. Seemed like there was some sort of party going on, a large group stretched out across several tables, some sort of impromptu dance floor by the back fence where a redheaded girl was swaying on the spot, clearly trying to encourage someone to join her. Students, he supposed, an ever present hazard in this city.
Finally catching the eye of the bloke behind the bar Robbie ordered a drink and a packet of crisps, hopefully scanning the pub for any space to sit. No chance he realised, and if he tried to claim a bar stool he’d spend the duration of his orange juice being jostled by parched patrons. Beer garden it was then.
He eased his way out through the back door and perched on the end of a bench at the edge of the group of party-goers. The music was loud, not loud enough for the neighbours to start complaining, but a bit above comfortable nonetheless. He set his drink down and tore open the crisps with more enthusiasm than was probably right. He’d missed having a proper tea. Again. Lynn was always on at him to eat better, but regular meals weren’t exactly straightforward when you got called out at all hours. It had been easier when Val was around, clingfilmed plate left in the fridge with weary acceptance.
He took a sip of orange juice and glanced around the small beer garden. His foot tapped along to the beat of whatever it was that was playing. He half recognised it, something of Mark’s from yonks back. Muffled tunes that would leak down through the ceiling of a weekend. The redheaded girl was still dancing, curls bouncing as she moved, an odd, half-second echo of the music’s beat and he turned his head to watch. The crowd around her shifted a bit as someone eventually stood up to join her, good natured jeering and encouragement following in his wake.
Robbie turned back to the table, only to whip his head around in surprise as an all too familiar streak of angled, lanky blonde caught his eye. Bloody hell that was James getting up to dance. With a girl. It was worth repeating. James was dancing. With a girl. Whenever he imagined that side of his partner’s life he always saw a bloke. Someone good looking, bright like James, glasses and smart shoes. But then again he’d never imagined James dancing, so what the hell did he know.
He watched, wide eyed as James took her hands and they parried back and forth for a few moments, seeking out a rhythm, working out their balance. They were definitely friends, that much was obvious, chatting away as they moved, bantering with those around. Robbie squinted a little, assessing the distance between them, trying to see if they were perhaps more than friends. You never knew with James, could talk the hind leg off a donkey given the right set of circumstances but in other ways he was as close-lipped as a clam. It would be just like him to keep a girlfriend under wraps. Right up until the point the wedding invitation landed in his in-tray.
They paused a little as the song changed, assessing the music before easing back into their little duet. They didn’t look to be all that close really, distance always maintained between their bodies, attention on the wider group rather than each other. A strange sense of relief swept through him. Never liked it when James was secretive with him, it never ended well. He turned to watch, resettling himself on the bench, back against the table, legs kicked out toward a potted shrub that had seen better days.
An unexpected tinge of melancholy threatened at the edge of his thoughts but he carefully ignored it. He could mourn his lost youth later, right now he was going to enjoying watching James like this, seeing a side of him he wouldn’t otherwise know. James moved well he realised. Or he seemed to, from what he could see of his head and shoulders. Shouldn’t be a surprise given how into his music he was. Not like you played a £3000 guitar if you couldn’t keep to a beat.
And he was smiling. Properly smiling. Not like the way he looked at work with those sardonic, half little smiles that could mean anything and usually masked everything. No here he looked…well free. He couldn’t help but smile in response. He’d never seen James like that; never been able to make him so relaxed, so at ease. That realisation made him sad. Deeply sad in a way he didn’t entirely understand.
The group around James shifted again as several blokes headed inside, toward the bar. He could see James clearly now, the whole long length of him, right from his too tight t-shirt all the way down his denim clad legs.
Lewis’ mouth was suddenly dry and he took a long swig of his drink. Christ, how the hell did he make a simple pair of jeans look so bloody indecent. Hanging low on those too slim hips, a belt and sheer hope the only things defying gravity. And yes, James did move well. Really bloody well, why the entire pub wasn’t out here watching God only knew. Slim hips rolling, glimpses of soft grey cotton and ivory pale skin. Flat stomach, lightly muscled chest and arms, a rower’s body.
Lewis felt his breath quicken and his blood rush to all sorts of interesting places. His hands itched to reach out and hold those hips, to feel James move against him, beneath him. The melancholy followed sharp on the heels of his interest and he turned away. Nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. The bottom of an orange juice glass wasn’t quite the bottom of a pint glass, but it was all he had to work with.
He bumped into the bloke sitting next to him as he turned back to his seat. He looked up to apologise and met the eyes of a grey haired man that widened as they took in his accent. The man sat back a little and watched him with a studied casualness that set his nerves alert.
“Is she your daughter?” he asked.
“What?” Robbie said, unusually perplexed by the question.
“The girl, is she your daughter?”
“The redhead?” Robbie asked with a glance over his shoulder and a shake of his head. He picked out a crisp, keen to discourage the conversation.
“Him you’re interested in then?” the bloke asked, all polite and bland in his enquiry.
Robbie took a moment to study the man. For all his grey hair he wasn’t actually that old. Younger than him. Older than James. Some hinterland between the two of them. “You think I’m the kind of bloke that hangs around pubs staring at young men?” he asked with a gentle tilt of his head. A thread of warning weaving through his words. Answering a question with a question, sure sign of evasion, and the bloke seemed to know it if the twitch of his lips was anything to go by.
“You seemed interested that’s all,” he observed, tipping his glass toward where James was still dancing.
Robbie thought about denying the accusation, but then it was true wasn’t it? The way he’d been feeling lately, his unexplained yearning for something more, his relief that James wasn’t dancing with that girl. It all added up to one fairly obvious conclusion that he was tired of denying.
“He just looks…happy,” Robbie offered when it became clear the bloke was waiting for some sort of explanation. “Don’t often see people like that anymore. Everyone’s too busy or too cool or too something anyway.”
Beside him the man relaxed glancing over Robbie shoulder toward James. Blue eyes lightened as the careful casualness gave way to something more. “Yes he does look happy,” he agreed, his tone showing something of surprise.
“He’s not usually happy?” Robbie questioned, his interest in the conversation peaking as he realised the man knew James, must belong to the party in some way.
“James? Who knows,” came the wry response, “he’s rather self contained.”
“He doesn’t look self contained,” Robbie observed as he twisted around, eyes drawn inexorably to those fluid, undulating hips. He felt himself flush and kept his head steadfastly turned away.
“He doesn’t often dance,” the man observed as he stood up and ambled away.
“Maybe he should do it more often,” Robbie suggested to his retreating back.
He watched with an odd sense of detachment as his conversation partner approached James, resting a causal hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to be heard above the music. The flare of jealousy was hardly a surprise. He’d felt it before, the times James was friendly with suspects or witnesses, all those times at Crevecour and with the McEwan case when there’d been people who knew James before him, knew James without him. It was sharper now the feeling was no longer anonymous, now it had a name.
“Hello,” James said as he collapsed onto the bench next to Robbie, flushed and still smiling, his skin all pinked and rosy. “Father Paul said you were here.”
“That was a priest?” Robbie asked in surprise, glancing over to the man who was now stood next to the large patio heater.
“Yup,” James confirmed with a nod, “he’s gone incognito tonight. Don’t tell the archdeacon.”
“Alright,” Robbie agreed easily, “If I ever meet an archdeacon my lips are sealed.”
“First time for everything I suppose, you’re normally very keen to vent your spleen at any unsuspecting member of the clergy that stumbles across your path,” James said with an unrepentant grin.
“Only the ones that wont co-operate with my murder inquiries,” Lewis pointed out.
“No, even the ones that do,” James corrected.
“Well now, I was going to offer to buy you a drink, but I’m starting to reconsider that impulse,” Robbie grumbled.
“Too late,” James said with a wide grin as he downed the last of his drink and thrust his glass toward Robbie. “Pint of Night Watchman please.” And in the face of that smile Robbie found he could do nothing other than obey.
“Come on then,” he instructed as he stood up and made his way back to the bar, wholly gratified when James followed without question.
“So what are you doing here?” Robbie asked as they stood waiting to be served, forced close together in the press of bodies.
“We’re having an ironic 80’s party,” James offered.
“Course you are,” Lewis agreed. “A what?” he asked a beat later.
James’ lips twitched. Lewis watched his face but he betrayed no more reaction, he’d never know whether James was on his way to one of those sardonic smiles or something more real. It was more disappointing than he was ready to acknowledge.
“Apparently the 80’s were such an awful cultural phenomenon it is now only possible to enjoy them ironically,” James explained as Lewis handed over a tenner to the barman.
“Say’s who?” Lewis demanded.
“Nick,” James said with a nod toward a short, stocky man stood several feet away holding a newly acquired pint of guinness. “It’s his birthday and he spent the 80’s at uni so apparently he should know,” James offered with all the tell tale signs of a well worn argument.
“He was at uni all the 80’s?” Lewis asked as they moved back out toward the beer garden, “All ten years of it?”
“Probably longer,” James agreed as they settled at a table. “The lifestyle one used to be able to live on the largesse of the state. Now it’s all student loans and debts and league tables,” he said mournfully.
“Give over, like you need any more degrees than you’ve already got,” Lewis objected.
“I only have two actually,” James said with a shrug, that’s hardly anything to write home about these days. So what did you do in the 80’s then sir?”
“I raised my kids,” Lewis said momentarily awash with memories of birthday parties, bikes and a living room floor littered with lego and colouring pens. There was the expected sting of lonely nostalgia, a feeling so familiar he barely registered it anymore. Yet it didn’t fade like it normally did, instead it deepened as James eyes met his and held and he suddenly had no idea whether he was mourning what he’d lost or what he’d never have.
“Raised the kids and worked to pay for Nick’s education apparently,” he added briskly.
James’ eyes slid away from his and he fell oddly silent.
“What?” Lewis prompted, unable to fathom why his words could have caused James’ mood to shift so dramatically. And although he’d asked the question the chances of James answering it were 50/50 at best. The chances of it being an answer he understood were dramatically less.
“I spent the 80’s learning to walk,” James offered with a sad, resigned little smile that Lewis didn’t understand.
God he was an enigma at times. A young, beautiful enigma. He could admit that now for all the good it would do him. Young, beautiful James who was so far out of his league he might as well be in another division. Young, beautiful James who lead him to torture sporting metaphors. He contemplated their relationship as they sat in silence. He’d always thought of most relationships as like those venn diagrams from school. People in their own worlds, overlapping with the others they met. Some barely touching but others sharing ever so much space. The whole thing weaving together in a complicated mess of lines and colour.
With Val it wasn’t so much that she intersected with him, rather that she settled over him, settled around him. He didn’t really know how it was with James. Some days it seemed that James slotted right into him, filled all the gaps and the echoey spaces inside him. Complementing and completing him as they worked in easy harmony, their own verbal and cognitive dance around suspects and superintendents. But other days, when James got all snarky and his face looked like he’d swallowed a wasp Robbie wasn’t sure they were even on the same page, let alone in the same orbit. Days when they might as well have been strangers for all the understanding they shared.
What ever they were, they were a right pair. Not fifteen minutes ago James had been happily enjoying his ironic party and now he was propping up a table with his sad old governor. He clearly wasn’t a good influence, dragging James right down into his bout of existential flu.
“You didn’t get another drink,” James pointed out as Robbie shook off his momentary misery.
“No,” Lewis agreed, “turns out I’m a one orange juice man.”
“It’s good to know your limits,” James agreed sagely.
Limits indeed, Robbie thought as he twirled his empty glass between his fingers. He was suddenly so very aware of where he ended and where James began, of the table that lay between them. The limits of propriety that stopped him from reaching out. The rank and profession that defined their roles and set their orbits. Beyond the limits of credulity that they could be anything other than they were.
“I could get you something else?” James offered.
Robbie declined with a shake of his head, suddenly so very tired. Not able to face the distance between them any more, how many more misunderstandings and lost moments the evening might bring.
“Nah you get back to your party, I’ll head off home. Don’t worry about being in too early,” he offered with a smile. James acknowledged the offer with a nod and rose smoothly, stepping out, over the bench and ambling back from whence he came.
The city was quiet as Robbie left the pub, the sky overhead the pale, half dark of a summer night. He turned south and walked back toward the station, watching heavy, dark clouds rise in the east and wondering whether it would rain.
He spent the night sleeping fitfully and wondering how on earth Father Paul had known to send James over to him.
***
The dawn broke to drizzle. Robbie ate breakfast and watched the washing line sway in the wind, scattering erratic drops over the rain slicked flags. Bloody English weather, it had been sunny yesterday. Monty had curled up out there letting the sun-soaked warmth ease him to sleep. He reached down and stroked an apology across the cat’s silky fur, as though the weather was somehow his fault. The clouds had followed him home and deepened over night. Now here he was, tired and confused and the weather had gone to shit. James would call it a portent. Or something fancier. An augur maybe, that was the same kind of thing, wasn’t it?
He stacked the washing up by the sink and left it to amuse itself for the day. He drove to work past damp hedgerows and damper people, the windscreen wipers a keeping a steady, sibilant beat.
Despite his words the night before James was already in the office when he arrived, witness statement in hand, biro in his mouth. Robbie’s eyes were drawn to his mouth, to the slight stretch of his lips around the pen. He wondered idly what excuse he could muster to join James for his smoke breaks.
“I’ve been thinking,” James offered by way of greeting and Robbie offered the obligatory, expected snort as he hung up his dripping jacket. When don’t you ever lad, when don’t you ever.
“We need to stop solving crimes.”
“How’s that then?” Robbie asked as he settled into his desk, carefully avoiding James’ eyes.
“You hate paperwork. I hate paperwork. Solving crimes creates paperwork, so we need to stop solving crimes.”
“You love paperwork,” Robbie pointed out opening the nearest file and beginning to read the first bit of paper he found. “You’ve got systems and treasury tags and those little post it note things.”
“Index-flags,” James corrected automatically. “Alright point taken but I hate having to prepare the cases for the lawyers, it’s boring.
“It is,” Robbie agreed confused by the numbers that stared up at him. This wasn’t part of their last case. Was it? He dug a bit further, leafing through the papers that seemed to make up some kind of report.
“Statistical analysis of departmental performance,” James said with a grin as he turned back to his own work.
“What? Why?” Robbie asked.
“Careful sir, it’s incisive questioning like that that solves crimes. And creates paperwork,” James observed with a smirk. “Chief Superintendent Innocent’s dedication to your on-going edification?” he offered with shrug of his shoulders as Robbie frowned.
“Doesn’t she normally email these things,” Robbie asked, his distaste and disinterest all too clear.
“Yes, and I believe she did just that to the rest of CID,” James agreed.
“But she printed mine?” Robbie asked. He wasn’t quite sure how to take that fact but he had half a mind to be offended.
“I’d consider it a victory,” James advised, “you’ve finally forced her to acknowledge your neo-luddite tendencies.”
“My what?” Robbie asked.
“Neo-luddism,” James said without lifting his head from the paperwork, “a leaderless movement of passive resistance to consumerism and the increasingly bizarre and frightening technologies of the computer age.“
Robbie thought for a moment before deciding there was absolutely no response to that. He pushed Innocent’s file to edge of his desk and reached for their own paperwork letting the office settle into a studious quiet.
He tried to concentrate on the work but he found himself too easily distracted, painfully aware of all of James’ movement. The scratch of his pen against paper, the rapid fire clicking as he typed away, each twitch and flex of his body. James left the office at semi-regular intervals, returning with files, coffee or just the lingering scent of tobacco. Robbie sat back and watched him return from the kitchen, mug held in both hands, suit jacket hiding his hips in frustrating shadows.
James placed the drink on his desk and lingered for a moment, running his fingers around the rim of the mug. Robbie risked a glance upward and found James watching him, offering a shy, gentle smile. “Tea,” he said gravely.
“Yes,” Robbie agreed just as solemnly.
James nodded, clearly satisfied with the response and loped back to his own desk. Robbie revised his opinion, enigma didn’t go half-way to explaining James bloody Hathaway. He took a sip of the drink and tried to ignore the tingly knowledge that a moment ago James’ fingers had been where his lips were now.
“What’s an augur sergeant?” Robbie asked at some point mid-afternoon.
“A religious official in ancient Rome who interpreted the will of the gods by observing natural phenomenon, often the behaviour of birds,” James offered promptly. “Some people have suggested Richard Bach’s book Jonathon Livingston Seagull was a post modern reflection on the concept.”
“So they warned of bad luck, bad omens?” Robbie clarified.
“Or they gave news of good omens,” James agreed as he glanced up from his reading a quiet, questioning look on his face.
“And rain, that would be a bad a omen, a bad sign to an augur?”
James shrugged. “I’d say it depends on whether you were planning a wash day or you wanted your runner-beans to grow.”
Robbie huffed and settled back to his paperwork muttering something suspicious about bloody gods, mysterious ways and damn sergeants.