Archive of Our Own ^beta

One morning Lewis arrives at the office later than usual. James is just checking the time in the lower right corner of his monitor when he discovers why.

“Morning,” comes Lewis’ voice from the door. James glances up, and Morning, sir falls away from his tongue as he twists his chair back and shoots to his feet.

“What happened?” He’s rounding the desk to where Lewis is gently hopping toward his own seat.

“All right, all right, no need to go vaulting over your computer to get at me,” Lewis replies, his crutches giving a light thup-click, thup-click as Lewis crosses the floor. “As you can see, I’m fine. Just a bit banged up, that’s all.” Lewis reaches the edge of his desk and leans against it to collect the crutches in one hand, then looks briefly around for a place to put them. James is already there, taking them from him, standing them up against the wall to the immediate right of Lewis’ chair, where they can be reached. He doesn’t let his eyes leave Lewis for a second as Lewis limps around to the chair, rolls it back, and eases himself into it with care.

“Thank you, Sergeant, you may return to your seat,” Lewis says a moment later, after he’s switched his computer on. James remains by the crutches he’s just set against the wall.

“What happened?” he asks again.

Lewis logs in, and starts to turn to look at James over his shoulder. James sees him wince, and promptly steps to Lewis’ side. Lewis gives him a look that resembles resignation.

“Had a bit of a dust-up with the neighbour’s cat. I surprised it while it was having a kip just outside the front door, and much to my misfortune, it surprised me.”

James raises his eyebrows, observing the tired shadows under Lewis’ eyes. They don’t usually appear until later in the week. “I take it the cat was spared the ordeals of getting fitted for a plaster cast?”

“Got away clean,” Lewis sighs with a rueful half-smile. He turns back to his keyboard as if the conversation’s over.

“Why didn’t you ring me?” James asks, aiming for casually admonishing. Apparently he misses it by a fair few miles, because Lewis’ eyes roll, without restraint.

“You’re me sergeant, not me nurse.” Lewis is clicking at his email inbox and fortunately doesn’t see the reaction that James fails to suppress. James knows the abrupt tightness in his chest must show in his face; he hears his own quick intake of breath as he straightens where he stands next to Lewis’ stacked folders.

Lewis stops clicking. He glances over, then angles his shoulders to meet James’ gaze directly. “I would’ve phoned you if I’d had to, but Mrs Davenport, the owner of the little beast, dragged me straight up to hospital, where I found meself pumped full of painkillers and this sodding thing clapped on me foot”—he jerks his head toward the general vicinity of where his leg rests beneath the desk—“before I could get a word in.”

James nods, feeling a bit foolish for being so transparent to Lewis. One may have reasonably supposed James would have grown accustomed to it by now. James suspects that day will never come.

“Anyway,” Lewis continues, just as James is about to get back to work, which is what he should have done several minutes ago, “the doc said it wasn’t too bad. Just a crack, he said. I wanted to scream bloody murder before he gave me me pills. Three to four weeks in this lot and then a couple more in a walking boot. You’ll be back on your feet in a flash, he says,” Lewis finishes with a sceptical grunt.

James, having resumed his seat behind his monitor, feigns calm. “I believe it’s known as ‘tough love,’ sir. I understand doctors are the world’s leading practitioners.” He picks up the magazine clipping he was reading, and plans to take Lewis home.

***

James watches Lewis shift his chair back from the desk, his face turned down as he works his encased foot from under his desk. Lewis’ hands are pressed flat to the desk, careworn, broad-fingered, and his shoulders set as he raises himself up.

James is sick with desire. Sick, literally—the roiling in his stomach causes him to turn away, avert his eyes from Lewis, the creases of his forehead, the drooping skin of his neck. The clatter of crutches hitting the floor snaps James’ head back up, and in an instant James has crossed the space between their desks and is crouched at Lewis’ feet, aluminium alloy cool in his palm. James stands up too quickly and blinks, dizzy.

“Sir,” he says, holding them out. They seem impossibly light, like a miracle of science waiting in his hands, prepared to bear Lewis’ weight, and more, for any length of time.

***

“I think I’ll try the bus today,” Lewis says, in the midst of his end-of-day stretch. James had caught it, that harbinger of quitting time, and had duly begun closing out of his documents.

“Don’t be silly, sir,” James says absently, finishing off a form before saving and quitting. “It’ll take at least twice as long, and I doubt the bus calls at the chippy or the Indian. By the way, what do you want for tea?”

“Come now, it’s been a week—I’ve learnt how to drive,”—he gestures at the crutches—“and I can’t let you chauffeur me about for the next month.”

“Why not? I’m offering,” James answers, hitting Restart.

“Because Innocent’ll call it a misuse of departmental resources, for one thing, and—to be honest, it doesn’t sit right with me.”

That has James flicking his eyes to Lewis—but Lewis is already explaining. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate you giving me a lift; it’s only that—it’s every night, James. Tell me you’ve got other things you’d rather be doing, such as—I don’t know—spending time in the company of…?” He trails off, and James thinks it’s got something to do with the pursing of his own mouth that he can’t seem to control.

“The last time you made the suggestion you seem to be making, sir, you said it was only going to be the once,” James remarks, struggling (and plainly failing) to keep his tone acid-free.

Lewis looks back mutely, then replies, “I was going to say your bandmates. Haven’t you got rehearsal or anything?”

James answers with a very dry smile. “No.”

Lewis gazes at him, and James ignores the vaguely hopeless look in his eye, choosing instead to fix his attention on his screen. For use by authorized personnel of the Oxfordshire Police only.

“If you have plans, sir—” James says to his monitor.

Lewis lets out a sigh. Thup-click.

“Better make it Sainsbury’s tonight,” Lewis says. Thup-click. “I can’t have takeaway seven days a week and expect to make it to retirement, or so they tell me.” Thup-click. Thup-click. “And this may come as a shock to you, Mr Thin-As-A-Rake, but a little home-cooking wouldn’t be bad for you, either.”

James breathes out, silently. “Celery sticks and brown rice? Not a problem.” He leaps to his feet to get the door.

“No, if you’re driving, I’m cooking,” Lewis says as he thup-clicks past. “And there’ll be no sodding brown rice.”

Shortly after, they’re at Lewis’ flat, where Lewis has just got the peppers into the pan—they’ve settled on vegetable stir-fry, with white rice—when his mobile buzzes.

“I’ll get it,” James says and hops from the counter where he’d been firmly instructed to wait. “It’s your daughter,” he tells Lewis when he comes back with the still-buzzing phone.

“Thanks,” Lewis says, taking it and hobbling off to the side, making room for James to take over the stirring of the veg.

“Hallo, pet,” James hears over the hiss of steam. “Oh, just fine. How’s you?” James listens intently. He adds a tin of baby corn to the mixture while Lewis, unable to wander far, murmurs behind him.

“I’m getting on okay—developing muscles I never knew I had. What? Oh,”—Lewis chuckles, and James grins to himself. “No, still a long ways from He-Man, I’m afraid.” There’s a pause, then, “Don’t worry yourself, Mrs Davenport’s been driving me in—it’s on her way and she keeps telling me it’s no trouble, and I’m willing to believe her, and James gets me back, so there’s no need to fuss.” Lewis pauses again; James adds the water chestnuts with a sizzle.

“Now before you get the wrong idea, it’s stir-fried vegetables and—are you listening? Low-sodium soy sauce, tonight. Took two shops before I found it.” Lewis laughs, and James’ grin goes wider. “Yeah, that was rather awful, wasn’t it? Thankfully you were able to get her back to non-health food aisles.” Another pause. “I suppose she was ahead of her time—if only she could see me now.”

James stirs gently. Lewis is quiet behind him, listening to Lyn, and James loses track of the half-conversation in his ruminations on Lewis’ wife, until he hears his name.

“James is,” Lewis is saying. “Well, I was, before you rang, and by rights, I should be still. What? Oh—well, all right, pet.” James hears the sudden hesitation in Lewis’ voice before he feels Lewis’ hand at his shoulder, the open phone in Lewis’ palm. “Lyn would like a word,” Lewis says softly.

James’ heart is rocketing at unsafe speeds and this must show, for Lewis’ uncertain eyes crinkle. “Go on, I’ll finish up here.”

James wipes his hands on the nearest tea towel and takes the phone.

“Hello?” he asks tentatively, and wishes he could take it back. A friendly laugh greets him from the other side.

“Hi, James. It’s Lyn,” says a warm, contralto voice. “It’s lovely to finally speak with you in person!”

“Yes, it’s lovely to speak with you too,” James says automatically. He can’t stop the sweat from breaking out under his arms but Lyn’s voice sounds like pragmatism, and nothing at all like the North.

“I’ve heard so much about you, all good—at least, in my mind,” Lyn adds with a chuckle. “I know you’ve been keeping Dad on his toes at work, and on the squash courts. He may grumble, but he needs the exercise—it’ll keep him from turning into a stroppy old sod.”

James smiles. “I wouldn’t say he grumbles.” He glances over to Lewis, who turns his head far enough to reveal an arched brow.

“No?” Lyn laughs. “You’re obviously too kind. Not me, though. Which is why I really must thank you for seeing after Dad—I had so desperately hoped to come down myself but my husband couldn’t get off work and I thought about coming alone with the baby but he’s been so colicky and having a crying baby in the house would’ve hardly helped matters—but when I first heard about the accident I went half-mad with worry, I just knew I had to do something.” She laughs, and this time James recognizes the familiar edge of guilt.

“Nothing to worry about,” James tells her, and he sees Lewis start to turn from the corner of his eye. “Everything’s well in hand here. Your father will be back on the courts in the blink of an eye, playing a vigorous game of squash with extremely mixed results.”

Lyn’s laugh this time is a relief, to both of them. “With you as chef, I’m sure he will be.”

“Actually, the vegetables were his idea.”

“Really??” Her disbelief is so palpable that James huffs a laugh himself. “Tell him to keep it up will you? He’s got years of fish and chips to make up for, and at this point it’s a race against time, isn’t it?” James laughs again, and then there’s a scuffling noise, the sound of a hand being pressed against the phone—indistinct murmurings, and the very distinct sobbings of an unhappy baby.

The scuffling is replaced by Lyn’s voice, apologetic and brisk. “Oh, James, I’ve got to go—the baby’s hungry and he can’t wait another second, as I’m sure you can tell—but it was lovely chatting!”

“Yes,” James gets in.

“Let’s do it again soon—tell Dad I love him, and to enjoy his veg—light on the soy sauce now, it’s low-sodium but it’s not no-sodium, is it—and that I’ll give him a shout tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am,” James replies.

“Bye!” James hears before the line is disconnected. He snaps shut the phone and turns to Lewis, who looks back at him expectantly. In a large bowl beside him, a gorgeous pile of stir-fried veggies sends up fresh and savoury aromas.

“She had to feed the baby,” James begins, “but she said to tell you she loves you”—he goes to pick up the plate (“Here, that’s hot,” Lewis says, handing him an oven glove)—“and to enjoy the stir-fry, but to use discretion with the soy sauce”—that gets a sound like a snort from Lewis—“and that she’ll ring again tomorrow.”

“Our Lyn’s become such a little mother,” Lewis says, making his way to the table, holding on to the refrigerator handle, then the edge of the counter, then the back of the chair he sits down in. “She wasn’t always that way. Never a bad kid, of course, but we had some stern talks when she was a lass. Those teenage years. When they’re babies they can do nowt but cry, but they don’t cheek you with cold-blooded deliberation.” He scoops up some fluffy white rice and holds it over James’ plate questioningly. James nods with a thank you, and Lewis sighs. It’s not displeasure though, and he says, “When I think of all the troubles and joys Lyn has ahead of her, with the little one, and who knows?—maybe there’ll be more—I look back and think, how quickly it’s rushed by.”

James stays respectfully silent as Lewis spoons up some veg for him, and then for himself. “Ah well, listen to me. Better yet, don’t.” He leans back and begins to shake soy sauce over his food.

“All right,” James says.

Lewis looks up and sets the bottle (noticeably depleted) down. “So. What were you and Lyn talking about? If I may ask.”

James smiles and swallows. “Not much; she said she wanted to thank me for giving you a hard time at squash and driving you home. Truth be told, she did most of the talking.” He doesn’t mention what Lyn said about being worried, or how she’d sounded when she’d said it. He thinks Lewis must know.

“Never wants for words, our Lyn,” Lewis says, forking in a mouthful.

James chews thoughtfully. “Gets it from her father, clearly.”

Lewis just gives him a look, then says, “In any case, she’s got nicer manners than her old man. If you hadn’t sulked until you’d got your way, I’d still be at the bus station cursing the missing bus, like as not—so thank you.”

James gives him a small smile from across the steaming rice and veg. He is light as a feather and his heart is fit to burst. “I’ll bear that in mind, next time something’s got to be done.”

***

“What do we need for tonight?”

“Um, cherry tomatoes, I think,” James says. He quickly types healthy baked polenta recipe into the Google search box and clicks open the recipe he’d looked up before. “Yeah. And rocket. I think you’ve got everything else. Unless you’ve been cooking behind my back?” He raises his eyes to Lewis, who’s busy neatening some papers.

“Never,” Lewis replies emphatically.

James smiles and hits Print, and watches Lewis move behind his desk with newfound ease. The crutches have gone, returned to the NHS (“and good riddance,” Lewis had said with undeniable glee) a few days ago, when James took Lewis to hospital to have the plaster cast removed. In its place is a large and ugly black walking boot.

James goes out of their office to retrieve the print-out, and finds Innocent there, holding a budget report in one hand and the recipe in the other.

“Looking for this, Sergeant?”

“Ah, yes ma’am,” James says, taking it from her.

“Looks delicious,” she says. “But an hour and a half cooking time? Does Lewis know about that?”

“Well, we’re using ready-made polenta—you only need to heat it through, crisp it on the outsides,” James says before he realizes he’s talking too much. Superintendent Innocent has lifted her brows.

“Quite,” she says, then folds her arms with a pause. “Have you been cooking much lately? Only the other day I could’ve sworn I saw a recipe for vegetarian chili lying around here somewhere.”

“Er, yes ma’am,” James replies, thinking he’s got to get over to the printer straightaway in future.

“And how was it?”

It takes James a second, under the weight of Innocent’s laser-like eyes and his own wildly scurrying thoughts, to understand she’s asking about the chili. “Mediocre at best,” James says. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

Innocent tilts her head back and nods. “Mm. Have you come across anything especially well-received?” James blinks, because Superintendent Innocent is asking him for recipes, and she continues, “It’s my turn to do dinner this week, you see, and Mr. Innocent’s been hinting at a full-scale rebellion if he comes home to another frozen steak pie on the table.”

James spares a second to visualize the Innocent household in open war, then pulls himself back to the discussion at hand. “Ah. Well. There was a prawn paella that went down rather beautifully.”

“Prawn paella?” Innocent looks impressed. “Prep time?”

“About thirty minutes, I think.”

“Any exotic ingredients required?”

“Does saffron count?”

Innocent considers. “In this part of the world, I think not. Send it to me, will you?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” Innocent says as she turns from the printer, riffling through the budget report. “Tell Lewis I said so. Good night.”

James watches her walking back to her office. “Yes ma’am,” he murmurs to no one in particular. He goes back to his own office and shuts the door behind him. Lewis glances up inquiringly.

“What sort of wife do you suppose Innocent would make?”

Lewis looks at him. “The sort who’s a lot like a chief superintendent of police—and our boss. What are you trying to tell me, James?”

“Apparently her husband is sick of steak pies. She asked me for recipes and I gave her one.”

“Which one?”

“The prawn paella.”

“Smart lad,” Lewis says, hobbling up to James. Cluk-clak, cluk-clak. It’s the new sound that sets James’ pulse running. “You’ll go far round these parts. Are you ready to go?”

James’ fast pulse and Lewis’ proximity are making him heady—but the past weeks have enabled him to acquire a certain endurance that merely working with Lewis, day in and day out, had not developed. He keeps his face calm and steps around Lewis to his desk.

“Yeah—I just need to send Innocent the link,”—he brings it up, copies and pastes it into an email, and clicks Send—“and shut down.”

A few minutes later they’re moving in leisurely fashion toward the car park. James is meditating on the other thing Innocent said, without looking at Lewis, as they reach the sliding doors. They whoosh apart, and Lewis cluk-claks his way through.

“What kind of bloke doesn’t like a steak pie?” Lewis is saying.

James drops his line of thought immediately and puts up a smile. “Me.” That wins him a look of deep disapprobation. “What? They’re vile. I’d sooner be inflicted with prawn sandwiches.”

“I think I’ll pick up a few at the supermarket,” Lewis says after a moment, turning his eyes from James to the car park. “For a rainy day.”

The cherry tomato baked polenta that evening is judged to be second only to the paella, and James leaves Lewis with a Night, sir, no leftovers, and two frozen steak pies nestled cosily within the freezer.

***

“Hi Lyn,” James says, answering Lewis’ phone.

“Oh, James, hi,” comes Lyn’s voice. James had answered once before for Lewis, and it had been somewhat awkward. Lyn hadn’t been expecting it—but Lewis had just been washing his hands in the sink and had taken the phone soon after. “How are you?”

“Good, good. And you?”

“I’m all right—a bit peaky today but the baby’s sleeping now, so there’ll be at least forty-five minutes of peace and quiet.” She gives a small laugh (definitely tired, James thinks) and asks, “How’s Dad today?”

“In fine fettle. He’s just in the loo, but should be back soon—shall I have him call you back?”

“Oh, I don’t mind waiting—unless you’ve got something in the oven? What’s on tonight?”

“Nothing urgent, just some water for pasta—spinach and pesto; we’ve been tied up on a case lately, so all our ‘quick’ recipes have turned positively hasty.”

Lyn agrees with a laugh. “I know just what you mean. I’ve not eaten anything except cereal out of the box and the occasional fruit smoothie since the baby was born. I know, I’m a terrible hypocrite, being on Dad’s case—but he’s been harder on himself, and for longer, so I’d say it’s fair for him to take extra care. Anyway, don’t tell him I said that. So what about your latest—has it been a hairy one?”

“It has been, actually,” James replies, taking the change of subject in stride. A double murder in Kidlington, grisly details. He thinks no more on it. “But we’re on the last of the paperwork. And he’s having the boot taken off for good on Saturday, so…” James trails away. He wants to mark the occasion for Lewis—a good result on the case, and freedom from personal injury at last. Resumption of all normal activities. It makes James feel hollow.

The brightness of Lyn’s voice penetrates the unwelcome swirl of apprehension and guilt. “All’s well in the state of Denmark! I wish we could come down to celebrate—when we were small Dad and Mum would take us to the cinema sometimes, if we’d done really well in school or something. Once we saw 101 Dalmatians—”

“Is that Lyn?”

James spins round to see Lewis emerge from the hallway, and nods. “Lyn, your dad’s back,” James says, interrupting the flow of words. “Shall I hand you over?”

“Oh, yes please,” she says, and James does. He props his elbows on the kitchen counter and lets his eyes rest on Lewis’ face.

“Hallo, love,” Lewis says, grinning as if she can see. “How was your day?” Lewis’ eyes drift over to James’, unseeing—he’s listening to his daughter. James lets himself smile. He has no need to look away.

***
It’s none too late on a Friday but the Trout is fairly full-up. James holds the door behind him for Lewis and takes the lay of the land.

“Over there,” he says, indicating with his chin. There’s a space that may or may not accommodate someone of James’ width, and an empty chair, askew to the edge of the long communal table.

"Okay,” Lewis nods. “I'll get them in. Orange juice tonight, or spurious glamour?"

James smiles briefly at the joke but quickly says, "I can—"

"Go and sit before some other bugger beats you to it. I’m meant to be walking in this bloody walking boot." Lewis turns and begins shouldering his way around the other patrons, and James falls back, defeated. He watches Lewis’ progress, and slips his hand to his inside jacket pocket as he heads over to the end of the table. It was rather a tight fit to get the whole DVD in, so he draws it out with a tug, adjusts the free chair, and puts the plastic case down on the table at Lewis’ place. Then he stakes his claim on the bench, nodding his thanks as the woman perched next to him makes room, and waits.

"Don't know about you but I'm only too happy to see the backside of this week—what've we got here?" Lewis is back, and peering down at the plastic DVD case as he drops easily into the chair at a sideways angle. He picks it up with one hand, inspecting it.

"Hammer House of Horror—the Complete Collection,” he reads.

"To help put your upcoming physiotherapy in perspective,” James says.

Lewis' face eases from surprise to amazement. "This used to be one of me favourite programmes. How—?" Realisation gleams bright blue in his eyes. “You and Lyn—thick as thieves now, aren't you?” He leans back, his chin curving into his neck as he lets out a laugh, looking at the DVD in his hand. “Val wouldn’t let me watch this one unless the kids were tucked up in bed. I tried videoing it once—of course Lyn ended up sneaking her way into it. Took us a week to get her to stop leaving the lights on in every room. Luckily her brother was too young—didn’t know to be scared.” He grins, holding it up. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

James only shrugs and tries to keep his smile small. It’s difficult.

“Looks like I’ll be watching some telly tonight,” Lewis announces eagerly, turning the case over to examine the back. “After you drop us home.” He pauses. “Unless—you’d like to…?”

James decides to go for deadpan enthusiasm. “Oh, absolutely.” From the twitch of Lewis’ mouth, he’s overdone it.

“Didn’t think voodoo dolls and devil worshipers were up your street.” Lewis is back to reading the tiny text on the back, his forehead wrinkling at the effort.

“A bit of mystery keeps the magic alive.”

Lewis makes an amused snort and lays the DVD back on the table as a young woman arrives and bends to set their drinks down. “Pint of bitter”—Lewis gestures his ownership—“and tonic water on the rocks.”

James picks up his glass and studies the slice of lime floating near the rim. “Normally these come with lemon.”

“You must be moving up in the world,” Lewis says, over his pint.

A few hours later, Lewis is passed out on his sofa in front of the television with his booted foot stretched out, and the end titles are rolling before James’ vaguely stunned eyes. He’s sat through exactly one episode of the Hammer House of Horror—The Complete Collection, and thus far, the most horrifying aspect of the show is that Lewis named it as an old favourite.

“For what man knoweth the things of a man?” James murmurs, glancing over at Lewis and discovering him well and truly asleep. James reaches forward for the remote, stops the DVD, then sets it down to take up the second remote, to switch off the television. He rolls himself from the arm chair and stretches, cracking his neck, checking his watch. It’s a quarter to ten. One more stretch of his arms, and he’s looking down at Lewis, twisting his torso to get a better view.

Next thing he’s standing over the man, with his hands inside his trouser pockets, and then he’s bending, soundlessly, to the very edge of the cushion. He sits, gingerly, his eyes flickering over each familiar notch and line that makes up Robbie Lewis. The light from the floor lamp is orange on his face, save the small slices of shadow between Lewis’ closed eyes, where his forehead knits unconsciously, and at either side of his mouth, which sags down, dark orange, at both corners. Gravity and grief, James thinks. Physics and metaphysics. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Lewis jerks suddenly, as if he’s just begun to dream, and James shifts, almost slipping from the sofa, wondering if it will be a bad dream. James straightens his spine; he breathes in. Lewis’ hair has lightened more than thinned since James first saw him, that afternoon at the airport, holding up his flimsy sign, trying to pick a man out from a crowd by a thumbnail photograph taken ten years ago. Lewis’ hair looks soft, and the sunken skin beneath his eyes looks soft too. James watches Lewis’ eyelids flutter; he breathes out. He leans forward and lays a careful hand on Lewis’ shoulder.

“Wakey wakey,” he sing-songs quietly. He applies his thumb lightly to the white of Lewis’ shirt. “Up and at ‘em.”

Lewis cracks an eye and squints it closed against the light. James pats at Lewis’ shoulder; he smooths out the crease he’d made.

“Oh,” Lewis mumbles, eyes fully shut, “must’ve nodded off.”

“You’ll be sorry in the morning, if you sleep on the couch,” James tells him. His palm rests at Lewis’ shoulder still, and Lewis is sleeping fine. “And I’ll be sorry in the morning, if I let you. Come on. On your feet, soldier.”

Lewis face grimaces as James’ hand grips him by the arm and slowly hoists.

“Ah, all right.” Lewis half-groans, starting to sit up. James has finally let go and is off the sofa, standing before Lewis expectantly. “What time is it?” Lewis asks, bringing his feet to the floor.

“Just gone ten. Past your bedtime.”

Lewis snorts through his yawn. “Don’t need you to tell me, do I.” He opens his eyes widely for a moment, as if to shake himself awake, and yawns again. “Okay.” He leans forward, toward his boot, and James just glimpses the wince he pulls as he sets to the black latches that keep the boot snug against his calf. The first two are promptly undone before Lewis runs into trouble.

“Ah this bloody—” Lewis’ mutters give way to a frustrated grunt, and James is on his knees at once, reaching for the boot.

“Let me,” James murmurs.

“It always sticks, that one, I don’t know why,” grumbles Lewis as James works to unfasten it. “Can’t see the damned catch—whoever designed these sodding things ought to be made to wear them, one on each foot, for at least a year.”

“Echoes of Hammurabi? Didn’t think you went in for the eye-for-an-eye school of thought,” James says, now pushing at a bit of moulded plastic that seems unlikely to give.

“Bit of mystery keeps the magic alive,” Lewis replies, sounding like he might be falling asleep again. James smiles and quietly battles the boot snap.

“There,” he breathes a minute later, at the same time the boot gives a satisfying snick. “If you just hold it down here—” He looks up to tell Lewis, and breaks off. Lewis’ jaw is propped against his open palm, his fingers cupped loosely over one eye—and in that first brief instant when James had raised his head, he’d caught Lewis watching him, a nameless expression in the folds of his face.

Lewis smiles now, his heavy-lidded eyes creasing. “Looks like you’ve done it. Good man.”

“The best,” James replies automatically. His heart kicks painfully against its neighbours, surging to three times its normal size. Lewis had been watching him—and his face had been like that.

On the drive home James misses a turn and has to circle round to get back to his flat, and when he arrives, it takes him half an hour to exit his vehicle and find his way inside. He attempts to read, to brush his teeth, to stare at the ceiling, but to no avail. His distraction is complete, and he sees nothing but Lewis’ gentlest of eyes.

***

Today the waiting room is disproportionately populated by small children and harried parents, with a few older folk to balance it out. James and Lewis complete the picture, in plastic chairs next to the mounted television broadcasting BBC News. James tilts his head back to watch; Lewis simply sits, occasionally flicking his eyes to one or another of the others in the room.

“The new McLarens,” James says aloud idly, at images of a flash silver sports car racing across the screen. A similarly sleek copper-coloured car follows. “Oh, apparently Cameron is a fan.”

Lewis snorts and looks over. “My word. Do people really drive those things?”

“I think so,” James answers.

“I’d feel a bloody fool, going to the supermarket in a car like that.”

“People who own cars like that can hardly be expected to engage in such plebeianism.”

Lewis leans back. “You never know. Morse had a fancy car, and he drove it round everywhere.”

“The Jaguar. I’ve heard. It’s become a bit of a legend.”

Lewis smiles. “I think that was part of the point.” He folds his arms and looks at James. “Maybe one day they’ll be talking about me Vauxhall Vectra.”

James’ answer is interrupted by the call of “Robert Lewis?” from the front desk. They both turn their heads. Stepping out from the reception area is the surgeon who’s been seeing to Lewis. She moves toward them with a smile and a folder in her hand.

“Ah, Robbie, how are you?” she greets him where they meet in the middle of the room.

“Well, Ms Hayes, and yourself?”

“Good, thanks. And hello again,” she says, looking to James, who had risen when Lewis had, out of habit.

“Hello,” James nods.

“So, do you feel ready to come out of that boot?” she asks, turning back to Lewis.

“Have been for weeks, ma’am.”

Dr Hayes smiles. “Let’s see what your ankle says about it.” She gestures for Lewis to go ahead, then looks back to James before James can turn away. “He can come along too, if you like,” she tells Lewis.

James stops, uncertain—he catches Lewis’ eye.

“Yeah, okay,” Lewis says.

James follows a half-step behind, warmth blooming in his chest.

***

The quiet feels strange, James thinks, as he surveys his flat and loosens his tie. He’d lived alone for years amongst his books and cheap furnishings and fine art prints, but two months of going home to Lewis’ flat with Lewis has left James bereft in his own home in time for dinner. He used to pick up takeaway on the way back, or go down the pub with some of the guys from the band. James frowns at his table and the lone glass there. There’s still some water in it, from when he’d been thirsty last night.

He shrugs off his jacket and flings it onto the couch, then goes over to the table to retrieve the glass. He carries it to the sink. He’s not in the mood for driving out again, but the cupboards are bare. Then again, he isn’t feeling particularly hungry. He wonders what Lewis is doing.

On the couch, his jacket buzzes.

“Sir,” James says, after fishing out his phone and glancing at the display. He’s smiling already. He tries to keep it from his voice.

“What temperature does fish in a foil parcel take?”

“Whole or filleted?”

“Filleted.”

James thinks. “Er, gas mark 7, I believe. Hang on a minute, let me check.” He goes to his laptop and switches it on.

“What else are you putting in the parcels?” James asks. “Cheesy potatoes?”

“Plum tomatoes and peppers, smart-arse,” Lewis answers. “Some onions and capers as well. Like the last time we did it.”

“Ah. Have you told Lyn?”

“No, but I plan to when she phones. You know, she told me last night the baby’s started to talk.”

“Yeah?” James watches the tiny circle on his computer screen turn and turn. “What did he say?”

Lewis’ exhale of laughter has James pressing the phone more tightly to his ear. “What every child says the first time he talks—nothing remotely intelligible,” Lewis answers. “Not that you’d know, Boy Wonder—oh, hang on a minute, that could be Lyn—”

Lewis’ voice fades—James hears the sounds of the phone being handled, a distant for God’s sake, can’t they make these buttons for a grown person already, more shuffling of the phone, a couple of ominous beeps, and then Lewis is back.

“Bloody hell, I think I hung up on her,” he growls, then says, “James?”

“Still here.”

“Great. Listen, why don’t you pop over and we’ll sort the fish then? I’ll give Lyn a call back now. If you’re not busy,” Lewis adds.

“On my way.”

In a few lightning moves, James has emailed the recipe to himself, picked up his jacket, and is out the door.

It’s gas mark 6, for the foil parcels, and the haddock emerges perfectly, delicate, wreathed in steam. The peppers have a snap, the tomatoes are tangy, and the onions and capers lend vivid flavour to the rice. James finds he is ravenous—he eats well as they talk, about Lyn, the baby, their latest case, possible leads. They’re washing up when the conversation turns to the awful DVD that James had procured for him. Lewis has, by now, re-visited all but one episode.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Lewis muses, scrubbing the rice pot. “Make it a Friday film night. Care to watch it with us?”

James tries not to look too pleased. “I’d love to—but I’d really rather not. I mean, you have to admit, that series is a little bit horrible.”

Lewis chuckles. “All right, something else then.” He’s rinsing the pot when he looks up. “Oh, I know. You’ve done me a good turn—and that deserves another.” He sets the pot on the counter and wipes his hands on a drying-up cloth, then goes over to the telly cabinet.

“Allow me to introduce you to the Duke.” He turns round, holding up a DVD.

James squints at the cover. “What, exactly, was he the duke of?” He’s drying the pot lid.

“Of—I dunno, the wild west, I suppose. Anyway, what do you say? Rio Bravo?” Lewis toggles the DVD, and he toggles his brows, and James, who has never seen this on Robbie Lewis before, laughs aloud.

“Okay, steady on, lad,” Lewis says when James gets it together again.

“No,” James shakes his head, hunching over the counter to stop from another outburst, “it’s not—here, let me see…” He pats his hands over the tea towel and strides over with a grin, intending to have a closer look at another one of Lewis’ favourites, but when he reaches Lewis, who’s still bright-faced with soft-set eyes, his hand goes for the DVD and gets Lewis’ wrist instead.

James’ heart begins to pound. His fingers won’t uncurl from bared skin beneath. Lewis had rolled up his sleeves, for dinner, James thinks numbly. He sees the edge of his own thumb stroke, once, up the heel of Lewis’ palm, and rest there, as if this were normal. As if this were right.

Lewis’ arm is lowering, slowly, in the circle of James’ hold. It’s staggeringly difficult to breathe, now. James stares at his hand against Lewis’ sturdy wrist. He thinks he may pass out.

He doesn’t. He hears Lewis, speaking to him.

“Go on then,” Lewis says, very softly. “Quick as you like.”

James closes his eyes. His clenches his jaw, tucks in his chin, breathes sharply through his nose—then he raises his head with his eyes tightly shut and tilts forward, to Lewis.

***

“You—didn’t seem terribly surprised. That night.” James looks round as he says this, pursing his mouth. “I thought you might be, well—shocked, to put it mildly.” To any onlooker he might be conversing about the fineness of the weather, rather than a long-harboured source of guilt and fear.

It’s a Sunday, and they’re walking down an ancient narrow street, and Lewis laughs in that way that brings all the lovely curves of his face to light. “It’s called paying attention, Sergeant Hathaway,” he smiles. “Doesn’t take a murder to get it to work.”

James’ head swivels promptly. He sharp gaze eases as he looks upon the elegant arch of Lewis’ cheekbone, the downsweep of his brow. Perhaps he’d been wearing his heart plain on his sleeve for God knows how long (weeks? years? how mortifying), but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters beyond Lewis, and the way he’s looking at James in this moment, right now.

“You knew?”

Lewis shrugs. “I couldn’t credit it, at first. Utterly barmy idea. And I couldn’t exactly talk to you about it, could I? It’s what I’d normally do, when there are clues that don’t fit. Like you, pushing me toward Laura as if there were a cash prize in the offing.” He snorts, and James makes an amused-chagrined sound.

“I wish you had said something,” James says a moment later. He’d had a lot of drinks alone, folded up in a chair in his too-quiet flat.

“Yeah,” Lewis replies. James feels a hand grip closely on his shoulder, and remain. “I’m sorry about that, James. You’re a far braver man than me.”

James’ mouth works—he feels too large for his skin. “Is it ‘than I,’ or ‘than me’?”

Lewis rolls his eyes, giving James’ shoulder a squeeze before he lets go. James breathes out a laugh. He narrows his eyes in the sun and thinks of Lewis, the way he loves his wife and children; the way he does his work—the way he moves in the world, a man who knew what he was, and knows what he is.

What he is, James thinks, is a man far braver than me.

“I reckon I would’ve done, though,” Lewis suddenly says. “If you hadn’t—you know,” Lewis nods.

James tilts his head over incredulously. “Declared my intentions?” he supplies, pushing down laughter.

“Yeah, well, after what Laura said…I couldn’t let it go on.”

James’ eyebrows lift. He looks down at his shoes. “What did she say?” He’s a little frightened to know.

Lewis laughs. “It’s okay, James. We’re still friends. All we’re meant to be, in the end.” They walk on, and Lewis doesn’t say anything more. James is replaying moments in his head—at crime scenes, at the station—moments when perhaps he let jealousy get the better of him. Water under the bridge, he tells himself—but still, the burn of embarrassment itches his throat.

“She said marriage suits you,” Lewis says. He’s got his hands in his jacket pockets, and his elbow brushes James’ on every other step.

The sting of humiliation flares hot with elation—James wants to choke. He clears his throat. “And what did you say?”

“Not a bloody word,” Lewis answers.

James studies Lewis’ profile, as if to read his thoughts. Lewis just looks on straight ahead, with his mouth curved vaguely up, enjoying the summer day.

“Very wise, sir,” James says, pulling his gaze from Lewis at last.

“I know me rights.”

James smiles, and cranes his neck to the sky.