DISCLAIMER:   Loxton, McCann, and all other Sun Hill personnel mentioned
              herein are, have always been, and will always be the property
              of Thames/Pearson/Carlton, Geoff McQueen, yatta yatta yatta.
              Written for fun, not money, honey, and because Loxton is a
              thing of beauty and a joy forever...

CHRONOLOGY:   set a few weeks after the episode "A Good Night Out" (broadcast
              18/9/96 (UK), early Jan 1997 (Aust))

CONTENT:      er...  M? Adult themes, bad language, some violence, mild
              homoerotic sexual content.   The original idea (Loxton/McCann)
              started as an in-joke between siblings (well...  who can resist
              Bad Boy Loxton in leather, grr), and probably wouldn't
              have gone any further, but the opportunity for Gary Torture set
              up by "A Good Night Out" was just too good to pass up...  [grin]

FLAMES...     comments, Certificates of Section under the Mental Health Act
              etc to: bessie@goldweb.com.au.  I am obliged to state that the
              following in no way represents any formal or informal opinion
              of Wiemers Computing Services.  Even on a Friday.


==========
Golden Boy
By kel
===========


It was dark in the corridors, dark and damp and grey.  McCann felt his way
slowly through the ruined factory, baton raised, listening for the hurried
steps, the ragged breathing of the youth.  Dammit, where was he? Over the
trellis, into the forecourt of the abandoned estate, then bang up to the
fourth floor, sliding on rotted timbers as he scrambled up the old cast-iron
fire escape.  No working lifts, and local kids had put their Doc Martens
through the other stairs years ago...  he *had* to have come this way.  There
was nowhere else to go.

"You're not doing yourself any favours, you know.  Why don't you just stop
and we'll talk about it, ok?"

Nothing.

"C'mon mate, be sensible - this floor's set to go as soon as look at it".

//With any luck the little scrote'll go through it and break his bloody neck.//
Not that he needed the hassle of an accident, but given that it was either that
or have him go through McCann on the way out, Gary had his fingers
crossed and damn the paperwork.  //Fuck it, why didn't I call for backup
when I had the chance?// He cursed himself soundly under his breath.  So
much for "proving himself" after failing the sergeant's exams - at this rate
all he was going to prove was that he couldn't be trusted to supervise
himself, let alone anyone else.  //Charging off like that...  stupid, stupid,
stupid!//

It had been three months since McCann had last been through here, and
nothing had changed.  A bit more piss in the corners, a bit more obscenity
scrawled on the walls, maybe - and at least half of that was down to Dave
Quinnan - but nothing else.

It wouldn't have been so bad if there'd been someone he could talk to.  None
of the other guys understood, really; they thought he could just get on with
the job, just get back on the horse.  They didn't understand how hard it was
to be knocked back.

He'd never failed anything before, never.  His parents had been great, said
of course they understood, better luck next time, probably a good thing in
the long run, all that stuff...  but there was always the faint tang of
disappointment, that indefinable sense that he had let them down.  He
hadn't, he knew he hadn't.  But still...  //You're not the golden boy anymore,
sweetheart.//

And talking to "Aunty June" just wasn't on this time...  How could he, when
however nice she was, all he could think was 'that's easy for her to say'.
She'd made it, he hadn't, simple as that.  Reg Hollis had kicked some sense
into him, kept him from blowing it all in a fit of pique - and he was honest
enough to thank God that he had - but Christ knew that was as far as it
went.  "Any time you want to talk, Gary, you know...  about how you feel,
or whatever..." Fuck that.  The last thing he needed was PC Blu-tac angling
for midnight heart-to-hearts in the stationhouse.  Although...  //Nope.  No,
no way, stop that right now, Gary.// Christ, if only he wasn't so *lonely*...

Cursing silently, he edged along the hallway, out into an open area
branching out into small offices.  Once a shining example of the Eighties'
communal workspace - partitions, desks, photos of children and girlfriends,
the obligatory potplants - now, it was just so much scrap.  Anything the
local kids hadn't smashed or burnt had long since begun rotting from the
riverside mists, which even now curled in through the broken windows,
weaving patterns through the rain which dripped and poured steadily
through cracks in the ceiling.  A thousand managerial dreams washed away
into piles of splintered, mouldering chipboard.  A thousand places to hide.

"Come on, I know you're in there."

No answer.

He crouched under the line of the grime-encrusted office windows, and
made his way slowly around the outside of the room, mouth dry, heart
pounding as he stopped by each door and nudged it open, arm raised to
ward off the expected blows.  Hoping, praying each room would be empty,
expecting the kid to charge out knife-first, ready to block, ready to jump out
of the way, ready to run.  Step by step, yard by yard around the perimeter...
each time finding nothing, no-one.

As the last door swung open, revealing nothing but the grey and dripping
darkness, he relaxed, then yelled in fright as the door swung back into his
face, knocking him to the ground.  Flailing wildly, blinded by the pain, he
connected hard with the doorframe and rolled, arms raised instinctively to
protect his head, only to feel something sharp score him painfully along his
wrist.  He scrambled desperately backwards, trying to shield himself from a
more serious strike, trying to *see*...  dazed, panicking, he looked up just in
time to see something furry, clawed and angry heading for the window.

//A cat.  For Christ's sake, a fucking cat.// Breathing hard, not trusting
himself to get up, fighting a ridiculous urge to cry, he pulled himself up into
a sitting position.  He lowered the baton in his suddenly trembling hand.
//You're losing it, Gary.  Not good enough.// He concentrated on his
breathing, re-running the event in his mind.  //I should have seen it.  I
should have coped.  What if it had been...  what if...// He felt defeated,
exhausted.  Unthinking, unable to stand, he drew his knees up and rocked
back and forth in silent, painful frustration.  //Not - bloody - good -
enough.//

Without warning, a great weight struck him in the back, thrusting him hard
into the floor.  As he kicked out, trying to free his legs, a strong, fierce
grip
closed around his right wrist, pulling it up and back, rolling him to lie face
down.  As his attacker straddled him, pushing him down, he struggled
desperately to get free, crying out as a bolt of fire shot up his arm.

"Get off me! Police! Get off-"

His face was pushed sharply against the ground, grinding his cheek into the
floor, stretching his injured arm even further.  He felt his attacker lean
forward, bringing his face close to his ear.  Warm breath on his neck, a
rasping whisper.

"Shut up.  I know who you are, all right? Just lie still and you'll be fine,
OK? You hear me?"

//Male.  Young, IC-1 by the sound of it.//  He tried to twist his head round,
but stopped as the man yanked his hair, hard.

"I *said*, you hear me?"

"Yes! I hear you.  I hear you."

"Fine.  Now I don't want to hurt you, got that? I just want to talk to you.
But you gotta behave, yeah? Yes or no?"

"Look, let me up, if all you want to do is talk -"

"Yes or no?" Another tug, harder this time.

"Aaaa...Yes."

"Good."

The weight on his back shifted, the man settling himself just over McCann's
lower back, letting his arm fall back into a less painful position.  The grip
on his head eased, but didn't relax.  He felt a hand force its way under him,
taking his handcuffs, then moving up under his jersey to his radio set.
//Christ, if he smashes it...//  he tried to twist away, but only succeeded in
leaving an easy gap for his attacker, who pulled it roughly until it came free
with a quiet ripping noise.  He flinched, expecting a crash as it was hurled
across the room, or dashed into pieces on the floor, but none came.  //Thank
fuck for that.//  He sensed the man raising himself slightly and reaching
across, a slight shifting of the weight, as if for a pocket or a bag.  //Now!//

Ignoring the fire in his arm, he twisted sharply, searching for detail, any
way to identify the stranger.  He heard his attacker yelp in pain, caught a
brief glimpse as his hand was wrenched hard out of his pocket, leaving a
startlingly bright trail of blood on his wrist.  His satisfaction was short-
lived; the stranger retaliated immediately and hard...  but it gave him some
small comfort as he was slammed back into the floor.

"Do that again and I'll neuter you.  I won't tell you twice."

Dull black, dull gold above it...  //Leather jacket...  good leather, not
cheap.//  He could smell it, obscurely comforting, even over the mouldy
floor.  //Blond hair, light brown maybe...  definitely IC-1.  Good leather.
Jeans.//  What had the kid been wearing? //can't remember...  stupid! if I
could just see his face...//

"What do you want?"

A soft laugh, oddly familiar somehow.  "What do *you* think I want?"

"I don't know."

Silence.

"Look, who are you? What's this all about?"

"You tell me, PC 358."

//Oh Christ...//   He felt a sudden chill of fear, felt himself starting to
sweat.
//Calm down, calm down, the number's on your shirt, that's all.  //

"Look, I don't know, all right? "

"Oh, come on.  You can do better than that....  *Gary*."

The shock hit him like a body blow.  //Oh shit, oh shit..//.

"Look...  for Christ's sake...  I mean...  What've I done? Who is it?"

The stranger shifted, his torso flat and warm against Gary's back.  "I could
be anyone, Gary.  Anyone at all.  You tell me."

"Look...  will you just let me up, OK? Please?"

His voice resonated high, with panic.  He thought wildly, heart racing, a
memory from his first week at Sun Hill rising unbidden to his otherwise
numb mind...  one of Bob Cryer's little "uncle" talks.  //Don't let them see
you're afraid, Gary, you do that and you've lost it.  It puts them right in the
driver's seat and you don't get it back.  Even if it's what they want...
*especially* if it's what they want, never *ever* let them see you're afraid.//

He swallowed, breathed deeply to bring his voice back under control.

"If you've got a problem with me, man, we can talk about it, sort it out.  Not
like this, I mean..."

That laugh again, oddly gentle.  The stranger moved closer, his mouth
almost brushing the upper ridge of Gary's ear.

"It's not me who has the problem, *Gary*."

"What do you mean?" //Alcohol.  He's been drinking.//

"What do you think I mean?"

"I told you, I don't *know*!...  For Christ's sake...  " His voice cracked,
tailed off, in pain and defeat and frustration.  "You're hurting me."

Silence, except for the faint brush of the stranger's breath on the side of his
face.

"I said, you're hurting me."

Silence, longer.  Unbearable.

"Why are you doing this? Why? I don't *understand*!"

All the tension of the last week, all the anger and hurt and disappointment,
rose up and combined with his fear, welled up to the surface in one huge,
unstoppable torrent of shame.  He began to cry, silently at first, then in
huge, sobbing, breaths that racked his whole body.  He couldn't think,
couldn't see, couldn't move, even being scared was just too hard...  he forgot
where he was and gave himself up to the tears, tears that had been hiding
for twenty years, the tears of a golden boy, a golden boy who was never
good enough, not really, not on the inside, no matter what anybody else
said.  How could he be good enough when he was what he was, when he
was who he was, when he felt and saw and wanted what he did...  //how
could he ever be good enough...//

"Shh...  shh...  that's right, you let it all out, mate.  It's OK.  You're all
right
now, you're gonna be OK.  Shhh..."

The voice was gentle, incredibly gentle, full of kindness and distress.  With
a start he realised that his arm, although still twisted behind him, was free -
a strong arm holding him across the shoulders, *holding him*, tightly but
gently, close, a rough but gentle hand stroking his forehead in time with the
soothing words.

"Come on...  shh...  's'alright, s'alright..."

Blindly, instinctively, he threw his body into a twist, thrust out and back, his
good arm smacking hard, elbow-first into the other's face, throwing him
backwards, off balance, not far, but far enough...  the back of his head
slamming into the other man's jaw, sending a wave of pain through his neck
and shoulders, but giving him the time to scramble up, scramble free.  Even
as he heard the other's surprised shout of pain, heard him trying to stand, he
made a break for the corridor.  Blood pounding in his veins, he cannoned
into the sharp edge of a broken desk, and tripped.  The blow sent him
crashing headlong into the wall, down to the floor again, flailing in panic,
up and running again, until an almighty crack sounded and the boards gave
way beneath him.  His leg plunged through the rotten timbers, pitching him
over onto the floor, where he lay half-stunned, winded, too scared to move.
He shut his eyes, exhausted, helpless, waiting for the pain to go, waiting for
the blows he was sure would fall...  any second...  any second now...

"Ohh...  oh God, oh fucking Christ God Almighty, my *nose*.  What the
bloody hell d'you do that for, you fucking *pillock*? Ohhh
*Gooooooooddddddd...*"

He opened his eyes, startled by the voice, clear and loud and as well-known
to him now as his own.  "Steve? "

He twisted round, pulling himself up painfully, hardly noticing the jagged
wood as it dug through the blue serge of his uniform, scoring deep, bloody
scratches in the tender skin beneath.

"*Steve*?"

"Nah, it's Paddy sodding Ashdown.  God, you try to help a mate...  Oh
*Christ* that hurts..."

"*What*?" He stared in disbelief and horror at his colleague, struggling to
get up off the floor and failing.  "Fuck...  sorry...  I mean...  are you all
right? No, I mean fuck that, I mean..." He dragged himself backwards,
bracing his aching back against the wall, holding his bad arm tight across
his body, willing his mind to clear.  "*Help?*"

"Yeah, *help*, you idiot.  Oh Christ, this is going to bleed for a week."
Loxton pulled himself upright, almost unconsciously mirroring Gary's
movements, using one leg to push himself up against a broken partition,
keeping the other turned slightly sideways, wincing as he moved.  He tipped
his head back and fumbled in his jacket pocket, bringing out a crumpled
tissue to soak up the blood.

"*Help?*"

Loxton opened his eyes and looked over sourly.  "Is there a fucking parrot
in here, or what? Give us a hand, will you?" He reached out to Gary, who
shrank back against the wall despite the distance between them.

"Fuck off! You stay away from me.  What the bloody hell have I ever done
to you?"

Loxton sighed, and leaned back again.  "What? Dunno what you're talking
about, mate."

"You attacked me!"

"Look, when I got here you were on the floor, looked like you were in
shock.  All I did was -"

"Bullshit!" Gary pulled himself upright, hanging onto the office
windowframe.  "Don't give me 'when I got here'.  You bloody well jumped
me.  I saw you! I saw your jacket, I knew...  I mean...  Fuck, man, you
*hurt* me." He tailed off in confusion, suddenly unsure, trying to remember
exactly what the hell *had* happened.  He remembered the pain, being
scared...  then...  being - //being held.  Jesus...//

"You..." He stopped dead, shocked, the thought hitting him with unexpected
and dizzying force.  //Being held....//  how long had it been since he'd been
held by anyone, anyone at all? And hot on its heels came another that
rocked him even harder.  On the floor...  just for a second, just for one tiny
second, he'd felt...

He looked over at Loxton, Loxton in his jeans and black leather jacket,
Loxton with the bleeding wrist and the stolen RT unit peeking out of his
pocket, Loxton watching him, his face unreadable, and thought //Safe.  He
hit me, he *hurt* me, and I felt safe.//  The shock folded him up inside and
sent him spinning, retching into the office doorway.

Loxton was beside him in an instant, supporting him.  "Gary? You OK?
*Gary*?" He sounded small, concerned, frightened.  "Look, I'm sorry, OK,
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you, it was just...  I was just...  oh Christ,
Gary, look, do you want a doctor? Let me call a doctor, get you down to St
Hughes..." His fear was almost tangible, on the verge of panic.  "Oh Christ,
mate I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Still now, drained and shaky, McCann straightened up slowly and looked
Loxton straight in the eye.  Numbly, clinically, he noted how pale the other
man looked, drawn, frightened, radiating a naked, raw concern - telling
himself he couldn't hear his instincts shouting loud and clear that for once in
his life it wasn't Loxton that Loxton was worried about.  //Jesus, he looks
like a kid, he's terrified.  Well bully for him, I can't feel a fucking thing.//
"Get the fuck away from me."

"I was only trying to -"

"I said get *away* from me!" He pushed out, hard, catching Loxton in the
chest and shoving him back onto his injured foot, back into the door frame,
the touch strangely electric, taking a sharp, guilty satisfaction in the look of
surprise and pain which crossed the other man's face.  Breathing deeply,
calmer now, his anger flooded back, bringing with it strength and an
authority he didn't know he had.  "You just stay right there, got that?"

"OK, OK." Loxton straightened up warily, almost respectfully, keeping his
distance.  Winded from the blow, he was breathing raggedly now, favouring
his good leg.  "But I meant it.  I thought you were hurt.  I'm sorry."

"Shut up."

Loxton raised his hands in mock surrender, then leaned back against the
door frame, closing his eyes, his face lit by a stray beam of late afternoon
sunlight.  His nose had stopped bleeding now, but the scarlet stains
remained, breathtakingly vivid against the fairness of his skin, the soft
golden bristles on his cheeks, the darker gold of his hair.  Out of uniform,
out of control, he looked young and wild, feral, a creature of the streets,
magnetic, hypnotic, dangerous, *powerful*.

For Gary, stirred in some deep, dark way he couldn't identify, it was as if he
were seeing him for the first time.  Unwilling to stare, unable to look away,
he felt at once detached and distant, yet drawn, studying this stranger in the
shape of a friend.  He sank back against the door, everything around him
melting away into a dark, formless blur, Loxton the only bright point,
compelling in his stillness.  Loxton opened his eyes and their gaze locked,
sending a jolt through him, the contact electric.  Breathless, off-guard, it
took Gary a full minute to register that the other was speaking, his voice
low, uncharacteristically soft.  Unable to follow it, he tried to speak, say
anything, but all that came out was an indistinct, pleading mumble.

He shook his head to clear it, tried again.  "What are you doing here?"

"I told you." Loxton's voice, flat, quiet, sincere.  "I was on obbo for CID,
that fell over, so I got sent home for some sleep.  I stopped in for a pint,
when Jimmy Margetson comes belting down the road with you after him.  I
thought you might need some help, so I tagged along.  I'd just got into the
yard when he came running out again, flat-chat.  Went through me like a
bloody Panzer.  I couldn't see you anywhere, thought he must have done
you over or something.  I got here, you were OK.  Then that bloody cat
came out of nowhere and you just folded up.  Scared the hell out of me."

"I was all right." He meant to sound calm, but to his ears the statement
sounded pathetic, denying, petulant.

"You bloody well didn't look it."

"I was fine.  Just had a bit of a shock, that's all." He felt an absurd,
childish
need to justify himself taking hold.

"I was worried." Loxton's voice darkened, anger breathing beneath his
words.  "I thought you'd been hurt."

Gary laughed, humourlessly.  "Ah, I see.  So the smashing me into the floor
thing was just to take my mind off it, hey? Well, fuck you, fuck you very
much."

"Listen, you idiot." Loxton straightened up, took a step forward.  "I
wouldn't have done it if...  It bloody well served you right, coming up here
alone.  I thought you of all people had more sense than that.  Do you have
any *idea* what sort of risk you were taking?...  " He stepped back, made a
visible effort to calm down, reached out to grasp Gary's shoulder.  "I just
thought...  I'd give you a bit of a scare, teach you a lesson.  That's all."

Gary's anger blazed again, white-hot, and he found himself shouting.
"Teach me a lesson? What the hell gives you the right? Hey?" He knocked
Loxton's hand away with explosive force.  "You've had more complaints
against you than anyone I've ever met on the force, and I'm not fucking well
surprised if that's the way you operate.  You scared the hell out of me, you
know that! You hurt me.  You could have been anyone." He spat.  "What is
it, you get some sick kind of kick out of this? Well fuck you, Steve.  Fuck
you." He turned sharply, made for the corridor, only to be slammed
sideways, hard.  Loxton's face loomed close in front of him, one large hand
pinning both wrists above him, the other grasping his chin, forcing him to
look at Loxton, look into his blazing, furious eyes.

"For Christ's sake, Gary! 'Could have been anyone'? That's *exactly* my
fucking point.  What if I had been somebody else? Somebody who really
*did* get 'some kind of sick kick' from beating up coppers, eh? Eh?" He
shook him, hard.  "You have *no* idea, do you.  Do you know who that
was, who you chased in here? Mm? James Margetson.  James fucking
Margetson.  He's with the Front, Gary.  On the in, on the up, needs to prove
himself.  He's got years of form, you ask anyone on the Jasmine Allen and
they'll reel it off like a two times table.  GBH, aggravated burglary,
aggravated assault, racial attacks...  Jesus, Gary! This place is *deserted*.
The guy's got a fucking *knife*, and you come steaming in like you're his
own personal Santa.  'Hey, over here, the black guy with the bullseye on his
back.' *Christ!* "

"I..."

"Shut up! I haven't finished.  You've been off the fucking planet for weeks
now, ever since that business with the exams.  'It's nothing, better luck next
time, don't want to talk about it.' Bullshit.  You've been pushing your luck
every fucking day.  You're either not interested enough to do the job, or
you're playing stupid hero games.  You want to talk about rights? Huh?
Well, what gives *you* the fucking right to play Rambo when it suits you.
If it was just yourself, fine, but it's not.  You're putting yourself in danger,
you're putting the rest of us in danger, can't you *see* that?" He stopped,
breathing hard, releasing his hold on Gary's face, but keeping him pinned
against the wall.  His voice lowered, concern starting to show through the
anger.

"For Christ's sake, Gary, *talk* to someone.  I know it's not easy, but you're
not the only one this has happened to, you know.  OK, you're on your own
down here, and maybe there's no-one...  I mean, I can understand not
wanting to make it personal, but...  it's too important, fuck you.  You've
*got* to let it out somehow, let it go.  Even if it's just hitting the walls or
something.  It's too important.  Otherwise you're going to get hurt.  Or
someone else.  You understand what I'm saying?"

Gary nodded, slowly, feeling the tears threatening to come again, squeezing
his eyes shut to stop them.

"Gary...  Look at me.  *Look at me*."

He felt the lightest of light touches under his chin, and obeyed, intensely,
dizzyingly aware of the soft heat of the other's skin, the brush of his breath,
the tiny, tiny distance between them.  As their eyes met, his chest tightened,
his breathing rapid, shallow in a disturbingly familiar way.  //Oh Christ, of
all times, of all bloody people...  I don't believe this..//.  He forced himself
to
ignore it, ignore the slow burn inside, concentrate on Loxton's words.

"Look...  I'm sorry, OK? I'm truly sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt you.  And
maybe I shouldn't have...  I mean, maybe there was another way.  But this
sort of thing...  you had to be *shown*, yeah? Sure, me, or Reg, or Dave, we
could have sat you down and talked till we were blue in the face but you
wouldn't have listened.  You wouldn't have *talked*.  You'd have nodded
and sorried and walked away, twice as wound up because somebody said
the word 'fail'.  Wouldn't you?"

"It's not bloody good enough.  You're a good copper.  I mean that.  But
you've got to learn.  Golden boys fall over just like everyone else, Gary.
Deal with it."

Loxton was flushed, emotional, animated in a way Gary had never seen
him.

"Someone had...  *I*  had to do *something*, I couldn't just let you fuck it
all up like that, you're better than that.  So I'm not sorry, not for that.  But
I
am sorry about the way it happened, all right?"

Gary looked up at him, searching the other's hazel eyes, saw them soften as
their gaze met, unshielded, unguarded, felt his heart racing at the contact,
felt, saw a *response*...

//No, it's not bloody well all right.//

He felt the other's hand tighten on his wrists, realised he'd spoken aloud, felt
a sudden surge of panic.

"Look...  OK, OK.  I understand.  I'd probably have done the same thing.
I'd have done it differently, but I'd still have done it.  But you *hurt* me."
He paused, aware he sounded desperate, a sulky, defiant child, not knowing
what to say, saying anything but //get me out of here//.

"Christ, how many times? I'm *sorry*, OK?"

"If you'd just *asked* me, if..."

"Bullshit."

"What was that about not listening?"

"That's what it is, Gary, bullshit.  I know you."

Gary fought a hysterical urge to laugh, cry, he wasn't sure which.  //That's
more than I bloody do.  All right, game over, you win.  Whatever you want.
Just let me *go*.//  He spoke, his tone defeated, his words unexpected,
unexpectedly true.

"Look, I *would*.  I *wanted* to talk...  I would have, to...  to someone,
but...  I didn't know, OK? I didn't know.  I thought you'd think...  I mean,
I'm not really...  "

"One of us?" Loxton's tone was gentle.

//No, that's not it, it's...  oh Christ I don't know!// Gary nodded, anyway, out
of habit.  It was easier than trying to explain.  The look of disappointment,
of disgust that crossed Loxton's face took him by surprise, stung him hard,
as the other man let go and stepped back.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Gary, that's the sort of self-pitying crap I'd expect
from someone like Nick Slater, not you." His voice hardened, all trace of
concern vanishing.  "That's the way you want it, fine."

The contempt in his voice as he turned away *burned*, cut deep and harsh
through what remained of Gary's control.  He lashed out, furious, hurt, the
pain razor-sharp and acute.

"And that's *exactly* the sort of reaction I expected from *you*!" He swung
wildly, painfully, slamming Loxton round and back into the wall, then
again.

"You want bullshit? *This* is the bullshit, right here.  'Oh, I'm *so*
worried.  Oh, I'm *so* concerned about poor, fucked-up Gary that I just
*have* to do *something*, I have to *understand*.  Oh, if only he'd *talk*
to someone.' " He let go, stepped back, hit the other man hard across the
face, jerking him sideways.

"And I was right, wasn't I? I should have fucking well known.  It's one thing
talking about it, but when it comes right down to it, when you've got to put
your money where your mouth is and it starts to look like for once in your
life you might just have to actually give a toss about somebody else, you
don't want to know.  It's bullshit, Steve, it's your fucking ego.  Admit it.
You don't give a flying fuck about me."

Shaking with anger, bitter, he watched as Loxton turned slowly to face him,
and braced himself for the counterattack, ready, resigned to it.  But even so,
the speed of the reprisal took his breath away, the quick strength of the
hands on his collar and neck, the pain as their bodies collided, stumbling
back into the wall, pinning him down.  Preparing to kick the other away
from him, he was stunned to feel Loxton's lips on his, hard, crushing,
violent.  Panicking, struggling, unable to breathe, it took a second for the
actuality to sink in, for him to understand, a second in which the desire to
escape and the desire to give in, to respond, were at violent and unequal
odds, a second stretching, a moment when what he was and who he was fell
to dust, were born anew in fire.  His anger dissolved, energising him, and he
returned the kiss, desperately, passionately, giving himself up utterly to the
moment, aware of nothing but the touch and taste of the other man, the
electric jolt of tongue on tongue, the soft scrape of golden stubble on his
skin, the heat of Loxton's hands on the back of his neck, in his hair, his own
reciprocating, fingertips tracing leather, then skin, soft skin, a shocking and
liberating delight that spread throughout his body like flame.

They broke apart, suddenly, the cold air shocking on his face.  He looked
up, met Loxton's eyes, saw shaken, defensive uncertainty fading into desire,
soft wonderment.  An unbearable happiness surged within him, and he drew
the other man in again, renewing the embrace, rejoicing in the exploration.
The kiss deepened, released, Loxton burying his head in Gary's shoulder,
Gary holding him close, stroking his hair, the pair of them clinging to each
other like lost children, holding tight, together, together and *safe*.  He
stroked Loxton's face, feeling wetness on the other's cheeks, mirrored by
soft tears of his own, tears of joy in knowing this was right, this *burned*,
this was everything and nothing and the only thing that mattered, a singing,
breathless joy in the arms that held him, in the firm, warm strength of the
body pressed close now, its hardness matching his as thigh met thigh, and
parted, locking, rocking gently together.

No words, only inarticulate, muffled sounds, sharp, soft intake of breath, no
world but a soft cloud of scents, of leather, sweat, rain, gentle movements,
quickening, creeping excitement white-hot, the need for release sudden,
urgent.  Gary fought it, the sheer sensation of happiness, of being held and
holding, more than enough, overwhelming...  Desperate to *give*, he held
tighter, held back, suffused with delight as he felt Loxton tremble, start and
shudder against him, held him tight and rode out the waves that shook the
other's body, its tension ebbing away only to renew as he reached his own
release, soft cries lost in the warmth of leather and soft golden hair, leaving
them close, exhausted, quiet, buried in the silence and the peace of each
other.

"Sierra Oscar calling 385, Sierra Oscar calling 385.  Do you read me?"

The sound broke in the room like a thunderclap.

"Shit!" Loxton jerked away, fast, stumbling on his bad ankle in his haste.
Gary, shocked by the sudden loss of contact, could only watch
uncomprehendingly as the other pulled the RT unit out of his pocket and
held it out towards him.

"Sierra Oscar calling 385.  Are you there, Gary?"

Loxton shook the radio impatiently.  Gary took it, unable to think, dazed by
the transition back to a world outside this room, this space.  He turned it on,
lifted it to speak, but no words came.  Loxton grabbed the radio back,
speaking hurriedly.

"Sierra Oscar, this is 363.  Gary's with me, Pol.  Over."

The radio crackled, the young WPC's voice filled with concern.  "Is
everything all right there, Steve? The last call we got was an in-pursuit,
some kid with a knife."

"Yeah, we're fine.  Gary's been knocked about a bit, but we're pretty much
OK."

"The kid?"

Loxton looked over at Gary, flustered now, avoiding his gaze.  "Yeah.
Well, sort of.  Margetson, wouldn't you know it.  And before you ask, we
lost him."

"Shame.  You want him done for assault?"

"No point.  Dark factory, no witnesses, our word against his, you know how
it goes."

"Yeah, I know.  Bad luck, eh?" There were a few background murmurs,
then her voice was replaced by Bob Cryer's.  "What are you doing there,
Steve? I didn't hear Gary call for backup."

"He didn't.  But he bloody well should have.  I was with CID, Sarge,
finished early.  I just happened to be passing, saw what was going on,
thought I'd give him a hand."

"Is he hurt?"

Loxton was pacing about now, composed.  "Nothing to worry about.  You
might want to get the FME in though, just to be on the safe side.  Transport,
too.  We're at the old biscuit factory, off Cheetham Road.  We'll meet you
outside."

"Received.  Tony & Norika'll be there in a minute.  Can I have a word with
Gary?"

"Sure, I'll just put him on." Loxton looked over, finally meeting Gary's eyes,
his own dark now, pleading, warning.  As Gary reached for the radio, their
hands touched, Loxton's lingering a second longer than necessary, a soft,
wordless message in the brush of his fingertips against Gary's, pulling away
before acknowledgement could be made.  Gary raised the radio, spoke, eyes
locked with the other man's as he stepped backwards, towards the door.

"385 receiving."

"You all right? We've been worried about you."

Gary watched, smiled, as Loxton turned, limped tiredly into the darkness of
the corridor, not looking back.

"Oh, I'm fine, Sarge.  Just fine."


=== © bessie ===

You like? You hate? Tell me.  My first foray into TB.