Title: Fifth Column Pairing: Gold/Harman Rating: G Length: 3031 words Summary: Gold has a headache and Harman fixes it Spoilers: relatively minor season 19 Chronology: between episodes 134 and 135 Remember the SWMP - the straight white male police group started by Smiffy and Kent, and infiltrated by Harman? Bit of a non-event really, but it was the background to this story. March 2004 *********************************************************** Fifth Column by Viv Martella's Ghost All she wants is a bloody aspirin. She don't ask for much. Could probably count on her fingers and toes the number of sick days she's had in her entire career. And rarely an injury either: caused a few, but hasn't sustained many herself. All that dosh poured into the police health insurance fund on her behalf is just collecting dust as far as she can see. You'd think the FME's room would be the place where such an item might be found, but judging from the number of drawers that have yielded nothing except bandages and antiseptic it seems not to be the case. Through her grumpiness she hears Smiffy's dulcet tones carrying down the corridor from custody, as they have a habit of doing. He's not self aware enough to notice it, and is arrogant enough not to care. Gold notices though, and it does not improve her mood. She stops halfway through ransacking a drawer of antibiotics to listen. "Don't even think about it, mate - she's engaged," he's saying. Kent's more careful, and though she recognises his voice she can't make out the words of his reply. Something about shelving. Followed by a round of raucous laughter which half the station can surely hear. "All right," comes Smiffy's voice then, "all those in favour of voting Honey out of swamp say aye." There's a few calls of aye, then a declaration from Smiffy that the ayes have it. It all sounds a bit intriguing to Gold, and she momentarily forgets about aspirin in favour of the more reliable headache cure of going out there and shouting at someone. But while she's rolling the antibiotics drawer shut, Harman walks past the door. "PC Harman," she calls out quietly, and Harman turns back, bright eyed and chewing gum, saying "Ma'am?" with a smile. "Come in here a minute," says Gold, gesturing her inside and shutting the door behind them. "What's this swamp I've just heard Sergeant Smith going on about?" "Oh, it's a drinking club, ma'am. Stands for straight, white, male police," replies Harman, counting out the words on her fingers. "Oh, lovely," mutters Gold, leaning back against the examination bed. She's seen it all before, though no doubt these boys think they're the first to invent it. Gold's no activist but she knows the stench of trouble when she sniffs it. "Who's in it?" "Well," Harman reports enthusiastically. "There's Gabriel, and Des, and Sergeant Smith of course, and maybe a few others from A relief." "And did I hear a twitter that you are also a member, PC Harman?" "Yes, ma'am," Harman says proudly. "They didn't want no girls, but I insisted on infiltrating their club." "Why?" Gold breathes, dubiously. "I weren't going to let them exclude me. Always up for a good time, me." "I don't doubt it," says Gold. Harman smiles, her plaits jiggling behind her head in time with the chewing movement of her jaw. Clearly having no idea she's just been voted out of swamp. And equally oblivious to the potentially dire consequences of this new club. It's understandable. To just want a good time, to just want to do your job - that's what Gold's fought for these past years, after all. She didn't join up to be a crusader either - she fell into it, first with Adam, then with a doe-eyed WDC, and later with others. Fell, or was pushed, and found herself yet again at the centre of social controversy, of speculation, and gossip, and names, and threats, and used condoms or dog shit in her locker, and the rest. At a time when it was a helluvalot harder to find a moment's privacy behind a closed door to look, to touch, and gasp, and smother gasps. So it was fight or get done over. She knows what these swamp types get up to. So desperate to shag each other that they sniff out queers to torture and whoever else is convenient in a bid to cover that desire. She's had enough of that to last a very long time. The thing with Samantha is one of the few relationships she's had that didn't explode all over the station, and she wants to keep it that way. For everyone's sake. "I don't like the sound of it, Honey. You be careful, won't you?" "Don't you worry about me, ma'am. I've a second dan black belt in judo," replies Harman. It's not Honey's fault. She hasn't seen it. She hasn't lived through 25 years of absolute shit, of slurs and harassment and filthy dead simple hate. She doesn't know her history, and Gold doesn't know where to start in explaining it to her. If Osbourne was still here she'd pair them up for a shift - Gemma was always good for rattling the troops when they needed it. It's times like these Gold regrets letting her go so easily. Harman pipes up. "Can I ask you something, ma'am?" "Go on." "I hope you don't think me too forward, but is there something the matter with your head?" Gold can't believe what a gift the question is, and snorts, about to turn it around and whip Harman's arse with it. But sees the girl looking at her scalp, and realises her own left hand is unconsciously rubbing deeply at a furrow in her hairline, trying to pry out the embedded pain. "Headache," she says, putting away her whip and resuming her search in a cabinet. "And those swamp boys are not doing it any favours. Or themselves, come to that. And you'd think I could find a few bleedin' painkillers around here - this is supposed to be a state of the art medical facility!" "Ma'am?" ventures Harman. "What is it, Honey?" "May I?" she asks, stepping towards Gold with her gaze fixed on her forehead. "May you what?" Harman puts her hands on either side of Gold's head and gently caresses her temples. Just runs the tips of her thumbs around the line of her hair, sending a frisson through Gold's whole scalp. "Honey - " snaps Gold, but it feels bloody fantastic. Harman's fingers trail through her hair and over her brow with a lightness and magical energy that makes Gold shiver. The girl chews her gum absently, concentrating hard on what she's doing. Her presence a foot away from Gold is otherwise relatively inoffensive. Rather cute actually, if you like that sort of thing, but Gold reminds herself she really doesn't want to go there again with yet another blonde PC. The pad of Harman's thumb presses the centre of Gold's forehead over her third eye, and Gold yawns involuntarily. "That's more like it," says Harman. "Now come over here and sit yourself down." Harman pulls out a chair for her. Gold blinks at it, then at her. "I appreciate it, Honey, but somehow I don't think so." "Go on, ma'am," prods Harman with a smile. "You'll feel a whole lot better, I promise." The constable's blue eyes have such friendly eagerness in them. Such a genuine desire to please and to be useful. It'd be a shame to discourage her. And she does seem to be reasonably good at it, which is saying a lot for Honey Harman. Gold sits. "My Fletch don't like to have his head touched," chatters Harman, standing behind Gold and running fingers through her hair, very gently massaging her scalp and breathing peppermint over her shoulder. "Says it's give him premature baldness. Don't believe it myself, do you? So I don't get much chance to give massages anymore. He don't let me give him shoulder rubs neither, says it makes him too weak to play properly. He's a footballer, you know." "That right?" mutters Gold vaguely, lost in the pure bliss of Harman's magic touch but trying hard not to show it. "What star sign are you, ma'am?" "Does it matter?" "Well I've been reading up on this," begins Harman with much enthusiasm. "Each of the signs governs a part of the body. Virgo - that's me - governs the digestive system, which explains how come I eat too much, so Fletch says." "Oh I doubt that," murmurs Gold. "So what are you, ma'am? No wait, let me guess. You could be an Aries, though you ain't got the reckless streak, or praps a Taurus, but I'm guessing not Gemini..." While working out the tension in Gold's neck with her wonderful hands, she spends a minute or so going through all the possibilities before coming to a conclusion. "Leo or Capricorn. Leo. That's my guess." If she was more alert Gold might be impressed. Just at the moment though she's concentrating on the warmth flooding down her spinal column, and how the pain in her head has completely gone. "Spot on," she says, nonchalantly. "Well that's perfect, innit? Leo governs the back and the circulation. Now I'll bet you get bad back pains." The pains that have beleaguered Gold's back for years now, which she simply puts up with these days, suddenly spring into focus, sharply, having been identified and named. Gold tries to hide the sudden painful spasm, not sure how much she wants Honey to know about something as highly personal as bodily aches. She prefers to exude an air of cool indestructability with her junior officers than to have all her baggage out in the open. Regardless, Harman's hands seem to detect it. They plant themselves on her shoulders and start to rub at them with deliciously firm thumbs. "I'd lay money you get cold hands too. Am I right?" Harman is saying. "And cold feet. Only being a Leo I'll bet you never complain about it." "You ought to talk to ADI Nixon," mutters Gold, uncomfortable with these wild speculations that are absolutely correct. "I'm sure you'll find you have a lot in common." "Now, I felt that," says Harman, digging her knuckles into Gold's right shoulder under her epaulette, making frictiony noises as her hands slip over the harsh cotton of her shirt. "Your trapezius all froze up with tension. You have to learn to let go, darlin'." At this Gold has to chuckle. She can't remember when the last time was that anyone called her darling. Probably never. Certainly not accompanied by such an exquisite touch. She feels the energy radiating into her body from Honey's strong soft palms, and wonders what one must do to get hands like that. Hands that glow. And why it's always people like Honey who have them. Samantha doesn't have them. Maybe Eva has them and that's why Samantha's been so distant - "See, now there it goes again," scolds Harman. "What have you done to yourself? This muscle's like a rock. Just relax." Gold does as she's told, lets Honey's fingers sweep her Samantha troubles away and immediately feels the release in her shoulders with a shiver all the way down her arms. For the first time in years that niggling pain in the back of her hand goes away. "Oo, darlin', I felt that. That knot in your shoulder just turned to jelly in my hand. That must have felt good." "Mm," hums Gold shortly. It is an absurd understatement and she knows it but doesn't trust herself to speak words in case her voice shakes. All this massaging has made her feel a bit soft. A bit vulnerable. Not the image she wants to convey to her young constable. There's a reason sergeants and up have separate locker rooms from PCs. The occasional little sigh of exasperation has been issuing from Harman's throat since she started on Gold's back. Now she stops her ministrations, resting her hands on Gold's shoulders, and releases a louder sigh. "Everything all right, Honey?" Gold manages to ask. "Well I don't want you to get the wrong idea, right, but this is a lot easier to do on bare skin. Would you mind undoing a couple of buttons - just the top ones, mind - so I can slip the shirt off your shoulders?" Now Harman has her attention. Gold is suddenly acutely aware that they are both on duty and no doubt have much to do. "That's all right, PC Harman," she croaks out. "I have a police station to run and you, I believe, have other, more pressing duties to attend to." "Oh, no you don't, sweetheart," laughs Harman, manipulating Gold's shoulders again. "My work here's hardly started." She continues without further comment on the shirt issue, and since Gold doesn't want her to stop anyway she allows Harman's gouging thumbs to keep her there. After a while though, the squeak of dry fingers on cotton rings loud in her ears, and she gives in, tugging off her tie. "You say one word," she mutters, undoing two buttons of her shirt. "I never would, ma'am," Harman assures her. "Cross me 'eart." Carefully, Harman tugs Gold's shirt back and off her shoulders, exposing her pale skin. She tenderly removes the thin bra straps from the creases they've worn in Gold's shoulders over the last 40 odd years, letting them drop down by her arms. And her magic warm hands slide over Gold's skin with long, slow strokes, bringing the flesh to life. Gold sighs. Such gentleness in the contact. And such sincerity in the giving of it. Nothing has come close, not in years. She lazily drifts into sleepy awareness of the sound of Honey's breathing, her chewing, the shift of her body beneath its stab vest. Gold rarely feels self conscious about her own body; it's a nice body, a good body that for the most part does what she tells it to. But there's no denying that this young woman's hands on it make her feel aged and broken and a bit shy. She wonders how it is that she got to be here, feeling a million years old, seemingly born with pips on her shoulders, when it wasn't so long ago that she was the junior officer, the brass's star pupil, the young thing in the guvnor's office toeing the line between eagerness and flirtation. "You've got such lovely soft skin, ma'am," says Harman conversationally. Gold smiles to herself, gratified, but not fool enough to misinterpret Harman's attentions. She knows Honey wouldn't be here with her hands on Gold's naked pink skin if there were any real threat of being pounced on. If Gold were younger, or not an inspector. All that age and rank in between tends to mellow homophobia somewhat. For now. Provided swamp stays just a drinking club. She knows exactly what would happen to Honey if swamp could see her doing this. She knows that if the swamp mentality starts ruling the roost, Honey will not be doing it again. It doesn't matter in itself: it's the loss of trust Gold fears. Sweet as Honey may be, odds on that her Fletch would fit in perfectly with the swamp blokes, and women like her are altogether too influenced by their dreadful taste in men. Gold has no illusions about whose side she'd be on if swamp drew a line in the sand and raised their fists. She's not going to let it happen. Not in her nick. Harman, as usual, has her mind on other matters. "Have you ever thought about growing your hair long? A lot of the mature ladies are doing that nowadays." Gold merely shakes her head. The girl could at least try not to prove her right. "I assure you, Honey, that the day I become a `mature lady' is the day I lie down on the high street in front of a lorry," she says. Harman's playing with her hair again now, running her fingers all the way from the crown of her head to her shoulder blades, making her tingle all over. "There you are, darlin', I can feel how relaxed you are now," she says, letting her fingers trail momentarily down Gold's back. "PC Harman," says Gold, standing up slowly with a very satisfying chorus of cracks from her thoracic vertebrae. "Last time I checked the correct term of address for an inspector by a constable was ma'am, not darlin'." "Sorry, ma'am," says Harman humbly. Gold shakes her head, tutting herself. "Though I spose we weren't exactly on duty for the past fifteen minutes, so just this once I'll let it go." Harman smiles apologetically into Gold's eyes, which are trying their best to regain their usual mix of mysteriousness and authority. Difficult, since Gold is struggling to do up the buttons of her shirt in front of a fully uniformed constable. Harman picks up her tie from the floor, brushes it off and passes it to her. "Here you are, ma'am." If nothing else, she's a good girl. And being kicked out of swamp might shuffle the deck. Straight, snow white and engaged she may be now but who knows where her future will take her. If her Fletch don't come through with the goods. If she falls heel over tit for someone not so white or not so straight, like Gold did. Or just someone in the job. Slappers cop it too. "Keep an eye on the swamp for me, won't you?" says Gold, with a tone of conspiratorial importance. "We don't want it getting out of hand. Too much to lose." "Yes, ma'am," assures Harman, seriously. "Off you go then." Harman turns to leave. Gold calls her back before she exits. "Honey." She gestures with her head for Harman to come closer. Harman does so. Gold puts a hand on her arm, looks her in the eye and hesitates, breathing through her bottom teeth for a moment before muttering, "Thanks," in a quiet voice. Harman lets her gaze linger a thoughtful second on Gold's face, perhaps seeing something other than simple gratitude there. "My pleasure, darlin'," she says earnestly, and kisses Gold on the temple very lightly. "Will that be all, ma'am?" Gold nods, touched and lost for words, and Harman swaggers out of the room, chewing gum. "Yes, Honey," breathes Gold when she's gone, wiping the lipstick off her face. "I imagine that'll do." The End.