Working Late

The cork popped. There was a cheer as champagne was poured freely into the five raised glasses. The sixth glass was filled with orange juice instead, although a blind eye was turned to this. After a celebratory 'cheers' and a collective sip, the chants of 'speech' began, started by the balding man whose sip had been more of a gulp but quickly joined in by three of the other champagne drinkers.

Chandler took another sip of orange juice as the team continued. The only other silent member was the pale man sat opposite, looking across at him from under a head of dark curls. He too was sipping champagne, but his mouth was closed in an apologetic smile. After a quick elbow from Miles, and another look over at Kent, Joe stood up.

'I'm not quite sure when these events became a tradition in the station. Nor am I sure how you keep disposing of the bottles without being caught.' He cast a side eye at Meg and Mansell, both of whom were nodding smugly, before looking back towards the rest of the team. 'But today, it's the turn of Kent for these birthday celebrations.'

'Happy birthday, Kent.' Meg raised her glass again as the other members of the team joined in, Mansell giving him a quick slap on the back in a gesture of goodwill. He smiled again, but his gaze quickly returned to the man stand in front of him.

'I'm sure I don't need to say, Kent, how highly the team thinks of you. Your dedication and hard work consistently prove just how much of an asset you are to this station. The number of nights you have stayed to do overtime, the number of weekend mornings you have volunteered to work, you are certainly one of the most reliable and self-sacrificing officers the team could hope for.' Chandler paused for a moment as the team congratulated Kent once more, his smile wider than before, his eyes still focused on his boss. When Joe spoke again, his voice was slower, 'But I must also say, today, how grateful I personally am to have you on my team, Kent. We have had some difficult cases, and some moments have been tough for us all, but you have been consistent and loyal and always supportive. It isn't often I get a chance to express fully just how grateful I am to have you on this force, but know that I have always been fully grateful for all of your work. You are a great police officer, Kent, and an even better man.'

'To Kent,' Miles said, holding up his glass once more as the team repeated. Kent was now unable to stop the smile on his face, despite the embarrassment, a smile returned by his inspector across the table.

An hour later, Kent was stood outside of the station, watching a taxi drive out of the car park. He was about to put on his helmet when he felt someone stand beside him.

'You aren't going to the pub?'

Kent looked over at his boss, and shrugged. 'Early start tomorrow.'

'That's never stopped Mansell,' Chandler joked. 'You should have said earlier, I could have arranged for you to have the morning off. No-one would think less of you. You deserve it.'

His face was serious. His eyes warm. He meant it, Kent thought pleased. His face didn't show this. 'Work comes first.'

'That's why you're a good officer.' Joe nodded, before falling silent.

Kent felt his mind race, but could think of nothing to say to restart the halted conversation. Eventually, he settled with, 'Thank you, sir, for the speech earlier.'

'I have a name, Kent.' Chandler raised an eyebrow. 'You can call me Joe, we're not in work.'

The idea of the informality caused the dark haired man to blush, though such a move was thankfully hidden by the dark night. 'Then I have a name too, sir…Joe.'

'Emerson.'

Another blush.

'Perhaps then, seeing as you've missed out tonight, I could take you for your birthday drink another night. You certainly deserve it.' Joe paused. 'You have been a real asset to the team…to me. I perhaps haven't had the opportunity to thank you enough.'

'Thank you, sir…Joe.' He wanted to grin, to positively beam in the night, but forced himself to maintain a still face. 'I would appreciate that.'

Ray Miles watched the inspector return to his office from outside. He watched the man sit down, and take a sip from the tea on his desk. He waited still a couple more minutes, before he too entered the office.

'I need to talk to you, sir.' Miles sat down, his face in a deep frown. At the inspector's silence, he continued, 'it's about Kent. You need to be more careful with him.'

'Careful?' Chandler scoffed. 'He's young, but he's not a boy, Miles. He's proved himself capable of any police work we've set him, I don't understand what…'

'Not careful like that.' Miles sighed and looked away. The man was completely oblivious. When he looked back, he sat forward, voice lowered. 'You have got to promise you don't let on a word of what I'm about to say to anyone, that clear? Especially not to Kent, understood?'

'Completely. I think?'

Miles paused a moment more, making sure that what he was about to say was the right thing. As if to help, his mind replayed the events earlier that evening, and he nodded to himself. 'Kent likes you, sir.'

'Well, yes, I'd hope so...' He stopped, the raised eyebrows on his sergeant's face making it clear what meaning he had missed. 'I don't understand…'

'Kent's a good lad, sir. He's a crack officer and he works hard. But he does not do all that just because he wants to be a good policeman. One look at his face tonight during your speech made that clear.'

Chandler felt himself flashback to earlier, to the smile across the dark haired officer's face as he spoke. The look in his eyes as he met them with his own. He shook his head. 'DC Kent is a professional. He would never let personal feelings interfere with his work. I'm still failing to understand exactly why you're telling me this.'

'Because I don't want to see him get hurt.' Miles protested. 'Kent is a great officer, yeah, but he's still bloody human. When it was Mansell's birthday, you gave him a speech that lasted about 10 seconds. Tonight, you gave Kent a bloody monologue. Maybe no-one else noticed, but Kent certainly would have. I'm not saying he's going to be thinking anything about that; I'm just saying you need to be careful with him. Don't hurt him but, try not to do anything to get his hopes up. He's young; he'll get over it, but just for the meantime…'

'Yeah.' Chandler nodded slowly, his offer of a drink only minutes before burning his thoughts. 'Thanks Miles.'

It was just over a week later. A Thursday. There had been a murder only earlier that afternoon, a stabbing, however with few leads and no clear motive or suspect, Chandler had sent the team home a little after seven. Only one officer had stayed behind, volunteering to follow a couple of suspicious clues and wait patiently besides the phone in case of further news.

Three hours into the late night, a knock on the office door caused the inspector to put down the file he was reading and beckon the curly haired officer in.

'Anything, Kent?'

'No fingerprint match for those found on the victim's clothes, sir.' Chandler noticed how he made very brief eye contact, preferring instead to look at the notes in his hand. He'd never noticed before. Kent did look up before hesitantly speaking again, 'But I've been thinking, sir, that perhaps we're being too hasty in assuming they're the killer's. There are plenty of people who may have touched the victim's clothes- friends, family, partners.' He flushed faintly, enough however for the inspector to notice the pink in his cheeks. 'I think until we have more information on the victim, we should discount the fingerprints.'

'I agree, Kent.' He nodded. There was a momentary pause. 'Do you have much else to do tonight?'

'Not much, just waiting mainly.'

'You could go home. I can stay and wait here. We both don't need to be here, and I'm sure you have things to do at home. Hobbies to get on with? Friends to see?'

'Not particularly, sir. I live alone, and I don't do much.' He looked embarrassed, as if admitting such things was something to be ashamed of. Joe however, felt himself intrigued. He worked besides him every day, yet how much did he really know about him?

'What do you like to do? At weekends, what do you enjoy?'

The question seemed to take Emerson by surprise. He looked up with a small frown. 'Oh. Erm. I go to gigs sometimes. Small bands. I like museums- art museums, some history museums. I like…' He continued speaking, to which Chandler was half-listening. He was trying to imagine what it would be like going to a museum with Kent. What would he want to look at? What would he say? He couldn't imagine him as someone who tried to make insightful comments about exhibits, but then nor did he imagine him as someone who simply stared with nothing to say. Who did he go with? Friends? Dates? He tried to imagine Kent on a date- the awkward silences, the glances between the two people, the holding of hands, fingers interlinked, the warmth of each other's skin.

He stopped. He hadn't been listening, and the other man was staring at him expectantly. Under the desk, he flexed his own hand, aware that only moments ago he had been imagining what Kent's fingers would feel like against his own.

'Tea, Kent? Would you like tea?'

Kent watched, confused, as Chandler stood up and, without waiting for a response, walked out of the office. He grabbed Kent's mug as he passed his desk and continued straight to the kitchen where the kettle was. He filled it and flicked it on without thinking before standing back to lean against the wall in thought.

He had been imagining what it would feel like to hold Kent's hand. That's nothing though. That's merely observation. He had been thinking about Kent in a museum- simple transference is all. Nothing to think about. He flexed his hand once more, trying to shake the warmth he'd imagined, the feel of Kent's skin against his own. What would he wear? Jeans, most likely. Some hoodie, as he had worn in the first few days of Chandler's appointment. He went to gigs. What would he look like there? Face flushed after a couple of beers, eyes bright in the dimmed lights. Did he dance? Can you even dance at gigs? He had no idea. They were far beyond his comfort zone, distant from his own experiences. And yet, it was he who he imagined with Kent. His eyes through which he was watching Kent sway to some muted band, his hand Kent was holding, pulling him closer…

The sound of the kettle dragged him out of his thoughts. He looked down at the mug on the kitchen side. Kent's mug. His hands had been wrapped around it. His lips against its rim. He felt himself pick it up and hold it, as if doing so would bring back that imagined feeling from before. Perhaps if he lifted it to his own mouth, he would feel the ghost of Kent's…

'Sir?'

He turned, placing the mug back down quickly. In the doorway stood Emerson, his own mug clutched in his hand.

'You forgot your mug.'

Chandler frowned momentarily before shaking his head. 'Yes. Of course. Thank you.'

Kent stepped forward, placing the mug besides his own. The inspector did not move. 'Are you alright, sir?'

'Yes. Possibly.' He paused for a moment, flexing his hand once more. 'Would you like me to kiss you, Kent?'

He watched as Kent's face flushed, this time the colour spreading across his pale skin, and he seemed to shrink in embarrassment. 'It's a joke, sir. I don't know who started it. If you've heard anything from anyone, I'm very sorry. I don't know who…I promise I don't…'

'Because I would like that very much.'

Kent stopped suddenly, looking up at Chandler, who was still stood some distance away as if coming any closer would be too imposing. The inspector noticed the pulse in his neck increase, his eyes which moments ago had been dull with shame, seemed to brighten. He didn't need anything further, and with two steps had reached his officer who leant up to kiss him softly. His lips were soft, far softer than he had imagined. He felt one of Kent's hands reach behind his head, pulling him closer to kiss him harder. His other hand, Chandler found with his own, fingers entwining.

Behind them, the kettle was boiling.