Work Text:
Burne-Jones ran his hand through his hair as he walked up the grand stairs to the Avalon hotel. The air had a fresh hint to it mixed with the abundance of flowers decorating the entrance. Burne-Jones didn’t know it yet, but he was going to get intimately familiar with this hotel. With these double doors. With the face that met him when he entered.
The face was masked in white, just like everyone else’s. The hair on the shorter man’s head was a dark brown and he wore black rimmed glasses over the mask’s nose. When the man noticed Burne-Jones, he lit up in a friendly customer-service smile, probably hoping that the constable wouldn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes. He did.
“Welcome to the Avalon, sir. How may I help you?”
“Ehm… I would like a room, please,” Burne-Jones responded, slightly uncertain. Wasn’t that what hotels did? Had he completely missed a memo somewhere?
“Perfect,” the man said and wrote something down on a piece of paper. “How long will you be staying?”
“Just… 2 nights.”
“And do you have any requests about the room?”
“Can I request… quiet?” At this, the man smiled slightly wider.
“I have just the room for you.” He pushed a small piece of paper over. It looked a lot like a handwritten receipt with a few numbers, detailing the 2 night stay with breakfast, lunch and dinner included. It seemed quite expensive to the constable, but he assumed that it made sense considering that three meals were covered.
Burne-Jones looked at the paper for a few moments before he heaved the large brown bag up on the counter. The man behind the counter looked a bit surprised, but didn’t say anything as the constable opened the bag and found his wallet to pay the money he owed.
“Thank you.” Burne-Jones placed the bag back onto the ground, giving what he assumed then to be the receptionist a small smile.
“And your name?”
“Sorry?” The masked face smiled back at him.
“Your name, sir.”
“Constable Burne-Jones,” he said, his head tilting faintly. “And yours?” The shorter man blinked a few times, clearly not having expected the question to be returned to him. Perhaps he should invest in some name tags for the staff…
“Murray Davis,” Murray said finally.
Murray Davis was the hotel manager. He liked his job fine, or he would have, were it not for the constant stress it provided him. With the guests, specifically one certain famous rockstar, providing him with enough migraines to turn his hair gray, Murray attempted to find comfort in the few things he could control. One of those was the front desk. Sure, some of the cleaning staff had been trained in handling the desk in his absence, but Murray was rarely absent. With everything going on, Murray just couldn’t let someone else muck up his hotel. And he couldn’t exactly leave either, since that would feel like betraying his parents, who he had inherited the hotel from.
Burne-Jones smiled at the confused look on Murray’s face.
“Lovely meeting you,” he said, his voice kind. Truthfully, he had no idea how hotels worked or what was expected of him. He imagined that he would find out eventually.
“Eh… likewise,” Murray replied, still seemingly a bit perplexed at this unusually smiley constable. The shorter man reached behind the counter and placed a key in front of Burne-Jones. The constable, in turn, looked at the key for a short few seconds before taking it. A small note tied to the top end of the key detailed where the door that it unlocked was. Burne-Jones gripped the key and put it in his pocket, his other hand wrapping around the handles of his bag when Murray stopped him.
“No no,” he said, a slightly nervous edge to his voice now. “I’ll have one of our bellboys send it up for you.” Their eyes met and for a moment Burne-Jones didn’t know what to do. Then he slowly let go of the bag again. This seemed to please Murray somewhat, so Burne-Jones decided that he had made the right decision. Murray pressed a small button on a device on the desk, a quiet beep momentarily filling the silence. When nothing happened for another few seconds, Burne-Jones shifted his weight onto the other foot. He was pretty certain something was supposed to happen. The longer they waited, the more nervous Murray seemed to become.
“We’re a bit short staffed at the moment, sorry,” Murray said finally, his left hand fiddling near subconsciously with his red uniform bowtie.
“Oh, no problem,” Burne-Jones replied with a small smile. “I’m in no hurry.” His words were followed by a few more seconds of awkward staring.
“So…” Murray spoke quietly, his hands pushing themselves into his surprisingly small trouser pockets. “Are you here for a vacation, or…?”
“Something like that,” Burne-Jones said with a nod. “Or… you could say it’s more of a… short break.”
“How so?”
“You see… I’ve recently been promoted,” Burne-Jones explains, leaning slightly against the reception desk as he waits for whatever it was that was going to happen.
“Oh, really?” Murray asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked at the taller constable. He couldn’t decide if he himself was genuinely curious or just making small talk. Either way, the constable was vaguely interesting and passing his time, so he wasn’t going to complain.
“Yes. No more beats for me. It’s going to be… desk duty and proper police work from now on.” Burne-Jones glanced over at Murray, catching the shorter man hastily looking up to meet his gaze. Strange, he thought, but didn’t pay any attention to it.
“And… What are you investigating?” Bevans’ lips parted to answer when a bellboy ran up to the reception, panting quietly when he stopped. Bevans pushed himself off the desk as Murray straightened up, both men caught off guard by the rude interruption.
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” the bellboy huffs, his hands at his knees as he catches his breath. Clearly, he had been running. Bevans blinks slowly at the seemingly young boy, even though he knew logically in his head that the man was just a few years younger than himself.
Murray looked at the bellboy silently, crossing his arms as he gave the short man a disappointed glare.
“You’re here now,” he said shortly. “Take the constable’s bag and show him to his room.”
“Yes sir,” the bellboy said, quickly picking up the heavy brown bag Burne-Jones had brought with him.
“This way, constable,” the bellboy mumbled before quickly heading off. Burne-Jones stumbled after the surprisingly fast shorter man, barely having time to glance behind him at Murray in an attempt to silently apologise for the sudden interruptance to their conversation. It had been a while since he talked to someone who wasn’t a constable, and it had looked like Murray was interested. Never mind. He’d probably return eventually, especially if this hotel was as good as his colleagues had told him.
…
Burne-Jones did return to the hotel, though it was later than he would have hoped. He had quite liked the atmosphere, and the room had indeed been very quiet. He noticed that it was located right next to the manager’s room, and he could safely assume that the man by the front desk, Mr Davis, was said manager. If not for the different uniform he had compared to the other staff, then for the fact that the bellboy had called him “sir”. Either way, when he reached the hotel the second time, Murray wasn’t at the counter. Instead he was met with the smiling face belonging to a very short older lady. Perhaps one of the… cleaning staff?
He had once again been told to leave his bag and let one of the bellboys take care of it, but this time, he didn’t bother sticking around and waiting for the service. It wasn’t that the lady wasn’t nice to talk to or anything, it was just that he didn’t feel equally as inclined to talk to her as he had been with Murray last time. Thankfully, he got the same room as last time, and so he made his way up the elevator, assuming that his bag would be taken to him eventually.
Murray returned to the reception just a few minutes later. Rubbing his temples, he barely looked at the older woman as he asked about what had happened while he had been gone. There had been an incident with a particularly stupid patron at the bar and he had been called to deal with it, which landed him in a fairly sour mood. The woman started recounting the happenings, which wasn’t a lot. It was a fairly slow day.
“Oh, and that constable returned.” Murray tensed at her words, suddenly feeling a bit ashamed as he realized that he had been talking quite a lot about Burne-Jones when tired or slightly tipsy. Something about that constable had just stuck with him. Maybe it was the smile that seemed genuine in a place full of Joy addicts. Maybe it was the gentle tone he’d used when speaking.
“And you gave him the same room as before?” Murray questioned, shaking the less than appropriate thoughts as he focused back on his job. He had a few more hours of his shift before the hotel closed for sign-ins for the night.
“Yes, sir,” the woman said, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she looked up at her boss. “But the… bellboys…” Murray snapped open his eyes. What he didn’t need right now was another issue, but he rarely got what he needed.
“What about the bellboys?” The woman wrung her hands nervously.
“They haven’t taken the constable’s bag upstairs. Mark is busy on the top floor and… the other two have called in sick… sir.”
Murray gave the lady a long stare. Oh, for- of course something was wrong with the bellboys. Burne-Jones probably wouldn’t have minded carrying his own bag, too… Damn it.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it upstairs…” he grumbled, bending down to take the same brown bag in both hands. It was heavy, he would admit that. Especially to Murray who didn’t consider himself the strongest of men. It was a wonder how the constable could carry that as easily as he did. The woman gave him a concerned look but made the smart decision not to question him. The bag had to be delivered just the same. There probably was no harm in letting Murray do it.
The hotel manager made his way up the elevator. Luckily, Burne-Jones’ room wasn’t too far away so he didn’t have to walk far to reach it. Murray knocked on the door a few times to announce himself before pushing down the doorhandle and stepping in.
He recognised the room of course. What he didn’t immediately recognise however was the man standing in front of the desk in the room. The man had one hand in his dark brown hair and the other holding a very familiar white mask. It took Murray a few moments to realize that he was staring at Burne-Jones. Maskless. His skin was smooth and pale and his hair was a bit messy. Perhaps he’d run his hand through it multiple times at this point. It wasn’t Murray’s place to ask or speculate though. At the sound of the knocks and the door opening, Burne-Jones had turned around, his face faintly surprised. He clearly hadn’t been expecting visitors.
Somehow, his eyes looked less blue now that he wasn’t wearing the mask. Murray couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. On one hand, bright blue eyes were really attractive. On the other hand, Burne-Jones looked a lot softer now. Kinder, in a way. With the mask, he was a stern constable until he opened his mouth. But without the mask… he looked more like a teddy bear. Someone to snuggle up to. Someone to talk to. Murray quickly shook off the thoughts, pulling his eyes away from the constable in the room as he quickly set the bag down on the floor.
“Sorry for the delay,” he mumbled, hastily turning around and closing the door behind him once more. The sight of that soft looking face would haunt him for days.
Burne-Jones was left stumped in his room. He hadn’t expected Murray to leave so suddenly, and he certainly wouldn’t have minded if the manager had stayed for a bit. He hoped he hadn’t scared Murray away by not having the mask on. Maybe the man was busy, Burne-Jones reasoned and decided not to worry about whether or not his unmasked appearance had frightened the shorter man.
…
Murray had been right. The sight of Burne-Jones’ face had followed him for days. And then it hadn’t stopped. The image was just as clear in his mind as it had been last month. With Burne-Jones once more out of the hotel, Murray had taken the liberty of keeping the constable’s room constantly booked until his return. Perhaps that was bold of him, but Burne-Jones seemed to really like the room and its location and Murray didn’t want to disappoint the man if he returned and the room was taken. It wasn’t much of a difference anyway considering that he often kept that room empty anyway to give himself some peace and quiet.
When Burne-Jones did return however, Murray didn’t know what to say. He thought about the constable more times than he would like to admit, but he had no idea how to actually start a conversation. At the very least, Murray felt like he should mention the fact that the room was now booked for him. That he could have it as long as he came back. But he couldn’t think of any normal way to bring that up.
After his way too long shift, Murray found himself at the hotel bar, staring down at his half empty glass of whisky. He should break the ice. At the very least, he should try. But he didn’t want to seem unprofessional or accidentally cause the hotel to gain a bad reputation. The Avalon had been a hotel with not so much as a scandal to its name in its 42 years of existing. Murray really didn’t want to break that streak.
At first, he didn’t look up when a person sat down next to him. Check in and such was closed for the night so it wasn’t unusual for patrons with nothing better to do to find themselves at the bar. He did however look up when he heard the soft and friendly voice of Burne-Jones order a glass of whisky for himself. Their eyes met and Burne-Jones smiled.
“Do you mind if I take a seat, Mr Davis?” he asked kindly and Murray found himself shaking his head. He couldn’t exactly stop Burne-Jones even if he wanted to, the man was already sitting, but while he often preferred to drink in peace, he didn’t mind this small interruption. It wasn’t like he was super drunk anyway, so this should be fine.
The whisky arrived and Burne-Jones took a careful sip, as if testing the liquid before committing to it. He seemed to decide that the whisky was up to his standards and took a slightly bigger sip. Murray watched through the corner of his eyes. Burne-Jones wasn’t wearing his uniform, but the fact that he was a constable was still obvious. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong. Even off duty, he had that kind of regimental posture.
“I… hope you won’t mind…” Burne-Jones said quietly, his whisky glass half way to his lips as he glanced back at Murray. The manager slowly placed his own glass, now empty, on the bar counter. A quiet hum escaped his throat to show that he was listening.
“But… I’ve come to really like this hotel and my room. My investigation… is very important and I would really appreciate it if I could perhaps work on it here sometimes. You know… as a secondary office, kind of…” Burne-Jones trailed off after growing more and more uncertain the longer he talked. Murray, on the other hand, was ecstatic.
“You mean,” he started, clearing his throat to try and force down the excitement growing within him. Did that mean Burne-Jones wanted to return more often? “That you want to occupy your room… even when you’re not here. Like, you want that room permanently?”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Burne-Jones hurried to say. “I just… quite like it. And I could use a lot more breaks from the… sterile look of the police station.” He looked almost ashamed, Murray noted, and he couldn’t help but find it cute. Really cute, in fact.
“It’s not too much trouble at all,” Murray replied, somehow not sounding as tired as he had previously felt. Really, it was no trouble. Burne-Jones had already become the only person allowed to stay in that room, so Murray didn’t mind having an official reason.
The relief that flooded Burne-Jones’ face made the decision even more worth it. His features relaxed and his grip on the glass in his hand loosened somewhat. Even his posture became less rigid. Murray couldn’t help but smile. It felt like he smiled more with Burne-Jones than he had done during the entire previous year. Whatever this constable was doing to him, it was becoming more and more obvious… and while he didn’t want it to be obvious, he didn’t mind the feeling on its own.
“Thank you, Mr Davis,” Burne-Jones said respectfully, to which Murray shook his head.
“You can just call me Murray.”
“Alright then, Murray.”
A tinge of warmth spread through his entire body at the sound of his own first name on the constable’s lips.
“It’s no problem…” Murray said, trailing off in a meaningful tone. He was really curious now. What did Burne-Jones have as a first name? A quiet chuckle filled the air between them and the smirk on Burne-Jones’ lips told Murray that he was debating on telling him or not.
“Burnsy,” he said finally, making Murray’s smile falter. That’s not a first name at all. That’s a nickname. A cute one at that.
“Burnsy,” Murray repeated and tried to ignore how fuzzy it made him feel on the inside.
The two men continued to smalltalk for a while, going through a few whisky glasses each but not enough to get more than tipsy. Both of them had to get up in the morning after all and neither wanted their day to be joined by a hangover and a headache.
“Speaking of your investigation,” Murray said, pushing his empty glass away from himself, a sign that he was done drinking for the night. “What exactly is it that you’re investigating?” Burne-Jones paused, swept what was left of his drink and looked around theatrically, as if he was about to share some secret conspiracy. All of this was done with a small, playful smile though, so Murray didn’t think it was that serious. Playing along, Murray leaned in a bit closer for Bunre-Jones to whisper his reply.
“Foggy Jack.”
Murray’s eyes widened as he pulled back, his smile disappearing completely. Foggy Jack?
“So… he’s real?” Murray whispered back. This was not at all what he had been expecting, then again, it made sense. Burne-Jones had been promoted to lead an investigation. Said investigation was very important and required him to take more frequent breaks to not burn himself out. This proved that not only was the investigation important, but also that it was important that Burne-Jones was the one who investigated, meaning that Burne-Jones himself was, once again, important.
The constable made sure to appropriately lose his own smile.
“He’s not as active as people make it out to be but… yes. And, of course, most cases we deal with are “wannabees”, so it’s my job to separate the fake cases from the real ones and see what’s worth investigating.” Murray nodded along.
“Makes sense…” he managed to mumble out. Truth be told, he was still in somewhat of a shock. The cereal killer, the man Murray always thought had been a fake but effective way to get people to follow the laws about the curfew… was real.
“Obviously you can’t tell anyone.”
“Obviously,” Murray replied with a quick nod. He didn’t talk to as many people as Bunre-Jones apparently thought he did, so there weren’t many in his social circle who he would tell to begin with. However, the more important reason for his silence was that he didn’t want to disappoint the constable in front of him.
With Murray’s agreement, Burne-Jones gave one final smile and stood up from his chair.
“It’s been nice talking to you,” he said and placed a hand on Murray’s shoulder that lingered for just a moment too long. “But I should head to bed.”
“Yeah,” Murray managed to stutter out. “Likewise.” He watched Burne-Jones leave with a lingering feeling of disappointment. He wouldn’t have minded if Burne-Jones stayed for longer. He wouldn’t mind listening to the man talk and talk for hours about investigations and secret evidence and the general tediousness of police work and gossip that’s been floating around the station. It was like he had been given a small taste of how it would be to just sit and listen to that handsome, handsome man, and now he wanted more.
…
Murray took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to gather himself. The image of… Burnsy’s unmasked face had once again appeared in his head, and this time it was harder to shake than ever. Were Murray in his room in silence, he probably wouldn’t have minded the recurring picture, but he couldn’t exactly sit and fantasise right in the open area of the bar. Standing up as well, he decided that he should also be getting ready for bed. He had another long shift of not trusting his staff to work properly ahead of him tomorrow, and he knew he needed proper sleep for that. Standing up, Murray looked around like he did every time he left anywhere just in case he had forgotten anything. Luckily, he hadn’t. But Burne-Jones had. On the floor right next to Burne-Jones’ chair laid a constable’s keycard.
It was small and black with three green circles like dots on one end. The keycard basically gave the constables access to places normal wellies shouldn’t go, but it wasn’t like a constable to forget something like that. Burnley must have dropped it. Murray bent down and picked up the thin card, scolding himself for how quickly he had adapted to the nickname of the constable in his mind. They weren’t that close. Nicknames were received for close friends, family and… lovers.
Murray swallowed thickly as he made his way to the elevator, keycard in hand. Even if his own perception of how nicknames were used didn’t fit their relationship, Burnsy had pretty much given it to him. He was allowed to call the constable by that nickname, even if that only was in private. They weren’t family. And Murray wouldn’t classify them as close friends. So that left…
The low pling of the elevator was quickly followed by the opening of the sliding doors. Murray stepped out, his legs walking as if on autopilot as he made his way to Burne-Jones’ room. He knocked on the door and this time made sure to wait outside a few more seconds before entering, just in case Burne-Jones was once again without his mask.
“Yeah?” The voice was muffled from the other side of the door, but still undeniably the constable Murray had come to know and maybe love. The manager took that as an invitation to step inside, and he did so a lot slower than last time.
“You dropt thi-” Murray’s words died in his throat. Burne-Jones was standing there, right in front of him. No mask. That was an annoyingly attractive habit the taller man seemed to have. His skin was just as pale as it had been previously and his eyes just as soft. Apparently he had been on his way to opening the door for Murray when Murray had entered on his own. With his hand slightly extended to hold out the dropped keycard, Murray stared.
“Oh.” Burnsy reached for the card. “Thank you.” When their eyes met again, he gave Murray a wide, shining smile.
Murray had never felt his heart beat as quickly as it did. The sight of that smile accompanied with the rest of Burnsy’s face made his knees weak. And he only realised a second too late that his legs were actually bucking underneath him. Burne-Jones quickly stepped forward and wrapped his arms underneath Murray’s keeping him upright against his chest.
“Woah. Are you okay?” he asked, concern thick in his voice. Murray was once again left staring, this time from a slightly lower angle as he was leaning against the taller man’s strong chest.
“Yeah…” he mumbled in a quiet breath. This close, he could smell the subtle scent of the constable’s cologne.
Slowly, Murray regained the strength in his legs. He pushed his body back up, though he didn’t step away. Instead, his arms moved as if they had minds of their own, wrapping around Burne-Jones’ waist and pulling himself closer. The surprise on the constable’s face was short lived as he quickly tightened his own grip around Murray. When their lips met, it came as a surprise to neither, and Burne-Jones found himself smiling as Murray leaned on him once more.