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Officer Tim Derry had not pulled a proper all-nighter in nearly a decade. He had belatedly realised that his body hadn’t the endurance to withstand such a feat and had begun slowly punishing him for pushing himself so hard. His eyes threatened to flutter shut and his head began to throb as he tried to read and reread the paragraph in front of him.
Unbelievably, the sun was breaking. A grey hue was increasingly lighting up the walls of the police station which had previously been lit only by his desk lamp and the ever bright LED sign posted right outside his window. Tim could feel the miserably brisk morning seep throughout the building and across the concrete floor, aided by the daily fog that fell upon Denbrook nearly year-round. He shivered and cursed himself for always forgetting to call the village maintenance over to look at his heater; the small inconvenience feeling exponentially worse due to his sleep deprived state.
Tim just knew he looked undone too. His undershirt felt tacky and gross after being worn and sweat in for twenty-four hours and counting, his blue uniform shirt unbuttoned and hanging off him quite unprofessionally. His hair felt oily and most definitely looked a mess due to his tendency to unconsciously run his fingers through the thin strands. He had no idea where he’d thrown his cap, but at least he knew where his tie was—the soft black fabric inelegantly bunched up on his desk atop scattered papers and printed out photographs which he had received en masse not even ten minutes after making his impulsive arrangement with that nosey yet admittedly useful reporter.
Tim often prided himself in his wilful optimism, but he hadn’t even the energy to appreciate what would usually be a calming sunrise over his dear Denbrook. Blearily, he scanned the mysterious book held close to his face in hopes the proximity would help with his focus. The mysterious book he had of course been gifted the previous evening and what had ultimately spurred him into his mistake of a sleepless night. It had been left for him by a good meaning Samaritan, a bad actor trying to lead him astray, or perhaps by that gaggle of George’s sheep that had been haunting him since the poor bloke had passed… though Tim had decidedly barred himself from considering the implications of that last possibility for his own mind’s sake.
Either way, the book had given him a proper first step in his investigation. He had done decently back in his training days, passing his exams and practicals in an average sort of way. Reading this mysterious little book had him scrambling to remember what all he had learned about investigating more serious crimes. He wasn’t sure if it were a good thing or a bad thing he hadn’t much experience in all this, but he was sure of the fact he needed to shape up and quickly.
Means, Motive, Opportunity. Means, Motive, Opportunity. He glanced over at his hastily constructed diagram and felt his onset headache worsening. The mere idea that any of these folks were capable of murdering old George made him an empty sort of ill he could feel down his throat. He wished he could decide not to think about it. He wished he could simply pretend George had died of a heart attack or by some other nonintentional or accidental or natural means. But he wasn’t in the business of pretending things were different, not now at least. It was his duty to his community to figure this plot out. So, despite his eyes shaking in exhaustion, he forced his focus back on the book in his hands and tried his hardest to once again reread the same paragraph he had been stuck on for the past ten minutes.
It was perhaps another ten minutes of this same struggle before the door of the police station slammed open, startling Tim so badly the book fell right of his hands and flopped uselessly onto the floor. His body’s instinct was to follow after it, bending at the waist while sitting in his chair to pick it up and promptly banging his head against the side of his desk. The expletives that came from his mouth were rough and offensive and he belatedly whipped his head up to see who had decided to intrude into his station so early in the morning.
With a hand against his smarting crown, his gaze quickly tracked up the exasperatingly fit body of one Elliot Matthews. The younger man stood by the entrance with a grimacing smile, gripping a cardboard cup carrier that held two large coffees.
“Officer Hero.” Elliot greeted, smile turning into something of a smarmy grin. Tim dropped his head and groaned.
“Good morning, Mister Matthews.” He responded, hauling himself up to greet his lovely guest properly. He tossed the book onto his mess of a desk and took a step forward, realising quickly once again just how exhausted he was; his vision swimming and his step faltering enough for him to pause and reorient himself.
Elliot waited a moment, allowing Tim to regain his composure, before clearing his throat and speaking in a way that was both hesitant and petulant, “I asked that quaint barista across the street what you drink in the morning. She informed me that your preference was a… goat’s milk cappuccino. I honestly cannot fathom whether that was a joke or not, but either way…” He picked one of the coffee cups out of the carrier and lifted it towards the officer with a shrug.
Tim was so pleased that he completely forgot to feel insulted at Elliot’s discourteous attitude. As it were, goat’s milk cappuccinos were indeed Tim’s favourite way to have his coffee and the vision of Elliot, arm outstretched, gifting him such a treat was comparable to a vision of an angel from heaven itself. A fit, preppy, blond sort of angel. With glasses. And a crochet tie.
He approached with a dopey smile and reached for the drink with one hand, the other instinctually raising to pat the younger man on the head as he said, “That’s a good boy, Elliot.”
Tim turned and moved back towards his desk, glorious cappuccino in hand, completely oblivious to the way Elliot’s jaw slackened and face flushed red. The officer took a sip of his rich coffee, moaning in delight at the taste and feeling in that moment just a little bit better. When he faced Elliot again, he barely took note of how the other man was staring at the cup in his own hands intently, expression near mortified. Rather, Tim launched into his explanation of his diagram with a renewed sense of vigour.
It wouldn’t be until later that evening, after a long day of interviewing and sleuthing and detecting, did Officer Tim Derry process what exactly he had said and done that morning. As he lie in bed recounting the contents of his busy day, dozing to the soft nightly drizzle pattering against his windows, the recent memory shot through his exhausted body like a taser shock. He covered his face with his hands and groaned loudly, hoping that Elliot hadn’t thought anything of it.
Tim of course was unaware that Elliot Matthews had indeed thought something of it and honestly had not stopped thinking about it since it happened. The reporter, as it were, was laying in his own bed at the Partridge Inn with his own face in his hands, blushing and confused as to why on earth he had gotten so flustered by such an incompetent oaf of an officer. For a moment, he had even thought Tim had been appealing with his undone shirt and mussed up hair and how much taller he was compared to Elliot. What the hell was Tim thinking calling him a good boy and petting him like a dog. Elliot’s heart was racing in indignation. It had to be indignation. And with that same sense of indignation, Elliot found himself ordering a goat’s milk cappuccino the very next morning.