Title: To Say the Truth
Pairings: Kent/Chandler, Erica Kent/ Finlay Mansell, Ray Miles/Judy Miles, Meg Riley/Riley's husband
Warnings: Spoilers for all seasons of Whitechapel. Canon-typical violence. Some swearing. Mansell's sense of humour. Angst (no more than in the show though, at least not at the moment). OCD related behaviours.
Summary: It's an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the Met Office.
This is a sequel/companion piece to 'The sound of distant thunder', though you don't need to have read that to read this.
I have no idea how long this will turn out to be, or really where it's going. I'm afraid I've never done a multi-chapter before without writing it all at once, so I'm not sure how frequent updates will be, but I'll try not to keep you all waiting too long! Any mistakes are entirely my own fault. Also I don't own Whitechapel.
Also on AO3
It's an unusually sunny day for London, although it is in fact summer, (but in Britain that can mean anything from heat to hailstones), and DC Kent finds himself having a quiet cry in a secluded part of the car park behind the Met Office. It's not as if he can go in the loos; Chandler would no doubt find him, accidentally, on a quest to wash his hands or change his shirt – it's been one of those weeks. Or Miles could find him, or – God forbid – Mansell. Then he'd never bloody live it down.
He sighs, letting a couple of tears fall: sometimes it's best to get it all out and hope that no one notices when he goes back in with red eyes and a stuffy nose, croaking when he tries to speak. He just couldn't bloody contain it anymore.
They've been chasing a madman all week, but then again they get all the mad cases, so that's not saying much, this particular madman though, (the man bit is an educated guess, based on the frankly brutal method of killing), has a penchant for young lads. Not that young mind you, thankfully the criminal doesn't appear to have a taste for teens or kids, because that would just be a bit too much, but the victims are young all the same. There have been three of them so far, within the short time frame of six days, this being the seventh. They're all in their early twenties, sliced open from neck to groin, with the skin peeled back. Apparently this had been done while they were alive, after which their killer would remove their livers, and then put them out of their misery by strangling them with a piece of rope, judging from the marks around what's left of the skin around the throats.
The latest vic, number three, found last night, happened to look a bit like one of Kent's old flat mates. Not enough to suspect that it was him, (the age wasn't right), but enough that Kent's stomach had dropped momentarily, like when you're feeling your way through the dark and you put a foot wrong. He'd just been down to look at the body in pathology; Llewellyn had been kind enough to let him have another look at the poor bloke's face, just to reassure himself that it wasn't his friend who led there.
The temporary shock of it, combined with a shift that's run on for more than 24 hours now, and the eventual relief he supposes, are just some of the reasons he now finds himself wiping away the saltwater tracks that are slowly tricking their way down his face. He sniffs, and pulls a tissue out of his pocket to blow his nose and wipe his eyes – not in that order of course. You'd think that after being a Detective Constable for five sodding years, and four of those dealing with the weirdest cases that Whitechapel had to offer, he'd have toughened up enough not to have to sneak out of the building for a hopefully not so obvious weeping session. Kent thinks it's part of what keeps him from diving head-first off the edge they're always close to. He can have a cry and let some of the bad stuff in his head flow out through his tear ducts and down his face, or at least that's how he likes to think of it.
He knows he'll have to go back in soon, but he'd rather stay where he is for a few more seconds, soaking up some of the sun's rays while he can. It's not as if he gets much chance for it, criminals tend to operate at night, and the office is mostly basement. He read somewhere that spending some time in the sun each day can have all sorts of benefits. There's vitamin D of course, but the article had said that it can slow your heart rate, act as a de-stressor, and heaven knows they need it. Maybe he should find the article and let the boss know. He knows that if he suggests it to anyone else he'll just get some good-natured ribbing for his efforts. Then again he'll probably get that if anyone sees him talking to the boss about the beneficial properties of controlled sun exposure.
He swipes any remaining moisture from his eyes and heads back towards the front doors. He wonders if he should carry a mirror in his pocket for occasions like these, then he'd be able to check the state of his features before heading back in to face the team. Probably best not to though; he doesn't need that rumour flying around the station, there's already too much going round about his team, and a couple of them are referring to him. Bloody coppers. They're a nosey bunch, himself included, but that's just part of the job.
Kent keeps his head down as he walks through the front doors, watching out of the corner of his eye for signs that anyone is paying undue attention to him. Some people – see Sergeant Miles – are able to deflect attention away from them by acting like they own the place, but Kent has never been good at that sort of bravado, so he employs the tactic of keeping a low profile and blending into his surroundings as much as possible.
There's no hope of that working once he gets into the incident room though. As soon as he gets through the door Riley's turning towards him, pulling a sympathetic face when she catches his eye. They must still be red. Damn his complexion. At least Riley's acknowledging him; things had been a bit touch and go between them since the whole Mansell on the roof scenario (as he called it). For a couple of weeks following that he thought that she'd never smile at him again. Not that he didn't deserve it, with hindsight it was a shitty move, from both a personal and professional point of view. They had been dark times for all of them, interspersed by the light of catching the Abrahamians, only to have it, and them, snatched away.
He had gone for that drink with Chandler though, in the end. Surprisingly it had been the DI that had asked, Kent had been too wary of jinxing the fragile peace they'd managed to claw back for themselves.
The young DC looks up from where he's stood, just finishing putting his coat on the back of his chair. From the way the DI's cup was positioned on his desk it looked like he had run out of green tea, and Kent fancied a cuppa himself, so he'd better make one for the boss too. It was only polite. He glances over to where Miles is sat.
"Cup of tea Serge?" he asks, not bothering to try and disguise the roughness in his voice. Miles had probably known he would be going out for a cry before Kent himself did. Luckily the older man doesn't mention it.
"Yes please, lad." He replies, not lifting his head up.
"Riley?" Kent asks.
"Ooh, yes please, love. I'm gasping."
Kent smiles, moving over to where the kettle is. He busies himself while the kettle boils. Selecting the mugs, making sure the boss' is extra clean, putting the tea bags in, anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the case. When it boils he pours the water into the DI's cup first: green tea takes the longest to brew. He leaves Miles' and his own tea bags in a little longer than Riley's, adding milk and two sugars to the other DC's before carrying it over to her desk.
"Thanks, sweetie." She says, offering him a brief, warm smile. He returns it as best he can and heads back over to collect Miles' cup. Just a drop of milk in that one.
"Here you are Skip." He says, putting the mug down carefully in what seems the only clear spot on the desk.
"Thanks." The Sergeant mutters, still absorbed in whatever he's doing. Kent doesn't really want to ask.
He goes back to his own tea, taking the bag out but holding off with the milk, he's still got to take the boss' tea to him, and he doesn't want his own getting cold and slimy before he gets a chance to drink it. He carefully removes the green teabag with a spoon, pressing it against the side of the mug before lifting it out to discard of it. The DI likes it well brewed, and Kent prides himself on getting these things right. Not that he has to make the tea, he's been in this particular team longer than Mansell and Riley, since the Ripper, but he likes to feel useful, especially at times like this.
He picks up the spotless mug and heads over to the small office. He raps on the door, waiting for the quiet 'come in' before entering.
"Tea, sir." He says, picking up the empty mug from the coaster and replacing it with the freshly brewed one.
The DI looks up at him, gracing him with that little half smile that never fails to make Kent's heart race a little like a school kid with a crush. He tries to shove the thought away; it's a little too close for comfort.
"Thank you, Kent." He says, picking up the mug to take a sip of the dark liquid inside.
"It's no trouble, sir." Kent replies. He takes a moment to study the DI's face. He looks worn out, but that's not surprising; they all do. He knows that out of all of them the boss feels it most though. Knows that each death, each 'failure' eats away at him. Kent wonders how many times Chandler has washed his hands today, if he's changed his shirt more than once, if he's thought about the bottle of scotch that Kent knows is stored in the bottom draw of his desk.
The DC takes note of the shadows under the Inspector's eyes, more purple than usual, thrown into stark relief against the pale skin, with lines on the forehead and around the eyes that are more prominent than usual, hinting that the boss is nursing a headache. Kent follows the tense line of Chandler's neck down to his shoulders; weighed down with care. He carries on along the arms to the boss' hands, strong and capable, as they wrap around the mug. There's the slightest tremor to them which betrays the feelings of their owner, speaks of how long they've all been awake. His careful study is interrupted by the Chandler clearing his throat.
"Is everything alright Detective?" the DI asks, placing the mug down to rub at his temples, though the tiger balm which usually aids this is unusually absent.
"Yes, sir." Kent says, even though he knows that the boss will have picked up on the redness that he's certain still surrounds his eyes, and mars his sclera. Then again he's not the only one with bloodshot eyes by the looks of it, although he seriously doubts that Chandler's affliction has been caused by tears.
"I'll have that report on the vics family and friends on your desk soon, sir." He adds, deflecting the conversation from the track that it may have taken had they remained in silence for any longer. He doesn't really feel like being called out on his little white lie at this particular moment in time. He acknowledges the boss' nod with one of his own, and heads back into the incident room to collect his own tea: he'll probably need to add some more water to it to heat it up.
Unfortunately for him and his tea Mansell decides to enter the room, and demands his own cup.
"Can't you make your own bloody tea?" Kent mutters as he switches the kettle back on.
"Course I can," Mansell replies, "but why would I bother when I've got you to make it for me." The man chuckles at his own little joke; Kent rolls his eyes, and begrudgingly gets out another mug and adds a tea bag to it. He's half tempted to dump a load of sugar and milk in the mug, despite knowing full well that Mansell likes his tea black, and thinks that anyone who has it differently is 'a pansy, begging your pardon, Serge'. Kent wants to avoid an argument though, so he just pours the newly re-boiled water into the mug and puts it on Mansell's desk, far enough away from the man's unruly arms; more than one mug had been lost that way. Kent finally adds milk to his own tea, and goes back to his desk to get on with the report that he'd promised the boss.
They're all desperately searching for a connection between their victims, other than the fact that they're all of a similar age, build, and other generally useless identifiers. Gary Hoxton, the first victim, stares up at Kent from the picture he's just picked up. It's one he's looked at what seems like a hundred times during the course of the week, and it doesn't look as if it's going to trigger any 'Eureka!' moments now. Gary had been 22, well liked by his flatmates, and his fellow students on his Biomedical Sciences Masters course at Queen Mary. No known enemies either; another thing that seems to link all the victims. In contrast to Gary, Jason Sewell had never been to University; he'd left education at 16 to become an apprentice joiner. Jason had a good client base, with no complaints as far as the team could find. He'd been the second victim, found two streets away from his home by the paperboy just after 6am.
The final victim, the one who had crawled under Kent's skin and into his head, was Steven Cooke, 21. He'd just finished his BA in Architecture at London Met, and his tutors had said he was set for greatness, a real prodigy. He'd been in a band too; Kent had seen a couple of their gigs, the name had something to do with foxes, but he couldn't quite remember it despite having written the name down himself somewhere. The poor lad had been heading home from a night of celebration when he'd been taken. The owner of a local Indian restaurant had been unfortunate enough to discover him in the rubbish skip behind his property when he came in to open up for the day.
In fact all of the victims so far had been found in, or next to places of refuse disposal, which had caused Buchan to suggest that their killer viewed his targets as nothing more than rubbish themselves. Sadly it didn't give them anything to go on; it wasn't as if they could post policemen outside of every bin in central London and hope that one of them would come across someone disposing of a body. Actually, they might catch some killers that way, but they had neither the resources nor the inclination.
All the blokes seemed perfectly ordinary to Kent. Normal lads going about their everyday lives until they'd been unlucky enough to be targeted by one of Whitechapel's resident lunatics. They'd been practically crawling out of the woodwork these past four years. Maybe there was something in Crispin Wingfield's theory, which had been taken up by Ed and Miles – an unlikely pair of bedfellows if ever there was one, that there was a provocateur in London. An entity that incited people to do evil acts in Whitechapel. Evil acts which often ended up landing at their door. He's seen Ed's map, the sites that Wingfield had been watching. He knew they all surrounded the Met, surrounded them. No one else's team has had such a persistent streak of bad luck in terms of losing their killers to suicide, assassination, and accidental deaths.
Kent let out a long, slow, breath, trying to relieve some of the stress that he could feel building up. The relief that sometimes came from having a good cry never lasted long enough for his liking; it hardly made it worth the hassle. He turns back to the files that are carefully laid out on his desk, checks the list of people he still needs to contact, though they've pretty much exhausted the lists for the first two victims. Still he's got a couple of Jason's friends he still needs to contact, and then he can put that list to rest and concentrate on finding out more about Steven and any connections he may have to the other victims.
By end of shift everyone is looking pale and drawn but there's an edge of relief to their faces; no more bodies have been found as of yet so they're all allowed to go home until tomorrow, unless anything else gets called in that is. Kent is pleased on behalf of Miles and riley that they get to head home for a bit, they've both got partners to see, kids to spend time with, people who miss them whilst they're away. Even Mansell has Erica, although these days Kent tries to think about that a little as is possible: he's worried that if he dwells on it some of his more unsavoury characteristics might make a sudden return.
Kent has his flatmates to return to, if he feels like it, but he'd much rather stay here for a bit and focus on the case while it's quiet. It probably won't do him or the case any good; it's not as if light bulb moments tend to occur when you're running a day behind in terms of sleep. He can always catch a catnap at his desk if he has to. Besides, he knows that Chandler doesn't have flatmates, or a partner and kids to go home to, just an empty flat, and Kent knows all too well how the mind manages to get stuck in dark thoughts and have a bit of a wallow in them when it's left alone for too long.
Kent pulls his phone out; he'd better send a text to his flatmates now that he's decided he's staying at the station. He sends a generic one to David, who's probably still at work himself, and a more personal one to Ellie; she'll be heading home by this time, she likes to go to work earlier so she can get out before the rush hits, one of the benefits of a job with flexi time. He lets her know he'll be back late, if at all, and that yes he will remember to eat something. She means well, he knows that, but sometimes it's like living with his mum.
Just as he presses send on the phone, Mansell decides it would be a good idea to flick his ear in passing. Kent turns his head to glare at his partner; he's thankful that they've more or less slipped back into the casual relationship they had before Mansell starting dating his sister, but he could do without the physical reminders.
"Bugger off, Mansell." He says, rubbing his ear; it had been a rather vicious flick.
Mansell laughs, "I'm off mate, Erica's expecting me, and you know what happens if you keep her waiting."
Kent rolls his eyes, although he does indeed know that Erica can get a bit scary when she's impatient.
"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow." He replies, trying his best to ignore the slight leer on Mansell's face. It's a look that generally precedes some sort of smutty comment.
"Alright mate, don't get up to any funny business while I'm away." Mansell says, the leer becoming more pronounced. That's another thing Kent could do without, the friendly 'banter' that was part and parcel of every relationship that Mansell had.
"Oi, leave the poor lamb alone." Riley says, coming to stand next to Kent's chair. "If he wants some alone time with the boss, who are we to judge?" she adds, a laugh hidden in her voice.
"Don't you have kids to head home to?" Kent asks, "Places to be, that sort of thing?"
"Of course I do," Riley says, "but you're so easy to wind up I just couldn't contain myself."
"Very funny." Kent mutters, "Go home and leave me to my paperwork." He softens the retort with a huff of breath and a small smile.
"Well I know when I'm not wanted." says Mansell, throwing Riley and Kent a smirk before strolling from the room. Riley laughs out loud at that.
"No you bloody don't!" she shouts after him. Still smiling she gives Kent's shoulder a brief squeeze and then heads out into the corridor. "Bye, Skip! Bye, boss." she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.
That just leaves Kent and Miles in the room, Chandler's still there of course, he's just shut away in his office, probably hasn't even notice that everyone's heading home.
"Have you not got a home to go to, kid?" Miles has got up from his desk whilst Kent wasn't looking; he hopes to whatever God that's listening that he hadn't been staring at the boss' door like a grade A twit. He thinks he might have been judging from the look on Miles' face.
"I'm alright Serge." he replies, "I was going to stay here for a bit, see if anything jumps out at me when I've not got Mansell pulling faces at me."
Miles nods, as if he can't see through Kent's transparent attempt at an excuse to stay behind and keep an eye on Chandler. Kent can't help it, it's second nature by this point; why should he bother going home when he knows he can be of more use here? It's not even got anything to do with the boss, not really. At least that's what he likes to tell himself.
"Alright then, but I don't want you here all night, go home and get some sleep." Miles says, "Try to make sure that that idiot gets some as well." He adds, nodding towards the closed door of Chandler's office. They both know there's not much chance of that happening, just as the Sergeant knows that Kent probably won't go home unless Chandler does, preferring to offer some solidarity by being utterly pig-headed and refusing to get any rest, never mind the fact that it leaves both of them a little closer to non-functional.
Kent can practically see the thoughts running behind Miles' eyes, but he doesn't confirm or deny them, just smiles and asks Miles to say 'Hi' to Judy and the kids for him. (They'd grown on him, despite his first rather awkward encounter with young Sarah at the Christening party.)
"Will do." Miles assures him. "Liam and James are still in awe of your, and I quote, 'mad guitar skills', from the last time you were round."
Kent hangs his head, they'd gone out to the pub about a week ago (the team that is) and Kent had got a bit tipsy. So much so that when they headed back to Miles' for a couple of extra drinks at the Sergeant's behest he'd decided it would be a great idea to demonstrate his guitar playing on James' instrument, which had been propped up in a corner of the living room.
"Well I'm glad someone remembers the occasion favourably." He murmurs, shaking his head at his own antics. Miles chuckles, slapping him on the back before heading to knock on the door that separates Chandler's office from the rest of the incident room. Kent watches as he opens the door.
"I'm off boss." Miles says, "You should think about heading home yourself."
Chandler looks up from where he's sat.
"I'll just stay for another hour or so." The DI says, and Kent watches at Miles rolls his eyes.
"Make sure you do." the Sergeant says, "This one won't go home unless you do and it's no good if you both end up falling asleep on the job tomorrow."
Kent resists the urge to sigh, he should've known he wouldn't be able to get away with staying without Miles making some sort of subtle remark about it, or not so subtle, as the case may be.
Chandler swivels his head and catches Kent's eye just as the young DC is trying to avoid it. Kent offers him a grimace and a shrug; the boss knows he usually stays behind after everyone is gone, just because Miles says that it's because of him, doesn't mean Chandler necessarily has to believe it. Chandler's brow furrows in response, like he's not quite sure what to make of Kent or Miles' reasoning.
"I'm sure we'll be fine Miles." The DI says, turning back to face his Sergeant.
"Yeah, well, can't say I didn't bloody try." Miles mutters, leaving the door to Chandler's office open as he walks back to his desk to pick up his coat and keys. "See you both tomorrow." He says as he exits the incident room.
Miles' departure leaves a slightly uncomfortable silence in its' wake. Kent isn't sure if he should get up and close the door to Chandler's office, or whether the DI will do it himself, or if he wants it kept open now that there's not as much noise as there usually is in the office. Maybe he should offer to make the boss another cup of tea; they'll need it if they're both staying. Kent's contemplating getting up and just making one anyway when his train of thought is derailed.
"Kent, a word, please?" comes the request from Chandler's office. Kent swallows nervously before getting up out of his chair and walking to stand just outside door that divides the incident room.
"Yes, sir?" he asks, not quite daring to meet Chandler's eye, lest he's done something that's made the boss uncomfortable. He can't quite bear to look up and see the possible stress and disapproval in his superior's face.
"Would you come in please, I'm not going to bite."
Kent does look up at that. The boss seems to be wearing a half-smile, half-smirk on his face, as if pleased with his own little joke. Kent smiles in return, a bit sheepish as he steps further into the office.
"Sorry, sir." he mumbles.
"You don't have to stay behind you know." Chandler says after a short pause.
"And neither do you, sir." Kent replies, emboldened by the DI's earlier humour.
Chandler sighs.
"I can't go home and sit in an empty flat Kent, not while there's a case on, and we're no nearer to catching the killer than we were after the first victim."
"You'll think of something, sir." Kent assures him. "You haven't failed us yet." He hopes that his tone of voice doesn't betray all of the feeling behind his unshakeable trust in the man sat in front of him. He thinks a bit of it might leak through though, as Chandler looks slightly disbelieving, as he always does when there's any mention of the fact that the team have faith in him. That anyone has faith in him. That, and Kent thinks that the boss still believes that he has to prove himself to them, that he still has to fight to be accepted as part of the team, as their leader.
"I wouldn't quite say that." DI Chandler murmurs, confirming Kent's thoughts.
"I'm sure Miles has told you before sir, but no one else is as good as solving cases as you are. No one picks up the details like you do."
"He may have mentioned it a couple of times." Chandler concedes.
"Well there you are then, sir." Kent says softly. There's another lull in the conversation, both of them wrapped up inside their own heads.
"I don't suppose -" the DI begins, "I don't suppose you'd like to keep me company home before you head back yourself? Just for a little while."
Kent has to fight to keep his mouth from gaping open slightly.
"Of, of course not, sir." he stammers. If he does, it will only be the second time he's entered Chandler's home, the first being after they finally went for that drink, and even then it was only for a couple of minutes; Chandler had promised to lend him a book, and had said that he might as well collect it.
Also, if Chandler is inviting him home, without the influence of alcohol, or the more relaxed setting of a casual outing, then the man must really be in need of a distract. Or possibly the lack of sleep is addling his mind, in which case, Kent probably shouldn't be taking advantage of the offer to spend time with Chandler outside of the office.
"I've heard that it helps to talk about things, sometimes." Chandler says, repeating words from a conversation they'd had some weeks ago.
Kent makes an assenting noise in the back of his throat.
"Good advice that, sir." he says with a slight smile. He gets one in response from the DI, but there's still too much tension in the boss' shoulder's for it to really ease any of Kent's concern. "I'll get my coat, sir."
As he leaves the small office he notices that the incident room could do with a tidy, and resigns himself to the fact that he'll have to have a pick up before they leave because otherwise Chandler will do it, and then he'll probably see something else that needs doing, and then Kent will never convince him to go home and get some rest. He walks over to the rubbish bin and quickly collects the few bits of detritus that have collected over the long shift. He's just putting his coat on when he hears Chandler closing the door to his office.
"I'm ready to leave when you are, sir." he says.
Chandler nods before walking towards the door of the incident room; Kent follows in his wake, switching the light off as they leave.
They make their way out of the building and towards the car park, it's not that late, only 10 or 15 minutes after Miles' left them, and there's still a reasonable number of staff milling around the station. Kent tries not to speculate on what people might be thinking, but his thoughts range wildly from the hope that most people will ignore them to the idea that someone will guess he's going round to his superior's house and that the gossip will have gone twice round the station and found its way to Commander Anderson by morning.
When they reach the car park, Kent veers off towards his moped, after letting Chandler know that he'll follow him back. He waits for the DI's car to start before starting his own vehicle, trailing behind all the way to Chandler's flat.
The flat is still and silent (as one would expect of an empty flat) when they step through the door. Chandler gestures for Kent to hang his coat up while he locks the door, before shedding his own top layer, and placing it on the hook beside Kent's. They stand in the hallway, both mute apart from their breaths until Chandler breaks the quiet.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks.
"Um, yes, thank you, sir, I could make it if you like?" Kent replies, tripping over his words a little. He never did really out-grow his childhood clumsiness.
Chandler looks a little taken aback, and Kent kicks himself, he's not at work, and this is Chandler's flat, he shouldn't be imposing, asking to make a mess of what he knows will be a spotless kitchen. Luckily for Kent, Chandler recovers quickly, the slightly shocked look smoothing over into something more neutral.
"I invited you over, Kent, you shouldn't be making the tea." he says, moving out of the hallway.
Kent follows, a little warily, into the kitchen. As he had guessed, it's immaculate, although not as cold as he'd expected. There's a novelty salt and pepper set in the shape of policeman sat on the side; they seem a little out of place but they warm the room none the less.
"They were a gift from Miles." Chandler says. He'd obviously caught Kent eyeing the shakers.
"I like them, sir." Kent says, reaching out to touch the little figurines, but stopping himself just before he gets there. Luckily Chandler is too preoccupied with the tea things to notice.
"Perhaps we could forgo the 'sir' bit, whilst we're not at work?" Chandler requests.
Ah. Not that preoccupied then.
Sorry s-, sorry, force of habit." Kent says apologetically. He's no idea what he's supposed to call Chandler if not sir, he doesn't remember using any sort of titles for him when they'd been at the pub, but then again he's pretty sure he's never heard anyone call the boss by his first name except for Ed, and perhaps Judy. Miles called him all sorts of names, Mansell generally referred to him as the boss, as did Riley. Also if he's not supposed to call the DI 'sir' out of work, should Kent invite him to use Emerson instead of his surname? He laments the fact that no one's written a handbook on how to talk to your boss (who you may be slightly in love with) outside of work. Or maybe someone has written it, and Kent just hasn't been lucky enough to come across it. You'd think if there was one Mansell would have pointed it out by now, it's the kind of thing he'd find out about, just to have more material to tease Kent with.
Kent's so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn't notice that the kettle had boiled until a warm cup of tea is being placed in his hand. He looks down at the brown liquid, which happens to be the perfect colour. He doesn't dwell on what it means that Chandler knows how he likes his tea.
"Thank you." he says, taking a small sip. It tastes just right too.
"Would you like to sit down?" Chandler asks, indicating the table and chairs that sits at one end of the room.
"Oh, yes, err, thank you." Kent says, walking over and pulling one of the chairs out. He places his cup on a handy coaster before he sits down, and watches as Chandler does the same. They sit quietly for a couple of minutes, occasionally sipping mouthfuls of tea. Kent knows that he should probably say something, the boss had mentioned something about talking earlier, but he doesn't know what to say. He's never been good at these sorts of things, that's always been Erica's forte. Mostly he's used to being talked at, letting people work through their problems by getting everything out in the open and sorting through it themselves, with very little input from his end. He's saved the trouble of having to come up with anything as Chandler decides to start the conversation.
"I keep thinking that I must have missed something."
Kent can only assume that he's referring to the case, this, at least, is familiar ground.
"I don't think you have, si-, I don't think so. There's just not much to go on." Kent replies. He wishes he had words of comfort to offer, but he knows that they would be empty in this situation. He can't promise that it's all going to be alright when he doesn't know that for sure.
"There must be something, somewhere." Chandler says, "I just haven't seen it yet."
Kent responds with a small, non-committal noise. Even Ed hadn't been able to find much in terms of history for this case. Of course, there were plenty of murders involving mutilation, plenty where the method of death is strangulation. There are numerous cases where organs have been removed as well, but they're not related. Buchan had suggested the idea of 'muti murders, also known as 'medicine murders'. These cases, which occur mainly in southern Africa, involve murders taking place in order to harvest body parts for traditional black magic. He'd cited the 'Kei Ripper' murders of 2008 that took place in South Africa. Some people believed that if the organs were taken from live victims then this would serve to make the medicine or 'muti' stronger. The link however, was tenuous at best. The killer had only taken the livers of the victims, something which would be unusual if the killer wanted to use body parts for black magic, or make a profit by selling them on the black market.
"I think you might be over thinking it." Kent suggests, finishing the last of his tea. He looks over at Chandler and sees that his cup is also empty. "Would you like me to wash the cups?" he asks. It takes the other man a moment to reply.
"Oh, that's alright, thank you, I'll get them." Chandler says, moving to get up from his chair.
"It wouldn't be any trouble." Kent says, "After all, you made the tea, the least I can do is clean up."
"If you're sure." Chandler replies, handing Kent the cup. The younger man heads over to the sink, washing the cups out thoroughly before drying them with the tea towel he sees folded over a draw handle, and then returning everything to its proper place. He half expects Chandler to be watching him, making sure he's put everything back where it came from, but as he turns he finds Chandler staring at the whorls in the wooden table top, as if they hold the answer to the case. He makes his way back to the table, unsure of whether or not he should sit down again, or whether he should leave. Chandler must notice him hovering as he says;
"I'm sorry, you probably need to get back to your own flat, have something to eat."
To be perfectly honest Kent had completely forgotten about food but now that it's been mentioned, his stomach decides to betray him, sounding out a low rumble, followed by an embarrassingly loud gurgling noise.
"Sorry." He mutters, glaring down at his stomach, as if it was his body's fault that he hadn't fed it.
"No, no, it's my fault for keeping you." Chandler insists.
"You need to eat as well." Kent reminds the older man gently. Chandler looks up.
"Yes, I suppose I do." He admits, with a self-deprecating smile.
"We could get something, take-out I mean, I don't -, I don't have to be anywhere." Kent's not sure if he's crossed a line by saying that, but he's not really sure what line he's supposed to be toeing, so if he has it can't be helped.
"I'm afraid I'm a bit particular about takeaways." Chandler confesses, as if being a bit fussy about where your food comes from is a crime. Kent's been in enough dodgy kebab shops to know that a bit of wariness about food preparation is practically a life-saving skill in some situations.
"That's fine, you can pick, if you like. Or I could have a go at cooking?" Kent's pretty sure that whatever line he was trying to avoid crossing, he's just stepped over it. He doesn't know what's wrong with him today. Probably the lack of sleep. Possibly the fact that he's stood in Chandler's flat, that Chandler invited him back to his flat.
"You cook?" Chandler asks, seeming surprised.
"You don't have to look so shocked." Kent remarks, although he injects some warmth into his voice to take any possible sting out of the words. "I do have to eat sometimes."
"I didn't mean to offend." Chandler says, his smile assuring Kent that no sting was felt. "I just wasn't expecting it."
Kent shrugs. "My mum taught me. Erica didn't want to learn, and mum had to pass her skills onto someone. What about you, do you cook?" He's getting better at stopping himself from tagging 'sir' onto the end of every sentence.
"When I have to." Chandler says. "I learnt out of necessity." There's a tone to his voice which suggests that the 'necessity' was to do with something a bit more serious than going off to uni and having to fend for himself. Kent sifts through his memories, trying to remember if Miles had mentioned anything about Chandler's early life at any point. He thinks there was a vague mention of a father, and a dislike for the drownings. Something to do with Mediums as well. He decides that it would be best not to ask, it's not a conversation to have after an incredible trying week, maybe it's a conversation they'll never have, but Kent stores the information in his head for future reference, just in case.
"I can go back to mine if you want a bit of peace, sir." Kent offers, slipping the title in at the end as if it will serve as a buffer to the rejection that he's expecting.
Chandler grimaces at the slip, further convincing Kent that he should be ready at a moment's notice to go and get his coat.
"I wouldn't mind if you would like to stay for dinner, if you can spare the time, that is." Is the response Kent gets, to his surprise.
"Err, yeah, that would be fine, sir."
"On one condition," Chandler says, "You stop calling me 'sir' in my own home."
They end up getting a Chinese from a little place about five minutes away. Chandler says that he'd driven past it one night after finishing up a case and that the place had looked so inviting he'd gone into have a look. When Kent raises an eyebrow, Chandler admits he's not usually one for spontaneity, but he does have his moments. The takeaway is a bit more expensive that what Kent is used to, but he insists on paying for his own half, otherwise the whole evening would seem like a date, and although he'd like it to be, it's really not. At least he thinks it isn't. What it is, is two colleagues, he'd like to think two friends, spending some time together after a difficult week, offering each other some support.
Dinner passes by without incident; it's enjoyable, but Kent can tell that the boss is on edge still, waiting for a call, and Kent himself is half-waiting for the ring of a phone to pull them from their evening. It gets to just after nine though, and Chandler's phone still hasn't rung. (It had beeped when Miles had text him asking if he'd gone home yet, but that's not the kind of contact they need to worry about.)
Kent has thankfully managed to avoid calling Chandler 'sir' since his earlier lapse, and they've fallen into a mostly comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional comment, such as Kent's 'This is good.', or the boss' 'Please could you pass the sweet chilli sauce.', and the sounds of two people eating. After dinner Kent helps clean up, although Chandler insists on doing the washing up this time. (It's a bit domestic, made all the more strange by the fact that they're both quite comfortable with it.)
When the clock ticks round to ten o'clock, Kent knows that he should really be heading back to his flat. He feels a bit guilty about all the paperwork he'd meant to get done at the office before the unexpected, but welcome invitation from Chandler. He knows that he'll be more productive if he manages to get some sleep though. There's an empty cup of tea sat in front of him that he's been toying with for the last 15 minutes, loathe to leave, even though he's aware that he's got to do it at some point. He gets up to wash it out in the sink, leaving Chandler's where it is as it's still half full, and green tea reheats much better than his Earl Grey. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the DI's head tracks his movement across the room, as if observing an animal in an unfamiliar habitat. That's how Kent feels at least, although he's become more familiar with the space by degrees as the evening's worn on. He now knows where Chandler keeps his cups, which draw he keeps the napkins in, things he never expected to know, but enjoys knowing all the same. He drags drying the cup out for as long as he dares before finally putting away in the cupboard above the sink. He makes his way back over to the table, pausing for a moment next to the boss.
"I'd best be off, my flatmates will be wondering where I've got off to." Kent says. They won't actually; they're probably not expecting him back after the text he'd sent earlier whilst at the office, he needs something to say though to cover up the fact he'd rather stay here in the warmth of Chandler's kitchen.
"Hmm?" Chandler says, starting a little at the sound of Kent's voice. "Oh, yes, of course." The older man nods and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Kent wants to put a hand on his shoulder, but even though he thinks of them as friends, he knows the boss isn't the greatest fan of physical contact when he hasn't initiated it himself. Still, it's a struggle not to reach out, to offer whatever comfort he can. Sometimes you just need to remind yourself that you're not alone.
"Thank you for inviting me round." Kent says, and suddenly he feels like he's 12 again, thanking a friend's mum for having him round for tea, which is not really how he'd wanted to come across. Chandler doesn't seem to mind though.
"Thank you for providing me with some company." The DI replies with a small upturn of one side of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but almost. Kent returns it with a full smile of his own.
"It's no trouble." he says.
"I'll see you out." Chandler offers, moving his chair back and sliding out gracefully from where he'd been sat before pushing the chair back under the table, all in one smooth movement. Kent can only wish he was that graceful, but he's like a newborn foal compared to Chandler. He doesn't know what that makes Mansell, possibly a drunk newborn foal. He shakes his head at the thought and follows Chandler out into the hallway, blinking against the light that Chandler had switched on, much brighter than that of the kitchen.
Kent grabs his coat from the line of hooks running across the wall, and shrugs it on.
"Thanks for the tea." he says, unsure of how to best phrase his goodbye.
"It's no problem." Chandler says quietly.
Kent's breath catches in his throat as Chandler lifts a hand and places it on the side of his arm.
"Maybe we could do it again sometime." the DI adds. After a couple of seconds Kent finally manages to wake his brain up enough to form words.
"I'd love to." it's becoming sort of a theme between them, a common phrase. "Maybe next time, you can come round to mine." he says, the hand on his arm lending him courage, like a couple of pints; he's got the same light-headed feeling as well.
"I'd love to." Chandler repeats. Kent doesn't think he'll ever get tired of those words, not when they're said like they're words that are only meant to be heard by the two of them. He places a hand over that of the older man's and squeezes briefly.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Kent says, letting go of Chandler's hand reluctantly. The boss' own hand moves slowly away from Kent's arm, fingers trailing slightly.
Chandler just nods in response, and leans round Kent to open the door for him.
"Goodbye." Kent says with a soft smile as he exits the flat. Chandler's answering 'Goodbye, Emerson.', and the lingering touch of a phantom hand on his arm warm him as he climbs aboard his moped and heads out into the cool London streets.
Well there it is, first chapter done, I hope it hasn't turned out too badly. Let me know what you think!