Archive of Our Own

Hathaway’s bedroom has been turned over as thoroughly as the rest of the flat. The drawers have been pulled right out, tipped every which way over the floor, contents scattered in every direction, the bedclothes ripped off and the mattress askew as though it had been lifted and then dropped. Lewis supposes they should be thankful it hadn’t been ripped, or the walls graffitied, or worse.

There’s the sound of voices, James letting in SOCO, or rather, greeting them, as the smashed door lock wouldn’t be keeping anyone out. Lewis steps carefully around the debris to get out of the way so they can do their work and it’s then that he sees it, and for a moment he’s amused that James would own such a dodgy-looking piece of sculpture and it sinks in that it’s not… it’s… Lewis’ brain refuses to process what he’s seeing for long seconds, but it’s not like he hasn’t seen one before, even if this one isn’t exactly lifelike, more elegant looking than most—glass, by the looks of it. He feels his whole face warm with embarrassment.

The voices are getting closer. Lewis is frozen in shock. Disturbing the crime scene is an obvious no-no, but he knows what’ll happen if SOCO find this—oh, they’ll be professional about it, discreet, but it’ll leak out, things like this always do. Lewis can’t even begin to imagine how humiliated James will feel, being gossiped about.

He’s still staring at the damn thing in indecision when James himself appears in the doorway. “Sir, the Chief wants us in. SOCO can deal—”

Lewis drags his eyes reluctantly up. James is staring at the dildo, eyes wide with shock, and there’s a tide of red sweeping up his neck. Lewis watches in fascination. He hadn’t known James could blush so violently.

“Sir—”

If Lewis leaves the room now, gives James a chance to… well, he wouldn’t blame him, but there are people in the hall behind James now, and before he can think about what he’s doing he’s scooped up the object and pocketed it. Casually holding his arm over the bulge, he steps past James in the doorway, who is staring at him with wide eyes, and makes his way out of the flat. Thankfully, no one pays him the slightest attention.

James’ eyes meet his over the top of the car as they open their respective doors. James’ blush has faded, but his face is a picture. Inside the car, doors shut, cocooned in privacy, James stares ahead, hands clenched on the steering wheel. He doesn’t start the car though; he’s waiting on Lewis. Lewis thinks about giving it to him now, pictures the awkwardness of trying to work the thing out of his pocket in the confines of his seat and could kick himself for not taking it out before he sat down. And if he does give it back to James now, he foresees further mutual embarrassment while James finds somewhere to stash it.

This is the most awkward, embarrassing, uncomfortable position he’s ever been placed in, and annoyance replaces embarrassment. “Drive,” he says gruffly. James starts the engine and pulls out into traffic without a word or a glance at him.

Lewis is self-conscious, walking into the office. He’s grateful that it’s early still, and the corridors are nearly empty. Once they reach the relative privacy of their office, Lewis goes straight to James’ desk and, with a quick glance to check there’s no one on the other side of the window, slides the dildo into James’ drawer. He goes back to his own desk and collapses into his chair, leaning forward to put his elbows on the desk, sinking his face into his hands for a quiet moment.

He hears James sit down and switch on his computer, his normal morning routine. He imagines James doesn’t know what to say. Well, that makes two of them. Personally, Lewis is all for never mentioning any of this ever again, so when James eventually, tentatively, says “Sir?” Lewis sits back in his chair and says, “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Sergeant?”

James looks like he wants to say something, but Lewis stares at him pointedly. James takes the hint and starts making a list of possible suspects.

SOCO doesn’t turn up anything startling, and all their suspects are either still in prison, have alibis or in one instance, has emigrated to Australia. The one likely suspect they’re left with, they pay a visit to in his flat in a rundown tenement. Craddock doesn’t look happy to see them when he opens the door with a babe in his arms, but he lets them in without a fuss, and answers their questions while dandling the child on his knee. The flat is clean and sparse, a TV with the sound off showing the cricket in the corner. He’s working nights as a janitor at the hospital, he tells them; his girlfriend is at work now at the local Tesco’s.

“It’s not him.” James states the obvious as they make their way back down the stinking stairwell.

“No,” Lewis agrees, and he finds himself glad about it. It’s rare enough to see someone who’s turned their life around, who’s making a go of it.

“Well?” Innocent says, when they run into her in the corridor on their way back to their office.

“Likely a simple B&E, ma’am,” Lewis informs her.

She purses her lips sceptically. “What was taken?”

“Not much, it looks like they were after small stuff, easy to dispose of.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t keep cash lying around,” James states, “and I don’t have much that would interest that type.” He pauses. “My laptop.”

Innocent stares at him. “Should we be concerned?”

“There’s nothing work-related on it.”

“Well, that’s good, anyway.”

“Depends on your definition of good,” says James coldly.

Lewis looks at him sharply, but Innocent, perhaps because she’s feeling sympathetic, or perhaps just because she knows James, lets it go. “Well, it’s all relative, I suppose,” she points out.

“Yes, ma’am,” James says, with a little more warmth.

Innocent nods and disappears back into her office.

James’ shoulders slump. Abruptly, Lewis has had enough of this day. “C’mon you,” he says, clapping James on the shoulder. “I’m taking you to dinner.”

James looks away for a moment, and Lewis thinks he’s going to make his excuses, but James just nods and smiles a little as if to himself. He leads the way back out to Lewis’ car.

“How are you, really?” Lewis says, when they’ve placed their meal order and miraculously managed to nab a table overlooking the river, just as a group of snappily dressed business types vacate it. This pub’s getting a bit trendy for his taste now, but the beer’s good and the view is fantastic. The setting sun paints golden stripes across the water.

“I’m fine,” James says, taking a sip of his beer.

“You’ve just been robbed—the sanctity of your home violated.”

“It happens,” James shrugs. “The thieves were kind enough to just take the stuff and go. It could have been worse. I was lucky, really.”

“Lucky!”

“Honestly, sir,” James insists, “I’m fine,” because apparently James seems to think Lewis is the one who needs reassuring.

“If you’re sure.”

“I am, but thank you for your concern.” James puts his glass on the table a bit abruptly and beer sloshes over the edge. “And, er…?”

“Mm?” Lewis says, distracted by the plate of fish and chips being carried past their table. His stomach rumbles.

“Thank you,” James says, meaningfully.

“For what?” Lewis says, turning to look at him.

James is faintly pink. “For….”

Oh.

“Oh, er, you’re welcome,” Lewis says hurriedly, and looks away in relief as the beeper goes off to announce their food is ready. He picks it up.

“I’ll go,” James says, and plucks the beeper out of his hands, his fingers brushing Lewis’.

He’s back with their plates shortly after and they start in on their meals immediately. James seems to be tucking in with much more concentration than is his usual habit, and Lewis suspects James is avoiding talking to him.

Just now that suits Lewis.

A few days later the drug squad raid a doss-house and by some miracle James’ laptop is there, along with assorted other stolen property. Once it’s been cleared it’s returned to James, still in the evidence bag. James looks at it like he’s worried touching it might give him some horrible disease.

“At least we know now it wasn’t personal,” Lewis points out, coming to perch on the edge of his desk.

“Yes, very comforting,” James says dryly, still staring at the laptop with a betrayed expression.

The thing is, the thing is, now he knows about it, he can’t not know about it and it pops into his head at odd moments, the idea of it, that James owns something like that, his James, who he would never in a million years have suspected of it. And it reminds of him sharply of their conversation in the car that time. Is that what James had meant about sexuality not being straight lines or black and white or whatever, because unless he’s sneaking off to gay bars or whatever on the sly, James is dating women exclusively, when he does date, if you can even call it dating.

James hasn’t got past this either, to judge by the odd moment of self-consciousness Lewis thinks he detects in him on occasion when their eyes meet, or when something happens to remind them. It’s as if the world is conspiring against them. Queuing for a hot meal in the canteen on a blustery day, because they’re deep in paperwork and don’t have any reason to brave the rain, the uniforms behind them are discussing their respective divorces and one of them mentions not missing her husband because he’s been replaced with something cheaper that runs on batteries. The other two women laugh in a knowing way and Lewis thinks indignantly that this is hardly an appropriate place to be discussing such things. By his side James is studiously pretending he hasn’t heard them, but his knuckles are white holding his tray. Lewis looks at him out of the corner of his eye and wonders if they are going to have to talk about this. Because he has no idea what they would say.

A well-to-do woman has been taken away by ambulance, not quite dead, as the frightened maid who’d called triple 9 had assumed. There’s an empty pill bottle and an open bottle of vodka on the bedside table. There’s a shoebox under the bed. Lewis nearly doesn’t bother with it, but it’s the only thing there, the floorboards clean of dust. He puts it on the bed and lifts the lid off.

Lewis closes his eyes for a moment in disbelief and second-hand embarrassment because the box holds several sex toys, nothing exotic, nothing he doesn’t recognise, and then, because he wasn’t uncomfortable enough, James peers over his shoulder, the way he has a million times before, the familiar sense of his warmth, the faint scent of his aftershave, nothing obvious, just… James. An indrawn breath by his ear and James takes an abrupt step back. For a moment the space behind Lewis feels too empty. James is flicking through a pile of magazines on the window seat when Lewis turns, but Lewis wonders if he’s really seeing them.

For a while nothing else happens. The tension eases from James’ shoulders and down the pub he challenges Lewis to a game of pool. Lewis hasn’t played in more years than he can remember but apparently it’s like riding a bicycle and he gives an insultingly surprised James a run for his money. He’s having fun egging James on, trash talking, James accuses him of. The beer keeps flowing. He’s a bit worse for wear, Lewis realises after a while—his aim is deteriorating, but James isn’t faring much better, grinning up at him from where he’s still bent over the table. His white’s missed its target completely, and they both find it funnier than has it any right to be.

It’s good to let your hair down once in a while, Lewis decides, and who else but with James, who’s more than his sergeant; he’s his mate. He says as much as he moves past James to position himself for his shot, and on impulse he wraps an arm around James’ shoulder and gives him an affectionate squeeze. James looks startled for a moment and then relaxes into it. He seems content to just smile at Lewis indefinitely and Lewis can’t help but smile back. After a minute of this Lewis remembers it’s his turn and he sinks his green, a difficult corner shot, and doesn’t even try not to look like he’s not gloating.

Lewis is just wondering whether to order another round when James leans over to shoot. He’s idly noticing the way James’ shirt pulls tight against the muscles of his back as he positions the cue when James turns his head and grins at him, a bright, challenging grin that squeezes Lewis’ heart suddenly. James turns back to look down the length of the cue and shifts his weight from one leg to the other and Lewis’ eyes are suddenly fixed on his arse and, out of nowhere, all he can think of is that blasted toy and what James probably does with it. Lewis’ body is reacting to the mental image, as vivid as a photograph in his head. He’s stunned by it. All he can do is stare.

James must have made his shot because he’s straightening up. Lewis drags his eyes upwards reluctantly and he doesn’t know what James sees in his eyes but James’ grin slowly fades. There’s uncertainty in his blue eyes now, uncertainty and something else. James takes a step towards him. Lewis is suddenly afraid, because something’s up; the air is charged… this can’t be happening… this isn’t them… He takes a stumbling step backwards, and watches with a pang of regret as the intent disappears from James’ eyes in a blink. The bland sergeant’s face is back. “My round, I think,” he says.

They should probably call it a night. They’re both drunk and the awkwardness is back. But Lewis can’t bring himself to leave it like this, because he suspects come Monday James will be back to being twitchy around him and he can’t have that again, so he nods and pretends to study the table again as James turns towards the bar. By the time James gets back and hands him his pint James is smiling again and it could be he’s forgotten the awkwardness, but neither of them is that drunk, but they both pretend like mad and by the time James has beaten the pants off him for the umpteenth time and they call it a night, they are comfortable again. Lewis doesn’t hesitate to reach for James’ arm as he stumbles, outside in the cold air. They lean against each other for support as the cab pulls up.

James gets out first, saying “good night, Robbie,” and it doesn’t occur to Lewis to think anything of it until the next morning when he’s swallowing painkillers and nursing his pounding head. An image of James’ face, leaning back into the cab to say good night, his eyes warm, pops into his head.

James doesn’t presume at work, of course. But the next time they’re having a pint together and James calls him sir, Lewis corrects him. James stills. Lewis knows they’re both remembering that night. “Robbie,” James repeats after a moment, and they smile at each other.

The café’s busy; they’re waiting outside the door for their coffees so James can indulge his addiction; the staff know James; someone will bring them out when they’re ready. Some little toe-rag chooses the wrong day to make off with an old lady’s handbag. She isn’t taking it lying down though; it’s her outraged yell that draws their attention, to see her shaking her walking stick after a fleeing youth. The thief is already half way down the street, moving at a pretty decent clip and Lewis doesn’t even consider giving chase, but James has ditched his cigarette and taken off like a greyhound from the gate, his long stride covering the ground fast, faster than Lewis would have credited him capable of, and it isn’t like he hasn’t seen James run before. They’ve reached the corner. The youth attempts to duck around it and James shoulders into him, and they both go down hard. Lewis’ heart is in his mouth for a moment but James is rolling to his feet and pouncing, wrenching the thief’s arm behind his back and hauling him to his feet. James frog-marches him back to Lewis, the boy’s expression set in sullen lines.

“Look at you!” Lewis marvels. “Wear your Superman undies today, did you?”

“My Batman ones are in the wash,” James replies, deadpan.

They grin at each other. Unexpectedly, an image of James wearing nothing but briefs pops into Lewis’ head and he doesn’t know what expression’s on his face, but James’ smile fades into confusion. Lewis needs to say something, but there’s a siren approaching and a few moments later they’re handing their charge off to the uniforms.

“Well, that was exhilarating,” James says brightly. “Felt like stretching my legs—didn’t get my run in this morning.”

Lewis glances at his watch; they’re late now, of course. “Let’s go, Usain Bolt,” he says dryly, and puts an unthinking hand to James’ back to get him moving, a gesture he must have made a hundred times before, so he’s startled when James suddenly gives a whole body shudder, over in a second and Lewis stops and blinks at him. But James has turned to greet the little old lady, who is clasping his hand in both of hers. James gravely accepts her thanks and pats her hand, managing to come across as reassuring rather than patronising. Over her head his eyes meet Lewis’ briefly, and Lewis isn’t sure what to make of the expression in them, but James is bending to receive a kiss on the cheek and by the time he’s able to politely make his excuses, he’s cheerful and focused and disconcertingly impersonal.

There’s something going on with James. Lewis is nearly sure he isn’t imagining it. Just every now and then when they’re stuck at their desks doing paperwork or when they’re out and about investigating he’ll look up, or turn, and James’ll be looking at him meditatively, as though he’s trying to work something out. Like Lewis is a puzzle to be solved. It’s his own reaction that has him baffled, an odd flutter in the stomach, not indigestion, though he thinks maybe it’d be better if it were something as simple as an upset tummy.

Oxford is enjoying a murder-free summer so far, so they’re helping Robbery out with a spate of B&Es targeting young professionals. Lewis is down on one knee peering under a hedge where there’s a bit of a gap, but apart from a hedgehog that freezes when it notices him, there’s nothing there, no sign that the suspect came this way, which is a bit of mystery. He winces, his back twinging. It’s too early in the morning; the cold gets into his bones more and more nowadays, and it’s a bit of an effort to stand up again. He half expects James to be hovering over him protectively, but when he looks at him, James is looking at him speculatively.

“Yoga,” James says.

“Bless you.”

“Funny.” James frowns. “Seriously though, there’s loads of health benefits, including increased flexibility and better circulation.”

“I’m not decrepit yet!”

“I didn’t imply that you were,” James said. “I just—”

“If it’s so great, why don’t you do it?”

James shrugs. “It’s finding the time. There’s a class starting up through work, two lunchtimes a week. I was thinking of signing up. You should consider it, too.”

“We’ll see,” Lewis says, and doesn’t give it another thought until an email arrives in his inbox a week later confirming his registration.

“What’s this, then?”

James looks up from his computer. “Yoga, sir. You remember we discussed joining up. I took the liberty of signing you up at the same time when I enrolled.”

“Oh, you did,” Lewis says, trying to decide if he’s annoyed with James for his presumption or touched by the fact that James cares enough about Lewis’ health to be so pushy about it.

“I hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds,” James says earnestly. Lewis’ email pings again. James has sent him a link to an informational website. Lewis throws him an exasperated glance. James smiles brightly, innocently, and Lewis doesn’t have the heart to be angry at him. He shakes his head in mock exasperation and clicks on the link.

Yoga’s bloody hard work. Lewis isn’t the oldest person in the room. He isn’t even the least flexible, but he’s sweating like a pig and they haven’t been at it more than half an hour. This is what, the seventh class, so the instructor’s starting to encourage them to stretch themselves, excuse the pun, and it bloody hurts. He concentrates on his breathing and on holding his focus. He’s getting better at it and is prepared to admit this wasn’t an entirely terrible idea. His flexibility is increasing and the neck and shoulder tension he doesn’t admit to has eased. Just that alone would make the whole exercise worthwhile.

James smiles at him as they move on to the next exercise. He’s wearing a sleeveless tight top and what Lewis suspects are official yoga trousers—of course James would have the right gear—a stretchy material that really clings to every muscle when James bends over. And to think Lewis had worried at the outset that he might find the women in their tight outfits distracting, what with all the bending and contorting. He suspects he might have looked a little spooked when they first started; James had placed his mat in front of Lewis’ and has since made sure he always claims that position, even though Lewis had soon discovered it wasn’t an issue, with the emphasis on internal focus. In fact, the only distracting thing, as it turns out, is James himself.

The instructor tells them to go into downward dog and Lewis knows that one. He knows he has to keep his eyes firmly shut because James is in front of him, on his knees and he can’t help it, he looks and yep, James’ arse is right in front of him. James rolls up into the position. Lewis snaps his eyes shut again and tries to focus on the stretch of his muscles, forcing away the thought that James is perfectly positioned, that someone could just step up behind him, take hold of those narrow hips and… Christ, he’s getting hard. Lewis drops to his stomach as though taking a breather, thinks of nothing except the burn of his muscles, on deepening his breathing, until he’s fit for company again.

Lewis is fatalistic about the fact that he seems to have inexplicably developed a thing for his sergeant’s arse. James is wearing tight jeans, and Lewis is determinedly not noticing until Laura points out how flattering they are, which is politically-correct-speak for his bum looks bloody fantastic in them, which she also points out confidingly, waving her glass of chardonnay in James’ direction. James is leaning forward with his forearms resting on the balcony railing, occasionally taking a drag from his cigarette. Rod Barker from Records is talking to him and as Lewis watches, Barker puts a casual hand on James’ arm as he leans in and smilingly says something. Lewis finds himself holding his breath, he’s not sure why. James glances around and catches Lewis watching him. He straightens up and Barker’s hand falls away.

James is coming over to them now. “I didn’t mean to…” Lewis starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Interrupt? Cramp your style? Not with Laura standing there.

“New jeans?” Laura asks, oblivious.

James looks at her unsmilingly. “Yes.”

She grins up at him. “You on the pull?” she teases, and Lewis holds his breath. Christ, how much has she had to drink?

But strangely, this seems to relax James; the tension leaves his shoulders. “Maybe,” he says, a smile lurking at the edges of his mouth.

Laura pats his arm. “Good luck,” she says and wanders off to talk to her lab assistant, who is standing forlornly in the corner.

The silence is awkward, but making innocuous small talk at this point would be ridiculous. The last thing Lewis wants to do is talk shop, even if this is a work do, because there really isn’t anything pressing going on with any of their cases and it would be obvious Lewis was ignoring the elephant in the room. He takes a deep breath and nods in the direction of the balcony, even though Barker’s no longer standing there. “Could do worse?” he offers.

James looks down his nose at him. “Could I?”

Lewis sighs. Couldn’t say he hadn’t made an effort. “This is one of those times I should shut me mouth and mind me own business, isn’t it?”

“No,” James says quickly, and stops. “Robbie,” he says and stops again. He looks away. “I don’t fancy him,” he says, and there’s only the tiniest of emphasis on the word ‘him’, but enough that Lewis has to wonder if there’s someone at the party he does fancy, that he’s bought the arse-hugging jeans with someone in mind.

There’s a conga line wending around the living room, a spill of noise as it makes its way out onto the balcony. Lewis has had enough; he hasn’t been there long, but social niceties be damned. “Time to go,” he announces, and he’s talking about himself, but he’s not surprised when James follows him out.

There’s a three-quarter moon and nary a cloud in the sky and it’s too nice a night not to walk, so Lewis ambles off down the street, James a comfortable shadow at his side. They’ve been strolling along for about a quarter of an hour when Lewis decides nothing ventured, nothing gained. “You going to tell me who you’ve got your eye on, then?” He’s not being nosy. He wants to make sure they’re worthy of James, that’s all.

James seems to consider his question for a long serious moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he says eventually, shaking his head. “Not yet.” He’s smiling to himself.

“Fair enough,” Lewis says. There’s a pub coming up on the corner. “I could murder a pint, what’d ’you reckon?”

James smiles at him. “Whisky for me,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “You buying?”

“You’re an expensive date,” Lewis jokes, as he pulls the door open. James’ reply is almost lost in the hubbub from the country and western band in the corner, the raised, genial voices of the pub crowd.

But Lewis could swear it sounded like James said “Don’t I wish.”

Lewis is beginning to have doubts about his own sanity. Suddenly having the hots for a much younger bloke—bloke being the operative word—is one thing, he could write that off to a late-middle-age crisis caused by his impending retirement, but he’s got himself halfway convinced that James feels the same way, that James is deliberately flirting with him. That just shows how bonkers his thinking is because the idea of James flirting at all—Lewis remembers that young botanist—is incredible enough, but Lewis has looked in the mirror lately and is under no illusions about his… suitability, for want of a better word.

Another quiet period, and they’re looking over cold cases. James is intrigued about the location of one of the crimes, a murder-suicide from over a decade ago. He decides he wants a looksee, and Lewis is starting to feel like the four walls are closing in on him, so he goes with him. The building is long since abandoned. Graffiti on the crumbling wallpaper, carpet so ripped and mouldy it’s a health hazard, like just about everything else here. There are bats roosting in the beams. They take flight when James shoulders the broken door open and the two men stumble into the room. Lewis ducks instinctively and sees James doing the same out of the corner of his eye, but there are numerous cracks and apertures in the walls and ceilings and the creatures are gone within a few seconds. Lewis’ skin prickles. “Those things give me the willies,” he confesses.

James murmurs an agreement, looking around with interest. “Wonder if the Bat Conservation Trust knows about this place.”

“Give them a call later, just in case.”

James nods, picking his way carefully through the debris as he moves further into the room.

They poke about. Well, Lewis does; he relies on instinct to guide him, and he relies on James to catch what he misses. James is canvassing the place systematically, but neither of them really expects to find anything after all this time.

James is peering intently out of the smashed window. Lewis glances at him a couple of times, wondering what could be holding his attention so long, and he could just call out, but there’s something hushed about the atmosphere in this hall, a sense of history despite its dilapidated state, and instead Lewis makes his way cautiously across the uneven floor.

“What is it?” he asks, peering over James’ shoulder, and James startles and takes an odd, stumbling step back, perhaps catching his foot on the ripped carpet. Lewis doesn’t want to risk tripping himself so he holds his ground and James is suddenly pressed against him, Lewis’ hands on his sergeant’s hips to steady him. Lewis expects James to step forward again, to turn, to place a safe distance between them, but James doesn’t move and Lewis’ hands aren’t so much steadying James as holding him in place, his arse flush against Lewis’ groin. Lewis’ cock is filling, and he shivers. The air itself is hushed, dust motes in the sunlight around them. If he doesn’t step away, the evidence of his arousal is going to be undeniable and heaven help them both, James must want this too, he must, because otherwise he wouldn’t be just standing there, letting Lewis paw him. But denial’s been working for them both so far, so he’s going to take his hands away, and he’s going to step back and they are both going to pretend very hard this never happened.

His hands tighten on James’ hips. James shifts against him and Lewis is at full mast now. James can obviously tell; all the breath goes out of his body in a rush and he slumps. “Thank god,” he mumbles.

“What?” Lewis says, because he can’t possibly have heard correctly.

“I was afraid I was going to have to resort to drastic measures.”

“You planned all this?”

“Well, not so much planned,” James says, peering over his shoulder at Lewis, “as shamelessly took advantage of opportunities that presented themselves.”

Christ, he hadn’t been imagining it, any of it. Relief floods through him. “You cunning sod,” he says, half-admiringly, half a reprimand, and lets go of James. He takes a couple of careful steps backwards and James turns to face him.

Lewis doesn’t know what he expects to see, apology maybe, guilt, but James is smiling and it’s been a long time since Lewis has seen him smile like that, no shadow lurking behind it. “Cunning as a fox what used to be Professor of Cunning at Oxford University,” James quips.

Lewis smirks. “That’s enough out of you, Baldric,” he says and they stand there smiling at each other. James’ eyes drop to his mouth. James is going to kiss him, he realises, and there’s a tightness in Lewis’ throat; he’s holding his breath...

There’s a sudden loud flutter in the rafters above them and James blinks. Lewis clears his throat, recalled to reality. “Later, yeah?” he says, meaning they’ll take this up later, talk about it, no acting on impulse after all, because, god, the repercussions are endless, but James’ face lights right up, and Lewis’ can’t help responding to it, and oh hell, there’s no take back on this, is there?

They finish searching the place and report their lack of progress to Innocent. She dismisses them and out in the corridor again, Lewis glances at his watch. It’s time to knock off, and Lewis lets out a breath of relief, with maybe a touch of apprehension. “What now?” he asks, when they’re safely in the car.

“Come back to mine,” James says. “I’ll cook.”

“Best offer I’ve had in ages,” Lewis says. James looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and Lewis can’t help but think of what else might be on offer. His pulse jumps. He stares out of the window and distracts himself by worrying about all the ways this is a bad, bad idea.

“So,” Lewis says, when they’re sat in front of plates of a spicy vegetarian pasta that James has whipped up while Lewis chopped vegetables as instructed and sipped probably too frequently from his glass of wine. He tops up both their glasses.

James puts down his fork in a resigned sort of way. “We’re actually going to talk about this.”

“I think we have to.”

“It is what it is.”

“That’s what I don’t understand, though.” Lewis summons up every last bit of his courage. “Ever since… that day, when you had your break-in,” he clarifies, though from the wide-eyed look James is giving him, he doesn’t think James had any trouble getting which day he meant, “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. You.” Your arse, he doesn’t say.

“I’m sorry,” James says, looking mortified.

Lewis stabs his fork into his pasta. “I thought I was imagining it, all of it, thought I must be having some kind of belated sexual identity crisis—”

“I want you,” James says bluntly. ‘Have done, for so long. That’s why I bought that. And then… that day... happened. For a while I was just grateful to you for not making a thing of it… but then I started to imagine you were looking at me, checking me out. I didn’t think it could be true, obviously.” James shrugged. “But hope springs eternal,” he said.

“You wanted me… before?”

“Quite badly, actually,” James says, so matter-of-factly that when Lewis glances up in surprise at his words, the heat in James’ eyes catches him by surprise and he can’t look away, suddenly breathless. “Let’s go to bed,” James says and Lewis just nods dumbly, because this is it, they’re doing this. He’s half-elated, half-terrified, as he drains his glass, watching James do the same. James’ hands are trembling slightly, and something in Lewis relaxes at that, at this confirmation that James is as nervous as he is, that they’re feeling their way through this together.

Given how desperately James claimed he wants this, Lewis half expects James to grab him and snog him the moment they get to the bedroom. Instead Lewis loiters in the doorway, feeling uncertain, self-conscious, watching as James strips efficiently, discarding his clothes across the back of a chair, kicking his boots into the corner. Not sure what else to do, Lewis starts undressing as well, draping his jacket over James’ discarded pile and unbuttoning his shirt.

James is a man with a mission, Lewis thinks, as he watches James strip back the duvet. He pulls out a small tube and a condom from the bedside table drawer and puts them on the top within easy reach. He turns to face Lewis and Lewis sees him take in the fact that he’s only down to his vest and shorts and for the first time James looks uncertain—he’s still not sure that Lewis really wants this—so Lewis takes a deep breath and strips off his underwear.

Lewis is feeling vaguely ridiculous, a man his age about to climb into bed with gilded youth, it feels like, but James slides his arms around Lewis and leans in, his eyes intent and somehow wondering. At least James is sure of this, of them, and it’s that certainty that finally convinces Lewis. He meets James’ mouth with his own. It’s unexpectedly… comfortable and Lewis allows himself to be guided backwards to the bed, sinking down on to the mattress. James follows him down and there’s a moment’s disorientation as he finds himself on his back, covered by a smooth male body. James is hard already and it’s… odd, the feel of a flat chest where he’s used to softness, the feel of another man’s genitals against his own, but it’s not unpleasant. James is urgent at first, kissing Lewis’ ears, his neck, his chest. Lewis’ hands are scrabbling restlessly against James’ back. Lewis isn’t feeling self-conscious anymore; James’ passion, James’ longing, is evident in every touch, every kiss.

They’ve been kissing for ages, Lewis’ lips are bruised and probably more than a bit chafed because neither of them thought to shave first, but it’s not a turn-off, not at all. Lewis is stroking James’ back, the indent of his spine, the curve of his buttock. His fingers accidentally slide between James’ cheeks and James freezes completely. His whole body shudders once and he drops his head. For long moments they are both still. Hesitantly at first, Lewis rubs his fingers over James’ arsehole, circling, pressing gently. James is breathing heavily, his forehead pressed against Lewis’ chest.

Well, there’s only one way to go from here. Lewis is suddenly incredulous that they’ve got this far, that they’re really going through with it, and he has to check, he has to be sure, because, clichéd as it is, there’s no turning back after this. With his free hand, the one that’s not, god, pressed over James’ arsehole like a promise, he cradles the back of James’ neck. “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to stop.”

James huffs a laugh that Lewis feels against his skin. “Begging your pardon, sir, but not on your life,” he says, firmly, and well, that was fairly definite, wasn’t it?

“Right,” Lewis says. They’re going to need the lubricant. Lewis reaches for it, trying to think how this is going to work. James is going to have to move—Lewis’ll spill it everywhere if he tries to get it out of the tube one-handed. James obviously comes to the same conclusion. He sits up, straddling Lewis. He squeezes lube onto his fingers and, eyes locked on Lewis’ amazed ones, reaches behind himself.

Christ. James is beautiful. All pale lines and taut muscles and focus. He’s not looking at Lewis now. His eyes are downcast; concentrating on what he’s doing with his fingers.

Getting himself ready for Lewis.

Lewis is so hard it’s verging on painful. He can’t think of anything but being inside James, how fantastic it’ll feel. He grabs hold of himself; he’s already close, he needs to focus on something else. He grabs for the condom and fumbles with the packet. He slides the rubber on and looks up. James is watching him with hot, hot eyes, more lube ready in his hand. He strokes the lube onto Lewis’ cock. Then he’s lowering himself, staring at Lewis. For once, James’ eyes don’t hide anything. There’s pain, there’s resolution and Lewis should be noble and tell him to stop but this is nothing like he’s ever imagined it would be, and it’s clear James has no intention of stopping anyway. It seems to take forever, but eventually James is seated on him, panting lightly, a sheen of sweat on his chest.

Lewis clenches his fists into the sheets to stop himself trying to thrust because James has this; James is in charge of this, and he doesn’t want to risk hurting him. James presses both hands lightly onto Lewis’ chest and raises himself on his knees. Lewis can feel him sliding out. He has to force himself not to grab James’ hips. James is lowering himself again. His face is a mask of concentration. He does this over and over. Lewis tries to meet his eyes but James isn’t looking at anything, it’s almost like he isn’t there at all. That isn’t right, so the next time James is seated on him, Lewis does take hold of his hips, exerts pressure to keep him still when James would have moved again. James blinks and focuses on him. “Robbie,” he says, and there is wonder in his voice. It’s like something clicks into place, they’re together in this now. Lewis murmurs, “James, love,” and they are moving together, urgency increasing and James is still looking at him when Lewis’ orgasm overtakes him, James grasping his own cock and splattering come over Lewis’ chest and stomach.

“So, was it alright, then?” Lewis mumbles, staring at the ceiling. He’s not sure if he’ll ever move again. Moving’s overrated, he’s decided. James is sprawled next to him, a tangle of long limbs and sweat and sex.

“It was unbelievable,” James says, so fervently that Lewis has to believe him. He can’t help preening a little, because he did that; he made James feel that way.

He can’t help himself though, he has to ask. “Better than…” he hints, turning his head to look at James.

James looks puzzled. “What?”

“You know,” he prompts, meaningfully.

James looks blank.

“Your… toy,” Lewis says awkwardly.

“Oh. Ah.”

“What the blazes does that mean?”

“Well, you see….”

James is prevaricating. He’s not meeting Lewis’ eyes and Lewis gets it, and god, the rush of heat that rockets through him at the thought of it, that he was literally James’ first, and he’s well aware that’s old-fashioned of him, but hell, he never claimed to be anything else. “You mean you never?” he asks, to be sure.

“Technically, no.”

“What the hell is technically?”

“It was an impulse. I was, well— you know now—I was thinking about you, thinking about how I wanted you to fuck me, and I happened by this shop—”

It’s mind-blowing, that James wanted him this much, even back then, that he would resort to such a thing. “So, what? You got home and changed your mind. Decided you weren’t that keen, after all?”

“Not exactly.” A flush creeps up James’ throat. “I’ve played with it, just not….”

“What?

“I’d lube it up and… I’d close my eyes and pretend it was you, that you were teasing me, that you were going to fuck me; you were taking it slow, because it was my first time.”

Lewis’ cock stirs again at the thought of it. “Show me sometime?”

James smiles at him sleepily. “If you like,” he says, and closes his eyes.

Who knew carpooling would turn out to be so useful for avoiding awkward relationship questions? Lewis doesn’t ask, thinks he’ll leave it up to James what he wants to do. He’s in uncharted waters here, has no idea what the rules are, if dating a bloke is harder or easier or what. Hell, he doesn’t even know if what they're doing can be called dating. After all, it’s not like they need to get know each other, find out if they’re compatible—they’re already closer than most married couples.

James drives him home. He turns off the engine and follows Lewis inside without asking, so that answers that question. The atmosphere in the kitchen is comfortable; James has a small smile lurking at the corner of his mouth as they wait for some leftover Indian to defrost.

They eat in front of the telly because he usually watches the gardening show that’s on at this time. Afterwards, James sprawls next to him, sipping his wine. Whenever Lewis glances his way James is looking at him, not the riveting sight of Monty Don waxing lyrical about the merits of an herb garden. He seems content to do so, so Lewis leaves him to it, even if he can’t begin to imagine what James can be finding so fascinating. It’s comfortable—domestic, even—and Lewis thinks he could get used to this. Hell, he already is used to this, because the only thing that’s really changed here is this undercurrent between them, the awareness that they’ll be going to bed together, later. The show finishes and Lewis is about to suggest a cuppa but James is on him, sliding into his lap as smoothly as if he’s done it before. From what he’s said, maybe in his imagination he has. Lewis kisses him back, hands sliding down to James’ arse, squeezing, and James groans into his mouth, the need in it going straight to Lewis’ groin. He can’t believe how hard he is already, wonders if this is a sign of what it’s going to be like from now on, because honestly, he’d thought he was long past this sort of eager, drop everything sort of lovemaking, and he’s not displeased to find he’s apparently mistaken.

James has his hand down Lewis’ pants. He makes a pleased sound when his hand closes around Lewis’ cock, already hard. He jerks him once, twice, and then he’s scrambling off of Lewis’ lap. “Don’t move,” he orders, and disappears down the hall. Lewis takes the opportunity to slide further back into the sofa to open his trousers and free his cock. He strokes it idly, though he doesn’t really think he’ll have trouble maintaining his erection. James reappears, naked, holding the lube and a condom. God, he wants that again. There’s no doubt about it. James stands in front of him, and Lewis has a moment of disorientation, of strangeness, of being confronted by another man’s erect cock, so he looks up at James, who is looking down at him with such eagerness, such awe, and Lewis is on familiar ground again, because it’s James.

“How do you want to…?”

James goes to squeeze the lube onto his hand, and it’s just like the night before, except, somehow now it feels too impersonal….

“Can I?” he says, and James looks down at him, brow creased, as though he’s considering it. He turns and sits down on Lewis’ legs and leans forwards, and all Lewis can see is the long, pale, muscled arch of his back, his narrow arse. He’s completely exposed to Lewis. Lewis squeezes the lube onto his fingers and, fingers trembling ever so slightly, reaches forward and opens James up, one finger at first and when as James shifts restlessly, adds a second one, sliding them in and out, watching in awe as James’ body takes him. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here, but he must be doing something right, because James gasps suddenly, “do that again.” Lewis twists his fingers, and there, that’s the spot. James is shuddering around him. James is making little whimpering sounds. James is sitting up, twisting around to look down at Lewis. His hairline is dark with sweat, Lewis notices, his eyes wide and dark and nearly unseeing. Lewis grabs for the condom, but his fingers are slippery, he can’t get it open. James makes an impatient noise and grabs it from him, and in no time has it open and is stroking the condom onto him. He takes a firm hold of Lewis’ cock and slides back towards it. James’ urgency is infectious. Lewis is inside James in one glorious push from both of them. James is hot and tight and clenching around him. Lewis tries to thrust but he can’t. He sits up and wraps his arms around James’ waist and urges him forward, and James goes, the both of them tipping forward onto the floor in a controlled fall.

James is on his hands and knees and this is better; Lewis can thrust now. He slides one hand through the slick sweat on James’ spine and clasps James’ neck. James’ whole body gives a great shiver and he bends his face down onto crossed arms. Lewis pounds into him over and over, barely holding onto control, until finally James is coming, shuddering violently, crying out Lewis’ name and the sound of him, the feel of him, it’s too much. Lewis follows him over. It’s so intense he thinks for a moment he might pass out. He bites his lip, tasting blood, and sags against James’ back. The two of them crumple to their sides and Lewis wraps his arm around James’ waist and just holds on tight.

James is quiet in his arms, but he’s not asleep. He’s stroking Lewis’ hand where it’s resting on his chest.

“Alright?” Lewis ventures, after a while.

“Not sure,” James says quietly, and Lewis sits up to peer at his face, alarmed. James is grinning like the Cheshire bloody Cat.

“Oh, you,” Lewis says, and flopping back down again, because he’s not as young as he used to be and he’s knackered; in fact, he’s not sure he has enough energy to make it to the bed. Still, his back won’t thank him if he goes to sleep on the carpet, so when he thinks he can move again he heaves himself up into a sitting position.

James rolls onto his back and stretches, and Lewis glances at him and then has to look again, because James is flushed and sweaty, and he looks utterly, utterly content. Lewis feels his heart growing three sizes just looking at him and has to lean down and kiss him, just because. James kisses him back lazily and it’s a minute or two before Lewis can bring himself to end it. He heaves himself up. “I’m going to shower.”

James looks up. “Fancy some company?”

“Well, if you’re going to twist my arm,” Lewis smiles.

James grins back and rolls smoothly to his feet, apparently re-energised. Lewis can’t help envying him his youth and vitality, just a little bit.

James seems restless. He keeps darting looks at Lewis and smiling a secret, knowing smile, which Lewis has to force himself not respond to. The last thing he needs is for them to be caught mooning over each other like teenagers.

It’s only when James is actually focussing on his work, looking from his screen to the file in front of him, writing the occasional note, that Lewis catches the grimace that crosses his face when he unconsciously shifts again in his seat, and gets it. He thinks he should be horrified that he did that to James, not satisfied. Not feeling this sense of possessiveness–– that James is his.

They eat dinner on the sofa and watch the news. James takes their empty plates back to the kitchen. As soon as he sits down again, he’s all over Lewis. Lewis kisses him back, but when James produces the lube from somewhere, Lewis closes his hands over James’.

“You’re sore, don’t deny it,” Lewis says firmly, reminding himself as well, because the man is sitting on his lap and it’s very… stimulating. “You were squirming in your chair at work today.”

“I like it,” James says. “It’s a reminder.”

“Well, reminder or no, no more for a few days.”

James’ face closes. “Of course, sir,” he says evenly, sliding off and looking down at Lewis, his expression half in shadow from the lamp behind him. “Shall we say, next week? I could come over Friday night, if that’s convenient?”

What? “You’re leaving?” Lewis asks, floundering.

James takes two steps backwards. His face is utterly blank. “You want me to stay.” It’s not a question so much as a statement full of confusion and disbelief.

“There’s other things we can do, hand jobs… oral sex…” he blurts, as if this isn’t the first time he’s ever considered putting his hand, his mouth, on another man’s cock.

James is staring at him. For about the millionth time, Lewis wishes his sergeant were easier to read.

“Unless—” Lewis’ stomach drops, because it hadn’t even occurred to him, “—you don’t want to?” What if it’s just fucking for James? The last couple of nights it had seemed… maybe Lewis had just been seeing what he wanted to see. Deluding himself because it wasn’t—could never be—casual for him. Especially with James.

James sinks onto the sofa beside him and his face is suddenly easy to read. He looks lost. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you’d want to,” he said. “I mean, it’s pretty gay, and you’re… not.”

Lewis is feeling fairly at sea himself, here. “What do you think we’ve been doing, man?”

“Forgive me, but a hole’s a hole,” James says. “It’s not like you suddenly woke up liking cock one day. I seduced you.”

The crudity is so unlike James that Lewis double-takes and just stares at him. “And you thought I was just using you, a convenient ‘hole’, is that it?”

“Um,” James says, and he looks disorientated, like he doesn’t know what to think.

“Nice to know you think so little of me,” Lewis says bitterly. He sits back on the sofa and rubs his hands over his face, feeling let down, feeling worn out. The disappointment roils like acid in his stomach. “Go home, James. We’ll talk tomorrow.” There’s an echo of familiarity in his words, of disillusionment and misery.

“Please don’t send me away again,” James whispers and Lewis looks at James, really looks at him. James looks gutted.

“Ah, love, come here,” he says, holding out his arm. James leans against him and they sit and watch the telly until it’s late enough to turn in.

In bed James keeps his distance until Lewis turns on to his side facing him and reaches out. James slides closer immediately and Lewis kisses him, taking his time about it, enjoying the way the arousal slides through him slowly this time, because it’s cosy, intimate in a whole new way. He wraps his hand around James’ cock and strokes it, smiling against James’ mouth as James follows suit. They jerk each other off unhurriedly, cocooned under the blankets. Afterwards James cuddles against his side and Lewis strokes his back until he falls asleep.

Of course, the peace and quiet was too good to last. A uni student is found beaten to death in an alley behind a local pub. Two weeks of long hours and good solid police work and all the paperwork filed in triplicate and Ewan Davison’s killer is behind bars and awaiting trial, not that it’s much consolation for the boy’s family, but it’s all they can do for them, make sure it’s done right.

The rest of the team are going down the pub for celebratory drinks and Lewis considers joining them, but he’s exhausted, physically and mentally, so he makes his excuses. Innocent peers at him closely and nods, tells him not to come back in for at least 48 hours, and after a sideways glance at James, “nor him.”

They haven’t been intimate since the case started. It’s always been that way for Lewis, not for him to be able to lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh, so to speak, not when the face of the victim is fresh in his mind. James either knows him well enough to have sussed that, or he’s of like mind, because it’s almost like it was before they started all this, James dropping him off, dinner together a couple of times a week instead of every night.

Tonight, though, James follows him inside. Lewis defrosts a family-size meat pie and puts it in the oven, barely remembering to put the timer on, he’s so tired. He gets out a bag of frozen mixed veg. It’ll have to do—James can like it or lump it. He sleepwalks through a shower and gets straight into pyjamas, since he’s planning on going straight to bed after dinner and can’t be bothered with getting dressed. James is putting the veg into the microwave by the time he comes back and so Lewis slumps onto the sofa and leaves him to it, only opening his eyes when there’s the weight of cushions shifting beside him and James hands him a plate and cutlery.

There’s some period piece on; Lewis isn’t really watching it. After dinner he dozes awhile, blinks his eyes open to see the credits rolling. James is stretched out beside him, nose in a book. Lewis stares at him, still sleep-dazed, and there’s a warm feeling in his chest, because James belongs here now, he realises. James must feel his eyes on him because he glances up from his book and catches Lewis staring at him. He smiles warmly, and Lewis blinks and yawns. “That’s me off to bed,” he says and puts a hand on James’ thigh to lever himself up. He wonders if James intends to follow him through, if James will want to make love, because he’s not up to it tonight. Maybe he should have made that clear at the outset tonight, but he’s enjoyed James’ company, much like it was before they got together, except for James not going home at the end of the evening.

James only nods and says he’ll just finish the chapter. Lewis hesitates and then leans down and kisses him, a goodnight kiss, and James smiles against his mouth. When Lewis glances back James is absorbed in his book again, but he’s still smiling.

Lewis wakes feeling rested for the first time in weeks. The blinds are open, and he can tell it’s overcast. There’s not a lot of light coming into the room, but the LED on his bedside clock says it’s past nine. Lewis stretches, and thinks about whether he can be bothered getting out of bed. He thinks about it for quite a while. He hears the sound of keys in the door, the door opening and closing. A spike of adrenalin gets his heart rate up before he realises it’ll be James, James will have taken his keys so as not to wake him. He’s going to have to get a set cut for James; he can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to him before now.

James sticks his head around the door, and he smiles when he sees Lewis is awake. “Back in a sec,” he says, and disappears again. Lewis stretches and listens to the sound of the coffee maker, of the homely sounds of James moving around the kitchen. A few minutes later he appears carrying a breakfast tray. Lewis has no idea where he’s unearthed that from. James places it in the middle of the bed and kicks off his trainers and gets in next to Lewis, leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek. There’s an assortment of savoury and sweet pastries from the local bakery by the looks of things.

“I thought you went for a run.”

“I did.” James is sweaty and flushed looking, and god, that’s how he looks during sex, when he’s panting and sated afterwards and just the memory of it is making Lewis’ body stir, but James has gone to the trouble of bringing him breakfast in bed, so he tucks in. James joins him. All they need is the morning paper, he thinks, and for a moment he’s reminded of the old days, of lazy Sunday mornings when he wasn’t working and he and Val would stay in bed as long as the kids would let them get away with. Instead of the stab of grief he expects, Lewis is only conscious of a feeling of nostalgia. They’re good memories.

After they’ve finished Lewis takes the tray back through to the kitchen. When he gets back, James is lying on his side, one arm propping up his head. “You were brilliant on this case, Robbie,” he says, and Lewis looks at him to see if he’s taking the piss, but James’ expression is, if possible, even more serious than usual, and there’s an expression in his eyes that makes Lewis feel self-conscious: admiration, maybe even some hero worship there.

“Give over,” he says as he slides back into bed, because it wasn’t all him, James was there, providing support and insights as always and he couldn’t have done it without him. He’s about to point that out, quite firmly, when James gets this contemplative look on his face. “In fact, I’d say you deserve a reward,” he says musingly. He sits up and kisses Lewis firmly. Lewis wraps one hand behind James’ neck and gives himself over to it.

But kissing doesn’t seem to be all James has in mind. He pulls away and strips the duvet from about Lewis, Lewis’ hand twitching against an odd impulse to grab it back. James settles himself down comfortably, his face at Lewis’ groin level.

Oh.

Lewis is transfixed. His cock is stiffening even as James takes it in hand and brings it to his lips. This isn’t something he’s done enough of in his life, especially in the later years, not that Val minded or anything, it was just that they’d settled into a comfortable routine, familiar with each other’s bodies, of easy ways to satisfy each other. And it had been wonderful, he had no complaints, but this, this is new and exciting all over again and when his cock is enclosed in wet warmth and James starts to suck, Lewis cradles his head, the fine short hair sliding against his palm. After a minute or two, James changes tactics, and starts using his tongue rather inventively. Lewis clenches his fists involuntarily, but James’ hair is too short to grip so instead he clenches his fists in the sheets and just holds on.

“Surely that was never your first time?” Lewis says disbelievingly, when the world has righted itself, and then winces at his tactlessness, because it occurs to him only now that maybe it wasn’t. It’s none of his business what James has got up to before him, even though he doesn’t like the idea of James with other men. And that’s a revelation right there about himself that he’s not entirely happy with, that he could be jealous of his lover’s past relationships.

But James just grins at him. “Natural talent,” he says, smugly. Lewis allows himself a feeling of relief, of pride, even.

When he feels up to it, Lewis reaches for James to return the favour. He's never done this before, obviously, but he’s just had a very instructive demonstration, and it’s always best to reinforce learning with practical application as soon as possible, he thinks virtuously. He does alright for his first time, judging by James’ enthusiastic response. He’s grateful to James for the warning when he’s about to come, because he doesn’t think he’s up for swallowing his first time out, and finishes him off with his hand. James kisses him passionately afterwards, and Lewis can taste himself in James’ mouth, because of course, James has no such inhibitions. He has a feeling there’s nothing James wouldn’t do for him. It’s a responsibility, one Lewis resolves never to take lightly.

Months pass and James practically lives at Lewis’ flat now. Lewis figures most people know about them—it’s not like they’re sneaking about, but no one’s said anything. There’s probably a bit of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ going on, since they’re still partners. Everyone knows Lewis’ll be retiring soon. Of course, the time Innocent called Lewis’ phone at three in the morning and a groggy James accidentally picked it up was a bit of a giveaway. Innocent gives them bemused looks occasionally, but that’s it. It’s amazing how little his life has changed, overall.

Lewis is searching for his old walking boots in the back of his wardrobe one day when he finds it, shoved in a box with a jumper folded carelessly on top of it. He picks it up and carries it back to the bed. He sits, just holding it.

Why is it here, stashed in Lewis’ closet? James hadn’t seemed averse to demonstrating it to Lewis when Lewis had suggested it after their first time, but when he hadn’t mentioned it again and it hadn’t made an appearance in their lovemaking, Lewis had assumed that James had maybe just not wanted to spoil the mood or something when he’d agreed, and hadn’t really been that keen. Lewis certainly wasn’t going to bring it up again—after all, what he has with James is more satisfying than he could ever have imagined.

But he can’t deny it still pops into his mind occasionally, the thought of James thinking of him when he pleasured himself, thinking of himself pleasuring James with it—hell, even holding it right now is turning him on—Lewis has a moment of wry amusement at the thought of how far he’s wandered from the heterosexual path—and if James has gone to the trouble of bringing it over here, surely that must mean he isn’t opposed to the idea, that he intends….

James won’t be home for hours. He and his mates regularly go for drinks after band practice. Lewis is all for it, encourages it; the last thing he wants is for James to sacrifice time with his friends just because he and Lewis are in a relationship now. It’s different than with Val, Lewis recognises that all too clearly—they’re a generation apart, hell, more, though Lewis tries not to dwell on that too much, and even if James did want to spend all his time with Lewis, Lewis has been his own man too long, he’s set in his ways. No, what they have now works well for them both, it’s not like they don’t spend enough quality time together. They might have to rethink things once they’re no longer working with each other, but for now… Lewis realises he’s still holding the device, call it what it is, the dildo. He’s still half hard, and a sudden, naughty impulse catches him, and he slides back against the pillows, works his trousers and pants off. Hesitantly, he slides it behind his balls. It’s smooth and cold and he can’t say it really does anything for him. He’s just wondering if putting lubricant on it would make a difference when:

“Fuck.”

Lewis spins so fast something twinges in his back but he barely spares it a thought because James is standing in the doorway, and he opens his mouth to say—he doesn’t know what, but it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t get a chance to say a word because James is across the room and seizing Lewis’ face with his hands and snogging the life out of him. The world tilts as James pushes him back into the pillows. James’ hands are everywhere, it seems like. Lewis’ shirt disappears, and somehow, James’ clothes as well, though Lewis has no idea how that was accomplished because it feels like James hasn’t stopped touching him for a single second and Lewis can barely think; it feels like his whole body is burning up with arousal, lit up by James’ touches, James’ hands, James’ body crushing his into the mattress. He’s rushing towards completion before he’s really aware of it. “James,” he gasps, and James stops sucking kisses against his throat and takes his mouth again, owning him and even as his hips begin to jerk James’ hand closes around him, around both of them, and James pushes his face into Lewis’ neck as they come, wrapped around each other.

As soon as Lewis can raise lead-like arms, he drapes them around James and holds on. They stay that way, catching their breath, for long minutes. But James is heavy and Lewis eventually has to shift his hands to James’ sides, urging him to move. James obligingly goes, just enough that he can curl against Lewis’ side.

“That was unexpected,” Lewis says eventually, mildly.

“Alright?” James asks, looking up at him. He looks a little uncertain.

Lewis can’t imagine what James could possibly be concerned about—huh, unless he thinks Lewis might not appreciate James taking control of their lovemaking like that? Surely the speed, hell, the intensity with which Lewis had come would have made it obvious that he doesn’t mind. In fact, “feel free to do that more often if you like,” he says pointedly.

“I was going to surprise you with the dildo on your birthday,” James yawns.

“Sorry to ruin the surprise?”

“Don’t be,” James says, so fervently that Lewis has to smile.

Lewis dozes for a while. When he blinks his eyes open, he slowly becomes aware that the room is dim, and there are shadows dancing on the walls. He pushes himself up on one elbow and looks around. There are candles, not just the basic white candles he keeps in the kitchen drawer in case of a power failure, but the fancy scented kind, positioned on the bedside tables and on the chest of drawers against the opposite wall. And James. James is, god, James is knelt up at the end of the bed, still naked and he’s holding the dildo. He’s looking at Lewis with wide eyes. He’s hard. Lewis wonders how long he’s been like that, waiting for Lewis to wake up and the sight of him, the thought of him waiting for Lewis like that, it’s a rush.

“I thought this was going to be for my birthday.”

“Well, since the cat’s out of the bag anyway, I decided there was no point in waiting.”

“I can live with that.”

“You wanted to know what I did with it,” James says. “I experimented a bit. I tried imagining I was going down on you, worshipping you with my mouth. I’d lick it, suck it, get it good and wet, but it didn’t feel real. The fantasy worked best if I used a condom and lube, I could pretend it was your cock I was playing with, touching myself with, rather than a pathetic substitute.”

Pathetic? James’ mouth is turned down; he doesn’t look particularly happy. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “James, you don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. It’s different now. You’re here. You’re really here.” His eyes run over Lewis greedily, to where the sheet comes to, and Lewis figures if James can expose himself to Lewis like this, he can meet him halfway, so he pushes away the covers and lets James see the effect he’s having on Lewis, his cock half hard and still filling.

James draws in a sharp breath. He looks up at Lewis, and Lewis can’t quite read his expression, but he doesn’t look unhappy anymore, not at all. Without a word, James turns his back on Lewis. Lewis looks at the straight line of him, his long pale back, his tight arse resting on his heels and then James bends forward and reaches behind himself, and a jolt of heat goes through Lewis because he’s already prepared himself, that’s apparent.

“I’d put my fingers in myself,” James says, twisting so he’s looking at Lewis as he goes ahead and suits actions to words. “I’d pretend it was you, that you were getting me ready for you, and when I was good and wet and open I’d slide it between my cheeks like this.” James demonstrates. “I’d be thinking about how much you wanted me, how you were teasing us both by rubbing your cock against my arse, that any minute now, you’d plunge inside me, use me, satisfy yourself. I knew you could make me come just from that, that I wouldn’t even need to touch myself, and I wanted it so badly.” James places the tip of the toy against his arsehole. “I’d press in, just a bit, tempting myself. I wanted to feel it, to feel you, but I couldn’t quite suspend disbelief that much and, stupid as it is, I didn’t want my virginity taken by a piece of glass.”

“It’s not stupid,” Lewis said, through dry lips, because the sight of James like this, it’s breathtaking.

James is still poised. “Do you want to do the honours?” he says, and now there is amusement in his voice, if Lewis is not mistaken.

God, yes. He scrambles forward and grasps the toy, James’ hand sliding away from under his as he does. The position seems kind of awkward now. “Can you… will you, get on your hands and knees for me?” he suggests and James practically falls forward, positioning himself for Lewis. It isn’t like this is unfamiliar, it isn’t like Lewis hasn’t taken him like this before but this is different, James is more exposed somehow and when Lewis pushes the dildo into his body with one hand he has to squeeze the base of his own cock with the other, because the urge to plunge into James is powerful.

James’ head is hanging down like he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up and he’s breathing deeply and unevenly. Lewis draws the dildo out slowly, watching James’ body close behind it, and gently pushes it in again, and he can’t deny it’s exciting, watching the way James’ body accepts the thing, watching as James’ breathing shortens when he speeds up his actions, pushing the dildo in and dragging it out almost all the way and thrusting it in again. James looks incredible like this, especially when his arms acquire a fine tremble and it looks like his elbows want to give way.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says and it comes out not like a request, and he wonders at himself, that he could be so demanding, and then he abandons that train of thought because James gasps, “Robbie, yes, in me, please” Lewis throws the dildo aside, heedless of where it lands. James is ready for him and he places his hands on James’ hips, and is inside him in one glorious slide.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Lewis says, much later, watching shadows dance on the wall. One of the candles is guttering. James is stretched out beside him on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms, his eyes half-closed.

“Well, it was a hardship,” James says, deadpan.

Lewis thinks of the trembling, the begging. “Uh huh,” he says and James grins at him. “I’m not sure I’d want this to be a regular part of our lovemaking, though,” Lewis confesses. “I’m a bit old-fashioned, in case you haven’t noticed.”

James snorts at that. “Not a problem,” he says. “I prefer the real thing.”

“I’m happy to hear it.”

“Although, who knows, we might want to try it out on you sometime.”

Lewis stares at James in dismay. Is that something James wants? Sure, he sometimes thinks about what it’ll be like when James fucks him, because James is bound to want a turn sooner or later, and fair’s fair. There must be something to it, or James wouldn’t be so keen, and he does want to do it—he wants to share everything with James. And if he’s honest, the more he thinks about it, thinks about James surrounding him, taking charge, well, let’s just say the idea doesn’t exactly turn him off.

But the dildo? He doesn’t know if he can. Then he realises that James is grinning fit to bust.

“Get away with you,” he grumbles.

James laughs. “You should see your face,” he says. “Honestly, I’d be happy to chuck it.”

Lewis almost says yes. But as grateful as Lewis is for this rediscovered passion, unexpected this late in life, he’s under no illusion. He’s not going to be able to keep up with James forever. And he knows his James—they might not have said the words, but Lewis would bet everything he owns that James is as committed to this relationship as he is. No, best hang on to it.

Meanwhile. “You know,” he says, thoughtfully. “I think I’m with you on this. I think I’d prefer the real thing.” James' eyes widen, and for a moment there’s a look of awe on his face and then he’s smiling slowly, and leaning over. Lewis’ heart is suddenly pounding, because “I’m happy to hear it,” James breathes, and Lewis is being kissed with intent.