DISCLAIMER:  Property of Thames Television, yatta
             yatta yatta.  But I get to rub on the
             liniment, OK?

TITLE:       Team Player
AUTHOR:      kel
PAIRING:     Carver/Boulton
RATING:      PG-13, L, A, implied V.  No sex in this
             one, but bear with me - this is a linear
             thing we're dealing with here.
SPOILERS:    One wee throwaway for Short Sharp Shock.
CHRONOLOGY:  Set some time after the episodes A Bunch
             of Fives and Short Sharp Shock.  Can take
             place after Somewhere Within if you want
             it to.  I stress IF. Hey, don't look at me
             [g] -  I see it as one potential fork in the
             Trousers of Time.  Toutes les choses sont
             possibles, n'est-ce pas?

THANKS TO:   Rie for beta in the midst of chaos; Tracey
             for making me think, hard; and Claire, for
             exuberance, ginger gerbils and *that*
             photo of the lovely DS.

FEEDBACK:    "Toujours, archy, toujours!"  Good bad or
             ugly, whack it to me at bessie@goldweb.com.au.


======
TEAM PLAYER
By kel
======

 === Monday ===

Jim Carver sits in a dark, smoky room, filled with
dark, smoky people. It's a back-corner table in a
backstreet pub.  A nice, unfriendly pub. The kind of
place you go until people start to remember your name.

The light favours him, smooths away the lines of age,
weariness and an anger that gets harder and harder to
control.

From time to time, certain kinds of men wander over,
then turn sharply and veer away.  Something warns them
company's the last thing he wants.

He's making a list of things which have to go.  Things
which don't belong in his life any more.

It's a short list.  Three lines, all beginning with
"Give up..."

The first line ends with "smoking".  The second,
"booze".

He doesn't mean either.

The third line's giving him trouble.  He stares at the
paper, unseeing, for a good half-hour.

Sighs, lights up.

And writes down "smoking" again, because it's easier
than writing "Steve".

 === Tuesday ===

Bad day.  Assault.  Burglary.  Gary at one, Steve at
the other, and horrible grey tenements all around.  The
two incidents are connected, surprise, surprise.  It's
an uncomfortable morning.

For the first time in longer than he cares to remember,
Jim ignores the Look.  The Look that means *tonight*.

He feels a certain pride, a certain terror, definite
satisfaction as he walks away.  Done.  Over.  Free.

He spends the rest of the day able to concentrate on
work for the first time in weeks.

And ends up at the caravan anyway.

 === Wednesday ===

Jim's late for work, again.  Sore, stiff, for all the
wrong reasons.

The night started badly, ended worse.  The wrong word,
the wrong touch, and suddenly everything exploded.
Everything.

Found himself *this* far from hitting out.  Hitting
back.

Time to get out.  Way, way past time.

After the debacle, after the argument --- oh yes, they
*argued*... made a change for all the pain to come out
in words, didn't it? --- he'd gone for a walk.
Cruised.  Ended up under a sweet young thing he
recognised vaguely as somebody's "appropriate adult".
Sweet young thing who'd had a bad, bad day.

That's the trouble with social work, he thinks.  He
remembers his own days in the field all too well.
Remembers taking it out on strangers, in the dark.
Remembers why he gave it up.

He'd always suspected that the guys on the other end
got more out of it than he did.  There's very little
comfort in being proved right, after all this time.

//Bollocks.  I did what he wanted, he did what I
wanted.  Not my fault if it doesn't help.//

He looks sourly at an in-tray's worth of statements for
checking and decides next time he'll pick a sweet young
thing who isn't blond.

Somebody's covered for him, no idea why.  He finds out
later, bored, sitting in the audio/visual booth, with
Boulton.  Reviewing security tapes, picking out muzzy
figures in the half-light of venetian blinds
cantilevered at just the right angle for privacy.

The tapes are sod-all use.  He's on his way out the
door, frustrated, when Boulton calls him back.

--- Jim... a word.  Private. Anything you want to tell
me?

Silence.  Keeps his "sir" face on and stares at the
shafts of light somewhere behind Boulton's right
shoulder.

--- Don't give me that.  It goes deeper than some poxy
tape.      You're not performing.        No, it's not
good enough.  I'm not the only one who's noticed.
If there's a problem, here, tell me what it is.  If
it's at home, keep it there.  All right?

Undercurrent, something indefinable which makes Jim
look over, sharply.

Boulton's not giving anything away, verbally.  Stands
straight, in control.  But his eyes, stunningly blue in
the filtered daylight, reflect something more than
disappointment.

Jim tells himself "knows more than he's letting on" is
par for the course with Boulton.  It's all front.

--- Have it your way.

The unspoken words "enough rope" hang in his mind.

Hears Boulton's voice, soft, without rancour, as he
kicks the door to behind him.

--- Bloody idiot.

The tone lingers with him all day.

Jim goes out again, that night.  Picks a decidedly un-
sweet, insolent redhead.  For no discernible reason.

 === Thursday ===

No sleep.  Jim finds his way in from St John's Wood, of
all places.  Now there's a first.

Follow-up on the attack on the caretaker on the
Larkmead Estate.  Had him, lost him.  Can't run fast
enough, Jim.  Age or bruises, Jim doesn't bother
working it out.  It all feels the same anyway.

DS Daly disagrees.  He knows effort when he sees it.

Boulton says much the same thing, takes over as
supervising officer. Knows the suspect better, or so he
says.  And Daly's got to be in court anyway.

Jim's prepared for more talk, more lectures.  Isn't
sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when one
short, sharp "Feeling better?" in the car is as far as
it goes.

Uncomfortable hour in a pub, that pub, nursing orange
juices and not talking.  The barman's well-trained,
doesn't nod when Jim comes in. Then again maybe he
genuinely doesn't remember him.  Either suits.

Most unlikely place for the suspect to be.  And nobody
round here answers questions.

Boulton knows this, but wanders over to talk to the
landlord anyway. Easy chat, cut short as The Man Most
Likely wanders in, sees Boulton and does an
accelerating hairpin turn worthy of Nigel Mansell.

Jim's not slow off the mark.  Catches up, catches hold.
Takes a wicked punch but holds on.

--- Well done.

Anything to get out of there.

Back to the nick, where the suspect goes ballistic in
the interview room.

Boulton ducks, Jim doesn't.  Shrugs it off, shepherds
the shaken duty solicitor out for tea and platitudes.
She's young.

He's extremely rude to the FME, later, when she wants
to have a look at where the desk caught him.  Can't be
bothered wondering why Boulton doesn't take it up with
him afterwards.

Home late, for any number of reasons.  Too damn tired
to do anything but stare at the walls, so he makes his
way to the common room and falls asleep in front of
some bizarre Seventies documentary on Channel 4.

He doesn't wake up at the relief change, doesn't wake
up when Gary, coming in to retrieve a borrowed
paperback, sees him slumped over the table.  Doesn't
wake up until way too late.  He doesn't have time to
wonder how the blanket over his shoulders got there.

 === Friday ===

Changes in the upstairs bog at work, hurriedly.  Last
spare shirt.

Day of arguments, culminating in having the shit kicked
out of him in a pool hall somewhere.  Thank you, Don
Beech.

Everyone's decidedly unsympathetic.

Doesn't help when Steve confronts him in the canteen
with vague, discreet justifications.  He has the
disquieting feeling that they are apologies, and meant.

They've both been thinking.  They're both tired.

--- Let's leave it open.

Another arrangement, another night.  OK.  Nothing
definite.  His call. He hates that.

He walks slowly to the van, knowing Steve won't show
up, and sleeps better than he has in months.

 === Saturday ===

Jim wakes up, finds a note under the door.  No time to
read it before the area car shows up.  Gary, in
uniform, keeps his voice neutral while Dave eyes off
the next-door allotment-holder's daughter.

--- Should have been there hours ago.  Want a lift?

He's not awake enough to follow the conversation,
doesn't particularly want to.  Someone apologises.
Someone says "you could do better". Someone doesn't
answer.

He remembers the note much later, on obbo with a
stormily mulish Skase. The same words.  "You could do
better".  He murmurs "I know" and throws it away so he
doesn't have time to recognise the handwriting.

Hears it a third time, in a totally different context,
after an inept and reluctant attempt to cover for Rod,
who's dropped the ball on a vital witness statement,
again.  Last warning.  Meadows thinks he's his own
worst enemy.  Boulton won't give him the time of day.

He throws himself into his work, does well.  Some
people thrive in an atmosphere of disapproval.  Lets
his actions, his results slide their way round the
cracks in the anger.  Tacit apology, tacitly accepted.
He prefers it when people don't want to talk.

 === Sunday ===

Passes silently.  Dustily.  Paper, people.  A heated
altercation with a young and poisonous football
hooligan settles his mood, keeps him focused.  He stays
late, very late.  Boulton remains unmollified, at least
outwardly, although Jim puts that down to other
things... the ram-raid renaissance, David Wilson up for
sentencing, all sorts.  He knows he's behaved himself
today.  Mostly.

On the phone to an informant, he watches the DS leave,
crumpled, subdued, tired.  Resolves to be a little more
polite tomorrow, then swears as he remembers something.
Rings and leaves a message about overtime
documentation.

Jim goes back to the park.  Third time lucky.

 === Monday 0600 ===

Half an hour into their shift, Nick and Steve are
called to the wasteground at the back of the Larkmead.
Reg reports somebody calling in a male, IC-1, late
thirties, unconscious.  Assault.  Ambulance on way.

They're in a bad mood when they get there.  Something
about Garfield's attitude to rotas.

They find a scared child and her grandfather, bending
over Jim.  Badly beaten.

--- Just out for a walk, and...

Nothing taken.  Nick is horrified when Steve hisses at
him to pocket Jim's wallet while he deals with the
witnesses.

--- There's only one reason guys come down here, right?
Right.

Nick knows this, but hasn't made the connection.  He's
not at all sure how to feel when it sinks in.

--- Fucking sort it.  Now!

Nick won't.

In the end Steve does it himself.  He'll make sure it
turns up at the front desk later.  Dave's on today, and
he owes him a favour.

//And so do you, now, son.// he thinks, savagely,
looking at Slater. Concentrating on the unspoken rules.

He blames a growing, guilty headache on the approaching
ambulance siren.



=== 1300 ===

Jim wakes, in hospital.

Boulton's there, looks like he needs sleep.  Looks
ready to belt someone.  He's been there some hours now.
He scowls as he sees Meadows and Skase, heading down
the corridor towards them.  Loxton's following on
behind.

Boulton notices that Jim's awake, bites back a smile of
what on anyone else would be called relief.  Blink and
you'd miss it.

--- All right?

Soft, gentle.

Jim can't answer.

--- You're.... OK.  Common or garden kicking.  Not too
much damage, not as bad as it looks.        No need to
tell them that, though, hey?  I reckon you could use a
holiday.

The smile wins out, somehow.

Not that it makes a lot of difference to Jim.  Jim is
thankful as the others are intercepted, briefly, by a
dubious ward sister.  Everybody's the last person he
wants to see.

//Fuck off, the lot of you.//

Boulton looks as if he feels the same way.  Bends
close, his voice lower, urgent.

--- Listen.  I don't care who did this.  Or why.  What
I say happened, happened.  Right?

Jim doesn't have the strength or opportunity to argue.

--- Guv, Rod.

Boulton ignores Loxton.

Meadows is avuncular, concerned, furious.  So soon
after Beech.

--- What the hell are you lot playing at?

Jim tries to speak, can't.  He's cut short by Boulton.
Hears a simple, short story about informants, struggles
to make sense of it all as the ward sister comes, goes,
sweeps her way through the group with minimal fuss.

--- Yes, Guv'nor, registered.  Yes, Guv'nor, he called
me.  Yes, it's all on record.  Well, we all learned
something there.     Barry Morris.  Right, Jim?   Jim's
got no idea what he's talking about.  He wonders if
Meadows knows Boulton only uses "Guv'nor" when he's
lying.  He wonders when he noticed that.

--- Is that who did this?  Did you see him?

Jim shakes his head, bewildered.  People, shapes, move
in and out of his field of vision.  He's having trouble
concentrating.

Boulton lowers his voice, a little, shepherds the
others away from the bed.

--- He's only just woken up.       Didn't see much,
seems like it all happened a bit quickly.  He'll
probably remember more later.

--- But it could've been Morris?

--- It's possible, says Rod, shrugging.  --- You know
what he's like.

--- Hard to prove, Guv, says Boulton, adding //thank
God// under his breath.

--- Who called the station?  Any connection?

--- Don't know.  Steve?

Boulton looks hard at Loxton, who reports that Reg will
confirm that the call came from a woman.  No, she
didn't give her name.  But he thinks he might have
recognised the voice.

*****

Steve buttonholed Reg earlier, back at the nick.  Was
more than a little surprised to find he knew damn well
where he was coming from.  More than a little pissed
off at the unspoken accusation in his eyes.  More than
a little relieved that he co-operated.

In his own way, of course.

Reg told the exact truth.

--- Well, I've only ever called her Petal.  No, no
address, or contact.

It's true.  She moved a couple of weeks ago, and he
hasn't asked where.

He very carefully doesn't add that she runs a very nice
tea-stall down the markets, or that Petal's short for
Petrogliani.  It's a private joke, built up over years
on the beat.  Let them sort it out.  She has her own
very good reasons not to get involved, most of them
recorded somewhere in the DVU.  He knows she doesn't
need the hassle.

*****

Loxton's happy with that.  He's only passing on what he
was told.

Boulton's happy with that.  It'll give Rod something to
do.

--- Oh, and haul Morris in while you're at it.  I'll
deal with him, personally, Guv, if that's all right.
When I've finished here.  Few things need to be cleared
up.  Proper statement, all that sort of thing.

Meadows is happy with that.  He leaves, with Skase in
tow.  Boulton thinks he hears him say "and for God's
sake don't mess this one up" as they round the corner,
but it could just be wishful thinking.

Jim hasn't said so much as a word since he woke up.
He's not sure he can.

--- What're you waiting for?

Loxton's still lurking in the corner, quiet, impassive.
The picture of professional concern.

--- We're confident his... property will be recovered
by the end of the shift.  Sarge.

Boulton nods, stony-faced.

--- Anything else I can do?

Boulton shakes his head, mutely.  Mutters "you've done
more than enough, mate" just before the door closes.

*****

Boulton turns to Jim, sits down.  Wearily incurious.

--- Stupid sod.

It takes Jim a minute to realise Boulton means him.

--- Change your mind?  Or did he have friends?

It's a bit of both.  Can't run fast enough, Jim.

He forces a truculent "Sorry, Guv?"

--- Fucking idiot.  I thought you had more sense.
This doesn't happen again.  Right?

More and less than anger.  Old pain.  It sounds like
something he's said before, too many times.  Like he
believes it less than Jim does.

Jim tries to sit up, gets half-way before a wave of
nausea overtakes him.

Boulton catches him as he falls, sideways, keeps him
propped up while he tries to adjust the bed.

--- Easy.  Take it slow.

Jim's first instinct is to push him away.  He doesn't
want to be touched.

But Boulton holds on, awkwardly, hand warm against his
bare, sore back. He's having trouble.  Jim's heavier
than he looks, and doesn't have the strength to hold
himself up.

--- How the hell do you work these bloody things...

His hands and arms are bruised, ugly.  He makes himself
look away. Doesn't want to think about that.
Concentrates on the faint, pleasantly chemical smell
clinging to Boulton's skin, his clothes.  Weird.  Some
kind of solvent or something maybe... He finds it
obscurely comforting.

He wonders vaguely why he feels he shouldn't be
surprised, whether he's noticed it before, but gives
up.  It's too hard to think.

//Ah well, beats the smell of hospitals... //

He's reminded, abruptly, why he's there, remembers a
boot, too close to focus on, getting closer.  He
retches, shuts his eyes, tight, concentrates on feeling
nothing.

--- Jesus.  Come on.  Come *on*...

He lets himself be eased back, sat vaguely upright.  He
keeps his eyes shut, more to keep the tears in than
anything else.  It makes no difference to his
perception.  It's not that the room's spinning,
exactly.  Undulating's a better word.  He can feel the
colour coming back to his face, slowly.

He feels a gentle hand on the back of his neck, another
nudging something cool against his lips.  Opens his
eyes, takes a sip.  Water.

--- Slowly.

Takes another.   Lets the cool liquid run under his
tongue before swallowing, lets it calm him, wake him.
It's a feeling he'll associate with John Boulton for
the rest of his life.

He laughs, slightly, pushes the cup away.

--- What?

--- I've never heard you swear before.

Boulton half-grins, his fingers absently massaging the
back of Jim's neck.  Their eyes meet, and the hand
moves away, quickly, straightens the pillows.  Boulton
looks away, self-consciously, serious.

--- Got a name for me?

--- No.

The "didn't ask" hangs quietly between them.

--- Description, then.

Nothing.

//Like I'm gonna lay charges.//

--- Jesus, Jim...

--- Well, like you said.  All happened a bit fast.
Didn't see much.

It comes out harder than he intends it to.

Boulton glares at him, but doesn't press the point.  He
sighs, heavily; compassion, disappointment, resignation
in every line of his body. There's no way he could have
expected anything else.

--- Look, Guv... Morris...

Boulton looks at him, keenly.  Warningly.

--- ...Is overdue.  Won't do him any harm to have his
cage rattled.

--- But...

--- Besides, he owes me one.

//Makes two of us.//

The thought angers him, more than he'd thought
possible.  Boulton sees it in his face, speaks quietly,
kindly.  Keeping it down.

--- Look, I don't like this any more than you do.  But--

--- Then why?

--- You know damn well why.

There's nothing he can say to that.

--- I won't lie.

--- You won't have to.

//And a good thing too,// thinks Jim.  He couldn't
bluff his way out of a wet paper bag.  He can see
Boulton's thinking pretty much the same thing.

--- As far as I'm concerned you got a call at work from
Morris, which you did, you called me at home, which you
did, and you went to meet someone, which you did.

The look in his eyes forbids denial.  Jim laughs,
sourly.

--- Who may or may not have been Barry Morris.

He doesn't bother to suppress the sarcasm in his voice.
It's like Frank fucking Burnside all over again.

--- Who may or may not have been Queen Bloody Victoria
for all I care.

It's not the sort of thing that should have to be
explained, ever.  Jim wonders who he's doing it for.

--- So everything's all right then?

Hard, nasty tone.  He just wants to be left alone, go
back to sleep.

--- Morris is on-side, Jim.       Christ, you think
you're the only one with problems?

He's unprepared for the bitterness in Boulton's voice.
For the gentleness.

--- We're soft targets.  End of story.

Jim's not sure how to ask.  What to ask.  Looks at
Boulton's face, dark with suppressed anger, recognises
every line from unhappy conversations with the mirror.
Decides silence is safer.  Message received and
understood.

He senses Boulton relax, finds himself feeling a little
better for reasons he doesn't want to examine too
closely.

*****

He's beginning to hurt, now.  Seriously.  He puts a
hand up to his own face, experimentally, explores the
tender, unfamiliar shapes.

--- Shit.  I need a smoke.

Boulton's response is automatic, unthinking.

--- No you don't.  You just think you do.

Jim groans, inwardly.  They've had this conversation
before.  Usually in the CID car, on stakeout.  He
always loses.

He's grateful for the diversion.

--- If you think about it, now's a good time to give
up.  Really.

--- Oh, come on, Guv...

--- It's a long way to the lobby.  You can't even sit
up straight.

--- Then I'll have one here.

--- Don't be stupid.

--- Well, it can't make me feel any worse, can it?

Boulton grins, despite himself.

--- I wouldn't bet on that.  Ten to one you'd keel
over.        Actually, why not.  Go ahead, it might
knock some sense into you.

--- Sadist.

--- You'd know.

They share a laugh, one that dies out rather more
quickly than usual. Boulton gives in, rummages in the
locker by Jim's bed and pulls out a packet and a
lighter.  He extracts one cigarette, puts the packet
back, and holds it up, just out of Jim's reach.  He
catches Jim's gaze, holds it, speaks quietly, a world
of meaning under the words.

--- You're gonna have to give it away sometime.

--- I know.

--- Bad for you.

Jim nods, silently.  He doesn't look at the cigarette,
speaks to the words between the words.  To someone who
understands.

--- It's not that easy.

--- I know.

Silence.  Boulton starts to speak, decides against it.
That, more than anything, makes up Jim's mind, almost
before he realises what he's doing.

--- It's... it's not packing it in that's the problem.
It's the things you find yourself doing instead...

It's an old wound.

--- Filling the gap?

The answer's in the question.  Boulton's voice is heavy
with experience.

//Jesus//, thinks Jim, shocked, //and he's younger than
I am...//

Boulton leans back, smiles sadly, tosses the cigarette
onto the bed.

--- Sod it, go on and have one then.  But don't blame
me if you can't handle it, OK?

A sad smile, shared.

Jim takes the cigarette, lights up, braces himself to
deal with the headspin.  It's awful, absolutely
Godawful, but he feels better, somehow.

Boulton stands up, picks up his coat from the side of
the bed.

--- You want to talk about.... giving up... or
anything, you know where I am, yeah?

Long look, broken quickly.  No need to answer now.

--- I'd better be going, they'll be expecting me back
at the station. You take it easy, get some rest.

There's a concern, a complicity in his voice that warms
the room, somehow.  He reaches out, squeezes Jim's
shoulder, gently.  Very gently.

 --- I'll come back later... get a proper statement,
all that.  And leave Meadows to me, right?

Jim nods, slightly.  Reaches up to touch Boulton's
hand, briefly, feels a slight response as skin brushes
skin, as fragile blue-grey coils rise into the air
between them.  Boulton doesn't seem to find the smoke
unpleasant.

--- And not too many of those.  Or I'll send Hollis
down to be cheerful at you.

Jim laughs, despite himself.

-- You could always take the packet.

Boulton smiles, warmly, genuinely, lets it fade from
his eyes before speaking.

--- Nah.  I trust you.

One final brush, fingertip to fingertip, and he leaves,
quietly, heads off without a backward glance.  Jim
finishes his illicit cigarette in his own time, then
leans back, closes his eyes, and thinks, hard.  Or
tries to.  His injured body has other ideas.  About all
sorts of things.

Sleep wins out, soon, and he drifts off, lulled without
knowing by the lightest trace of mineral turpentine
upon his pillows.

=== end ===

 (c) kel, sectionable at bessie@goldweb.com.au