Title:             Soothing The Savage Beast
Author:            Claire

Fandom:            The Bill
Rating:            Ignoring the gratuitous use of language
                   in the beginning, I'd say 'G'
Pairing:           [whispers]  Des Taviner / Reg Hollis.
                   Pre-slash, I hasten to add!!

Archive:           Jasmine Alley, Britslash, WWOMM - Anywhere
                   else please ask.
Feedback:          Please.  [g]  Charlton@cobweb.com.au

Spoilers:          Set after whatever the ep is that Conway
                   bites it in.

Disclaimers:       Characters belong to Thames Television /
                   Carlton.  I *think*.  Not mine anyway.

Added Disclaimer:  This pairing goes against my
                   aesthetic principles.  I'd just like
                   to make that known.  [g]

Beta'd by, written for, and dedicated to Kel.

Enjoy.

===================
Soothing The Savage Beast
===================

Des Taviner was not a happy man.  In fact he was far
from happy.  Far, *far* from.  As shit days went,
today, as far as Des was concerned, was up there with
the best of them.

Stupid stuck-up yuppie tosser.

It still pained him that he hadn't been able to wipe
the smug smile off the prick's face personally.  Even
now his fists longed to come into forceful contact
with the bastard's aristocratic nose.  Those bleeding
heart liberals who didn't believe in retribution
didn't know what they were missing out on. One punch.
That's all it would have taken to lift Des' mood.
One punch, one broken nose and a bit of blood.  Not a
lot in the grand scheme of things.  It's not like the
fucker wouldn't have deserved it.

Putting his foot down harder on the accelerator, Des
scowled at the speedometer and slammed his hands down
on the steering wheel in frustration.

Useless piece of shit.

It was like the fucking speed gauge was stuck on
twenty-five.  Pressing harder on the accelerator
achieved nothing, nor did swearing viciously at it.
Although he'd have sworn it to be close to an
impossibility Des could feel his mood souring
further.  Goddamn shit heap!  A fucking golf cart
could give the thing a run for its money.  One thing
was for sure, he'd never malign Pandas again.  Not
after this.  Hell, compared to the ratty Fiat Punto a
Panda was a fucking dream machine.

His mate had said that it was better than nothing.
Des no longer believed him.

He missed his car, his Celica, his baby.  He'd had
her for less than twenty-four hours and she was
already consigned to history.  It wasn't fucking
fair.  They'd just been getting to know each other.
The love was still fresh.  Seeing her waiting for him
to slip into her had still brought a smile to his
face.  Hanging was too good for the yuppie bastard
who'd destroyed her innocence and taken her from him.
She was a write-off now, gone forever.  He knew he'd
never have another one like her.  Even thinking about
the all too brief time they'd spent together upset
him.

To each their own.  Conway's death was bad but it
didn't impact personally on Des like the loss of his
car.  Besides, he hadn't had much to do with Chief
Inspector Conway.  The guy had seemed okay enough,
for a brass, but Des knew he wasn't going to lose any
sleep over his untimely demise.  Pity Chandler hadn't
been the one to go up in flames though.  That would
have put a whole different spin on the day.  In fact
Chandler all crispy crittered in the morgue would
have resulted in Des' day pulling a complete one-
eighty. The fucker was Teflon-coated though.  It was
just one of those unfortunate facts of life.  Shit
didn't stick to shit.

Pulling up at a red light Des tried not to think of
his beautiful Celica sitting all unloved and
unprotected in the wrecker's yard.  Another car, a
black Nissan 200SX, pulled up alongside Des and,
looking at it, his scowl intensified.  The passenger
of the Nissan, a man in his late twenties, all blue
eyes and stupid dimples, looked back at him through
the car's open window, his expression unreadable.
For no other reason than he was in a foul mood Des
took immediate offence.  Winding down his window, he
glared at the man, all but itching to start a fight.

"What are you fucking looking at?" he snarled,
leaning out the window.

Looking puzzled, the man shook his head.  "Nothing,"
he replied, his soft American accent the equivalent
of a red rag to a bull to Des.  "I'm sor..."

"Stupid Yank!" Des growled, leaning further out the
window.  Nothing.  Of course he was fucking looking
at nothing.  Instead of a man in a choice motor he
was looking at a loser in a Fiat Punto.  Des felt
like nothing too. He hated it.

The expression of puzzlement on the man's face gave
way to annoyance.  "Look mate..."

"I'm not your fucking mate," Des retorted, sneering.
"Come on.  How about it?"

"How about *what*?" the man muttered, reinforcing
Des' opinion that all Americans were thick as planks,
as he turned to the driver as though in need of
assistance.  The driver, another poncy looking git,
leant forward and glanced dismissively at Des before
shrugging nonchalantly.  'Not worth it' is what the
shrug said to Des.

"And your stupid boyfriend," Des snapped, making to
open the car door.  The day having finally got to him
he was seeing red.  If he didn't punch something soon
he was going to explode.  And those two turkeys, most
likely drug dealers going by their choice of motor,
were as likely candidates as any.

The American laughed.  "It's been peachy meeting
you," he snickered, having the nerve to wave at Des.
"Have a nice night," he added, his smile broadening
as the light turned to green and the Nissan shot
across the intersection.  Des could only watch as the
car quickly disappeared from view.  It had gone from
sight before he'd even managed to coax the Fiat into
gear.  Which was about par for the fucking course.


Seething, his mood now having reached absolute rock
bottom, Des continued on his way, his hands clenched
around the steering wheel.  If anyone had asked he
would have replied that he didn't know where he was
going, that he was just driving.  What's more, in his
mind he would have been telling the truth.  The
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Honest Guv. Consequently he was surprised -- shocked
-- when he found himself pulling up outside Reg's.
For a brief unnerving moment he had no idea how he'd
got there.  He hadn't even thought he'd been in
search of company.

Not Des.  Not Hard Man Taviner.  He didn't need
friends.  Mates, yeah, but not friends.  Mates got in
rounds and shared the skinny on which nag was going
to cross the line first in the local derby.  They
mightn't be there in your hour of need but you knew
where you stood with mates.  Friends were something
else, something entirely different.  Friends you
could make the mistake of relying on.  And Des never
wanted to rely on nothing or no one. He'd learnt the
hard way and had no intention of ever lowering his
defences that far again.

He couldn't explain what he was doing staring at
Reg's door, a curious sense of longing pulling at
him.  It defied Taviner logic.

Oh well.  Fuck logic.  He was here now and he was
thirsty.

His mind made up, Des got out of the car and, without
bothering to lock it (if any scrote wanted to nick
the piece of junk they were more than fucking welcome
to it), made his way towards the house.  Although it
was close to two in the morning there were still
lights on inside.  Not that it would have stopped him
from hammering on the door if there hadn't been.  God
no. He was here now and he was going inside.
Patience having deserted him hours ago, Des kept up a
steady pounding on the door until Reg finally
appeared and cautiously opened it.  A chain kept the
door from fully opening and Reg peered through the
gap, clearly not recognising Des in the dark.  "Yes?"
he murmured, "Can I help you?"

"Come on Reggie-Babe, open the door and give us a
drink," he replied, pressing his weight against the
door.

The door opened, nearly causing Des to fall on his
face.  "Des!" Reg exclaimed, an expression of evident
concern on his pale face as he gestured him inside.
"What brings you here at this time of night?  Don't
tell me you've got more bad news.  I've had quite
enough for one day."

"I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd just call
in on my mate Reg for a drink," Des bluffed,
strolling inside and making for the kitchen. "Whatcha
got?  Whatever it is I want it straight."

"I'm afraid there's only tea or coffee," Reg replied,
hurrying after Des and sounding flustered.  "If I'd
been expecting company I could have bought something.
You should have warned me you were coming, Des."

Des shrugged.  "That would have spoiled the surprise
Reggie-Babe," he responded blithely, turning the
light on in the depressingly neat kitchen and making
a beeline for the kettle.  "Aren't you pleased to see
me?"

"It's not that," Reg murmured, gently elbowing Des
out of the way and switching the kettle on.  "It's
just that I would have liked to have known you were
coming," he continued chidingly, busying himself with
getting cups and teabags.

"Don't tell me you're hiding someone upstairs and I'm
interrupting something," Des muttered, smirking.
"Come on.  You can tell me if there's..." Trailing
off, Des looked Reg up and down and shook his head.
"Nah.  On second thoughts, given what you're wearing
I'd say it was safe to bet that you're here on your
own."

Reg looked down and his neatly pressed jeans and pale
grey shirt before glancing at Des uncomprehendingly.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"You're home," Des replied with a laugh, gesturing
around him.  "You're alone in your own house yet you
look as though you've never heard of the concept of
relaxation.  Just look at yourself Reggie-Babe.  You
should be letting it all hang out."

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you all the same" Reg
replied primly, returning his attention to making the
tea.  "Relaxation comes from inside, Des, not from
wearing sloppy track suits and t-shirts that haven't
been washed for a month."

"And to think you've never seen me relax," Des
snorted, unable to stop himself from smiling fondly.
"Any more descriptions like that and I'll begin to
think you've been spying on me."

"Believe it or not I do have better things to do with
my time," Reg responded, getting the milk out of the
fridge.

"Oh yeah, like what?" Des queried, watching Reg make
the tea but making no move to assist him.  "Come on,
you can tell me."

"I can do better than tell you," Reg murmured matter-
of-factly as he poured boiling water into two cups.
"I can show you.  If...  That's if you'd like, of
course.  While I know it's not everyone's cup of tea
so to speak it means a lot to me and I derive a lot
of pleasure from it.  It's...  It's what I was doing
before you got here.  It helps take my mind off
things, something which I needed after what
happened..."

"Please tell me you've got a secret porn stash," Des
mock-pleaded, taking one of the cups from Reg and
following him out of the kitchen.

"No," Reg replied plainly, leading the way upstairs.
"It's model trains."

Model trains?  Des could hardly believe what he was
hearing.  "Model trains? My nephew has a thing for
them.  Thomas and the Fat Controller and all that
rubbish.  Mind you he's only seven and you're *how*
old exactly?"

"Age is irrelevant," Reg murmured as they reached the
top of the stairs. "If you're going to make fun of me
Des we can go back downstairs and you can drink your
tea and leave.  As I said in the kitchen the trains
mean a lot to me."

"Fine.  Whatever," Des muttered, shrugging.  "Lead
the way.  I wanna see the damn things now.  You've
got me curious."  It was true too.  He wanted to see
them.  He didn't know why but he wanted to.  If Reg
liked them he supposed there had to be something
going for them.  Besides, anything was better than
going out and resisting the urge to kick the shit out
of the Punto.

"Remember Des," Reg stated warningly, walking through
the first door leading off the landing, "I don't want
to be made fun of them.  If you don't like them you
can just leave."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Des replied
facetiously, following Reg into the room.  The sight
of the train layout that greeted him nearly took his
breath away.  Even to Des, whose childhood had
consisted of toy guns and Dinky army trucks that more
often than not ended up getting lost in the backyard,
it was magnificent.  Perfect in every detail, the
layout was a monument to a bygone era, an England of
the Forties and Fifties.  Model steam trains of
varying descriptions sat stationary on various parts
of the criss-crossing track, their engines and
carriages bright against the lush greenery of the
countryside.  It was, not that he'd ever voice the
word, beautiful.

Picking up a streamlined blue engine, Reg held it
lovingly in his hands and presented it to Des for his
inspection.  "This is the Mallard," he murmured
reverently, "seen here in its original LNER blue
livery.  To this day the Mallard is the holder of the
World Steam Traction speed record.  It's one of my
favourites.  I like all the A4s but the Mallard is
special."

"Looks like a cock," Des responded bluntly, the words
slipping carelessly out of his mouth.  "I mean, look
at the shape of it."

"Phallic symbol," Reg corrected with a sigh, backing
away from Des and placing the train back on the
track.  "If you're going to crude you could at least
try to sound a little more educated about it."

"Phallic symbol then," Des repeated, shrugging.
"Happy now?"

"I think it's beautiful," Reg stated, ignoring Des
and carefully reconnecting the engine to her tender.

"Bet Gilmore's lot would too," Des muttered, folding
his arms across his chest, the words yet again
bypassing his brain and falling casually out of
his mouth.   "Hell I bet they could find lots of..."

"Des!" Reg interrupted, looking up from the layout, a
flash of annoyance crossing his face.  "Do you mind?"

"You're not standing up for that bunch of..."

"Des!"

"Is there something you're not telling me Reggie-
Babe?" Des queried lightly. "Phallic symbol trains
and standing up for homos...  Whatever next?"

"Live and let live, Des," Reg sighed, looking Des in
the eye for a split second before returning his
attention to his trains.  "For what it's worth there
are a lot of things you don't know about me."

"Lot of things you don't know about me too," Des
retorted, suddenly for some unfathomable reason
wishing there weren't.  It was all an act.  His
entire life was an act, one that he was now afraid of
breaking free from.  If he allowed so much as a hint
of what was in his past to slip through his defences
it would all come crashing down around his ears.
Gilmore's lot...
*His* lot...  Everything was smoke and mirrors.

"Then we make a fine pair, don't we?" Reg murmured
simply, picking up another train and carrying it over
to Des.  "This is The Flying Scotsman, another famous
locomotive," he explained knowledgeably, effortlessly
changing the topic.  "This is a Hornby model.  I
wanted the Bachmann one but at the time couldn't
afford it.  Bachmann are better than Hornby you
see..."

Listening to Reg prattle on Des realised something
that he hadn't expected to.

And that was, against the odds and to his
considerable surprise, that he was strangely content.

~ end ~