Back in the saddle
A/N: Here's another story inspired by the lovely couple Alesha/Matt. Again, from her POV. Just some fluff, with a serious undertone. No real spoilers for any particular episode.
Disclaimer: Just like all the shows I've written for, the characters of Law and Order: UK are not mine. Which is altogether too bad, because I wouldn't mind being arrested by a certain DS Matt Devlin at all…bring out the handcuffs and I'll come willingly!
Dating…it's never really been your thing. You either never had the time, or, when you made it, you just never seemed to meet a bloke who was willing to keep up with the lifestyle you have painstakingly built for yourself. You're not high-maintenance, at least you don't think you are, but you won't allow any person to belittle you because you happen to be born both black and female.
You've worked as hard as most people and harder than some to achieve your goals, get your law degree and climb the ladder in the British legal system and you're proud of it.
So before the Merrick case, you weren't very promiscuous and now that that particular experience is dealt with, you're only more careful. As careful as a novice about to take her vows. Not as much as a kiss have you shared since then, not counting pecks on the cheek from James or Matt.
That's different. They're different.
On a day to day basis, it doesn't change your life all that much, but the very few female friends you have are all settling down, making you feel like the odd one out at every bridal shower, every wedding and every baby shower that follows. More and more of them are tying the knot and even though you constantly tell them you're fine on your own, it sounds less and less convincing, even to you.
Because, if you're really honest, sometimes you are jealous of them. Sometimes, coming home to an empty apartment just isn't fun and you find yourself trying to persuade James or Matt or whoever is with you to go get a spontaneous diner, just to stall the moment you open your front door, where you'll be met by darkness and silence and where bad memories might take over. A glass of wine helps, but do you really want to keep relying on that?
Oh well, that's all water under the bridge now. Since last weekend, you might be officially off the market again. Back in the dating saddle, so to speak.
His name is Tim Fields. You met him, how very cliché, at your cousin's wedding. He was the groom's best man. He's quite handsome, funny, elegant and the jokes he made during his mandatory speech were actually funny without being overly insulting. As bridesmaid to your cousin (now don't get started about that saying; the one about always being a bridesmaid, but never the bride; it's not like you haven't heard that one before) you were seated next to him during dinner and even though you hit it off, you were surprised when the bride called you from their honeymoon address (!) to tell you Tim had asked her for your contact information; apparently having been too shy to ask you straight out.
Instead, she gave you his phone number and after a few days of hesitating, you gave him a call.
The first date was nice, if a little over the top. You're not picky about your food, and haute cuisine is not your style, but he'd gone out of his way to secure a table at one of London's most posh places ever, so you dressed accordingly and kept your comments to a minimum, while trying not to think of what Matt would have to say about a place like this. Or about your date; who was so nervous you actually felt like leaving early to put him out of his misery. Instead, you did the polite thing and stayed while he finally unwound after his fourth glass of hideously expensive Chardonnay.
Thank God neither one of you were driving.
Before he hailed you a cab to take you home, he pecked your cheek and promised he would get in touch with you again if you would like him to. Now it wasn't really the relaxed night you'd been hoping for, but since it truly wasn't a disaster either, you accepted his offer, half hoping he'd be too busy in the next couple of weeks. Or months.
No such luck. He called you the very next day. Said he had tickets to some musical play you might like (you don't, honestly). He sounded so pleading that you, again, caved in.
Sucker. Are you really that desperate not to be left behind? Are you so willing to erase your last devastating sexual experience by voluntarily engaging yourself into an equally bad one? Can you in all honesty picture yourself inviting this bloke into your home for a nightcap, let alone what is supposed to happen afterwards?
Anyway, that doesn't matter now, because the cab should be here any moment and you are still working on your war paint. Of course Tim offered to come pick you up, but then you would have to invite him in and you just don't want to. It's a privacy thing. Best to simply meet him at the theatre.
The cabbie (a young lad from mysterious ethnical origin) wolf whistles when you step into the backseat and you smile at him because he's kind of cute for a change. Inwardly you groan. If the cabbie is already more charming than your date, what will come of the evening?
With a smile the young man offers you a business card with his name on it; telling you he hopes that if you need a cab later in the evening; you'll think of him.
Well, you don't make promises like that, so you just accept his card and get out.
Tim is already waiting for you, in a suit that might have been in fashion when you were wearing a nappy. Oh boy.
The musical is a dud. Perhaps not bad if you love that kind of stuff and Heaven knows you're trying, but you just can't get into the story and the cheery songs rub you in all the wrong ways. It frays on your nerves. You are well aware that by now you come off as a hideous snob, but you wish you were still at home, lying lazily on the couch while watching footy on the telly, loudly commenting on the ref, knowing perfectly well he can't hear you.
Finally, the ordeal is over and you're glad to step out into the clear evening air. Claiming you have a headache (well, you do actually) prevents you from accepting his invitation to get a drink somewhere. Feeling slightly guilty, you ignore the disappointment in his face and voice. But when he leans in to kiss you, your first instinct is to pull away.
Tim lets go, but almost immediately tries again. When your reaction stays the same, you try to explain, but he looks at you with disdain in his eyes.
"You frigid little bitch!"
The sound of your hand coming in contact with his cheek resounds in the balmy London air, but you don't regret it for a minute. As dignified as you can, you stroll away from him while he rubs his sore face and looks at you incredulously.
Without looking back and ignoring his foul choice of words, you hail a cab.
"Just drive!" You bark at the cabdriver as you get in. He nods in the rearview mirror and speeds off.
"Whereto miss?"
Startled, you remain silent. You have no idea where to go from here. The adrenaline that rushed through you just a minute ago has subsided and you're too deflated to think clearly. What you do know is that you can't go home. Why? Again, you don't have the foggiest idea. But you have to go somewhere…
An address pops in your mind and before you have thought it through, you give it to the cabbie, who nods again and redirects the car. The ride is silent and you're fine with that. Not really in the mood for chitchat. Left to your own ponderings, you can't help but wonder if you've been too harsh with Tim. All he wanted to do was give you a kiss. Did you have to be so nasty about it? But then again, you can't help but feeling repulsed.
Why? Why do men automatically think that a woman wants to be touched and kissed? Why do they not give you the space you need? And perhaps, on a more honest level, you know you're being unfair and that just because one man took advantage of you, it doesn't mean all men are sexist pigs, but you don't think you're capable of acknowledging that particular piece of truth right now.
Right now, men are pigs. All but James. And George. Oh, and Ronnie and Matt you guess. They're the wonderful exceptions to the rule.
The cab driver drops you off at the doorstep of a five story apartment building and kindly asks you if you'll be okay. When you nod a little hesitantly and give him the amount due, he smiles and drives off.
A sudden wave of night chill hits you and you know you'd better get inside.
Once inside the main hall (an elderly lady lets you in without really looking at you) you peer through the haze in front of your eyes to find the right name between all those buzzers. Thank God. There he is.
Your trembling finger finally hits the buzzer linked to his name.
Silence. Absolute silence. He's not home.
But why would he be? It's a Saturday night and he's not on call this weekend. He's a handsome and charming man and very popular. Of course he's out. Probably with a supermodel hanging off his arm. Legs up to her neck and an IQ in the single digits.
And no, you don't know why you're so mean spirited. Again.
Static comes from somewhere next to you and you yelp in surprise.
"Who's this?"
His voice sounds oddly distorted through the intercom system, but it's still him and you want to cry in relief.
"Matt? It's me. Alesha."
"Alesha? Are you okay? What are you doing here? Wait, never mind, just come in."
A click and the door opens. You get into the lift and find the right floor. When you get out, he's waiting for you on his doorstep, looking at you with concern in his blues eyes.
"Come in, please. Can I get you a drink? Some hot cocoa?"
He knows it's your comfort drink and so doesn't wait for your answer. He simply offers you a seat on his comfortable, slightly shaggy leather sofa while he talks to you from the open kitchen, where he's busying himself with making your drink.
He comes back carrying two steaming mugs and hands one over to you. You shoot him a grateful look while you take a sip, letting the rich liquid warm your bones. Instantly, you feel better.
Why does this man have this effect on you? Will you ever know?
"So…" Matt breaks the silence after taking a slug of his own drink. "Date gone wrong?"
Did you tell him you were going on a date? You honestly can't remember. Either you did or he's better at reading you than you have noticed in the past. Oh well, it hardly matters now.
You nod in confirmation. "He tried to kiss me."
A smirk appears on his handsome face. "Can't really blame him for trying. But I guess you weren't too charmed then?"
"I slapped him."
This time, he can't hide his amusement.
"Remind me never to ask you out."
A tiny flicker of hurt burns in the pit of your stomach, but you quickly quench it with some more hot chocolate. This was, for some reason, not the answer you were looking for.
"I just don't get it," you muse out loud.
"Don't get what, love?"
Oh, how to explain to him what you can't seem to explain to yourself.
"Well, part of me wants to have a boyfriend, someone to share your experiences with. When I see how happy some of my friends are with their significant others, I kind of want that too."
You look at him, trying to figure out his mindset about this subject. For as long as you have known him, Matt never as much as hinted that he would want to settle down with some girl. He would flirt, sometimes date, and sometimes he would hint that he'd had female company during the weekend, but no girl had ever stuck longer than a fortnight or so. Was that because he liked his bachelor lifestyle or because he, like you, simply hadn't found the right person yet?
His face is blank though. Concentrated on your story, but not elaborating any of his own feelings. Fleetingly you think that this is what makes him such a wonderful DS.
"And the other part?" He probes gently.
You sigh. This is the hardest part to tell.
"The other part is afraid. Not of being left alone, but of always being afraid…Matt, he called me a frigid bitch!"
"In that case, I hope you hit him hard!"
His unyielding support warms you to the core and you know that you've made the right choice in coming here. He understands. He always does.
"But what if he's right?"
And there it is. Your fear in a nutshell.
Silence falls over the living room. You hardly notice Matt placing his empty mug on the side table and taking yours as well. He then takes both your hands in his own.
"Alesha love, look at me. Please."
He waits until you do. It's hard, since you're so vulnerable right now and you normally don't allow anyone to see that, let alone help you in any way.
Matt scrapes his throat and looks you straight in the eyes, his blue gaze unwavering, capturing all your attention, whether voluntarily given or not.
"Now listen. This man is a raving idiot. You are not a bitch. And you're not frigid. You're a strong, beautiful, intelligent and warm lady who has been through something no lady should ever have to experience. But you came out of it, slightly dented but not broken. I have never been more proud of you than I was during or after this Merrick ordeal and I consider myself a very lucky man to just be your mate."
Crying openly now, you can't help but trying to blame yourself.
"Thanks Matt. But still…"
He cuts you off by putting three fingers to your lips. This time, your shiver has nothing to do with fear or revulsion.
"Stop prosecuting yourself. I understand you don't want to be a victim, but you're not a defendant either. Just give yourself a break, love. Stop trying to fix something that's not broken. Stop fixing yourself, because I believe you're as close to being perfect as any woman has a right to be. And if a man doesn't see that, than he doesn't deserve to even breathe the same air as you do."
Wow. Never in your life have you gotten a compliment like this. And coming from anyone but Matt, you would have laughed it off. But he hasn't broken eye contact with you all through his little monologue and nothing suggests that this isn't one of his more shrewd pick-up lines.
Matt Devlin is dead serious. And right at that moment, all your fears, all your doubts and anxiety flows out of your body and you feel wonderful. Healed. Revalidated. Loved.
"You see it." You've stopped crying, locking your gaze with his.
"I always did, love." He doesn't waver, just presents you with one of his patented bone melting smiles.
"But you never…"
"Alesha…"
"What?"
"Please don't slap me."
There's no time to ask him what he means, but when he gently, softly captures your lips with his own, slapping him is the very last thing on your mind.
THE END