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Carl hasn’t really dated anyone since the divorce. Sure, he’s been on dates and he has had one night stands (always at theirs, never at Carl’s), but nothing even resembling dating.
It has been enough for him, because he’s too old and jaded to really look for a relationship. He doesn’t party anymore, not that he ever really did. The apps are all naff. Finding someone at work is right out, because he has a bit of a reputation. He supposes that he could go with one of his younger colleagues, but he just doesn’t see the appeal. He can’t deal with a fresh-faced 25-year-old.
So he’s very much limited to people that James and Donna set him up with. The good thing about them playing matchmaker is that they know Carl swings both ways, as it were. The bad thing is that they take it as a personal affront when Carl declares yet again that there won’t be another date.
More often than not, his career is the nail in the coffin. On some level, he understands the appeal of a man in a uniform – not that he wears one. But the truth is that there’s no glamour to it. He doesn’t feel brave or heroic, most days he just feels tired. Violence isn’t exciting for him, it’s just a fact of life that usually comes with a fuckton of paperwork. Not many people outside of the force seem to understand that.
His dating life dries up entirely after getting shot in the neck. His temper gets worse. His patience wears down until it’s paper thin. He grows gaunt under his beard and fringe. He loses sleep, and doesn’t even think about spending what little energy he has to try and get a leg over.
Of course, his interest gets piqued sometimes, like when he meets Dr. Rachel Irving. She’s attractive and intelligent, and completely immune to Carl’s bullshit, and Carl likes that, but he doesn’t act on it. It doesn’t seem right. Besides, once Carl gets his head out of his arse and tries to take the therapy seriously, he gets the sense that Rachel is firmly off-limits. And he’s fine with that.
And sometimes, his interest gets piqued by the strangest of people. Like Akram Salim.
He’s attractive in his own way, if you’re into 70s mustaches and sweater vests, and Carl discovers that he might just be. He’s doing the man a disservice, though, and he knows it. Akram is attractive. He has wide, expressive eyes and a sharp jawline. Underneath the sweater vests, he must be fairly fit. He’s kind and gentle and perceptive, and damn persuasive when he wants to be.
And he’s competent, in a frighteningly efficient way. Carl didn’t know he liked that, until he’s looking at Akram from the corner of his eye one day in the basement – pardon, office.
Akram is typing without looking at the keyboard, his eyes looking back and forth between the screen and a case file in front of him. His movements are fast, but not rushed. His suit jacket is hanging on the back of his chair, and he’s in his shirtsleeves. Carl knows that he’s supposed to be in charge of this department, but sometimes, he feels that for all intents and purposes, Akram is the one running this circus.
And honestly, it would probably be better if he was. He has a knack for organization that Carl lacks. He reads the case files with an astonishing attention to detail. He remembers Rose’s birthday and brings her the same pastries he used to weasel his way in here.
That, too, Carl likes. His determination.
But Akram would also be wasted as head of the department. There are many responsibilities that come with managing a team instead of counting the minutes to his retirement alone in a basement as Moira had intended. Carl has no qualms about shirking these responsibilities or meeting them to the bare minimum if he really has to. Akram, he knows, would strive for perfection, taking him away from where he is needed the most: the casework.
All in all, Akram Salim is a competent, handsome man, and Carl quite likes looking at him from afar. He’ll decide, soon enough, that Akram is much too valuable to department Q to even think about trying anything with him, and that’s all it will be. Interest piqued, attraction acknowledged.
—
As the months pass, Carl starts to doubt his earlier assessment. At first, he thinks it’s just the proximity. He sees Akram 40 hours a week and spends a large chunk of those 40 hours in close proximity to the man. In the car, in the office. Sitting next to him on strange sofas as they talk to witnesses and suspects. Carl attacks them with his questions, riling them up. Akram, in turn, soothes them with gentle prompts that cause them to reveal far more than they intended.
They work well together, Carl and Akram. It’s give and take, push and pull, equal forces of opposite effect balancing out to an equilibrium of sorts. It’s not the easy camaraderie that Carl shares with James, but then again, he’s never wanted to have James in his bed.
When Akram takes his two weeks leave, and travels to Turkey with his daughters, Carl finds himself distraught. Not only because he’s become accustomed to having Akram around, but because he’s worried. Akram had chosen Turkey, because it’s the closest he will get to Syria. Family members will meet them there and Akram will have a safe holiday. Still, Carl worries. He doesn’t pay a lot of attention to foreign affairs, but he knows enough about the tensions in mainland Europe.
He tells himself that the worry is merely collegial, and doesn’t believe himself for a moment.
Akram comes back unharmed and glowing, bearing souvenirs for the team. There’s sweets for Rose and a ceramic dish with an intricate pattern for James, who grins at Akram. “Oh, Donna’s going to love this,’’ he says. “I think she may divorce me to marry you.’’
“I worry for the state of your marriage, then,’’ Akram says, good-natured as always.
To Carl, Akram brings a blue glass pendant with concentric circles of white, blue and black. He presses it into Carl’s hand and his touch is almost shockingly warm. Carl turns the pendant between his fingers and risks a questioning look at Akram.
“Nazar boncuğu,’’ Akram says. “Protection from evil. Some say it also absorbs negativity.’’
Carl swears that he can hear a tease in Akram’s voice, although the man’s face never changes. Still, Carl likes to imagine that there’s a glint of mirth in Akram’s eye.
“Thank you, I feel very protected,’’ he says drolly. Later, he hangs the pendant on the Sierra’s rearview mirror.
—
Carl hates teambuilding exercises. Before Akram, he would have never gone to the paintball game Moira decides to organise to boost morale and facilitate relationships or some other bullshit. In fact, as head of department Q, he would probably have threatened to fire James and Rose if they went. But the invitation arrives in everyone’s mailboxes and Rose coos, “Oh, shall we?’’ and Akram replies, “I have never played, but I would like to,’’ and just like that it’s decided.
He’s sweating under the stupid onesie as he gleefully takes out one of the junior detectives, who’s just a little too incompetent for Carl’s taste. Somewhere to his right, he can hear Rose’s scream as she’s presumably hit, and he decides to take cover behind an old barrel.
No sooner has he crouched down when there’s movement in his peripheral vision. Carl whips his eyes towards the movement and for his trouble, gets to watch Akram aim straight at him and then hit him square in the shoulder.
“Fuck!’’ Getting hit really hurts and he presses his hand to the neon pink splotch, as if to put pressure on a wound.
Akram walks over to him, calm as you please and extends his arm to pull Carl up. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings, Carl,’’ he says calmly, pats Carl on the other shoulder, and turns on his heel to go and shoot some more paint at unsuspecting colleagues.
“You shouldn’t shoot your superiors!’’ Carl yells after him and goes to the time-out box to wait for resurrection.
Later in the dressing room, after Akram has managed to take out most of the field and is declared winner of the inaugural paintball game, and Carl has made suitably proud noises about department Q taking the win by association, James lets out a low whistle as Carl takes his shirt off.
“Someone got you good,’’ James says, pointing at Carl’s shoulder, where an impressive bruise is starting to appear.
Carl points at James’ own bruises and turns around, only to be faced with a shirtless Akram. He watches the muscles on Akram’s back move as he pulls on a clean undershirt, aware that he’s staring, but completely unwilling to look away. I’m paying attention, Akram, he thinks.
Akram turns around and Carl hopes that his face doesn’t betray what he’s thinking. The man’s eyes travel to Carl’s shoulder and his brow furrows. “I am very sorry,’’ he says, in a voice that doesn’t sound sorry at all.
“No, you’re not,’’ Carl counters, expecting Akram to say something about how he didn’t mean to hurt Carl.
Instead, Akram meets Carl’s gaze head on. “No, I am not. I hope it teaches you to pay attention.’’
Carl can swear that he can see something familiar in Akram’s eyes, something he can’t quite decipher. His mind screeches to a halt and all clever retorts die before they can become real sentences.
“Fuck you,’’ he says weakly and pulls his t-shirt back on. As the fabric settles against his skin, he realises that it’s the sweaty one, not the clean one he meant to change into. Motherfucker.
—
A case takes them to the Orkneys. It’s a bitch to get there and in recognition of the fact, they’ve left the Sierra at home and taken a car from the station’s pool, a sleek Focus with twice the comforts and half the personality.
When he’s driving, Carl keeps his eyes on the road and occasionally makes an idle comment on the landscape or a passing car. He’s keenly aware of Akram next to him, but driving is just stimulating enough to keep a hold of his attention. Every now and then, he finds himself humming along to the radio under his breath and stops abruptly, feeling Akram’s gaze on him every time.
When Akram drives, Carl makes an effort to look at the road passing by and tries to entertain himself by swiping through the settings on the car’s touchscreen. Eventually, he finds himself looking at Akram from the corner of his eye and just hopes that he’s not being too obvious.
Akram’s left hand is on the bottom of the steering wheel, his grip sure, but not tight. His right elbow rests on the door and the fingertips of his right hand trace idle patterns on the top of the wheel. Carl hasn’t paid attention to Akram’s hands before, but now that he is, he can’t stop.
Akram’s hands are sure, but now that Carl thinks about it, they are almost never still. They’re always doing something, typing, arranging, smoothing, doodling. In idle moments, the beads come out, seemingly from nowhere, and Akram worries them between his fingers as he listens or reads or watches Carl argue with James.
Carl would very much like to offer himself up if Akram needs something in his hands. It is an extremely unhelpful thought, given that they only have each other for company until they get back to Edinburgh tomorrow. It is also an extremely appealing thought.
Using a considerable amount of self-control, Carl turns his gaze out of the window, and tries to focus on the Scottish landscape passing by.
—
Later, after mooching around and pissing off a few locals by being too nosy and then having a lazy dinner in the nearest pub, Akram invites himself to Carl’s hotel room. Carl prepares himself for a discussion of the case. They haven’t really made any headway, but there is a potential lead to follow up on tomorrow, and all in all, it’s looking promising.
“So what do you think?” Carl asks, shrugging off his jacket and flopping on the surprisingly decent bed, not caring a bit if it’s bad manners. He’s actually exhausted, equal parts from the drive, the work and the added task of keeping his attraction to Akram from boiling over.
“I think, Carl, that you should stop staring. It is rude,” Akram says, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, looking Carl straight in the eye.
Whatever thoughts may have been running through Carl’s mind screech to a halt. He’s a deer caught in headlights, and though he’s made running his mouth basically a trademark, he finds himself completely lost for words.
Like most men his age and upbringing, Carl isn’t exactly in touch with his emotions, so it’s hard to give a name to the storm inside him. He’s ashamed to have been caught; angry and defensive in the face of Akram’s unflinching honesty; and afraid that he’s cocked up a perfectly good working relationship.
But Akram has been looking back, hasn’t he? A traitorous voice whispers somewhere in the back of Carl’s mind. Carl chases it away; he’s projecting, grasping at straws to save face.
He coughs to clear his throat. “Apologies. I’ll mind my manners.” He aims for dry sarcasm, but the words come out flat and pathetic.
Akram shrugs out of his parka. He’s in a light blue shirt and a particularly nice sweater vest today that does unfair things to his shoulders and thus to Carl’s sanity. It’s extremely unhelpful, because they’re apparently going to talk about Carl’s unwelcome and unprofessional interest in those same shoulders, among other things.
“I did not say I wanted you to stop.” Again, calm as you please, Akram is giving a masterclass in controlled burn. He unbuttons his left cuff and slowly rolls the sleeve up. Carl swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
“You quite literally did, though. You said I should stop staring,” Carl points out as he tries to crush down the terrifying, intoxicating mix of anxiety and arousal in his chest. Akram wouldn’t be so cruel, he wouldn’t tease, but Carl can’t quite believe that they’re having this conversation at all.
“I am sorry, I meant that you should stop only staring,” Akram says and stands next to the bed, his knees against the mattress and Carl has no choice but to look up at him, “if you are not going to touch.”
There’s a beat where Carl feels paralysed, unable to move, to breathe. Then, before he can think about it too much, he reaches out his hand and wraps his fingers gently around Akram’s left wrist.
He thinks he can hear Akram’s breath hitch, sees his lips part just slightly. Again, terrified of losing his nerve, Carl chooses not to think too much and pulls. Akram tumbles down on top of him and it’s awkward and ungraceful and for fuck’s sake, they’re two grown men –
But then there are lips on his and it doesn’t matter if it’s awkward, because it’s hot and somehow both extremely fulfilling and not enough at the same time. Carl loses himself in the slide of Akram’s lips against his, in the feel of Akram’s hair under his fingers, in the solid weight of Akram on top of him; loses himself in Akram completely.
—
“I told you to stop staring,” Akram murmurs, although his eyes are closed. Soft morning light filters in through the slit in the curtains and paints Akram’s skin a light bronze.
Carl reaches out his hand and runs it over Akram’s bare chest, which is exactly as trim as Carl imagined. “There, I’m staring and touching,” he says and tries not to panic over the swell of affection in his chest when Akram huffs a laugh at his words.
He moves his hand up, fingers trailing over the hair on Akram’s chest and up over his Adam’s apple. When they reach his jaw, Akram takes Carl’s hand in his and – his eyes still closed – brings it to his lips. The kiss he plants on Carl’s knuckles is soft and reverent, and steals Carl’s breath away. It’s far too tender, far too intimate, so Carl prays to any and all deities – none of which he actually believes in – that Akram will forgive him for ruining the mood a little. His head is still spinning from last night and the fantasies they fulfilled and he knows that they have to talk about it sometime soon, because now that he’s had a taste, Carl will not, cannot, go back to just looking. But it’ll have to wait until they’re back home.
“You know,” he says, reasoning that Akram knew what Carl is like and wanted to have him anyway, “you could’ve said something before we booked and paid for two hotel rooms.”
At that, Akram finally opens his eyes and levels Carl with a singularly unimpressed look. He doesn’t let go of Carl’s hand, though.