A NEW ROMANTIC
by saizine

He hears Miles before he sees him, which, in itself, is not out of the ordinary.

Exactly what he's shouting isn't unusual, either, and for that reason Kent doesn't as much as flinch when the doors to the incident room are flung open. It's the flash of red on Chandler's face that attracts his attention.

'Sir—!' he yelps, and he hasn't even had a chance to push his chair away from his desk when Miles is shouting again. The files he's been balancing between his lap and the desk splatter over the floor, too, and before Kent can stop it there's a carpet of insurance claims around his feet.

'You imbecilic prat!' Miles spits, though not at Kent. Even from where he's crouched he can tell that was directed at their very own Detective Inspector. 'You can't just waltz on into a suspect's house and interrupt their business luncheons!'

'Well, business luncheon's a bit generous, don't you think?' Chandler's voice betrays how pleased with himself he is, and Kent tries to ignore how it sends a gentle shiver down his spine. He's given up trying to stop it from happening at all. 'It was more like three stale sandwiches and a vat of stewed tea.'

'Oh, piss off!' Miles says as he walks over to his desk. Kent can see his shoes from the gap under the furniture. There's a pause, and then, 'Sir.'

Kent imagines the smile before he sees it, and when he decides that there's no pressing reason to make sure all the edges of the papers line up, he reappears from beneath his desk and, well, it's even better than he remembered. It always is. God, how can someone look so attractive with their own blood spilling across their face? It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be allowed. Kent has enough trouble keeping his thoughts in control when Chandler's put together, all combed hair and pressed suits, for there not to be any respite when he's been roughed up.

He's about to say something when Riley walks in, clasping a box of Buchan's files. They already have three, shoved underneath Mansell's desk, and her face says more than words can about her feelings on the subject. Nevertheless, they humour him, although they'd never expected to be on the receiving end of such a extensive portrait of automobile-related crime throughout Britain and the continent. There were whispers of expanding to the Americas, and maybe it was that more than anything that made Chandler go on the warpath.

In any case, Riley ignores the arrival of their superiors and deposits the box on her desk with a resounding thump. She stands next to it with her hands on her hips for a moment, as if expecting it to do a trick. Kent wouldn't be surprised if a mouse wriggled out, one day. Buchan would probably keep them on as the assistants he's been longing for.

She gives up on the files, and wanders over to stand by Kent's side, gazing down at the forms that litter the surface of his desk. 'How are the insurance claims coming? Any of them squealing yet?'

Kent raises his eyebrows and nods towards where their boss is leaning heavily against the nearest desk.

She glances at him when she doesn't get a verbal answer, and follows his smirking gaze. 'Oh, my God. What happened?'

Miles picks something up from the tip on top of his desk—a pen, probably, though why he needs it isn't particularly obvious—and waves it in Chandler's general direction. 'This tall pillock decided to startle a large group of villains and provoke an all-holds-barred scrap.'

Riley grins. She's seen enough blood and gore that her boss arriving in the office with a rough-looking nosebleed isn't a reason for panic. 'So you're rubbing off on him then, skip?'

The older officer grumbles something that's undoubtedly supposed to sound disparaging, but it doesn't work. They all grin, Chandler included (although the blood slips perilously close to the corner of his mouth), and Miles turns from one to the next with a scowl.

'You're all idiots,' he says, but there's no venom behind it, and there might even be a hint of a smile.

Chandler's eyes are bright, too, despite the darkening bruise around the left one. Even so, it's the deep scrape that makes Kent's chest constrict, the one that tells a tale of metal on skin. A ring, probably, on a thrown fist, one not unlike the one that graces Chandler's hand. He's obviously held something to it in the car because the blood's smeared across his cheek, but new crimson keeps creeping across his skin.

'I beg to differ, Miles,' says the boss as he shrugs off his coat, and when he gets to peeling off his suit jacket, Kent has to distract himself with the scanner he's just finished installing. Just as he thinks it's safe, the waistcoat comes off, and the manila folder near his left wrist is terribly, terribly fascinating.

'Yeah, well, you would,' Miles mutters, and as he shifts his gaze to rest on Kent, the young man is convinced that the heat on the inside of his skin (embarrassment, by his own diagnosis) is the last bit of evidence the team would need to feel justified in the inevitable, merciless jibes about how he feels about their DI.

'Kent, go and get him mopped up,' Miles continues, jerking an extended thumb over his shoulder towards where Chandler stands folding his discarded clothes. 'He'll be no use, he's had all his sense knocked out of him.'

Kent nods and catches Chandler's eye, and if he smiles a bit as well, nobody else notices.

'Mansell, with me.'

The summons is the first bit of good news the older constable's received all day, and he relinquishes his part of the paperwork slog with a sly grin. Kent can't—doesn't—blame him for jogging out the doors after Miles' retreating footsteps. He was starting to think that the only thing more boring than filling in insurance claims was reading them.

Riley pushes the sleeves of her dark cardigan to her elbows with the sort of relish reserved for a particularly well-deserved breakthrough. 'Guess I'd better get cracking on these, then?'

She doesn't wait for either of them to reply and in the space of a second she's balancing two boxes against her hips, one under each arm. Another second passes and she's making a beeline towards the stairs, jostling one or two uniform officers as she goes. None of them mind; the cheeky grin on her face is enough.

Then Kent is left standing behind his desk with nothing to do except watch the old blood congeal around his boss's nostrils. His initial instinct is to do something, anything, to occupy his hands before he turns that particularly telling shade of red. Chandler wouldn't miss that, even if had did seem to manage to miss everything else. Kent's always been quiet though, even with the team, so the fact that no sound was coming out of his throat easily wasn't entirely due to the lingering grin on Chandler's face. No, definitely not. Not that.

He's just about wrapped his head around the idea that he'd been given an order when Chandler addresses him. 'Kent—'

'I'll just—' Kent fills in, covering any inquiry with the words that he could only keep at the front of his mind for a minute and a half. 'I'll just go and get the kit, sir.'

This is, apparently, suitable enough for Chandler because he leans back from where he'd stood, bent, to talk. Kent is grateful—thankful—for the space as he pushes through it, and if he takes a deeper breath than normal when they're chest-to-chest, then that's his business, isn't it?

'D'you want me to scrub up, sir?'

'What?'

Kent's voice has a degree of humour to it that doesn't quite align, and Chandler leans against a sink despite his better judgement. He wouldn't have done it at all, but there's blood threatening to dribble down the collar of his best work shirt and that supersedes things, doesn't it? He's not even sure that the ceramic can bear his weight, and he doesn't even want to know what sorts of things are on the floor, but he does it because he has to.

He turns his head to watch Kent's hands, forearms, elbows under the running water. His sleeves have already been rolled up, neat and tucked, to above his elbows; he'd got rid of his jacket long before they'd come anywhere near the toilets. It's just as well, really, even though Kent's shirt is dark—grey—and the tie is as close to black as fabric could be. Chandler can't help but become more and more aware of the slow, warm trickle over his skin, the throbbing on top of his nose, the tenderness of his jaw. Then there's the release of adrenaline, slipping away. Control in the chaotic, losing it in the mundane.

His hand goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, applying the pressure that normally dulls the edges of a headache, but his fingers come away damp and flinching. 'Shit.'

'Here, sir,' says Kent's voice from somewhere much further right than he'd expected.

Chandler wipes the blood away with the paper towel, frowning at his own hands. It should be worrying, really, that it's his hands that bother him more than the sharp shooting pain down his face, but it's all just distraction in the end, isn't it?

'Look at me for a moment,' Kent says as he ducks his head to bring it level with Chandler's.

Chandler knows what Kent's doing. He should—he knows all the handbooks, after all. First aid is one that he reviews fairly often, just in case. He may have even done a course, once, when he was much younger, but they all blur together a bit. In any case, basic first aid is a requirement for all police officers, and Kent's always struck Chandler as someone who'd finish his homework. Head trauma—especially repeated, as he was used to experiencing—can result in differently sized pupils, indicative of more a serious injury than a black eye. A fractured skull, in fact. So that was why Kent was peering at him, all dark irises and wide-eyed. Open, warm. His eyes were large, really, for the rest of his face.

Kent steps back just as Chandler realises the direction his thoughts have taken him. 'Right, well, I don't think you'll be keeling over in the interim.'

Chandler reckons he could have just told him that. 'It's a relatively old wound at this point.'

The corners of Kent's mouth twitch. 'Just another in the line of bad knocks to the head, sir?'

'Everyone's got to collect something, haven't they?'

Kent laughs, then, a short chuckle that brings a brief smile to Chandler's face. The slip of fresh blood reappears, though, and he can't quite hold off the scowl as he mops his cheek. The constable lets him get on with it, even if he's a bit rougher than strictly necessary. By the time Chandler is satisfied that the job's done, Kent is holding two fingers under a running tap, presumably waiting until it's warm. Perhaps not warm, exactly, but enough to take the arctic edge off.

'What exactly happened, sir?'

Chandler's still wondering why—why?—Kent is bothering to take so much care with him when he finally realises he's been asked a direct question.

'We went to go and have a chat with Stoker,' he began, dabbing at the blood that had been pooling above his top lip, 'and happened upon what I suppose you could call an organizational meeting. We only had to knock on the door before the lot of them had decided to make a last-minute break for it. One barreled straight into me, another went straight into Miles, and before long I'm tasting blood—' Chandler's lip curls involuntarily in the pause. '—and there's a load of uniforms in the back garden.'

'Case closed, then?'

'Should be. A couple of them managed to slip away but the rest are lounging in holding cells as we speak.'

Kent smiles, wide and giddy, as he removes his fingers and replaces them with the cloth in his hand. 'Nothing like a bit of right place, right time policing.'

'Don't say that to Miles. He'll have your hide.'

'The higher-ups love it. Easy arrest, no-fuss trial, certain result.'

Chandler ignores the implied question only because he's never been certain of the answer. Kent doesn't continue, only pulls the white flannel from underneath the clear water spewing from the tap and wrings it out between his hands. When the damp, cool fabric meets his skin, it should be a respite from the throbbing in his jaw and the dull heat of injury. It is, in a way, because Kent's careful movement is much more controlled than his own pawing would be, if he'd been left to his own devices, but it's awkward. Chandler doesn't mind, but it's awkward.

It's awkward because he doesn't mind and is self-aware enough to know it.

When the younger officer leans away from his boss' head and rinses the flannel in another stream of water, Chandler can't help but let his gaze follow. The water runs clear—he hadn't been bleeding enough to soak through anything as thick as a towel—but there's a viscous warmth spreading over the bridge of his nose that's pointedly unwelcome.

Kent eyes the cut, the one Chandler knows is there but hasn't properly seen yet. His brow furrows slightly, ever so slightly, and Chandler wonders if he's ever missed that expression before. 'It should have stopped bleeding so much by now.'

Chandler resists the urge to shrug. 'I probably disturbed it.'

'Mmmhm.'

There's something in Kent's voice that Chandler knows shouldn't be there. He's known, of course. But until that moment, he hasn't really understood what it means, has he? The concern in the small sound in his throat goes further than that of a teammate. It always does. This isn't the first time. The flicker of Kent's eyes towards him while he soaks a second cloth in antiseptic won't be the last, either. It should concern him, as his superior officer. It really should, except it doesn't, and it might even do something else entirely. But that's something else that Chandler ignores because he doesn't really know what to do with the inevitable conclusion. Instead, he just watches, and waits, and expects the entire thing to resolve itself with minimal fuss. Time would sort it out—eventually—he hopes, because he's really not suited to resolving these sorts of things.

But the more he thinks, the closer Kent's getting with that antiseptic, and he barely notices when the constable's deft fingers press fabric onto the bone of his nose. Chandler hisses before he's had a chance to smother the sound.

'Sorry, sorry—sir.'

He manages to choke out, 'It's all right,' before there's another strong twinge and his eyes are shut.

Kent makes a sound in the back of his throat as he lifts the corner of the cloth before pressing it down again. 'It's a bit deeper than I thought.'

Chandler makes the appropriate face, with raised eyebrows and a slightly nonchalant curve to his mouth. It's the best he can do in the face of the stinging and the corrosive smell that's actually making his eyes sting and the fact that Kent's looking at him with such misplaced concern. The attempt feels incredibly feeble and transparent. It passes muster, though, and Kent switches hands to keep the cloth in contact with the broken skin, and folds another damp piece of gauze into a small rectangle.

He places it over the one soaked in antiseptic, gently pinching the bridge of Chandler's nose. 'Lean forward a bit, sir, just in case your nose starts bleeding again.'

'How'd you—?' Chandler asks, as he does what he's told.

'I live with a nurse.'

'Oh.' It's the only response that feels appropriate.

Kent presses forward, filling their silence. 'I've been in your position loads of times. This is one of the more familiar routines.'

Chandler's not really thought about Kent's flatmates before. In passing, yes, when he's mentioned them but they all sort of amalgamate into a single entity with several names. It's odd, in the same way it'd been odd to imagine that his teachers had wives and children of their own. It isn't as if he doesn't know, and it's not like he hasn't been round Miles' far more times than he'd think was expressly necessary. It's not like he's never seen Kent or any of the others outside of the office. They all have lives outside of work—well, okay, maybe he doesn't but the rest of them definitely do—so where does 'his' come into it? His office, his sergeant, his team, his officers. That there might be other denominations of belonging ('This is Emerson Kent, he's my flatmate,' for example) seems expressly foreign.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Kent's still holding the cloth to the bridge of Chandler's nose. He can't quite wrap his head around why he'd been comfortable enough not to notice.

'Yeah—yeah, fine. Fine.'

'In that case, sir, I think you'll survive. Even if you have experienced my cack-handed version of first aid.'

'No, no, it was—'

Kent somehow manages to cut him off without using words. Instead, he lifts the corner of the cloth again and peers at the underside; Chandler has the distinct feeling that he should be quiet. He's not sure why. Maybe it's the way Kent's mouth thins before he smothers that particular involuntary reaction with a lighthearted expression that isn't quite complete.

'Go on, hold that there,' he says, and he relinquishes control of the cloth to Chandler's larger hand. 'You're going to have a few nasty bruises in the morning, but there's nothing we can do about those, I'm afraid.'

'It won't be the first time I've come into work looking like I've had a run-in with a blender.'

Kent smiles. Chandler does, too, after a moment, and he can't quite believe it.

'Thank you, Kent,' he says as he gets back on his feet.

'Just doing my job, sir.'

Except it isn't, is it? His job. Not really.

'Even so.'

'Oh, hold on, sir—' Kent says briskly, with the sort of staccato timing that usually accompanies sudden revelations, as he reaches behind him to retrieve one of the damp cloths.

Chandler's glad to see he chooses a corner that's not already stained pink, though there's none of the dread he expects, and it's that stunning thought that keeps him still as Kent reaches up and wipes at what he can only assume is dried blood on his cheek that they missed the first time. It's such an engrossing conundrum—the lack of compulsion—that Chandler lets Kent tip his face to the opposite side with his thumb and forefinger. He knows what Chandler would do, and funnily enough, Chandler trusts Kent—trusts him to do his job for him. If that's not intimate, nothing is.

They've been that way for a while, haven't they? Chandler hasn't noticed, and for a heart-stopping second, he wonders if Kent has. Probably. He's not stupid. Neither of them are. That's terrifying, isn't it? The idea that someone's had the same thought as you have.

'You should be all right now,' Kent says, pulling Chandler away from his thoughts.

'Right.'

'Just try not to drip on the paperwork.'

Kent directs his twitching smile more towards the first aid kit than anything else, but Chandler grins despite himself. At least, until there's an uncomfortable, sticky stretching over his damaged nose, and it's at that point that he decides bowing out would probably be the best option. It's safer—on all fronts—in his office.

And he's getting a headache.

By the time he's back in the incident room, Chandler's looking for a reason to return to the men's toilets—and he's rather certain that 'helping Kent tidy up' won't cut it. He would have just slipped out of the bustling room to find somewhere, anywhere, with a bit of peace suitable for thinking if Mansell hadn't bumped into him on his way in.

'Boss—Buchan's getting overzealous again.'

Chandler peers at the file box in the officer's hands around the hazy edges of gauze that obscure his vision. 'I'll have a word with him.'

Mansell rolls his eyes. 'Have you considered giving him something to do, sir?'

'He's got plenty to do.'

'Have you considered giving him something to do that doesn't result in us having far too much to do?'

Chandler's nose twinges as he pinches it just a little too hard. 'I'll—I'll sort it out.'

Something about his face must underline his words, because Mansell nods and pushes past him, towards the lifts. The door clicks shut behind Chandler as he checks if he's stopped bleeding—he's not—and it's only with a dismayed sigh that he walks through the group of DCs gathering the research paraphernalia that covers every desk in the office. Anything that would be relevant in court has already been catalogued and removed; Chandler can only hope that nothing goes missing and they don't have to recreate the time when he and Miles spent the majority of a Friday evening trawling through piles of paperwork to find one misplaced form. Even Chandler's insistence on organization and cleanliness can't fix the danger zone that is Whitechapel Police Station's filing system.

Chandler's still trying to gather his thoughts when he eases himself into his chair. The headache's arrived in earnest, there are aches creeping into muscles he's not used in years and his jaw probably won't even be able to manage toast in the morning. Even so, he fishes his phone and pen out of his discarded jacket pocket and spends a good minute awkwardly undoing his watch just so he can line them up, side-by-side, on his desk. It helps—a bit. It helps just enough to stop him from snapping at Miles when he charges in.

'You look terrible,' is the greeting, and Chandler grimaces through it.

'Thanks, Miles.'

'You'll cheer up once we've got a pint down you,' Miles continues, setting a pile of folders down on his side of the desk and sinking into the closest chair. 'They've all been cautioned and charged. One of the younger ones has even ratted out Stoker.'

Chandler straightens the manila folders with his free hand. 'Has he agreed to give evidence?'

'Riley's working on that.'

'Right. What else have we got?'

'Apart from no free rooms and several baseless accusations of serious violent assault? A case not far from closed, in my opinion. Stoker and both his right hand men are downstairs. The one you thought was his—what was it, sort of protegé?—he managed to get over the garden fence but we've got some uniforms combing the area. He can't have got far, and one of the other lads reckons he knows his local—'

Chandler lets Miles continue to fill him in, although he's only half listening. It's not like he's not going to read the files himself later on. He eases the fabric off his nose as gently as he possibly can, and although it sticks slightly, it comes off and he doesn't end up with a fresh rivulet of blood down the side of his face. Another tentative dab and Chandler's sure that bar any extreme nose scrunching, it'll be fine. Or, at least, he hopes it will. He's never been any sort of expert on these things. Even so, he's confident enough to lean over and slide the soiled gauze into the closest bin. It's when he leans up and glances through the glass in his office door that the feeling evaporates to something much less self-assured. Kent's come back into the incident room, and as he places the insurance details in alphabetical order by surname, he manages to catch Chandler's eye.

It's the quiet little smile playing on Kent's mouth that will haunt him for days.

(It won't be the first time.)

Chandler hasn't come to any sort of conclusion by the time he's standing outside Miles' front door, and it's a week later. He's normally much quicker than that, but it had taken more brainpower than he'd expected to decide on bringing a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pâpe and a fluffy white rabbit that he supposes is endearing. He's more confident about the wine than the soft toy. After all, what business does he have attending someone's first birthday party? There isn't much space in his brain left for contemplating what could very well be a nonexistent problem when there's a nonsensical social gathering to get through first.

He's almost convinced himself that it's entirely normal to attempt to ring someone's doorbell with your elbow when a silhouette appears, diluted by the mottled glass. Chandler can tell it's Miles, even without the over-exaggerated shake of the head he gets for his efforts. In any case, he's just pleased he doesn't have to wrestle with any more doorbells or door handles or doorknobs. At least not external ones, anyway.

Miles twists the inside lock and pulls the door open. 'Good, you're here. Our lot arrived half an hour ago and we're already running low on drink.'

Chandler feels like he needs a drink sooner rather than later, preferably with a high vodka to mixer ratio. Then again, if he thinks about the reason why he's itching to have his hand wrapped around a highball glass, it would probably be best if he doesn't. He might get ideas. He's getting them already. He'd had a week to get his mind under control, since they'd had no cases that had taken more than a few hours to clear up, and yet he couldn't do it. Between Kent and the wine and the gift and the paperwork, he'd maxed out. He'd scrubbed the kitchen twice. He'd had to go out for another tub of Tiger Balm, and hadn't that been an outing.

'You're not having a wobble, are you?'

Chandler frowns. 'What?'

His sergeant just looks at him.

'No,' Chandler says, though it comes out a little more forcefully than he'd like. 'Of course not.'

Miles eyes him carefully, then steps back from the door. 'Come in, then.'

Chandler obeys, holding out the bottle as he crosses the threshold. Miles relieves him of it and peers at the label as he shuts the door; Chandler can't quite relax until he hears the click of the latch. Riley catches sight of him from where she's sat in the living room, and raises a hand in smiling greeting; Kent mumbles what Chandler can only assume is a hello as he steps out of the kitchen.

'Nice red,' Miles says as he appears at Chandler's side.

'Mmm.'

(Miles doesn't need to know he'd got through an entire bottle on his own the night before.)

'Good of you.'

Chandler doesn't answer, and he doesn't have to because another guest catches Miles' attention. He excuses himself with a brief grumble—one of Judy's friends from book club, he says, not sure why she's even here—and leaves Chandler and Kent in the hallway. They don't say anything, although Chandler feels like he probably should. Kent had looked like he'd been on his way somewhere before he'd been halted by his arrival. Granted, it was probably just to the living room and by the way Riley's cackling Chandler doesn't want to get any nearer either, but even so. He'd interrupted, hadn't he?

He's just opening his mouth to say something predictably inane when Mansell appears out of a side door with a face like thunder.

'Mansell!' he exclaims, glad for the obvious distraction. 'I wouldn't have thought this was your sort of thing.'

'It's a decent excuse for a booze-up, sir,' Mansell explains, tipping the bottle in his hand in a mock toast.

Kent's voice is a welcome murmur from Chandler's right. 'Though it's not like he needs a decent excuse at all…'

The flick of the two-fingered salute from Mansell's retreating wrist elicits such a satisfying smile from Kent's face that Chandler doesn't even mind that he's still stood there, in the hall, clasping a stuffed rabbit.

'What's the name of the woman he's going out with now?' Chandler asks, head inclined.

Kent's watching him out of the corner of his eye as he sips from the bottle in his hands. He swallows quickly in order to answer. 'Sophie.'

Chandler straightens. 'You'll have to point her out to me.'

'She's the one with the bright pink drink, sir,' Kent says, cocking an eyebrow as he raises the lager to his mouth. 'You really can't miss it.'

He must recoil, because Kent just looks at him and smiles.

'I suppose it's not that pink.'

'If it's pink, it's pink enough.'

'I take it you're not so keen on rosé.'

Chandler tries to find an answer but none seem to come to mind while Kent watches him with his head tilted back against the wall. Luckily Judy shares Miles' impeccable sense of timing and appears out of the kitchen just before Chandler manages to render himself tongue-tied.

'Joe!' she says with a wide smile. 'We were starting to think you weren't going to come at all.'

She envelops him in a brief hug, and Kent slinks away. Chandler tries not to think about how his eyes follow the back of the constable's head; he focuses on smoothing the front of his sweater instead. It doesn't really work—soft knits are never quite crisp enough when he's in these moods—but it gives him something to do with his hands until he remembers he's delivering a gift.

'Tell Millie happy birthday, from me.'

She takes the rabbit from his outstretched hand, and tweaks a paw. 'Aw, Joe, it's lovely. Thank you—and you can tell her yourself, in a bit.'

He grins, but his bruised cheekbone protests. 'Sorry about my face. It's a mess, I know, I'll keep out of the way of your pictures.'

'Don't be silly! You'll be useful. When Ray's too ancient to threaten Mille's dates, we'll whip you out.'

Miles shoots her a disbelieving glance as he searches the drawers for a corkscrew. 'Yeah, he's all sorts of threatening. Just waltzes up to a would-be Kray and decides to have a boxing match. Pounces on unassuming serial car thieves at lunchtime.'

Judy beams. 'Brilliantly intimidating, don't you think?'

'Brilliantly dense,' Miles grunts as he extracts the cork and hands the open bottle to his wife.

'They don't know that,' she says, convinced. The empty glasses in front of her fill one by one. 'They just know there's a six-foot-two policeman hovering around and there's pictures of him at Mille's first birthday having recently expertly dealt with a group of delinquents.'

'If she brings any delinquents home—'

Chandler accepts the glass of wine Judy offers him, and cradles it in his hand. He's glad for the heavy leather of the liquid, the warmth and the depth. It gives him something to think about that's not his colleagues or his work or his life. His feelings, like those had ever done him any good. He's glad for Miles' ranting too, although he's about fifteen years too early to be worrying about his daughter's taste in boys, because Miles on a bit of a rant is normal and god, he needs normal. He's perfectly happy to stand there, nurse his glass of wine, and listen. That's easiest—the least problematic.

'Have you seen this?' Judy asks, ignoring the tail end of Miles' puffing and blowing.

The detective inspector glances over his shoulder, following her line of sight. 'What?'

'Ed.'

Chandler's heart sinks. 'What's he done now?'

Judy wrinkles her nose. 'Nothing! He's lovely, look!'

They peer around the edge of the archway that opens into the sitting room, and it's soon clear what they're supposed to be looking at. Millie giggles gleefully, balanced on Riley's knee, as Ed narrates some sort of impossible story that even had smiles playing on some of the adults' faces.

'He's got a flair for the dramatic,' says Chandler around a growing smile.

'Yeah, the sort of dramatics that makes everyone over the age of seven heave.'

'Miles—'

The older detective raises a hand, dismissing Chandler's admonishments. 'Yeah, yeah, I'll give you that. He's an alright sod.'

Chandler shrugs, but he's still smiling. 'I suppose that's the best I'm going to get.'

'It's the best I've heard of him yet!' Judy says, nudging her husband into the adjoining room with her free hand.

He lasts forty minutes. It would have been longer if he hadn't managed to be quite so efficient in shooting down all of Ed's plans for adding an assistant to the archive. By the time the researcher moves on to his ill-fated ideas for expansion, Chandler's glad to pass him off to Sophie—who, it turns out, is an archivist herself. Ed's thrilled, and Chandler retreats.

He manages to wrestle down a growing sense of unease until Judy's sister catches him while he's en route to the relative solace of the kitchen. She plants herself in his path, one hand latched around a flute of cava and the other hovering uncomfortably near his sternum. There's nothing to do except to accept his fate.

'Hello again.'

'It's—Joe, isn't it?' she asks, but there's a smile on her face that suggests she most definitely hadn't forgotten his name.

'Mmhm.'

He doesn't ask after her name; she doesn't notice the implication.

'It's nice to see you again, we didn't get to chat much at the christening—'

Chandler answers too quickly. 'No, no, we didn't.'

'—and it'd be lovely to get to know each other a bit more, don't you think?'

His eyes flicker from her overeager face to the open archway that seems much farther away than it actually is, and there's no honest answer to give. She doesn't seem to need one, though, as she launches into what could be termed a verbal autobiography. Chandler simply polishes off what's left of his drink and nods when appropriate. It's when she's detailing her work schedule and lays a hand on his arm that he panics. It's not even the contact itself, nor the noticeable flinch that bothers him; it's the fact that he hadn't done it a week ago, when he'd let Kent get much closer and not minded. When he hadn't felt the need to excuse himself and talk himself down, when he hadn't wanted to extricate himself as quickly as possible. It's a terrifyingly indisputable thought.

Chandler covers the recoil by shoving his empty glass onto the closest side table and digging through his pockets.

'Oh, sorry. I've got to take this.' He wiggles his phone in the air for a second, keeping the blank screen facing his chest.

'Duty calls!' she says, winking as she pats his shoulder.

The tense smile he attempts comes out a little bit more like a grimace, but she doesn't seem to notice. He breathes a sigh of relief as he ducks into the kitchen; he'll just have to wait for a minute or two, then speak to Miles. Anyone would think he'd just had a phone call from work and was relaying information to his sergeant. No questions asked, no answers required. It's a good thing, too, seeing as Chandler doesn't know if he has any.

He finds Miles chatting to another of Judy's innumerous relatives next to the back door. It says enough about their working relationship that the older detective takes one look at Chandler's face and extricates himself.

'What's going on?'

'I'm just going to pay a visit to your pond,' Chandler says, nodding past Miles' shoulder to the darkness held apart by windows.

'Is there any particular reason you've taken such a sudden fancy to my carp?'

'It's—it's all a bit—well, a bit much,' he mutters, and he knows Miles understands it's not just Judy's sister.

Even so, her ill-timed wave in their direction earns slightly crooked expressions from the both of them.

'Yeah, I know what you mean,' Miles says when Riley takes pity on them both and distracts her. 'God, I wish I could go out there and have a sit down myself.'

(Chandler really hopes that he doesn't.)

Miles stares at him through the pause. 'Well, what are you still doing here, then?'

After mumbling something embarrassingly similar to thanks, Chandler flees. He doesn't really want to think of it as fleeing, but that's what it is, in the end, isn't it? In any case, he's thankful for the cool October air and the gentle splashes of Miles' fish retreating as he approaches. It's almost too cold to be outside without a coat, but Chandler's always been a warm creature and his sweater will do. The warm glow falling from the open windows doesn't quite reach the grass where Chandler pauses, and as he shoves his hands into his pockets the rumble of laughter drifts out. He feels no temptation to join in, not when the moon's reflection flashes in the ripples of water. Not when there's an owl hooting, somewhere, and he can finally string two coherent thoughts together. He doesn't particularly like the thoughts, nor are they comfortable, but it's reassuring that he's having them at all.

The fact that Kent keeps popping into his mind is entirely incidental. That's what he's trying to tell himself, because somewhere in the back of his skull he knows that it's the furthest thing from incidental that could possibly exist. He's seen better excuses for coincidence from even the most haphazard of criminals. Plus, even Chandler knows that if it's not worked after a week of trying then it's not going to. He would have expected this sort of thing to come on slowly, gradually, incrementally; it hasn't. It's a sudden, all-encompassing idea that grows the less he feeds it.

There are a hundred reasons that should stop him. Kent's male—but that doesn't seem to have deterred Chandler's train of thought so far. Kent's a subordinate officer—but it wouldn't be the first time that's happened in the force. Kent's his colleague, they work together and it could compromise the integrity of the team—but it's not like Chandler wouldn't be willing to put himself between any one of his workmates and a bullet. Kent's at least seven years younger than him—but they're both adults, they can make their own decisions. Kent can't possibly understand how much of a mess Chandler feels he is—but he might understand enough.

A wind picks up as Chandler scrapes a hand across his face, and if he was in a better state of mind he might have minded that it ruffled the front of his hair. He doesn't, though, and glances back at the house from the gap between his fingers. The gentle flop of fish investigating his presence is interrupted by the resounding pop of a cork; Chandler tries to ignore the muffled crescendo of familiar voices. He doesn't succeed, and there's a fresh surge of guilt that comes with Miles' rusty laughter. Is he really trying to find an excuse to try it on with their youngest team member? Is he really—

There's a crunching of gravel and Chandler looks towards the sound. He can't quite understand the feeling of relief he gets when he recognizes Kent's silhouette. It shouldn't be there, for both the obvious reasons and the fact that Kent confuses him—a bit. (A lot.)

He's all youth, yet none of it reaches his eyes. The sharp line of his jaw is set against the warm light behind him, shoulders hunched against the wind that picks up as he approaches. What was it about him, age and youth in one glance? Chandler wonders if he's like that, too many lost lifetimes contracted into thirty-three years. Kent has even less time to fill, and fill it he's done. Hardened by the cold, by the job, by time. It got them all in the end, even him. Even Kent, all large-eyed and smiling when he was pleased. All tears in car parks. All wringing hands and bitten lips. All silver scars and brave faces.

'I've been told to retrieve you in the name of cake, sir.'

Kent stops walking in the middle of the sentence, angling his body to face the pond as he stands at the older man's shoulder.

Chandler sniffs. 'Not an entirely compelling argument.'

'Skip insists.'

'Well, in that case.'

Kent exhales through his nose in a half-laugh, and Chandler smiles at the side of his head. Silence stretches the time between them, and Chandler's starting to wonder why Miles wasn't storming out to fetch them himself when Kent finally speaks again.

'Are you all right, sir?'

Kent's question hovers in the air, unsolicited, and neither of them move their heads to look at it.

'Why do you always ask?' Chandler can't reroute the frown that mars his brow.

Kent shrugs, his hands still buried in his jacket pockets. 'I wonder, sir.'

It's a simple enough answer, but it still puzzles Chandler. He could ask why Kent wonders, but he won't, because that's far too close to a direct question for comfort. Was it the mere suggestion that Kent cares that made him interested in the first place? Chandler can't help but wonder if he's attracted because Kent is—because there was the suggestion of reciprocation before he even thought about wanting it. But when had he first thought about wanting it? There isn't a safe answer.

Kent's been watching him. Chandler hasn't noticed, but when he turns and Kent's eyes are already on him, that's the only possible conclusion. His first instinct is to look away, to regain some vestige of comfort, but there's something in the set of Kent's brow that anchors him. Something gentle that's absent elsewhere. And maybe that's why he doesn't flinch away from the flicker of Kent's eyes as they dart across his mouth, because as much of a warning as that is it doesn't worry him like Judy's sister's hand had. Maybe that's why he doesn't move when Kent does, when Kent leans upwards with his hands in his pockets and brushes an inexplicable kiss to the corner of Chandler's mouth.

When he steps back, his eyes rake across Chandler's face, and the older man can't quite make his stunned face move. Then Kent's mouth tightens, hard and disappointed, before he turns and begins to walk away.

'Wait—' The word is out of Chandler's mouth before he even realises that it's been laying heavy on his tongue.

Kent turns around, halted by whatever it was that broke in Chandler's voice. 'What?'

Maybe it's the lack of a questioning 'sir,' maybe it's the fact that it's dark or maybe it's the fact that Kent's probably just smashed through his carefully constructed floodgates but Chandler reaches out and Kent's skin warms his hands and he kisses him. He just does it, and it's probably the first thing he's just done in years, so as Kent's shocked mouth becomes pliable under his own it's all he can do to realise he's not being pushed away, and that he doesn't particularly want to be. It's not just the small sound he makes in the back of his throat when Chandler takes one of Kent's lips between his own, either; it's the curl of Kent's fingers into the cashmere of his jumper, the handful of Kent's jacket collar Chandler had caught when he grasped the side of his face, the slide of his fingers through the ends of Kent's hair, the tickle of shallow breaths against his cheek—

Chandler pulls away with a sucked-in breath, and although Kent follows him he can't catch up. His hands jerk away, recoiling to a reasonable difference quicker than Kent can relinquish his grip. There's a flicker of hurt on the constable's face when Chandler steps back, and they look at each other a moment longer than necessary.

His first instinct is to apologize, but he's not sure if he's sorry yet. He settles for a sentence instead.

'I—I don't know why I did that.'

'Do you need to?'

Yes. The immediate answer is yes, but as he watches Kent's dark eyes watching him, Chandler doesn't feel as strongly as he might have done before.

'Come on,' Kent says, his voice harder than Chandler's used to. 'They'll be waiting.'

And then he's gone. Not gone gone, because he's still there and Chandler watches his back as he walks away, but he's missed his chance, hasn't he? Kent was there with him for a moment and then he pushed him out, even as he realised he didn't really want to. There's something rising in his throat as Chandler jogs to catch up, hand half outstretched to clasp Kent's shoulder, but it dies away and he slows to a walk as they reach the gravel of Miles' drive.

His hand falls to his side, and he's never been so disappointed in himself in his life.

A/N: Here we go with another Whitechapel Chandler/Kent offering from me! Hope you enjoy it-this is the first of eleven chapters, the next will be posted on Thursday, 05 December 2013. :)