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The clumsy clink of bottle against glass is the only sound in the silent flat. James knocks back the refill of Scotch in one gulp and reaches for the bottle again.
Almost empty. He starts to calculate how long it’d take to walk to the off-licence for another, because even he’s not stupid enough to try to drive in this state, even if he had the use of both his arms.
Drunk as a bloody skunk, he is. Best state for him.
This has quite probably been his worst week since joining the police force, and the most humiliating as well. Even worse than his previous nadir, the Will McEwan case. As if giving evidence in the Zelinsky case, only to find that the bastard changed his plea, wasn’t bad enough, there’d been Crevecoeur. Meeting them all again, lying to his boss again, finding out that Mortmaigne was still up to all his old tricks, being played for a stupid fucking fool by Scarlett...
Oh, when will you bloody learn, James!
He’s not one of them. Never was, no matter how much of a surprise it was to Lewis to discover he was just one of the kids on the estate. Not so upper-middle-class after all, eh, sir?
He pours the equivalent of another double, drinking more slowly this time. The only saving grace about the whole bloody fiasco was Lewis, in the roundabout way that’s so typical of his boss, asking him not to resign. Telling him that they made a good team and Lewis didn’t want to lose him.
Felt good, that did.
He’s lucky, he really is, to have Lewis as a governor. Anyone else would’ve gone straight to Innocent after he spent the night with Scarlett. James wouldn’t have had a choice about his fate. Immediate suspension, followed by demotion or dismissal. They’d have thrown in his attitude over the past couple of days: being rude to superior officers, insubordination, unnecessarily throwing his weight around with the DCs and so on. Lewis had smoothed over the minor stuff, covered for him with Innocent over what she saw or heard, and kept the worst of it to himself. And what had James done in return? Been bloody offensive to him too with that fucking nasty taunt about being fifty-odd and still picking through the debris of other people’s lives.
No wonder Lewis had ordered him off the case.
James drains his glass again. Fuck. How can he keep screwing up so badly? Yes, it was Crevecoeur, but that’s no excuse. Didn’t he learn anything from what happened after Will killed himself? Personal involvement: take yourself off the case. Simple as that. Lewis would have understood without need for details.
He reaches for the bottle again. And exactly at that moment there’s a sharp knock at the door.
Not just any knock. He knows exactly who’s there.
For a second or two, he considers not answering. But it won’t do. The curtains aren’t thick enough to block all interior light. Lewis will know he’s here, and he’s stubborn enough not to give up and go away.
Reluctantly, James makes himself walk to the door and open it. “Sir?” Lewis is still wearing his suit, and he’s frowning. Oh, right. Of course, it’s a case. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not really in a fit state for a crime scene.” He’s speaking slowly, enunciating as carefully as he can. “Had a bit too much-”
“Yeah, I can see that.” Lewis steps forward, and James automatically takes a step backwards. “You’re all right, it’s not a case. Can I come in?”
The police force – as well as his upbringing – has engrained certain habits in James, whether he likes it or not. One of them is almost unquestioning obedience of one’s betters. Lewis asks to come in; James steps back and lets him.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks immediately, automatically.
Lewis shakes his head. “Wanted to talk to you. Something that’s been on me mind all evening an’ I couldn’t shake it.”
“Oh?” His stomach tenses.
“Yeah. I... well, I wondered...” Lewis sighs, dragging a hand across his face. “Normally, I wouldn’t’ve asked. Would’ve waited to see if you wanted to tell me. But something Laura said made me... well. Anyway. So I came.”
James frowns. “I know I’m drunk, sir, but I doubt I could even have made sense of that sober.”
Lewis’s face creases into that exasperated look James is used to by now, though he can’t work out if it’s aimed at James or himself. “Laura said... well, it was just about blokes and how we never talk about anything. I mean, most of the time you don’t need to, right? Not like women, talking stuff to death.”
“I’m not entirely sure, sir,” James says, taking a longing glance at the almost-empty whisky bottle. “But I think that might have been sexist.”
Lewis shrugs. “Probably was. Have to ask Laura. Anyway...”
Lewis seems lost for words again. It’s almost like waiting for an execution. “You said you had something you wanted to ask me.”
“Yeah.” Lewis takes a deep breath, stands up straight and tilts his head back until he’s looking James straight in the eye. “Crevecoeur. Did you... Did Mortmaigne teach you to play the piano as a kid?”
God. The pain in his gut’s unbearable. He looks down at his body, almost expecting to see a knife sticking out of his abdomen.
It shouldn’t be a surprise. It’s not as if he hasn’t been aware almost as long as he’s known the man that Lewis is a far better copper than most people they meet on the job give him credit for. He’s observant, intuitive, intelligent, analytical, willing to admit when he doesn’t know something – and to do something about it, such as reading up on esoteric topics and applying that knowledge to the case. He’s one of the cleverest people James knows when it comes to piecing evidence together and coming up with solutions. He worked out the truth about Mortmaigne and Briony – and Paul – from very little, after all, as well as figuring out where Linda Grahame was buried.
So he’s put together a little bit more, too. It’s not as if James himself hasn’t given him clues – shit, he’s been bloody dropping them all over the place, starting with that stupid comment about bad childhoods before he even went to Crevecoeur.
“James?” Lewis is taking a step closer, his face creasing in concern. “Did he?”
“The case is over, sir. What’s the point of asking this now?” His tone is stiff, and he knows it’s not going to fool Lewis, but if he can just make his boss leave it alone...
“The point is that I want to know.”
Sudden anger makes him snap. “What right do you have to know anything? With all due respect, sir, it’s none of your business.”
“James...” Lewis stretches out a hand towards him. James steps back.
“It’s over, sir. You’ve arrested the Mortmaignes and Paul. Let that be an end to it.”
“Over? Not by a long way, man.” Lewis shakes his head. “Got the court case to go through first. An’ you’ll have to give evidence again.”
“I can handle it.” His fists clench and he holds his jaw tightly.
His boss sighs. “I know you can. I’d rather you didn’t have to, especially if I’m right. An’ I am, aren’t I?”
James gives in and reaches for the bottle, awkwardly splashing the rest of its contents into his glass and then swallowing it in two gulps. “No. You’re not.”
“Don’t lie to me.” Lewis shakes his head in disgust. “I’ve had enough of you lying to me, James. Especially when you don’t need to.” James swallows, focusing his gaze on a spot on the wall behind Lewis. “Look,” Lewis continues, “I’m not askin’ out of idle curiosity, and I don’t want to upset you-”
“Upset me? What d’you think I am? A teenage girl? Like Briony?”
“You were a teenage boy once,” Lewis says, and his tone’s turned soft, almost gentle, the way he spoke to Briony when the two of them talked to her together after her dad’s suicide. “Or – no, you were younger. You said you were twelve when you left the estate. God. Twelve.”
Twelve. And younger still. The fire in his gut climbs up into his throat, acid and tears combined, and James dips his head and buries his face in his one good hand for a long moment, before looking up again and glaring at his boss. “Why do you want to know? What on earth could you possibly gain from knowing whether or not I was pawed and sodomised as a child?”
Prurient curiosity? The hope that James might give evidence on his own behalf as well, as another victim?
Lewis takes another step closer, and his expression, the heartbreak in his eyes, forces James to look away. “I don’t want to know at all. You know what I most want to hear from you right now, lad? That he never laid a finger on you. But only if I know I can believe you.” Lewis stops, takes a deep breath, and slowly lowers himself to the sofa. “You think I want to know the truth? I don’t. I wish I’d never had these questions. But now I have I can’t unthink them, James. It’s in me head now, the thought that that... bastard paedophile did that to you too.”
Not curiosity, then. A million miles from it: a depth of caring he doesn’t deserve at all. Bugger. He really doesn’t deserve to have Robbie Lewis as his boss.
He has to take several deep breaths to steady himself. Then, finally, he walks stiffly to the couch and sits down next to his governor, a gap of a couple of feet between them.
“Yes.” Lewis looks at him, his expression softened to gentle kindness. James holds his breath for a moment, then gives it all up. “Yes, he taught me piano too.”
***
“So what happens next?”
There’s been complete silence in the minute or two since he confessed, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at Lewis. But he does now.
“What d’you mean?” Lewis gives him a genuinely puzzled look. Then he shrugs. “I’ll find a way to get you out of giving evidence without inviting questions. Leave that to me.”
James’s eyes widen. “Thank you.”
Lewis’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Wouldn’t be right.”
“Potentially prejudicial, you mean.”
“Not good for you, I mean.” Lewis shifts awkwardly, then grimaces. “Look, like I said, I’m useless at this sort of thing, but... I need to know. You gonna be all right? And it’s okay to say no,” he adds quickly.
James shrugs, deliberately casual. “It’s been nearly twenty years, sir.”
“But you’ve been reliving it all over the past few days. Should’ve seen it sooner,” Lewis adds, looking angry with himself suddenly. “The way you were – it was like Will McEwan all over again, you all tense and distant and avoiding my questions. Knew there was something wrong an’ that it had to be to do with you growing up there. Should’ve asked. Properly asked.”
Drunk he might be, but not enough not to realise that Lewis actually seems to be blaming himself. “You’re not responsible for me, sir.”
“Course I bloody well am! You’re me sergeant, aren’t you? And me friend.” He huffs out a breath. “And – not that you’re particularly forthcoming on the subject – your social life’s just as rubbish as mine. Who else’ve we got to look out for each other?”
James feels a smile tugging at his lips for the first time in hours – since their dawn conversation at Crevecoeur, in fact. “Suppose so.”
“Yeah.” Lewis shifts his body, angling towards him. “So if there’s anything you need...” He starts to reach out to James, then halts abruptly, looking stricken.
“What’s wrong?”
Lewis looks away, and James hears a smothered curse. “You were violated by a man more than old enough to be your father, and I just...” He shakes his head.
“You’re joking.” James’s voice is flat. “What were you intending? To touch me? My hand? My arm?”
“Hug you, I think.” Lewis sounds embarrassed.
James swallows. “I can’t remember the last time anybody hugged me, sir. No, wait, I can. Zoe Kenneth, and she was planning to kill me.” He turns and, reaching out with his uninjured arm, lightly touches Lewis’s wrist. “Don’t you ever compare yourself to him, sir. Or imagine that I’m not capable of distinguishing... I’m not that drunk.” Or traumatised, he doesn’t say.
Without a word, Lewis moves and, taking care not to jolt James’s injured arm, wraps him in his arms, one hand rubbing circles on his back. James sighs and, after a moment, allows his head to drop to Lewis’s shoulder.
He needed this. All evening, this is what he needed. Not the Scotch. Bloody poor substitute.
As they pull away from each other a short time later, a long-buried impulse rears its head and James yields. He leans in and presses his lips to Lewis’s.
Even as he does it, he comes to his senses. What the hell is he doing? Lewis’ll have him transferred for this.
But there’s returning pressure for a moment, and he holds his breath as the world seems to stop turning. And then Lewis pulls away and gives him a steady look. And James is just too weary, too drunk and too heartsick to hide the truth from him.
Lewis sees it. He brings his hand to the side of James’s face, a light caress, and the look in his eyes takes James’s breath away.
“If this is still what you want when you’re sober, lad, we’ll talk about it. But now...” He gets to his feet, and James feels cold again from the loss of contact, the anticipation of Lewis’s departure, leaving him alone again. So alone.
“I’m gonna make you a cuppa,” his boss continues. “And then you’ll drink as much water as I can pour into you, and then I’m gonna help you get to bed.” At James’s shocked look, he adds, “You might not feel it at the moment with all the alcohol you’ve put away, but your arm’s gonna hurt worse tomorrow if you try to undress on your own.”
James almost feels like pinching himself. All of this is really happening? He’s not dreaming? Lewis really hinted that the kiss might not be a one-off? “Thank you, sir.”
Lewis gives him a dismissive wave. “That couch of yours seems okay. Think I’ll sleep here tonight, just in case – all right? Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Arranged it with Innocent – we both have tomorrow off, and then the weekend.”
“But the paperwork-”
“Can wait. We’ve done the important stuff, and the villains are charged. They can stew in the cells over the weekend. I’ll interview them on Monday. Me, not you. Or I might hand over the case to someone else. Probably should, actually. Conflict of interest now.”
James stands, frowning. “For you, sir?”
“Bastard did all that to you. Course it’s a conflict of interest for me.”
Lewis is in the kitchen now; James follows him, still feeling as if he should pinch himself. “Um, the kettle’s over there, sir.”
“Can see that! Was just wondering where you kept your teabags.”
“Ah. I use leaf tea.” He reaches above Lewis’s head into the cupboard.
“Course you do.” His boss gives him a who d’you think you are? look. “Nob.”
“Actually, leaf tea is far better for you than bags. Better quality tea, too.” James takes down mugs, one at a time due to the limitation of his injured arm. It’s when Lewis smiles at him that he realises he’s actually smiling himself. They’ve fallen back into their normal routine, and it feels good.
He’s forgiven for his mishandling of everything, his lies, and for the things he said when he was lashing out in guilt and anger. Even better, judging by the last half-hour, Lewis gets it. He knows what happened to James as a kid, and it changes nothing – and he understands that it’ll never be talked about again.
“Yeah, yeah. When I feel like a lecture on the superior qualities of different types of tea, I’ll know who to call, won’t I?”
“Give me fair warning, so I have time to brush up on my tea science, sir.” Lewis rolls his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to stay here tonight,” James adds. “I’ll be fine. I am fine.”
“You’re also still drunk and nursing a bullet-wound. Think I’ll stick around.” Lewis pours boiling water onto the tea-leaves in James’s fine china pot.
“That’s very kind, s-”
“And then tomorrow, I was thinking, since we have an unexpected day off – I might take a trip to Cambridge. Never been, in all these years I’ve been down south. Should do, I thought – you know, just to see what the second-rate competition’s like.” Lewis glances sideways with a smug grin.
“What, go on a guided tour or something?” James can’t help the way his lip curls, and it’s not only because of the deliberate slur on his alma mater. That’s not the way to see Cambridge.
“Something like that. Got me own personal guide, don’t I?”
James blinks. “You do?”
“You’re a bit slow tonight, Sergeant. All that Scotch has addled your brain! You seem to’ve liked your time there. Thought you might show me around.”
Other sergeants would feel their hearts sink at the prospect of having to spend precious off-duty time with their governors. James is aware of this, despite rarely socialising with his peers. He’s aware, too, that Lewis at times resented the demands that Morse made on his off-duty time. For James, it’s never been like that. For a start, it’s not as if he’s especially busy outside work; but apart from that he came to acknowledge some considerable while ago that there’s nobody’s company he prefers to that of his boss. Not even his own.
And that was even before he realised what he really wants from Lewis; before he started lying awake imagining being free to kiss and touch and more, and having that rough Geordie voice he loves talk to him as a lover, ordering him around in bed, teaching him everything he’s learned through years as a faithful husband and bed partner.
This casual invitation to spend an off-duty day with Lewis, and doing something he’d love to but never imagined he’d get the chance, is as welcome as it’s surprising.
“I’d love to, sir. It would be a pleasure.” He hands Lewis a strainer before letting him pour the tea, ignoring the rolled eyes he gets. “But I really should point out that it’s not possible to do justice to Cambridge in a day – especially as it’ll take a couple of hours each way to drive, and I’ll probably be too hung over to make the kind of early start we should.”
Lewis shrugs. “Then you’d better book us a decent B&B, James, hadn’t you?”
His eyes widen, but his voice is admirably – to him – steady when he responds. “I can do that.”
And, if he has an entire day of sobriety to prove to Lewis that he is attracted to him, does want him, maybe he’ll only need to book one room. Who knows?