Title:          Touch Me In The Morning
Classification: The Bill: Boyden/Munroe
Author:         Sandi  e-mail   sandi.chapman@lineone.net
Rating:         NC-17 for mild m/m sex
Status:         Complete
Archiving:      Jasmine Alley only please (assuming they want it )

Disclaimer:     I didn't create them and I don't own them, just
                borrowed them for a while.They can have them back now,
                as long as they treat them nicely.

History:        This story previously appeared in Friends Will Be
                Friends #5 under the title 'For The Love Of A Good Man'.

****************************************************************************
***************************
Part 1 of 2

Touch Me In The Morning

The silence in the room is the silence of the earliest hours of morning,
broken only by the distant thrum of traffic on the flyover and the gentle
soughing of breath between his lover's lips. Peaceful times. They are few
and far between, these days, and each one is to be cherished, each moment
savoured, for neither can be certain if such a time will ever come again.

Naked flesh fills his arms, warm and richly scented and he tightens his
hold, amazed at the feelings of protectiveness this man alone can awaken in
him. Not that Andrew Munroe is in need of protection - far from it in fact,
as he knows from experience, having found himself on the receiving end of a
particularly scathing dressing-down on more than one occasion. A man of high
principles and dedication who does not suffer fools gladly is Andrew Munroe,
but a man capable also of great sensitivity and understanding. Screw up on a
case and expect to incur the full might of his wrath: but turn to him for
help in a personal crisis and it will be given, freely, sympathetically and
without prejudice.

Fingers entwine and he draws Munroe's hand to his lips, recalling with
uncharacteristic shyness what those confident digits have done for him these
past few hours. It never ceases to amaze him how passionate his Inspector
can be, a complete contrast to the image of almost puritan morality which he
strives so hard to maintain. Passionate and inventive - no wonder he has
always declined Jack Meadows' invitation to an 'officers only' screening of
the latest batch of blue movies to be seized: in the light of his own
experience they must seem pale by comparison. And yet, no matter to what
heights his wild imagination takes them, whatever they do seems as natural
as breathing.

Movement against him captures his attention and he smiles as his own hand is
pressed to a sleepy mouth for a kiss that signifies the return of awareness.
Laughing softly he presses his own lips to Munroe's forehead. "Thought you
were going to sleep all day."

"Wasn't asleep" is the murmured response "Just - drifting."

"Well drift back to the real world, sweetheart, we've got to get up soon."
Bitterness barely contained, wanting this day never to begin.

A wriggle of protest, velvet skin doing strangely erotic things to his body
as it brushes against him. "I know ... but I'm comfortable. You're so warm
..."

"Keep that up and you'll find out how warm I can get!"

The snigger is disgustingly crude from one usually so reserved. "I've got
the energy if you have."
"Insatiable," he chides, but tilts back the older man's head and takes his
mouth, spinning out the kiss until both are breathless. There's fire in the
touch, though by rights they should both be exhausted, and he uses his
larger build to roll Munroe onto his back, pinning him to the mattress.

"Let's call in sick. Confined to bed for the rest of the day."

"And give the gossips ammunition? They already think I go too easy on you."
Munroe's voice drifts into a silence that is ghost-filled and threatening,
the ugliness of a future too possible to contemplate reflected in each
other's eyes. This is not how it should be, snatched moments locked away
from prying eyes, tarnishing their relationship with fear and guilt. Their
peers in the private sector might find themselves reviled for such a
relationship, might even become the victims of abuse, but for these men
there can be no acceptance in any quarter, no matter how much lip-service is
paid to the new regimes of so-called tolerance. And it hurts.

A gentle thumb rubs at the furrow that has grown between his brows. "Don't,
Matt," Munroe's voice is filled with understanding. "We both know we can't
change the way things are."

"Doesn't stop me thinking about it though," Boyden sighs, releasing him, the
sweet post-coital mood broken by the intrusion of reality. "Look at
tonight - frozen lasagne and a bottle of supermarket plonk. Just once I'd
like us to be able to go out somewhere, do the things normal people do every
night of the week."

"Are you suggesting what we do is abnormal?"

The disappointment in his tone does not go unnoticed and at once Boyden is
contrite. "You know bloody well that's not what I meant. It's just ... I
didn't mind at first, but now ...It's starting to matter, Andrew."

The breath catches audibly in Munroe's throat at the wealth of sincerity in
the simple statement and the intense look which accompanies it, and he
raises himself on one elbow and grazes his fingers through the thick black
hair, soothing, reassuring. "It matters to me, too, Matthew. It has for a
long time."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" he breathes against Boyden's open mouth. "You
should know by now I'm not interested in casual sex."

"Then what is it?"  Not love. He wants Munroe to love him, needs it
desperately. Knows it can never be. Men like Andrew Munroe don't fall in
love with other men. They can grow to care deeply, they can rationalise the
need for physical union with a man of like mind, but they cannot overstep
the boundaries of convention.

"Empathy?" Munroe suggests. "The need to be with someone who understands -
they way outsiders can't."

Matthew laughs, gently mocking "It might have escaped your notice but we do
have women officers these days."

"Yes - and you for one should know how that can complicate things." His eyes
smile at memories. "Contrary to what the world might think, this is easier -
or don't you agree?"

The answer rises spontaneously to his lips -*I could find it very easy to
love you* - but is stifled there by the knowledge that such declarations can
never be made between them. Instead he replies glibly "I don't give a fuck
what the world thinks. I've always been a great believer in 'if it feels
good, do it'" and, before Munroe can respond to that, pulls him to lie on
top of him.

They share another kiss, and Boyden skims knowing hands down his
companion's
back, past the thickening waist, moulding them to buttocks the firmness of
which belies the sedentary image of the Inspector's rank. His fingers press
into the cleft and control fractures on the desire to be inside this man
once more, just one more time.

Perhaps the last time....

Munroe whimpers and straddles Boyden's hips, opening willingly to the
intimate touch, Boyden's own spent semen easing entry.

"What time's your train?" Barely controlled, Matthew's voice strokes the
shadows.

Regretfully: "Too soon for us to be doing this ..."

"Not if I drive you to King's Cross." Penetrating fingers graze Munroe's
prostate, driving him beyond reason. "I can tell Stritch my car broke down
...."

"No." His mouth is hot and moist against Boyden's, full of promises both
know will never be fulfilled. "I don't ... want to say 'goodbye' to you
...on a draughty BR platform, like... something ...out of Brief Encounter."
He eases back to take Matthew's erection in one hand, his own in the other.
Open, aroused and wholly desirable. "This is how I want to remember us ..."
and he begins to pump them both, slowly at first, a languid stroking that
pulses through Matt's veins, re-igniting his blood. The tempo increases and
they climb together, locked in perfect synchronicity to the moment when they
erupt in a rainstorm of liquid fire that splatters belly and face and
heaving chest ...

Sliding back to reality ...Matthew watches as his mate leans over him to lap
clean the skin above his heart and leave a kiss there.

"That's how I want to remember us" Munroe repeats, breathless, and behind
the facade of sated eyes and swollen lips, behind the dazzling smile of
contentment, Matthew at last sees the truth. The irony of it is not lost on
him for where, a week ago, he would have rejoiced in the discovery, now
there is only bitter acceptance and silence.

"Will you remember?" he asks.

"Do you think I could ever forget?" Munroe counters, hurt. "I told you - it
matters."

And Boyden believes, because with belief comes comfort to stave off the
loneliness that lies in wait for him. "It won't be easy at work," he
observes, knowing how painful it will be to have Munroe so close and not be
able to make even the most innocent allusion to what has passed between
them.
"If anyone finds out we'll both end up directing traffic at opposite ends of
the country."

"They won't find out. Anyway, we've managed so far."

"Only because we knew there could be a next time. Once your - Once she comes
back there won't be any room for me."

Munroe moves away, pulling the sheet over them as if suddenly ashamed of
their naked state. The mood is already changing between them, the
overwhelming joy of moments ago giving way to the darkness of despair.

"You've made up your mind already, haven't you? You haven't stopped to
consider she might not want to come back."

"She's crazy if she doesn't. Oh God, I hate this! You've turned my life
upside-down and now I'm stuck here. What the hell am I supposed to do? I
can't go back and there's no way forward ... "

"There could be," Munroe murmurs.

"Meaning?"

"That even if she does come back we don't have to stop seeing each other."

"Carry on as we are you mean?" Callous temptation reaches for Boyden but he
brushes it aside without a moment's thought. "I can't ask you to cheat on
your wife."

A dark eyebrow lifts in surprised amusement. "Isn't that what I've been
doing these last three months?"

"That was different ... Look, Andrew, with my track record I know I'm the
last one should be handing out advice about fidelity, especially to someone
like you, and I know she left you without a word of explanation - but if
she's ready to talk now it must mean she's at least willing to consider
making a fresh start. And you can't do that if you're slipping away to my
bed a couple of nights a week."

Silence descends on them as Munroe contemplates the alternatives, seemingly
for the first time. Until now it's been easy to go with the flow, allow his
resentment against the wife who has deserted him and his emotional
attachment to Boyden to dictate the passage of his life. Now he must make a
choice and, with his lover beside him, he realises at last that doing what
he wants to do and doing what he knows he should do are not necessarily the
same.

Boyden allows him a moment more to reach a decision before prompting gently
"You know I'm right." And slowly Munroe nods.

"I've made a mess of this, haven't I? I let everything get out of hand - but
you're the one who gets hurt in the end. I didn't mean that to happen,
Matt."

"You're not carrying all the blame. I'm over twenty-one, I could have said
'no' the first time."

The smallest of smiles lifts the corner of Munroe's mouth. "But you didn't."

"No. Don't ask me why, I just knew I wanted you. Maybe it was because you
were the only one ever took an interest in me, made me get my act together."
He lifts his hand to cup Andrew's face, thumb grazing moist lips. "Maybe I
still don't do it for all the right reasons, but I'm getting there. Thanks
to you."

"I only did what needed to be done. I always thought there was a good copper
under all that image, and you proved me right." He leans forward and touches
his mouth to Boyden's in a kiss that is almost fraternal. "I don't want this
to end," he confesses. "I don't want to leave you - you know that, don't
you."
Heart pounding, Matthew rubs his face against Munroe's shoulder, nuzzling a
kiss against his neck. "Yeah ...But I also know if you don't go and talk to
her you'll always regret it - that was the mistake I made. If she wants to
come back then you owe it to yourself to try. If she doesn't ..." He allows
the rest of the thought to hang between them, unspoken, as if to voice it
aloud would be to tempt the Fates into denying them happiness out of sheer
spite.

Pushing back the covers he rolls to his feet. "Give me a couple of minutes
to shower, then I'll make us some breakfast. Can't let you go trudging off
to the wilds of Lancashire on an empty stomach."

He leaves the room with a smile, but once the door is closed the pretence is
over and he sags against the tiled wall, allowing the hot water to scour
away the evidence of their passion as he struggles to come to terms with the
impending loss. Three months - more than he had ever expected and not nearly
enough for the feelings that have grown within him.....

The telephone call had come out of the blue, from one of his 'tame' pub
landlords concerned that a senior officer from Sun Hill was encouraging a
little too much attention in the public bar. He had arrived to find
Inspector Andrew Munroe blind drunk, laid out on a row of chairs in the
function room and not in the least happy to see him.

It came as the culmination of a month which Munroe was later to dub the
worst of his life, starting with the unexplained disappearance of his wife.
At first DCI Meadows had treated it as a possible kidnapping - no one
doubted Munroe's word that theirs was a happy marriage - but when three
weeks had passed without word of any kind, when no evidence had been found
to support such a theory, the search was phased down until something new
turned up. And something eventually had.

A week after a very embarrassing confrontation in Meadows' office, during
which Munroe had practically begged them to keep looking, he had received a
very brief telephone call from his wife informing him that she was well and
staying with her sister. He was to make no attempt to persuade her into
coming home, she would, she said, do so when she was ready. Shocked and
confused, unable to handle such a callous rejection, Munroe had
uncharacteristically sought solace in the nearest pub, drowning his sorrows
in neat scotch.

Which was where Boyden had entered the equation. Unaware of what had
happened, Matthew had quickly realised that he could not take the man home
to his daughters in such a condition, so instead he had taken him back to
his own flat and bedded him down on the sofa. Several hours and a large
quantity of black coffee later, Munroe had thanked him politely for his
help, apologised for the inconvenience he had caused, and gone sullenly on
his way without so much as a word of explanation.

And that should have been the end of it - would have been the end of it, had
Munroe not suffered an overwhelming attack of guilt. Three days later a
somewhat contrite Inspector had called him to his office and told him the
whole story. His wife was ill, something gynaecological - not that the
doctors would be specific - and was suffering from severe depression. She
had been close to a nervous breakdown when she had decided on the spur of
the moment one afternoon to visit her sister in Lancashire and her sister,
thinking that Andrew was chiefly to blame for the apparent break-up of their
marriage, had agreed to keep her whereabouts a secret until she was ready to
talk to him. That he was half out of his mind with worry had been of no
concern to either of them. That their daughters, believing their mother to
have been kidnapped, rarely left the house for fear that they, too, would be
taken and had developed a phobia about answering the telephone or the
doorbell in case it was bad news, brought no more than a half-hearted
apology from her. She had become totally absorbed in her own life and what
she referred to as her need to rediscover herself. All Munroe could do was
wait her out and hope that at the end of it all there would still be a place
for him.

That had been - six months ago. During the weeks that followed the two men
had continued to grow closer, Munroe's need to talk drawing on Boyden's
firsthand experience of marital disaster and, in return, firing Matthew's
long-buried need to be needed. Some days were better than others, days when
the workload was heavy and there was little time to think. Then there were
the days when crime took an impromptu holiday and they were left twiddling
their thumbs and pondering the might-have-beens. Unexpectedly, it was a bad
case that proved the catalyst to their relationship. A teenage boy went
missing from home after an argument with his parents. For fifteen hours they
searched, talking to his friends, his teachers, piecing together the little
bits of information that eventually led them to his body. It was Munroe who
took the news to his family, explaining to them how their son - such a good
boy, so quiet and hard working - had been dealing drugs to support his own
growing habit, had crossed his supplier and paid for it with his own life.
The mother had screamed denial, had ranted and raved and called Munroe every
derogatory name in the book while the boy's father had looked on in stunned
silence, unable to believe that he had hardly known the boy at all.

It was all too much for Munroe, his own wounds still so fresh, and that
night he had arrived at Boyden's front door seeking emotional comfort. It
was comfort that Matthew had been more than willing to give, letting him
talk, offering what words of support that he could -  until the moment when
the need for companionship had become physical, overriding common sense and
instead of going home to an empty house, Munroe had stayed the night,
sharing Boyden's bed - sleeping in Boyden's arms. Nothing more had happened
that night, but the fact that the street wise Boyden was no stranger to male
sexual partners had made things easier for both of them and, over the next
three months, they had become lovers. Boyden could not recall a time when he
had been happier, but it was a happiness that had been abruptly curtailed by
the phone call two days ago from Munroe's wife, asking him to meet her to
discuss their future.....

A future in which Matthew Boyden has no place.

Stepping from the shower he towels himself dry. Even here, in the inner
sanctum of his own bathroom, Munroe has left his mark, in the toothbrush and
shaving foam, comb and cologne that have crept onto the shelves with each
successive stay. The bed, too, smells of him, and the pillows, his scent
ingrained and Matthew knows that it will be months before the ghosts of
their affair are finally laid to rest.

"Tea and toast okay?" he asks, passing Andrew in the hall.

"Fine. I put the kettle on ..."

"Thanks. You know where the clean towels are if you want a shower."

So clinical, no hint of the passion they have shared during the last few
hours. Munroe is shutting himself off, building walls to keep the memories
at bay. Standing at the kitchen counter, Boyden tries to do the same,
telling himself that this has been no different to any of his other affairs,
reminding himself that his life didn't come to an end when they finished.
But this is not the same. He has always found it easy to make love to a
woman without 'getting involved', even with his wife. His only emotional
commitments have been to the daughter he seldom sees and to a handful of
male colleagues, some of whom became lovers, most simply very close friends.
And then there was Andrew Munroe ...
"Matthew?" Munroe stands framed in the doorway, dressed for the street, his
overnight bag in his hand. "I think I'd better skip breakfast. Don't want to
miss the train."

"Okay. Give me a minute to dress and I'll drive you --"

"I've already called a taxi. No sloppy station 'goodbyes', remember?" His
throat works rapidly around the words and his eyes are just a little too
bright to be convincing. Dropping his bag on the floor he crosses the room,
stopping just short of where Boyden is standing. He smells of spice and
lemon, his cropped hair still damp from the shower, his newly-shaved cheeks
baby-smooth and Matthew wants to say all kinds of silly, romantic things to
him. Wants to fall on his knees and beg him to stay. Instead he smiles sadly
and straightens the collar of his lover's jacket.

"Will you have time to call and let me know what happens?"

"I'll make time. Matt --"

"It's okay." He touches Munroe's cheek, grazing his thumb across the thin
lips. Leaning close, he kisses him gently -  a lover's kiss, sweet and
poignant. One last kiss before sending him on his way. "I wonder what
Charlie Brownlow would say if he could see us now," he teases, and Munroe
meets him with a mischievous grin.

"That's something I don't think I want to find out!" In the street below a
car horn sounds in the early morning stillness. "That must be my taxi," the
Munroe observes bleakly. His eyes turn back to Boyden's face and he shakes
his head in despair. "I don't want to do this."

"I know. But you know where I'll be if you need me," he says, as he said six
months ago, when Munroe first turned to him for help. He hands the Inspector
his bag, walking with him to the door.

"Don't come down." He touches his lips to the corner of Matthew's mouth.
"Take care."

"You too." He pulls open the door, stands watching as Munroe starts down the
stairs.  "Andrew," he calls, suddenly needing to make his lover understand
how he feels. Needing the reassurance. The pale eyes lift to his face and he
sees hope in their depths. "For what it's worth, I don't regret what
happened. I wouldn't change a thing."

Munroe lifts an eyebrow. "What - nothing?" he asks and, reading between the
lines, Boyden smiles. How could he possibly have thought he could keep the
truth hidden?

"You'll miss your train," he cautions.

Munroe nods. "I'll see you at work on Monday."

"I'll be there."

He waits on the landing until Munroe has disappeared from view, until he
hears the street door close sharply. Then, slowly, he returns to the flat to
prepare for a day he does not want to face.
It's going to be a long weekend ...

*********

The weekend is hell, Friday night drunken brawls giving way to Saturday
football mayhem and the comparative boredom of Sunday morning. Duty keeps
him in the Custody Suite, even though he would prefer to be out on the
streets, doing something - anything - that will keep his mind off Andrew
Munroe. But somehow he keeps his patience, does his job, determined no one
will have cause to find fault with him. And all the while he is waiting for
the telephone to ring, and every time it rings he hopes, only to have those
hopes dashed time and time again.

All through Saturday and on through Sunday he waits for the call, goes home
to check the answerphone -- in vain. No call comes and by Sunday night he is
pacing the floor, misery and anger vying for dominance as he resigns himself
to the fact that Munroe has settled things with his wife. As far as his
relationship with the Inspector is concerned, the past is past and all he
can look forward to is the continuation of their friendship, though that
will never compare to what they have shared in the last three months.

And then the telephone rings.

Heart thumping, he lifts the receiver to his ear. "Boyden."

"It's me." Munroe's voice is heavy with fatigue, tight with emotions at
which Boyden can only guess. "I'm sorry it's so late."

"Where are you?"

"King's Cross. I just got off the train."

"You sound tired." He leans against the wall as relief drains his strength.
Andrew is home, he can deal with the rest as it happens.

"It was a long journey." The silence at the other end of the line becomes
protracted and for a moment Matthew wonders if the connection has been
broken. Then the words that he has both hoped and feared to hear finally
reach him.

"I'm alone, Matt. She's not coming back."

"You're leaving her?"

Even at this distance Munroe's sigh of resignation can be clearly heard.
"She's leaving me. She - wants a life of her own. One that doesn't include
me."

"I'm sorry," Matthew says, and he means it, knowing from experience what
Munroe must be feeling at this moment.

"Are you?"

"Yeah. I know you didn't want this."

Unexpectedly, soft laughter drifts down the line. "Actually, now I've had
the chance to talk to her I'm not so sure this isn't for the best. At least
now we know where we stand."

His meaning is clear: by 'we' Munroe is not referring to his wife and
suddenly Boyden's heart begins to race. Suddenly Munroe has placed the
future squarely in his hands. "Stay there and I'll come and pick you up" he
suggests. "I can be there in a few minutes."

"It's late --," Munroe protests. "and you're on duty at six."

"And you'll never get a taxi at this time of night." Finally he can allow
the barriers to fall, knowing he no longer needs to hide his true feelings
behind a wall of indifference. They still have a long way to go and the
sensitivity of their position requires that discretion be maintained, but at
least there is hope now. " Anyway," he says "I'll sleep better with you
beside me."

The sharp intake of breath leaves nothing to his imagination and he waits,
patiently now, while Munroe makes the decision that will shape the days to
come. "Alright," Munroe says at last. "I'll wait for you in the station
buffet."

Boyden's heart soars. "I'll be there as soon as I can," he promises. "Just
don't poison yourself on BR coffee or get picked up for loitering with
intent."

"I'll try not to," Munroe laughs.

Already reaching for his jacket, a last thought breezes into Matthew's mind
and he smiles at his reflection in the mirror. "Andrew -" he says softly.

"Yes?"

"It's good to have you home ...."

He can almost hear Munroe smile. "It's good to be home, Matt."

"Do you mean that?"

"You know I do."  A long silence, warm and comfortable and more eloquent
than mere words could ever be. Then: "Don't they say home is where the heart
is?"

*Christ, don't let me get it wrong this time* Boyden prays, harder than he
has ever prayed before. This time he has to get it right, because something
tells him he will not get another chance like this in a million years. "Hold
that thought," he says aloud. "I'll be there soon as I can."

Laughter, rich and inviting, reaches out to him. "I'll be waiting."

Matthew can picture him standing there, leaning against the wall of the
phone booth, maybe smiling indulgently at Boyden's eagerness, exhausted and
dishevelled  - and utterly desirable. He starts to replace the receiver, but
his hand falters as his heart tells him there is something more that has to
be said, something that cannot wait even the few minutes it will take him to
drive to the station. Lifting it to his ear again, he calls softly,
daringly, because he has never before presumed so much familiarity with this
man, "Andy --?"

Voice low and intimate, speaking for him alone "Yes?"

"I - love you."

A tiny, almost-cry, not quite surprise. "I know."

*Of course you do* "You don't mind me saying it?"

"Matt..." Gentle laughter admonishing his doubt. "You can say it again when
you get here." He closes his eyes, imagining the moment. "I will, I
promise."
"Good."
Like teenagers, neither wants to be the first to break the connection. Can
it really be this good?  Is it possible to turn back the years and find the
happiness he has always longed for?

"I'd better go," he says, making no attempt to do so.

"I'll be waiting," Munroe promises. Then - "Matt... I --"

Abruptly the line goes dead. Boyden spits an obscenity at the infernal
device as he slams the receiver down and sweeps up his keys, knowing what
Munroe had been about to say - knowing he'll have to wait until he reaches
the station. It will be the longest ten minutes of his life. Damn public
call boxes! Damn them to hell and back!

And a few miles away, across the still-sleeping city, Andrew Munroe smiles.


The End