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elrhiarhodanTitle: I’ll Continue To Continue (and pretend no longer)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: Lewis (Inspector Lewis)
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis (Pre-Lewis/Hathaway)
Spoilers: S2.03 – Life Born of Fire; S3.02 - Dead of Winter (PBS Episode Numbering)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: UST, unrequited feelings, past history of sexual abuse, coming out.
Word Count: ~4000
Beta Credit::coffeethyme4me, who can still provide the most excellent advice, even when unfamiliar with the source material.
Summary: When Robbie gets some news about a prior case, the lies and masks and misdirection come to an end.
A/N: Second Lewis fic, so you can take the gloves off. I have only seen episodes through the middle of S4, so please forgive anything not canon-compliant. Title is a riff on Simon & Garfunkel’s “Flowers Never Bend With The Rain”
__________________
Watching his governor is something of an obsession – and not really a mild one at that. James has honed his technique with years of practice. He keeps his chair angled and computer monitor tilted at just the right position so that he doesn’t really have to turn his head to observe the man. James can sit at his desk, peruse data, draft reports and still observe the Inspector without being too obvious.
He hopes.
James knows that his obsession with Lewis (or Robbie, or simply Siras he lets himself think of him only at home, especially late at night, in the darkness) is borderline for so many reasons. Borderline inappropriate. Borderline insane. But it’s an obsession – and unless he is going to seek professional help, it’s not going to go away. And it isn’t like it’s hurting anyone. Or impacting his job. And that’s not the first lie he’s told himself.
So he watches, ever vigilant for signs of things that will never come.
James understands certain things about himself. He knows that he’s difficult, that he has an attitude. He’s too well-educated, too quick with a smart answer, too much Oxbridge to ever be one of the lads. He’s never going to fit in with rest of the Thames Valley CID. He really doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. Except for Lewis’. He needs his governor’s good graces the way he needs oxygen to breathe.
And yet there are times that he pushes the envelope, he goes too far and he thinks that he’s ruined everything with lies and half-truths and misdirection. He makes Lewis angry and he gets himself sent home like a stroppy schoolboy who’s back-talked one time too many. But each time, he’s forgiven. Lewis protects him, buries the problem, it never gets reported. The excuses may be tissue thin, but they stand, at least for the moment.
He looks at Lewis and wonders why this man seems to have an endless well of patience for him, why he cares so much.
Maybe Lewis remembers what it’s like to be a sergeant, partnered with someone who’s just too smart for their own good. But for the life of him, James can’t imagine that he’d have pulled the same kind of shite he’s done on his own governor, that bloody careless legend Morse. He’s read quite a few of the old man’s case files and discards that idea like a worn-out pair of shoes. Lewis was as steadfast and loyal back then as he is now.
He sits at his desk, angled just so, and watches his Inspector. The warmth in his belly isn’t from the tea or the curry he ate last night. And really, the warmth isn’t even in his belly. James shifts his body and gets annoyed at himself. He’s lost the angle. His chair spins and it’s an oddly awkward dance across the lino to get himself repositioned.
“You okay, lad?” Lewis looks up. James can see puzzlement and concern.
“Fine, just a leg cramp, Sir.” The lie trips too easily off his tongue.
Lewis looks like he’s about to say something else, but the telephone on his desk rings. Lewis, being Lewis and not some overstuffed shirt with too much sense of self-worth, answers it himself. James listens of course, but there’s not that much to hear. Lewis’ replies are limited to the occasional “ah,” “I see” and “when?” James hates calls like that – they usually presage something particularly nasty. Lewis hangs up the phone with extraordinary care, stares at it for far too long, but says nothing.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Lewis snaps out of his reverie, visibly startled. “Erm, yeah. No problem.” He says nothing more and goes back to his paperwork.
James watches him for a few seconds, waiting for … what? The seconds tick away and he turns back to his own work. But his gaze keeps flicking back to Lewis and once or twice their eyes connect.
This has to stop.
It’s Friday and James thinks about the weekend. The band’s got a paying gig on Sunday evening at a local nightspot, which means rehearsal for a few hours on Saturday. Which means his weekend’s blown. As if that mattered. Not like he had plans or anything, except in the space of his own head. He knows that the office is the last place where he should be indulging in even the smallest fantasy, but he can’t stop himself.
At least it’s a domestic one.
“Did you enjoy it?” James hopes he doesn’t sound too anxious. It wasn’t cordon bleu, but certainly better that a heat and eat from Tesco.
“Nah, it was terrible. Ate everything so your feelings wouldn’t be hurt.” Robbie grins at him. “And next time, don’t give me an empty plate.”
They both chuckle a little at the silly non sequitur. James picks up the dishes, but Robbie stops him. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“Sir –” James bites his lip – how many times had Robbie told him to can that honorific when it’s after hours.
“James, sit. Relax.”
“Please.” It’s not that he doesn’t want Robbie in his kitchen, cleaning up; it’s the role-reversal that disturbs him.
But Robbie gets an inspired look on his face. “Play something for me.” Before James can question what that means, he clarifies. “On your guitar – if you wouldn’t mind. I’d like to hear you play.”
Something lights up inside of him, like the universe gone supernova. He mentally inventories his repertoire – settling on a Bach partita for lute (E major). Robbie may scoff at nobbish tastes, but he loves good music (despite his Morse-induced penchant for Wagner), and there’s nothing better for a little showing off than Bach. Baroque at its finest.
James plays and watches the smile dawn on Robbie’s face – it doesn’t matter if he recognizes the piece, he clearly likes what he hears. As he segues from the Loure into the Gavotte, Robbie just stops and stands there, soapy dish in hand, and listens, clearly enraptured.
“James? You okay, lad?”
Lewis’ voice breaks into his reverie. “Sorry, sir – what were you saying?” James blinks and tries to look like he was doing anything but daydreaming.
“I was just wondering if you had any plans for this evening.”
The little domestic fantasy he just indulged in pushes its way into back into the forefront of his consciousness, and without even considering the ramifications, James replies, “No, I don’t – would you like to come over for dinner? I could cook.”
Lewis smiles, rueful, beautiful. “I was going to suggest my place and takeaway.”
“Unless you’ve got your heart set on lukewarm, badly cooked Indian or Thai …?”
Lewis doesn’t given him a chance to finish. “Your place – sounds good.”
There’s something in his governor’s eyes that sets his warning bells off, but James ignores them. “How about seven, then?”
“I’ll bring the wine, okay? Red or white?”
He thinks for a moment, planning a menu. White’s best with a stir fry. He asks, “Chardonnay?”
“You tell me.”
James lets himself smile at Lewis’ banter. “Chardonnay.”
“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what we’re having.”
“No, sir.”
“Cheeky sod.”
“Always, sir.”
“Seven it is, then.”
Lewis gives him an indecipherable look before turning back to whatever paperwork had been consuming his attention. James can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else going on, something he should be picking up on. There’s something more than a simple request for his company.
If he were truly masochistic, he’d let himself believe that Lewis wants something more than the intellectual stimulation of an evening spent with his over-educated sergeant. He’s not so keen on self-loathing to be unable to recognize that Lewis enjoys his company, likes spending time with him. But he also knows that Robbie (and he thinks of him that way, even though it’s the office and not a darkened bedroom) is lonely, and he’s sort of the closest port in the storm. It’s quite likely that Laura’s got plans for the evening.
James sighs and does his best to change the course of his thoughts. Dinner – that would be a better focus. Stir fry means veggies, means shopping, means not working until 6:45. And his place could use a dusting. He glances at his watch, five past five and it is, after all, Friday.
“Sir?”
Lewis looks up, he’s got a spot of ink on his right cheekbone and James finds it difficult not to go over and lick the mark off. He half hopes – half fears that it will be washed it off by the time Robbie arrives.
“What, James?”
“I’m going to take off now, that is – if you don’t mind.”
“Nah – get going, you.” Lewis makes a little shooing motion with his hands.
“See you at seven, then. Sir.”
“Okay, lad. Seven and chardonnay.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
James changes out of his suit – nothing really more ridiculous that wearing it in his own home, in his own kitchen. He doesn’t like admitting how much thought he put into what sort of casual clothes he should be wearing. It’s not a damn date – it’s just his governor coming over for a meal and some conversation.
Except you’d like it to be a date. You’d like it to end with maybe breakfast and coffee tomorrow morning and Robbie sitting in on your rehearsal, and then maybe some lunch and some punting on the Cherwell. As if that would happen. You’re not Laura Hobson. You’re his sergeant. Just his sergeant.
The peppers, yellow and red and orange, fall victim to his knife and James takes pleasure in the tiny perfect strips. He’s got a Scotch Bonnet waiting – but not unless Robbie (and he’s home now, so it’s legitimately Robbie in the privacy of his head) wants that kind of heat.
Spring onions, mushrooms, ginger and even fresh water chestnuts are prepped and ready. The rice is in the cooker, table’s set. There’s a beep from the timer on the microwave – five to seven. His palms go sweaty and James resists lifting his arms and taking a sniff. He didn’t have the chance to shower again, and the day was warm. There’s a mass of butterflies in his stomach and it all seems so stupid. It’s not as if Robbie hasn’t been here before, they haven’t eaten or had a beer or worked through a case in his flat.
And it’s not like they’ve never shared a meal or a Friday night either. Except that when it’s mostly social, it’s takeaway and the telly and it’s at Robbie’s flat. Not his. Just a few hours of companionship, innocent, mostly meaningless.
But cooking a meal – feeding him something made with his own hands – that seems way too much, too special. Too – well, just, too.
It’s seven and the door buzzer sounds. James takes a look around, wipes sweaty palms on jeans that are suddenly too tight, too inappropriate. He wonders if he could keep Robbie standing at the door while he puts his suit back on. He answers it instead.
Robbie went home – clearly. He’s showered and shaved (and that spot of ink is gone, damnably, mercifully) and he’s also ditched the suit in favor of jeans and a surprisingly nice and tight fitting polo shirt. There’s a carrier bag and he can see the tops of a pair bottles, and something else. James steps aside and ushers Robbie in.
“I brought dessert, also.” He hands the bag over to James with a sheepish smile. “Can’t resist a lemon torte.”
James has to smile. “I can’t, either, sir.”
Robbie shakes his head. “How many times have I got to tell you, stop with the ‘sir’ when we’re out of the office.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” James pauses, just for the effect. “Sir.”
And so, the meal begins with a laugh. The wine is uncorked, it breathes, and James cooks. They talk about the workload, the new databases (Robbie’s not as frustrated by it as he thinks he should be), DI Grainger’s secondment to Cambridge (“You could have been back amongst your own, lad.” And James’ reply, “No need to be cruel, sir.) Rugby and cricket and football, the Cambridge – Oxford boat races (maybe the less said on that score, the better) and a dozen other things. Robbie is, for all his determined Everyman-ness, well-read, highly intelligent, and a wonderful conversationalist. Not that this is something he’s just discovered, of course – but the uniqueness of this setting makes it all the more apparent.
And still, James cannot shake the sense that Robbie’s upset, perturbed about something. But he doesn’t want to spoil their date – or at least the illusion of it – by asking what’s wrong. Maybe when they’re finished up the dessert.
The dishes are done – he washes, Robbie dries, they move over to the couch and the sense of foreboding increases.
“Lad –”
Dozens of scenarios go through his brain; each examined and discarded in milliseconds. James strives for an internal peace that he’s never been able to achieve. But he’s a good actor and inquires in a bland tone. “What –” And most determinedly, “Robbie?”
“Got a call today.”
“Oh? From who?” Robbie frowns and takes a sip of wine, delaying tactics. James is strongly reminded of his own behavior when he has to impart bad news. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry, James. There’s no easy way to put this. Augustus Mortmaigne’s dead.”
He hears the words as if from a great distance. He hears his own voice replying. “When?”
“Last night.”
James swallows. “How, sir?”
“Not sure, but signs are pointing towards a heart attack. The guards found him dead in his cell this morning.”
“Ah.” That was all his intelligence and schooling and pretensions could come up with.
“I didn’t want you to find out from the news.”
James got up and went to the window. It was hard to see into the darkness. He ached for a cigarette, for something. Anything. He could feel the weight of Robbie’s concern, his gentle eyes on him, watching for the fissures to grow into visible cracks. Finally, finally – he has to say something into the unbearable silence.
“You never asked. In all this time, after everything, you never asked.”
“If you wanted me to know, you would have told me.” Typical Lewis. “I’ve learned my lesson about prying at your secrets.”
James opens a window; if he doesn’t smoke he’s going to explode. The pack and lighter are within easy reach. It takes but a moment and the nicotine hits his brain, relaxing him. He toys with the fag, disgusted with his lack of discipline.
And maybe for the first (and possibly last) time in their relationship – association – partnership (whatever you want to call it), James gives into the need to tell Robbie the unvarnished truth.
“My father was the estate manager at Crevecoeur.”
Robbie didn’t reply.
“He wasn’t from Oxford. He came from a long line of military men. Officer class. A graduate of Sandhurst.” James all but spits that out. “A veteran of the Falklands War.” He has to laugh, it always seems so ridiculous. “But he took to Crevecoeur like a duck to water. He loved it – and he loved its wise, tender and caring lord.” There’s sarcasm and irony and bitterness, a pungent bouquet.
James takes another puff and lets the smoke burn his lungs, his mouth, his nose. “There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Lord Mortmaigne. Nothing he wouldn’t give up for him.” He puts out the cigarette, viciously grinding the stub into the ashtray.
“James, you don’t have to tell me this.” Robbie gets up; stands next to him, but James can’t look at him, not yet.
“Yes – yes I do.” James swallows, it’s bitterest gall in his throat. “When I was seven, I was sent to the summerhouse for piano lessons.”
A hand, tentative, reaches out, rests on his back, between his shoulders. It grounds him. James leans back into it, taking comfort if just for the moment. He turns to face Robbie for the first time since this confession began. “Do you know what the proudest moment of my life was?”
There’s compassion drawn through all the lines of Robbie’s face, a tenderness and understanding that he’s come to yearn for. “Tell me, James.”
He finds it strange that now Robbie uses his name, not the affectionate, paternal “lad.” But it’s not something to dwell on now. “When I walked into Crevecoeur Hall, into the presence of Lord Augustus Mortmaigne, Seventh Marquess Tigan, I held out my hand and greeted that disgusting pervert like he was nothing more than an old acquaintance. When all I wanted to do was rip him apart with my bare hands.”
“Ah, I am so sorry.”
Robbie puts arm around him. It’s a gentle, warm presence, the comfort he’s never had. James clenches his jaw and leans into the other man. He wants to cry, he wants to let it all go.
But he can’t – he never could. The tears well up in his eyes, the sobs climb his throat and all he can hear is his father’s voice, telling him that he’s a sissy, a crybaby, that he’s worthless. His lord’s favored him with his attention and he damn well better respect that. It’s a privilege, for fuck’s sake, to take piano lessons in the summerhouse.
James shudders and collects himself. This is not what he wants. To behave like a lost child in the arms of the man he admires, he cares for most in this world – and probably the next. If he keeps this up, next thing he knows, Robbie will be making soothing, shushing noises, as if he’s a fretting infant. So he steps back, puts on that careful mask and pretends, like he’s always pretended, that he’s impervious, impenetrable.
Robbie has no such masks. He’s as wrecked as if someone’s stabbed him in the heart. But he doesn’t offer platitudes, or pity or sticky-sweet sympathy. “What do you want me to do?”
There are things he wants, and James thinks that they’ll now be impossible. But there are other, equally important things that Robbie can do. “Don’t treat me like a victim. Don’t make me into some pitiable, helpless woobie. Please.”
“No - that I won’t do. You are no different now than you were when I walked in that door a few hours ago. You’re still one of the strongest men I know.” The words ring true like Oxford’s bells.
With that truth, James finds that all the secrets he’s kept from Robbie want to come spilling out. He wants to stop, once and for all, with the misdirection, the prevarication. He wants to take off the mask and finish with the damn lies. Because at this moment he knows that there’s nothing he could tell Robbie now that would damage their relationship. He’s as sure of this as he is of his name.
The couch beckons and he sits. Robbie joins him, at his side. They are close enough to touch from shoulder to thigh. And despite his earlier assertion that he doesn’t want to be reduced to cuddles and comforts, it takes a lot of willpower not to just rest his head on Robbie’s shoulder. That surcease would be like the holiest of prayers.
James considers his next words very carefully. He can feel Robbie’s eyes on him, the worry and concern is like a blanket he wants to wrap around himself. But he can’t, not yet. This thing has to finish.
“There’s something else.” He bites back the sir.
All Robbie says is “Tell me.” A command, simple and direct, just like the man himself.
“Remember what I told you about Will McEwan? When he came to me for advice?”
Robbie nods and James can see how he is still troubled by the homophobia that he once had confessed to. But before James can speak any further, Robbie just destroys and rebuilds him.
“It wasn’t just the official Church doctrine, what you were being taught, that made you tell him that. It was what Mortmaigne did to you?”
James nodded. “Yes – but it wasn’t only that. I – I had these feelings, too. I had tried to exorcise them – as if they were demons from Hell. Prayer, fasting, mortification. But nothing could change those feelings. There was a time when I thought I deserved what happened to me in that summerhouse, that I asked for it.”
Robbie’s apparently not shocked at James’ tacit admission. And why should he? The man has always had an open mind, judging people by what they do, not what they are. “You don’t believe that anymore, do you?” Robbie asks delicately.
“No – I know better now. Most pedophiles are identified heterosexuals – it’s not gender that attracts, it’s age.” He takes refuge in statistics, facts. It’s easier.
“Have you … gotten help?”
“I’m beyond help.”
“What do you mean, ‘beyond’? No one is beyond help.”
James scrubs at his eyes, they’re burning, dry. The tears will never come. “I accept what I am – that’s what I mean. I accept my limitations, and I’ve moved on.”
“And what are you?”
There was a time when he dreaded that question, when he played at evasion and word games. It nearly cost him his life, and more importantly, Robbie’s respect. Tonight, though – now he’s stripped himself of self-doubt, the need for illusion, the answer is easy. The peace, the serenity that he’s been searching for all of his life settles around him.
He looks Robbie straight in the eye. “I am a gay man. I am a police officer. I am James Hathaway.” There is one more thing – it’s important, but it’s not something he’s ready to say out loud.
Robbie smiles at him, a soul-smile and James becomes lightheaded under that regard. He smiles back, and there’s a strange feeling coursing through him. It’s not relief at this first public admission. It’s happiness, so long absent from his life that he almost didn’t recognize it.
And there’s a touch of fear too. It’s not dread though, nor a cause for despair. It’s that there is now this great unknown. James can understand this fear. It’s like the day he walked out of the seminary, only better, because the lies and the self-doubt are gone.
Robbie reaches over and takes his hand. “You okay?”
“I am. Strangely – I don’t think I’ve ever been better.” He rubs his thumb across the back of Robbie’s hand, a caress, an exploration. “Thank you – for this, for everything.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” Robbie gives him a look, and James sees something beyond affectionate exasperation. There is respect, and concern of course. And oddly, patience.
He keeps holding Robbie’s hand, his thumb keeps sweeping back and forth, and the other man doesn’t pull away. James hopes that it won’t be long before he can finally say the last thing. It’s not admission but a statement of fact.
I am a gay man. I am a police officer. I am James Hathaway. And I love you, Robbie Lewis.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: Lewis (Inspector Lewis)
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: James Hathaway, Robbie Lewis (Pre-Lewis/Hathaway)
Spoilers: S2.03 – Life Born of Fire; S3.02 - Dead of Winter (PBS Episode Numbering)
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: UST, unrequited feelings, past history of sexual abuse, coming out.
Word Count: ~4000
Beta Credit::
coffeethyme4me, who can still provide the most excellent advice, even when unfamiliar with the source material. Summary: When Robbie gets some news about a prior case, the lies and masks and misdirection come to an end.
A/N: Second Lewis fic, so you can take the gloves off. I have only seen episodes through the middle of S4, so please forgive anything not canon-compliant. Title is a riff on Simon & Garfunkel’s “Flowers Never Bend With The Rain”
Watching his governor is something of an obsession – and not really a mild one at that. James has honed his technique with years of practice. He keeps his chair angled and computer monitor tilted at just the right position so that he doesn’t really have to turn his head to observe the man. James can sit at his desk, peruse data, draft reports and still observe the Inspector without being too obvious.
He hopes.
James knows that his obsession with Lewis (or Robbie, or simply Siras he lets himself think of him only at home, especially late at night, in the darkness) is borderline for so many reasons. Borderline inappropriate. Borderline insane. But it’s an obsession – and unless he is going to seek professional help, it’s not going to go away. And it isn’t like it’s hurting anyone. Or impacting his job. And that’s not the first lie he’s told himself.
So he watches, ever vigilant for signs of things that will never come.
James understands certain things about himself. He knows that he’s difficult, that he has an attitude. He’s too well-educated, too quick with a smart answer, too much Oxbridge to ever be one of the lads. He’s never going to fit in with rest of the Thames Valley CID. He really doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. Except for Lewis’. He needs his governor’s good graces the way he needs oxygen to breathe.
And yet there are times that he pushes the envelope, he goes too far and he thinks that he’s ruined everything with lies and half-truths and misdirection. He makes Lewis angry and he gets himself sent home like a stroppy schoolboy who’s back-talked one time too many. But each time, he’s forgiven. Lewis protects him, buries the problem, it never gets reported. The excuses may be tissue thin, but they stand, at least for the moment.
He looks at Lewis and wonders why this man seems to have an endless well of patience for him, why he cares so much.
Maybe Lewis remembers what it’s like to be a sergeant, partnered with someone who’s just too smart for their own good. But for the life of him, James can’t imagine that he’d have pulled the same kind of shite he’s done on his own governor, that bloody careless legend Morse. He’s read quite a few of the old man’s case files and discards that idea like a worn-out pair of shoes. Lewis was as steadfast and loyal back then as he is now.
He sits at his desk, angled just so, and watches his Inspector. The warmth in his belly isn’t from the tea or the curry he ate last night. And really, the warmth isn’t even in his belly. James shifts his body and gets annoyed at himself. He’s lost the angle. His chair spins and it’s an oddly awkward dance across the lino to get himself repositioned.
“You okay, lad?” Lewis looks up. James can see puzzlement and concern.
“Fine, just a leg cramp, Sir.” The lie trips too easily off his tongue.
Lewis looks like he’s about to say something else, but the telephone on his desk rings. Lewis, being Lewis and not some overstuffed shirt with too much sense of self-worth, answers it himself. James listens of course, but there’s not that much to hear. Lewis’ replies are limited to the occasional “ah,” “I see” and “when?” James hates calls like that – they usually presage something particularly nasty. Lewis hangs up the phone with extraordinary care, stares at it for far too long, but says nothing.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Lewis snaps out of his reverie, visibly startled. “Erm, yeah. No problem.” He says nothing more and goes back to his paperwork.
James watches him for a few seconds, waiting for … what? The seconds tick away and he turns back to his own work. But his gaze keeps flicking back to Lewis and once or twice their eyes connect.
This has to stop.
It’s Friday and James thinks about the weekend. The band’s got a paying gig on Sunday evening at a local nightspot, which means rehearsal for a few hours on Saturday. Which means his weekend’s blown. As if that mattered. Not like he had plans or anything, except in the space of his own head. He knows that the office is the last place where he should be indulging in even the smallest fantasy, but he can’t stop himself.
At least it’s a domestic one.
“Did you enjoy it?” James hopes he doesn’t sound too anxious. It wasn’t cordon bleu, but certainly better that a heat and eat from Tesco.
“Nah, it was terrible. Ate everything so your feelings wouldn’t be hurt.” Robbie grins at him. “And next time, don’t give me an empty plate.”
They both chuckle a little at the silly non sequitur. James picks up the dishes, but Robbie stops him. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“Sir –” James bites his lip – how many times had Robbie told him to can that honorific when it’s after hours.
“James, sit. Relax.”
“Please.” It’s not that he doesn’t want Robbie in his kitchen, cleaning up; it’s the role-reversal that disturbs him.
But Robbie gets an inspired look on his face. “Play something for me.” Before James can question what that means, he clarifies. “On your guitar – if you wouldn’t mind. I’d like to hear you play.”
Something lights up inside of him, like the universe gone supernova. He mentally inventories his repertoire – settling on a Bach partita for lute (E major). Robbie may scoff at nobbish tastes, but he loves good music (despite his Morse-induced penchant for Wagner), and there’s nothing better for a little showing off than Bach. Baroque at its finest.
James plays and watches the smile dawn on Robbie’s face – it doesn’t matter if he recognizes the piece, he clearly likes what he hears. As he segues from the Loure into the Gavotte, Robbie just stops and stands there, soapy dish in hand, and listens, clearly enraptured.
“James? You okay, lad?”
Lewis’ voice breaks into his reverie. “Sorry, sir – what were you saying?” James blinks and tries to look like he was doing anything but daydreaming.
“I was just wondering if you had any plans for this evening.”
The little domestic fantasy he just indulged in pushes its way into back into the forefront of his consciousness, and without even considering the ramifications, James replies, “No, I don’t – would you like to come over for dinner? I could cook.”
Lewis smiles, rueful, beautiful. “I was going to suggest my place and takeaway.”
“Unless you’ve got your heart set on lukewarm, badly cooked Indian or Thai …?”
Lewis doesn’t given him a chance to finish. “Your place – sounds good.”
There’s something in his governor’s eyes that sets his warning bells off, but James ignores them. “How about seven, then?”
“I’ll bring the wine, okay? Red or white?”
He thinks for a moment, planning a menu. White’s best with a stir fry. He asks, “Chardonnay?”
“You tell me.”
James lets himself smile at Lewis’ banter. “Chardonnay.”
“Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what we’re having.”
“No, sir.”
“Cheeky sod.”
“Always, sir.”
“Seven it is, then.”
Lewis gives him an indecipherable look before turning back to whatever paperwork had been consuming his attention. James can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else going on, something he should be picking up on. There’s something more than a simple request for his company.
If he were truly masochistic, he’d let himself believe that Lewis wants something more than the intellectual stimulation of an evening spent with his over-educated sergeant. He’s not so keen on self-loathing to be unable to recognize that Lewis enjoys his company, likes spending time with him. But he also knows that Robbie (and he thinks of him that way, even though it’s the office and not a darkened bedroom) is lonely, and he’s sort of the closest port in the storm. It’s quite likely that Laura’s got plans for the evening.
James sighs and does his best to change the course of his thoughts. Dinner – that would be a better focus. Stir fry means veggies, means shopping, means not working until 6:45. And his place could use a dusting. He glances at his watch, five past five and it is, after all, Friday.
“Sir?”
Lewis looks up, he’s got a spot of ink on his right cheekbone and James finds it difficult not to go over and lick the mark off. He half hopes – half fears that it will be washed it off by the time Robbie arrives.
“What, James?”
“I’m going to take off now, that is – if you don’t mind.”
“Nah – get going, you.” Lewis makes a little shooing motion with his hands.
“See you at seven, then. Sir.”
“Okay, lad. Seven and chardonnay.”
James changes out of his suit – nothing really more ridiculous that wearing it in his own home, in his own kitchen. He doesn’t like admitting how much thought he put into what sort of casual clothes he should be wearing. It’s not a damn date – it’s just his governor coming over for a meal and some conversation.
Except you’d like it to be a date. You’d like it to end with maybe breakfast and coffee tomorrow morning and Robbie sitting in on your rehearsal, and then maybe some lunch and some punting on the Cherwell. As if that would happen. You’re not Laura Hobson. You’re his sergeant. Just his sergeant.
The peppers, yellow and red and orange, fall victim to his knife and James takes pleasure in the tiny perfect strips. He’s got a Scotch Bonnet waiting – but not unless Robbie (and he’s home now, so it’s legitimately Robbie in the privacy of his head) wants that kind of heat.
Spring onions, mushrooms, ginger and even fresh water chestnuts are prepped and ready. The rice is in the cooker, table’s set. There’s a beep from the timer on the microwave – five to seven. His palms go sweaty and James resists lifting his arms and taking a sniff. He didn’t have the chance to shower again, and the day was warm. There’s a mass of butterflies in his stomach and it all seems so stupid. It’s not as if Robbie hasn’t been here before, they haven’t eaten or had a beer or worked through a case in his flat.
And it’s not like they’ve never shared a meal or a Friday night either. Except that when it’s mostly social, it’s takeaway and the telly and it’s at Robbie’s flat. Not his. Just a few hours of companionship, innocent, mostly meaningless.
But cooking a meal – feeding him something made with his own hands – that seems way too much, too special. Too – well, just, too.
It’s seven and the door buzzer sounds. James takes a look around, wipes sweaty palms on jeans that are suddenly too tight, too inappropriate. He wonders if he could keep Robbie standing at the door while he puts his suit back on. He answers it instead.
Robbie went home – clearly. He’s showered and shaved (and that spot of ink is gone, damnably, mercifully) and he’s also ditched the suit in favor of jeans and a surprisingly nice and tight fitting polo shirt. There’s a carrier bag and he can see the tops of a pair bottles, and something else. James steps aside and ushers Robbie in.
“I brought dessert, also.” He hands the bag over to James with a sheepish smile. “Can’t resist a lemon torte.”
James has to smile. “I can’t, either, sir.”
Robbie shakes his head. “How many times have I got to tell you, stop with the ‘sir’ when we’re out of the office.”
“I’ll try to remember that.” James pauses, just for the effect. “Sir.”
And so, the meal begins with a laugh. The wine is uncorked, it breathes, and James cooks. They talk about the workload, the new databases (Robbie’s not as frustrated by it as he thinks he should be), DI Grainger’s secondment to Cambridge (“You could have been back amongst your own, lad.” And James’ reply, “No need to be cruel, sir.) Rugby and cricket and football, the Cambridge – Oxford boat races (maybe the less said on that score, the better) and a dozen other things. Robbie is, for all his determined Everyman-ness, well-read, highly intelligent, and a wonderful conversationalist. Not that this is something he’s just discovered, of course – but the uniqueness of this setting makes it all the more apparent.
And still, James cannot shake the sense that Robbie’s upset, perturbed about something. But he doesn’t want to spoil their date – or at least the illusion of it – by asking what’s wrong. Maybe when they’re finished up the dessert.
The dishes are done – he washes, Robbie dries, they move over to the couch and the sense of foreboding increases.
“Lad –”
Dozens of scenarios go through his brain; each examined and discarded in milliseconds. James strives for an internal peace that he’s never been able to achieve. But he’s a good actor and inquires in a bland tone. “What –” And most determinedly, “Robbie?”
“Got a call today.”
“Oh? From who?” Robbie frowns and takes a sip of wine, delaying tactics. James is strongly reminded of his own behavior when he has to impart bad news. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m sorry, James. There’s no easy way to put this. Augustus Mortmaigne’s dead.”
He hears the words as if from a great distance. He hears his own voice replying. “When?”
“Last night.”
James swallows. “How, sir?”
“Not sure, but signs are pointing towards a heart attack. The guards found him dead in his cell this morning.”
“Ah.” That was all his intelligence and schooling and pretensions could come up with.
“I didn’t want you to find out from the news.”
James got up and went to the window. It was hard to see into the darkness. He ached for a cigarette, for something. Anything. He could feel the weight of Robbie’s concern, his gentle eyes on him, watching for the fissures to grow into visible cracks. Finally, finally – he has to say something into the unbearable silence.
“You never asked. In all this time, after everything, you never asked.”
“If you wanted me to know, you would have told me.” Typical Lewis. “I’ve learned my lesson about prying at your secrets.”
James opens a window; if he doesn’t smoke he’s going to explode. The pack and lighter are within easy reach. It takes but a moment and the nicotine hits his brain, relaxing him. He toys with the fag, disgusted with his lack of discipline.
And maybe for the first (and possibly last) time in their relationship – association – partnership (whatever you want to call it), James gives into the need to tell Robbie the unvarnished truth.
“My father was the estate manager at Crevecoeur.”
Robbie didn’t reply.
“He wasn’t from Oxford. He came from a long line of military men. Officer class. A graduate of Sandhurst.” James all but spits that out. “A veteran of the Falklands War.” He has to laugh, it always seems so ridiculous. “But he took to Crevecoeur like a duck to water. He loved it – and he loved its wise, tender and caring lord.” There’s sarcasm and irony and bitterness, a pungent bouquet.
James takes another puff and lets the smoke burn his lungs, his mouth, his nose. “There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Lord Mortmaigne. Nothing he wouldn’t give up for him.” He puts out the cigarette, viciously grinding the stub into the ashtray.
“James, you don’t have to tell me this.” Robbie gets up; stands next to him, but James can’t look at him, not yet.
“Yes – yes I do.” James swallows, it’s bitterest gall in his throat. “When I was seven, I was sent to the summerhouse for piano lessons.”
A hand, tentative, reaches out, rests on his back, between his shoulders. It grounds him. James leans back into it, taking comfort if just for the moment. He turns to face Robbie for the first time since this confession began. “Do you know what the proudest moment of my life was?”
There’s compassion drawn through all the lines of Robbie’s face, a tenderness and understanding that he’s come to yearn for. “Tell me, James.”
He finds it strange that now Robbie uses his name, not the affectionate, paternal “lad.” But it’s not something to dwell on now. “When I walked into Crevecoeur Hall, into the presence of Lord Augustus Mortmaigne, Seventh Marquess Tigan, I held out my hand and greeted that disgusting pervert like he was nothing more than an old acquaintance. When all I wanted to do was rip him apart with my bare hands.”
“Ah, I am so sorry.”
Robbie puts arm around him. It’s a gentle, warm presence, the comfort he’s never had. James clenches his jaw and leans into the other man. He wants to cry, he wants to let it all go.
But he can’t – he never could. The tears well up in his eyes, the sobs climb his throat and all he can hear is his father’s voice, telling him that he’s a sissy, a crybaby, that he’s worthless. His lord’s favored him with his attention and he damn well better respect that. It’s a privilege, for fuck’s sake, to take piano lessons in the summerhouse.
James shudders and collects himself. This is not what he wants. To behave like a lost child in the arms of the man he admires, he cares for most in this world – and probably the next. If he keeps this up, next thing he knows, Robbie will be making soothing, shushing noises, as if he’s a fretting infant. So he steps back, puts on that careful mask and pretends, like he’s always pretended, that he’s impervious, impenetrable.
Robbie has no such masks. He’s as wrecked as if someone’s stabbed him in the heart. But he doesn’t offer platitudes, or pity or sticky-sweet sympathy. “What do you want me to do?”
There are things he wants, and James thinks that they’ll now be impossible. But there are other, equally important things that Robbie can do. “Don’t treat me like a victim. Don’t make me into some pitiable, helpless woobie. Please.”
“No - that I won’t do. You are no different now than you were when I walked in that door a few hours ago. You’re still one of the strongest men I know.” The words ring true like Oxford’s bells.
With that truth, James finds that all the secrets he’s kept from Robbie want to come spilling out. He wants to stop, once and for all, with the misdirection, the prevarication. He wants to take off the mask and finish with the damn lies. Because at this moment he knows that there’s nothing he could tell Robbie now that would damage their relationship. He’s as sure of this as he is of his name.
The couch beckons and he sits. Robbie joins him, at his side. They are close enough to touch from shoulder to thigh. And despite his earlier assertion that he doesn’t want to be reduced to cuddles and comforts, it takes a lot of willpower not to just rest his head on Robbie’s shoulder. That surcease would be like the holiest of prayers.
James considers his next words very carefully. He can feel Robbie’s eyes on him, the worry and concern is like a blanket he wants to wrap around himself. But he can’t, not yet. This thing has to finish.
“There’s something else.” He bites back the sir.
All Robbie says is “Tell me.” A command, simple and direct, just like the man himself.
“Remember what I told you about Will McEwan? When he came to me for advice?”
Robbie nods and James can see how he is still troubled by the homophobia that he once had confessed to. But before James can speak any further, Robbie just destroys and rebuilds him.
“It wasn’t just the official Church doctrine, what you were being taught, that made you tell him that. It was what Mortmaigne did to you?”
James nodded. “Yes – but it wasn’t only that. I – I had these feelings, too. I had tried to exorcise them – as if they were demons from Hell. Prayer, fasting, mortification. But nothing could change those feelings. There was a time when I thought I deserved what happened to me in that summerhouse, that I asked for it.”
Robbie’s apparently not shocked at James’ tacit admission. And why should he? The man has always had an open mind, judging people by what they do, not what they are. “You don’t believe that anymore, do you?” Robbie asks delicately.
“No – I know better now. Most pedophiles are identified heterosexuals – it’s not gender that attracts, it’s age.” He takes refuge in statistics, facts. It’s easier.
“Have you … gotten help?”
“I’m beyond help.”
“What do you mean, ‘beyond’? No one is beyond help.”
James scrubs at his eyes, they’re burning, dry. The tears will never come. “I accept what I am – that’s what I mean. I accept my limitations, and I’ve moved on.”
“And what are you?”
There was a time when he dreaded that question, when he played at evasion and word games. It nearly cost him his life, and more importantly, Robbie’s respect. Tonight, though – now he’s stripped himself of self-doubt, the need for illusion, the answer is easy. The peace, the serenity that he’s been searching for all of his life settles around him.
He looks Robbie straight in the eye. “I am a gay man. I am a police officer. I am James Hathaway.” There is one more thing – it’s important, but it’s not something he’s ready to say out loud.
Robbie smiles at him, a soul-smile and James becomes lightheaded under that regard. He smiles back, and there’s a strange feeling coursing through him. It’s not relief at this first public admission. It’s happiness, so long absent from his life that he almost didn’t recognize it.
And there’s a touch of fear too. It’s not dread though, nor a cause for despair. It’s that there is now this great unknown. James can understand this fear. It’s like the day he walked out of the seminary, only better, because the lies and the self-doubt are gone.
Robbie reaches over and takes his hand. “You okay?”
“I am. Strangely – I don’t think I’ve ever been better.” He rubs his thumb across the back of Robbie’s hand, a caress, an exploration. “Thank you – for this, for everything.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” Robbie gives him a look, and James sees something beyond affectionate exasperation. There is respect, and concern of course. And oddly, patience.
He keeps holding Robbie’s hand, his thumb keeps sweeping back and forth, and the other man doesn’t pull away. James hopes that it won’t be long before he can finally say the last thing. It’s not admission but a statement of fact.
I am a gay man. I am a police officer. I am James Hathaway. And I love you, Robbie Lewis.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-04-26 08:05 pm (UTC)beautifully written piece. You've caught James' uncertainty and reticence perfectly. And Robbie's quiet strength and support is just spot on.
Lovely. Absolutely lovely (and so very, quietly THEM).
Thank you for sharing it.
pax,
km
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Date: 2012-04-27 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-25 09:26 pm (UTC)♥
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Date: 2012-04-26 01:08 pm (UTC)♥ back at you!
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Date: 2012-04-25 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-25 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 01:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-25 10:19 pm (UTC)I really like the way you showed Lewis providing just the right level of comfort and support that Hathaway could accept. And it made me realize why you love both "Inspector Lewis" and "White Collar." The characters and dynamics are parallel: Neal and James with their deceptive, protective shells over some fairly profound damage, and a love of poking their adored respective bosses with sticks, and Peter and Robbie with their quiet integrity and protectiveness. Neal has kept a certain playful enthusiasm that James doesn't have, but they are very similar. And both series let us hope that patience, loyalty, and love can be healing. (Yes, I am a real sap.)
I hope there's a sequel in the works!
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Date: 2012-04-26 01:14 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for your lovely feedback - and yes, you've hit the nail on the head. For a while, I've been trying to spread my wings and write in another fandom. Lewis works so well for me because there is a very similar dynamic between Robbie and James as there is between Peter and Neal. Neal is, of course, so much more extroverted than James - but you're exactly right that they are both damaged people hiding behind well crafted masks. While Robbie may lack Peter's utter self-confidence (more of a cultural trait), they are both very similar. And isn't Robbie a mirror of what would happen to Peter if he lost El?
I am definitely continuing Robbie and James' story, plus they are featured in my planned WC big bang.
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Date: 2012-04-26 02:54 pm (UTC)Good call! I think Peter's "utter self-confidence" is largely based on his having El in his life, and without her the spark would go out.
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Date: 2012-04-25 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:53 pm (UTC)Again - thank you.
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Date: 2012-04-26 12:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 01:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 01:47 am (UTC)Much love for this fic and plenty of admiration for you! Fab!
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Date: 2012-04-26 12:50 pm (UTC)I had been a fan of Morse - mostly a fan of Sergeant Lewis (tbh), and I always thought he never got the credit he deserved for his own intelligence.
My primary fandom - White Collar - has a similar problem to how Hathaway has been drawn in some fics. There is a very strong tendancy to woobify Neal Caffrey - whether it's because of prison trauma or his childhood - and yet he's supposed to be this incredible con man who can do everything.
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Date: 2012-04-26 03:12 am (UTC)(Though, psst! Dead of Winter is actually 4.01...>
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Date: 2012-04-26 12:45 pm (UTC)Regarding the ep number for DoW - iTunes and Netflix both list it as the second episode of the third series. But I suspect that they have it slightly messed up, since Laurence Fox's hair is noticably longer in that ep than in the previous one.
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Date: 2012-04-27 02:42 am (UTC)As for episode numbers, I think PBS numbers them differently. The official ITV numbering - and as the episodes were shown in the UK - has four episodes per series, and Dead of Winter is the first episode of the fourth series.
Incidentally, if you have a DVD player capable of playing Region 2 discs, I'd strongly recommend getting the ITV DVDs. PBS cut around 10 minutes per episodes from S1 and S2, and some of those scenes have some lovely Hathaway/Lewis moments - and others make some of the deductions make MUCH more sense! Check out amazon.co.uk - S1-5 is currently available for around £33, and they deduct VAT (British sales tax) and only charge £3 postage, which means you actually pay less than the price including VAT.
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Date: 2012-04-26 09:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 09:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 09:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 09:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:42 pm (UTC)I think the doorway into Lewis was the parallel dynamic between the chief characters, particularly how they have a life together outside of their working partnership.
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Date: 2012-04-26 10:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 12:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-26 08:13 pm (UTC)That was so beautiful I have no words. Not to mention perfectly in character for both of them, and the voices just right.
*lapses back into silence*
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Date: 2012-04-26 08:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-27 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-27 01:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-27 02:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-27 01:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-06 01:49 pm (UTC)As a White Collar fan, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between Neal and Hathaway, on the one hand, and Peter and Lewis on the other. And yet you did a masterful job of showing their differences. Hathaway has different demons than Neal, and his cool, detached facade shows how differently he handles them. And while Lewis shares Peter's quiet strength and salt-of-the-earth appeal, there seem to be a hundred subtle distinctions between them.
Well done, Elr!
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Date: 2012-05-07 03:41 pm (UTC)This feedback is extremely precious to me - it's from a friend who knows me and my White Collar fanfic very well. For you to tell me that the voices of the characters are distict from the ones I have lived with for so long is very satisfying - because you're so right. Neal and Hathaway and Peter and Lewis have similarities, as characters and in their relationships, but they are also very different.
To know that I'm not just "changing names" and re-writing an already told tell makes me so very happy.
Thank you for taking the time to step outside of your comfort zone and watch Lewis before reading means an awful lot to me.
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Date: 2012-12-18 05:32 pm (UTC)why you havent included at least a kiss????
longing for reading something hotter after the I love you Robbi"
spooky
Date: 2012-12-18 07:55 pm (UTC)shrouded in embarassement, James sets on the dvd of this on _the_way murder case they have been after, turns it on and they remains as watching the tv screen, pretending to concentrate themselve on duty, in this rainy day only the drops striking at the window panes and the fire inside ,
Robbie casts a glance at James , sticking his eyes at this fair faca with the rosy and full lips and a flame starts to encrouch upon his senses ( even when his wife was alive he hadnt felt this sudden rush of passion, even though he tries to withhold it,
James feels the glance of his mate and feels that he is going to burst out of passion , in an attempt to reach the remote_control of the tv, they remain face to face , their lips draw near and James touch Robbie lips with his desireful ones in a short but wet kiss,
obviously the struggle in Robbir grows too strong , he in a nervous temper, stands up, strolls about the living room without uttering a word, takes a glass of something, is blushed and sweat, in an attempt to mend up things , James says "I am sorry, I didnt mean to.."
then, Robbie comes back to the couch and both pretend to get hooked with the unsolved murder, but their souls fly in extasis and their bodies burn,
poor Robbie, the melacholic father of family and tragedy-stricken solitaty man and widow, who got almost cool in the attempt to draw women to his life, makes suddenly out that he started to be prey of a real passion crush on the young blond fellow, and ..struggle?
....Robbie sets his arm behind James head, grasps at his face and then touches his lips with his in a ardeous kiss, and they kiss for a long time feeling their tongues toying, the perfume of their male bodies and desire and the slim body of the fair James feels the excited one of his mature and handsome inspector mate , the flame which devours them knows no limit now, the pent_up desire turns into unlimited rush of sensual passion and , ..ever since they become lovers ....
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Date: 2012-09-19 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-19 06:03 pm (UTC)Now that my life has settled down, I hope to finish the long-aborning sequel to this.
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Date: 2012-09-19 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-19 06:10 pm (UTC)(But then, I've got WIPs that are twice as long that still remain unfinished).