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"Policing Awards are on Friday night," Chandler tells them, holding a gilt-edged card in the air so that they can all see. He's too tall for Miles to grab it out of his hand and ruin his moment, but fortunately, Mansell manages it on his way back from the coffee machine. "Awards for outstanding police bollocks," he informs them all sardonically, frisbeeing the invitation across the room. Kent snatches it out of the air and--creep--hands it nicely back to Chandler.
"Thank you," Chandler says, because he is polite. If Kent possessed a tail, it would be wagging. The rest of them make kissing noises as he goes back to his seat, and Mansell playfully tries to trip him. "As I was saying," Chandler continues, without even sounding annoyed, "there's going to be a dinner on Friday, and the local policing awards. You'll be extremely pleased to hear that we've won something."
This does actually cause a bit of clamour. "Best looking," Riley guesses, Voguing. "Biggest knob," Mansell suggests, gesturing lewdly to the front of his trousers. "Biggest knobhead," Riley shoots back. They laugh as Mansell pelts her with screwed up paper. Chandler, surprisingly, does not look upset. Mansell and Riley, still laughing, pick it up straight away and put it in the bin without being asked, and without even looking as though they realise they're doing it.
They all do these things now, Miles thinks distractedly. At first it was just him, but over time, they've all come to do these little things to help Chandler. Miles is a walking pharmacy, he has over the counter anti-anxiety medication in every jacket he owns now, and a little blister pack in his wallet. They all carry things like Kleenex, wet wipes and antibacterial hand gel. Kent brings things like deodorant, spare Tiger Balm, and knows the expensive brand of green tea Chandler likes, but he sometimes brings in little taster packets of green teas with flavours in; jasmine, rooibos, things which fill the incident room with fragrance. Riley has things Miles didn't even know existed, like dry shampoo, and sends Chandler links to food places which deliver healthy food options to offices.
"Actually, it's most improved workplace healthcare," Chandler tells them, and his blush-prone, china-doll skin colours like a nascent sunset.
Something else they've found they enjoyed doing--actually eating the healthy food options, which often turn out to taste nice, and to fill a person's stomach until the end of the day. Miles likes cous cous. Who the hell knew?
"Our statistics with occupational health show that our sick days have decreased by ten percent, and as a team, we've lost a significant amount of weight," Chandler tells them, looking pleased.
They make reluctant noises. They're all fairly certain they're going to go, because Chandler definitely will, and God knows he needs a win, but it wouldn't do to be too keen over such an unglamorous award.
"Oh," Chandler adds wryly, "did I mention it was a free bar?"
They cheer rapturously, and Miles catches Chandler's expression from across the room, grinning, for once like he believes he ought to be, and his sunset skin blazing merrily. Miles feels a great swell of fatherly pride and has to yell, "all right, back to work!" to make himself feel better.
Chandler goes good-naturedly to his office, amid the cheerful banter, and Miles follows after. He closes Chandler's door against the chatter. "This awards nonsense the only thing that's got you looking so pleased with yourself this morning?" He asks shrewdly. Chandler glances at him, and his smile becomes something a little more private, a little more personal. "No," he admits quietly, looking shyly proud. "My--my therapist says I'm dealing much better with my OCD, and we can reduce the number of sessions. If I want."
"That's good news!" Miles exclaims, and Chandler ducks his head and smiles at his hands on his desk. Sometimes they pick up teenagers from rough neighbourhoods for involvement in fights--something like that--only when they see CCTV footage, they realise that the teenager was trying to protect someone, or to keep the peace. When Miles tells those teenagers, with drunk or absentee parents and friends who carry knives, and teachers who don't want them in their classes, that they did the right thing and they have every right to be proud of themselves, when he thanks them for being good people--they sometimes look like Joe Chandler when he gets some tiny, insignificant praise, and it makes Miles want to both cry and hit him at the same time.
"Well done," Miles says sincerely, knowing that Chandler's going to--there he goes, argh--pull that slightly bewildered expression. He has to offset it. He must. "So, there's a hope for you and young Kent yet then," he quips.
"I--what?" Chandler hedges pathetically, and Miles grins at him. He leaves Chandler to his work, which is still arranged at right angles, and goes back out into the incident room.
"Oi, Skip," Riley hisses, "what's up?"
They're sharp, these people, he thinks proudly. They don't miss a damn thing.
"He's doing well controlling the OCD," he tells them quietly, "therapist's pleased with him."
"Oh, yeah," Mansell says thoughtfully, "I ain't seen him change his shirt during a shift for...God. Must be weeks!"
They all look collectively at Chandler, head bent over some files, and then at each other, like proud parents. "I'm going to make him some tea," Kent murmurs decisively, like this is a terrific reward. The sad thing is, it probably is. They watch Kent take the tea in, because watching Kent and Chandler is an office sport. Kent has found something new for Chandler to try, and it has made the entire room smell of raspberries. He takes it in, and they see Chandler's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, his eyes flickering, lightning-quick, up and down the lines of Kent's body. While Kent explains the tea, his eyes do not leave Kent's face.
*
On Friday, they all roll in from various leads of an investigation, and not one of them is ready for a swanky party. Fortunately, by now, they all carry enough personal grooming accoutrements to turn the incident room into something like backstage at London Fashion Week. Riley comes back from the ladies with her hair up and in delicate little curls, make-up refreshed and wearing a long, deep plum-coloured dress. The men have all brought spare suits and shiny shoes, and Riley helps flatten messy hair, fix uneven ties, and when Chandler comes out in his new suit and shirt, looking like a Savile Row model, she pulls off a miracle.
He is quite determinedly ignoring the fact that his collar is crumpled. But it's obvious that it is, and his eyes keep dragging downwards, as though he can see it through his own cheek. "Collar's a bit skew-whiff," Miles remarks, because it is painful to watch.
"I know," Chandler says unhappily, his shoulders drooping. "I can--the rest of it--I didn't realise it was under some files in my car. So it's. It's a bit crumpled. But I can cope because the waistcoat and jacket, you know, hides it. But the collar--should I--do I have time to go and buy--?"
"Let me fix it for you," Riley says firmly, and whips out of her bag a pair of travel-sized hair straighteners. She gets him to sit down, and they watch in awe as she deftly clamps the collar between the plates, and just irons it flat. Mansell actually applauds. She holds up her phone, with the camera reversed, and Chandler gapes at himself in the screen. "Riley," he says softly, in that same soft, shocked way he has when he can't believe someone has just shown him a tiny bit of kindness instead of dismissing him (Miles wants to bite down on his own fist to stop himself thumping Chandler). "Thank you!"
She smiles mischievously and twirls one of her feathery bits of hair around the plates, deepening the curl. "Versatile little buggers," she tells him smugly, and they can all see Chandler wondering if he ought to buy some. "That's your secret Santa sorted for this year, then," Miles tells him, and they laugh. Chandler is so amazingly, completely at ease. He does, admittedly, smell of Tiger Balm, but he doesn't apply any in the taxi on the way there, nor does he feel the need to disinfect his hands. He does snap the elastic band on his wrist a few times, but mostly, he is totally present, living in their moment with them.
The awards are being held in a conference centre, but it's black-tie, and there is a wholly ridiculous red carpet at the entrance. When they see it, Mansell whistles and remarks, "fancy!" and Riley replies, "better tuck your willy back in your trousers, then," and sets all of them, even Chandler, giggling like children.
They stagger into the conference hall, giddy and light, and if they notice Kent bumping shoulders with Chandler, and smiling up at him like he hung the moon, well, none of them hold it against them. The conference hall has been dressed up nicely, with draped material and dramatic lighting which throws everything banal into deep blue obscurity, and little white fairy lights pick out a new shape to the room. The dinner comes first, and they have an assigned table which takes some finding, but eventually, they're all seated and happily guzzling their glasses of free prosecco.
First they have the dinner, and then the awards, so by the time the awards actually start getting handed out, they're pretty merry. They're by no means the only ones; everyone is getting a little rowdy, and Commander Anderson is beginning to look a bit thin-lipped about it all. He is in his dress uniform, and when they arrived, he bore down on Chandler like an avenging angel, looking over the team like they were gatecrashers in burlap sacks. He'd shaken Chandler's hand, addressed him as 'Joe', and though he'd said nothing overtly offensive, the encounter had forced a serious dip in Chandler's mood, and he'd succumbed to the antibacterial hand gel.
They don't pay attention to the awards at all. They're swapping stories instead, which is something they never get to do with Chandler, and it turns out that Chandler has some pretty good ones about the Commander, which have them all in stitches. Admittedly, everything is funnier when seen through a bottle of wine, but their moods are so good, and when Chandler goes to the toilet, Miles says, "he hasn't snapped that elastic band for hours," they congratulate themselves heartily with another bottle of wine. They're all boiling hot with the laughter, the food and the alcohol, and Riley fashions a fan out of beer mats. Even Chandler strips off his jacket and rolls his pristine white sleeves to his elbows, which renders Kent unable to speak for around thirty seconds.
Chandler gets called up for his award, eventually, and he goes awkwardly to the stage, head and shoulders above everyone else, and blushing like a ripe peach. He has forgotten to put his jacket back on. He has forgotten his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. They hammer on the table, cheering and whooping for far longer than necessary, earning themselves a double-barrelled glare from Anderson, but Chandler is stuttering his thanks and congratulations, and issuing such heartfelt appreciation of his team that Riley is welling up, and Kent puts his head down on the table and sobs. They can see from their table in the back that Chandler is absent-mindedly snapping the elastic band on his wrist non-stop, but he's been nervous about the speech, and they understand.
Finally, he hops down from the stage, and they start up yelling and beating the table again, disrupting the next award and making the other tables turn and stare at them disapprovingly. When Chandler gets back, Mansell causes a great ruckus by leaping up and kowtowing, almost knocking someone over in the process. Miles thumps Chandler on his shoulder as he sits back in his chair, and he hands the award around, mostly quiet, but wearing his expression of happy disbelief.
Anderson comes over, with a face like thunder. Riley spots him first, and nudges Miles. They fall silent as he walks over with the clipped steps of someone trying to simultaneously keep their temper and also telegraph to everyone that they are absolutely livid. His eyes are fixed on Chandler, and Miles feels his heart sink as the laughter fades from Chandler's expression, and he begins compulsively snapping the elastic band on his wrist.
"DI Chandler," Anderson says, between clenched teeth. "Could I have a word with you?"
"Sir, we realise we were being a bit--" Miles begins, but Anderson cuts him off with a hand held up at face-level. Miles stops abruptly, disgusted, and Chandler shoots him an apologetic glance. That only serves to disgust Miles further, because Chandler has nothing to apologise for. "Now, DI Chandler," Anderson snaps, and heads for the door.
Chandler doesn't look at any of them as he gets up. They give him a moment's head start, and then, without discussing it, the entire team rises as one and runs after him.
The corridor is lit unforgivingly with flourescent strips, and the bare breezeblock walls are painted off-white. It's nothing more than a service corridor, really, and staff are scuttling back and forth with trays and plastic bin liners. Chandler stands against the wall, head hanging, like a boy brought before the headmaster, and Anderson is laying into him.
"Why is it that every bloody event we try to have, your team disrupts it?" Anderson hisses, holding a finger in Chandler's face. "Christ almighty, Joe, there are a hundred I might have believed this of, but not you, your father brought you up to have more bloody sense, and you've always had more sense than this, to get involved with this--riff-raff! What happened to professional distance? Do you think you have your team's respect, following them round like some pathetic little puppy? Do you think that's how I used to run my unit?"
"No, sir," Chandler replies quietly.
"You haven't listened to a word that's been said all night, you've been sitting there cracking jokes, desperate to please them, as if they're the ones paying your wages. Do you know how ridiculous you look? Not one other DI out there is half as familiar with his team as you are."
"Sir, team building--"
"Team building!" Anderson scoffs, "team building is one thing, but acting as if you're one of the lads is another! The noise coming from your table is absolutely ridiculous, you can't control them at all, can you? They're making a mockery of this whole event, and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it."
"I'll tell them to quiet down, sir--"
"I haven't even started on the way you look!" Anderson snaps, grabbing Joe's hair-straightened collar and tugging it.
"Oh, God," Mansell mutters. "Oh no," Riley whispers, at almost the same moment. Miles feels her grip his elbow in horror.
"Your whole team has come in here looking like they haven't bathed for a fortnight--"
"Sir, we've just come off an investigation, we came straight here from the office--"
"And it damn well looks like it!" Anderson shouts, silencing Chandler. "Your father must be turning in his grave, not only do you get here looking like you've slept in your car, but you go up to accept an award in front of your peers, in front of my higher-ups, looking like you're about to head down the allotment? And for God's sake, stop that!"
Chandler has been anxiously snapping his elastic band for pretty much their whole conversation; Anderson reaches down and rips it off his arm, breaking it in the process. Chandler stares at it, as Anderson flings it to the floor, his expression going fixed. "Oh no," Riley repeats, more emphatically.
"I cannot believe you stood up there, in front of the entire Metropolitan Police," Anderson hisses, "acting like an idiot schoolchild, you look like you belong in a remedial class, not leading a bloody investigation! I had hoped to God you would have grown out of that stupidity, but obviously--"
This has gone far enough, everyone can see that. Miles opens his mouth to shout, his heart pounding in his ears, and his chest filled with the righteous fury of a father seeing his child being picked on in the schoolyard, but Kent--and nobody was watching Kent--gets there first. He barrels down the corridor and shoves Commander Anderson with both hands, away from Chandler. "Don't you dare!" He screams, putting his face close to Anderson's, and squeezing his hand between them to jab his index finger in a threatening, slightly shaky point, "don't you dare speak to him like that!"
"Kent," Chandler says weakly.
"We've been working non-stop this week!" Kent continues, and he's possibly only getting this far because Anderson is too shocked to speak, "so sorry if we're not up to your standards, but we've been busy! We're noisy because we're drunk, and we're drunk because we work hard and we deserve to be drunk on our time off! If we want to be! We didn't even want to come to this poxy thing, because you always look down your noses at us, we came because he got an award, and we wanted to support him!" He backs off, breathing hard. "He's a good DI!" Kent adds furiously.
Anderson looks like he wants to slap Kent, so the rest of the team hurries out from behind the door and stands in his way, Miles reflecting that he never expected to be standing shoulder to shoulder with anyone in an 'I'm Spartacus' moment, but since Kent had so dramatically landed himself in it, the least the rest of them can do is show willing.
"I will overlook this," Anderson says, in a forcefully quiet, deliberate way, "because your team has been drinking, Chandler, and because they are, technically, not on the clock. I could," he raises his voice as they start to mutter angrily, "I could arrest this young man for assaulting a police officer--" he has to stop, because they all start to shout, and he holds his hands up to quieten them, "but I won't, on this occasion." He glares round at them. "If anything like this happens again, I will not be so lenient."
He turns and stalks away, ignoring Mansell muttering obscenities at the back of his head.
"Well, that could've gone worse," Miles says cheerfully, clapping Kent on the shoulder, "maybe we should get a taxi--"
"Sarge," Riley says quietly.
Chandler is still leaning against the wall, staring fixedly at the elastic band on the floor, and he is visibly shaking. His jacket, with its pockets full of Tiger Balm, hand gel, anti-anxiety medication, and his phone, is still folded neatly over his chair in the conference hall. "Joe," Miles says urgently, "Joe. Look at me."
"I--I don't--" Chandler stutters, and his breath starts to come in little hiccupping gasps. He flattens his collar nervously with one trembling hand, then does it again, then again. Riley looks like she wants to cry. Miles doesn't even want to look at what Kent's face might be doing. "It's okay," Miles insists soothingly. "What does his opinion matter? He said he's not taking it any further. It's over. We can all go home now. You don't even have to go back in there. Mansell, get the boss's coat, yeah?"
"Skip," Mansell acknowledges, darting back down the corridor.
"He--I mean--my fa-ther--" Chandler's voice cracks in the middle of the word. He looks up at Miles, his soft, blue eyes full of agony, and Miles loses it. "I'm going to fucking punch him," he snarls at Chandler, and Chandler, despite the panic, looks taken aback. "I am going to punch that smarmy bastard right in the middle of his smug fucking face," Miles adds viciously, and actually starts marching back towards the doors to go in there and do it. "Sarge!" Riley yelps, grabbing him.
"Don't try to stop me, Riley--"
"Sarge, too many witnesses!" Riley says, and Miles stops, surprised by this sensible argument.
Behind them, they hear Kent murmuring something. They turn around, and see him groping in his pockets, almost whispering his apologies. Chandler turns and miserably presses his forehead into the cold breezeblock wall, eyes closed, so he misses when Kent pulls his hand out of his pocket triumphantly; he's holding an elastic band.
He takes Chandler's hand, balled into a fist at his side. Chandler flinches at the touch, and looks round. Kent holds his wrist loosely, watching him with his serious grey eyes, waiting to see if Chandler will pull away. Chandler doesn't, and Kent offers him the hint of a smile as he stretches out the elastic band, and slides it over Chandler's hand. Chandler stares down at it, as if he can't believe it's there.
"I always carry at least one spare one," Kent says softly. He hooks a finger into it, and snaps it against Chandler's wrist. Chandler stares at him, rather than at it. "Again," he says hoarsely. "Please."
Kent does it again. And then, without being asked in words, but reading something in Chandler's face, does it twice more. Chandler lets out a shaky breath. His head is angled down, so that when Kent looks up, the tips of his dark curls kiss Chandler's forehead.
"Kent," he says, in a voice which must surely turn Kent's insides to water and his legs to jelly, because Miles can feel the force of it from where he stands; Chandler is using his usual tone of pleased surprise, but he's ladled awe and reverence over it. Kent's breath stutters; they hear it all the way down the corridor, and Riley's grip on Miles' arm becomes painful. "Kiss!" She hisses, her nails digging into Miles' skin.
Mansell bursts through the door again, holding everybody's jackets and Riley's bag. Riley gives a whispered groan of frustration and thumps him with her free hand. "Ow!" Mansell complains, shoving her bag at her. "What was that for?"
"Oh, never mind!" She snipes. He rolls his eyes at her and goes to take Chandler's jacket to him.
Chandler's hand slips from Kent's reluctantly, and they duck their heads at the same time, blushing and smiling and apparently unable to look away from each other. Mansell turns back to Riley and Miles and widens his eyes theatrically, mouthing, 'wow'.
They order a five-seater taxi and wait outside for it, shoving each other and cracking jokes; Mansell had gone through the conference suite and stolen another bottle of wine, which they pass around and drink straight from the bottle, though Chandler excuses himself. He's fidgeting and he's already reapplied his Tiger Balm, and he's used his hand gel, but when Miles offers him a tablet, he shakes his head and smiles, saying, "no, I'm not quite that bad yet." They pile into the taxi, contriving to get Kent and Chandler sitting together.
Kent is a sleepy drunk, when he's not busy fighting with commanders, and he leans on Chandler's shoulder, smiling beatifically, and Chandler does not push him off, or try to slide out from under him. In fact, he inclines his head towards Kent, and by the time they've dropped off Mansell, his cheek is resting among the curls on the crown of Kent's head, his right arm is linked with Kent's left, and Kent is flicking the elastic band absently.
Riley goes next, and she kisses Miles on the cheek before she goes. She chucks Kent under the chin, which makes him laugh and turn his head further into Chandler's shoulder. She smiles at them both, and then kisses her fingertips and presses them to Chandler's forehead. "Night night, boys," she says affectionately. "Bye, Riley," Chandler says, in that bewildered way he has.
The taxi rumbles on towards Kent's flat. "You make a sweet picture," Miles tells Chandler, grinning lewdly. Chandler flushes and looks down at their linked arms shyly. "Thank you," he says quietly, "for, you know. Offering to punch Anderson for me."
"Oh, any time," Miles says dismissively. "I mean it, any time you want that man punched, you be sure to call me."
Chandler's chest jumps as he laughs silently. "Thanks," he says again. "He. Offended everyone, didn't he?"
Miles knew that Chandler only became jerky in his speech when he was anxious, or when there was something he was trying not to say. "We were offended because he was cruel to you," Miles tells him bluntly. Chandler looks up sharply, disbelievingly, like he wanted that to be the reason, but hadn't been sure. "He wasn't. Er. Saying anything that wasn't true," Chandler mumbles, ducking his head as if ashamed.
"Bullshit," Miles snaps. "He was in a bad mood and he was taking it out on you, and he thinks he can get away with it because he's known you as a child. Well, you're not a child, Joe, you're an officer under his command, and he damn well better remember that."
Chandler blinks at him, lips parted, and Kent chooses that moment to grab his hand tightly and declare, "and we love you, boss!"
Miles meets Chandler's eyes and shrugs. "And there's that," he agrees gruffly, looking quickly away.
In his peripheral vision, he sees Chandler glowing rosily, like a night-light, and determinedly does not look at his expression. "All of you?" Chandler asks dazedly. "Yes!" Kent announces firmly, and clings to Chandler's shoulders as the taxi slows outside his flat. Before any of them can do anything about it, Kent leans in, and kisses him. Chandler makes a muffled, surprised noise, and Kent pulls back slightly. They look at each other, both a little shocked, and then Kent leans in again, and this time Chandler closes his eyes and hesitantly brushes his fingertips against Kent's jaw.
"Someone getting out here or what?" The taxi driver calls irritably, and Kent unlatches from Chandler and grumbles, "yeah, yeah, I'm going."
He struggles out of the taxi muttering his goodbyes, and then, looking back at Chandler before he slides the door closed, says, "goodnight, Joe."
"Goodnight," Chandler replies softly.
The taxi pulls away, and Chandler reaches up a trembling hand and touches his lips. "What's the expression the kids are using these days," Miles says conversationally, "oh, yeah. He is going to flip his shit when he remembers this in the morning."
He glances across to Chandler, who still has his fingers touched to his lips. "Are you doing okay?" He asks, more gently.
Chandler takes a breath. "Yeah," he smiles, "I think I am, actually."