Chapter Text
“...I know I’m missing something,” Sullivan grimaced as he glared at the sheaf of paper in his hand. “I just don’t know what that something is.”
“‘S how it goes,” Sid yawned. His head had been pillowed in Sullivan’s lap since he’d arrived at the police cottage an hour earlier, and now it sounded as if he was on the verge of sleep. Dozens of witness statements had been sorted into stacks around him as Sullivan re-read each one for the hundredth time. A couple of the piles were tall enough that they would slide if Sid were to shift too quickly atop the mattress. Sullivan briefly considered moving them, but there seemed to be no need. So long as he kept trailing the fingers he wasn’t holding the unsorted reports in through the other man’s hair, there was unlikely to be a problem. “You don’t know what you don’t know.”
“What I do know that I don’t know is what I’m going to say to the Chief Inspector when he calls tomorrow.” Sullivan lifted his hand from Sid’s head just long enough to drain the last inch of whisky from the tumbler on the nightstand. “A woman was killed in front of roughly a hundred witnesses three weeks ago, and yet I have absolutely no progress to report. It’s appalling.”
“Wasn’t really in front of anyone, though, was it?” Sid pointed out. “She was in the entryway, and everyone else was in the meeting or outside. No one saw it happen.”
“Yes, well, of course the actual murder would be the only thing that everyone’s certain they didn’t see that day.” Kembleford had filled its gossip tank with bad haircuts and sour looks and unannounced pregnancies at the last town meeting, but no one had bothered to observe one of their neighbors being stabbed.
“You’ll get it,” Sid crooned. “Or the Father will.”
“One of us had better, and soon. If not, my next evaluation will be a dressing-down.”
“Well, if you get lectured, come find me. I know how to make you feel better.”
“...Yes. You do.” And not only with sex, though that was probably what Sid had meant. What they were doing right now, simply existing together, was enough to lower Sullivan’s blood pressure and soothe his agitation. Alone, he would have tossed and turned through half the night, reviewing the case even though he never got results from such nocturnal obsessing. With Sid beside him he might muse dozily for a little while, but true slumber would come before long. He could lose his job tomorrow, the cottage, every bit of respect he’d tried to earn from his men, but he'd still have the thing he needed most in the world if there was a familiar warmth and weight in his arms.
That warmth and weight was in his arms more often than ever before now that Father Brown knew their secret. The discovery that should have turned Sullivan’s life hellish had instead brought it miles closer to heaven, because the Father not only condoned their relationship but conspired with them in support of it.
It was common knowledge that the presbytery’s spare room was Sid’s in every aspect except name. Sure, he had his caravan, and a staff room at Montague House, but neither of those was the first place someone who knew him would look for him on any given evening. But although a good half of his rest was taken under Father Brown’s roof, there was no reliable way to predict which nights would find him there. This gave the priest plausible deniability, as it was unreasonable to expect him to remember every instance when Sid had occupied the chamber opposite his own. Anyone asking him to verify the younger man’s presence at the presbytery on a particular date could honestly be told that he’d probably been there. If the opposite was proven later, well, it was an easy mistake to have made.
All of this meant that, while Sid still frequently slept at the first place he’d ever really thought of as home, he could sneak a few streets over and slip between Sullivan’s sheets once or twice a week with almost obscene ease. That was doubly true at times like this, when the investigation gave him a reason to skulk about that no one in the village would question. Of course he was loitering alongside the police cottage or tiptoeing through the unlocked garden door; the Inspector had info that Father Brown could use, and Sullivan’s penchant for taking files home was no secret. Their alibi was layered, impenetrable, safe.
If only this case was a bit less layered and impenetrable. Nora Dunwich’s personality hadn’t matched her sweet old granny exterior, but she hadn’t been such a harridan as to invite murder. Murder was how she’d died, however, and her body turning up at the end of the last town meeting had given about half the village opportunity. Means hadn’t done much to narrow the list of suspects, because there had been a sealed envelope lottery before the assembly was called to order. Most of the attendees had used the town treasurer’s letter opener to slice into their prizes, so it was hard to tell who then went a step further and plunged the opener’s blade into the victim’s back.
Motive was what was left. Unfortunately, more than one person had that, and none of them was doing Sullivan the favor of acting suspicious. Instead, everyone he’d questioned had been open and forthcoming with what they knew, or what they thought they knew. And the more information he gathered, the more confusing the case became.
“All right,” he ruled finally. “That’s enough.” He wasn’t getting anywhere, and that wasn’t going to change tonight. As such, Sullivan preferred to spend his time focusing on the man whose head was still cradled in his lap. Sid being able to stay over on a somewhat regular basis hadn’t cooled their passion any, and a good orgasm would clear his mind. “Would you hand me that pile near your knee? I want to keep these in order.” No response. “...Sid?”
Sid had been very still and quiet for some time now, and his breathing had grown slow and shallow. Damn. Sullivan had been so caught up in Nora Dunwich’s murder that he’d missed the opportunity to have a little death of his own. That shouldn’t have been so, because it was barely eleven and Sid was usually wide awake until at least midnight, but here they were.
He had better not, Sullivan frowned as he gently maneuvered his partner’s head onto a pillow, be getting sick again. Being able to get updates from Father Brown would make such an event less panic-inducing than the last time had been, but that was a very slim silver lining. He laid the back of his hand against Sid’s forehead. He didn’t feel overly warm, but a fever was hardly the only indicator of illness...
“Such a worrywart,” came a murmur. “‘S sweet.”
“So you are awake.”
“Not really, no.”
“It’s early for you to go to bed.”
“Mm. Tired, though.”
“Too tired to convince me that you truly aren’t coming down with something?”
Sid snaked his arm around Sullivan’s waist blindly and squeezed his hip. A slow smirk appeared. “Sweet and sexy. That’s worth waking back up for.”
Excellent. “Let me put the interviews away-”
“Nah. They can stay where they are.” Sid opened his eyes, which were shining with lust rather than sickness. “Shower always does to wake me up.”
“Oh? No feather tonight, then?” Sid remembered little about the overheated days he’d spent at the presbytery a couple of months before, but he’d had no problem recalling that he owed Sullivan for teasing him in his delirium. A shed feather he’d found out in the forest had played a central role in his payback, and he’d been pleased enough with the reactions it drew to keep it once they were even.
Sullivan had a love-hate relationship with the other man’s favorite toy. On the one hand, Sid wielded it so expertly that just thinking about it made him squirm with need. On the other, having something that had been picked up from the dirt run over the most sensitive parts of his body felt deeply unclean. Perhaps a shower was in order...
“I left it at the caravan. Didn’t want to crush it in a pocket, and I figured it’d look off if I was walking around town carrying a random feather.”
“You could stick it in your hat band. What?” Sullivan queried when Sid’s eyebrows rose. “It isn’t an overly large feather. And you have the personality to pull that look off.”
“Yeah? And you’ll be able to control yourself if you see me coming down the street with it out in plain view? Out, and reminding you of everywhere it’s been before and could be again in about two seconds flat?”
“Mmm...no, you’re right. Don’t put it in your hat band and wear it into town.” That wasn’t torture he was sure he could bear.
“I’ll save it to wear in private, then.”
“Only in private.”
“Sure. And only the hat. Or maybe only the feather.”
“Ooh, you...” Sullivan wanted to tackle him for that image, but the Dunwich file still covered every inch of the bed that wasn’t taken up by their bodies. He leaned in a little instead, beginning to close the distance between them without risking damage to his paperwork. “You might not be sick, Sidney, but you are edging your way towards being very dirty.”
“Guess you’ll need extra soap, then.” He’d caught Sullivan’s movement, and was matching it with an upward tilt of his face.
“Are you asking me to lather you up?”
Sid glanced down towards the bulge that was growing in his trousers. “Looks like you’ve already got me in a bit of a lather.”
“Yes, but have I done it thoroughly?”
“Hard to tell like this.” They kept inching forward as they spoke, and Sullivan could now feel Sid’s provocations breezing along his chin. “Might need a more hands-on approach to be sure.”
“I agree. I wouldn’t want to miss a spot.”
“That’d be a tragedy.” Their noses brushed. “...We’d better move.”
“Yes.” He didn’t even have a dog he could blame for the strange tears and stains that his forms would acquire if they spent another second speaking against each other’s lips. Maybe he should get one. He wasn’t much of an animal person himself, but Sid would probably like it. “Quickly, before I take you on top of a hundred witnesses.” Though really, why shouldn’t he just have him here? If the statements weren’t going to help him with the case, they might as well help him with this.
“Now who’s the dirty one?” Sid pulled back right as Sullivan made to flatten him against the covers. Then he stood up, moving fast enough to evade a grasping hand but not so fast as to crumple any part of the file. When he was just out of reach, he stopped and turned to face the bed again. A thumb slipped into the waistband of his trousers, leaving his fingers to rest suggestively against his fly. His other hand rose into a beckoning gesture as he began to back into the bathroom. “C’mon, Tommy. Let’s see if I can be as slippery as this killer.”
Sullivan grinned wolfishly. He did love a fine pursuit, and the one tempting him from the doorway was fine, indeed...