***
WISP
by saizine
Written between 06 July 2014 and 15 August 2014.
Thanks again to timethetalewastold for betaing!

An inquest is not a trial; it is not to apportion blame. And yet, here they are, walking back out into the world with guilt heavy on their shoulders. Chandler leads, because he always does, with Miles a step behind at his shoulder. Riley and Mansell follow, heads inclined in quiet conversation. Kent brings up the rear with his hands preemptively buried in his coat pockets despite the heating in the coroner's court, and he only hunches in on himself a little more as they file out through the heavy doorway and into the bleak outdoors.

If he'd been in charge, he would have had them straight back in the station, working on the next case. But it's not his call and they mill about in the building's small courtyard for some unknown, godforsaken reason. Pedestrians hurry past on the other side of a low brick wall, indistinct bulks of coat, unburdened; the witnesses that Kent's just watched give testimony tread across the pavement with intent and appointments to keep. Morgan's family stands in the lee provided by the columns of the main door, away from the biting wind. Kent stands in its path, buffeted as the grit gets in his eyes, and stands fast. What else can he do? What else can any of them do? It's out of their hands. This is case closed. They never really close, he knows, but that's the terminology and they're supposed to look forward now, look towards the next, towards the ones they can still save.

Not that Kent's sure they can even manage that anymore.

The day fails to inspire confidence: dull and grey although it's just past lunchtime, clouds hovering overhead like some sort of ominous threat that will never come to pass. Even the small patches of grass are grey, hiding the pigeons as they peck at specks of nothing. It matches Kent's mood—monochrome, drained. He'd half-hoped that the concrete answer might release him—them—from this state of mind, but no. It's just a reiteration of what they've been telling themselves, dressed up in legalese and waving a coroner's signature. Somehow that doesn't make it any more or less true, any more or less convincing. It's all the same. It doesn't change the way they look at each other.

Kent glances over his shoulder and finds Chandler looking away, as usual. Kent's not sure he sees much, these days, but he certainly and Riley hover nearby him, close enough to hear if anything in his head or heart cracks. Kent thinks they're too late; that's already happened, somewhere far away from the rest of them. Mansell's messing with his phone, checking texts with an intensity that suggests he's carrying on with one too many women again. They're all standing there, hovering in a strange and distant shape, but Kent's never felt more alone.

'I'm going for a smoke,' he announces, on an exhale.

He doesn't wait for a response. He doesn't look back to see if any of them looked up, either; he keeps his gaze forward and on the no smoking sign that he only just passes before fishing the pack out of his inside pocket. Tearing into it feels as familiar as it had five years ago, even if he feels very far away from himself.

He holds a cigarette in his mouth and watches the flame lick warm light into the cradle of his fingers as the wind cools his knuckles; he considers checking his phone, but decides against it as he breathes out the first stream of smoke. If anything's on it at all, it'll just be Erica asking him how it went (badly) and if she should pick up an extra bottle of plonk on her way home tonight (probably). Except he can't even be bothered to turn his mobile back on, let alone type a response, so instead he takes another drag and ignores the murmur of voices.

(They've noticed, then. Took them long enough.)

Rain patters on the end of his nose, his shoulders, threatens but doesn't start properly. He glares at the silver-grey sky and makes silent threats he knows are impossible to fulfill. He's so engrossed in his wallowing, in trying to figure out how likely it is that the day will get even more shit, that he almost doesn't notice that he's being approached.

And, because it's just his bloody luck, Kent only realises that it's Chandler who's walking towards him when it's too late to think of anything to say. Not that they've managed to have a normal conversation since—God, have they ever had a normal one? Kent doesn't want to think about it because it's starting to dawn on him that it doesn't matter since this is what it's going to be like, now.

Chandler's careful to arrange himself upwind. He's doing what looks like his best to suppress a distasteful look, too, and he checks the ground around his feet as Kent flicks the ash away even though it went in the opposite direction.

'Sir,' Kent says, an acknowledgement instead of a greeting.

'I didn't know you smoked.'

'I don't.' He's well aware of the irony, even as he says it around the cigarette. 'Not regularly.'

That clarification doesn't seem to have done any convincing. Chandler's still looking at him like he's holding a lit stick of dynamite and he's probably going over every interaction they've ever had, trying to see if Kent's bending the truth. He's not, he doesn't do that, and Chandler knows; it shouldn't take him very long at all to think back through every case, every night at the pub, every do they've ever gone to as a team and realise that he's never seen Kent unwrap the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes before. Except it does, and Chandler both looks at and through him with a confusion that makes Kent teeter between insult and intrigue.

'They're useful to carry around, anyway,' he says, on a smoke-filled sigh, just for the sake of filling the silence. 'Can get you in a witness' good books.'

Chandler tries a tense smile. 'Very old school.'

'Hmm.' Kent could have sworn Chandler's eyes linger on his mouth for a moment too long—though, given the circumstances, he can see why. 'And a lighter's more useful than you'd think.'

He doesn't mention that he'd bought a fresh pack specifically for today. He hasn't touched his last lot for months and when he'd gone looking it had disappeared. Probably Jack's fault, he's always trying to impress his new girlfriend, and Kent's bedroom door only locks from the inside. Either way he'd wanted the fallback, the backup of the packet in his pocket; he doesn't mention that he'd smoked after his exams, after his interview for the police, when Miles (only a newly familiar face back then) had told him he'd been recommended for CID. At least he could blame his jitters on the nicotine.

Every time, he just wants something to do with his hands. Something to focus on, something visceral rather than cerebral. He gets so sick of thinking when all thoughts lead to the same rotten conclusion. And he doesn't dare try to explain it to anyone, because the last time he had the guy had scoffed, shot him a derisive look across the rucked bedding, and said 'Nice try, but if that was true, that'd be a roll-up in your mouth.' Kent hadn't called back, not after that. He had thought about rolling his own once or twice, in passing. But he can't be bothered with the faff of it all, tobacco and filter tips and Rizlas. It's cheaper, he knows, but so's smoking about three cigs a month. It all works out the same.

Much like everything in this miserable bloody world.

'I suppose it could be,' Chandler says, looking away from him, away from them both and down the road.

Kent's almost forgotten what that reply's supposed to be in agreement with. He's been too busy watching Chandler's neck out of the corner of his eye, the downturn of his mouth, the way he tucks his hands back into his pockets that in anyone else might suggest an imminent relaxation, a softening of his posture, but Chandler looks as statuesque as ever, as straight-backed and solid. It's attractive, and Kent curses himself for thinking it; standing outside a coroner's court in October on a day like this isn't the time. It's never the time, really, because he's not supposed to think things like He's got a wonderful mouth about his superior officer on any given day.

But he does think that; he's got a whole list of things stored in the back of his head, words he's not going to allow his brain to string together in regards to Chandler again.

Except his self-control's never bloody well worked, has it?

'Oi, you two,' Miles barks, his voice raised to be heard over the passing traffic.

Both Chandler and Kent crane their necks to look in his direction at the same time; the skipper's stood much where they'd all stopped when they'd filed out, fixing them with an expression that's exasperated even at this distance. Kent makes a disgruntled sort of noise in the back of his throat and takes what he knows will be his last drag.

'There's still half of the day to finish,' Miles continues as both Riley and Mansell turn to peer in their direction.

'Right, skip,' Kent says, casting smoke across his scowl. Chandler says nothing.

'Try not to corrupt him, will you?'

Kent doesn't dignify that with an answer. It's probably insubordination—Miles is his directly superior officer, after all, and he reports to him first—but that's just another in a line of things that don't seem to matter that much anymore. He just tuts, drops the end of the cigarette to the pavement at his feet, and treads it into the pavement as he goes.

'Hey, Kent,' Mansell calls from the next desk over, patting his pockets. 'Couldn't bum a cig, could I?'

The request's punctuated by the wheezing bang of their ancient printer that had seen better days five years ago. Kent looks into the middle distance and sighs; Mansell's only known he smokes for the best part of forty-eight hours and he's already scrounging. Not that it's particularly surprising. It's what he does, and the most exciting thing that's happened all shift is Miles coming back from a tea break and announcing, Right, let's see what's clogging up my email today.

Kent almost doesn't blame him for looking for a reason to get out of the room.

'Come on. Just one?'

Mansell's pleading tone is full of piss-taking sincerity. Kent rolls his eyes and fixes him with an irked look that neither of them really believe, blithely waving his hand over the work on his desk. Yet Kent's eyes fall on Chandler (as they are wont to do), and he can't help but notice that the man's looked up and is peering at them in a pointed way that Kent doesn't like anymore.

'Tell you what,' he says, grabbing the pack from his desk drawer. 'I'll keep you company.'

If Mansell's surprised he doesn't show it. Instead he stays hot on Kent's heels as he makes a beeline for the set of doors closest to the car park, leaning on the handle to let them out and the cool almost-winter air in. The weather's still shit, but at least it's not raining, and Kent ends up leaning against the station wall, looking at a sky the colour of porridge with too much water as Mansell comes to a stop at his side.

'What was that about?'

Kent shuts him up by handing him the entire packet. He'd rather lose half of them to Mansell's sticky fingers than try and put words together because he's not found a suitable surrogate answer for that question yet. He's got no idea what this is about, he's got no idea what he's doing or where he's supposed to go with it. They're all in fucking limbo and they bloody well know it.

'Needed a break,' he says when Mansell nudges his shoulder and hands the cardboard back.

'Don't we all,' Mansell says, the words interrupted by the obstruction in his mouth as he raises a flame.

Kent can almost feel a ripple of suspicion run through his friend as he takes out of his own own and does the same, exchanging the pack for a cheap lighter. He ignores the way Mansell shoots him another attempt at a wry look.

'I didn't know you smoked,' he says, the tone leading.

Kent huffs; smoke curls around his fingers. 'I don't.'

'Right.' There's another fleeting glance, then: 'If that's your line…'

It's his line and he's sticking with it. Mansell can think what he wants. He probably wouldn't understand—he's always got his hands full, hasn't he? There's no need to add keeping his hands busy to his to-do list. He keeps himself busy.

Even though Kent says nothing, Mansell catches his eye again and shrugs. 'I'll smoke 'em if you've got 'em.'

A laugh slips from Kent's throat. 'I expected as much.'

Mansell's answering chuckle extends into a slow curl of a smile. They don't say much else, not at first. This isn't something they do and Kent's still trying to stop his mind from wondering what that look the skipper had just about managed to shoot him on the way out meant. It's when Kent leans to tap the ashes into the gutter that Mansell opens his mouth again.

'You all right, mate?' he asks, almost uncharacteristically careful. 'I mean, you've been a bit funny since—'

'We've all been a bit funny since.'

Kent resists the urge to glare at him. Instead he keeps his gaze fixed forwards, watching the tendrils of smoke feather out into the air. Mansell's right. He has been off since that evening, the aborted divorce party. How couldn't he be changed by all that? Everything else has been.

'The boss isn't too pleased about it.'

Mansell says it to the empty area car parked beside them. Kent glares at him from the corner of his eye and wonders whether or not he can get away with ignoring that comment. But for once Mansell's tone isn't tinged with his dark, laddish comedy, and Kent's almost tempted to humour him. Except he's not lost all his sense, and he lets out a singular laugh that probably comes across more like a tut.

'The boss can think what he wants,' he says in the end, on a long sigh.

(He can. He will. Kent learnt long ago that he can't influence what Chandler thinks. If he could, he might have been able to help. Just a little.)

Mansell laughs, short and brusque, as he gestures back into the building with the hand he'd parked in his pocket. 'He looked at me like I'd suggested we come out here for a round of Russian roulette.'

'To him, we might as well be.'

Kent says it darkly, because it's true, but there's a low chuckle from Mansell's direction nonetheless. He'd never been very good at judging the magnitude of a situation, so it's no surprise, really. A heavy weight sits on Kent's shoulders, his poor besieged heart, and Mansell identifies it as a joke. Maybe it is. Kent wouldn't be especially surprised if it turns out that his own interpretation's shot. He's spent long enough thinking about it—to no avail—to have it all muddled.

He almost jumps when there's a touch at his elbow, a nudge of knuckles. He turns, cigarette left hanging between his fingers, and finds an especially strange expression on Mansell's face. It's not entirely unamused, but there's much more sobriety in it than usual.

Mansell thrusts his head backwards, indicating the hall they'd come through, the most direct route back to the incident room. 'He wants back in your good books, you know.'

'Then he'll have to ask himself,' Kent mutters, kicking at a rogue piece of gravel.

'Like he'd trust me to ask you for him.'

'Look, I don't want to talk about it.'

Mansell twists his smile into something that on someone else might come across as stern. All the effort on his part won't change Kent's mind—he doesn't have the words to use for this, not yet, not outside his own head. He knows they all know. Miles had twigged the same week he had, catching his elbow after a shift that first year and saying You'll have trouble with that one, lad. Mansell noticed within hours of arrival, probably, though he only let on at Ed's house when they were undercover, hissing I didn't get a smile like that when they collided on route to the overworked kettle. Riley says she just knew, like a twinge in the back of her brain that crept up whenever she saw them look at each other, and she nudges them a little closer together every way she can.

'What are you going to do instead?' Mansell asks, and there's a determination to his voice that makes Kent wonder if someone's put him up to this. Then he laughs and it's clear no one has. 'Smoke angrily at him?'

'D'you think that would work?'

'Probably.' He chuckles, once, then shrugs. 'Though I'm not sure what your definition of work actually is, in this case.'

Kent isn't either. He doesn't know what to do, not about this (whatever this is) and he just wants it to go back to what it was (whatever that was). None of them are happy, but he's started asking himself if they ever have been, or if that's even possible for people who do what they do. See what they see. At the end of the day there has to be something that gives, and in Kent's experience, it's humanity that does. Not chance, not coincidence. There's only so many years in a copper. Some more than others. Chandler may have arrived at his station with a few fewer under his belt than the rest of the inspectors, but who's to say he doesn't have fewer overall?

'Why am I asking you, anyway?' Kent asks, more to the cement at his feet than to anyone else.

'Because I've fucked up enough times and I'm still all right.'

Mansell had said it with an entirely straight face but he barks out another laugh as Kent turns to fix him with an unimpressed look that probably got lost somewhere in the exhalation of smoke.

'Are you saying I could learn from you?'

'I'm saying I could see why you might want to.'

Right. Of course Mansell would think that. Kent turns back to what's quickly becoming his bit of pavement—the slab with the pattern of cracks that look a little like a bear's face, if you squint—and, after another moment's silence, huffs out a single sound that was once, in another life, a laugh.

'Has anyone ever told you that you're a twat?'

'Yes. Plenty.' Mansell grins unchecked. 'I'm thinking of getting it printed on business cards.'

Against his better judgement Kent finds himself fighting back a smile. It shouldn't be funny, because they're all wallowing in something and none of them know what it is or how far away the bottom is, but for the briefest of seconds Kent wants to smile because it's almost as if they're back to where they were before, with Mansell saying stupid things and the rest of them taking turns to tell him off for it. So when there's a sound from inside the building that sounds like someone else crashing towards the exterior doors, Kent crushes the remnant of his cigarette under his heel and and tries to say, 'Oh, fuck off,' without laughing as he turns back inside.

'I'm off for lunch, then.'

Mansell perks up at the mention of a meal, then crumples again when he remembers what Kent means. The rest of them don't even react—they're used to it by now, and as a team they're a lot less reactive than they used to be so he gets no more than a grunt's worth of a goodbye from the skipper as he walks out to meet Erica.

She'd called one morning not long after it all went wrong and just said, 'Lunch, in twenty minutes? I've got something to run by you,' then after that it'd become something of a routine. Every week or so. Not always the same day, although they always end up in the same place; they know their timing from there, how far they can push it, and they can be sure the coffee's decent. That first time had been to do with work, for the both of them. Erica works for the papers so sees all the shit before it gets thrown and something had been dropped on her desk that looked like it might be able to create quite a lot of trouble for them. She couldn't be sure, she doesn't know all the ins and outs because it's one of the few things Kent won't tell her—a contractual obligation—but there were enough familiar names for her to wonder.

In the end it turned out to be nothing, but everyone in the office immediately warmed to the faceless entity of 'Kent's sister.' Once, afterwards, when Kent had just been pulling on his coat to go and meet her, Miles had slipped him a fiver and said, 'You get that girl a coffee on me. It's not often we meet a journalist who's a decent sort.' She'd snorted at that, said what high praise it was coming from a copper, and sent Miles a bottle of whiskey for his troubles.

Kent reckons she's just buttering him up, because he knows her, but he lets it happen. They need something to smile about, and if what's going to do it for him is glancing through the windows of the café and spotting that she's already ordered him a double cappuccino, then that's what'll do it for him. Maybe that's why it's there. She might already be able to tell. They haven't spoken for a few days, not since the inquest.

She doesn't stand to embrace him as he approaches the table. 'Right then. What's got your goat?'

Kent shoots her a look that's supposed to say more about the absurdity of the question rather than serve as some sort of denial. If he just says no, she'll know. Just like she had every other bloody time they've had this conversation. Which has been too often for Kent's liking, recently.

'Something has.' She wrinkles her nose. 'You stink of smoke.'

Kent rolls his eyes, shrugging off his overcoat. 'And you've got the nose of a prize-winning bloodhound.'

'Come on, I know you. There's something on your mind.'

'No, there's not.'

Erica sits back in her seat, arms crossed. 'I don't believe you.'

'Funny, that,' he says, glancing up at her as he leans to sit down. 'I could have sworn I was telling the truth.'

He twinges at the lie; she probably notices. She probably feels it. Either way it's this preternatural ability of hers to take one look at him and know that there's something weighing on his mind that's heavier than the usual policeman's baggage that makes him hesitant to talk about it. She always—always—ends up knowing more than he really wants her to. Maybe that's why she's a journalist. Maybe it's just because Kent's always been about as transparent as air to everyone in his immediate family.

She gazes at him coolly from behind her flat white. 'I'll tell Mum.'

'Somehow,' Kent says, quirking an unperturbed smile, 'that doesn't feel as much of a threat as it did when I was seventeen.'

Erica can't help but laugh at that. It harks back to a time when she'd had straight As in everything and he couldn't keep anything straight. Her threats didn't really work then, either, because as often as she trotted them out she never actually saw them through. She never stuck him in it—he did that all by himself.

'D'you want anything to eat? My treat this week,' she says, burying the hatchet for the time being.

'Just the usual, if you don't mind.'

His phone beeps from the inside of his coat pocket as Erica beckons over one of the wait staff; he twists in the chair to fish it out, because Erica's own mobile's face-up on the table next to her plate and they've never had qualms about interrupting conversations. If she takes offence then he'll just have to remind her of the time she'd taken one look at her beeping phone and shot back to work without another word until eight that evening.

Riley's name pops up on the screen: Green tea supplies critical. Would you mind picking some up? Kent pulls his mouth to one side but texts back an agreement nonetheless. It's on his way back, more or less. He might as well, but Kent still doubts Chandler's noticed that he hasn't had to buy a replacement box of tea bags in a month.

'Still being a little shit, is he?' Erica asks as he sets his phone down again.

It's probably a little more nuanced than that. Hell, Kent knows it is.

He still nods and says, 'Yes,' as if it isn't.

'It's not really his fault he's an arsehole.' Erica sighs and tilts her head as if she's considering it. 'But he is an arsehole.'

They both know they're talking about Chandler, specifically; they just rarely say his name out loud. And certainly not while they're both in public, since they both know too much about what an overheard comment can do. Kent's wondered which would be worse—Chandler somehow finding out what effect he has on him, or Kent being bumped back down to PC—and he's never really decided. They'd probably both happen, in the event.

Erica's still looking at him with the appraising expression that she nicked off their mum. Kent opens his arms slightly, holds his hands up in a wordless indication that he's all right, look, no punctures, no blood, nothing missing. She simply narrows her eyes.

Kent sighs and returns his hands to the warmed ceramic. 'I'm still functioning, aren't I?'

'Barely.'

'Thanks,' he says, looking at her with the most level expression he owns, but she still mimes a cigarette.

He ignores her, pointedly turning to study the handwritten specials board with an intensity that's close to unnatural, and Erica just lets her hand fall to her lap and rolls her eyes.

'You're odd, you know,' she says as he returns his attention to the table. 'Not only do you like cold toast, but you go through flurries of smoking.'

'Cold toast isn't that weird.'

Erica shoots him a look that says That's not the point. 'You smoked a pack a day for a week in 2005.'

'That was…' Kent tries to remember the excuse he'd used at the time but fails. 'That was different.'

'You nicked a pack of Rob's at Christmas in 2003.'

'Do you keep a scrapbook or something?'

'If you're smoking, there's a crisis somewhere in your vicinity,' Erica continues, ignoring the sarky comments that sometimes save him from scrutiny. She sits back in her chair and folds her arms, nodding towards the way Kent's started to twist his fingers together. 'I haven't forgotten, you know.'

Kent sometimes wonders if he's had more crises than the rest of his family put together. It just wasn't everyday that your twin sister's fiancé (now ex, thankfully) makes a pass at you when you're left alone around the dinner table (2003), or that you found out your boyfriend was a person of interest in one of Organised Crime's investigations (2005) or that you're watching your boss that you're in love with shrink back into the mould he'd arrived in, everything you'd coaxed out of him dashing straight back into that brain of his and you know you can't do a fucking thing about it (this year, now, today).

'You know what you should do instead?' Erica says, her tone eerily pensive. She's never pensive.

'What?'

'Stick two fingers up and say fuck 'em.'

Kent barks out a surprised laugh. 'That's always your philosophy.'

'And it's served me well.'

That's debatable. It depends on how you define well, though knowing her she means that she's still alive and still jolly, so anything goes. She's said all this to him before, and he's got the same qualms now as he had then. He might have moments where he wants to strangle everyone he works with, but if he tells them to fuck off then it's in jest. Mostly. The doubt that crawls up the back of his neck to his mind is the new, troublesome sensation. He knows, realistically, that they're all doing their best and that their reactions to trauma are probably well within the normal expectations, but Kent can't stop the anger from welling up. It's just a lottery as far as where it's directed.

Erica looks as if he's just said everything he's felt out loud—although he hasn't, he hopes to god he hasn't—but thankfully their lunch arrives just in time to derail whatever unsolicited advice what about to come out of her house. Apparently her office is nowhere near as generous on the biscuits front as they are in the incident room and just like when they were teenagers she's distracted by the need to eat enough to get through the rest of the day in what she no doubt sees as in impoverished half an hour. If Kent wasn't as much of a pessimist, he'd be glad they seem to have moved away from a detailed dissection of his failings, but it's just an interval. It's always just an interval.

He'd enjoy it if he could, but he doesn't appear to be in the right sort of mood for that. He can't even taste the food, not really, and although Erica might say it's because of the smoking Kent knows it's more the fault of the stress. It doesn't help that the waiter's overly attentive, stopping at their sides, dark-haired and light-eyed, far too often for them to actually to have changed their opinion. Maybe it annoys him so much because it reminds him of all the times he's gone up to Chandler with a file or good news, right down to the cautious, hope-flecked expression. Maybe it's more down to the way Erica encourages it. He's long past the point where he bristles at anyone who shows interest in her, but of course this guy doesn't know that. Probably why he keeps shooting Kent wary glances.

'I don't know if that waiter would be more intimidated if he thought I was your boyfriend or your brother,' he says, once he's walked away from them again.

'Doesn't matter either way, does it? Detective sort of trumps them both in the scaring people shitless department.' Erica grins and it's almost like she's nineteen again. 'Either way, I think he's more interested in you to be honest.'

'Come off it.'

'Don't look now, but…' Erica trails off and nods significantly over Kent's shoulder.

Kent turns; he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't trust her because she's pulled this trick a hundred times, but he does. It's immediately clear what she means, because the guy's looking at him from half-secreted eyes; he might have been able to write it off as misinterpreted if he hadn't snapped his gaze down to the counter at the speed of light when Kent accidentally met his eye. Against his better judgement, Kent feel himself go awkwardly hot and he turns back to Erica's mischievous smirk. Except he can't bear that for very long, either, so he ends up keeping his eyes down, studying the last few gulps of his coffee.

'Why don't you?' Erica asks, coaxing his eyes up with her tone. 'You aren't tied down.'

He is, actually, but she refuses to see it that way. Then again, she's never had trouble like he has, she managed to avoid the hereditary apprehensive streak that's in the rest of them.

'Come on, little brother. Weasel your way into some trousers for once.'

He shoots her a disgruntled look; she grins. She's always called him that. No amount of protesting, not even over twenty years, could have convinced her to stop. Even logic—that she's only eight minutes older than him, that in the grand scheme of things eight minutes doesn't mean shit—can't change her mind. It doesn't do any more to deter her this time than it had when they were twelve.

'You used to be quite good at it.'

Kent harrumphs. 'Ten years ago, maybe.'

Or three months, as the case may be. His skills aren't rusty yet, although his enjoyment of employing them seem to have dwindled to nothing in the past few years. When it comes down to it he always has to be careful not to say Chandler's name when he's furthest out of his mind.

'Don't frown like that,' she says, reaching for the end of her coffee. 'Your face's already got more lines than the London Underground.'

'Oh, charming.'

'I do my best.'

Kent huffs a quiet chuckle; Erica almost does the same but her phone vibrates and she's looking at it almost immediately with that same keen expression that she'd worn him down with over the years.

'Right, it's that time again, Em,' she says, switching the device's screen off with an extended finger. 'She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has noticed my extended absence.'

He chuckles at the nickname; Erica's boss isn't what you'd call a fan of extended lunch breaks. Decidedly continental, she'd called them once, and Erica hadn't stopped laughing about it for a week.

'Best get off, then,' he says, tucking his own mobile into his jacket.

'I wish you would.'

'Erica.'

(She's just as bad as bloody Mansell when it comes to spotting innuendo.)

She grins at him, and that's feral as Mansell's, too. 'It'd do you good, you know.'

'Yeah, yeah.' Kent doubts that. 'Maybe.'

She shakes her head, a tut hidden in there somewhere, then leans to dig a scarf from the depths of her bag and wraps it around her neck in that way Kent's never been able to figure out. It involves a knot, somewhere, because he watches her tie it but he's never managed to spot it between the rest of the fabric, cupped around her chin. She leaves her hair tucked in and gets to her feet, dragging her coat from the back of the chair with a clatter. Kent does the same, leaving a few notes tucked under a saucer, and follows Erica out onto the street. She stops suddenly, tying the knot on her trench, and Kent has to side-step to avoid running straight into her.

'Hold on a minute,' she says, turning and catching his elbow. 'I promised Jill a decent coffee. A bribe, if you will, for keeping my arse out of trouble.'

Kent nods and tucks his hands into his pockets, standing with his back to the shop window. He almost wishes he had a scarf to tuck his chin into, because it's blisteringly cold when the wind picks up and this is one of those roads that seems to double as a wind tunnel. He wrinkles his nose instead and finds that even when he relaxes the muscle it takes a moment to unstick: it's that cold, then. Colder than usual for this time of year. More reason to grumble about having to veer off route back to the station; a Tesco would be better than a Sainsburys, they usually have a reliably wider selection of awkward teas, but that means excusing himself from Erica's company earlier. She'll probably think he's just trying to avoid any more well-intentioned interrogation. Shit. There's no way out.

(There never has been, has there?)

Erica returns not five minutes later, right about the time when Kent was starting to wonder if he'd get back to the office with a veil of ice on his skin, with a paper coffee cup in her hand and napkin tucked haphazardly between her fingers. She holds out the napkin without a word, nudging him to take it from her hand as she double-checks the zip on her bag. He watches her movements with a bemused expression and takes the offering without thinking why, exactly, she'd be giving him anything of the sort. It's when he looks at it, looks at it properly in the way he does almost instinctually now, with a detective's eye, that he frowns.

'What's this?' he asks, indicating the writing on one corner.

'Jake's number.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Erica.'

He glances around them, at the street and the people hurrying past them, but he doesn't really see any of it. His gaze settles on a scrawled Help Wanted, Inquire Inside for a moment, but the wind picks up and Erica swears as it ruffles her hair in the wrong direction and he has to turn back to her, to the name and number and the expectation.

She looks to him, smirking. 'Just in case you fancy scratching an itch.'

'Oh, God,' he says, dragging the words through an exasperated exhalation. He worries the material between his fingers for a moment, then shakes his head. 'I'm not sleeping with someone called Jake.'

Erica stares at him for a long moment, then bursts out laughing. 'That's the most feeble excuse I've ever heard.'

Kent knows it is. It's probably the weakest he's ever used, but he's trotted out enough in front of her that he's not entirely sure. Either way he follows her lead as she walks down the road, glancing back only once to make sure he's still with her. He folds the napkin in an imprecise square and shoves it in a pocket; he won't look at it again. He knows the difference between an appreciative look that precedes a shag and a careful glance that says the wearer's imagining the possibility of something more, or wondering what sort of films he likes or if he'd be likely to accept an invitation to dinner. He knows because he's worn them all looking at Chandler, at one time or another, and it wouldn't be fair on Kent or this Jake to indulge in that charade.

He's not interested, not in that long-term sort of thing, not with anyone he can have. Just the one he can't.

It wouldn't work with Jake, anyway.

His eyes are the wrong shade of blue.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this one! There are five parts to this in total, to be posted over the next five days. Thanks for reading! :)