Work Text:
It takes nearly rolling on top of Henry Higgins for George to realise he isn’t in his own bed.
His eyes snap open at the unexpected brush of warm skin where there should only be sheets, and that is a mistake, because a sudden onslaught of sunlight burns his eyes and forces them closed again. When he manages another peak, George is stunned to find his fellow constable curled contentedly by his side, in a bed he simply doesn’t recognize. The man blinks several times at the water-stained ceiling, forcing his mind into motion against the grain of his searing headache. For reasons completely unknown, he’s lying in a strange apartment with his snoring co-worker.
Well, his groggy logic suggests, that’s quite a mystery, isn’t it? And if there’s a mystery to solve, then he’d better look for clues as to how he got here.
George hauls himself onto his elbows in order to scan his surroundings. The first thing to do when hunting for evidence is to familiarise one’s self with the scene. He’s pretty sure he’s heard Detective Murdoch say that at some point, though his frazzled memory can’t seem to properly recall.
It’s a small, whitewashed room, with only a few pieces of furniture. The dresser immediately opposite is littered with a surprising number of paperweights, some scraps of paper, and a fair collection of modestly-priced liquor. The curtain is drawn on the window, but the light filtering through the thin fabric is enough to be a nuisance to the constable’s eyes. The faint sounds of a busy city street can be heard from outside: carts trudging through a rain-softened road, and a newspaper boy calling out his headlines. It must be late morning already. Beside George is a nightstand. He squints at the silver photo frame thereupon and finally brings into focus a pre-pubescent Henry hugging an overexcited golden retriever.
They’re in Henry’s room, then, he concludes. Well, that makes sense.
Finally, his eyes drift to the two police uniforms lying in a haphazard heap in front of the door, and it’s only then that George realises he is, in fact, stark naked. The constable gives a yelp of embarrassment and yanks a corner of bedsheet over his lap. He’s rewarded for the sudden movement with an angry pulse in his temples. George groans and looks again to his friend, because there are two uniforms on the ground. His hunch is confirmed when he sees that Henry is also naked, though he’s concealed from the waist down by the covers. Henry’s bare chest is flushed rosy-gold by the morning sunlight, and the smattering of sandy hair below his collarbone looks peculiarly soft and touchable. His face is sweet and worriless in slumber, and his lashes dark and long against his rounded cheeks.
Well, thinks George, it’s certainly not a bad sight to wake up to, even if he is still confused by the whole affair. But then, he’s always known Henry was handsome. The way his smile seems to radiate in the stodgy seriousness of the station. The way there’s always a touch of laughter in his bright, blue eyes. The way his handshake is surprisingly warm and strong. The way his undershirt sticks to the contours of his chest when they’re pulling on their uniforms in the locker room.
Honestly, George doesn’t know why Henry doesn’t have a lady friend, with the looks he’s got.
The idea of Henry with a pretty woman sits sort of heavy in George’s chest, though, so he turns his thoughts elsewhere.
What was he doing, again? Ah yes, the investigation. Well, what other clues does he have to go on?
The constable has been around the pub enough times to recognise a thumping hangover when he’s got one, so he supposes he and Henry must have gone drinking after their shift at the stationhouse. Or perhaps they helped themselves to some of those bottles on the dresser? At least one of them is without a cork, and none of them particularly full. George means to get up and take a closer look, but when he goes to untangle his legs from the bedding, he sees the unmistakable stains strewn across the linens and he needn’t bother: the memories come flooding back in a furious tumble.
George blinks. He blinks again. Then his head twists around at lightening speed, and he gawks at his sleeping friend in utter astonishment. The man’s face turns a shade of red to rival Inspector Brackenreid’s trademark hue after a bout in the interrogation room. His jaw works up and down in silent exclamation.
George’s first thought when he recovers from the initial shock is that he’s a constable, for crying out loud! Which makes his recent, er, crime seem all the more reprehensible. His second, rather illogically, is that he’ll suffer the most brutal humiliation at the stationhouse if they get hold of him. The startled disgust he imagines in Brackenreid’s eyes makes him shudder. The disappointment in Detective Murdoch’s makes his gut twist in shame. But, he finally realises, there’s no reason at all why anyone should have to know what’s happened here, beyond himself and Henry. Which, at last, brings him to his third and most striking thought: damn, if Henry Higgins didn’t give him the best lay of his life last night.
George is flummoxed by the revelation. He feels as though the world has been turned on its end, but his chest is all fluttery and hot in a strangely pleasant sort of way. Henry, touching him. And him, touching Henry. Frankly, he wonders why anyone bothers with lady friends when two young men can have such a riotous evening. The memory of it makes him shiver despite the heat radiating from his companion.
As if one cue, Henry gives a sluggish, little stretch and opens his eyes. By the sound of his groan, George surmises he’s just about as hung over as himself, if not more. It takes a moment for the other constable to hone in on his bedfellow, but when he does, he gives a shy smile that makes George’s heart do all sorts of odd things.
“Good morning,” Henry whispers. He moans again and claps a hand to his forehead. “Do you feel as awful as I do?”
“Just about, I reckon.”
Even in the deepest darks of hangover hell, Henry still manages a smirk. “I like your hair like that, George. Really suits you.”
George grimaces and pats down his bedhead. He takes extra care to comb his fingers through his sideburns, which makes Henry snigger. The easygoing grin slips from his face immediately, though, when he sees George’s tanned body laid out against the mattress, left completely exposed from his aborted investigation of the bottles.
“Yes, good morning” Henry says, running his tongue over his dry lips. “Good morning, indeed!”
George is given little doubt as to the meaning of Henry’s salutations. His fellow constable’s eyes are raking up and down his body with a level of hunger that really isn’t proper before lunchtime. And George can’t help but look right back, because his bedmate has turned onto his side, and there are feisty little bruises painted across his otherwise pale skin. If he thought Henry looked edible the night before, he seems downright scrumptious in the tussled doziness of the morning. He doesn’t seem particularly regretful of their shared nakedness, or as stunned as himself.
“You, you don’t mind it, then?” George asks. “Last night, I mean? We were both pretty far gone.”
“I’m a lot more than alright,” Henry responds seriously, having wrangled in his wandering eyes to look George in the face. “I’d been hoping… well, I’ve liked you for some time.”
George’s ears turn positively pink.
“And you, George? Are you alright?”
Henry looks genuinely concerned, like George might spring from the bed at any moment and hurtle himself out the window to escape. Self-doubt doesn’t look at all right on Henry Higgins, the constable thinks. He doesn’t know what he might have told anyone a week ago, or the previous afternoon for that matter, concerning affairs of the heart or affairs of the bed, but judging by the delirious fluttering in his stomach, at the moment:
“Yes. Goodness, yes.”
Henry beams at George. George grins at Henry.
The brunette policeman drops down onto his pillow once more. They both lie in comfortable silence for a time.
“I reckon we’re a bit more than chums now?” George queries.
Henry smirks. “I reckon we are.”
And damn Detective Murdoch, to hell with Inspector Brackenreid, because Henry is shuffling forward in the tiny bed to lay his head against George’s chest, and it’s too inexplicably marvelous to be illegal. George lays a tentative hand on his friend’s brow. When Henry sighs happily and nuzzles his cheek against George’s skin, he runs his fingers through his hair.
Well, George thinks, following a long moment of confused delight. After a thorough investigation, it seems he’s gone and found himself a lover. That’s cased closed, then. And perhaps the best one of his career.