Ring. Ring. Ring. Hathaway blinked blearily at the clock on their bedside table, which provided more questions than answers. Who the hell was phoning at half past three in the morning?
He looked over at his partner-in-every-sense - his mobile, after all - and smiled in spite of himself. All evidence clearly pointed to Robbie Lewis being dead to the world. And after the week they'd had, chasing a particularly brutal gang of robbers hither and yon around Oxfordshire, Hathaway supposed he couldn't really blame him.
On impulse, he grabbed the mobile before it had the chance to ring out and mumbled, "Lewis." He never managed to reach the " 's phone" he'd been aiming for because the voice on the other end spoke first.
"Da, thank God! It's Mark. Listen, I'm sorry to wake you, but I've got into a spot of bother down in Swindon. Nothing serious, just, uh, too good a time, but I could really use a good word...and a ride home."
Hathaway froze. There were surely a hundred different appropriate things to say at this juncture, but he was somehow incapable of uttering a single one. For better or worse, he was saved from having to by Mark interjecting hurriedly, "I've got to ring off, they're telling me I'm out of time. I'm sorry, Dad, I know it's a cheek, but I hope I'll see you soon."
Hathaway slumped against the headboard and mentally kicked himself for not anticipating that any phone call received at this hour of the night would probably be of a sensitive nature, requiring an immediate response.
He sighed. The options seemed to be thus: wake his partner up to tell him that his firstborn had been arrested - for either a drunk and disorderly or a driving under the influence by the sound of him - or drag himself out to Swindon and play disgruntled father to a man only a few years his junior.
He'd just about made up his mind to do the sensible thing and pawn the matter off on its proper owner when Lewis stirred a little in his sleep, shifting so he was nestled against Hathaway's side, then quieting again.
Lying there, he looked utterly at peace. Damn him. "Oh, what fools we mortals be," Hathaway muttered to himself, brushing a stray strand of hair back from Lewis' forehead.
Mind made up, he slipped silently out of bed, into his clothes, and onto the deserted A34. It wasn't until he reached the turnoff for the M4 that it hit him - he had no reasonable excuse for why he would be answering his boss's phone in the middle of the night, let alone bailing his boss's son out of jail.
Well, in for a penny... He spurred the car forward into the darkness. Thirty minutes later, he was pulling up in front of the twin black lamps of the Swindon police station, wearing an expression of carefully cultivated blankness.
The officer at the desk leafing through an ancient copy of Town & Country looked pleased to see him. Hathaway smiled a little. He remembered the endless boredom of overnight desk duty all too well.
"Evenin', sir, what can I do you for?" the man asked pleasantly.
"I'm here to see about arranging an early check-out for your guest." Hathaway pulled out his badge and slid it across the desk, accompanied by what he hoped was a sympathetic smile.
The man looked between Hathaway and the badge for a few moments. "No offense, sir, but the way he was talking, I was expecting someone a bit higher up the food chain."
Something plausible, just say anything plausible. "His father thought it would be a bit more effective if I came," Hathaway improvised. "Really put the fear of God into him."
"You're the heavy, are you?" The man kept a straight face, though his eyes twinkled.
"Just another tired civil servant pulling the night shift," Hathaway replied, pulling out the smile again. "Now, I don't suppose, speaking from one to another, we could write up this little visit as a warning?"
The man gave him a long, appraising look, then a little nod. He strolled toward the cells and called out, "Come on, then, you. Your guardian angel's come to take you home."
A tired-looking man with tousled brown hair and Lewis' eyes followed the desk sergeant out from the back. "Listen, Dad, I know how this looks, but I promise -" he began, only to cut himself off when he got a good look at Hathaway. "Oh. Hello."
"Just think of me as the archangel Gabriel," Hathaway deadpanned. Just be intimidating - maybe he won't ask.
He extended a hand to Mark's escort. "Many thanks, Sergeant." Truly.
"Not at all, Sergeant Hathaway, not at all." The man shook it warmly, adding quietly, "We night shift men have to stick together, eh?"
"And as for you..." He turned a sterner countenance toward Mark. "I trust this will be your only visit to this establishment."
"Yes, sir." Mark nodded quickly and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Scout's honour."
Hathaway stepped back and held open the door of the station. "My flaming chariot's out front." Wonderful, first time meeting either of Lewis' kids, and this one's going to think you're mentally unstable.
"Right..." Mark flicked his gaze over Hathaway, a subtle evaluation Hathaway had seen from his father many times, then slipped out into the darkness.
Both were silent until the lights of the police station were only pinpricks in the distance. It was Mark who spoke first. "So...you're the famous Sergeant Hathaway. I've heard a lot about you."
Not as much as you might. "Something we have in common, then. Your father is very proud."
"Present tense proud?" Mark sounded surprised. "So I'm not to take your turning up here as a sign that he's disowned me?"
"I may be the messenger..." Tread lightly, James - dangerous ground. "But that's not the message."
"Dad said you were bloody cryptic sometimes," Mark mused, "But that qualifies as downright oracular. I feel like I should be handing you my tea leaves."
Hathaway bit his lip. 35 miles to Oxford. Just 35 miles.
"Hang on...it was you, wasn't it?" Damn. Damn, damn, damn. "On the phone tonight. I thought it was strange he didn't say anything. It's because he has no idea that I'm here, isn't it?"
Hathaway's nails dug into the leather of the steering wheel, his breath hitched, but he said nothing. Somehow both lies and truth seemed too much to manage.
Mark let it rest for a few moments. "A less grateful man might ask how you came to be answering my father's phone at half past three in the morning."
He won't hit you while you're driving, just remember that. "And a less magnanimous man might threaten to tell him about this little adventure."
Hathaway risked a glance at Mark. "Good thing we're not those men." When he returned his gaze to the road, he could feel Mark's eyes boring into the side of his head.
A few beats, then, "Any chance of a grateful man buying a magnanimous man a drink? Seems the least I can do."
Hathaway let out a breath and felt a smile creep, unsummoned, to his face. "I think that could be arranged. Provided I'm the only one doing the drinking."
"Deal." Mark laughed, a sharp, bright sound that pierced the quiet night. "Well, well. Sergeant Hathaway. I owe Lynn five pounds."
Only Hathaway's quick reflexes saved them from careening into the nearest tree.