A/N: In my Lester/Becker 'verse, probably won't make much sense if you haven't read "Sometimes It Hurts Instead", the one in which they had The Fight. Title from Led Zeppelin's "Good Times Bad Times".

I Was Told What It Means to be a Man

"You've been irritable today," James said to Becker as they finished a mostly silent meal. "Was that your mother you were speaking to earlier? What's she done now?"

"She hasn't done anything," Becker said, a sharp note of defensiveness in his tone.

"Okay," James said slowly. Becker was normally the first person to complain about his mother's behaviour. "Well, if it's something I've done, I do always appreciate knowing what offenses I've supposedly committed."

"You're being fucking annoying right now," Becker said, fixing James with the sort of glare typically reserved for the reporters that followed him around with video cameras at anomaly sites.

"You're in a bad mood, fine, but don't take it out on me," James said, pushing his chair back and starting to pile up the dishes.

Becker, clearly intent on having an argument, followed him into the kitchen. He unhelpfully didn't take any of the dishes with him. "You're the one who started it."

"Forgive me for showing some concern for my partner. The next time you're upset I simply won't give a shit."

"Great. I look forward to it."

James closed the door of the dishwasher with a harder push than was necessary and then focused on Becker. "Good god, Becker. What is it you want?"

"I don't want anything! What I wanted was for you to leave me alone."

"If you'd really wanted that, you wouldn't have followed me in here and tried to pick a fight."

The sheer amount of resentment in Becker's face was startling. "I'm so glad I have you to tell me these things. God knows I'm a fuck-up as it is, imagine how I'd be without you."

And they were really doing this, apparently. James wished he had the slightest clue as to why they were fighting and what they were fighting about. "What on earth are you going on about? You're being particularly stupid and I'm afraid I don't have the energy to deal with it."

"You can't tell me you wouldn't rather have Captain Ryan than me," Becker said, seemingly out of nowhere.

Perhaps the leaps in this conversation made sense in Becker's head, but James simply couldn't follow. "What?"

"How many members of the team did Ryan lose? Because by my count, it's zero. And as for me, well, I don't think I need to spell it out."

"Becker, what do you want from me?" James tried again, completely frustrated. Becker wasn't normally so temperamental and James was rather lost. "First you're angry because I dared to comment on your well-being, but now you seem to want me to flatter you. Unless you're hoping I'll say, oh, yes, please can I exchange you for Ryan?"

"God, you just don't get it!" Becker exclaimed, sounding as frustrated as James felt.

But instead of trying to get an explanation as to why Becker was being such an arse (and how in hell Ryan had anything to do with it), James found himself saying, "No, I really don't. But as I am apparently so utterly inadequate a partner and as I'm quite frankly developing a migraine from this conversation, perhaps you can go and find someone else to give you whatever it is you're looking for. I'm sure you'll have no problem doing so. That's one thing I know you're good at."

He regretted it immediately but it was too late to take back. Apologise, a voice whispered in his head. And he should have, he should have apologised then and there but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The words hung in the silence between them, heavy and hurtful.

Becker's face had clouded over, his expression blank but a trace of guilt lingering in his eyes. "I suppose I deserved that. Shall I apologise again? Maybe I haven't done it enough already, or maybe I haven't been suitably contrite. Would you like me to grovel at your feet?"

James didn't say anything because what could he say?

(Sorry, I'm sorry, tell him you're sorry.)

"You know what, James? Fuck you," Becker said, a bitter set to his mouth. He stalked off and after a few moments James heard the sound of a door slamming.

It was probably for the best. James stood for a second in the sudden stillness before going over to the drinks cabinet. He rather thought that he would like to get drunk.

Becker came back late that night. James had already gone to bed, his head pounding and his vision blurred around the edges, drunk as he'd been in years. He was fairly certain that, loud as Becker was being, the only reason James had even awoken enough from his stupor to notice was because half an hour ago he'd needed to vomit up his dinner into the toilet.

Frankly, it was embarrassing. He was far too old for this kind of behaviour but at that precise point in time, he was also too pissed to care.

When Becker got into bed, stinking of sweat, alcohol, and other men's cologne, James felt a twinge in his gut, regret and jealousy, anger and guilt. He wanted to hurt me back, he thought. Mission accomplished.

Becker carefully remained on his own side of the bed, unnaturally tense, and James wanted to go to him, to press himself up against Becker's back and tell him he was sorry, that he hadn't meant it.

(Please don't leave me.)

But something held him back and instead he remained where he was, feeling cold and lonely and faintly nauseated.

You're a damned fool, James, he thought to himself as he sank back into sleep.

They didn't speak to each other the next morning. Becker looked tired, his eyes shot through with red, and he had already left for the ARC by the time James finished his shower. Four cups of coffee later, James was sitting at his desk and still feeling barely functioning. He brushed off Lorraine's concerned enquiries but felt a rush of gratitude when she came by with ibuprofen and a bottle of water. As the morning progressed, it became quite clear that she was judiciously screening his calls so that he was only made to face the most important ones.

James noticed Becker once, just after lunch, perched warily on one of the armchairs near his office, but when he next looked up, Becker had gone.

Not long after that, Jess came in uninvited, settling herself into a chair. "You're having a row with Becker, aren't you?"

It was pointless to try to deter her, so James sighed and said, "Not that it's any of your business, but yes, that is correct."

"Haven't you learned by now that avoiding each other only makes it worse?"

"Thank you for your input. I'll be sure to take it under advisement."

She sighed heavily, folding her arms over her chest and tapping pink fingernails against her arm. "Do you actually think you're fooling anyone? Everyone knows you're upset."

"I imagine 'everyone' knows to stay out of it, as well." He stared pointedly at Jess, then at the door, and back at Jess.

"Why is it so hard for you to accept that we care about you?" Jess paused after her question, but it was clearly rhetorical. She gathered her thoughts and spoke again. "You're obviously miserable, Becker's miserable, and we all know what happened last time. Just talk to each other. It isn't that difficult."

"Clearly you haven't been paying attention. Have you ever tried getting Becker to open up?"

A flicker of amusement flashed across Jess' face. "Do I need to lock you in a room together to get you to talk? I'll do it, don't think I won't."

The frightening thing was that James believed her. "No, I don't think that will be necessary. Have you given this lecture to Becker as well, or am I simply lucky?"

"I'll be speaking to him as soon as I've left you, don't worry."

"Good. I'd hate for him to miss out."

Jess laughed sweetly and then stood up, making her way around James' desk. Before James was entirely certain as to what was happening, she had bent down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. "Make up with him, won't you? I hate it when you're unhappy."

James sat there in silence as she left, listening to the sound of her heels clicking on the floor. He could still smell her perfume.

He wanted to be aggravated, he really did. Jess had no business prying into things that weren't her concern. But… it was Jess. Jess who cared too damned much about everyone, even her grumpy, emotionally detached boss. Jess who always made him think of his daughter Julia for some idiotic reason.

And she was right. He knew she was. It hadn't even been a whole day since they'd fought and it had already gone on too long. Becker was… infuriating but he hadn't deserved the cruel things James had said to him. Obviously something was wrong and James should have tried to get through to him instead of making things worse. Honestly, he didn't even know where it had come from, that bitter accusation. He had just… said it, the words vicious as a blow.

James didn't know if he could live with himself if Becker did leave him, but only because James had pushed him away.

He checked his watch and then he looked at the work spread out on his desk. If he really tried, he could get everything he needed to be done at a reasonable time. Then he would find Becker and they would fix this.

James met Becker unexpectedly in the corridor outside Becker's office. Becker's eyes were wide and startled but he didn't flee, which was always a good sign when dealing with him.

"Becker," James started just as Becker said, "James-"

They both stopped and looked at each other. Becker's mouth quirked. "Jess spoke to you, too, didn't she?"

James felt heat flare in his cheeks. He should have been able to do this without needing a talking-to from Jess. He should be enough of a man to apologise to his partner without someone telling him he should. "I shouldn't have said it," he said in a rush. "I didn't mean it."

"Didn't you?" Becker asked, eyes downcast.

James took a step closer. "No, I didn't. Becker, I… Hils, can we go home and do this? I don't really want to air our dirty laundry in the middle of the ARC."

Becker's shoulders sagged, but it appeared to be more out of relief than anything else. James hoped it was because Becker wanted to make this right, too, and not because he was getting a momentary reprieve. "Yeah, okay. I need to find someone to cover the night shift for me. I told Chase I'd work it for him, let him spend some time with his girlfriend."

"You arranged to work three consecutive shifts?" Somehow James wasn't even surprised. Avoidance seemed to be a favoured tactic for them both.

"Seemed a good idea at the time."

"Becker, what am I going to do with you?"

"Give me a good shagging later?" Becker's face looked hopeful, the words a peace offering.

So James erased the last of the distance between them and leaned in to kiss Becker's jaw. He placed one hand on Becker's hip and slid his other arm around Becker's back, feeling some of the tension in Becker's muscles ease. "If you're lucky."

Becker turned his face toward James and kissed the top of his head. "I'll see you at home then?"

"Yes," James agreed and stepped back again. "But there's something I need to say now." Before he lost the nerve.

"Okay."

"Do you honestly believe that I sit around saying to myself, 'oh, if only Captain Ryan were still here, instead I'm stuck with sodding Captain Becker'?"

To his credit, Becker looked embarrassed. "Maybe not literally, but I've read all the reports, I know-"

"Not ever," James said in as strong a tone as he could muster. "I'm sorry he isn't still here, of course I am. He was a good soldier and a better man and what happened to him was… terrible. But not once have I ever wished for him instead of you."

"Not even-"

"Not even when you first came here. Christ, Hils, do you remember what you were like? Walking around like you had a stick so far up your arse you'd lost it, working around the clock, desperate to prove yourself to everyone even as you tried to pretend you weren't." James nearly smiled to himself as he remembered. Becker was in a class of his own, that was certain. "It was vaguely amusing, actually, but you did what I asked and that's all I wanted."

"I got Nick Cutter killed," Becker said obstinately, like he was determined to get James to agree that he was a terrible soldier.

"You did nothing. Helen Cutter did. What is the point of beating yourself up over it? If you've read the reports, then you know Ryan lost people, too." Far too many people. Ryan hadn't had the advantage of the anomaly detector but that hadn't been his fault, either, just as what had happened later wasn't Becker's. "It's simply the nature of the job and I know you're smart enough to understand that. Maybe Ryan could have done better than you but maybe he couldn't have. Maybe things would have turned out even worse, who the hell knows?"

"I wish I could think like that, but I just… I can't." Becker didn't believe him, that was quite clear, and James didn't know what to say to change his mind. He doubted there was anything that could change Becker's mind when he was thinking poorly of himself. Stubborn arse.

But James still had to try. He wished Becker could see himself the way James did. "Then let me do it for you. Please, just trust me. You trust me, don't you?" He hoped he wasn't blushing. This was all so horridly uncomfortable. Bloody emotions, sometimes he wished he didn't have them at all.

"Of course I do."

"Then believe me when I say none of what's happened has been your fault. I may be somewhat biased now, but I do think you know me enough to understand I don't have much patience for incompetence. And regardless, I didn't know you when I hired you. I hired you because everyone told me you were good."

"And when you asked for me back after I'd resigned? Was it because we'd shagged?" Becker said that completely deadpan but James hoped he knew Becker well enough by now to know that was his idea of a joke.

"Please. You aren't that good."

"That hurts, James. I suppose I'll have to try harder."

James shook his head, still a little amused even though this was simply typical Becker - make a joke to hide what's actually going on, don't let anyone know what you're really thinking. "I'll look forward to it, darling. I'll see you at home. Oh, and Becker?"

"Yes?"

"The next time you're having an inferiority complex about Captain Ryan, please recall that he never had the opportunity to warm my bed."

Becker didn't quite smile, but it was close enough. "I'll do that."

For the duration of the drive to his flat, James couldn't stop thinking about what Becker seemed to believe as God's honest truth. He had known, of course, that Becker had a sort of martyr complex and that he put far too much on himself, but it was usually so internalised. It was different actually seeing it, actually hearing Becker say those things about himself.

Becker wasn't perfect, obviously, but he did the best he could in a hard situation. If they were going to start handing around blame, then surely James, not Becker, should be at the top of the list. He knew he had mishandled things over the years, Oliver Leek, Helen Cutter, Christine Johnson, and Philip Burton.

But what James could do that Becker apparently was unable to was to accept that not everything is about you, that there are other factors at work far beyond your control, and all you can do is try. James had long ago accepted the futility in dwelling on errors. What was the point? Nothing could be changed. He would be lying if he claimed to never have got himself drunk on booze and guilt (Stephen, oh God, if James had only realised…) but he moved past it because that was what had to be done. You fuck up and then you keep going, you promise yourself you won't do it again.

There was something in Becker that made him cling to his mistakes rather than his successes and the simple truth was that nothing James could say or do was ever going to change that.

"Oh, bollocks," James said as he opened the door only to be greeted by the shredded remains of that morning's newspaper as well as what looked disturbingly like one of James' shirts, dragged out of the laundry hamper. He had a sneaking suspicion that the bathroom was currently in shambles. He went to get the broom, unsurprised that the two terrors otherwise known as Sid and Nancy were nowhere to be found - probably hiding in their basket as they were wont to do when they knew they'd done something they shouldn't have.

Mess cleaned up, James thought about making a start on dinner while he waited for Becker, but as he stood in front of the refrigerator he started to feel queasy. Instead he put the kettle on, intending on making some chamomile tea in the hope that it would settle his stomach. He actually wasn't sure where the tea had come from, as he didn't make a habit of buying herbal teas and Becker scorned them. Possibly one of Becker's sisters had sent it - generally, if something appeared in the flat that James had no knowledge of, it had come from a female Becker.

James was sitting at the dining room table with his tea when Becker arrived. "Over here," he called out in response to Becker's tentative query.

Becker wrinkled his nose as he drew near. "You're drinking that shit Rosie sent? I nearly tossed it straight in the bin."

"It's not so bad," James replied, taking another sip. It had certainly helped his stomach and calmed his nerves, not that he would share that with Becker.

"Don't expect me to have a cup." Becker pulled a chair out on the other side of the table and sat. "So I suppose we should talk."

"I suppose so, yes."

Becker raised his chin up and looked squarely at James, something flashing in his eyes. Defiance, maybe, mingled with shame. "Don't you want to ask me if I found someone at the club last night? If I fucked someone else?"

James gaped at him. "Of course I don't! Hils," he said, very deliberately using the nickname, the name that no one called him but family. "I know you wouldn't do that."

"You didn't seem so sure yesterday. I'm good at finding other people to give me what I need, isn't that what you said?"

"It was a fucking stupid thing to say. I'm sorry."

"I thought about it. I picked out a guy, someone I knew you'd hate, and I danced with him and thought about taking him out back and fucking him, just to spite you."

James took a few seconds to calm himself and willed himself not to get upset. Yesterday Becker had said, I suppose I deserved that, and James supposed that he had deserved that, too.

"But I didn't. Because I wouldn't. I would never do that to you, no matter how angry I was." Becker dropped his gaze, staring down at the table, drawing circles on the surface with his finger. "It's okay, though. It's okay if you meant what you said. I wouldn't blame you. I know I… I know I've done things I shouldn't have, made it hard for you to trust me."

"I didn't mean it, Hils," James said and wished Becker would look at him. "I was irritated and angry and I didn't think. What happened… before, obviously I was hurt by it but I don't hold it against you any more. I need you to believe that."

"If that's true, then why would you- You were angry, I know, but the things we say in anger come from somewhere, James. Some part of you still feels that way, even if it's only subconsciously."

James blew out a breath. How could he argue against that? He couldn't think of one bloody thing to say and just sat there stupidly, looking at Becker's guilt-ridden, crushed face. God, he was terrible at this. It was like Agatha all over again.

Becker sounded defeated in a way James had never heard before. "I don't know what I can do to make it better. If I could take it back, all of it, you know I would."

"I know."

"I just… no matter how many times I say I'm sorry, or tell you why I did it, I still fucking did it. I didn't cheat on you but I may as well have. I made you feel like I was and that's probably all that matters. I made you think I didn't love you and I can't ever take that back." Becker had lifted his gaze but he still wasn't looking directly at James, his eyes instead fluttering from James' hands to his neck to a spot somewhere over his shoulder.

And that was it. James couldn't take it any more. He couldn't spend one more second letting Becker put all this shit on himself. "Listen to me," he said fiercely, waiting until Becker finally met James' eyes. "Maybe you're right, maybe there is some tiny speck in my subconscious that still resents you, but so what? Everyone makes mistakes, not just you. I… I love you, and I know that you love me." It was undeniably true that James was uncertain about their future, that he worried about Becker leaving, but it wasn't really over this.

Or, at least, he didn't think it was. Was it possible to hold onto a grudge you didn't even know you had?

In any case, he certainly didn't want Becker to know he felt that way. "And there is something you can do for me."

"Tell me."

"You can stop hating yourself over this. Please."

Becker's expression was wry. "That's what you want from me?"

"That's what I want." It was one thing James wanted, at least. The thing he wanted most he knew he could never ask.

"But you know how good I am at self-recrimination." The sad thing was that no matter how lightly Becker spoke the words, they were still one hundred percent true.

"I wish you were a bit less good at it."

"You and my mum both," Becker said and went quiet again. It didn't escape James' notice that Becker never actually agreed to do what James had asked of him. Instead, he went on to say, "I need to apologise for yesterday, too. I was being an arsehole."

That at least was something James could fully agree with. "You most certainly were."

Becker took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself. "Yesterday was the anniversary of my father's death."

"Oh, Hils, I'm sorry." James reached across the table and lightly rested his fingers on Becker's hand, hoping the small contact could both ground Becker and show him that James was there, that he cared.

"I know it doesn't give me the excuse to act like a prick, but... It always makes me think about things I usually try to ignore."

James stayed silent, partially because he hadn't a clue what he should say but also because he was worried about doing something to make Becker clam up. It was so rare for him to volunteer information about himself, particularly when he was sober. In all the time they had been together, Becker had mentioned his father a grand total of two times, and one of those times he had been completely plastered.

"It was my mum on the phone yesterday. She has a rough time of it so I always try to call her, even if I can only talk a few minutes."

No wonder Becker had responded so negatively to James' unintentional jab. "How was she?"

Becker shrugged. "Fine. We don't talk about him, or even mention it. It's just... there, in the background. You know how there are days you can remember, years later, as vividly as if they happened yesterday? That's how I feel about when my father died. I can remember all of it, the phone calls, the visits, all the military pomp and circumstance and the neighbours popping in. I remember my sisters crying, Lily fighting with everyone and Rosie locking herself in her room and Maria going completely silent. I remember my uncle pulling me aside and telling me, Hilary, you've got to step up now, you're all they have. You have to be there for your mum. Like I didn't know it already."

And who looked after you? James wondered. Who was there for you?

Becker stopped talking, rubbing one hand over his face. "But more than anything I remember my mum. How hard she tried to keep everything together, for us, and how… how absolutely, totally devastated I knew she was. I think that's what I hate him for the most. Not for anything he did to me, but for the way he left her. The way he couldn't stop, he couldn't be there for his family, he had to keep going off and being a fucking hero for everyone else when my mum needed him. And then what did I do? The same fucking thing. I told myself it was different, because I was only her son, but..." Becker trailed off but his meaning was clear. It wasn't different, he was saying even if he didn't speak the words. "When he died, they told my mother he was going to get a medal for his service, as if that would make it better. That was the first time I ever saw her cry. I never did again until the day I told her I had enrolled at Sandhurst. She slapped me and then she burst into tears."

"Didn't she know?"

"Of course she did. I was going to be a soldier from the minute I came out of my mother's womb with a cock, as far as my father was concerned, and I… Well, I just always knew that was what I was going to do. I suppose until that moment, my mother could still hope I'd change my mind."

That was easy to understand, at least. All James had to do was imagine one of his children committing to a career in the military and he could understand. "She was afraid for you."

"Yes, I think she was," Becker agreed. "I think she had hoped that, with my father dead, things would be different. That without him I wouldn't… But I had to do it, you see? It was who I was, it was who he'd wanted me to be. It was who I had to be. My father being dead didn't make a difference. If anything, it made me surer. He'd died saving lives and I had to… I couldn't prove anything to him any more, but I still had to face myself. Myself and everyone who knew him, the ones who expected me to be like him and the ones who were waiting for me to fall on my face. I had to be better," he said, bitterness ringing in his voice. "But you know what? It's fucking hard living up to a memory."

"You shouldn't have to," James said, heart sinking when Becker's lip curled into a sneer and he drew away from James' hand.

"What the fuck would you know about it?" Becker's words were harsh and James tried not to take it to heart, made himself remember that Becker was angry and hurting and likely embarrassed that he had said anything. It wasn't anything to do with James. Becker lashed out because he had always been crap at accepting comfort and James was there, an easy target.

But that didn't mean James was going to just take it. He got up from the table. "I'm not going to sit here while you throw a pity party for yourself. If you want to have an actual conversation, like I thought we were having, or if you want to have a fucking cuddle or something, that's one thing, but I won't stay here and let you bait me. We're meant to be making up, not getting into another fight."

Without waiting for a response, James simply left for the bedroom. He changed out of his work clothes and into a comfortable, worn pair of jeans and a T-shirt that, once he'd put it on, he realised must be Becker's. Not wanting to go to the trouble of finding a shirt that was actually his, he just left it on and sat on the bed, reaching for his book. There was still no noise coming from beyond the bedroom, so James assumed Becker was sulking.

Becker was good at sulking. He could do it for hours when he set his mind to it.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when the sound of a throat being cleared made him look up. Becker was standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. It was a marvel how the man could so resemble a kicked puppy when he wanted to. "I'm sorry," Becker said.

James sighed and put the book aside. "Come here."

Becker hesitated but then crawled onto the bed, stretching out alongside James' legs and resting his head in James' lap. His arm crept out to curve over James' thighs and James' hand found Becker's hair. "I didn't mean to yell at you, I don't know why I did it. I wasn't upset with you."

"I know, sweetheart."

"I just… My childhood wasn't exactly sunshine and roses. I don't want to sound like a twat or something, because even though my mum and my sisters are insane I know I'm lucky to have them, but that's not everything. I didn't get on with my father, to say the least."

When Becker fell silent, seemingly unwilling to say anything more, James said, "Fathers and sons are complicated." He knew that only too well.

A slight pressure against James' thigh indicated that Becker was nodding his head but he remained quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft James almost missed it. "Sometimes I'm glad he died. I got so tired of all the shit he put me through, you know? I was so tired of all of it. But he died and so he never had to see the cock-up I made of things and he never… If he knew I was shagging another bloke, never speaking to me again is the best possible outcome I can imagine. Sometimes I… Well, like I said. Sometimes I'm glad he's not here."

"Jesus, Hils." James was at a complete loss. What was he supposed to say? Sorry your father treated you like garbage, no wonder you're so messed up? Your father sounds like a complete bastard? For some reason, James suspected none of that would help. In any case, it was probably a good thing that James would never meet Becker senior because it wouldn't have been a pretty sight. Anyone who could make Becker feel this bad about himself deserved whatever he got, as far as James was concerned.

"That was a bloody awful thing to say, wasn't it?" Becker said, still so quiet James had to strain hear him. "I suppose you didn't want to know that about me."

"I think for you to say that, to mean it even a little bit, your father must have been a terrible person."

"My father was a hero," Becker said, and laughed, but there wasn't any mirth in it. It had a hollow ring to it that made James' heart ache.

"Oh, love," he said with an exhale, wishing he could think of something to make this at least a little bit okay.

"I don't want to talk any more. Is that all right?"

"Sweetheart, I want whatever you want."

Becker pushed himself upright, sitting face-to-face with James, his hand coming to rest on James' belly, just over his scar. His dark eyes had a haunted look to them that James hadn't seen since those terrible days following Sarah's death. He leaned in, his cheek pressing against James' face, and James realised that Becker must have had a drink or two before he came in.

Well, that explained the openness, then.

"You're always so good to me." There was a note of surprise in Becker's tone.

If ever an anomaly opened up to a year in the not so distant past, James was going to go through it and give Becker's father a punch right in his fucking nose, decorated soldier or not.

Becker's lips brushed against James' cheek and then he sat back. "Hang on a moment. Are you wearing my shirt?"

James flushed. "It was in my drawer. If you'd keep your clothes in your own drawer, I wouldn't wear them."

"I didn't say I minded. It's kind of hot."

Again, typical Becker. Temper the awkward sharing with sexual innuendo and humour and maybe then everyone will forget you actually said something real.

James wouldn't forget, but he also wouldn't object to letting Becker have the subject change. "Come on, you tart," James said, squeezing Becker's shoulders. "I'll make you something to eat."

"Don't you mean you'll make me some tea? Isn't that the British way?" Becker was smiling a little, tentative around the edges, but a smile nonetheless.

James smiled back. He felt lighter, relieved. They would get through this, like they always did. They would be okay and so would Becker, because he always was. "Tea, then."

Becker leaned in again for a kiss that was unexpected but not unwanted. It was the sort of kiss that communicated all the things that were so much harder to put into words, the things they could so rarely say.

The words Becker did say were, "And none of that herbal shit."

End