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DISCLAIMER: Not mine; Carlton/Pearson/Uncle-Tom-
Cobbley-'n-all get to bathe in reflections
of Mark Illis' glory for this one.
Dialogue from the opening scene of Short
Sharp Shock is his.
TITLE: David: Shades of Grey
AUTHOR: kel
PAIRING: Boulton/other
RATING: NC-17, L, A
SPOILERS: Vague ones for No Claims Bonus
CHRONOLOGY: Leads up to the events of Short Sharp Shock.
Probably works better if you know what
happens next, but that's open to debate.
COMMENTS: Short Sharp Shock epitomises everything that
was right about the ol' half-hour format,
IMHO. Why? Mark Illis is God for creating
David Wilson; Stafford Gordon and Russell
Boulter are bloody exquisite in it; and
there's Rodney's little looks and starts for
afters. Something like that, anyway. Take a
note, Miss Grant...
FYI: In my world, Boulton and his old Sarge at
Barton Street (Ray Kingsley; see ep "No
Claims Bonus") were more than just jogging
partners. I'll get around to illustrating
this one day, but 'till then, take my word
for it [g]
THANKS TO: Tracey, Rie, Claire and Mel for patience
beyond the call. Beyond a twelvemonth, in
point of fact; you are angels. Thank you
for the lack of hassle. Je m'accuse already.
Extra love to Rie for crucial beta as
always.
=========================
David: Shades of Grey
By kel
=========================
It's a routine enquiry; take the statement, find the
kid, ID, charge and bang. Simple. And the little
bastard doesn't deny it for long.
So what makes the Wilson case different?
David. David Wilson.
Tall, broad, a gentle 50-plus with thick, greying hair
and a lifetime of worry lines. They find him at the
hospital, waiting anxiously in the Relatives' Room
while strangers come and go with news of his daughter.
Wounded, worried and uncomprehending, he stands up,
nervously, at their approach; stands up and holds out a
large, rough hand reflexively, like a kid at church.
Looks at them, at Boulton, like a child to a parent,
soft with a parent's mute cry //Do something. Make it
stop.//
The girl, Kirsty, is all right physically. But she
won't be sleeping easily for a while. And neither will
Wilson, if Boulton's any judge. Not that he cares.
Embracing amid peremptory staff, the shy man's stance
echoing his daughter's, it strikes Boulton that they're
very alike. Together, somehow, they touch him, their
subtle differences sparking an all-too- familiar and
misplaced concern. He turns away, takes a back seat in
proceedings. Jim gives the usual spiel about muggers
being hard to catch and harder to prosecute. The look
in Wilson's eyes is unexpectedly painful. It's obvious
he doesn't want to believe it, he won't let himself
listen. Not many do; it's remarkably unremarkable. But
Boulton finds himself reassuring him in a too-light
tone, doing everything short of promising a result and
wondering what in God's name's got into him today even
as he hears his own voice soft with nerves and curling
round the words. Wondering, and watching Jim
wondering, and deflecting it all with pungent remarks
about anaesthetic and familiar nurses on the way out.
The ID's easy, very easy. They stop off on the way back
to the nick, haul in Chris 'how-many-times-is-that-
this-year-son?' Francis straight away. Boulton knows
without looking that Jim's irrationally angered, as he
is, by the resignation with which the little scrote's
mother abandons everything, again, to come with her
boy, again. He has to remind himself she's the only
other person in the room who doesn't treat this like a
game.
Process. Interview. And so on. And afterwards, Jim's
got a date with a mate at some pub somewhere, so
Boulton does the Wilson's courtesy call on his own.
Out of courtesy. Or something. He catches himself
straightening his tie in the rear-view mirror before
getting out of the car, and curses softly. There are a
million other things he could be doing with his time.
All part of the routine.
Wilson opens the door, reluctantly. Still in some form
of shock, probably; God alone knows what he's been
expecting. Kirsty's curled under a blanket on the
couch, pale, ignoring the TV. She looks better than he
does.
The look in her father's eyes as he hears of the arrest
is unexpected. Gratitude, an almost childlike
satisfaction - 'there, fixed. I knew you could do it'.
It's almost... it *is* faith. It's embarrassing.
Absurd. Kirsty accepts the news with evident and adult
surprise.
-- Thank you.
Wilson stumbles over a longer, clumsier effusion on the
way to the door, smiling far too freely with relief,
and not a little admiration. Perhaps. Boulton resists
the temptation -- the imperative -- to explain the
likely ins and outs, then. Something old and tired in
him can't bear to take that look away. He tells
himself there's no sense in upsetting the girl any
further. Kirsty nods a grave goodbye as he makes for
the door.
As he reaches it, Wilson, embarrassingly, asks him to
stay for dinner. Nothing special, just to say thank
you, sort of thing. Boulton declines, reflexively; far
too smoothly, as if it happens all the time. He watches
Wilson stumble hesitantly over his words.
-- A drink then... maybe... only I don't want to leave
Kirsty alone...
He looks far too fragile for the word 'inappropriate',
but rules are rules, even if and even so. It must show
in Boulton's face, as Wilson's posture changes to one
of indefinable disappointment. His oddly hurried
reply, forestalling a refusal, is interrupted by the
descent from upstairs of a dark, sternly good-natured-
looking woman. A relative, of some sort -- her
resemblance to Kirsty is remarkable. As she passes
between them, wordlessly, and into the sitting-room,
it's clear she harbours great affection for the girl.
And less for Wilson, and none for policemen. Boulton
rides out her dismissal and smiles, waving aside the
older man's hurried semi-apology.
-- My... my wife's sister, he explains. -- She's dead.
My wife, I mean, not Sandra... well, obviously.
And there's more, something about an accident and some
idiot plod in Southend, but Boulton's not listening,
not really. Tell someone who cares, he thinks, but
half-heartedly. He can't remember the last time
someone apologised for being anti-job and meant it.
-- Thought it might help to have a woman around for the
night. You know.
-- Right, right. Good idea.
He finds himself smiling at Wilson, not really thinking.
Or listening. Wilson turns his sad grey eyes down,
then bravely, breathlessly, renews the offer of a
drink, presenting it like armour.
-- Just to say thank you. Please.
It's clearly important. To him. And it's clear that
the listening Sandra disapproves, so Boulton agrees, a
sudden spark of complicit dislike for the woman
piercing his reluctance. He's never been fond of clingy
victims, but just this once...
Wiilson's smile when he says yes is charming. Innocent.
Genuine.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
They get on well, after a slow start, with nothing to
say and no reason to say it. Boulton passes awkward
moments studying the pub's quiet corners, its shabby,
dusty-gold light sliding sleepily over a few subdued
and happy punters. He's not entirely sure he likes it,
but says nothing. Wilson seems reluctant to talk about
anything much except his daughter, looking studiedly at
spilt drops on the table, dismissing Boulton's polite
and thinking-better-of-it questions about himself with
practised, apologetic ease. He's used to not counting,
thinks Boulton, suddenly sure that Kirsty's a subject
he falls back on a lot, to compensate. It's touching,
and a little sad, until he realises that she's her
father's touchstone in unsafe conversation; until he
realises just how skilled he is at using her to avoid
or broach uncertain topics. He relaxes, fascinated
despite himself and knowing there'll be questions about
the case. And sure enough, there are, eventually.
Wilson can't ask for himself. It's for Kirsty, just
for Kirsty. Of course.
And Boulton answers, for Kirsty. Of course.
He talks about Francis, about matters of procedure and
process, offering calm advice on shock and confidence
and counselling, of all things. About court and
compensation, keeping it light. And their chairs draw
a little closer together, and he gets in a second round,
booking off retrospectively, oddly comfortable and
relaxed. Something to do with the way Wilson--
-- No, David. David, please...
...looks to him for reassurance. David questions very
little; far too little, really. Surprised, Boulton
finds himself enjoying the evening, immensely, with
this greying and subtly cheerful man; finds himself
swept into more dangerous, personal, conversation
without even noticing, and worse, not minding when he
does, and drawing David out, and laughing. Laughing
with David, and at himself, gently, and he hasn't done
that for a long time. Neither of them has, he guesses.
He's missed the freedom of people from a different
world.
He's genuinely disappointed when it's time to leave. The
walk back to the house seems longer than it was on the
way, although neither of them would be soft enough to
dawdle in this weather, surely. He agrees, recklessly,
to come back tomorrow, tomorrow night. To give news on
the hearing and all that sort of thing, obviously. If
he can.
It's downright impossible to rationalise the warmth of
his response to David's tentative, grey-eyed and
smiling goodbye as victim support, but he manages.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He thinks about it all a lot the next day. Too much.
Far too much. He decides, privately, to send Jim over
instead, since there's really nothing to say, but
changes his mind at the last minute. Once or twice.
Over chipped teacups at dusk in the Wilsons' tiny front
room, he reassures David that Chris Francis won't come
looking for trouble. He knows him of old. The Wilsons
know of him.
-- The boy's got no respect, but he knows better than to
mess about before the hearing. Probably.
Kirsty's relieved at the news; Boulton realises
belatedly that David doesn't understand why he has
offered the information. He runs head- on into the
innocence and incomprehension that troubled him the
night before. David can't believe anyone would break
the rules. It charms him, somehow. And when something
Kirsty says opens a crack in the conversation, a link
to the goldly pub-lit night before, he takes the
chance, and talks.
He stays much longer than he intends to, finds himself
caught up in a debate with Kirsty. She has a nice,
cheeky streak hiding under the bruises, and strong
adolescent views on the many shortcomings of his car.
David offers no comment, but smiles down quietly at his
hands, the hands of a mechanic. He's proud of Kirsty,
and it shows. More outgoing today, at home with his
daughter, he still says little, watching Boulton
drawing Kirsty out, teasing her, and being teased.
Their rapport seems to please him; obscurely surprised
when his opinion is sought, he smiles shyly at his
guest and offers softly mischievous comments.
Boulton relaxes in their company, reminded of days at
mates' places, mates and their families after school,
too many years ago. He grins semi-ruefully at making
such an ass of himself, and finds his smile returned
with a warmth that has nothing to do with the game.
Kirsty goes to bed; he stays. David offers him a drink.
Against all habit he finds himself sharing a joke or
two about the day. Some stories you can tell, and it's
worth it to see those grey eyes light up. Worth it to
see him smile.
Eleven strikes; they fall silent. There's a tension
between them, somehow. Not unpleasant, but tangible.
-- Gotta go, you know how it is.
-- Yeah.
David shows him to the door, keeps him there, talking.
-- You'll be back soon?
Boulton demurs, with genuine reluctance, and not a
little regret. Not much is likely to change until the
hearing.
-- I'm sure Kirsty'd like to see you again. First time
I saw her laugh all day.
-- Kids, eh. She's resilient.
-- Yeah. Probably fancies you.
Shy grin.
Boulton laughs, makes a joke about the big bold hero on
the big white horse. They laugh, hear it fade, eyes
locked longer than is comfortable.
-- Well, OK, when I hear something...
-- She'd like that.
Softer.
-- I'd like that. John.
David puts his hand out, another reflex. Boulton shakes
it, awkwardly, wrongly. They're both suddenly very
aware of each other.
Christ knows which one of them leans in first. A slow
kiss, with open eyes. It's inevitable. It's awkward,
and apologetic, and Boulton's not aware he's been
holding his breath until later.
So long. So long since Ray.
David pulls back, shifts, drops his hand; apologises,
dark ruby staining his face and neck.
-- I didn't mean... I mean...
-- Don't be soft. It's OK. Look, I'd better...
This isn't a good idea. Boulton raises his hand,
awkwardly, to pat David's upper arm, finds himself
stroking it, gently, holding on. He tries to stop.
Really.
Old, buried reflexes kick in, and he pulls David close
in for another and another kiss, giving in to the
urgency of David's hand on the back of his neck and joy
at the twist of grey hair under his fingers.
Eventually David has the presence of mind to fumble for
the porch light and turn it off, shyly mumbling.
-- Ridiculous, standing out here like a couple of kids.
That's exactly what it feels like. Boulton's giddy, and
desperate not to show it. Not that it matters, that,
or the holding, being held, and the warmth of large,
gentle hands on his waist.
-- Don't go. Please, murmurs David in a voice suddenly
raw with need.
-- What about... Kirsty...
Not here. Not here. And he can't stop his hands
roaming David's body under the jacket, doesn't want to
stop.
-- No...
-- She'll be away tomorrow. Staying with Sandra.
Tomorrow's that far away it could be Christmas. Too
long.
It's been too long for both of them.
Boulton doesn't resist, he can't; and fights a smile as
they stumble back into the hallway, the door shutting,
too loud, behind them. It's probably him that resumes
the embrace; hard to tell, propped back against the
wall, euphoric and slipping on a knocked-down rolled
umbrella.
David falls to his knees, fumbles with Boulton's zip.
-- No.
He pulls him up. Gently. Christ it's hard to be gentle.
-- Let me.
Old reflexes. He wants to give. It's been a long time.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He drops to his knees, undoes David's jeans slowly,
takes time to stroke and nuzzle as he slides the stiff,
faded material down, time to note the scent of engine
oil embedded in the denim. Takes time to tease, a
little; running fingertips slowly under the leg-bands of
David's soft, worn cotton Y-fronts, easing them away
from his skin, just brushing the grey curls inside.
Time to cup his balls in one hand, run the other round
and down, nails gentle on the back of David's thighs. He
kisses gently along the hard length of David's cock,
feels it twitch slowly, heavily in response.
Gently.
-- Please...
Less than a whisper.
David's face is lost in shadow, the light from the top
of the stairs falling short, letting them hide.
Letting this happen.
Boulton begins the slow peel down, both hands sliding
down and behind as he rises, slightly, brings one back
to grip and stroke at base. He captures the head of
David's cock gently, takes it into his mouth, rakes his
nails along the other's bare lower back.
David groans, shockingly loud in the darkness, fingers
raking through Boulton's hair in clumsy, inarticulate
gestures. Not guiding; not capable. Boulton leans
into the warmth of David's fingers, into gentle strokes
behind his ear, far as he can reach, sliding under the
collar of his shirt and jacket. Broad, gentle,
fingertips along the line of Boulton's jaw, and down,
selfish but patient.
Or not; vain pushes at Boulton's collar make him smile;
he takes a moment to shuck off his jacket, let it fall
into shadow behind him, tie following, falling. His
turn. He moves his head back, away, smiles at the gasp
as David feels the cool air after the heat, lifts
himself to tongue the unfamiliar navel. Large hands
fumble two, three buttons at most, their owner
answering a smile at liberties permitted with warmth .
Boulton moves back down, nips sharply at broad and
parted thighs before taking David back. Feels warm
fingers under his chin, on his neck, moves one hand
reflexively to help, feels David's hand brush his own
and linger before resting at the shirt, to push, and
haul, impatient.
Boulton can't wait, won't; tears it free from the
waistband, himself, in the end. Always his problem,
right? Right. He resists the urge to reach down and
touch himself - agony but worth it, it can wait. He can
wait. The shirt rises, pulled back, pushed aside and
dragged harshly past his nipples. He'd forgotten he
had them. He revels in the warmth of David's hands on
his awkwardly bared shoulders, in the trace of nails
over and under cotton, tracing patterns on his
collarbone. David's touch is tentative and awkward,
clumsy with need or disuse. Unsure.
He takes a chance, reaching for and grasping David's
hand, squeezes it with gentle pressure in counterpoint
to the movement of his lips and tongue.
//It's all right, it's OK. Show me.//
He forces himself to ignore the burning heat of his own
body, and concentrate on this grey, hard man... so much
bigger, stronger; so much younger in all the ways that
count.
//Show me. Tell me. I'm here.//
Tracing patterns on David's hips, he arches back into
the roughness on the back of his neck, rough fingertips
teasing cropped hair at the neckline in a shy
escalation of confidence. Gentle, rough, and gentle
again, he plays; eliciting soft sounds that send bolts
of fire down his spine. The word he's looking for,
when he remembers to think, is rawness. He looks up,
as best he can, sees David looking down in hunger, in
wonder, in the absence of embarrassment. It touches
him.
He listens, concentrates, as David's head is thrown
back, as he leans hard against the wall on shaking
legs, almost sobbing. Quietly sobbing.
The taste of another man is all he remembers it to be,
but he's unprepared for everything else. For the
innate beauty in unfamiliarity, in the brush of thick,
grey curls on his lips, in the twitches, the thrusts,
the half-light urgency of it all, the miasma of sweat
and sex and engine oil.
There are tears in David's eyes as he comes, hard,
fingers locked with Boulton's.
Boulton stays where he is, for a time. Silent.
Choosing not to intrude, and resting, until. Not
shaken, no, not him. And when he rises, uncertainly,
and lets their fingers untwist, it's on the tip of his
mind to run. He doesn't register kissing his way up the
grey man's body, undoing buttons, sliding David's
jacket and shirt aside, down, over broad and
unprotesting shoulders.
David won't look at him. So tense, so fragile. There's
a fear about him, somehow. As if he's expecting
harshness, a blow, or their absence; he can't tell
which. And there's the decision, gone.
Boulton curls one hand in the sparse, grey hairs on
David's chest, rises to his full height and kisses him
gently, fingers brushing at the hollow at the base of
his neck. He speaks softly, and without thinking; a
plea as much as a reassurance.
--- Hey... it's OK.
He moves closer, lets his hand slide down and rest on
David's lower back. Not urgent, not asking, just
resting. Shaking fingers tracing words on day-old,
mist-grey stubble, he looks up, inviting contact,
gently. No pressure.
--- David...?
The word fills his mouth, somehow.
David keeps his eyes closed, but turns his head toward
Boulton, feels his way blindly forward to taking
Boulton's face in his hands and holding it, quietly.
Foreheads together, eyes closed, and a tentative kiss
that roughens, suddenly hard and urgent. David's
strong. It's as well to be reminded.
The kiss softens, gradually, the tension under Boulton's
hands dissipating. David's grip is strong, too strong,
but Boulton quells the urge to throw it off, and waits,
certain sure of relaxation as David tastes himself in
Boulton's mouth, feels his hands gentle on his skin.
And he's right. It's no time before he's helping David
fumble with the fastenings on his suit, pressing hard
against him, revelling in his unpractised hand. Too
gentle, too slow, but it's enough, it doesn't matter.
He can't remember the last time he was kissed and
touched at the same time.
He smiles into David's open, wet eyes; willing a
response in kind, and getting one. Shyly, at first,
then with mischief, and discomfiting gratitude.
//And he'd thought he was lonely.//
He traces patterns on David's wrist, closing his hand
around the larger one, not guiding, not telling. Hard
skin on soft, the roughness of David's palm along the
length of his cock more welcome than home. One hand on
the back of David's neck, gently stroking, he buries his
face in a welcoming shoulder and holds his elder close.
Still giving. Giving in the taking, which is the way
of things, and no surprise.
David's arm reaches right around his shoulders, clasps
him softly. He comes quickly, hard and quiet and
shaking with suppressed emotion. His normally sharp
cries are stifled by fingers and a kiss so gentle, so
gentle. He's cradled. Owned.
They stand there a long time, after, holding. Just
holding.
David's softly whispered 'Thank you' touches nerves he
didn't know he still had.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He spends the next day by turnabout euphoric and
uncertain. Unsettled. He thinks about ringing; does
anything but look at the unfiled case notes on his
desk. They've the number on them, black and obvious.
He won't ring, won't put them away, picks up the phone,
twice, and is snappishly grateful for nick-of-time
interruptions.
Better for David's sake not to.
Better for his own sake.
The decision is taken from him when David turns up. At
the station, at five, presence relayed by some
indifferent plod. Jim, cigaretteless and moody, offers
to go down; he's distinctly affronted when Boulton
brushes past too fast, muttering something about
statements.
Grittily polite, Boulton shepherds the nervous mechanic
into the interview room, oddly furious. And happy.
David doesn't look as if he wants to be here. Boulton
doesn't want him here. He'd say so if only he had the
words. The door shuts behind them. He checks. Twice.
Only cold questions, flat and polite, suggest
themselves; so he begins, but stops as David, shyly,
holds out a tie. Boulton's. Folded.
-- Here. You... I didn't want you thinking... I
mean...
David's beet-red, and awkward, and scared to death, and
it shows. But so does Boulton's relief. A smile wins
through, suddenly; he catches it, but not before David
sees. David relaxes, instantly; responds in kind, open
as a child. The room suddenly feels a lot warmer. But
they're still standing apart. Keeping their distance.
Boulton's not moving; and David's the sort who thinks
everything mends. He can't have thought at all about
what to say; the words just tumble out.
-- I'm sorry... coming here, I mean. I should have
thought...
Silence.
-- I mean, I would have rung first, but...
-- Yeah, well.
Boulton keeps his voice level, unexpectedly annoyed at
himself for the bluff. And bluff it is, and he knows
it for sure when David shrugs in resignation, and
closes down, somehow, and he wants to explain.
He never explains.
He forces it all down into one tiny tiny thing; a shrug,
a phrase.
-- You know.
Says an awful lot, to some. Not now. It's not enough.
He wonders if it sounds as false to David as it does to
him.
David nods, quietly, looks down.
And up again, as Boulton steps forward, takes the tie.
-- Look, David... -- I was wondering if maybe...
They speak together, too loud, and fast, both. And
David blushes again, and looks down, eyes locked safely
on newly cleaned shoes. Ready to leave. And Boulton
takes a deep breath. All or nothing.
-- I'd like that.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He's seeing what he wants to see - David -- and seeing
him everywhere.
He sees David in Grieg's quiet methodicality, in Rod's
awkwardness in other people's homes. In Tosh's smile
when he complains about his children, and in the lines
of pain on Jim's face.
He doesn't think about that too closely -- Jim's the one
place he sees himself too, and the image isn't welcome.
Or relevant.
He thinks in cliches, and kicks himself for it,
goodnaturedly. The little irritations of the day mean
nothing - he's calmer, easier at work; cheeky
speculation rampant in the canteen, which he ignores, of
course. He's still just as focused, still just as
harsh when he needs to be. Naturally.
He doesn't feel as if he's behaving differently. But as
Don says, feet up and form guide in hand, you know
you're doing something right when you can get a laugh
out of Alistair.
Over at his desk, Jim grins quietly, shakes his head.
Keeps his own counsel.
And the other thing... he's rediscovering his libido, of
all things. For too long it's been something battened
down, pragmatic and unwanted. But now...he has to slap
himself down, mentally, the third time he finds himself
hanging back on a call so he can watch Rod storming his
way round. He tells David about it, for a laugh.
-- See what you've done to me...
See indeed. Or not. They don't find secrecy a burden.
He doesn't see David on bad days. He goes home, takes
it all out on the cornicing, or the floorboards in the
sitting room, or the complaining tenant below. He's
used to getting things out of his system this way, but
the fact that there's a point to it now brings a
sharpness to the need he hasn't felt in a long time,
leaves him able to enjoy the effort, enjoy the rush.
He'd never admit depending on the soft "John?" on the
other end of the phone afterwards, or the simple
pleasure he finds in the word "tomorrow".
He works hard at eroding David's timidity. It's
frustrating; everything David says comes out like a
question, somehow. Boulton forces himself to be
patient, to work around it.
It takes six weeks for David to ask, in bed. For
anything. It's a joy when he does; he's never been so
happy to say yes. To anything. So he does. And
waits, patiently, for more questions. He knows they'll
come, in time. David's eagerness to please is
touching, discomfiting. And contagious.
For the first time in a long time he looks at notions of
deserving, of what is due to him and how. He knows
he's not an easy man to get along with. Channelling
the disquietude into tenderness, Boulton tells himself
he's making sure. Making sure of what, exactly, he
can't say. Making sure this works. Making sure it's
worth it -- for David.
It's not easy, sometimes, but he manages it. Somehow.
Admitting he wants it too scares the hell out of him.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He takes David and Kirsty out, for dinner, the day he
finds himself using the word "lover", privately. He
doesn't explain why, and David doesn't ask. It's a fun
night, favourite curries and old jokes, and, later, dark
stars and tenderness, gentle kisses to hush their
lovemaking and the scent of cardamom in David's hair.
He takes a risk, stays, wakes alone to hear Kirsty
getting ready for school downstairs, ricks something
stifling his laughter as David ducks in and out, hiding
a cuppa behind his back like a schoolkid with a
cigarette.
He doesn't go to work. Neither does David.
It doesn't help when, that afternoon, Kirsty tells him,
seriously, "You're good for Dad. He doesn't get out
enough." David runs for the kitchen, turns a burst of
badly suppressed laughter into a coughing fit.
When he comes back, they can't look each other in the
eye. Kirsty just smiles at Boulton, kisses him on the
cheek before going upstairs.
It worries him slightly until David reassures him that
she's only seeing what she wants to see.
He's not given to fear, but he becomes afraid,
sometimes. Of the job, and of David's simplicity; of
letting David down. He keeps it to himself, warding
off the possibilities on long, companionable, honest
nights when Kirsty isn't there, and they sprawl like
bawdy adolescents on the floor. He finds himself
pulling David's head into his lap, stroking that thick
grey hair, stroking the worries - and there are worries
- away, by proxy. Of course it'll be all right. He
almost believes it himself.
He's never less than honest. David deserves that much.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
In the week before the Francis boy's hearing, David
spends less time at the garage, less time at home.
Less time with Boulton. Out and about, just walking,
he says. Just thinking. Doesn't want to discuss it,
really.
Boulton respects that. They don't talk about the
sentencing, much; they've long agreed to disagree.
-- *When* he goes down, John. *When*.
David doesn't want to hear "if". He has faith in the
system.
Boulton doesn't argue any more. He's done what he can.
At least David's aware of the possibilities. He
assumes that's what all the thinking's about. Makes
sense. David's not daft. He decides the rest is a
front for Kirsty's sake. Silly, in that case -- she
finds David's optimism as frustrating as he does.
Boulton shrugs. Behind her father's back, Kirsty folds
her hands and whispers "God love'im..." in her best
Hilda Ogden accent.
David frowns, and pulls Kirsty close.
-- Cheeky miss. But you're not to worry, seriously.
Right?
Kirsty keeps her own counsel. The prospect of Chris
Francis getting away with it is something she
understands instinctively.
She and David spend a fair bit of time together now,
with the school holidays and all. He stops short of
fussing - he has to. She stops him worrying. They're
a good team.
Love, trust, whatever. Boulton stays out of the way,
sees David when he can. Kirsty's not daft, and God
knows there's a limit to how many times they can say
he's just popped in to see how they're going.
David just laughs.
-- You worry too much.
It's not exactly the point. He feels known, approved
of, somehow. Allied. He wishes he had the words to
explain, but wisely lets it rest.
Later, much later, for the first time in years, he finds
himself talking. About Ray. About being let down,
hurt. He keeps it locked down, low- key, makes a joke
of it, but even being able to acknowledge it, being
left, being used, is beyond price.
He doesn't have to explain, doesn't want to. It's still
too raw. David sounds the same when he talks about his
wife. They've both been left behind, somehow. Christ,
a cop in Shadwell? Might as well be dead. He tells
David he is.
David's let it go, got on with things, battled on
regardless. Boulton hasn't, and won't. But he feels
something lifting, all the same. He's beginning to
understand, beginning to feel. Beginning to remember
why things hurt so much. And he doesn't mind at all.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = == = = = = = = = =
=
He arrives late at the court, just. It's finely
calculated, having dropped David at the door and gone
to park the car. They're both enjoying the sensation
of being together, in public, "officially" - it feels
daring, just this side of dangerous. Irresponsible,
like kids who've hijacked the school bus.
He takes his time finding the room, enters; shoots a
venomous glance at the Francis boy on his way up to
David. Well, it's in character. And it stops him
smiling at the man he's come to love.
David half-rises as he comes in; more than a little
nervous, but certain sure of the result. He doesn't
hide his smile.
-- All right, David?
-- Yeah, yeah. Fine, how are you?
It's ridiculous. Like anybody's listening. Boulton
fights the urge to grin.
They sit together, alone in the back row. Kirsty's gone
to Sandra's for the day. David didn't want her here,
and she didn't want to come, really. Understandable.
Still, they could have done with her company, for her
father's sake. Officialdom makes David nervous; he
takes refuge in faith and absolutes. Boulton's never
indulged him.
-- Common sense, innit? They're gonna lock him up.
-- Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you.
They stand with the court, and he takes the opportunity
to brush David's hand with the back of his.
-- Here we go.
They can always talk about it later.
=== end ===
(c) bessie Feb 2000
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