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James showed up at Robbie's door that night, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans as clear an indicator as any of the kind of evening it had been. Robbie had had a bit of an evening himself, to tell the truth; he'd sent James home when it had been more than clear to him that Michelle was in no fit state to be alone. He'd fetched a takeaway and they'd talked, about Val and her son and his kids, about living with the grief, about making their way through it, until she'd given him a smile – a little forced, but still genuine – and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Robbie,” she said. “I believe I shall be all right now."
“You're sure,” Robbie said.
“Yes. I'm grateful. You've been very kind. Sergeant Hathaway, too.”
“I'll let him know.”
“He's experienced loss as well. I can tell.”
Robbie raised his head. He didn't say he wasn't certain of that, since he'd never asked and James had never told him. He also didn't say he thought she was right. “I'll ring you in a couple of days, yeah? See how you're getting on.”
“I appreciate it.”
“But if you need to talk – anytime – you have my card.”
“I do.” This time her smile was more natural. “If I don't ring you – please don't be concerned or see it as a rejection. Just knowing I have someone I can talk to is a comfort in itself.”
“No worries,” Robbie said, smiling back. “Take care, Michelle.”
“You too.”
He could have rung James, or for a cab, but the night air was warmish and Robbie had needed the walk. Even though it was the opposite of what he'd been preaching to Michelle today, there were still times when he felt guilty for doing as he'd told her he'd done – for accepting it. Only the knowledge that Val wouldn't have wanted him to mourn forever kept him from dwelling on it too much. He was alive, and Val was gone: there was no justice in it, but it was the truth nevertheless.
He didn't know what had prompted him to make that speech to the lad the other day. Perhaps it was the fact that James was starting to resemble Morse a little too much – the drinking wasn't a problem, but the isolation was. Morse, for all his popularity with women, had been a lonely man, and James, who should have been far more popular with – well, whoever he wanted to be popular with – was no different. When he'd been James' age, he'd been married with two young kids. While it was true that there was no set schedule for life, it was equally true that James was letting opportunities pass him by.
When Hathaway arrived, it occurred to Robbie that on the other hand, he could stop playing wise old idiot and keep his opinions to himself. The lad looked worn out, though he'd seemed fine this morning when he'd dropped Lewis off. Robbie knew better than to ask him about it directly, though; when Hathaway was brooding about something, he was as tight-lipped as the Sphinx. Instead, he silently led him into the kitchen and handed him a beer. Hathaway blinked at it, then looked up at Robbie.
“Something stronger?” Robbie asked.
“If it's not too much trouble.”
Robbie didn't stock much in the way of hard liquor – bit too much temptation at times – but he did have a half-decent whisky he kept over the sink. James preferred it neat, he recalled, so he poured him a little extra and handed it to him. Their fingers brushed, and he thought he felt James' hand jerk at the contact before closing around the glass.
“Thanks,” James murmured, raising it in a toast before knocking back half of it. Robbie wondered if James had already had a few before coming over; he held his liquor surprisingly well for a skinny one, so it wasn't always easy to tell.
“You're staring,” Hathaway murmured. “I've had two already.”
“Thanks. I'll have to do a bit of catching up, then, eh?” Robbie waved a hand at the living room, and James pushed himself off the counter he'd been slouched against and padded over to the couch, where he flopped onto it in what Robbie now considered to be James' regular spot. He only hesitated for a moment before taking his usual place beside him.
There was a not entirely comfortable silence as Hathaway sipped the remainder of his drink and Lewis drank his beer. He'd recorded yesterday's test match series against Australia and was playing it back on the telly, the sound low. Robbie considered turning it off, then decided against it. He hadn't really been watching it anyway, and he could always rewind it later if he missed anything.
“How did you get on with Michelle?” Hathaway asked finally.
“About as well as could be expected. I'm pretty sure she's not going to try anything funny – not tonight, anyway.” He blew out a breath. “I don't know if I should send a family liaison officer or not.”
“There wasn't a crime, strictly speaking. And it happened six years ago.”
“Right, yeah,” Robbie said, feeling foolish. Of course she wouldn't rate one, not after all this time, certainly; where was his head?
“You look done in,” James murmured. Robbie glanced up at him.
“I was about to say the same of you. Wasn't sure if you'd bite my head off for it, so I kept my gob shut.”
Hathaway held his gaze for another moment, then stared at his glass. “I've been thinking about what you said. About my needing a partner.”
“I've been thinking about it myself,” Robbie admitted, earning a startled look from James. “Maybe I was out of line to –”
“No, you weren't,” James interrupted, shaking his head. “You were right, actually. I do need someone.” His gaze rose to Robbie again, and this time the look in his eyes made Robbie suck in a breath. He never knew what was going on in James' head most of the time, but that look made even less sense than usual, especially when directed at Robbie.
“The trouble is, I have rather high standards.” James chuckled, the edge of bitterness clear. “Ridiculously high, you might say.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Robbie murmured, taking a drink. His hand felt clammy from the condensation on the bottle; he wiped it off on his trousers.
James set his empty glass down on the table, then turned back, angling his body towards Robbie's on the couch. “You might not think so if you knew what they were.”
That sounded like a dare, and as much as Robbie told himself not to rise to the bait, James' curiously belligerent attitude was catching. “Go on, then,” he said, mirroring James' pose.
“I want someone – with honour.” At Robbie's frown, James waved a hand. “I know it sounds like an outmoded concept, but it exists: I'm talking about integrity, honesty, a personal moral code that doesn't necessarily have anything to do with religion.”
Robbie nodded, conceding the point, and James continued. “I want someone who challenges me to be better than I am. Someone who makes me think, and strive to live up to my own standards.” James took a deep breath. “I want someone who can offer me forgiveness, and kindness, and laughter, and I want someone who needs me to give them those things. Above all, I want someone with a loving heart, someone who shows me that heart in everything they do, everything they are.”
“That's a standard, all right,” Robbie said, trying to keep his voice light even though Hathaway's confession had left him oddly breathless. “I hate to tell you this, lad, but I don't know if you're ever going to find all of that in one package.”
James looked down at his empty hands, then back up at Robbie. “I have found it, actually,” he murmured, and suddenly Robbie couldn't breathe at all, because he understood that look now. In the next moment he realised it wasn't new; Hathaway had been looking at him that way for – God, it was impossible.
“James –”
“Don't,” James said, shaking his head once, almost violently. “I'm not expecting anything. I'm not asking for anything. I'm just explaining to you that it may take a while for me to follow your advice, because I've been trying – believe me, I have – but as it turns out, it's damned hard to find it a second time.”
I know, Robbie felt like saying, but if there was anything James didn't need to be reminded of, it was that.
“There's only one thing,” James said slowly, “I was wondering about. You said that I needed a 'partner'. Not 'girl', not 'woman'.”
Robbie opened his mouth, closed it. “I – I didn't want to assume. I was trying to be – what d'you call it? – gender-neutral.”
James barked a startled laugh at that, and all right, so it did sound a little ridiculous coming from him. Sobering, James leaned closer. “The only man you've ever seen me with is you,” he rasped. “The only man I keep falling for again and again no matter how much I tell myself not to be so bloody stupid, is you.”
“James, God,” Robbie breathed, and James touched him then, laid a hand right over his heart. Robbie felt it lurch into motion beneath James' palm.
“I couldn't help but wonder,” James said, calmly, as though they were discussing a case, “if there was a reason you'd said it, even subconsciously. Then I convinced myself I was being an idiot, and then I drank three whiskeys in rapid succession. I don't know what I think anymore.” His hand curled against Robbie's chest, then dropped away. “I do know I'm going to regret this in the morning, though.”
James made as if to stand, and before Robbie knew what he was doing he'd reached out and seized him by the wrist. “Don't go,” he said. “We have to talk about this,” he added, feeling foolish as soon as he'd said it. What was there to say when your blooming Sergeant told you he was in love with you, had been for God knew how long? Robbie imagined it was much the same as any declaration of love; either you let them down gently or you snogged them silly.
“Nothing to talk about,” James insisted. “You're not responsible for all the strays that cross your path.”
“Oh, for – you're not a stray, man. You're –” a friend, Robbie thought, the words dying before they reached his lips, followed closely by my best friend. Both true, both completely inadequate, and not only for the situation, but to describe all that James had become to Robbie over the years.
If they were more than friends, then what were they? Robbie's brain felt sluggish, unwilling to cooperate. Logic puzzles were more Hathaway's area, but he could hardly ask him to do the work for him, not for this. At any rate, sometimes it was best to go with instinct, intuition – coppers used to rely on it back in the olden times before they invented computers and DNA tests.
“You're me friend, but it's not only that. Some mornings, you're the reason I get up.” James' eyes widened at that. “When I first came back, I wanted to chuck the job every other day. Can't remember when it was exactly – I think about six months in – when I woke up and realised I was looking forward to going to the station, to watching your brain work, to taking the mickey when I could slide something past you.”
“That last must have been a rare occurrence,” James drawled.
“Not as rare as you'd like to think.” James cracked a small smile at that, and Robbie smiled back. “Any road, you're important to me, James – one of the most important people in my life – and I wouldn't hurt you for the world.”
“I know,” James murmured, nodding. “I know that. And I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologise,” Robbie said. “Never apologise for the way you feel. I only wish –”
“What?” James asked after a moment, and Robbie shook himself, realising he'd simply trailed off.
“I wish – I could be what you needed.” Robbie blinked as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Where the bloody hell had that come from? But it was the truth. James deserved every happiness life could give him.
James was staring at him now, the intensity almost too much to bear. His skin shivered under Robbie's fingers, and Robbie looked down, surprised to see he was still holding on to James' wrist. His thumb pressed against James' pulse point, and he could feel James' heartbeat, quick and strong.
When he looked up again, James was leaning in, his gaze firmly fixed on Robbie's mouth. Robbie told himself that now would be a good time to let go of his sergeant's wrist, to pull back and put an end to this. He told himself that, and yet he let James come closer, until he fancied he could count every one of Hathaway’s pale eyelashes, now fanning across his cheeks as he closed his eyes –
James’ lips brushed his, and bugger, it wasn’t only James’ hands: the lad was trembling all over. That reaction usually meant uncertainty, fear, anguish, and Robbie suddenly couldn’t stand to have James feeling any of those things. Without giving himself time for thought, he lifted his chin and pressed his own mouth against James’, tightening his grip on James’ wrist as he did.
James jerked again, startled, and Robbie caught his eyes flying open just as Robbie’s own were sliding shut. And then James groaned and tilted his head, and the next thing Robbie knew James’ free hand was at his face, fingers reverent on his jaw, and they were kissing. He was snogging James Hathaway, and it should have been – wrong, and improper, and a hundred other things, but the only thing Robbie could think was why didn't you tell me I'd like it?
Which was ridiculous, of course; there was no way James could have told him, since Robbie himself hadn't even bloody known. But the evidence was clear, and there was no denying the way Robbie's own heart raced or the way he clutched a little desperately at James' arm, as though he needed something to anchor him against this new, terrifyingly exhilarating thing between them.
“Oh, Christ,” James murmured between kisses, “I must be drunker than I thought. I'm hallucinating.”
“Trust you to keep talking,” Robbie growled, tugging him down, and James huffed startled, joyous laughter against Robbie's lips before their mouths met again.
It was difficult to fit two grown men on a sofa, but Robbie's sofa was larger than most, and neither of them seemed to mind the lack of space much. After – well, after snogging one another silly – they'd settled in to watch the end of the cricket series, James lying with his arms wrapped round Robbie's middle, as though Robbie were some prize he couldn't bear to be parted from. Judging from the soft snuffling sounds James was making, Robbie reckoned he hadn't found the telly all that exciting.
“James,” Robbie murmured, shifting beneath him.
“Hmmmm,” James said, nuzzling against Robbie's shirt. His breath was hot; it made his skin tingle, not unpleasantly.
“Last match is over.”
“Oh,” James said, immediately lifting himself up. “I'm sorry. I fell asleep.”
Robbie stared at him. His hair was a tangle, the longer bit on top sticking up every which way, and the right side of his face was pink and creased where he'd been resting his head on Robbie's shirt. There was a little dent that Robbie instinctively reached up to trace with a finger – oh, it had to be the imprint of one of his buttons. “You're – a bit rumpled,” Robbie observed, inanely.
James grinned, then turned his head and kissed Robbie's palm. “Whose fault is that?” His voice sounded light, almost giddy, and Robbie realised he hadn't seen him truly smile in months.
“S'pose it's mine,” Robbie said, surprised when it came out sounding low and hungry. James stared at him, shock transmuting swiftly into something else. Suddenly they were kissing again, James' hands in his hair, James' tongue in his mouth, James' long body twisting against his own, making him pant and shudder.
James pulled away, and Robbie was left dizzy and gasping with a damp, bruised mouth. “Sorry, sorry,” James babbled, “I didn't mean to –”
“It's fine,” Robbie rasped. His own hands were splayed over the small of James' back; if they strayed any lower, they'd be exploring new territory. The thought didn't bother him as much as it would have a couple of hours ago. “We might get off this couch, though.”
“Of course, yeah,” James said, practically leaping off Robbie in his haste to get away. When he was on his feet, he ran an agitated hand through his hair; it didn't help to make it look any more presentable. “I should go. It's been a long day, and you must be –” he trailed off, clearly at a loss, and Robbie wondered at a possible ending to that sentence. Must be having second thoughts? Must be panicking at the thought of what we’ve just done?
For a brief moment, he considered letting Hathaway run. In the morning, Robbie could chalk it up to the drink, and James would let him. James was an expert in self-sacrifice; he'd stow his heart away and allow Robbie to go back to his comfortable, quiet existence, trapped in an endless loop of memories.
Except, well, Hathaway thought Robbie had honour, and he supposed he did, even if it was of a somewhat tattered variety. And now that he’d had a taste of living again, he found he didn’t want to go back. The admission stung a bit, as though he were being unfaithful to Val, but she wouldn’t have wanted him to turn down a chance at happiness.
He thought back to James' words earlier: it's damned hard to find it a second time.
Damned hard, yes, but not impossible. You just had to be open to finding it in places you might not have thought to look.
Grunting a little as he rose to his feet, Robbie said, “It’s been a long day for both of us. So what do you say you come and lie down beside me, and in the morning we’ll see what happens? We’ve no place to go, and no one to answer to but ourselves.”
James watched him for a long moment, then exhaled sharply, as if someone had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. “Unless there’s another murder.”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, eh, lad?” Robbie said, voice gentle.
“All right,” James said, ducking his head shyly, and Robbie’s heart did an odd little jig in his chest at the sight.
“Come on, then,” Robbie said gruffly, bending to shut off the telly. “I think I might even have a spare toothbrush somewhere.”
“Thank you, sir,” James said solemnly, biting his lip to hide his smile, and Robbie resisted the urge to pull him into another kiss. Best not to reward the lad for being a smartarse; it would set a dangerous precedent.
“Oh, give over,” he muttered instead, and James laughed and followed Robbie down the hall and into the future.