Chapter Text
This place isn't one of Sid's usual haunts.
Since returning from his last stint in Africa, he's got himself set up in a nice little flat across town with a decent local and a couple of greasy spoons. He's found himself a nice little earner, too - a job doing up cars at a nearby garage - but every so often he still supplements his income with the odd driving gig.
Earlier today he got been paid more than his weekly wage to ferry some toffee-nosed MP around to a few meetings before dropping him back off at Whitehall, which is how Sid wound up huddled in the window seat of a pub off Northumberland Avenue on a miserable Friday afternoon instead.
Sid glances outside as he takes a long pull on his pint.
The dark, rain-slicked streets are emptying somewhat after rush hour. Cars and buses go by, but anyone with any sense has fled indoors or else ducked into the shelter of the shop doorways, and the stragglers scurry past beneath their umbrellas on their way home.
Sid didn't think to bring an umbrella. He didn't even think to bring a coat. When he set out this morning, it was overcast but dry, and Sid only donned his old chauffeur's uniform and hurried out of the door.
The jacket is starting to feel a bit snug, and Sid unfastens the top few buttons, giving himself some room to breathe.
He looks up when he hears the doors to the pub creak open as a young couple push their way inside, shaking off their jackets in the entranceway. Sid watches them walk over to the bar to order, arm-in-arm, and wonders whether he's got the energy to go out again later and try his luck at finding someone to cosy up to.
There hasn't been anyone serious for a while. After Maeve and an ill-fated attempt to move in with a mechanic called David who he met through work, he's kept his affairs casual. Half the time, Sid can't be bothered to go and actively seek out a one-night stand anymore. The drive hasn't gone altogether, but it has slowed in recent years.
Sid drains the dregs of his beer and gets to his feet.
Perhaps it's his age. Perhaps he's just getting set in his ways. He never thought he would tire of the bachelor lifestyle, particularly not in this new era of free love, yet he catches himself feeling fed up with it all sometimes.
He makes his own way up to the bar for a refill.
"Here you are," says the barman pushing a pint towards him. Sid hands over two shillings and eleven before carrying his glass back to his table by the window.
The panes have misted up with condensation in his absence, and Sid wipes them clear, looking out onto the street beyond. A man with a newspaper held over his head makes a mad dash across the road towards the pub. Evidently, he didn't have the foresight to carry an umbrella either.
Sid takes a sip of his beer.
Sure enough, the doors open again a few seconds later, and the man with the newspaper steps inside. The cut-glass partitions between the booths obscure Sid's view as the man lowers the sopping wet broadsheet, drops it down beside the collection of damp umbrellas in the bottom of the hatstand, and sets about removing his hat and overcoat.
Sid watches him idly, taking another few sips.
It is hard to see through the semi-opaque glass, but he looks like a businessman of some sort. A banker or a civil servant, possibly. White collar workers are ten a penny in this neck of the woods. The man hesitates in the entranceway for a moment longer before turning to cross the bar, and as he does Sid's heart skips a beat.
It must have been just shy of two decades, but Sid would recognise that profile anywhere:
Sullivan.
His hair is grey now, and he's wearing a black suit instead of the blue suits he always wore back in Kembleford, but there can be no mistaking it - it is definitely Sullivan.
Sweat pricks at Sid's palms. Something about Sullivan's presence has always affected him. More than just the threat of arrest or the anticipation of trading insults; there was always an undercurrent to their exchanges that felt more charged than combative.
Sid shifts in his seat, twisting around to get a better view, checking his eyes aren't playing tricks on him.
They aren't.
The years have been kind to Sullivan. Apart from his hair being almost entirely silver, he doesn't look all that different. Still lithe and tall, he carries himself in much the same way. The lines on his face are a little deeper, perhaps, but they suit him, only serving to make him look more distinguished.
Sid isn't sure the same could be said about the lines on his own face...
Across the room, Sullivan raises a hand to get the barman's attention and orders a glass of scotch. Even his voice sounds the same - every word forced out through gritted teeth, as though interacting with people is an inherently painful experience.
He looks like a fish out of water in a place like this, and for a minute Sid gets so caught up in watching him that he doesn't register the fact that Sullivan has picked up his drink and is moving away from the bar.
By the time Sullivan turns, it is too late to look away. Sullivan catches sight of Sid. He hesitates for a moment, frowning, before his eyes widen in surprise.
Sid's stomach does a somersault.
The sweat starts to spread to his underarms, despite the winter weather, and he takes a steadying swig of his drink as he watches Sullivan weave his way through the tables towards him.
He's coming over. Why on Earth is he coming over?
"Sid Carter," Sullivan says in that old accusatory tone, as though Sid's very existence ought to be a punishable offence.
"Sullivan."
"Well, I never..."
Sullivan is staring - disbelieving rather than appraising - but it makes Sid feel like some sort of zoo animal or museum curiosity, nonetheless.
When Sullivan comes to a stop at the end of the table, Sid stretches his arms across the back of the booth, puffing out his chest as best he can from a sitting position.
"What," he begins, "are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same question."
"You might, but I asked first."
"I work here," says Sullivan, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the Embankment.
Of course Sullivan works here. Scotland Yard's headquarters are only a short distance away, and that was where he had left for all those years ago.
"You still there?" Sid leans forward to take another swig of his pint. "The Yard?"
"Yes."
"You must be Commissioner by now."
"Chief Inspector," Sullivan corrects.
Sid looks over Sullivan's immaculate haircut and tailored black suit. "Yeah, well, you look like you're doing all right for yourself..."
At that, Sullivan drops his gaze. "And you?" he asks. "Have you been keeping well?"
"Been worse."
"You're looking well."
Sid searches Sullivan's face for some trace of sarcasm, but he doesn't find any. Perhaps Sullivan has learnt some tact in the intervening years because, God knows, Sid isn't looking his best after a long day spent folded into the driver's seat of a Bentley S2.
Sid runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place. "So... This your local, then?"
"Hardly. I thought I'd call in at the bank on the way home and got caught in the deluge. Decided to wait for the worst of it to pass in here."
"Yeah, you never really were one for pubs, were you?"
Sullivan glances around the room with thinly veiled distain. "No."
"Well, if you're stuck here for the foreseeable, you might as well sit down. If it wouldn't ruin your reputation to be seen talking to the likes of me, that is."
The suggestion seems to catch Sullivan off-guard, but he doesn't object, only nods and moves to draw up a chair.
Once he's settled across from Sid, Sid finds himself studying Sullivan more closely. His over-starched shirt is stretched tight across his chest, an expensive set of cufflinks exposed as Sullivan fidgets, adjusting the way his sleeves fall against his wrists.
Sid can understand why women used to swoon over him. They probably still do for that matter, but Sid has long-since suspected that their interest was never returned.
Years ago, Sid even wondered whether Sullivan might be more interested in him than in the local women.
It was nothing Sid could ever substantiate. Never anything more than a gut instinct, really. But you learn to rely on your instincts when you're a man who shares those sorts of interests...
It's Sullivan who breaks the spell by saying: "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."
"Me? I'm living here now," says Sid. That earns him a surprised look, so he clarifies: "Well, not here here. Got a flat in Stepney, but I was out this way for work."
"Are you still working for Lady Felicia?"
"Nah. Been at a garage for the last few years, doing up cars. Just do the odd bit of driving on the side these days."
"It's a good thing you do. I'm not sure I'd have recognised you if it hadn't been for the chauffeur's uniform."
It's a statement of fact, not an insult, but the words land like a punch to Sid's stomach, nonetheless.
"Yeah, well, it has been a while..." he mutters, scratching his beard.
"It must have been... what, seventeen years?"
"Give or take."
Sullivan still smells the same - that fancy botanical hair tonic and matching aftershave he always wore back in Kembleford. Classic. Old-fashioned.
It sparks a strange sense of nostalgia in Sid. A reminder of a bygone era. Of country air and endless summers and village fetes a lifetime ago.
"I'd heard you'd left Kembleford, but I hadn't realised you were living here," says Sullivan.
Apparently it's impossible to escape village gossip, even by moving to London, so Sid asks, "Oh yeah? Where'd you hear that?"
"I've still got my sources." A smile plays about Sullivan's lips, playful, goading, and there is a strange familiarity in that, too.
"What sources?" Sid scoffs.
"I couldn't possibly say."
"Goodfellow?"
The smile transforms into a smirk. "He told me you'd moved abroad."
"I did for a bit."
"Why did you come back?"
The bluntness of Sullivan's question makes Sid laugh. So much for learning some tact. "Why, were you hoping I'd emigrated for good?"
"That depends on whether or not you're still up to your old tricks."
"Haven't got the energy to get into trouble anymore." Sid sighs. "Too busy trying to keep the rent collector at bay these days."
"Well, I'm relieved to hear it, given that you're back in my jurisdiction now."
Sid gulps down another mouthful of beer. "Gordon Bennett, there's a thought. Been a while since I've had to worry about you putting your hand on my shoulder..."
"Do you ever miss it?"
"What, having you on my case all the time? No, I bleedin' don't!"
"No, no, not that. Kembleford. The old days."
"I dunno," Sid says after a long pause. "Sometimes."
"You always seemed at home there."
"I was, for a while..."
"Then why did you leave?"
"Let's just say I needed a change of scenery."
Even after all these years, Sullivan seems to be able to read him better than that. Whether it's his body language or his curt response that gives him away, Sid couldn't say. Either way, Sullivan frowns at him, unconvinced.
"You didn't get a woman into trouble, did you?" he asks, clearly trying to break the tension.
It works. Sid laughs again as he says, "No chance. Always been too careful for that."
"But there was a reason you wanted to get away?"
"Yeah. Sort of."
"Go on..."
Sid drains the last of his beer, smacking his lips. "Ah, it's a long story."
A glance towards the window, where the rain is now running down in torrents, and Sullivan says, "Well, it looks like we've got time."
There is the surge of something unnameable in Sid's chest.
"Yeah. All right," he agrees, feeling giddy as he gets to his feet and gathers their glasses. "In that case, I'll get another round in."