Work Text:
Dedicated to Claire; she knows why.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, but the more I see'em, the more I wanna change
the name on the "if found, return to" tags...
PAIRING: Meadows/Grieg
RATING: PG-13 (Sorry... I tried, really I did...)
CHRONOLOGY: Set the day after DI Deakin's appointment (after ep
'Getting Even')
COMMENTS: All the "money where your mouth is" comments kinda got
to me after a while. Thanks guys. Title from "Speak Low" by
Ogden Nash and Kurt Weill. (When you speak low to me, speak love
and soon...)
THANKS TO: Claire for being an all-round hoopy dude and the Grieg
Pioneer - she *showed* me it could be done. Others *said*, she
*did*. And she put me straight on one or two matters of canon
[g]. Me, I'm no' quite up to the task. But I'm told I give good
angst. Plus a king-size apologetic bouquet to Tracey for
providing inspiration and unremitting good cheer in the face of
numerous frustrated and obscenely worded Blast The Man rants.
Forgive me?
FEEDBACK: Yes, oh yes, a thousand times yes. As ever. Knock
three times and whisper bessie@goldweb.com.au...
=========
Alistair: Sins of Omission (Speak low to me...)
by kel
=========
He loves this, the eternal nightscape, never quite dark, never silent.
The reflected glow of eight million souls honeying the underside of
thick, night clouds, dissipating through the winter air.
Coming up here reminds him of what it's all about, of why he bothers.
He imagines the strains of old, familiar songs floating over the
silhouettes, mingling with the cadence of shouts from the night markets
and the ever-present rumbling of the traffic. Symphony for horns and
clarinet.
The noise reaches a particularly dissonant peak, somewhere to his left,
a few blocks away. He listens. Waits. Hears the quiet, rusty
complaint of the outer roof door under the cacophony, and quiet
footsteps, close, behind him.
"That'll be those bloody traffic lights down the High Street."
"Again? They were working this morning."
"Aye. For all of five minutes. "
Quiet laughter.
He moves over, a little, bunches up against the rusting handrail of the
fire escape. His eyes never leave the streams of red and white lights
weaving in and out between the darkened city blocks.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. Danny said you might be up
here..."
He smiles, looks round, briefly.
"Oh, no... that's all right. I just needed a break. Wake myself up a
bit."
Meadows grins, understandingly, practised eyes searching the rooflines
for anomalous movement. Old habits die hard.
"Tallis Street?"
"Among other things. I thought you'd be off home by now."
"So did I. Brownlow had other ideas."
He doesn't sound too annoyed.
"Mind if I join you?"
And Alistair shrugs, gently; doesn't look round. The iron steps shake
under Meadows' weight as he sits down, pulls his coat around him.
They sit, companionably, in silence, for a while. It's a little cold.
Not too much, not unpleasantly so. He doesn't feel the need to speak.
"Look, Alistair..."
"Sir?"
He very carefully doesn't look round, keeps his face impassive. He's
been expecting something like this. He resists the urge to kick gently
at a cache of old cigarette butts, stuck in the rungs. Bloody Carver.
A large gentle hand almost touches his shoulder, backs off.
"About the appointment... I'm sorry."
"What for? Best man for the job, and all that."
Carefully nonchalant. He's beginning to sound like he believes it.
"I think so, yes."
"Nothing more to say then, is there?"
A little sharper than he'd intended. He looks round, finds Meadows
watching him, carefully, relents immediately.
"Sorry, but I'd really rather not discuss it again, if that's ok. "
"Fair enough."
Trademark, weary not-quite-smile.
"Just wanted to be sure there wasn't any... bad feeling, you know."
Alistair draws his knees up, rests his hands on them, concentrates on
somebody's hazard lights blinking in the next street.
"I'm sure you can rely on me to be professional about it."
Something that could almost be a laugh.
"That's half the bloody problem."
Almost to himself.
"Sir?"
He looks over, sharply, finds Meadows looking up, trailing the flashing
lights of a plane as it passes overhead.
"Christ, Alistair. Don't you ever relax?"
He looks back, sharply silhouetted against the windows of the office
block across the street, face lit softly by the tungsten below.
"I mean, properly. There's more to life, more to the job, than bloody
textbook rules and regulations and... PACE and all that. There has to
be."
"I know."
He'd said as much in the interviews, surely. He always does.
"Then why..."
Meadows trails off, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
"Why what?"
"Nothing. Forget I said anything."
He starts to get up, brushes a few traces of ash off his coat.
Alistair swings round, catches his eye. Holds it.
"If there's a problem, I think I've got a right to know. Don't you?"
Meadows halts, looking older, closed, somehow.
"There's no problem." Softly. Heavily. "You're a good officer."
"But?"
He resists the urge to stand up, bring himself level with the DCI's
unreadable gaze.
"Go on. If you've got something to say..."
He keeps his voice neutral.
Meadows sighs, body language tight suddenly.
"All right. All right. Well, for one thing, you're so... Christ
Alistair, it's a question of... of middle ground. Balance. You're
either on duty, or not here."
"Isn't that the point?"
He knows it isn't.
"It wouldn't hurt for you to unbend a little, mingle with the troops
every now and then."
"I do have other commitments."
"Yes, I know. We all do. But you've got to take time out. You've got
to make time. It's basic management. How can you expect people to do
what you want them to do if they don't know who you are, really? If
they don't know where you're coming from?"
"So you're saying..."
"I'm saying you need to put yourself about a bit."
"But-"
"A bit *more*. Forget the brass, it's the others you've got to work
with. Show them what you're made of. You've got a great track record,
you're one of the most reliable people around the joint, and you even
manage the paperwork without too many outward signs of aggression. But
there's got to be more to it than that. "
"What, like hanging round in the pub after shift?"
"If necessary, yes."
Meadows steps back down, sits again. Speaks low, earnestly.
"I know it might seem like a waste of time. But you've got to
understand it's important. It's a point of contact..."
"..which you require if you're going to have the respect of blah blah
blah."
He's heard it before. They both know it.
"It is important, Alistair."
Searching gaze. Sincere.
He nods, quietly.
"I know. I'll try and do better."
"Oh for God's sake... "
And Meadows throws his head back, runs one hand despairingly through his
hair.
"What?"
"I trust you to be straight with me."
"Of course."
"Then why not say what you want to say?"
Quietly.
"Like what?"
"If you're angry, say so."
"I'm no' angry."
"Well, upset then. Resentful. You don't like this, do you?"
"Not a lot, no."
"Then say so."
"I just did. Sir."
"Typical."
And the first words which spring to mind are less than polite, and it
shows. Just a little. A little more than a little. And there's barely
time to be frustrated at the fact before Meadows' face creases, kindly,
to a sound suspiciously redolent of swallowed laughter.
He flushes, angry.
Meadows can't quite stifle a smile.
"I'm sorry. "
He sounds anything but.
And there's a trace of heat, just a trace, in Alistair's voice.
"With respect, Sir, I..."
"Yes?"
"That was bloody well uncalled-for."
And more than a trace of heat in his face.
"That's better."
And Meadows is smiling openly now, a smile that invites response.
And Alistair's lost for words. Looks away, a shade too quickly. The
smile fades, slowly, in his peripheral vision. And there are unexpected
layers in Meadows' voice now, layers of gentle concern, reproof, and
something more.
"It makes a difference."
He's right, he knows he's right. But he's sick to Christ of hearing it.
"Maybe so."
Meadows shifts, gets comfortable on the hard step, turns slightly to
face him.
"There's no harm in being... being a bit more open, sometimes. A bit
more informal."
It's kindly meant. And needed.
"Burnside informal?"
It's an olive branch, and they both know it.
"I wouldn't go that far." Meadows grins, looks away, back.
"But there's a time and a place for 'by the book', Alistair. Sometimes
a metaphorical clip round the ear does a damn sight more good than a
civil last warning. Sometimes not. It's a question of knowing where
and when to kick. And who. And how hard. And why. And why not."
"That's all, is it?"
"That's all."
"And if you get it wrong?"
"Then you know not to do it again."
And Meadows' face is alive with kindly and contagious mischief, and he
can't help but respond.
"Right, well then I'm a monty for next time, aren't I..."
With feeling. And a quiet, self-deprecating smile sneaks under his
guard. Just.
And Meadows claps him on the back, not hard, and he feels lighter
somehow, meets that smiling gaze, close, laughter never too far away.
And finds he can't look away, somehow. Long, long moment, and the
smiles fade, slowly, and the world stills around them, and neither looks
away, and neither moves, which puzzles him faintly because he's sure
they weren't this close before...
And Alistair closes his eyes, instinctively, as their lips touch,
briefly, almost nothing, almost gone. Lightest butterfly of breath
exchanged, withdrawn.
And opens them again, as Meadows pulls back, runs a hand through his
hair, distractedly. Distraught.
"I'm sorry."
As Meadows looks away, anywhere but at Alistair, pain etched deep in the
lines on his face.
As he makes to stand, swiftly, every movement hot, vehement. Shamed.
"Guv... "
And he didn't mean to speak, or stand, but somehow he has, and he wasn't
going to do that and maybe that shows, and maybe it doesn't, and he
can't tell because the DCI won't *look* at him as he steps back,
speaking low.
"It's been a long day."
And so fucking *what*, and Alistair reaches out, instinctively; heart
pounding, voiceless, helpless. Catches hold, softly, of the heavy
material above Meadows' elbow, just stops himself short, doesn't touch
the arm underneath.
And Alistair doesn't do anything. Doesn't dare move.
And Meadows looks round, eyes heavy as lead, looking older, brittle, as
if the slightest gust would push him off balance.
"Jack..."
Softly.
And Alistair can't find the words, can't look away, can't speak for the
steelgreybubble bands, tight, harsh around his chest.
And they just look at each other, in the night glow, look at the lines,
the broad and narrow lines marking off the years when nobody paid
attention, the lines of less time and less hair and less solicitude.
The breeze dislodges a strand of fading blond, sweeps it forward onto
Meadows' brow, and...
And Alistair...
Alistair can't help but reach out, brush it
back. Tentatively, with respect.
And lets his hand fall back, slowly, nerves shot
through electric by the sudden heat of contact.
So brief. Steps up, brings Meadows closer, gently.
Mind racing, blind, dizzy.
And whispers, of himself, of everything,
of this, especially this...
"So stupid..."
And means it, can't dispute and can't defend and won't retreat.
And Meadows nods, slowly, sprung-loaded with reflex
and apology, tight control and brittleness dissolving
second by second in slow, slow time, the distant blare
of traffic muted and gone, as he turns his head minutely,
cheek rough, harsh in Alistair's palm, as he turns back
and fights a smile and echoes
"Bloody stupid..."
And his lips are still moving as they meet Alistair's,
and touch and wait, guilty, gentle, no pressure.
No pressure at all.
And somehow his fingers interlock, catching strands
of Meadows' swept-back hair, tips not quite still on
the nape of his neck. And Jack's hands warm, resting
above his waist, no pressure through the thin cotton,
no defence, no pressure. Just resting. No pressure.
And...
And Alistair...
And Alistair hasn't moved. Hasn't made a sound.
And Meadows turns sharply, head down, and walks away. Every step harsh
in its softness, scraping at Alistair's hearing under the raucousness of
the street.
And the door closes, softly.
And the steelgreybubble bands tighten just a little more, and Alistair
aims a vicious kick at the handrail, and misses, and pulls his coat
tight as the night mist settles in around him.
=== end ===
(c) kel December 1998