Title:        Sain
Author:       Viv Martella's Ghost
Email:        martellas_ghost@yahoo.com.au
Fandom:       The Bill
Pairings:     Sharpe/Nixon, Sharpe/McAllister, Nixon/Gold
Rating:       R18+ - some moderately explicit sex
Length:       6821 words
Category:     first time
Status:       complete new story.  Assumes background of my
              story A Cure for Frostbite.
Archivals:    Jasmine Alley and Fabulae if they like it.
              Anyone else - please ask first
Spoilers:     Seasons 18 and early 19
Feedback:     Luv it any old how
Chronology:   episode 093 - before, during and after the
              delightfully slashy praying scene
Summary:      Nixon and Sharpe say a prayer for the dead
              girl Angel

Disclaimer/Credits: The characters herein belong to
              Thames TV not me.  Some of the dialogue (from
              "Joanna's going to be fine" through to "Me neither")
              is directly quoted from episode 093 of The Bill,
              written by Sally Garland - no infringement of
              copyright intended.  I haven't materially benefited
              from writing this story in any way.

Notes:        Kisses to Em for the workshop in Bendigo slang;
              winks to Elf Boy and Laura for doing Nixon/Gold first.





*************************************************************
Sain
by Viv Martella's Ghost


== McAllister ==

Debbie arrives first, hesitantly peeling back the blue
curtains that separate Joanna's bed from the rest of
the ward.  Not daring just yet to move from her spot.


"Eva," she almost whispers.

Eva, sitting on the hospital bed, doesn't look at her,
doesn't invite her in.  Replies, "Sarge," without much
feeling.

The sergeant opens her mouth as if to speak again,
then changes her mind and closes it in an uncertain
but sympathetic smile.  Tries to gauge Eva's mood.
Nods at the sleeping Joanna.

"She looks peaceful," she says finally.

Eva tucks her daughter's blanket up a bit higher.

"She's exhausted.  It ain't the same thing."

Debbie registers the bitterness, the bite.  She's felt
it every time Eva has spoken to her over the past five
days, but hoped it was just Joanna's disappearance
that made her so grumpy.  Now she knows it wasn't that
- Joanna's been back for nearly twenty four hours.
Eva is pissed off.

"The DI told us Joanna's sexual assault tests were
clear.  I thought I'd tell you in person how glad I
am."

"Yeah," says Eva simply.  "Cheers."

Debbie tries not to be nervous.  She's used to
dragging her lovers about by their willies, but
somehow it doesn't work with Eva.  Eva thinks with her
brain too much.  And doesn't forgive quite so easily.

"I've brought you something.  Well, for Joanna
really," says Debbie, taking a box of Harry Potter
Lego out of her bag.  She steps into the cramped space
and slides the curtains shut behind her.  Places the
present on Joanna's bedside table.  Then sits down on
the bed next to Eva.

Eva takes Joanna's hand and strokes the back of it,
compulsively, and still won't look at Debbie.

"You know, sarge," she says angrily, "I've spent the
last five days in a madhouse of my own making.  I have
only just found my daughter.  The last thing I need
right now is another drama."

The scent of Eva fills Debbie's nostrils: the incensy
aroma of her bedroom that she carries into work every
day on her hair and clothes.  Debbie still associates
the scent with their first night together, when Eva
was so gentle and slow with her battered body,
massaging the life back into it, the knots of fear out
of it, breathing back the warmth and fire taken out by
rape and childbirth and thirty something years of
maltreatment.  Smelling it, drinking it in, she wants
to unburn the bridge and put everything back as it
was.  Feel again the tender rawness that comes when
Eva peels away the sticky layers of her foetid
insides, kissing them better one by one.  The sweet
pain of being loved.

"I realise it's not the best time to bring this up,"
she ventures, watching the mark Eva's thumb is making
on her daughter's hand.  "But I wanted to be there for
you when she went missing.  I did try.  I know you
didn't think you could trust me anymore."

"I don't trust you as far as I can spit you, sarge."

Debbie hurts, despite herself.  Trust was the lesson
she learnt that first night, rapping softly at Eva's
door asking to be let in, fully expecting her to come
out and laugh in her face, but instead seeing gladness
- even relief - in Eva's warm smile.

Or when she had Eva up against the wall, her whole
hand reaching inside the woman, consumed by her, tears
brimming in Eva's eyes because of the deep emotions it
stirred up.  At that moment she realised the power she
had over Eva, the power to hurt if she wanted to, and
was touched by Eva's absolute trust in her.  Eva had
held her free hand and squeezed it, opening one eye to
look at her.  "Debbie," she had whispered from within
her sensual haze, but couldn't say any more.

The memories are fish hooks in the centre of Debbie's
chest, tugging and tearing.  No one ever trusted her
so easily and openly as Eva did, and now she's blown
it.  She needs to make amends.

"That bloke I spent the night with - it didn't mean
anything," she says earnestly.  Then smirks a bit when
she adds, "I can't even remember his name."

The brown eyes of Eva Sharpe roll in exasperation,
accompanied by a wry laugh.

"It's got nothing to do with that.  You can play
tootsie with whoever you want, Debbie.  I mean, I
weren't happy about it, I was not impressed, but
that's my lookout.  And besides, it feels like so long
ago with everything that's happened that I honestly
couldn't give a toss any more."

"Then I don't understand."

"Ha.  You surprise me."  Eva sighs and lets go of
Joanna's hand.  "The point is, Debbie, that despite
the fact that you like being with me, half the time
you feel compelled to pretend you don't.  All it takes
for you to drop me like an 'ot potato is for someone
else to take an interest in you - it don't matter who
it is - it could be Jack Meadows or Krusty the Clown
for all the discernment you have.  Then when that goes
to shit you suddenly remember how much you like me
again.  I know I ain't your wife, I ain't your keeper,
but I ain't nothing neither.  And while it sometimes
passes the time to indulge you in your pathetic power
games, right at the moment I'm well over it."

A hundred sharp retorts, a thousand cutting remarks, a
million ways to say I don't care hover on the tip of
Debbie's tongue.  She is not used to being rejected.
Her mouth forms a pout out of habit, getting ready to
release the stings.  But by some miracle of self
discipline, she swallows all of them.  Risks having
her foetid insides hanging out for all to laugh at by
letting Eva take the upper hand.

"It seems I must mend my ways," she says, fairly
choking on the words.

Eva, finally, turns away from Joanna to look at her.
Eyes Debbie guardedly, taking the measure of her,
leaving Debbie to stew for a few seconds.

"You are nothing but trouble," she says, shaking her
head in disbelief.

Debbie frowns, looking at Eva fidget with Joanna's
drip.  She thinks she heard, at the core of Eva's
cynical voice, a little spark of hope, of delight, of,
essentially, trust.  And saw, in her face, a waver.  A
notch in the armour.  Something to work with.

"I'm so sorry I hurt you, Eva," she says
experimentally.

"You should be."

"It's not as though I want to make trouble."

For a moment Eva looks as though she believes it, big
eyes scrutinising Debbie's carefully.  But it is such
a lie that after a few seconds neither of them can
keep a straight face.  Eva lets out another "Ha", and
mutters, "I must be insane," while suppressing a grin.
 Debbie's mouth twists into a lopsided smile.

It should be the perfect moment to kiss and make up.
Debbie tilts her head, grazing her sultry eyes over
Eva's face.

"I want to make you trust me again.  I'll be whatever
you want me to be," she says, not forgetting to lay it
on thick.

"I've heard that one before an' all," replies Eva with
a flirtatious eyebrow.  "But I'm a detective, Debbie.
I need evidence.  Bring me some evidence of this new
improved Sergeant McAllister and I might give her
further consideration."

Debbie's eyes narrow a la bedroom and she makes a play
for Eva's neck, but Eva pulls away.

"That is circumstantial, that is not evidence!"

Debbie can feel the flame reignite in Eva's body.  She
kisses her on the side of the head.  Eva can't help
tucking a bit of Debbie's hair behind her ear.

"I mean it, Debbie.  I will work with you and buy you
a drink after work but if you want anything else you
have to earn it."

Debbie sighs.  She doesn't like to be bossed around.
She wonders whether this thing with Eva is really
worth all the trouble and strife and arse licking.
But she has to pride herself on a job well done.

"You won't know what's hit you," she says simply.



== Gold ==

Samantha and Gina are at that moment sitting in Sam's
car in the hospital parking lot.

They have come to visit Eva and Joanna, but don't get
out of the car because they're having a row.  Or
rather, they would be having a row if Gina could bring
herself to speak to Samantha.

"You were never supposed to find it, Gina," says Sam
from the driver's seat, looking at her watch.

Don't think you're getting out of it that easily,
broods Gina darkly.

Gina is trying to smoke herself to death and Samantha
is drinking another cup of coffee.  Neither of them
have slept properly for days, as is usually the case
when Sam is heading a big investigation.  When she is
consumed by the thrill of the chase, she can't sleep,
barely eats, and survives on caffeine and adrenaline.
She stays up all night, her mind racing, thinking
about the who, the why and the how, and sifting
through draft profiles, suspicions and hypotheses.

Gina lives for her job, but even she doesn't get
obsessed like Sam does.

Instead, she takes what sleep she can.  Because she
knows that in the dead of night she'll most likely be
woken by Sam's hand stroking unsubtly at the meeting
of her thighs, and Sam's wet mouth plastered to her
neck: an unspoken plea to help her clear the cobwebs
from her mind.

"Can't sleep, Samantha dear?" she'll croak when she
rouses.

Sam will inevitably apologise for waking her, not
meaning it at all, then glibly offer, "Shall I let you
go back to sleep?"

But Gina is always awake: her body has grown used to
Sam's sudden nocturnal urges, and she is already wet,
and pulsing.

"I hope you catch the bastard after all my hard
labour," she'll say, turning Sam onto her front,
passing one hand over a deliciously hard nipple and
the other over her throat.  She will roll on top of
her so that Sam's breath is momentarily pushed from
her lungs with a grunt.  She knows that's what Sam
wants: to merge with her for a few minutes, to lose
herself in Gina, surrendering the manic grip she keeps
on life in the only way she can.

Gina, however, is less interested in the merging and
more interested in the curve of Sam's sweet arse
quivering against her pelvis.

Her hot hands run the length of Sam's torso, causing
it to arch up into her.  Then she backs off, and
Samantha follows her, kneeling on all fours.  Roving
with delectable leisureliness over Sam's creamy
buttock, Gina's fingers seek out her wet spot and
shove inside, and Sam's body is thrust forward with a
noisy breath.  Gina fucks her and Sam just parts her
legs, to take it as hard and deep as Gina wants to
give it.

When it happens like this, Gina barely needs to be
touched.  It takes a lot of vigorous pumping for
Samantha to come, but when she does, so does Gina.
The intense smell in her nostrils, the slippery velvet
of Samantha's insides, Sam's reliable grunts and the
simple grind of her own hips close to Sam's are almost
enough.  To go the extra yards, all Gina needs is the
long moment when she squints at the back of Sam's
blonde bobbing head, and finally slides her spare
fingers over herself, and in her mind it's not
Samantha Nixon vacuum-packed around her hand but a
younger, blonder, more junior police officer.  At this
thought Gina almost weeps, a sob escaping her throat,
and she is released.

It works every time.

Gina's not proud of it.  Not proud of having sat on
Luke's settee at the hen's night, with Kerry's head on
her shoulder, positively dripping.  Not proud of
enjoying it when Kerry passed out in the bed much
later, snuggled chastely against her body.  Not proud
of losing it with Craig and Luke the next morning,
just because they got theirs when she didn't get hers.
 And certainly not proud of the fact that while she
was trying to bed Kerry, Sam was being abducted by a
serial killer.

Of course, the lack of pride hasn't yet made a scrap
of difference to Gina's behaviour.  But then she never
expected Samantha to figure it out.

It is this that they are rowing about.

Sam worked out Gina's whole psychological profile on
the back of an envelope during a lazy obbo one
afternoon, complete with names (Kerry, Craig, Luke,
Adam) and arrows and underlines and circles.  Then
today, while rifling through the glove compartment for
a box of matches, Gina found the envelope.  The words
'narcissistic libido' next to Kerry's name caught her
eye.  By the time Samantha noticed what she was
staring at so intently, Gina had read the whole sordid
thing.

Sam rests her head against the glass.

"Well, you can't deny it's all true," she says,
checking the time again.

It's no use looking at your watch, Gina thinks at her;
I can stay here till Christmas if it comes to that.

"If I'm wrong, tell me.  I'd be interested to know."

Sam swills the last of her coffee, crumples the paper
cup and tosses it onto the floor of the backseat near
several others.

Gina merely draws on her cigar and blows smoke through
the narrow gap in her window.

"Look, I've already told you I don't care, Gina.  I
just think you should stop messing up your life and
the lives of those around you by denying it."

A brief snorty laugh whistles through Gina's nose as
she faintly shakes her head.

"I never did go in for that psychoanalytic crap," she
replies quietly, directing her comments to the window
rather than look at Samantha.  "Villains is villains.
Your desire to get inside their depraved minds is a
mystery to me as it is, but I wear it, cos it gets
results.  But when you turn it on your colleagues...
it's just not cricket, Samantha."

"Is that how you think of me?  As your colleague?" Sam
asks dispassionately.

Gina glares at her.  "That's the way it's headed at
the moment, wouldn't you say?"

"It wasn't my intention."

"What, you plan to stick around with someone who has -
what was it? - obsessive tendencies, moderate
delusions, projected guilt, internalised homophobia
and borderline substance abuse, do you?" says Gina,
reading from the envelope then tossing it in the back
seat with Sam's paper coffee cups.

"I have so far."

Gina sees Sam smile.  Realises that Sam thinks she's
giving constructive criticism, or is even paying her a
compliment.  Some sensitive new age
you're-a-psycho-but-I-love-you-anyway bollocks.

"Samantha, do the words pot and kettle mean anything
to you?"

"I never said I was perfect," says Sam.

"No, I should say not," mutters Gina.  "Your life's a
perpetually impending disaster.  Just look at what Abi
gets up to - if you can find her at any given moment."

Without looking, Gina knows Sam's hackles have risen
instantaneously.

"My daughter is none of your business."

"And my relationship with Craig, or Adam, or Kerry, or
anyone else for that matter is none of yours."

She flicks her cigar butt through the gap in the
window.  "Shall we go and visit Eva, then?"

"No, listen to me," says Sam firmly, grabbing Gina's
arm.  "Stop taking it so bloody seriously.  I only do
it as an intellectual exercise and you know it.  It
keeps me sharp, where I have to be to do my job."

"Oh - beg pardon - I do take your point," says a
deadpan Gina.  "How remiss of me to begrudge the
important contribution my dirty laundry could be
making to the Sun Hill crime stats.  If I'd known that
last week I would have set Hollis's Y-fronts onto the
Bronte estate drug problem.  Or promoted the borough
commander's brassiere to acting sergeant instead of
Osbourne."

Gina raises an eyebrow at Sam, defying her to take the
bait.  Sam stares back at her, grey eyes frowning but
not backing down.

"Go ahead," she says.  "Trivialise it.  It only proves
my point."

Gina says nothing.  Wishes she had a fag right then to
nonchalantly suck on.  Then Sam picks the envelope up
off the floor and thrusts it at her.

"Take it," she says disgustedly.  "Do whatever you
want with it - burn it, shred it, eat it - I don't
want to lay eyes on it ever again."

"Apology accepted," says Gina, pocketing the envelope
and getting out of the car.



== Nixon ==

St Hugh's is a big hospital and Samantha is fuming,
resenting every step she has to take alongside Gina.

When they're not arguing she feels Gina's presence
next to her as tough and exciting and charged.  Loves
the creak of her leather jacket, her cool sarcastic
swagger, and the way her permanently bad hair is
completely overshadowed by her dry wit and charisma.
Actually adores the chaos Gina's sexy, narky
fuckedupness brings to her life.  Just has to sniff
the right whisky-and-cigar combination to get all
fevered and flirty.

But not right now.

Right now, she feels self-righteous and furious.  All
she can hear is the whistle of Gina's emphysemic
breath in her nose and the irritating asymmetric plod
of her feet.  All she can feel is the limp bunch of
flowers Gina's carrying swat moistly at her left arm
with every second step.

The worst thing about it is that she knows she's
bloody right.  She's sure that Gina knows it too, but
knows Gina will not admit it, ever.

No, she thinks, going up in the lift to Joanna's ward:
the worst thing about it is the timing.  Joanna Sharpe
may be alive and well, but there's still the
paedophile ring and the dead girl Angel to sort out.
She's at a crucial point in those cases and can't let
a fight with Gina disrupt the momentum she's worked so
hard to build up.

Though she tries to project the calm, analytical image
expected of a good DI, when she's in the thick of a
case, Samantha is living it.  She feels every
development of the entire investigation in her very
guts, with greater acuteness than any of her own
problems.  The disappearance of Joanna has been more
real to her over the past five days than any of the
continuing messy shit with Abi, or with Gina.  Every
time she spoke to Eva she saw her whole universe
disintegrating and crippled by pain, and felt this as
a personal burden, goading her to seek a resolution.
Nothing else rated at all.

Despite living through each long minute with Eva,
she's kept her promise and played the
hard-faced-bitch-detective, immaculately professional,
with no public tears and, until yesterday when Joanna
was found, no hugs, even when every cell of her body
screamed at her to put her arms around Eva and
squeeze.  True, there were a few times at the pits of
Eva's vulnerability when Sam held her hand, just for a
moment, but that's all.  With immense patience and
self control she has done her bloody job as it should
be done, regardless of the human consequences.

And now, with Joanna found, Sam wants her catharsis.
Needs it, to spur her on over the next few days or
weeks with the nonces and Angel.  It is the reward she
allows herself for being a committed copper.  And
she's buggered if she's going to let Gina's butch
posturing spoil it.

Sam and Gina reach Joanna's ward and are directed to
the right bed by a nurse.  Sam discreetly peeks
through the curtains around the bed.  She's intrigued
to see McAllister there in the tiny space with one
hand placed strategically between Eva's shoulder
blades and the other resting on Eva's thigh.

"All right, Eva, Debbie," she says cheerfully,
entering through the curtains.  Eva and Debbie,
sitting on the bed, turn to face her.

"Guv," says Debbie politely, withdrawing both her
hands.

Eva's eyes meet Sam's and her face beams a warm hello.
 Sam is certain in a second that Eva knows what she's
been through these past days and nights.  That Eva
feels their almost visceral connection as strongly as
she does, and has been waiting for this moment as she
has.  If the others weren't there she'd give Eva
another hug, but for now it's enough to smile back.

"How's the little horror?" asks Gina, coming in behind
Sam.

"Fine, ma'am," replies Eva.  "She's going to be all
right, so the doctor reckons."

"It's wonderful news," says Sam.

Gina holds up her flowers to Eva.  "These are for you.
 And Joanna, of course."

"Cheers, ma'am, they're beautiful, and Joanna loves
irises.  Now there's a vase just by the cabinet there
- why don't you put them in it so they don't wilt."

"Right you are."

For a moment, they're all distracted by the uncommon
sight of Gina Gold arranging flowers in a vase.  Her
idea of arranging mostly consists of rescuing the ones
that have fallen below the lip of the vase and
balancing them amongst the other ones at the top, but
it's the thought that counts.

The moment gives Sam a chance to take another look at
how close Debbie is sitting to Eva.  She knows about
their involvement, assuming what Jim wrote in his FLO
report is true, although she finds it difficult to
fathom Eva's attraction to such a maladjusted
individual.  Debbie sees her looking, catches her eye,
and stands up, folding her arms across her chest.  One
of Sam's smile muscles involuntarily twitches, wanting
to put her at ease, but Debbie looks away.  Not all
that surprising really, Sam supposes with vague
disappointment.

"Samantha - cards," says Gina.

"Oh, I almost forgot," exclaims Sam, ignoring Gina's
brusqueness, and takes two greeting cards out of her
bag to give to Eva.  "This is from the relief girls
and boys, and this is from CID.  Jim sends his regards
too.  And there's already a small mountain of cards
and flowers from the public for you growing on the
front desk and in the squad room.  Robbie's keeping
track of it all until you get back."

"Right.  Thanks, guv."  Eva idly fondles the cards,
taking them out of their envelopes and putting them on
the bedside table for Joanna to find.

"Well, Eva," says Debbie, scratching her head.  "I
should be getting back to the nick.  People to see."

"Thanks for coming," says Eva lightly.  "Oh, and give
my love to your little one."

"Will do."

They exchange ambiguously brief smiles and an awkward
kiss on the cheek.

"Got room for one more, Debbie?" asks Gina with a
glance at Sam.  "I've got to be getting back too."

"Of course, ma'am," smiles Debbie.

"Do look after yourself, Eva.  Sorry I couldn't stay
longer."

"Thanks, ma'am, I will.  And thank you for the
flowers."

Gina casts a long, significant look at Sam.
"Samantha."

But Sam just wants her to leave.

"Gina.  See you tomorrow."

Brown eyes look into grey, and both hide what lies
beneath with stubborn smugness.  Conscious after a
while that both Debbie and Eva are watching their
interaction, Gina turns to walk out of the ward.
Debbie raises her eyebrows saucily at Eva then
follows, shutting the curtains behind her.

"Cheeky beggar, that one," says Eva, when they've
gone.

Sitting down on the chair by the bed, Sam mentally
sighs in relief at being left alone with Eva.  They
have business to sort out.  Loose ends to wrap up.
The poetry of the situation needs to be nudged and
guided to a satisfactory conclusion.  Debriefing, it's
usually called in the job, but for Sam it is much
more: together they have seen the place where the
corporeal and transcendent meet, and need to deal with
it before the experience is diluted by time.

"Has she been much support to you?" she begins.

"What - Debbie?  You're having a laugh, intcha?"

"I thought you two were..."  Sam cocks her head to
emphasise the unspoken.

"How'd you know that?"

"Jim's FLO report."

"Ah.  Of course.  Eva Sharpe's little book of
secrets."

"You know it's confidential."

"I know.  Only the senior investigating officers read
it.  Unless it turns up something particularly tasty,
and then it tops the station bestseller list."

"Your secret's safe with me."

"I'm not that worried about it, guv.  Samantha."

Good: first names.  Stuff the hierarchy, thinks Sam.
This is the most meaningful human contact she's had in
ages.

"Debbie's the one who twists her knickers over what
everyone might think," continues Eva.  "I suppose it
only concerns me because I don't want people to get
the wrong idea, to think it was the thing with Debbie
that drove Joanna away.  That I was a bad mother who
only cared about getting her leg over."

"No one could think that."

"You know they could.  Especially cos it's Debbie - I
wouldn't be surprised if I was the only person in Sun
Hill who likes her at all."

Sam laughs.

"I feel the same way about Gina."

"Yeah?" says Eva casually, idly straightening the
greeting cards.  "So - you?  And her?"  Her eyes are
bright with cheekiness as she turns her otherwise
poker face to Sam.

"To be quite honest we're having a bit of time apart
at the moment."

Eva nods.  "I'm not having anything more to do with
McAllister until she does her homework, writes 'I will
be a good girl' a hundred times and shows me a report
card with a smiley face on it."

"Can I ask what the attraction is?"

After a second's thought, Eva shrugs.  "Search me.
Nice bit of scenery.  Bit of fun.  Seems worthwhile,
don't it?"

Slumping back against the beige vinyl chair, Sam
wonders at how easily Eva confides in her.  The
barriers have already come down, she supposes.  The
details of her life are there in black and white for
anyone to know.  And while Sam's own private life is
not written down, it is natural for her to want to
share it with Eva right now, to even the score.  Once
you've been to hell and back with someone, not a lot
seems frightening anymore.

"Complicated though, working together," says Sam.
"Gina and my work styles complement each other
perfectly but I couldn't stand sharing an office with
her."

"Don't get your meat where you get your bread, as my
mum always tells me," says Eva, smiling.  "No.  It
ain't always easy.  But then, life generally isn't.
Don't mean you give up on it."

Samantha finds herself gazing at Eva with strong
emotions brewing in her guts.  She is filled with
admiration for this survivor, this woman who has held
it together in the face of unspeakable horror.  She
realises how much she appreciated Eva's steadfastness
during the past week.  How much it fortified her own
resolve.

"You have such strength, Eva," she says gently.

"Pigheadedness, more like.  Or masochism, Paul
reckons."

"I know how much of a pillar you've been for Paul."

Eva shrugs.  "Somebody's got to wear the trousers."

"They must be pretty magical trousers you've got.
You've been incredible."

Eva's expressive eyes search Sam's face.  Sam wills
her to leave open the moment, to bond with her, not to
close it with a flippant dismissal.

"Well, I wouldn't have made it without your support,
Samantha," Eva begins quietly.  "Without your honesty.
 With Paul falling apart on me there weren't a soul in
the world I could lean on, except you.  I won't forget
it."

It's exactly what Sam wants to hear, and her gazing
eyes blink back tears.

With a little creak of springs, Joanna shifts in the
bed.  Eva's attention is immediately drawn to her but
Joanna doesn't wake.

"Joanna's going to be fine," she sighs with some
relief, as if reminding herself she can stop worrying
now.  "I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
When I think where I was twenty four hours ago."

I know, thinks Sam.  But the fight with Gina has made
her wary of saying so.  "I can barely imagine," she
says instead, a polite half truth given the
circumstances.

"You know, you have kids, you think you've got it all
worked out, don't you?  Keeping them fed, clothed,
sending them to school.  But there's nothing you can
do that can prepare you for something like this."

But Sam doesn't want to talk about that.  She is
deeply affected by their mutual admiration moment and
wants to make it last.  Wants to share with Eva all
the adjectives she's associated with her since Sunday.
 Wants to relive the conversations they've had and
tell Eva what she was actually feeling at the time but
was unable to say.  To show Eva how hard it was for
her too, and how she does know - at least to some
extent - what she's been through.

At the last minute, though, she gets shy.

"Everyone's looking forward to seeing you at the
station," she says, projecting all that feeling onto
everybody else but herself.

Eva evidently doesn't read the subtext and starts
talking about having some time off.  Then asks
casually, "Oh, what about Angel?"

Angel.  The other child that Eva and Sam have both
come to care about over the last few days.  The girl
who was a substitute Joanna when Eva needed to grieve.
 The investigations into her death are underway,
possible foster parents have been identified and
there's evidence that she was assaulted by more than
one person.  Sam shares some of this information with
Eva, in the way that coppers do.  She's proud of the
progress they've made in the investigation, but in her
heart she knows there is more to do.  Because Angel is
not just a case - she was a life, and when she died a
whole universe died with her.  Transcendent meets
corporeal.  Sam knows that if anyone can understand
the need for aesthetic reparation - for a poetic
resolution in Angel's life - it's Eva.

"Angel's memory shouldn't just disappear," Sam muses.
"Someone should say a prayer or something."

It's inadequate, and Sam has no idea how to go about
it really.  But it is at least more transcendent than
the pathologist's report she read that morning.

"I haven't been in church for ages," replies Eva.

"Me neither," says Sam, and kind of wishes she'd paid
more attention to such things when she was a kid.

But what good's a DI if she's afraid to take risks?

As if closing her eyes before an enemy, Sam bows her
head to pray in front of Eva, who could well
effectively decapitate her just by laughing.

Eva doesn't laugh though - instead she reaches out her
hand and touches Sam's, and Sam clasps their hands
together, tight.



== Sharpe ==

Eva never thought it would be Samantha.

She presumed it would be some tart, some nobody, some
tasty bit of fluff she picked up at the dyke bar some
night.  Someone she could use in one of her less lucid
moments, could show off to Debbie, could hold up to
illustrate the point that Debbie meant nothing to her.
 Someone, basically, to make Debbie jealous with.  To
say fuck you to the woman who pretended so hard not to
care.

In reality though, she never thought it would actually
happen.  It wasn't her style.  And wasn't worth the
hassle, especially when she wasn't sure at all how
much McAllister actually mattered to her.

Bloody McAllister.

Fun it had been - yes.  A lot of fun.  When Debbie was
flat on her back or thereabouts she communicated with
a directness and creativity that Eva had never
witnessed before in their everyday dealings about the
nick.  When she wanted to be, the Ice Queen was
electrifyingly hot.  Leaving Eva with a permanent hard
on whenever they're in the same room together.  Rather
inconvenient when she's so bloody angry, but at least
it doesn't show.

And at least she put up a decent struggle against the
McAllister charm today.

And it isn't about revenge with Samantha, anyway.

Having not slept for days and been at the hospital all
night, Eva is way beyond tired and well into
ultra-alert.  Hanging on to reality by a thread and
with no patience for bullshit and tripe, Eva's tunnel
vision has been firmly directed at the DI for days.
Most of Sun Hill hasn't said a sensible word to her
all week, Paul has been sulking since she pointed the
finger at his brother, she's alienated Jim Carver, and
Princess Debbie is evidently engrossed in navel gazing
as usual.  But Samantha has always been present,
always been straight, and has kept Eva grounded.

And somehow, through the hard-faced-bitch act and the
insane chaos, Samantha has stayed incredibly,
beautifully human.  When they found Joanna she
couldn't help herself - her humanity slopped outside
the bounds of professionalism and she blubbered away
like a little kid into Eva's jacket, with arms wrapped
childishly around her.  A precious thing to Eva: a
dandelion growing through a crack in the concrete of
the normal police formality.

"What about Angel?" she had asked of Sam.  Even the
nickname Samantha gave the girl speaks volumes to Eva.
 A reference to the little unidentified girl who 'fell
to earth' - coppers aren't supposed to be so fanciful,
especially inspectors.  The personal investment
Samantha made in the girl meant everything to Eva when
she was grappling for meaning amongst the wreckage of
lost children's lives.  She was truly awed by
Samantha's capacity to focus so professionally on the
minutiae of the case while staying in touch with a
grander, more mystical vision of life.

And now this, now Samantha's suggesting, "Someone
should say a prayer or something."

So uncool.

Eva has never willingly gone to church in her life and
thinks that god, if he exists, must be a complete
tosser.

Samantha's clearly no god-botherer either, but her
words come from a place that Eva knows intimately: the
unsophisticated, poor, white, east-end people she grew
up around.  People who never adopted the urbane
atheist cynicism so prevalent among the educated
classes.  They mostly accepted some kind of spiritual
reality because it made sense in their lives.  People
who didn't give a tinker's for the church
establishment, but used church words without feeling
self-conscious about it because christianity was the
only spirituality they ever knew.

Eva respects the honesty in that naivety.  And now, as
she sits in the heart of this cosmopolitan city,
something about Samantha unwittingly exposing her
sentimental east London upbringing completely undoes
her.

Samantha is her guvnor; she's risen above her station,
learned to talk proper and dresses rather smart.  But
Eva sees beyond all that to the rough comprehensive
school and the east-end council terrace and the
scrawny, tough, big-eared little girl fighting against
the current to make a life for herself.  Sees,
essentially, their common ground.  Feels, with her
whole self, a rush of absolute love for this woman.
Not romantic love or have-my-babies love, but a
coarser, rougher round the edges, deep love that's
born of gut understanding.

Someone should say a prayer or something.  There may
be a narrowness about it, even a level of ignorance,
but in its almost embarrassing sincerity it's the only
thing that makes any sense to Eva right now.

"I haven't been in church for ages," she replies
politely, not wanting to stomp on the delicate gift
that Samantha's unintentionally handed her.

"Me neither," says Sam, genuinely.

Sam closes her eyes, bends her head and folds her
hands together to say her little prayer.  For Eva, the
gesture is enough.  She doesn't need to hear the
words.  She offers her hand to Sam and Sam clasps it
between her own.  There's a second in which Eva's hand
sweats and her heart thumps.  But then she forgets to
be scared and leans to kiss Samantha lovingly on the
mouth; for Joanna, for Angel, for herself, for all the
years of crap, for resistance and for hope in a
corrupted, jaded world.

And to her surprise - because she hasn't even thought
that far ahead - Samantha kisses her back, avidly.
It's wet and it's unkempt and Samantha's hair gets in
the way, but it's entirely heartfelt.  Eva needs a
shower and to brush her teeth, and both of them need
to sleep for days and eat and probably wash their
clothes, but the saltiness of their skin and the
smells of sweat and fear and exhaustion and the pure
raw earthy humanness are perfect.  Eva is overwhelmed.
 So, clearly, is Samantha.

"Dear god," Sam exclaims in a whisper, her forehead
pressed against Eva's, a line of spit still stretched
between their mouths.

Eva has nothing to say so kisses her again, and for a
while they can't stop kissing.  It's compulsive, like
breathing.  Their fingers trace the features of faces
and bodies as their lips try hard not to let go.

"I have to go back to work," says Sam eventually,
between kisses.

"I know," says Eva.

"I can give you a lift home first, though, if you
like."

"Yeah.  I would like."

After saying goodbye to her sleeping daughter and
instructing the nurse to ring her mobile if she wakes,
Eva follows Sam to her car.  Enjoys the feeling of
surrendering control as Samantha starts the car and
drives.  They can't keep from kissing each time the
car stops at a red light or a zebra crossing, but
otherwise don't say a lot.

When they drive up to the Sharpes' house, they sit for
minute with the engine idling.

"Got time for a cuppa?" ventures Eva.

Samantha looks at her watch.  "Let me think..." she
mutters, non-committally.

"Paul's gone to work so no one's home."

Sam nods.  "All right."

The first thing that happens when they shut the front
door is that Eva drags Sam into the bathroom and turns
on the shower.  She takes off Sam's jacket and t-shirt
and kisses her naked skin.  Then they peel off the
rest of their clothes and get under the water and sit,
pressed close and naked, on the tiles of the shower
recess, letting it all wash away.  And kiss.  Samantha
fixes her arms tight around Eva and Eva finally closes
her eyes, forgetting to even pretend to objectify her
naked guvnor.

Eventually the hot water runs out and Samantha turns
off the taps.

"Bedtime for you, madam," she says to the very floppy
constable.  She gathers up their clothes, takes Eva to
her room, towels her off and helps her into bed.
Through tired eyes and without moving a muscle, Eva
watches Samantha put her wet hair in a loose bun and
clip it, and then get dressed, all while checking the
messages on her mobile.

"I did mean it about the cuppa," says Eva after a
while.

Sam, smiling, sits down on the bed.  She strokes Eva's
hair in a very soothing, mum type of way.

"I can't stay.  They've arrested Angel's foster
parents and they're bringing them in as we speak.  I
have to interview them and find out what they know."

Eva takes her hand.  Wants to say, come back later.
Wants to hold onto the intensity.  But knows, in the
thinking part of her brain, that when all this
excitement dies down, normal life will not be kind to
them.  It is a moment, not meant to last.  Best to let
it go gracefully.  Best not to risk losing it
altogether.

The way Samantha looks at her suggests to Eva that she
is thinking the same thing.

"It's not every day I get my hand up the guvnor's
skirt," says Eva.  "It seems a shame not to have a bit
of a poke around while I'm about it."

"Believe it or not, some bits of me like the sound of
that," laughs Samantha.

"Some bits of me, too," says Eva.

Sam kisses Eva's hand.  "How about I buy you a drink
when this investigation's over?"

"Deal."

"Deal, *guv*."

Eva smirks.  The lines around Sam's eyes crease as she
smiles.

"You know," observes Sam, "our trouble is we like bad
girls too much."

"You're not wrong there," says Eva.

A long, wide yawn takes over Eva's exhausted face.
She snuggles back into the pillows.  Sam smooths the
bedclothes down, more out of habit than anything else.

"Good night, Eva," smiles Sam.

"Good luck, Samantha," says Eva, squeezing Sam's hand
once more.

The smile starts to fall on Samantha's face, and she
swallows.  Her eyes glisten.  She can't speak, just
nods, and gets up to leave.





The End.


=====