Chapter Text
The first time he sees her he wonders if she is even of legal age, let alone if she indeed is the hotshot sergeant everyone is talking about. Her reputation precedes her: she has worked for Interpol, helping to bring down a sex trafficking ring – she has also an impressive academic curriculum.
In the weeks before her transfer becomes official, D. I. William Melbourne hears a lot of things about her and dismisses the rumors as it is his habit; if half the rumors he knows exists about him were true he wouldn’t have time to actually solve crimes, he would be too busy shagging each woman in the Met or drink himself into an ethylic coma.
That said – he doesn’t expect her.
She is young. God, she truly looks like a kid! She is short and thin, she has long dark brown hair pulled up in a bun, huge blue eyes, delicate features, she is dressed in black and he must look like an idiot, which he hates, because part and parcel of his job, the thing that has kept him there, despite everything, is his ability to think on his feet and the fact that, according to his mother, he has chosen the wrong profession: he should have worked in politics.
“I want to catch the bad guys, not be one of them!” He told her once, what it feels like a lifetime before.
His – well, their, boss, their inspector, looks like he wants to smile at the scene in front of him. He looks like the cat that ate the canary. He hates him.
“Detective Inspector Melbourne, this is sergeant Kent.” He says. And that surname, while not uncommon, it carries a weight at Scotland Yard and MI5, MI6 – and right up the chain of command in England.
Kent. Like – chief Kent? Like – those Kents?
The polite smile on the girl’s lips fades as soon as she realises that he has made the connection and he genuinely feels bad for her; God knows whether he has borne his share of assumptions about his life and his choices through the years.
The girl – no, woman, damn it! – could have chosen to do what most of the women in her family did: be a barrister, a politician – or just enjoy the wealth and the power of her family, instead there she is, a mere sergeant for Scotland Yard, just partnered with an old tosser like him.
“Nice to meet you, Sergeant.” He says.
Her hand is delicate, soft, but her grip is surprisingly strong when she shakes his hand.
“Likewise, detective inspector.” She says. She is a lousy liar. How did she smuggle her way into an international sex trafficking ring is beyond him.
She is to be his partner.
Bollocks, that cannot end well!
First: he doesn’t do partners. He works with his colleagues, he is a team player, but having a partner is a right pain in the arse!
Second – she is a kid, he can’t help wondering how old is she, and perhaps there is some truth to the rumor that she is very good at reading people because on the way out, after their boss instructs them on what to do, she casually says, “Just so you know, Melbourne, I’ll be thirty next month!”
He doesn’t reply. His first cutting reply resting just the tip of his tongue, the one he stops just in time is, “Good for you, kid!”
The second is – weirder. He has no idea where it comes from and it is, “thank God she’s not that young!”
He is not sure why he is thanking God. She is his partner. And he is an agnostic.
“I’ll drive,” She says, snatching the car’s keys from his hands.
“Why?” He asks.
She smiles, and it’s a true smile, not the polite one she’s given him in their boss’ office: she has dimples and her eyes sparkle when she smiles.
“First,” She says once they get into the car, “You’re the senior agent, so protocol dictates that I have got to drive. Second – I haven’t been in London for ages!”
He chuckles. He can’t help it. Only someone who has not been in London for a while would ever want to drive there.
“Be my guest, sergeant Kent!” He says.
“Call me Victoria, please!” She replies casually and she grins, before starting the car.
Bugger. He thinks as he fastens his seat belt. Does she remember that in England they drive on the left?
Victoria may be royalty as far as Scotland Yard and the police are concerned, she might have been a rising star at Interpol, but she truly has no idea about how things really work in the streets. She is a fast learner, though.
It takes William exactly twenty-four hours to understand just how good exactly Victoria is at her job and how she might have pulled off her undercover job.
It is not the kind of thing he usually does. He doesn’t particularly like undercover jobs, not even temporary ones, but it is necessary. Duty is more than just an abstract concept for him.
“Let me do the talking,” He says before, while they are in the car, outside the seedy club where they have to meet their targets: they are small fishes, mere links in a very large chain, but people are dying because of a new drug and William needs to stop that.
She cocks a delicate eyebrow at him, she seems to consider his words for a moment, nods to herself and says, “Give me a second?”
Time is not exactly a luxury they have, but he has been an arse to her in their boss’ office the day before and he absolutely believes in being fair to people. He hasn’t been given the same courtesy.
He nods his assent and watches her as she undoes a button of her white shirt, unclasps her hair which falls down in long waves around her face and shoulders. He blinks his eyes, he suddenly feels like in one of those movies where the female protagonist reveals her beauty, hidden in a male dominated world, by letting her hair loose on her shoulders.
He usually rolls his eyes seeing those scenes, but in real life – it’s different. Sergeant Kent – is beautiful. Too much.
“You still look like a copper.” He says in a flat tone, instead.
And I feel like a dirty, old man. He thinks for a moment and squelches that thought violently. That is not the time or the place to think about those sort of things. They have work to do! And he has told her the truth: she still looks like a copper – a breathtakingly hot one, but a copper nevertheless.
Her smile is bright for a moment as if he had paid her the greatest compliment, but when she speaks there are no traces of her decidedly posh accent and when she undoes another button of her shirt he can only say, “You’ll do.”
She plays the dumb bimbo: the sort of woman people underestimate, the one who oozes sensuality and vulnerability and a ‘shag me senseless’ attitude. Right before they get out of the car, she rummages through her purse and takes a pair of earrings and a bracelet.
The suit might be austere, but the jewels she wears and the way she sways her hips and walks on her high heels (he had noticed the shoes, made a note to himself to broach the subject to her without being considered a sexist arsehole) all but scream “escort”.
It works. She doesn’t know whom she is dealing with, not truly, and she relies on him for that; she just plays her part, letting him do most of the talking, but getting some useful info herself.
And if he wants to punch the Russian guy who gets too handsy with her, he tells himself that it’s perfectly normal: Victoria is his responsibility, he is her partner. He has to.
He is not sure he truly believes that.
They call her Queenie behind her back or Her Majesty. Word about her family, how powerful it truly is starts spreading. For his part William only sees that she works hard: she is often already at her desk when he arrives in the morning and leaves even later than he does. She never complains about the paperwork, she is frustrated with red tape like all of them and even if some of their colleagues (and he uses that term broadly) give her a hard time, she is a team player.
He is surprised when he realises that he likes working with Victoria, he genuinely does: she is smart, she has a wicked sense of humor, not unlike his own, and she has a good heart. They spend most of their working hours together, she is humble and seems to value his expertise and he likes that, just like him, she ignores interoffice gossip. They are partners and before he knows it, their partnership becomes something he cherishes – it makes him fall in love with his job all over again.
It takes him a while, months actually – and Emma Portman’s best: ‘what in the bloody hell, Will?’ face on a crime scene to realise that things have gotten more complicated than he had anticipated, and it happens when he finally notices that Victoria and him had been sharing a cup of coffee on a crime scene. Somehow it feels natural, it has felt so for weeks, actually. It’s something they do. It is not a big deal.
Until it is.
Emma Portman is on forensics. He is glad when she is on forensics on his cases: they have known each other for most of their lives, since when he was just a kid sitting law and she was studying medicine, back when joining Scotland Yard was the last thing on both of their minds; she always knows what he needs from her and she has an almost preternatural talent at scraping up DNA and fingerprints from seemingly thin air. She is very good.
Emma is also one of his best friends – when his life turned into a nightmare she has been the one who helped him pick up the pieces and he has done the same with her.
“What the fuck?” She whispers while Victoria is talking to one of their witnesses and they are looking at the body on the crime scene.
“I’m sorry?” He says. He is genuinely puzzled.
Emma looks at the huge cup of coffee in his hand, the one Victoria handed him after slurping on it, she glances at his partner and repeats, “What. The. Fuck?”
William blinks his eyes and looks at the Styrofoam cup in his hand, Victoria doesn’t wear lipstick, but he can’t help looking at the spot from where she has drunk her – their coffee.
Before he can say anything – and he has no idea about what he might say – or Emma can, Victoria joins them, he feels like he’s watching his body and the scene from the outside: he sees himself wordlessly handing Victoria the mug and how she drinks from it, before passing it back to him, the way they are standing close, perhaps too close, how she rolls her eyes at something a constable mumbles about her nib deigning to examine the body; he sees the way he scowls at the constable (he will later remind the young prick of what hierarchy and chain of command really means.) and how he watches Victoria.
He realises he can’t tear his eyes off of her when she goes back to talk to the witnesses, asking questions about the victim, and her impressive academic curriculum pays off: she is good. No, more than that - she is brilliant!
“Do you know that they call her Mrs. Melbourne?” Emma says when Victoria is not within earshot.
He has learned to tune out gossip, he has had to, or he wouldn’t have survived the nightmare his personal life has become. But that is – new.
“No!” He says and his voice comes out sharp and high, so much that Victoria looks at him from the other side of the room with an inquisitive look on her face.
“I’m just sayin’,” Emma says.
“Can we pay attention to the murder?” He snaps. He knows Victoria is still looking at him. And that is something he has noticed before, he has gotten used to it, but – it feels different in that cramped room, with a dead body on the pavement and what it feels like half of Scotland Yard there.
“Of course, detective inspector,” Emma says, but her, “it’s not over and by the way: fuck you!” is loud and clear for him to hear.
Emma’s words open a floodgate for him. It feels like everyone is talking about Victoria and him. He finds out that they indeed call Victoria Mrs. Melbourne – but they also call him Prince Consort.
He has been – at the centre of gossip for years, he has always ignored useless drivel, he has never cared about it, or at least he has developed such a thick skin that words truly can’t touch him, but – he can’t stop thinking about the few snippets he becomes privy of; they are lies, of course – and completely unfair toward Victoria, who never even mentions her family and works hard to prove that she is good at what she does.
Victoria notices he is out of sorts. Of course, she does. She is a trained investigator and they spend too much time together. They are in his office, going over the witnesses’ depositions when she asks, “Is there a problem, William?”
He has been reading from the same page for what it feels like hours, and he isn’t sure he remembers a word of what he has read.
“No, everything is fine, why?” William asks.
She arches an eyebrow, he notices that some locks of hair are framing her face, her blue shirt is rumpled, her jacket is neatly folded on a chair, his desk is littered with reports and empty cups of coffee, they have been working for hours, she has a smudge of what it looks like black powder on her left jaw and William is man enough to admit that he wants to kiss her. Right then and right there in his office.
Which is surprising, considering he wasn’t even aware of his attraction to Victoria until that morning. Which is also highly inappropriate – they are partners, but he is, technically speaking, her superior.
“Is everything okay with Emma?” She asks. Her voice is tentative, and it is also the first time she has asked a personal question since they have been working together.
“Everything is – fine.” He says. He has the feeling one of them has missed something. He is contemplating to bang his head against his desk, on principle. He does nothing.
“Good.” She says, “I’m happy – she seems like a good woman.” Victoria says.
He wants to tell her that Emma is just a friend, he truly does instead he mumbles, “You have a smudge on your face…”
She uses a napkin – but misses the spot and it is like a trainwreck he can’t stop – he can only watch it happen: he reaches toward her and wipes away the smudge on her jaw with his thumb.
They lock gazes. He is good at his job, he is supposed to be a good detective, his commendations and crime solve rate should confirm that – and yet he feels like a moron.
He is a moron.
He is also in love with his partner and, apparently, is the last person who has noticed.
No. That is not correct – Victoria hasn’t noticed. And she doesn’t have to. Ever.
He reconsiders his stance on agnosticism for a moment because for some divine intervention no one has seen him tenderly wipe a smudge from Victoria’s jaw. Considering that the door was open and people barge into his office all the bloody time, it is a minor miracle.
Victoria looks startled, her blue eyes look huge for a moment and she stammers something about being late, grabs her jacket and her notebook and leaves his office.
She doesn’t slam the door on her way out, but William sort of feels like she has.
He is so buggered!
“Damn!” thump, “Damn!” thump, “Damn! Ow!” Victoria massages her forehead. Banging her head against the steering wheel had felt like a good idea once inside the safety of her car.
Turns out – it isn’t.
She starts the car – and despite her current state of mind and the blooming headache due to her stupidly thinking that banging her head against the steering wheel might solve anything, she can’t help smiling a little thinking about William’s remarks about her car and the fact that she had missed driving in London.
Her smile fades – God, what has she done?
One of the downsides of having most of her family in politics, police and secret services is that they all have felt, at one point or another, the need to advise her or warn her. Lately they have all warned her against William.
Her mother, whose biggest accomplishment in life has been to marry her father and her step father, has been the first to warn her against William.
“Be careful, Drina – that man is a well known womanizer.” Her mother said.
And she hates that she used that stupid endearment from when she was a child.
A womanizer. William. Her William.
They don’t know him.
She can’t bang her head against the steering wheel, not while she is driving – but her grip on it tightens. Her William? Really?
She has always ignored gossip and rumors – but she can admit, now, that she was wary before meeting William Melbourne. All she remembers now, months later, about their first meeting, was the almost comical look of surprise on his face while looking at her. It was a step up, people usually take a look at her, learn her surname and dismiss her.
William, instead, has done nothing of the sort: he has gotten over his initial shock quickly and since then he has trusted her to do her job and to be his partner.
Partners look out for each other – and that’s what they have done since the first day: she trusted him while undercover and he did not disappoint her.
Partners spend a lot of time together, it comes with the job, it’s natural. And they spend most of their time together: he has showed her the ropes, what it truly means to be a copper in London. He is honest, decent, smart and the least judgmental person she has ever met. He is compassionate, he has never lost his humanity, despite having been in the force for most of his adult life.
He respects her, not because of her family or because he has to – but because he values her as a fellow officer.
Partners develop a strong bond: spending so much time together it is only natural that it happens.
“And here I go and botch things up!” She says aloud in the empty car.
There is a sadness about William – a sense of loneliness that she has noticed very early in their partnership. He has never volunteered any personal information about his life and she has respected the boundaries, thinking that it was the least she could do.
He has never asked her why on Earth would she even contemplate to be a copper when she could either enjoy her family’s money or analyse data for MI5, like she was expected to do given her background and education.
So, she has never asked, she has noticed the lack of personal stuff in his office, but she has refrained from asking any questions, she has made a point of tuning out each and every gossip about him, she has told her uncle that no, she would not read her partner’s personal file, yes she was serious, no she would burn the blasted thing if he sent it to her and no, he had not made a pass at her.
For the first time in her life, while working with William, she has felt at ease, like she can be whatever she wants to be, she has felt free – the kind of freedom that she has tried so hard to achieve, that prompted her to work for Interpol in the arse end of Europe, as far away from her family as she could. She can now bear to be in London because she feels like she belongs, she feels home and she owes it to William.
Partners are not supposed to – be attracted to one another. That is absolutely forbidden. It goes against the rules and against basic common sense.
She is not blind. She vividly remembers looking at him for the first time, in their chief’s office and thinking that those cheekbones, combined with those green eyes and long, dark lashes should be illegal – and that had been before he had even talked or moved.
She remembers playing the part of the escort, during their brief undercover job, on their first official day as partners, she remembers the feeling of walking side by side, his hand on the small of her back, the possessive look in his eyes as one of their targets thought it was within his rights to fondle her breasts – and how a small part of her had liked that look on his partner’s face. And how he had merely cocked an eyebrow when, hours later, she had accidentally on purpose kneed the Russian guy in the groin.
Boundaries are necessary. There is a reason for rules and she believes in duty. Her family has been the epitome of Queen (or King) and Country for generations – and there she goes, falling in love with her partner.
It’s late, there is not a lot of traffic and she parks the car in front of her flat and she cannot move, for a moment. She is in love with William.
People have been gossiping about them since the very first days of their partnership, she knows that – she has been made aware of some of the gossip and her first thought, at the time, was the hope William would not hear it. He loathes gossip as much as she does, he keeps his personal life so tightly under wraps partly because of the gossip about him, she thinks. And some of that gossip about him is so – vile that she has to rely on her discipline not to defend him, she knows it would only harm him in the long run. The last thing William Melbourne needs is ‘Her Majesty’ coming to his rescue.
He has the reputation of a womanizer, but he always been utterly professional with her, he has never, ever made a pass at her or any woman they have met, for that matter. He is a gentleman, charmingly so when they are alone, but there are boundaries – and besides, he does not look like he is interested in her.
Half the yard thinks they are shagging – and they have no idea that she is in love with him and has just realised that. Half the Yard thinks they have hot, steamy sex whenever and wherever they can – but they have not heard and seen him talking to Emma Portman.
They have not noticed, apparently, the familiarity and intimacy of their interaction or his outrage at the mere mention of one her monikers: Mrs. Melbourne.
They haven’t seen the terrified look in his eyes as he wiped a smudge away from her face, looked at her and surely realised that she was that close to kiss him, right there, in his office. Protocol, duty and rules be damned.
She hides her face in her hands and lets out a muffled scream. She can’t lose him.
Besides, he is probably in a relationship with Dr. Portman.
She loves working with him – she has become a better officer thanks to him, she loves the easy camaraderie between them, how they spend hours together and time flies, how they look out for each other and how their methods are complementary.
She loves that, when stuck in traffic, they talk about telly or books they have read or want to, and one memorable time, a few weeks after they became partners, they both got chills and goosebumps when they heard snippets of David Bowie’s Space Oddity coming from a nearby car.
She can’t lose him. She just can’t.
Emma’s sofa and him go way back. He has crashed on that monstrosity more times than he cares to admit. It’s comfortable and he needs comfort. He is also on the way of being drunk and he knows that Emma is patiently waiting for him to either talk or pass out.
He’d rather pass out, truth be told, but he also knows that Emma will eventually make him talk – she should have been a detective, she is one of the best interrogators he has ever met – so he decides to man up and says, “I’m buggered.”
She makes a non committal sound at his words, she is still nursing her first beer, he has sort of lost count of how many he has had since barging into her flat shortly after Victoria left his office.
“No, I am.” He says.
“Oh, William –“ She says shaking her head.
There is a world of meaning in those two words: it’s a lifetime of friendship – and her witnessing his life falling apart, of losing hope and become bitter and jaded, it’s her helping him organizing two funerals when he wished to be dead and letting him crash on her couch for weeks because the idea of going back to his flat was simply unthinkable. It’s her helping him pack things and sell that flat, and being there for him at the end of the day when he could barely function.
It’s her telling him to move on with his life and him never having the heart to tell her, “What life? What is the point?”
It’s her telling him, once, that she wished all those rumors about him being a womanizer were true, because it would mean he was living again.
It’s him not telling her that he could shag his way through London and it still would not change things.
“What happened?” She asks.
“You bloody well know what happened!” He says.
She lets out a snort. “No. I bloody well don’t!” She says. And he must be really drunk because he can’t say whether she is lying or not. He doesn’t even care.
“Has it something to do with your partner?” Emma asks.
He drinks his beer and nods.
“You know? This thing would be quicker if you actually spoke!” Emma says. But they both know that he can’t really talk.
“Is it because of what I told you?” She asks.
William shakes his head. “No – yes.” He says. Oh, he’s doing great: monosyllabic words, he might be able to form a complete sentence before passing out with alcohol poisoning!
“Oh, dear…” Emma says. Emma usually swears like a sailor; it’s her work persona, the no-non sense attitude she has developed through the years, she only reverts back to her true self when she is genuinely shocked.
“Emma –“ He says warningly.
“You are in love with her!” Emma says. She sounds surprised – and what shocks him is that she sounds happy.
He closes his eyes and sighs, “I told you – I’m buggered!”
“You don’t mean that.” Emma says after a moment of silence.
He opens one eye to glance at her, and she genuinely looks like she doesn’t understand.
“I do.” He says.
“Oh, let me see: after grieving for years you finally, finally fall in love with a beautiful, smart woman who clearly adores you and you think you are buggered?”
“She is my partner, it’s against the rules and there is a reason for them, you know that. I’m older than her, I am a right mess – and what did you just say?” William asks straightening up on the sofa and looking at her.
The silence grows thick and is interrupted, quite unexpectedly, by Emma whacking him with a cushion.
“What the hell?” He says.
“Are you blind?” Emma exclaims and there is genuine amusement and exasperation in her voice.
One of the best forensics members of Scotland Yard has just whacked him with an orange cushion and William is far too drunk not to find that funny. And a tiny bit pathetic.
“William – I have seen the way she looks at you. Everyone has! That kid adores you!”
“She is not a kid – she is thirty.” He says automatically and can’t help groaning at the look Emma gives him.
“She is not in love with me!” William says shaking his head, “We are partners – she’s young and bright and she might have everyone she wants –“
“Uh-huh…” Emma says, “like Albert whatshisface?”
He sobers up immediately, “Yeah, exactly like him.”
Albert is – young, handsome, posh, with a bright career ahead of him as a barrister; he also does pro bono work for abuse victims and William could perhaps live a hundred years without seeing him flirting with Victoria again.
Emma drinks the last of her beer and then asks, “What happened, Will?”
It takes him some liquid courage and perhaps Caro was right when she said that making him talk was like pulling teeth because when he finishes telling Emma what happened in his office – he feels exhausted and old. And buggered.
“And then she ran away?” Emma asks.
“Yep.” William says. And he can’t believe that he is having that conversation, he can’t believe that it is truly happening.
“Did it occur to you that maybe you didn’t scare her off?” Emma asks patiently.
“You didn’t look at her –“ William says, “she looked terrified.”
“So do you – and yet here we are…you sprawled in my couch, in love with your partner.”
“I…” He hesitates.
He could lie, sure. He could tell Emma that he is not in love with Victoria, that his world has not turned on its axis and that he is not terrified. Emma would probably whack him with the other cushion or wake him at six a.m with Sex Pistols blaring from the stereo in the sitting room and only decaf as a punishment.
He is exhausted, though. He doesn’t think he has any energy left to be in denial, to practice self deception or any other tactic that has allowed him to survive.
“I am – but Emma, she deserves better.” He says, and it hurts to speak for a moment.
Emma knows everything about him – even the words he has never spoken, the things he barely allow himself to think, let alone talk about.
“You should let her decide for herself, William,” Emma says, he is startled when she loops an arm around his shoulder and says softly, “and you should try and forgive yourself.”
He closes his eyes and can’t help smiling when he says, “By the way, I believe she thinks we are together…”
Her chuckle is familiar, comforting, “She really doesn’t listen to any gossip, does she?”
William smiles, and for a moment his heart swells with hope when Emma says, “She is perfect for you…”
He falls asleep with those words echoing in his heart – wishing he could believe them.
Things are awkward – William walks on eggshells around her and she is acutely aware of the looks they are getting the next day or, perhaps, she is paranoid. They still have a case, a gruesome murder, the kind of crime that makes her uncle call and check in if she is okay, if she has changed her mind about being transferred, about finishing her training and join MI5.
She ignores three calls and deletes four messages by noon, even William notices, he stops walking on eggshells and asks her if everything is alright. He looks tired, he is wearing the same clothes he was wearing the previous day and he smells – differently. It’s not his usual soap and deodorant combo (one she secretly has come to identify with him: clean skin and citrus), it’s – more feminine.
“My uncle.” She says.
They are alone in his office, and it doesn’t feel awkward any longer, she is – she is (jealous) furious.
“Oh.” William only says.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She snaps.
She hates that she is a good officer, that she pays attention to details, that she uses her senses and that her brain never, ever shuts down because she has identified that smell: talcum powder and something spicy because she remembers liking it the day before while standing right beside Dr. Portman.
William blinks in surprise, “I was merely –“
“My uncle wants me to complete my training for MI5.” Victoria says between clenched teeth.
William doesn’t look at her, he looks at the pictures on his desk: the young woman who has been slaughtered and whose killer they need to catch, before he strikes again because it is only a matter of time before he kills again, they know that.
“Perhaps you should take it into consideration –“ William says eventually.
People think that growing up in her family meant having all doors open – they don’t know that it has mostly meant a tight discipline, having to set a higher standard for themselves and never, ever show any weakness. It is something hard ingrained in her, like duty and love for her country.
She only allows herself to be irrational while on her own – banging her head against the steering wheel being an example – but she is never to show her true inclinations in public. It’s what her father taught her, what her uncles have repeated her, even her step father, as much as she despises him, has enforced that rule, that way of living.
She wants to cry, she wants to smack William – she wants to scream, “Fuck you!”- she mostly feels forsaken, though. She had not expected that from William.
“Do you really think that?” She asks, her voice is perfectly even. Her family would be so proud.
William looks at her, “It doesn’t matter what I think.” He says eventually.
“Indulge me.” She says coolly. And yes, she sort of gets why some people in their division call her, Her Majesty, it hurts that she has used that tone of voice with William.
“I think that – you are an excellent officer, one of the best I have ever had the privilege to work with, but you are also young and can have better than this…” he gestures at the room which is admittedly quite bleak, at the pictures on the desk and himself.
And she forgets why she is so furious (jealous), she forgets everything, she can only focus on William – on the sadness, heartbreak written all over his face, filling every word he has said.
What happened to you? She wonders. She wants to know – it would take just a phone call to know, but she would rather die than betraying William’s trust. William’s heart is broken and she desperately wants to help him.
“What if –“ She says slowly, her voice lower, struggling to get past the sudden lump in her throat, “this is exactly where I want to be?”
His smile is sad, beautiful and it threatens to shatter a lifetime of discipline because she wants to reach out and hold him. She settles for reaching a hand and clasping the man’s under his desk.
People already think they are shagging, William and her know the truth.
William squeezes her hand back but he doesn’t get to answer. The constable who gets into the office to warn them that there has been another murder doesn’t see their hands joined under the desk.
Dr. Portman is already at the crime scene when they arrive. Victoria notices something weird right away: constables and forensics team members all do their best to keep William busy and away from the crime scene and usher her inside the building.
It turns out that it’s a double murder: a mother and her young son, sitting respectively on the sofa and a chair in a sitting room, both their throats slashed.
“Jesus…” She mutters. There is so much blood – and she can still see the tear tracks on the woman’s face, and the boy must have been terrified.
“Sergeant –“ Dr. Portman says and she plasters a polite look on her face, whatever her personal feelings are they have to wait. There are two dead people in the room that deserve her full attention.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for Will to –“ She trails, but stops talking when William gets inside the room.
“Emma?” William asks as he takes in the scene and visibly pales.
Emma gives them the rundown of the scene and what she has gathered so far, she also adds, “Perhaps Sergeant Kent can examine the scene while you talk to the neighbors?”
There is a pleading note in the woman’s voice and Victoria feels paralyzed for a moment. She doesn’t know what to do or say. Her first instinct is to contradict her: she cannot dictate how they conduct an investigation, that is not her job! But she is also close to William, she knows things she, on the other hand, ignores.
And William is pale. He is far from being squeamish, he is never flippant about death and murders, he has a macabre sense of humor, just like her, but he has never been disrespectful – but she has never seen him pale on a crime scene either.
William looks at her for a moment, and she tries to convey with her eyes that whatever decision he makes she will back him up. She is his partner. Emma might be his lover, but protecting William on the job is her duty and privilege.
“Fine.” He says eventually. He leaves the room quickly and Victoria doesn’t know what to do, for a moment.
Dr. Portman passes her a pair of nitrile gloves and says, “Let’s get this over with…”
They examine the scene together, and yes, William has definitely spent the previous night with her, at least judging by the fact that they shared the same body wash and deodorant, but it hardly matters now.
There are two dead people and her partner – worries her. No – she is terrified for him.
“What happened to him?” She asks as soon as they are alone, because it is starting to be very clear that something must have happened to him ad she has been a copper long enough to be able to come up with all kind of scenarios, neither of which is pretty.
Dr. Portman looks at her and shakes her head, “Sorry, sergeant – it’s not my story to tell. You will have to ask him.” She says. And she means it. She won’t say a word – and come to think of it, all the gossip she has heard and ignored about William all deals with an ‘after’, with how he became a womanizer, someone who drinks too much (she has never seen him drink nothing more than a pint). There was a before – and an after and she has no clue about what it is all about.
She shakes her head and Emma gives her a sympathetic smile, but her voice can’t hide both the curiosity and the steel in it when she says, “That depends, of course, whether you think he’s worth it.”
She did not expect that, but the words leave her mouth before she can even think about stopping them, “Of course he is.”
She might still save her face, make sure Emma doesn’t get the wrong idea, that she is not a danger for her relationship with William, but Dr. Portman stops her, she places a hand on her arm and whispers, “Good to know, now let’s get back to work!”
She turns and sees that a new swarm of constables and forensic team members are getting into the room.
They have work to do – and Victoria feels like her world has just been shaken to its foundations. What happened to William?
She finds him hours later, on the terrace of their building; it’s a chilly night, no one ever gets up there, which is precisely why William loves that place. He is shivering in his coat, but he feels like he can breathe again, breathe properly for the first time since he has been in that house, that morning.
Part of him is relieved when he sees Victoria, part of him wished she would look for him, but the other part – the rest of him, whatever it is left of him, doesn’t want her there. Not that night, not – when he feels so raw, so close to just shatter in a million of pieces, and that is a feeling he is all too familiar with.
It’s not about the victims, it’s not because it reminds him of his past, it’s not because he is in love with a woman who deserves better than him – or perhaps it is and he is just terrible at self deception.
“William?” Victoria calls behind him.
He doesn’t turn. He wants her to go away. He wants her to step closer and never let go.
“I’ve been looking for you.” She says. She steps closer, he still doesn’t turn to look at her.
If he talks, if he opens his mouth he has no idea, none whatsoever, about what will come out, he keeps his mouth shut, looks at the sky, at how an unusually bright night it is for London.
He feels her small hand resting between his shoulder blades, he closes his eyes, needs to turn, needs to touch her, more than he actually cares about breathing. He does not. He grips the edges of the balcony with both hands and doesn’t move.
She doesn’t talk, she doesn’t move. She is just there, for him. She offers comfort and peace without uttering a sound and William doesn’t think he has ever been more grateful to anyone in his life.
Or more in love.
Or more scared.
She has no idea how long they stay on that terrace, not moving, not talking, she doesn’t move her hand from that spot between his shoulder blades, he only stops gripping the edge of the balcony after an agonizingly long time.
Is that the man she has been warned against? The one who can’t look at her, can’t say a word – who looks so lost and broken?
When he finally, finally turns and looks at her his eyes are dry, he is still pale, but there is a gentle smile on his lips – it’s a smile he only reserves to her, she has noticed, it’s one of the things that made her fall in love with him.
“Your lips are almost blue…” He says. His voice is hoarse, as if it’s taking him an effort to speak and she feels it’s probably the case.
She shrugs and smiles at him. They are still close, her hand has slid down his back. She can feel her heart drumming against her ribcage, she forces herself to step back, her instinct tells him to touch him, to kiss him – to never let him go, but she cannot think of herself. Not now.
“Tea?” He says, and if she didn’t know him as well as she does, if she hadn’t felt how frantically his heart was beating even through layers of clothes, under her palm, she would have bought the casual tone of his voice.
His eyes are pleading her.
Indulge me.
“Coffee.” She says. She is shaking, she has no idea how much for the cold and how much for – the shift she can sense in her relationship with William.
He rolls his eyes and mumbles, “Addict.”
They start walking toward the door and she nudges him while saying, “It takes one to recognize one…”
He chuckles and takes her hand in his. They’re both cold – because they’re two lousy, lousy officers who didn’t think about wearing gloves while having a moment in the middle of the night, during one of the coldest nights of the year.
Geniuses, the both of them.
He is smiling, though – and his smile is genuine. And that is all that matters.
When it happens neither of them expects it. It’s been a tiring week, they both have a cold – which is causing snickers and knowing glances among their colleagues – they are nowhere near finding the sick bastard who has killed three people and they have been running on too much coffee and too little sleep for days.
It takes a moment, really; they walk out of the elevator and into the underground parking lot, he insists on accompanying her to her car, even though she is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she indulges him anyway.
“Get some rest. That’s an order, sergeant!” He says and she doesn’t really want to go home. She doesn’t want to go back to her empty flat, her unmade bed and her empty fridge.
She has the feeling he doesn’t want her to go either. They have been – quite inseparable for the past few days. Unlike what tv programs show on the telly, coppers rarely have just one case on their hands. They have been working hard – between cases and paperwork. And despite the cold she hasn’t complained – and neither has he.
She – doesn’t want to leave him, that is the truth.
He opens the car’s door for her and stops, she moves and their coordination is shot to hell because they are both exhausted, they are too close, they bump into each other, it’s almost completely dark where she has parked her car, she tilts her head up and it is natural for her to brush his lips with hers.
It is only then, when her brain actually catches up with the rest of her body, that she realises that she is effectively cornered against the car’s door and that she is kissing William Melbourne or he is kissing her – it doesn’t truly matter. It’s a matter of semantics, really.
They are kissing.
It is not her first kiss, not by any stretch of imagination, but it sort of feels like it is. Perhaps it is the way William cradles her face in his hands, how he scatters teasing brushes of lips at the corners of her mouth, how he teases the seams of her lips with his tongue or maybe it is how she can’t help but carding her fingers through his hair, how her heart races in her chest and, God, the man knows how to kiss – he definitely knows how to kiss a woman, she doesn’t remember ever being so turned on by a mere kiss.
Well, it is not a mere kiss. It is William kissing her, it is feeling his body against hers, his warmth, the intimacy of sharing breaths and the thrill of his stubble against her skin; their difference in height doesn’t make the kiss awkward, somehow they move together as if that isn’t their first kiss; there is passion – and it’s slowly burning between them, William doesn’t seem to be in any rush, it might have been sudden (no, it’s been months – weeks, days, minutes and seconds in the making), but he takes his time kissing her, they both do: teasing, tentative, languid; the kiss deepens and she can’t help a soft moan, which only encourages William.
She has never been kissed like that: passion, lust – and devotion. She loves touching his skin, she loves that she knows his taste and that he is there, in the present, with her.
She feels the loss of contact with William almost like a slap in the face, she blinks her eyes and it’s half dark in there, and he is still so close to her and she needs to touch him, she needs to still have a contact with him, she needs to know that it has really happened. She grabs his hand and he doesn’t let go.
“I…” He trails and his voice is hoarse and Victoria is ready to smack him, for real, if he tells her that he is sorry.
“I should go back – see you tomorrow?” William says, instead.
He lets go of her hand and takes a step back, and Victoria smiles, “Yep, bright and early – I’ll bring coffee.”
“Copious amounts.” William says.
I love you. She wants to say, but she knows it’s too early. She knows there are things William is not telling her, she will wait – she can wait as long as it takes.
She gets into the car, he closes the door and she has just started the car when William calls her name, she rolls the window down and she has the shock of her life when William kisses her again, soundly and whispers against her lips, “Good night, Victoria.”
“Good night, William –“ she whispers back.
She can’t stop smiling for hours, after.