TITLE:        Teamwork
AUTHOR:       Augustus
EMAIL:        gaius_octavius_@hotmail.com
WEB ADDY:     fabulae @ http://rimmer.alphalink.com.au
FANDOM:       The Bill
PAIRING:      The protagonists are Boulton, Skase and Proctor. As for
              pairings, you'll have to wait and see…
RATING:       I'll say M15+ to be safe. Gives me plenty of room for plot
              development *g*
STATUS:       New, WIP. I don't usually post pieces before they're finished,
              but I'm doing so this time in order to keep myself writing!
              It's been so long since I've written a long fic, I'm a little
              out of practice!
CATEGORY:     First Time, Angst, Drama.
SERIES:       I really doubt it.
ARCHIVAL:     fabulae, of course, and if you're mad enough to want it,
              feel free. Just let me know where it's going.
WARNINGS:     None at this point in time. I'll warn in each part if
              there's an issue :-)
FEEDBACK:     Genuine opinions and constructive criticism much
              appreciated - preferably offlist for everyone else's sake.
SUMMARY:      An incident causes Boulton, Skase and Proctor to reassess
              their attitudes towards each other.

DISCLAIMER:   The Bill and all the associated characters belong to
              Pearson Television. I'm just filling in the gaps they've left in
              the scripts and killing time while waiting for the I-C-1 tour *G*.
CREDITS:      Let's just say it's in memoriam to Rod Skase's time at
              Sunhill (sniffle). *SO* not looking forward to "Streetwise"…
NOTES:        ((abc)) indicates thoughts.



**************
Teamwork
**************

1.

For the second time in under a week, everything had gone pear-shaped.
John Boulton had a feeling that it had something to do with the
ever-irritating presence of Tom Proctor, but a niggling impression
wasn't about to qualify him for an all-expenses-paid excursion to the
DCI's office. One thing was for certain, however. Boulton wasn't going
to take the rap for this one. His preparation had been faultless, his
execution outstanding. When he had spat the clichéd triple-"go" into
his radio, Boulton had every confidence that this was going to be the
big one. No more pissing about in the Sunhill backwaters, this was his
ticket to the high-flying world of the drugs squad.

The whisper had been that several million pounds were tied up in the
operation - enough powder to coat the noses of every woman in Greater
London. Boulton had wanted some of that action more than he had wanted
anything in his entire career with the Met. But no. Something had gone
wrong. Horribly wrong.

Thirty minutes earlier, Boulton had watched from a warehouse window as
his hopes of a transfer had disappeared along with the targets and the
class A's. It had been such a painful chain of cock-ups that John
really didn't want to think about the events of the evening, let alone
recount them to Deakin when the DI managed to drag himself out of bed
the next morning. Faultless or not, in the end it was going to be
Boulton's head on the block and Deakin was going to love every minute
of it.

A quick glimpse at his watch revealed that, on top of everything else,
John had exactly five hours and twenty-three minutes to make the half
hour drive to his home, prepare for bed and get the eight hours of
sleep he needed to function without *too* many homicidal urges. It
wasn't looking hopeful.

"Bloody Tom Proctor," he muttered under his breath as he retrieved his
car-keys from a mound of untouched paperwork and reached up to flick
off the desktop light. "If he devoted half as much concentration to
the job as he does to Rod Skase, I'd be on the phone to drugs squad
right now…"

A barely-there flicker of eyes towards a desk at the other side of the
room, a slight twist of lips into what might almost qualify as a
smile, and then Boulton was gone.

******

Four hours just wasn't enough sleep when, on waking, you were expected
to face a rabid John Boulton.

Tom blinked sleepily down at the detective sergeant, caught in the
doorway to the CID general office and wondering whether escaping into
the men's room would do him any good. ((He'd probably just follow me
in there, anyway…))

"Look, Sarge, I'm no happier about the raid than you are," he offered,
knowing that it wouldn't make any difference. It never did.

"Oh, you're not? Well, that's nice to know," Boulton growled, eyes
dangerous. "We'll just tell that to Deakin, then, will we?
Everything's okay, Guv, Tom's feeling a little disappointed."

"I didn't mean it like that…" Tom didn't know why he was even
bothering to argue with the other man. The guy was a prat - why should
Tom bother defending himself to him?

"No? Well, you'd better get your story straight soon. The DI's on the
warpath and I'm not about to take the blame for this one." Another
glare and then Tom was granted a temporary reprieve.

"Git," he muttered at Boulton's retreating back.

"What?"

Tom jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, less than a foot behind
him. Turning, he tried to keep his face blank, his tone uninterested.

"Morning, Rod."

The older man didn't return the greeting, instead staring interestedly
into the exterior of the office. "What was that all about?"

"Oh, just Boulton telling me how much he enjoys and values my
contribution to the CID team." Tom tried to keep his voice light, but
the words came out with the usual cynical edge anyway.

Rod grinned knowingly. "Don't let him get to you," he shrugged. "I'm
not sure if you know this, but he was really counting on last night's
raid being his ticket out of Sunhill."

"He wants a transfer?" Tom turned to regard the DS, now sitting,
slumped, at his desk, eyes fixed on the biro he was tapping against
the wood.

"Yeah." Rod's tone was light, but there seemed to be something within
his eyes intent on denying the indifferent words. "Apparently he's fed
up with the people around here."

"And last night was meant to be his escape route? No wonder he's in
such a foul mood this morning."

Rod's eyes were fixed on the unknowing subject of their conversation
as he replied. "He's actually calmed down a little since last night…"

A wry smile and then his attention - and gaze - were returned to Tom.
"So don't take it personally. A lot of things went wrong last night. I
doubt any of us were faultless, even Boulton himself."

Tom smiled wryly. "*He* doesn't see it that way, though, does he?"

"He never does." Rod patted Tom lightly on the shoulder, before
gesturing into the office. "C'mon. Let's get in there. Give him time
for a couple of coffees and then last night will be all but
forgotten."

Tom wasn't so sure, but he followed Rod anyway. He always did.

******

Rod had never found Chris Deakin an attractive man, but it was only
when you were trapped in the close-confines of his office, being
awarded the sheer pleasure of one of his 'chats', that you really saw
the full absence of anything remotely attractive in his rapidly
reddening features. Looking around, his colleagues seemed to be
equally unimpressed by the DI's display of authority, especially
Boulton, who was conscientiously staring out through the half-closed
venetians, mouth twisted with disdain.

"So where do we go from here?"

Rod reluctantly shook himself mentally free of a detailed study of the
DS's features, as Deakin's question registered in his mind.

"What do you mean, Gov?" Lennox's face showed that he, too, had been
paying less than complete attention to Deakin's words.

Deakin sighed: dramatically, consciously. "Well, Duncan, we've spent
the last week - and a considerable amount of the DCI's precious
budget - planning last night's fiasco. Can we salvage *anything* from
this little experience, or shall we just write the whole thing off as
one enormous cock-up?" He turned to Boulton. "John? This was your
operation. What do you think?"

The words may have been mild, but Rod recognised them as the
indictment they were.

Boulton tore his eyes away from the window long enough to give Deakin
a quick, bored look. "*I* think that there's not much point chasing
something that's already long gone." A darted glare at Tom made it
perfectly clear who received all the blame in *his* opinion.

"So we just write it all down to experience?" Deakin's displeasure
with the situation was perfectly clear. Although he was trying to
place the majority of the fault on Boulton's shoulders, Skase knew
from past experience that it would be Deakin himself who would be
ultimately facing up to an irate Jack Meadows. After all, it might
have been Boulton's operation, but Deakin had been the one to give it
the go-ahead.

"What else *can* we do? Thanks to last night's little washout, they
know we're onto them now." Don Beech smirked in Boulton's general
direction, earning a badly concealed snarl in return. "Face it, John,
it's time to back away with your tail between your legs."

His comment earned a small, satisfied smile from Proctor, but Boulton
himself didn't rise to the bait, although Rod noticed a greater than
usual tightness in the set of the detective sergeant's jaw. "I assure
you, Don, I wouldn't be backing down if I had any other choice."

"Wait a minute…" Rod was almost surprised to hear himself speak. He
turned to look at Boulton, legitimately this time. "There *is* another
choice."

Boulton raised an eyebrow, obviously intrigued. "There is?"

Enjoying the feeling of having the attention of everyone in the
office, Rod shrugged his shoulders in a fair impression of humility
and turned towards Beech. "With all respect, Sarge, I think you've got
it all wrong. Sure, they know we're onto them. But they also know that
*we* know that. They'll be *expecting* us to back off. Hell, they're
probably feeling the most secure they've *ever* felt!"

Deakin just looked mystified. "I'm sure you've just revealed something
dreadfully important, Rodney, but I have *no* idea what it is."
Skase rolled his eyes, looking towards Boulton for support, and
finding it.

"Makes perfect sense to me," the DS said, his face actually beginning
to brighten a little.

"Me too," Tom added quickly, exchanging a distrustful look with
Boulton, who was already beginning to plot his next move.

"If we can manage to find them - and if they're still in the country,"
he muttered, the excitement of the hunt already starting to shine in
his eyes, "they'll be completely off-guard…"

Skase grinned at him. "…Just waiting for us to stroll in there and
nick them," he finished.

Deakin was finally beginning to catch on. "You might actually be onto
something there," he said, obviously rather surprised. "But I can't
spare many people for such a slim chance." Boulton opened his mouth to
protest, but the DI went on pointedly before he could say anything.

"John, I'm being very generous letting you continue with this one at
all."

"I know. Thanks, Guv." His jaw twitched with the effort.

"Take Rod and Tom. There's always uniform if you need back-up."
Rod flashed a quick grin at Boulton before turning to check out
Proctor's reaction. His expression was unreadable, but tightly crossed
arms and a bowed head gave away his true feelings.

A tap on the shoulder alerted Rod to Boulton's presence beside him.

"C'mon, let's get on to it." The usual glint was back in his hazel
eyes, the customary smirk barely hidden beneath the fragile mask of
deference.

Rod couldn't help but pause for a moment to take in the sight, before
willingly following him out of the office, only vaguely aware of Tom
trailing along behind.


=====================
2.
=====================


Tom bit back a few choice curses as an error message flashed up onto
the screen for what must have been the twentieth time in the last
half-hour. "I don't see why they had to start storing everything in
*these* things," he complained, jabbing at the keyboard in front of
him with a stiffened index finger. "I'm *sure* it'd be quicker to flip
through a few files."

"What’s the problem, Tom?" Boulton asked, his own fingers flying over
the keys in front of him, eyes lit alarmingly by the computer's
screen. "I thought yours was meant to be the computer generation."

"You're kidding, right?" Tom pushed his chair back from the desk, torn
between aiming his glare at the computer or at the detective sergeant.

"If you stick me in front of an Apple 2C, I can draw a mean square
with a triangular green turtle, but beyond that…" He shrugged. "I
think you've got your generations confused."

"Well, perhaps you should try moving a little closer, mate. It
generally helps if you can reach the keyboard."

"Thanks, Sarge. I'll keep that in mind."

If Boulton noticed the sneer to Tom's lips or the sarcastic tone to
his voice, he chose not to acknowledge it, instead turning to watch as

Rod wandered casually back into the room, a manila folder loosely
gripped in one hand. "You got it, then?"

Rod nodded, dropping the folder onto the desk beside the sergeant
before leaning - rather familiarly - over him to peer at the computer
screen. "Any luck?"

Tom tried not to look too interested, as Boulton leant back a little
closer to the man behind him and pointed vaguely at the computer
screen. "There's a couple of possibilities. Apart from what we already
knew about Mickey Booth and the Curtis brothers, I've managed to dig
up a few more known associates. With any luck they'll either have a
few interesting houseguests or an unfortunate habit of talking about
things intended to be kept secret."

"Sounds promising." Rod lifted his gaze to look questioningly at Tom
over the beige tops of the two computers between them. "How about you,
Tom?"

Before Tom could even open his mouth to answer, John jumped in, a
smirk firmly fixed to his features. "I think he's still trying to work
out how to turn the thing on."

"Actually…" Tom gave Boulton a quick 'you-don't-impress-me' look
before allowing his eyes to be drawn to Skase's. "I came across a note
in an unrelated file that implied that Booth had a lock-up down near
the allotments." He shrugged modestly. "He may not still have it - and
the file may be wrong altogether - but I was just about to give Barton
Street a call to see if they can remember anything."

Skase nodded slowly, clearly impressed. "Good find."

Tom didn't know what felt better - Rod's praise or the glowering look
on Boulton's face. "Thanks."

A moment of silence. Then finally, surprisingly, acknowledgement from
the DS. "Yeah." Uttered through clenched teeth. "Well done."

Perhaps his small victory would have been a little more satisfying if
Tom hadn't known the words were for Rod's sake, not his own. If it
wasn't for the other DC's presence, there wouldn't have been any 'well
done's, wouldn't have been anything beyond the usual sarcastic
comments that formed the weapons of their unspoken war. Because
Boulton couldn't look too much of a driven bastard with Rod's arms
casually folded around the back of his swivel chair, and Tom found
himself strangely unable to point that out with those murky-blue eyes
connecting so boldly with his own.

Defenceless. And Tom was certain that Boulton knew it just as well as
he did and surely hated it even more. Hated it for making him feel
exposed, fallible, just as he hated Tom for making him wonder - just
occasionally - whether those feelings were warranted.

"What do you want me to do now, Sarge?" Rod asked, looking bored with
a proficiency that only he had perfected.

The eye contact broken, Tom found himself finally able to look back
down at his computer, a manufactured expression of disinterest pasted
onto his face, although in reality he was listening intently to the
other men's words.

"Why don't you come with me to check out some of these names?"
Decision made, Boulton was on his feet almost instantly and grabbing
the jacket that had earlier been tossed carelessly onto the desk
beside him. "They might remember more if they're outnumbered."

"Sure."

"What about me?" Tom didn't particularly like the whine to his voice,
but he apparently had no control over its tone.

"What d'you mean?" Once intent on leaving the confines of the station,
John Boulton wasn't easily distracted. Even as he waited for Tom's
response, he stayed in an unconscious state of motion, his weight
shifting from one foot to the other, as though his body was desperate
for some action.

"This!" Tom prodded derisively at the computer in front of him. "Do
you want me to keep looking up files, or do you want me check on that
lockup with Barton Street?"

Boulton shrugged, something in his eyes expressing his disdain.
"Surely you're a big enough boy now to decide for yourself?" When he
received no reaction from Proctor, the irritating smirk sagged a
little. "Besides, with any luck, Rod and I will find out something
this afternoon and it won't matter anyway."

"Sarge."

As Boulton followed Rod out of the room, Tom resisted the urge to
throw something heavy at the computer - or, indeed, the back of the
detective sergeant's head. As usual, he was just making up numbers,
sitting in the background while his fellow detectives got the bodies
and reaped the glory. The belief around CID seemed to be that he could
be counted on not to steal anyone's thunder, to be there when he was
needed but to slip back into the shadows when it came time for
acclamation.

((We'll see…))

Tom leaned forward to gladly turn off the computer. Boulton had given
him free reign and he wasn't about to sit around in front of that…
*machine* all day. First he would call Barton Street, and then, just
maybe, he would head off on a little glory hunt of his own.

******

The task didn't require the two of them. Rod knew it, and he knew that
John was just as aware of the fact. As for Boulton's motivation, well,
that's where things started to become a little uncertain in Skase's
mind. He'd never tried particularly hard to delve into the psyche of
his detective sergeant - thought he might find something in there he
wasn't ready to see. If a matter were important, John would say
something. Usually. He wasn't saying anything about this excursion
however, even after they had left the third house with nothing more
interesting than some gossip about the woman next door and the string
of strange men spotted in her company.

There was no need for Rod to say anything himself, however. He
received his answer as he was battling with his seatbelt on
re-entering the navy interior of the CID sedan. Head buried within a
printed list of names, as if trying to appear off-hand, Boulton didn't
look up at all as he spoke.

"What's the deal with you and Tom Proctor, then?"

Rod frowned. ((I wasn't expecting that one…)) "In what way?" Quick,
nonchalant, covering the fact that he'd been caught off guard.

"You seem pretty chummy of late." Still no eye contact, although Rod
thought he detected a hint of *something* different in the soft scouse
of his superior's voice. "I was just wondering if there was anything I
ought to know."

Rod smiled. "Jealous, *Sarge*?"

Finally, the detective sergeant looked up. He had that reputation to
defend, after all, and it just wouldn't do for something like *that*
to be spread around the nick. Not that Rod was planning to do anything
of the sort. It was more fun to watch as the usual mask of
indifference slipped for just a second before being slid firmly back
into place.

"Of course not." His words were accompanied by a disdainful laugh:
harsh, forced. "Why would anyone be jealous of Proctor?"

((Game on.)) Grinning. "You tell me. You're the one who *is*."

Boulton's smile became a little less manufactured as he recognised
Rod's teasing for what it was. "Hell, I just want to get through one
case without him cocking-up every five minutes," he countered, hands
raised in what Rod presumed to be a gesture of sincerity.

Giving up on the seatbelt, Rod allowed the smooth black strap to jerk
back into it's housing before turning his attention to the man at his
right. "Of course." His tone betrayed his disbelief. "That's all it
is."

"Exactly."

"And, if there *was* something between me and Tom, you wouldn't have a
problem with that anyway, would you?" He was testing him now and they
both knew it. Checking Robocop for cracks, although he didn't know
what he would do if he found any. "Because it's not like there's
anything between you and me, right?"

Boulton's reply came slower this time, more clipped. "Right."

And Rod was pretty sure that what he was feeling was relief, although
he really couldn't be sure with Boulton's smirk faltering just a
little and the clenching feeling in his own stomach, which was
probably just down to the cheap Sun Hill coffee. "Right…" He repeated
the word, as if trying to gauge its meaning through the taste of the
syllable on his lips, ignoring the *something* embedded in John's eyes
and pretending that it wasn't reflected in his own.

It was right because it had to be.

Boulton shoved the list of names between the dashboard and the
windscreen, breaking the moment. "The next on the list is Robbie
Jones. Ever had any dealings with him?"

Rod shook his head, although the DS was focusing on the road ahead as
he manoeuvred the sedan away from the curb. "Not that I can remember,
Sarge."

There was a moment's pause, before Boulton spoke again. "There's no
need to worry about the 'Sarge' thing when no-one else is around, you
know." It was said lightly, but Rod didn't miss the enormity of the
words.

"Thanks… John." Rod promised himself that it didn't mean a thing when
his hand reached out to roughly clasp Boulton's, squeezing lightly for
a second before a tight corner loomed and both hands were needed for
the turn. And his words certainly didn't mean anything either when he
found himself assuring the other man that he and Proctor were just
friends.

"Good."

Rod watched the mask waver for a moment before he had to look away.

******

No luck. John hadn't really expected any better, but there'd been no
fault in hoping, just a fraction, that things would go his way for a
change. With Proctor on the case, a result certainly wasn't
guaranteed, but he hadn't been with them that afternoon, hanging
around, causing clutter and generally pissing Boulton off. It had just
been him and Rod, which was distracting in a whole other way.

As he pulled the car into its allotted parking space, John could still
feel the heat of Rod's hand on his own, still hear every word that had
passed between them. And he didn't like the feeling, nor did he like
the fact that every nerve in his body seemed to be declaring the
presence of the other man beside him. It wasn't… *good*.

His recalcitrant seat belt snapping back into its housing, Rod leaned
over to scrutinise the dashboard clock. "Five minutes late." He turned
to grin at Boulton, face disarmingly close and a look in his eyes that
betrayed his knowledge of the fact. "Do you think Deakin will let us
claim overtime?"

John's laugh escaped, near strangled, from his mouth. "Sure he will.
Seeing as we're in his good books at the moment."

"Oh yeah." Eyes crinkling a little more. "I forgot about that."
Strangely unable to look away from Rod's gaze, John finally managed to
find and utilise the door handle after a few seconds of fumbling.
Relieved, he flung the door open and slid out, glad to be rid of
whatever sorcery the confines of the vehicle seemed to be working on
him.

Grinning, Rod followed suit, looking around for a moment before
returning his gaze to John. "I don't see your car," he observed. "Did
you catch the bus in this morning?"

John nodded, annoyance twitching his upper lip into a vague sneer.
"Yeah. The car's at the mechanic's. Again. More trouble than it's
worth, that thing."

Rod raised an eyebrow teasingly. "It's not all just a ploy to get a
free ride in the convertible?"

"No." A pause. "You offering?"

"Sure. Do you want to go via the Crown?"

The suggestion was tempting, but it would only have postponed the
inevitable, rather than eliminating it entirely. John had a feeling
that it would be easier to play along with fate's twisted game for a
change. "I'm not really in the mood for a crowd." He met Rod's eyes,
gaze pointed. "I've plenty to drink at home, though, if you want to
stop off for a while." He smiled: resigned, almost humble. "Pay you
back for the ride and all that…"

"You know that's not necessary…"

But it was. John needed the front, needed the pretence of there being
something else behind all this than simply his own desire or, even
worse, his own emotions. Better to decorate the issue than to have to
admit your own fallibility, your own susceptibility.

An almost-silent journey in Rod's metal child did nothing to ease the
twist of panic and resignation that was rapidly growing inside John's
mind. Nor did the (anxious? accepting?) look in Rod's eyes, or the
burning warmth of his thigh when the distance between them finally
became too much for John to bear.

It didn't help either when his fingers were too clumsy all of a sudden
to work the lock on his front door, or when Rod reached around him to
give his assistance, all leather and cologne and something underneath.
And, when the door finally agreed to open, it was a while before his
limbs agreed to move, seemingly content in the distorted embrace that
resulted.

Once the task of entry had been achieved, Boulton took a moment to
collect himself before speaking. "What did you want to drink, then?"
He shrugged, a gesture that was meant to appear carefree but didn't.

"I've got pretty much everything."

"I know." Rod's grin was beyond disarming.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." This time it was a little
easier for John to affect a smile. They were moving into familiar
territory now, slipping into roles cast months ago.

"Perhaps." A nonchalant shrug and Rod's jacket was in his hands, then
casually draped over the back of a chair. "But, all of a sudden, I'm
not that thirsty any more…"

He cast off the front as easily as the garment, stunning John for a
second before he realised it was the way it always was. Ignore the
reality; continue the game until the pretence couldn't help but
shatter. And then the abandon of passion released; hard, feverish
kisses and the intoxicating feel of flesh on naked flesh. A moment of
true, exhilarating beauty.

But then the nothingness would return, creep stealthily back within
them - between them. The words would cease to come, forging two dark
silhouettes staring silent at the same ceiling. And it would hurt,
then. Would hurt more than John wanted to acknowledge.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Words were easy now - certainly easier
than backing away.

"Because you know how to play the game as well as I do."

Rod was right. John knew the moves, knew the rules, had created them
himself. A witty remark here, a kiss there, a double entendre
somewhere else and then '*whoops!*' there they were in bed again,
sheets twisted and mouths silent. Always so goddamn silent. And it
didn't matter that Boulton was sick of the pretence and the game and
the hurt, because it was better than the alternative; better than
vulnerability, better than nothing.

So he kept his eyes bright, held his mouth into the expected smirk and
took Skase into his arms: roughly, inelegantly. If Rod noticed the
fragility of the kiss or the near desperation in the cling of John's
arms, he didn’t acknowledge the knowledge; perhaps more concerned by
the way his fingers seemed drawn to John's cheek, tracing the jaw-line
almost reverently.

Afterwards, nothing was said when they remained in each other's arms,
damp limbs tangled almost possessively, shattered breaths
simultaneous. There was no mention of tomorrow being an early start or
Rod having to get home to feed the cat, just soft-sleepy kisses and
narcotic blue eyes that insisted - perhaps a little too strongly -
that it was all okay.

And it was all too easy to believe it with Rod's still-uneven
heartbeat pressed firm beneath John's ear, with a long arm flung
casually, clumsily, about his shoulders. Too easy to believe, too easy
to succumb.
Much easier to whisper a goodnight than to stay silent.


*****************************************
3.
*****************************************

Waking to the sight of a still-sleeping John Boulton beside him, Rod
was, at first, unsure as to how he should react. He had a feeling that
he was meant to be embarrassed, or repentant, or drowning in some
other clichéd morning-after response, but instead he found himself
quite content to watch the gentle rise and fall of the other man’s
chest and to study the way his face softened so eerily in sleep.

Tentatively, Rod reached out a finger to chase the line of John’s
cheek, following the sharp angle until it seemed to lead him to pale
lips, slightly parted and surprisingly warm. His memories of what
those lips had done the night before were still blazing in his mind,
his heartbeat speeding a little, even now, at the thought. Leaning
closer, he replaced the finger with his own mouth; gently, not wanting
to wake the other man.

A quick arm reached up and around him, pulling him closer and throwing
him off balance. His eyes flickering open in alarm, Rod found himself
looking into the equally open eyes of his superior. “You bastard!” he
exclaimed, reddening a little. “You were awake all the time, weren’t
you?!”

“Yeah.” Boulton smirked, the expression comforting in its consistency.

“But I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”
“Bastard,” Rod repeated, his voice wavering a little, suddenly unsure.
Because it had never been like this before. When they succumbed it had
never been for long – rarely for more than an hour, and never for the
night. Rough kisses would drift quickly into fiery sex, followed by
uneasy silence and hasty denials and goodbyes. The pattern was
reassuring, giving a strange legitimacy to the routine. As long as
unwanted emotions could be hidden beneath teasing flippancy, it was
easy to pretend that it didn’t really matter, that it could be ended
at any time.

There was a permanency in this, however. In the way that John
stretched up for another sleepy (possessive?) kiss - even in the fact
that Rod was still there, that he hadn’t escaped hours ago, full of
mutterings and contrition under still-heavy breath. The fear was still
there, hidden badly beneath a weak smile, but there was something else
as well, a fledgling acceptance fed by sleepy-soft lips and eyes that
seemed to know too much of what was in his soul.

Letting gravity do her job, Rod sank down onto his back, eyes
flickering up to the familiar safety of the ceiling. “What time is
it?” His tone was casual, hand roughly halted in its quest to
re-establish body contact.

There was a rustle of bedcovers and a slight movement of the mattress
as John reached for the clock on the low table beside him. “Quarter to
seven.” When Rod didn’t respond, the springs shuddered again, followed
by a maddeningly warm breath on his neck. “Plenty of time.”

Even as his mind recited the benefits of keeping his gaze on the
ceiling, Rod found himself turning into the embrace of the man beside
him, lips claiming the smooth curve of a suddenly arching neck.

“Good.” His voice became muffled as he scraped gentle teeth over
muscled shoulders while fingers tangled pleadingly at the nape of his
neck. “I’m too comfortable to get up just yet.” Another kiss, and then
Rod let his head drop back onto the pillow, pulling the other man down
with him.

Skase tried to tell himself that it was merely denied lust that
twisted queasily within his stomach and burst leaping through his
lungs when John’s arms wound tight around him, just as lack of sleep
was found responsible for the magnetism of the hazel eyes which
grasped his own. Anything else would have been an admission he wasn’t
ready to make, even in the deepest shadows of his thoughts.

It was better to just hold Boulton tight to his chest, legs
intertwining and fingers exploring the curves and planes of the otherman’s back
as the words “me too” were whispered in one ear.

And it seemed more of a confession than a mere acknowledgement of
agreement, as Rod’s hand was clasped tightly, firmly, fingers
stretched apart by smaller counterparts. Just as he could find no
motivation of lust in the ensuing kiss, either in his own thoughts or
in the other man’s lips. And there was less danger in that than in his
own readiness to succumb. The realisation that he had passed up sex
for a few minutes in John’s embrace was infinitely less terrifying
than his acceptance of the fact.

And Boulton should have been protesting, should have been pushing him
away, telling him to leave, mocking his show of weakness. Instead, he
just pulled Rod a little closer, eyes drifting closed as his head
curled into the younger man’s chest. Accepting.

There was a beauty in the silence as Rod watched his lover sleep.

******

Within seconds of having arrived at the office, John found himself
being accosted by a whiney Tom Proctor. Holding a hand up in a gesture
of postponement, he made his way to his desk, settling into the swivel
chair before he would accept a word from the DC.

As soon as the hand dropped, Tom spoke, tone accusatory. “Did you and
Rod come into work together this morning?”

John glanced over to the coat-stand, where Skase was still carefully
arranging his leather jacket on one curved arm. As if aware of his
superior’s eyes upon him, Rod looked up, smiling almost imperceptibly
as he caught John’s eye.

A smile flickering on his own lips, Boulton turned back to the sullen
face of the man beside him. “Yeah, we did. My car’s in the shop, so
Rodney gave me a lift.” Tone casual. “Why?”

Tom refused to meet his eyes. “Just wondering.”

John raised an eyebrow, amused. “I’m glad that my life is of so much
interest to you, Tom.”

“It’s not.”

John grinned knowingly. “True. Pity you can’t say the same about DC
Skase…”

Tom glared impotently for a few seconds before stalking off to his own
desk, Skase replacing him at John’s side seconds later.

“What’s Tom’s problem?” he asked, eyes curiously watching the younger
man as he moved a pile of files to the other side of John’s desk and
sat down in the gap he’d cleared.

“You.” John shot out an arm to stop the new tower of files from
falling to the floor. “Poor guy’s in love.”

Rod laughed nervously. “Don’t be silly. He’s just a friend, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean he wants things to stay that way…”

“Too bad. I’m taken.” Rod froze when he realised what he’d said, eyes
widening in a twisted picture of surprise and remorse. “Um… I mean…”

“Do I get any say in this?” John asked, voice lowered and eyes
mischievous. His smile faded as another possibility drilled its way
into his mind. “…Or is there someone else you’ve been meaning to tell
me about?”

“Of course not!” Rod’s voice was loud enough to attract glances from
all quarters of the room. Sheepishly, he matched his tone to that of
the detective sergeant. “You *know* that.”

John felt the smile creeping back as his eyes followed every line of
Rod’s face. “I guess I do.” A quick squeeze of Rod’s knee and then he
forced himself to concentrate on the job, putting on his best sergeant
’s voice. “Why don’t you get Tom over here and we’ll see whether he
had any more luck than us yesterday.”

Boulton had meant for Rod to actually stand and walk the few metres to
Tom’s desk, but instead he merely turned and shouted over one shoulder
for the other man to join them. Tom did so, his face showing his
extreme reluctance to be in the presence of his superior, eyes
glinting with disdain and something which John proudly decided was
jealousy.

“What’s up?” The words were directed at both men, but Tom’s gaze was
firmly fixed on Rod, his admiration for the DC perfectly clear to
John, even if it wasn’t to Rod himself.

“We were just wondering how you went with Barton Street yesterday,”
John explained, making sure he emphasised the ‘we’. “None of the
people Rod and I spoke to yesterday had anything worthwhile to add to
what we already know about Booth and company.”

“One old biddy gave me her recipe for lime marmalade,” Rod told Tom,
smiling broadly at him in a transparent attempt at brightening the
other man’s mood. “I never knew I looked the jam making type!”

Tom managed a smile. “Should we be expecting marmalade for Christmas
then?”

“You never know. If you’re lucky I’ll whip you up a batch of
shortbread as well!”

The two DCs shared a smile. John felt a little like physically
dragging Rod’s gaze back to his own face, but managed to resist the
temptation. He was *not* about to initiate a bad habit of being
jealous of Tom Proctor, of all people.

“So,” his voice was a soft drawl, any feelings of non-jealousy hidden
beneath hazel eyes that leapt over Tom’s countenance with a complete
lack of interest. “Do I take it you had less luck than we did?”

His lean body arranged carefully in a study of indifference, Tom’s
true feelings were betrayed only by the victorious smirk in the blue
of his eyes. “Well, that’s a relative question, isn’t it, Sarge?” he
asked, flicking a conciliatory look in Rod’s direction. “Some people
might think you enormously lucky to receive the gift of marmalade.”

“*Some* people might find me justified in taking you off the case for
being such a sarcastic git,” John countered, top lip lifted in a snarl
of contempt.

“I take it you don’t want to hear about Booth’s lockup, then,” Tom
said smoothly, annoyingly unaffected by John’s wrath. He stretched
broadly and moved as if to return to his desk. “Guess I’ll just go
back to that crossword, then…”

Boulton’s jaw was beginning to ache from clenching his teeth so
tightly together. “*What* about Booth’s lockup?” he growled. If Rod
hadn’t been in the way, he felt sure that he would have knocked some
respect into the other DC long ago. Every word hung as a challenge in
the air between them, gazes locked in a diluted power struggle as they
each sought to appear victorious in Skase’s eyes.

John was aware of the absurdity of the situation. He spent ninety
percent of his waking life trying to deny any interest at all in Rod
Skase, pushing aside thoughts of the other man and what he’d like to
do to him or, worse, *with* him. The other ten percent, however,
seemed to be allotted to an eternal battle with Tom Proctor, their
metaphoric antlers locked together in the most primeval of rituals.

“Tell him, Tom.” Rod’s soft voice prevented a stalemate, his eyes
revealing his lack of interest in the quarrel as they slid from one
detective to the other.

Never willing to refuse a Skase request, Tom reluctantly turned toward
Boulton. “Barton Street confirmed that Booth used to use a lockup down
near the allotments for legitimate purposes. They had a look-around on
a couple of occasions with no joy. This was about five years ago,
though, so he may have decided to move the legal stuff out, and the
class As in.”

“Sounds promising.” Rod smiled encouragingly at Tom, sending a blunt
ache of something – *not* jealousy – through John’s body. “What do you
think, Sarge? Worth a look?”

As much as Boulton hated to admit it, it *did* look as though Tom
might have stumbled onto something useful. “Do you know the exact
location?” he asked, almost hoping that the answer would be no, so
that he could validly refuse to act on Tom’s find.

A smug grin. “Of course. I went out there yesterday afternoon, while
you were both knocking on doors. The flashy bastard’s actually got his
name written on the thing. *Michael* Booth an’ all!”

“Right. Let’s go take a look, then.” John pushed back his chair and
turned to Rod. “Skase, you come with me.”

He could almost see the anger emanating from Tom’s body. “What about
me, Sarge?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t you got some paperwork to do or something?”

There was a pleasant satisfaction in watching the bones in Proctor’s
jaw as his teeth clenched in anger. Raising his gaze slightly, John
was delighted to notice a throbbing vein on the younger man’s forehead
that certainly hadn’t been there a minute ago.

“C’mon, Rodney. What are you waiting for?”

“It’s Tom’s lead, Sarge. Why don’t you take him instead?”

John tried to assure himself that it wasn’t rejection he was feeling,
but rather sheer annoyance at the thought of spending the next couple
of hours alone in the less than scintillating company of DC Proctor.
Shrugging in an attempt to show that he was completely unaffected by
Rod’s rebuff, John raised an eyebrow in a display of disinterest.

“Whatever.”

Giving Skase a wounded look, he stalked over to snatch his jacket from
the coat-stand, one hand lingering on the dark leather of Rod’s coat
before pushing it aside. “You coming or not, mate?” he called over his
shoulder in Tom’s general direction, before leaving the office without
waiting for an answer.

Taking the steps downstairs two at a time, John sneered down at the
floor in front of him. For a while this morning it had felt as though
things were finally falling into place, both in terms of whatever it
was that he had with Rodney, and in life as a whole. He’d obviously
been wrong, however. Rod was still defending Tom as if it had been
*him* he’d woken up next to this morning, which hurt a lot more than
John was willing to admit. He was *not* jealous of that cynical
sycophant, thank you very much, and he was *not* letting Skase get
under his skin. He was tougher than that. It would take a lot more
than Rod to turn DS John Boulton into the kind of emotional nutcase
he’d always despised.

Really.

******

“You’re fucking him, aren’t you?”

Boulton’s eyes remained fixed on the road in front of him, but his
shock at Tom’s words was obvious. “*What*?!?”

“I *said*, ‘you’re fucking him, aren’t you?’” Tom busied himself with
teasing a ball of lint with one well-bitten fingernail, unwilling to
appear too interested in the answer to his question.

“Who? Mickey Booth?” Boulton snickered lightly at the thought. “Have
you *seen* the guy?”

((Smarmy git.)) “Yeah, but you know the old saying. Beggars can’t be
choosers…” Grinning victoriously at having scored a point against his
nemesis, Tom turned to look out the window.

“You should know, Proctor.”

“Touché, Sarge. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

Tom could almost *hear* Boulton’s sneer as he responded. “What
question? Am I fucking Mickey Booth? No, no I’m not.”

“You’re fucking Rod, though.” Although he had attempted to keep his
tone light, Tom had a feeling that the slight squeak on the final
syllable had been real rather than imagined. It was a lot harder to
sound assured and tough when your voice was carrying on like that of a
fifteen year old, he noted.

A silence attested to the fact that he had finally rattled the
detective sergeant. Turning to face his superior, Tom watched in
something akin to pure delight as the man’s lips twisted into the sort
of sullen pout that would have seemed more at home on the face of Tom’
s three year old niece. “Well?”

“I don’t see how anything I do in my private life is any of your
business,” he managed finally. “Besides, if you’re so interested in
what Rodney does out of hours, why don’t you ask *him*?”

Tom’s stomach clenched at the near-admission, but he was determined to
get an answer from the older man. Knowing could never be as bad as the
uncertainty he’d been feeling over the last few weeks as he’d watched
the signs becoming less and less easy to ignore.

“He’s not here, is he? So I’m asking you.”

With a quick turn of the wheel, John pulled the car over to the side
of the road.

((No signal,)) Tom noted. ((He’s lucky uniform’s not around or they’d
be giving him the ‘good example’ lecture by now.))

Enjoying the mental image of Reg Hollis giving Robocop a real
talking-to, Tom raised his eyebrows pointedly, urging the DS to speed
his reply.

“What d’you want me to say?” Boulton asked, seeming to be
significantly less distraught than Tom had hoped. “Do you want the
truth? Really?”

Suddenly not quite sure that he *did* want anything of the sort, Tom
nodded anyway.

An evil grin seemed to swallow the other man’s features entirely.
After a quick look over his shoulder, he pulled the car back into the
flow of traffic, ignoring the look of desperation that Tom was sure
must be plastered to his own face.

“Well?” Proctor demanded, cursing the CID gods for landing him with
such a bastard of a sergeant.

The grin grew as Boulton raised a solitary eyebrow. “Don’t you know
it’s bad manners to kiss and tell?”

And that was enough. More than Tom had expected, really, and certainly
more than he’d wanted to know.

It was true. It wasn't just all in his head, a pathetic invention of a
mind that was entirely too occupied with a man he'd never have. The
signs had been telling the truth, for once. What had seemed like
knowing glances had been exactly that, the flashes of fire in Rod's
eyes when he watched the detective sergeant from across the room not
imagined after all. There should have been a kind of victory in being
right, but Tom didn't feel as though he'd won. Rather, it felt like
he'd kicked the ball right into the middle of his own goal.

There was nothing good in this. Nothing good in the way he could
*feel* Boulton's amusement in the air between them, certainly nothing
good in imagining him with Rod, naked and alone and with *that* look
in Rod's eyes, the look that Tom had never been able to provoke, no
matter how hard he'd tried. But there was something in this torture
all the same. It was too easy to let himself fade into a silent
numbness. Better that he prick himself with the sharpest blades than
to loose all feeling altogether.

Perhaps it would have been easier if Boulton had just announced it
outright. ((Yes, Tom, Rod and I are fucking like rabbits and it's
bloody good too, in case you're interested.)) Hell, that would have to
be better than the near-respect he'd awarded Rod by not saying it
directly. The truth had been evident in the DS's ever-mocking voice,
but the meaning was implicit, not stated, which said a lot more than
Tom particularly wanted to understand.

"We're here." Boulton's northern drawl cut into Tom's thoughts, its
intrusion not entirely unwelcome.

Looking up, Tom realised that the car had come to a stop without him
noticing. They were facing Booth's lockup and only a few metres away,
discretion of any kind not being foremost in Boulton's nature. The
building itself appeared just as Tom had left it the previous
afternoon.

"Shall we?" Boulton swept an arm towards the lockup, a gesture too
unnatural to be anything but staged.

"What?" Tom frowned. "You mean you want to go in?"

"Why else would we bother coming all the way out here?" Mindless of
Tom's concern, Boulton swung open the car door and climbed out,
slamming the door behind him. A couple of seconds later, his head
appeared through the half-lowered window, impatience clearly visible
in the lines of his face. "You coming or not?"

Reluctantly, Tom followed him. "Are you sure this is a good idea,
Sarge?" he asked. "We don't have a warrant, remember. Even if we *do*
find anything, we can't do anything about it."
Boulton shrugged and proceeded to fiddle with the lock on the main
door to the building. "There's no one around." Off hand. "We don't
need a warrant."

Sighing, Tom looked away, not wanting to end up an accomplice to
breaking and entry. Within a minute, a screech of metal alerted him to
the DS's success. Stretching what he hoped was a disapproving
expression across his face, he followed Boulton into the relative
darkness of the lockup.

The other man was already climbing amongst a pile of what looked to be
empty boxes. "You start your end, I'll start at the back, and
hopefully we'll find something interesting somewhere in between," he
shouted, his face lighting up fearfully with the excitement of a
prospective game of hide and go seek with higher-than-usual stakes.
Muttering a few choice words under his breath, Tom began nudging a few
boxes around with one foot, not willing to get to involved in what
was, essentially, an illegal search. Apart from the moral issue, he
was also finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on the job at
hand when his mind was determined to torture him with endless images
of Rod in the embrace of the biggest prick at Sun Hill. Tom wasn't
sure what the attraction was, but he knew it couldn't be Boulton's
gentle nature.

He supposed he should have been grateful, really. At least with
Boulton in the role of current lover, Tom could be assured that there
wasn't anything serious going on. Boulton just wasn't the settling
down type, or even the type to fall in love. The only emotions known
to the man, as far as Tom could see, were those that fell neatly into
the 'negative' category. Perhaps he'd break Rod's heart - and Tom
would do him some serious damage if he did so - but he'd never claim
it. DS John Boulton loved *himself* too much for there to be any love
left for anyone else.

"Oh, lovely!"

Tom turned towards the sound of Boulton's delight. The detective
sergeant was holding up a dusty bag of what looked to be cocaine, a
manic smirk twisting his lips. "Is that what it looks like?"

Boulton dipped a moistened finger into the powder, touching a few
grains to his tongue before grinning with pleasure. "Sure is."

Tom frowned. "What do we do now, though? There's not much point in
taking the stuff back to the station, is there? We'll still be no
closer to nicking Booth."

"Who suggested taking it back to the station?" Boulton carefully
concealed the bag between a couple of damp boxes, presumably in the
same location as before. "I say we leave it here - and wait until our
man returns to dig up his treasure."

The plan seemed solid enough. Tom nodded his agreement, glad that at
least *something* in his life seemed to be going okay.


================
4.
================


((Here we go again…))

John could think of countless things he'd rather be doing than sitting
in a darkened car with the heater broken and only Tom Proctor for
company. Pulling his jacket tighter around his torso, he scowled out
at the darkness. Not even the light of the moon broke the black
monotony, hidden as it was behind the thickening clouds. A slightly
lighter tone of grey indicated the presence of Booth's lockup, but no
real detail could be seen. A bit of luck, and he and his lackeys could
be in and out of the place without alerting the troops at all.

The scowl grew a little more pronounced. Troops! That was a laugh.
Deakin had been far from compliant when it came to mounting a decent
obbo. He and Proctor in the car, Rod out the back, and the area car
hopefully somewhere in the vicinity. It didn't exactly lead a guy to a
life of optimism. If only Booth made an appearance, perhaps they'd be
in luck. More than two others and they were outnumbered. Which meant
no Booth, no coke and no promotion.

A horrible noise began to twist its way into John's left ear. After a
few seconds of pained reflection, he realised that the noise was, in
fact, Tom humming a bad impersonation of "O Canada". Teeth clenched,
he turned to glare at the younger man. "You might want to stop that if
you particularly value your own safety."

Tom glared back but stopped humming anyway. "I'm bored. What else
d'you want me to do?"

Rolling his eyes, although it was unlikely Proctor could see them in
the low light, John turned back to gaze at the lockup. "If you're
bored, why don't you go replace Rod out the back?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah. It would mean I wouldn't still be stuck in a car with *you*."

"That's not what I meant." Proctor's tone was as sullen as that of a
toddler who wasn't getting his way. Obviously he was still hurting
from the revelation that his precious Rodney wasn't similarly as love
struck as himself.

"I know what you meant, Tom, and I'd advise you to keep such thoughts
to yourself." Noticing the windscreen beginning to fog up a little,
John reached across the other man to retrieve a cloth from the glove
box. "Do you really think I'd jeopardise an operation this big just to
make you a fraction more jealous of me than you already are?"

He managed to withdraw his hand from the glove box only milliseconds
before Tom slammed it closed. "You're delusional. I'm not jealous of
you, Boulton."

"That's *Sergeant* Boulton to you, Proctor."

Then silence. A real 'one a.m. in a deserted allotment' type of
silence. John could hear the steady ticking of his watch, only
overpowered by the quiet creak of his seat as he let his body slide a
little further beneath the steering wheel. A far-off siren was a
pleasing distraction. Nothing to do with them - seemed to be coming
from Barton Street's neck of the woods - but it was nice to imagine
that *someone* out there might be catching crims.

A quick burst of static. "I hope you both realise how cold it is out
here."

John smiled narrowly and reached for the radio. "Probably as cold as
it is in here, Rodney," he laughed into the mouthpiece. "Broken
heater, remember."

"That's right. Nothing happening out front, then?"

"No. Tom's having a bit of a complain, but nothing out of the
ordinary…" John turned to face the DC, just so he could bathe in the
predictable glare being thrown in his direction.

"Oh, ha ha," Tom muttered, before turning his back.

"Now he's sulking," John added in a confiding tone. "I think he was
hoping to be home in time for Coronation Str-…" His voice trailed off
as the distinctive sound of a car came into earshot. "Hold on," he
whispered. "I think we've got company."

A pale sedan drove slowly past, stopping right in front of the lockup.
John nudged Tom, gesturing for the younger man to make use of the
camera sitting on the dashboard in front of him. A shadowy figure made
it's way from the front passenger side door to the large metal door of
the building itself.

"It looks like we're in business," John muttered into the radio,
watching as the door swung up and the car rolled quietly inside. "Four
of them, by the looks of it. We'll be needing that backup. Stay put
for now, but let us know if there's any action out back."

"Okay, John." More static and then nothing.

"John?" Proctor turned back towards the man in question, expression
strained. "Since when does Rod call you that?"

Boulton shrugged, enjoying the obvious pain radiating from the other
man. "A slip up, that's all. We see a bit of each other out of work
hours. I'm not about to get him to call me 'Sergeant Boulton' then, am
I?"

"Wouldn't put it past you…"

John bared his teeth at Proctor for a couple of seconds before turning
his gaze back towards the lockup. None of the men seemed to be making
a move towards the cocaine. "Give the station a call," he said
finally. "Tell them to get that area car out here ASAP."

As Tom was doing so, the tallest of the silhouettes moved towards the
front of the lockup. "Gotcha," John muttered as the slightly better
light revealed the distinctively hideous features of Mickey Booth. The
faint smile on his lips faded, however, as the figure reached up to
grab the bottom of the door. "Oh, don't do this to me!" he begged as
Booth darted a quick glance towards the left and right of the lockup,
before swinging the door closed in one smooth movement.
Beside him, Tom added a few curses of his own. "What now?" he asked.

"We'll wait for backup." Picking up the radio again, he depressed the
button. "Rod?"

"What's up?" Voice quiet, matching John's own tone.

"They've closed the door, so that's it for the photography. We've
called for backup and we'll just have to freeze for a few minutes
longer until they turn up. Booth's got form for weapons. We don't want
to do anything risky." Boulton turned to glare at Tom as the younger
man snickered unbelievingly.

"Okay." Rod's voice sounded vaguely tinny as it was transmitted
through the radio. "There's no movement on my side of things." A vague
swish of what sounded like foliage being pushed aside and then a quiet
exclamation. "Hey! There's a fantastic view of the city through these
trees back here! I never realised we were so hi-…"
Static.

"What the hell?" John shook the radio for good measure before holding
it back up to his mouth. "Rod? What's going on?"

There was no response. The two detectives exchanged a nervous glance.

"Perhaps he's just out of range," Tom offered, expression dubious.

"Perhaps." John gave it another try. "Rod? Do you read me?"

No answer. Just the static and then, finally, a faint sound of voices.
Boulton replaced the radio, staring blindly into the darkness. "This
is not good," he whispered, heart pounding erratically in his chest.
Then, too quiet for Proctor to hear: "Rod…"

******

Tom didn't wait for orders from the detective sergeant. Flinging open
his door, he almost fell onto the muddy ground outside, only just
managing to stay on his feet.

"Tom!" From Boulton's voice it seemed as though he may have been
trying to get Tom's attention for a while. "*Tom*!"

"What?" He turned to glare at the older man. "We can't just sit here!
They've done something to Rod!"

"Oh, and us rushing in there is going to help, is it?"

"It's better than doing nothing!" Tom's eyes darted desperately
between the ghostly outline of the lockup and the equal pallor of
Boulton's face. As much as he hated to admit it, it almost seemed as
though the DS was a little worried himself. There was a tightness
around the other man's jaw that couldn't merely be explained by his
irritation with Tom and the look in his eyes seemed even more manic
than usual, if such a thing were actually possible.

"We're *not* going to do nothing," Boulton said tightly. "But we're
also not going to stumble in there like a pair of fools. Wait until
Uniform arrives and *then* we'll stand a chance of being slightly
effective."

Reluctantly, Tom sank back into his seat, legs still remaining outside
the car, just in case. Boulton was a prat, but he also had a point.
What good could two unarmed men do against four men and at least as
many shooters?

"I'll radio in again," he said finally. It was as great a surrender as
he was prepared to give.

Boulton nodded. "Tell 'em to get a fucking move on."

Tom did just that, earning him what he supposed was a disapproving
silence from June Ackland.

Still no reassuring sound of approaching sirens.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, eyes darting to the
neon numbers of the clock in the dashboard. "It's been nearly five
minutes."

"I know." Boulton's voice sounded as strained as Tom's own. "I am
going to *lynch* Deakin when this is all over. We should have had at
*least* two more bodies on the plot. This is all his fault! Him and
the DCI's bloody budget!"

Tom smiled wryly. "It's never your fault, is it, Sarge?"

The eyes that turned towards him were hard and narrowed. "What d'you
mean, Proctor?"

"I *mean* that if Rod's hurt, it'll be just as much your fault as it
would be Deakin's or Meadows' or even mine. You're the one running
this thing, remember. You're the one who put Rod where he was."

"Actually," Boulton began, top lip curling disdainfully. "I told *you*
to cover the back of the building. But Rod had to feel sorry for you,
didn't he? Which meant I got stuck in a car with *you*." His voice was
growing increasingly angry, increasingly bitter. "You wouldn't even
swap positions with him when I told you to. If it weren't for your
pathetic jealousy, Rod would be sitting in that seat right now instead
of you."

Tom tried to push the growing feeling of guilt aside. "Yeah. And *I'd*
be the one you'd be worrying about now. You'd be in exactly the same
position. This has nothing to do with me."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself to keep that conscience at bay,
Thomas…" Boulton opened his own door, sliding to his feet with a
predatory grace that made Tom's previous efforts look all the more
flawed. "What the *hell* is keeping Uniform?"

"Perhaps they're lost," Tom offered helpfully.

"Oh, that would be just perfect, wouldn't it? Whoever put Tony Stamp
behind the wheel of the area car should be used as landfill. It's like
having Bobo the Clown as backup."

Tom heard a giggle escaping his mouth: high pitched, vaguely
hysterical. "And where does Dave Quinnan fit into all this?"

"You know what? I really don't want to know."

Tom followed the detective sergeant's lead, getting to his own feet,
with a little more success this time. "We can't wait much longer,
Sarge," he said quietly, eyes trained worriedly on the lock-up. "We
don't know *what* they're doing in there."

"Yeah. I know." Boulton was shifting his weight from foot to foot, the
movement a picture of a nervousness quite foreign to his form. "I
don't like this at all."

Finally, magnificently, the faint sound of a far-off siren began to
penetrate the silence.
"About fucking time," Boulton muttered, closing the car door behind
him with a quiet grind of metal on metal.

Following suit, Tom leant over the car's roof, lowering his voice as
though there was a sudden need for secrecy. "What's the plan?"

Boulton ran a hand through close-cropped hair, the moonlight casting a
spectral glow over his features. "I don't have one." Jaw tight. "How
can we plan when we don't know what we're planning for?"

Tom gaped at the other man for a long moment before speaking again.

"You're actually worried about him, aren't you?" His expression
hardened, as another thought occurred. "Ore are you just worried about
your ever-slimming chances for promotion?"

Something a little more familiar flickered in Boulton's eyes. "You've
a pretty low opinion of my humanity, don't you DC Proctor?" Tom's
silence seemed to be sufficient answer to the question. "I'd hate to
dissuade you from your views." Eyes dark. "Yeah, I'd like a good
result. It's my job. But *not* at the expense of Rod's safety."

Amazingly, Proctor found himself believing the older man. There was
something unsettling in the cast of his eyes and the twist of his
lips. Nothing that Tom wanted to think about too deeply. Not with the
siren growing ever louder, the noise almost warming in its echo. Not
the time now. Perhaps not ever.

"For Christ's sake!" Boulton turned towards the sound. "So much for
the element of surprise!" He shook his head disdainfully. A few more
seconds of waiting and the DS seemed to reach a breaking point of
sorts. "That's it. We're going in."

Tom was happy to follow as Boulton stalked off towards the lockup, his
jacket flapping behind him in an almost comical depiction of normalcy.
Something that sounded a lot like, "I'm gonna kill those scrotes,"
floated back to Tom's ears.

"Who? Booth's men, or uniform?" Tom called back, hiding his concern
with attempted humour.

"I'm not picky."

((Insane git.))

Tom had almost caught up to his superior when a loud banshee cry of
protesting metal drowned out the approaching police siren. "What
the…?" Before them, the large lockup door swung skyward as the murky
form of a car burst from within.

"Oh fuck." Boulton leapt to one side as the car sped past with a
revving of the engine and a spray of mud, narrowly missing the
detective sergeant.

Tom turned to follow its progress, ignoring the stream of curses
flowing from the mouth of the other man. "I can only see two people in
there."

When he turned back to Boulton, the DS was wiping mud spatters from
his face. "The others must have legged it out the back." He made his
way to the gaping hole in the front of the building. "Empty."

Tom shuddered involuntarily as an icy wind whipped across the barren
allotment. Retrieving his torch from a deep coat pocket, he flicked it
on and darted the light around the lockup, without any real optimism.

"Even the boxers are gone," he pointed out glumly.

"Damn!" To one side, a shadowy Boulton kicked the side of the
building. "Rod *must* have been in that car. There's no other
possibility."

"Maybe uniform will head them off." Tom turned to peer into the
darkness, the sirens now reaching a piercing wail. A brightening flash
of blue-red light signified the belated arrival of their backup. "Or
maybe not," he finished weakly.

Boulton was already stalking towards the car, looking reassuringly
like his old self in the face of the uniformed enemy. Robocop going
into battle. How did Kerry put it? That's right: fully charged and
raring to go. Tom couldn't help but gain some pleasure from the fact
that, for once, he wasn't going to be at the receiving end.

Of course, the fragile pleasure didn't last for long. The sounds of
rabid scouse shouting seemed to fade into the background as Tom's eyes
returned to the empty lockup in front of him. Rod was gone. He could
be hurt - badly even, possibly…

A sickening wave of fear twisted through Tom's body. No, he wasn't
going to think about that. He was going to find Rod.

Wherever he was.

******

Cold.

It was so incredibly cold. Although the temperature nearly led him to
believe otherwise, Rod was pretty sure that he was still fully
clothed - although it was hard to tell with his hands bound behind his
back and what appeared to be an old shirt tied around his eyes. A
*used* shirt. Recently, too, going by the pungent scent that had been
pervading Rod's senses since he had regained consciousness seconds
earlier.

((Where am I?))

Wherever he was, the floor was moving. Thinking about it, Rod also
realised it was remarkably soft for a floor. Perhaps *not* a floor,
then. His head began to hurt even more than previously from the effort
of trying to link the pieces together. Soft… moving… car?

((Now for the million dollar question: where are they taking me? And,
once that one's answered, I wouldn't mind someone telling me why it's
always me who seems to get into these messes…))

A gentle shudder and the car came to a halt, rocking Rod into more
softness, this time to the side. Definitely a car, then. After
knocking him unconscious, Booth's lackeys must have bound and
blindfolded him before entombing him in the backseat of their car.
Classy stuff.

Tentatively, Rod stretched out his legs, wincing as his feet hit what
he presumed was a car door with a loud thump.

"Sounds like our trophy's waking up," came a voice from the direction
of the front seat.

"Good." A second voice, possibly Booth himself from the accent. "He'll
be able to walk for himself. Dragging unconscious bodies around does
nothing for my bad back."

"I don't see why we had to bring him with us, anyway." The first man
was a bit of a whiner by the sound of things, his voice already
beginning to grate in Rod's ears.

"Pigs were there tonight, weren't they? We need to find out how much
they know. Can't have 'em turning up at an inopportune moment."

Rod frowned. That didn't sound good. He'd been hoping that they'd just
reached a suitable dumping place for their police cargo. Instead,
however, it sounded as though he'd be listening to that irritating
voice for a while longer yet. And there were undertones to Booth's
statement that Rod didn't like to think about too deeply.

"C'mon. Let's get him inside."

The car rocked as both front doors were opened and Rod's two abductors
climbed out. After a few seconds of stillness, the door at his feet
creaked open and a rough hand grasped his ankles. "Do you feel like
walking?" the whiny voice asked through the darkness. "Or would you
prefer we dragged you through the mud."

Not relishing the idea of what such a journey would do to his suit,
Rod attempted to raise his body to a sitting position. "Walk," he
croaked, his throat dry from having been unconscious for God only knew
how long.

"Good boy."

Someone reached in to grab his shoulders, and then he was pulled to
his feet and shoved away from the car. Staggering for a moment before
gaining his footing, Rod glared through the pungent fabric. "It'd be
nice if I could see where I was going, Booth," he spat.

"No need for that." There was a renewed pressure on his right
shoulder. "We'll guide the way. We wouldn't want you to get your
pretty little suit all dirty, would we?"

Rod had just long enough to feel the first rays of relief before he
was knocked to the ground, falling face first into the mud, unable as
he was to break the fall with his hands. Rolling onto his side, he
spat what seemed like an entire mouthful of mud onto the ground.

"You're only making things worse for yourselves."

Laughter. "Thanks for the clichéd sentiment, but I don't plan on
sitting around waiting to be arrested. *You're* the one who should be
worried about better and worse outcomes."

A shudder passed through his body as he was helped back to his feet. A
not-too-gentle shove directed him forwards. Blindly, he stumbled ahead
of his surrogate guide dog, while Booth chuckled quietly off to one
side. Finally, the mud gave way to something more solid and the hand
ceased to push him forward. Behind him, a door slammed closed.
Footsteps, and then a hot breath at his neck.

"So. Let's hear what you have to say for yourself…"



******************
5.
******************



"This is all your fault!" Boulton's voice was harsh in Tom's ears as
he let his head fall forward onto the desk in front of him. "Every
time Deakin forces the pleasure of your company onto me, something
major goes wrong."

Tom rolled his eyes at the dark wood beneath his forehead. "Have you
ever considered the possibility that I might *not* be the problem,
Sarge?"

"No." Snapped. A short silence was replaced by the sound of retreating
footsteps. Then, muttered under his breath, "Where *is* he,
goddamnit?"

Tom squeezed his eyes tightly closed, as if that would help him think
a little more productively. Not that he was feeling particularly
optimistic. He and Boulton had spent well over an hour aimlessly
searching the local area before eventually giving up. Uniform was
supposedly still on the look-out, but Tom found it hard to place too
much confidence in their efforts after Booth had managed to drive
right past them without incident.

It was as though Rod had completely disappeared. Thinking wasn't going
to help, no matter *how* tightly he closed his eyes. Tom was beginning
to accept the horrible feeling that they weren't going to find Rod
until Booth *wanted* him to be found. *If* Booth wanted him to be
found.

Letting a soft groan escape his lips, Tom raised his head from the
desk and regarded Boulton with bleary eyes. "This isn't getting us
anywhere," he remarked softly.

"I know." Boulton was now sitting at his own desk, reclining back in
the seat, looking for all the world like he didn't have a worry on his
mind. If Tom hadn't been a witness to the man's unadulterated panic
less than two hours ago, he may have believed that Boulton wasn't
effected at all by the events of the evening. Even in his face, there
was nothing to give away the worry that undoubtedly lurked just
underneath. The perfect picture of an emotionless copper. Just this
one *had* emotions - dangerous emotions, if not for himself then for
those around him.

"Is there anywhere else we could look? We can't have checked out *all*
of Booth's haunts." Tom dug excitedly though the vast mounds of
paperwork lying on top of his desk. "I think there's a list somewhere
in here. From the first raid, remember?"
Cold eyes. "Oh, I remember the raid, all right."
"Just because the raid was a bust, that doesn't mean the research was
faulty."

"Well, *something* was faulty." Tom just didn't understand Boulton. He
seemed to spend ninety-five percent of his time attempting to pick a
fight. It wasn't just with him, either. Inferiors, equals, superiors…
all at Sun Hill were treated with the same overwhelming disdain. At
least Tom wasn't alone in Boulton's bad books. The detective sergeant
seemed to thrive on making himself hated. And he was pretty good at it
too. Except, of course, when it came to Rod. Although, Tom wasn't
about to make *any* judgements on what went on in Rod's head when he
looked at Boulton and saw someone… attractive. As far as *he* could
see, the older man had nothing going for him but a lousy temper and an
unerring lack of tact.

"I'm going to go through these addresses." Tom's words were a
statement. Boulton wasn't dishing out any orders, so he'd make his
own. "They can't have just disappeared. They'll be holed up
somewhere - probably right under our noses, knowing Booth. We know a
little about how his mind works now. I wouldn't be surprised if he
were only a couple of blocks away from the nick." He took a breath,
suddenly aware that he'd made somewhat of a speech, assuming the
take-charge role perhaps a little more completely than he had
originally intended. Sheepishly: "I mean, don't you agree?"

A slight twitch of the mouth, as if contemplating a smart retort, and
then Boulton sighed. "I guess it can't hurt to look. We don't exactly
have any better options. And, frankly, I'd prefer to be doing
*anything* as long as it wasn't just sitting here like telethon
attendants waiting for the damn phone to ring!"

"Do you think he will? Ring, that is," Tom clarified.

"God knows. I mean, why the hell would he abduct Rodney in the first
place? None of this makes any sense. The only thing I can think of
that would explain his actions would be if he wanted free movement
somewhere." A pause. "The continent, perhaps. Booth seems the type to
be all chummy with the French."

"There's a particular type, is there?" Tom couldn't help grinning a
little.

"Hell, yeah. Better than the bunch who pack up and head to Spain every
winter, but as annoying as buggery all the same." He frowned, as if
wondering how he had got onto the topic, before continuing.

"*Wherever* he intends to go, Rod would make a good bargaining tool.
You know the Met - one officer's safety is worth the freedom of a
thousand thieves and all that bollocks. He'll be singing the French
national anthem and eating frogs' legs soufflé before you can say
'overcompensation'".

Tom frowned. He quite liked France, really. The food was fantastic,
and there were no rabid detective sergeants to tiptoe around. "So," he
ventured. "Are you saying that you'd prefer Rod to be hurt than to let
Booth get away? God! What is it with you and your vendettas?"
Boulton leaned forward over the desk, using a biro for emphasis as he
pointed at Tom. "And what is it with *you* and your unwillingness to
believe that I might be capable of the occasional human emotion."

"Oh, gee, I *wonder*." Tom finally located the recalcitrant file and
flipped it open to the list in questions. "After all, it couldn't have
anything to do with your attitude or your behaviour…"

Boulton was positively snarling. "You don't know me, Proctor. You
don't know what I'm like when I'm not at work."

"So you *do* actually go home sometimes, do you? I wasn't sure." Tom
raised an eyebrow, inwardly smiling wryly. Perhaps John Boulton wasn't
the only man in the room who had an interest in antagonism. There was
something to be said about arguing as stress relief, however. Sure,
there was always the niggling worry somewhere at the back of his mind,
but that was considerably better than a mind *full* of Rod and worst
case scenarios. It seemed as though John had taken on a similar
outlook, going by his own delightful blend of sarcasm and
irritability.

"Yeah. I go home. So does Rodney, for that matter…" The smarmy tone
was thick with insinuation.

"Thanks for the imagery." Of course, now there was *that* picture in
his head again. Tom wasn't at all adverse to images of semi-clad
Skases parading through his mind, but he wasn't too keen on the John
Boulton add-on.

"You're welcome. And, to answer your previous question, I'd prefer
*anything* to Rod being hurt." His jaw twitched and then firmed. "If I
could change places with him I would. No thinking required."

Watching the other man appraisingly, Tom concluded that he was
speaking the truth. There was that look again, tinting his eyes with
something indescribable, and the way that surprisingly long fingers
played uncomfortably with the blue casing of the biro.

Sometimes, at moments like that, Tom could almost catch a glimmer of
what Rod might see in the detective sergeant. He would almost begin to
believe that Boulton might truly care for Rod - and then there would
be another comment, another hateful smirk, another reason to despise
the older man. Tom just couldn't understand how Rod could be so blind
to Boulton's little bastardries. Could it be that he actually found
them *attractive*?

"I don't know what he sees in you," he muttered out loud.

"No?" Boulton didn't sound too worried by Tom's revelation. "Well,
I've told you before. If you have any problems, you should take them
up with Rod."

"I can't exactly do that right now, you know. There's that whole
'abducted by Micky Booth and Co.' thing to contend with."
Boulton glared a moment longer before pushing his chair back and
getting to his feet. "You'll just have to make do with *me* then,
won't you? Study me for a few minutes if you want." He moved forward,
placing both hands on the desk in front of Tom and shoving his face
right up to Tom's own. "Come on, then. Have a good stare."

Uncomfortable, Tom looked back down at the piece of paper. "So, about
these addresses…"

"Should I consider myself snubbed?" Boulton chuckled and straightened
up. Then, all business, "We might as well go check out a few. It's not
as though we're helping at all, just sitting around here."

"Where first?" Tom managed to meet the detective sergeant's eyes just
as the phone rang, shredding the previous quiet of the office.

It rang twice more before either of the detectives moved, Tom's gaze
holding Boulton's, the older man looking about as nervous as Tom felt.
Finally, Boulton spun around, snatching up the receiver and holding it
to his ear.

"Hello." In the ensuing silence, his face paled a little, light
freckles becoming visible against the surrounding white of his skin.
Tom felt his stomach tighten as he watched the other man intently.
"Booth?" he mouthed, earning a sharp nod in response.

"Sure… fine… I'll see what I can do." Boulton's voice betrayed none of
the tension in his face. "But you're not doing yourself any good by
abducting a police officer." The obligatory Boultonism. Silence for a
while, then, "Right." Dropping the receiver from his ear, he held it
in mid-air for a few seconds before replacing it in the cradle.

After a moment of staring blankly into space, Boulton met Tom's eyes
once more. "Well, I was half right," he muttered, the tension in his
jaw line being drawn in every syllable. "He wants to get out of the
country unscathed. Not France, though. Belgium."

"Is he the Belgium type too, Sarge?" Tom attempted a joke, resulting
only in a hard stare. A pause. "What are we meant to do?"

"Ensure that he gets on - and off - the ferry unharmed. Apparently
*then* they’ll release Rod, no sooner."

Tom frowned. "I don't like it."

A sigh. "Neither do I, but what else can we do? Sure, we can keep
looking, but i really doubt that they want to be found. So, it'd be
rather good to have a backup plan that doesn't involve bloody Uniform
for a change."

"Okay. Let's get out of here, then." Tom rose to his feet and
retrieved his jacket from its position on the back of the chair.

"Oh, you're giving the orders now, are you?" Eyes dark, Boulton
stepped forward a pace, moving a little closer than was comfortable
for Tom. There was something dangerous in his voice, a formidable
combination of fear and anger and hatred.

Tom had to force himself to remain where he stood, intimidated a
little, despite himself. "Look, I'm just worried about Rod, that's
all," he said evenly. "I'm not very good at just sitting around doing
nothing when we have no idea what's going on!"

"You're not good at much, though, are you?" the DS snarled, taking
another step forward. This time, Tom had to step back to avoid making
contact. "Well, that is, apart from lusting after Rodney. You're
pretty good at that one…"

"Better me than you." If Boulton was looking for the proverbial weak
spot, then he had found it. Hell, Tom knew that the whole unrequited
infatuation thing was less than flattering, but he didn't need it to
be pointed out to him by *Boulton*, of all people.

"Yeah?" Another step, on both accounts. "And what do *you* have to
offer him, Proctor?"

"A *heart* for starters." A quick glance to the rear confirmed Tom's
suspicion that the office wall was less than a foot behind him. Any
future escape would have to be a lateral one. "I know Rod, and he
could never be serious about a complete bastard like you."

Bared teeth attested to the fact that Tom had found a weak spot of
Boulton's own. "What would *you* know, Proctor?"

"A hell of a lot more than you, obviously."

Before Tom had even had time to realise that he had entered very
dangerous territory, rough hands grabbed his shoulders and shoved him
into the wall at his back, knees slightly bent so that the height
advantage was negated. "Do you realise how easily I could crush you?"

"This is your idea of teamwork, is it, Boulton?" Tom forced his
uneasiness to one side, plastering a very Boulton-like smirk on his
face. "I hate to think what you consider 'protecting the public'". A
thoughtful look. "Although, I think Antony Payne would have something
to add to the discussion. If he were alive, that is…"

The grip on his shoulders grew tighter as bared teeth came
disconcertingly close to his face. "You think you know everything,
don't you, Proctor?"

"Not *everything*…"

There was something almost intoxicating about the pain in his shoulder
as Tom's sneer mirrored Boulton's own, intense hatred shimmering in
the air between them as they held each other's gaze.

"You're such a fucking loser." Voice thick with hatred.

"*You're* such a fucking bastard." A near echo.

The rage became almost corporeal in the dim light of the office, a
temporary silence emphasising every ragged breath. The glint in
Boulton's eyes seemed to have little to do with reflection from the
lamps on their desks, appearing to be burning from somewhere within.

Then, somehow, their lips met.

Tom wasn't sure if he, or Boulton, had closed the gap, but it was
definitely his hand that reached around to roughly pull the other man
closer, his grasp no more gentle than Boulton's own. The other man's
mouth was hot against his, tongues linked in a violent struggle for
power, his body firm and solid against Tom's chest. The passion of
vicious hatred seemed to flow between them, seductive and tangible.

And it was good. Disconcertingly good.

((So, *this* is what Rod sees in him…))

TBC
Augustus