Chapter Text
She was stuck in her office — her office, with a door and a desk, truly incredible — making about a dozen calls to get the rest of the paperwork for her case. DI she might now be, but there were still people at Scotland Yard who enjoyed dragging their feet in the hopes it would trip her up.
So when Masterson, of all people, came bursting in through the door, she really only had herself to blame. Or at least that's what he kept telling her as he chivvied her down the stairs and out to the car park. 'If you'd just put the bloody phone down for ten seconds, I'd've got through,' he complained, trying to ferry her toward his car — a late-model Alfa Romeo that more than one WPC had spoken of longingly in the toilets.
'I wasn't making a hairdressing appointment, Masterson,' she said, planting her feet firmly by the drivers' side of her own car. 'In case you've forgot, I—'
'Yeah, yeah, you're a big important Detective Inspector, I was there at the ceremony too, remember?' he snapped, but wrenched the passenger side door open and flung himself in with only moderately bad grace. 'You need directions?'
'I know where London Hospital is, thanks,' she snapped right back. 'Now, would you like to explain why we're going to London Hospital?'
'It's the boss,' he said, and her heart seized; despite the fact that he hadn't answered to that description for over a year, there was only one person he could mean. 'Hotel he was at caught fire. Being treated for smoke inhalations and some minor burns. Locals are investigating, but apparently it was some sort of poetry reading.' His tone was baffled. 'Why would anyone set fire to a poetry reading?'
'I'm guessing he was at a literary gathering with a lot of famous and important people,' Miskin said, as mildly as she could. Masterson was still so incredibly… not stupid, exactly, but something very close to it.
'It's not like Dear Old Liz was there,' Masterson whinged, and she didn't feel in the least guilty for taking a corner hard enough to whang his head against the window. 'Fucking hell, Miskin! Anyway, he's only going to be a copper for another month or something, so what would be the point in bumping him off?'
'You do remember he's about to be appointed the Poet Laureate, right?' she asked, because it was possible Masterson didn't — or at least didn't understand it. 'He'll probably have more death threats doing that than he's ever had on the job. Besides,' she added, 'We can't know he was the target.'
Masterson snorted.
They got to the hospital and were directed to a crowded waiting room, filled to the brim with people Dad used to call highfalutin': fur coats and jewellery, handmade shoes and cashmere coats all jostling each other for space. Kate tried to picture Dalgliesh amongst this lot. It was possible, but only just. A few nurses were wading through the crowd, grimly clutching their clipboards as another person tried to get her attention.
Masterson wasn't nearly so subtle; he grabbed hold of the nearest clipboard and held it aloft, glaring down at the poor young woman who was trying to snatch it back. 'Masterson, no,' Kate scolded.
He ignored her. 'Dalgliesh, Adam. Came in here an hour or so ago with smoke inhalation. How is he, where is he, when does he get released?'
'That's confidential,' the nurse said, and poked him in his side — he flinched, bringing the clipboard back into range, and she snatched it back.
'Maybe don't play keep-away with the medical professionals,' Kate advised him, ushering him to a chair in the corner.
'Seemed like it would work,' he said. 'Always does on Jules.'
'Whatever you and your missus might get up to, don't try it again. I'll go find someone to get us in and see him.'
But none of the nurses or doctors she flashed her warrant card to could give her any information, either. 'Sorry, it's still a bit sixes and sevens back there,' said a harried young doctor, who looked to be about seventeen but was probably in his late twenties. Kate was getting to the age where anyone under thirty seemed like an infant. 'The good news is that there've been no fatalities, so—'
'Oi, Miskin,' Masterson said, from across the room. Another nurse, this one a twinkly-eyed old grandmotherly sort, was beaming at Masterson — she led them back into the ward, dodging round people and carts and the like.
'Now, I know some of my colleagues might disapprove, but really, it's 1980!' the nurse burbled. 'And he was ever so brave, you know — one reason he's got such severe smoke inhalation is because he kept going back in to pull other people out. So really, you have nothing to be ashamed of, young man.'
'Right,' said Masterson, giving Kate a bewildered look, but she wasn't really following much either, since they'd gotten through the crowds and washed up at the foot of the bed and there he was, pale and gaunt and terrifyingly small.
'Oh, God,' she whispered, frozen. There was a respirator over his mouth and nose; his hair was sprung up wild around his face, and they hadn't cleaned his face off much from the smoke and soot.
'Looks like a fucking chimney sweep,' Masterson muttered.
'Now, he hasn't woken up yet,' said the nurse, gesturing to the chairs next to the bed, 'But you just sit yourself down and don't worry about a thing, all right? He'll be right as rain, you'll see, and then you can take him home.' And she patted Masterson maternally on the shoulder before bustling off.'
'I can take him home?' asked Masterson, sitting down in the closest chair. Kate took the other. 'What's — hang on,' he said.
Kate had gotten there first; she felt a wholly inappropriate giggle bubbling in her gut. It was stress, she knew; stress and worry and fear. But she still wished she had a camera to capture Masterson's absolutely gobsmacked expression. 'Just goes to show,' she managed, 'Our record of being mistaken for each other's husbands and wives continues unbroken.'
'He'd better appreciate this,' he grumbled. 'I've lost prospects at this hospital now, what with them thinking I'm — you know.' He pulled his pack of cigarettes out, swore softly, and put them back.
'Twenty seconds of talking to you would convince any of them that you're willing to be reformed by the right woman, Masterson, don't worry,' Kate said, because reminding Masterson that he was married had never slowed him down before.
'Mind you,' Masterson continued, ignoring her, 'Bit depressing that it's just us. I mean, you'd think he'd have a bird by now. It's been ages since his wife died, hasn't it? Not to mention, he's got to be meeting loads of women now that he's gonna be — whatever, poet laurel-whatsit. Nice car, dresses well—'
'Have you got a crush on him?' Kate asked.
'Shut up,' he said. 'I'm just saying, if it was me, at least I'd have Jules striking terror into all the other nurses here. He's just got us. That's bleak, innit? 'Course, I'd be in the same boat if she ever got herself knocked up—'
'A women doesn't "get herself knocked up," Masterson, and Jules really should've explained that to you by now,' Kate countered.
'Anyway,' he said, fishing a cigarette out yet again before remembering, scowling, and putting it back. 'I'm definitely going to have to have one or two skirts in reserve. Don't wanna end up like that poor bastard if Jules pops her clogs in childbirth. That was his problem: no plan B.' He tapped his head with his forefinger, meaningfully.
'You are truly one of the most vile people I've ever known who I didn't subsequently arrest,' Kate told him, marvelling.
He grinned at her. 'So that's still a no on being one of my reserves?' he asked, and she pinched him viciously in the side.
*
Dalgliesh was still unconscious a few hours later, and Kate suggested Masterson be the first to go home and get some sleep. 'Besides,' she said, 'You don't want Jules thinking you're using the boss's hospital stay as an excuse to hit on some of the pretty nurses, do you?'
Masterson scowled, since that was exactly what he'd been doing for the past forty-five minutes. 'Yeah, all right,' he said. 'Tell him he owes me a fucking enormous engagement ring.'
It was almost midnight; the ward was dark and quiet, much like the one down in Dorset had been, almost five years ago now. There wasn't a spare bed for her to have a kip, but she wasn't tired; instead she sat and watched him, thinking back to that chilly night in March, reading the paper and wondering about this odd man who'd slipped so quietly into her professional life and upended it in just a few days. She'd expected him to slip quietly out again; instead he kept upending things with the calm deliberation she'd seen from the start, carefully putting a hand out to tip her world over and over again.
He'd attended her promotion ceremony, such as it was, eleven months ago. 'Leaving me to the tender mercies of Martin and Masterson, then?" he'd asked afterward at the pub, where he'd made a rare appearance. She could still remember watching the dim light twisting through his glass of scotch as he'd idly turned it round and round on the table.
'The alliteration was getting to be a bit much, sir,' she'd told him, and he'd laughed and ducked his head, looking up at her with his eyes crinkled and soft. She'd never thought of him as handsome; not the way a film star was handsome, not the way Masterson or Piers were handsome. But there was something about his face, the unsure jut of his chin as though he were constantly forcing his way through his own self-doubt. And whenever he smiled, she forgot that he wasn't handsome.
'Kate,' he'd said, quietly, and if he'd asked her something in that moment, anything at all, she would have said yes.
But instead he straightened up, let go of the half-full glass, and bid her goodnight. She'd watched him weave through the crowd, unhurried and careful, and had an awful clenching dread in her gut that perhaps he was done knocking her world out of joint.
She'd hardly seen him since; her promotion had come at the cost of her position at Major Incidents, so their interactions had been fleeting, a nod in the hallway or a brief exchange at one of the endless meetings you're subjected to as punishment for making it past DS. She had her own DS now, Francis Benton-Smith, who asked a lot of questions and kept snapping his gloves at crime scenes. But he was dedicated and methodical, and her constables actually listened to what she said. She was happy, really, doing what she'd set out to do all those years ago: giving the dead peace by giving them justice.
Yet sitting here, waiting for Dalgliesh to wake up (Adam, Rebecca called him, whenever she asked how he was doing, pointedly and with a waggle of her eyebrows), something restless in her felt stilled. She put her elbow up on the bed and rested her head on her hand, just for a moment. A brief moment, that was all…
'Kate,' she heard, and felt something cool touch her cheek. She was horribly uncomfortable, folded up half-upright on a chair, but somehow she didn't want to move, either. 'Kate, it's morning.'
She opened her eyes and managed to straighten up, a little. He was awake and at least somewhat alert, though his eyes were unfocused. Someone had been by to take off his oxygen mask. He still had soot on his face and neck, and his hair was still a state, but he looked — beautiful. 'Hello,' she said.
'Hello.' He lifted his hand to touch her cheek again. 'I didn't think I'd ever see you again.'
'I could say the same thing about you,' she said, and sat back, out of range. 'Gave us a fright.'
For a moment his face fell, almost comically, but then he brightened. 'I did?' he asked. 'You were frightened?'
'Of course,' she said. His hand was still reaching out toward her; she took it and placed it back on the bed at his side, but he held on. 'Masterson and I took turns watching over you. The nurse thought he was your husband, this time, by the way.'
It took a moment for him to understand, but he laughed, a rumble in his chest that ended in a cough. 'Only fair, I suppose,' he said. 'Though now he's got three spouses, which seems unwieldy.'
'I divorced him ages ago,' Kate reminded him, and he laughed again. 'Do you remember what happened?'
His brow furrowed and his thumb tapped idly against her knuckles. 'Norman was having some rather loud feelings about some anthology or other that had just come out,' he said slowly. 'He waved his arms, as he is wont to do, and tipped over a candelabra — though why there was even one candelabra, let alone several, is anyone's guess.' He sounded so offended by it.
The monitors beeped in a sort of sullen background chatter, like Kate's aunts whispering at a family dinner. She ignored them and squeezed his hand; it was still cold. 'So not an irate fan of yours, I take it,' she teased.
'One of them did try to stab me, in '71,' he mumbled, drowsy and drifting. 'He'd read one of my poems to his girlfriend as a method of proposing, only to have her turn him down. He was rather upset with me.'
'That's what you get for writing romantic poetry in this cruel modern world,' she said. 'Can't trust these artsy-fartsy types, Masterson's told you a million times.'
He smiled, his hand holding hers carefully. As though it were precious — as though she were precious, something that he wanted to keep for himself. 'I thought I'd given up writing it,' he said. 'I thought I'd given up on anything at all. But then you—' He coughed again, seized by it, and she managed to pour him a glass of water one-handed and press it to his mouth.
'It's all right,' she said, not sure what she meant — not sure that it was, whatever it was. But he wouldn't thank her for letting him say something that might embarrass him later on; something he didn't mean, that he'd just said because Kate was once again the only person sitting at his bedside. 'Masterson thought you might have recited something last night, before everything went pear-shaped.'
His eyes were still glassy and unfocused, but he frowned as if he were giving her question deep thought. 'I can't really remember,' he said, sounding perplexed. 'It's all a bit fuzzy — I only remember one poem at present. And it may not be entirely appropriate.' It took him a few tries to get out 'appropriate,' but he got there in the end.
'Go on, then,' she said, scooting the chair closer, laying her arm along the side of his bed. 'Astonish me with your genius.'
'Very well,' he said, voice catching on a yawn which he passed onto her, the bastard. 'Are you ready?'
'You want me to get out my notebook?' she asked, tugging her hand away to reach for her jacket pocket.
His hand tightened round hers. 'Not necessary.'
'Then get on with it. Sir,' she added, more for her own benefit than his.
He huffed and settled himself further into the bed, drawing her hand up to his chest. 'There was,' he began, 'An old man from Nantucket—'
'Adam,' she laughed, outrage and hilarity making her snort. 'How on God's green did you even hear of that one?'
'I,' he said, his eyes slipping closed, 'Am soon to be the poet laureate. We know all the best poetry.'
'Good to know that even once you're off the job, you'll still be giving me grey hairs,' she said.
'Whither thou goest, Naomi,' he mumbled, so faint she could hardly hear over the clatter of her own heart.
*
Masterson showed up around noon, complaining about something; Kate had never paid attention to his whinging and wasn't about to start now, so she made her escape and drove herself home. Rebecca was already at work, so she collapsed into her bed and didn't know the world again until late in the evening.
'Glad you're not dead in a ditch,' Rebecca greeted her when she staggered out into the living room.
'Your Adam was in hospital,' she said, scrubbing her face. 'And then he held my hand and recited the Book of Ruth at me.'
Rebecca, who'd been mixing something or other in Granny Donovan's Gripstand, nearly sent it crashing onto the floor. 'Katherine Donovan Miskin, what the fuck are you doing here?' she demanded. 'Go make him your Adam,' and she shook the wooden spoon at her, 'Or I will.'
*
She washed and changed and took herself back to the hospital — it was her turn to keep watch, was all, nothing to do with Rebecca's ridiculous threats — only to find him signing his discharge papers, Masterson hovering grumpily behind him. 'They still think I'm his — you know,' Masterson whispered to her. 'Do us a favour and take him off my hands, I've still got a prayer of making it back in time.' He didn't say in time for what, and Kate was never curious enough about Masterson to ask.
'Yeah, go on then,' she said, and he winked at her.
'Don't say I never did nothing for you,' he said, leaning in too close.
'Get out,' she ordered.
Dalgliesh took the changing of his guard with relative equanimity, though he was very quiet on the drive to his flat; he hardly spoke at all, except to give direction.
'Thank you,' he said once they'd pulled up near the entrance — a medium-large-ish, medium-posh-ish block of flats near the river, which didn't surprise her. 'I, er.' He glanced at her, then away. 'Perhaps—'
'I'll take you up,' she said, turning the car off. It was strange how his hesitation made her feel a bit bolder. 'It's practically tradition, at this point.'
Part of him wanted to say no, she could tell; but a larger part said, 'Yes, of course.'
The flat was clean and comfortable, with remarkably cluttered bookcases and a bay window in the living room that overlooked the Thames. He excused himself to change, so she shamelessly went through his record collection — a surprising amount of Ella Fitzgerald, which Dad would've approved of. Friday's paper was refolded neatly on the end-table next to the chair; she made herself comfortable with the crossword and a pen she filched from the desk.
She felt, rather than heard him come back in the room; he'd had a quick shower, by the looks of it, his hair damp and ruthlessly combed back and his face scrubbed hard enough to be a bit pink along the edges. She felt suddenly so fond of him, even apart from whatever else might be happening. One of the most sober, somber men she'd ever known, and here he was, fidgeting in his own flat. 'Would you like a drink?' he asked, all but wringing his hands.
'Yes, thanks,' she said. 'Only don't expect me to do any cooking, I'm absolutely hopeless. Rebecca's forbid me from even boiling water.'
He smiled and went over to the bookcase where a half-dozen bottles were arrayed, tumblers neatly lined beside them. 'How is Rebecca?' he asked, fussing about with them.
'Still battling it out with directors who don't understand the first thing about costume design,' she said. 'She's working on a revival of Sound of Music for next year; apparently the kids' wardrobe are causing a headache.'
'I can imagine,' he said as he brought over her drink. She took a sip — vodka tonic, a bit light on the vodka. Under the circumstances, it was just as well.
'I didn't actually invite myself up to talk about that, though,' she said. She put the drink down and got to her feet.
He retreated, looking — not uncomfortable or embarrassed — ashamed. 'Yes, well, I ought to apologise — I do, in fact — I apologise, Miskin, for any liberties I might have taken earlier today. I certainly do not expect any…' he cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at her. 'That is to say—'
'You didn't take any liberties,' she told him. 'Other than trying to recite a poem that, I'm sorry to say, I've already heard several times before.'
His smile was brief and insincere. 'Yes, well, my apologies for that, as well. But I want to make clear that I didn't say anything with the aim of putting you under any sort of — of obligation, or—'
'Adam,' she chided, 'You didn't actually say anything.'
'Ah,' he said, finally looking up at her. "Well. That's good.'
But she couldn't leave it at that — she was too good a detective. He'd made her too good. 'Would you have said anything?'
'No,' he said, turning away back toward the drinks. 'You deserved your promotion, and you deserve far more. To make you wonder if any of your success was due to my own…' The line of his shoulders was bleak, defeated.
She remembered once how DS Martin had complained that the boss was the most inscrutable bastard he'd ever met, but Kate had never had any trouble reading him. Perhaps it was a language she'd learned over years of working with him; or perhaps she'd learned it while pressing her hands against his chest, his blood hot against her skin, his eyes grey-blue and searching as she willed him to stay alive; or perhaps she'd always known, from that first moment he'd walked into her old precinct.
'Is that why you're leaving?' she asked.
'Well, the Queen's appointment is a difficult thing to refuse,' he said, turning to face her with a glass of scotch clutched in his hand. He startled at how close she was, but there was nowhere for him to retreat to now; she watched him watching her as she came closer still. 'Kate.'
'Yes,' she said.
He blinked, then set his own glass down. 'Yes,' he repeated, carefully.
She nodded, feeling as though her head were one of those funny bobble-head toys her nephews loved so much. 'You resign next month. Do you think there'd be anything improper about a Detective Inspector seeing a poet?'
'I… suppose not,' he said, clearly not able to follow her just yet. 'What are you—'
'So let's say — June fourteenth, that's a Saturday, might actually be nice out.' June in London being what it was, she had her doubts. 'I'd like to take you to dinner. How about that?'
'How about—' He stared at her, like he had so many times before. 'Kate, are you asking me on a date?'
'You said it yourself,' she reminded him, 'You wouldn't have done a blessed thing.' She stuck her hand out, giddy and fair bubbling over. 'Fourteenth of June, seven o'clock at Hartley's. Should I write it down for you, sir?'
He was still staring. 'I'll remember,' he promised, and took her hand. 'Kate, are you certain that you want to—'
'Yes.'
'Why?' He sounded so lost, but his hand held hers tightly.
'I don't know,' she confessed. 'But saying yes to you always works out in the end.' She stepped away and let go of his hand. 'Thanks for the drink, and I'm glad to see you're doing better.'
'Thank you for the lift home,' he said softly, and she nodded and slipped out the door.
She made it to the elevator and halfway down to the ground floor before she covered her face. She'd shaken his hand, God, what kind of idiot—
The elevator doors opened just as someone thudded down the stairs just down the hall; Kate barely had time to peer out before Adam came crashing into the doorframe of the elevator. 'Kate,' he gasped.
'You don't have your shoes on,' she said, stupidly.
'I don't, and those stairs are absolute hell,' he agreed, out of breath, but he was — smiling, he was grinning, such a strange and wonderful thing she'd never seen before. This was the first time. She might get to see it again. 'But I wanted to propose a small revision to your schedule.'
'What's that?' she asked, or started to.
He kissed her before she could finish, pulling her into his arms like she didn't belong anywhere else, one hand at her waist and the other cradling the back of her head. He wasn't gentle, though; he nipped at the bow of her lip and swallowed up her faint protest at the sting. She took hold of him in turn, keeping him close as she licked into his mouth, his smile sweet and warm on her tongue. He pressed her up against a wall and she was ready to climb him when she became aware of a very pointed tutting.
A disapproving old couple were standing just outside the elevator, glaring at them from behind some thick-framed glasses (his) and a full shopping trolley (hers). 'Really,' said the old man, and the old lady agreed with another firm tut.
'My apologies, Mr. and Mrs. Uxbridge,' Adam said, keeping tight hold of Kate. 'But you see, I'm a full-time poet now. This sort of thing sometimes happens.'
'Don't worry,' Kate added as the doors closed, 'We've been married at least twice.'