WORLD ENOUGH AND TIME
by saizine
(Companion piece to 'A Fine and Private Place')

It should have annoyed Kent more that he could hear the music blaring from one of the nearby cars parked at street level, but it didn't. It sounded like something vaguely reminiscent of the mid-nineties, based on what he could gather from the bassline, but the intricacies were muffled by too many walls for him to place it definitively. Instead he leant forward, hugging his knees closer to his chest, just to see if he could pick out which car it was.

Until he realised exactly how ridiculous that idea was and slumped back against the pillows with a sigh, staring at the ceiling.

It was one of those nights.

Chandler stirred beside him, just a light twitch of his limbs that Kent had long ago learnt to recognize. He wasn't going to wake, there wasn't enough movement to prophesize that, but Kent turned his head to watch him anyway—just in case. Even though it had been eight months, even though he was allowed Kent still felt more comfortable like this, letting his eyes linger on Chandler's features when he didn't know. He'd never seen anyone look worried in their sleep before, not those first few times, but Chandler somehow managed it. (He would, wouldn't he?) It took a few more sleepless nights and a little more daring on Kent's part but he eventually understood. Chandler's face might have betrayed his mind, but the limp trust of his limbs suggested the opposite just as much.

The wind caught one of the trees outside the window, sending weak moonlight dappling across the rucked sheets and the spread of Chandler's shoulder. His hand curled around the corner of Kent's pillow, unconsciously searching him out; for a moment Kent wondered how he could get back to where they'd begun the night, with Chandler's arm wrapped around his middle with a determination that still sent a flush of warmth down Kent's back, but there was no way to do it without waking him. And Kent never did that unless he had to, not if he could help it, so instead he laid back and tried to focus on the brush of Chandler's fingertips against the cap of his shoulder.

That was the one thing about these sleepless hours that he appreciated more, now—it was easier to sit through it when he was nestled in his bed with the radiator on one side and Chandler on the other. It was much more difficult to panic when he could feel Chandler's steady breathing under his arm, or his heartbeat thick and alive against Kent's skin. Only small things, really, virtually negligible, but… it helped.

Kent shifted under the covers, the summer night air just muggy enough to be uncomfortable. They never seemed to get around to switching from the winter duvet, either, and as much as the thought itself still felt amazingly domestic it wasn't enough to keep the discontented huff away from Kent's mouth. He didn't have many of these nights anymore, just the occasional one when he woke up with his skin crawling and a terrible feeling that he couldn't possibly catch enough breath. He wouldn't mind, perhaps, if he stayed like that—at least that particular reaction he can do something about. He'd rather have that than the shot of relief that inevitably gave way to the vague annoyance at still being awake. It was as if the bloody feeling was out to get him, leaving him high and dry after a cruel joke.

It got less vague as Kent pushed himself back up on an elbow and grabbed at his phone on the bedside table, careful not to jostle Chandler, and noticed the time. Shit—less than three hours before they were due in. He was really setting himself up for a terrible day full of terrible coffee and (most likely) a terrible headache. Chandler would probably try and get him to something about it, try vainly to convince him to come in an hour later than normal because they haven't got a case on. It wouldn't work—it never has—but the thought brought a pleased smile to Kent's face nonetheless.

(It still felt like a revelation each time Chandler did it.)

But he might not be able to tell at all—Kent was good at hiding it, just pushing it to one side and soldiering on. It wasn't even terribly out of character for him to be up before Chandler; he'd only know without a doubt if he woke in the midst of it, and Kent wouldn't have thought that was likely judging from the depth of his breathing. Sometimes he preferred it like this, sitting up alone in consciousness but not in body. Other times he'd prefer to get up and out completely, eliminate the risk of accidentally elbowing Chandler in the face or tossing and turning for hours, but Chandler had never slept through that particular manoeuvre. The man seemed to have a talent for knowing when Kent was gone, even if he'd still been asleep when he'd crept out—and they both had to be at work in the morning.

Once or twice, though, he had woken with a start to find Chandler watching him, eyes awake with concern as if he'd been keeping track of the outward manifestations of a troublesome dream; those were the times he was glad for the dry press of lips to his forehead, the hushed words that didn't really mean anything in themselves except as proof that Chandler was there, that Kent wasn't sat in an empty house watching out over an empty street.

Kent was still surprised at how much that meant to him.

There was a pause in the music, a sudden enveloping of the thick silence of night, and Kent heaved himself up again for a proper look out the window. Not for any particular reason, just because he might as well, and he only realised he'd been holding his breath when the noise started up again in a slightly different tune. Kent turned away, trying to place this one as well, but his mouth quirked into a smile out of its own accord as he rested his chin against his knees.

He was an idiot, wasn't he? What the hell was he doing—testing his music trivia knowledge?

(He might as well, there was talk of another pub quiz and last time Buchan had crushed them all with a surprisingly widespread familiarity with noughties pop anthems.)

Chandler snuffled again, a little more insistently. Kent stilled; Chandler wasn't anywhere near wakefulness yet, but he paused his movements just in case. He honestly didn't want to bother Chandler with this, not when the main problem he had at that moment was the temporary inability to sleep and nothing more, but there was something about the way he'd just shifted towards his side that compelled Kent to reach out, to brush his fingers across the curve of his shoulder. The touch went unnoticed, although Chandler's skin was a pleasant familiar warmth even in the summer nights, and Kent trailed his hand towards Chandler's face. He could read the remnants of the last case in his expression, the frown lines that never quite go, the smudges of grey under his eyes. Kent knew he'd kept the evidence of it too, written across his face, but he couldn't carry it as well as Chandler. Kent ran a thumb across Chandler's cheekbone—he might even have described it as aristocratic—but flinched back as the man in question stirred with a slight sigh. Chandler scrunched up his nose at the gentle contact but didn't wake. Kent smiled down at him through the blue depth of night, stroked at his jaw for a moment longer until the screeching sound of tires rung out from a few streets away and he recoiled for a second time, brought back to the reality of the situation and the need for at least some modicum of sleep before the shift.

He didn't bother closing the curtain from where he'd tugged it slightly open. The morning light would make getting up easier, at the very least. Instead he flipped his pillow over to the cool side and settled along the line of Chandler's body, gradually resting an arm across the base of his ribs. He curled it closer in a loose embrace as Chandler just went on sleeping, and Kent sighed as his attempts to get comfortable gave way to the uncomfortable feeling of being very much awake.

But there wasn't much he could do about that.

The beat still thrummed through the quiet of the street, but Kent welcomed it as he dropped a kiss to the inside of Chandler's shoulder and drew himself as close as he dared. Even if he didn't get back to sleep, even if he had to work the next shift on only a handful of hours of rest, he would enjoy this: the warmth of Chandler's knee against his, the mismatched thump of their hearts, the gentle rise and fall of his chest that said, yes, we're here.

'Have a nice morning, did you?'

Kent looked up from where he was stirring milk into his coffee to find Riley approaching with a wide grin. He couldn't possibly see where she'd got that idea from; even though he had managed to salvage an hour, he didn't feel particularly well rested. He'd be all right after the coffee, though, if she'd just give him a chance to drink it.

'What gives you that impression?' he asked as she came to a stop beside him and flicked on the kettle.

Riley shrugged, overly casual and far too pleased to be safe. 'A talent for keen observation.'

'Right,' Kent said, holding the spoon out of the way as he raised the mug to his mouth. 'You do know I can tell where this is going, don't you?'

'Of course I do. It doesn't make it less fun.'

'Oh, God, you're all children,' he muttered, more to his coffee than anyone else, but Riley chuckled anyway. 'Isn't there a cold case we can pour over, or something?'

'Probably, but that would involve going to find one.'

He shot her an unimpressed look, but even he couldn't stop from agreeing with her with a slight chuckle. Maybe if it had been the first day they'd had without a case, they'd have been more likely to be bothered. But it wasn't and they'd already exhausted all the paperwork that they'd been putting off from the last few cases, and even Chandler had run out of forms to fill in. Kent knew he'd come up with something—he always did, even if they ended up stuck giving the incident room a deep clean (and, in fact, it was in need of one)—and there was no need for them all to overexert themselves trying to decide which of the boxes of cold cases was most pressing.

Riley glanced back over at him as she dropped a teabag into her mug, the kettle bubbling more insistently. 'I never thought I'd see the day when the boss ended up domestic.'

Kent frowned in confusion. 'I don't think you have.'

'No, no, I definitely have,' she said, chuckling and gesturing at the length of him with a teaspoon. 'You're walking proof.'

He sighed—no, deflated, more like. 'Not this again.'

Kent would have thought that after eight bleeding months they'd have got tired of teasing him about Chandler. Clearly that had been a very, very optimistic thought, because if anything they all just seemed to enjoy it even more.

'Oh, come on.' Riley nudged his shoulder as she went to pick up the kettle. 'It's obvious you two have had a cosy morning.'

He couldn't really deny that, not really. They had, despite everything. That was probably why he found it relatively easy to get out of bed after slipping back into sleep; even he couldn't resist the gentle press of lips from a shower-warmed Chandler, the offer of tea and toast. Morning sunlight had streamed in as well, unflinchingly bright and the look Chandler had shot him when he stretched, back arched upwards away from the mattress, was enough to bring a pleased smile to his face.

(The flush that had crept up the back of Chandler's neck once he realised Kent had noticed brought a wider one, too, but all he'd done about that was slide out of bed to kiss that anxious mouth before retiring to the bathroom himself.)

'How on earth can you tell?'

'We always know.' She waggled her eyebrows before turning to press the teabag against the side of the now-full mug.

Kent watched her do it, stunned. 'I'll say it again: how?'

'Today? The way your tie's tied,' she said, her entire demeanor matter of fact, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. She wafted a hand in the general direction of his neck, wiggling her fingers. 'I don't think you're enough of a nutter to bother with an trinity knot.'

'What?' Kent asked, trying to look down to see what she was talking about but failing miserably.

(He didn't even know what a trinity knot was, let alone how to tie one.)

'Didn't you even look at yourself before you came in today?'

Kent couldn't say that he had. And he hadn't wondered about the length of time it had taken Chandler to do his tie, either, but she was right. Even if he couldn't see it, a quick tug at his shirt collar told him that yes, that was a more complicated knot than he'd attempt. The flush arrived of its own accord not long after, hot across the back of his neck.

Riley looked as if she was having difficulty smothering a delighted smile. 'You're going to have a bit of trouble getting that off tonight.'

He groaned and shot her a look that should have been deprecating but she returned it by smiling wider.

'Oh, sod off,' Kent said, though there was a little bit of a laugh behind it too.

(Riley didn't miss it.)

'I've tried,' she said, accompanied by an unapologetic pat to his shoulder, 'but I just can't do it. You two are precious.'

Kent pulled a face, though she laughed it off with a shake of her head as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

'Don't let him hear you saying that,' he added, as a bit of an afterthought, as the still-too-hot coffee stung his tongue.

A familiar voice appeared from somewhere beyond Riley's elbow. 'Who?'

Riley adopted a look of absolute innocence that she threw haphazardly in the boss's direction as he approached, his own mug in hand. Kent rolled his eyes; there was no way that would fool him. Maybe that wasn't the point; either way, it was a bit ridiculous.

'Oh, no one in particular, sir.'

'Really?'

'Of course,' she said,

She swooped away with her tea, and although Kent couldn't see her face from where he stood, he knew she was grinning.

'Right,' Chandler said slowly, letting it go although they all knew what they were talking about.

He looked amused nonetheless as Kent passed him the box of green tea without a word. They were used to it by now, and it was always a bit more concentrated when they didn't have a case on. On particularly quiet patches even Miles got in on it, much to Chandler's chagrin. He'd been mortified about it at first, of course, the blush was almost perpetual, but overexposure had suppressed even his hair-trigger reactions. Occasionally they'd conspire to get in on it, to poke back, but each and every one of those plans had either been derailed by a case or by a particularly well-timed kiss that devolved their minds into something else entirely.

'Miles not in yet?'

'Hmm?' Kent looked up from where he'd been regarding the liquid in his mug, trying to judge its temperature. 'Oh, no. He rang, though. Says his youngest boy's come down with something rough, he'll be in a bit late.'

Kent couldn't help but find way Chandler wrinkled his nose at the thought as he poured the boiling water endearing.

'Shall I send him through when he arrives, sir?' he asked, turning back to his drink as he waited for a response.

(He might as well, it was a slow morning after all and there wasn't much else to do. He didn't miss Riley's small glances either, the smothered grins from the safety of her desk, and had to force himself not to scowl in her direction. It was too early for all of this. At least they had some time before Miles barged in; they were overdue one of his comments, it'd been two weeks and Kent was getting more and more antsy about when it was going to come forth. Knowing their luck it would probably be at a crime scene, in front of an impressionable tech who hadn't already learnt to assume that their banter was all lies.)

Chandler turned to him with a bemused smile. 'You're not a receptionist, Emer—'

'Not interrupting anything, am I?'

Kent heaved another heavy sigh as Mansell approached, his arms spread wide in a faux-warm greeting. (He'd really not had enough coffee for this.) The suggestion dripped from his voice, underlined by the cheeky smile that never seemed to go, and if he'd have been anyone else Kent would have just shoved a two-fingered salute in his face and walked off. But no, he was a professional, and this was his workplace.

There were a hundred retorts that he could use, like Couldn't you get your coat off, first? or Do you fucking mind? but what came out was offhand and perhaps a little bit short.

'Would you prefer it if you were?'

Chandler shot him a bit of a panicked look, just for a moment, but the question did its job: Mansell came to a stop in front of them, mouth not quite as smiling as it had started.

Kent didn't stop the smirk that grew the longer Mansell stood there, looking between them both stuck for words. Chandler went a bit pink in the interim as he turned back to his brewing tea, but even if Mansell didn't turn a similar shade of red Kent could tell he'd stopped him in his tracks. He hadn't expected that particular response, not when they've both been oscillating between being retiring about it and telling them off.

'Not laughing now, are we?' Kent asked, teasing and not entirely without a chuckle himself, as he walked off leaving them both a bit stunned.

(Well, it was about time someone did it.)

Mansell's bumbling half-amused, half-mollified apologies to Chandler followed Kent back to his desk; a quick glance behind over his shoulder told him that, for all of Chandler's stern expression, there was amusement there too.

Kent's phone went after lunch, and when he saw the name pop up on his screen he swore underneath his breath.

(Mark never had a knack for good timing.)

He let the mobile ring out, safely switched to vibrate and stowed in the inside pocket of his jacket, until it stilled and he could ignore it in favour of getting a little bit further on proofreading the reports from the last case they'd worked. It may have been a quiet day but he still wasn't strictly supposed to be taking personal calls; why couldn't he have rung twenty minutes earlier?

It was only when he'd read a sentence three times and not taken it in that Kent reckoned he should probably just call back and get it over and done with. Otherwise he'd just sit there, hyperaware of the fact his phone was buzzing every now and then to remind him of the missed call. Once Riley had looked up from her desk, slightly confused, and mouthed 'Your chest's vibrating,' to him from the opposite side of the room. He'd just rolled his eyes and mouthed back 'I know.' Then her eyes had pointedly flicked to the boss' office and he'd not hesitated to raise two fingers in her direction while Skip was looking the other way. Her peal of laughter broke the quiet of the incident room, and even Chandler had looked up from where he'd been engrossed in a file to glance at them all, one by one, trying to find out what had gone on.

Kent had chuckled to himself—good luck with that. He didn't know, either.

In the end he'd waited until Riley had swanned off down to the archives under the pretense of following up on those missing files from the sixties and Mansell had tried to surreptitiously pocket a packet of cigarettes, winking at them all in way of explanation. If they were all getting away with that then a five minute phone call wouldn't hurt. It sounded like Chandler was having a terse conversation of his own, complete with the frustrated muttering that always came when he was put on hold, and Miles had retreated behind a paper now he was finished barking half-arsed orders at everyone. Kent locked his computer screen and stretched before getting to his feet, grabbing at the jacket on the back of his chair as he went.

'And just where do you think you're going?'

Kent stopped, turned on his heel; Miles had flipped the top half of his newspaper down in an uncanny impression of virtually every cheap television PI. All he needed was a dimly lit office and imitation mahogany blinds.

'Got to return a call, Skip.'

'Out there?' Miles nodded towards the door with an arched brow. 'You've a phone on your desk, you know.'

'Personal.'

'If I didn't know any better, I'd tell you to stop ringing your boyfriend.'

Kent sighed, shook his head. 'And there it is.'

Miles just grinned and returned his paper to the usual position. 'You know me too well.'

'You haven't got him yet,' Kent said, nodding in Chandler's direction.

(He was back to his laptop now, but still shooting disgruntled glances at his phone. Not a successful call, then. Evidently all activity that was going on in the capital at that moment was entirely above board—that didn't bode well for them, did it?)

'Don't get your hopes up,' Miles said, cryptic. 'I will.'

'I'll warn him.'

There was a rusty chuckle, then: 'That won't matter. I'll still enjoy it.'

Kent shook his head, half-smiling.

'God, we need a case.'

The scarred doors of the station slammed shut behind Kent's back as he walked into the sunny car park, making a bee line for the same spot he'd been using for quiet moments and unofficial phone conversations ever since he'd arrived at Whitechapel. It hadn't been easy, when he'd first come back, after, but in the end it was the only place in the concreted area where he couldn't see where he'd broken down next to a donkey (no one had ever explained that, actually, but Kent supposed that had been the least of their problems) and standing in it had been easier than looking at it. It also happened to be one of the few places with a reliable connection, strangely enough, even with the brick wall. Somewhere more open would make more sense, but his internet radio always used to drop when he walked over the Thames and there were no better open, unobstructed places in London.

Bloody networks.

Kent unlocked his phone, flicking through his contacts until he found Mark's name, and held the phone to his ear just as a group of PCs tumbled through the same door he'd just come through, fumbling at their pockets for lighters. The shrill ringing overtook the low tone of their conversation, though judging from the boisterous laughter Kent knew he'd be better off not knowing.

As soon as the familiar click sounded in his ear, he said, 'It's only me, mate.'

(Mark would know.)

'Yeah, hold on a moment—' There was a scuffling on the end, a low bark, then a distant thump and a scuffling of claws against a floor. Mark sighed, chuckling, then picked up the phone again. 'Right, okay. Hello. What took you so long?'

'I'm on duty, Mark.' Kent made a point of glancing at his watch even though he was stood there on his own. 'You're lucky we're bored out of our minds or my sergeant wouldn't have let me out of the incident room at all.'

'Ooh-err.' The chesty chuckle that's always been one of Mark's defining characteristics rumbled over the line. 'I won't ask.'

'What were you calling about, then? I know you, you don't call up just wanting a natter. You need a pint for that.'

'Two pints, mate. I've not forgotten what you owe me.' There was a bark, and Mark shushed the dog to comic extent. 'It's about the wedding.'

'Please say you don't need me to officiate.'

Mark whistled. 'That's an idea.'

'I need to learn to keep my mouth shut around you.' Kent faux-groaned but it soon turned into a chuckle.

'How's it going, then? Still shacked up with that guy?'

'Ha ha, Mark.' Kent could virtually taste the sarcasm. 'You know I am.'

Mark and Jess had been the first ones to find out after the rest of the team—and, typically, it had been entirely by accident. The night Mark had proposed, Jess had promptly rung Kent to shout abuse at him (loving, happy abuse) for keeping his mouth shut for so long (what had she expected? He was a policeman, after all), but instead of getting Kent on the end of the line she'd got a groggy, half-asleep Chandler. There really were lots of problems that came from both of them having the same model of phone, it seemed. In any case, her pitch just got louder when Chandler realised his mistake and handed the phone over.

The next time Kent had spoken to Mark, he'd replied to his 'You replaced me pretty quickly,' with an offhand, 'Well, I never shagged you, did I?' and it had taken five minutes for the other man to stop laughing. Then that was that, Chandler's name had just been another in their list. Chandler always gave Kent funny looks when he said they say hello, though; Kent didn't blame him. His friends could sometimes take a little getting used to.

'Anyway, the wedding. Thought I'd ring and invite you formally. Or informally, whatever this turns out to be, I've got no idea. Jess just leaves me a to-do list and I do it. You're on today's, as you might expect.'

Kent scoffed. 'Flatterer.'

'You should be flattered; she sends her love.'

'Ta.'

'I'll tell her that, shall I?' Mark sounded amused.

Kent grinned at nothing. 'Probably should.'

(He missed them, a bit. Familiar faces, and that.)

'Anyway, we've got a date. Thought we'd let you know early. You Londoners are sodding awkward, after all.'

'Oi!' Kent said, too overly affronted to be serious. 'You were one of us once.'

'Ah, but I'm a country boy at heart. Why else would I spent all afternoon in a muddy field trying to chase after a greyhound for no apparent reason at all?'

There was more scuffling in the background and a slight rhythmic thump that suggested even their new house was a little too small for a greyhound with an enthusiastically wagging tail. Kent couldn't help but imagine the last time Mark had tried to run in wellies—he'd ended up with a sprained ankle and a considerably bruised ego. He and Jess had had a right laugh about it and ever since then Mark had insisted on ruining a perfectly good pair of trainers every time he faced muddy ground. That must have been getting expensive by now.

'Nah, that's just all excess energy. You'll come to your senses eventually. Or break one of your legs, whatever comes first.' Kent paused as Mark made a vaguely annoyed sound—they'd never let him forget—and he watched a pigeon peck at nothing on the concrete steps nearby before asking, 'When is it, then?'

'Twentieth of August.'

Kent raised his eyebrows regardless of whether or not anyone could see him. 'That's quick.'

'No point fannying about. You know us, practical until the cows come home.' Kent scoffed and kicked at some loose gravel around his feet as Mark made a sarcastic noise. 'That, and the fact the place we wanted either had that date or September next year.'

'Well, that must have settled it then.'

'Will you be gracing us with your presence, then?'

'Barring any suspicious deaths in our area, yes.'

Mark laughed, the gruffness of it emphasized by the slightly dodgy line. 'Aren't you pleasant.'

'You got much worse than that when you lived with me.'

'Don't remind me. I was not expecting to come into the kitchen to find you quite happily eating jam on toast—raspberry jam—pouring over crime scene pictures.'

Kent chuckled; he could still recall the horrified look on Mark's face. 'Even I have to admit that was an unfortunate coincidence.'

The rumble of an engine growled from behind one of the station's interior walls, and Kent flattened himself against the brick as the car appeared around the closest corner. Brushing the dust from his shoulder, he scowled at the boot as it drove off; he knew the car, though, and resisted the urge to swear. DI Palmer, Criminal Finance, bit of a bastard. Even Chandler was reluctant to bring him in to consult on cases, and he was usually civil with everyone. He hadn't even shot Miles a stern look when he'd muttered something suitably disparaging the last time they'd seen him out of the incident room, and that was virtually an endorsement. Kent didn't want to end up chatting to him on his way back in. He was an overly talkative sort of man.

Mark continued on through the pause. 'Think you'll survive a weekend out in the country?'

'You can't get worse mobile reception than in central London, so yeah, probably,' Kent said, watching Palmer get out of his car and—thankfully—head for the other entrance.

'Bring that bloke of yours,' Mark said, offhand and judging by the sound, switching to holding the phone with his shoulder.

Kent grinned at the crack in the concrete at next to his left foot; he'd never thought of Chandler as his, not really, but there was something about other people referring to him that way. But even as he thought it there was an inkling of doubt crawling at the base of his ribs—they weren't each others, were they? Not in public. Not even in Somerset at a wedding in a place where their faces didn't ring any bells. As much as Kent would like to—and he would, he really, really would—they couldn't. He hadn't really thought of it as a problem; Kent was happy with Chandler in his house, all warm smiles and firm kisses and a gentle press of skin in the middle of the night. He hadn't wanted until there was a reason to. The rational part of him told him to shut up, there was nothing he could do; it didn't entirely quell the uncomfortable lurch that Kent immediately regretted experiencing.

'I'm—well, I'm not sure that's a good idea.' It sounded weak even as he said so, so Kent cleared his throat and pressed on regardless. 'Actually, I'm not sure he'd want to.'

'Ask him anyway. There's always room.'

Kent made a sound he hoped didn't seem too reluctant. 'We'll see.'

'Ah, well, if he can't come, bring that Maggie,' Mark said, too bright to be anything but appeasing. 'She's always a laugh.'

'And she's in Birmingham, if you've forgotten.'

Mark laughed as if that small detail was irrelevant. 'From the few times I've met her, even I know she'll get on a train for an open bar.'

Kent scoffed and shook his head at the nearby pigeon. 'What a gleaming character analysis.'

'Can't deny it, though, can you?'

Kent chuckled; no, he couldn't. If there was one reliable fact about Maggie, it was that. Everything else, from her taste in music to the colour of her hair, was liable to change from one month to the next; her appreciation for a good bottle of spirit, Twinings (and only Twinings) Earl Grey and the poetry of Thomas Hardy were the singular constants. Singular oddities, maybe, but when you're faced with teal hair one week and purple the next (she'd really been trying to get on their head teacher's nerves) it was nothing in comparison.

'You'll have all this in writing once Jess' decided on the invitation,' Mark continued, taking Kent's silence as evidence of assent. 'Which, let's be honest, could take years.'

'How many options are we on now?'

(Last Kent had heard, it had been fourteen. Mark couldn't even tell the difference between most of them.)

Mark gave an overdone sigh. 'Five.'

'That's better.'

'Marginally.' Mark's heavy sigh was all put on. 'It's all paper to me,' he continued, pausing for a short chuckle. 'I bet your fella would know what she's on about, though, wouldn't he? Mister Montblanc.'

Kent wished he'd never mentioned it. Then again, during those early days, he'd said a lot. Enough for Mark to suspect and, later on, for Jess to guess. He was rather sure that Miles had put the pieces together too, quietly through all the changes to the team and all their cases. He was that sort of man. Sometimes Kent wondered about how insistent Skip had been that Kent put Chandler up when that pipe went, but each time he arrived at the conclusion that it didn't matter how it happened, or why, only that it did. (Oh, it did.)

'I doubt it,' Kent said in reply, clearing his throat. 'All the paper he uses is the shit the Met keeps in the print room.'

Mark makes a mocking sound, low and overdone. 'Careful, don't give away all the government secrets.'

'Well, if anyone would like to pop in and nick the massive oversupply of carbon copy paper, we'd be most appreciative.'

'Speaking of, aren't you supposed to be on duty?'

'Are you implying that I spend all my days pushing paper around?'

(Kent knew he did faux-affronted well. He practiced it enough, with those supposedly charming idiots he worked with.)

'You wouldn't be on the phone with me if you had a suspect to chase.'

It was actually surprising how many suspects they did have to literally chase. When he'd first joined up he'd thought that was a thing off the telly, but no, it wasn't. The police fitness tests weren't joking, and neither were the bruises when he got those, either.

'I'll have you know I can run and talk at the same time,' Kent joked as he glanced around the bricked corner back to the front doors, half expecting to find Miles' scowl behind one of the glass panels. 'I'd best get back in before my sergeant comes out to kill me.'

Mark chuckled, and Kent could just imagine him shaking his head at the dog. 'On your head be it.'

Kent struggled his way into consciousness only to find that the allure of sleep wasn't entirely gone.

One of those days, then. Evenings, he corrected. If he forced himself up now, he'd probably be able to sleep later. He got as far as making the decision to stay awake, and maybe even to brace himself for that awful software update on his phone the Met's been insisting on, before he realised where he'd fallen asleep.

He was lying on the sofa between Chandler's thighs, the back of his head resting in the furrow between Chandler's hip and leg. The position was surprisingly comfortable, although Kent had no idea how they'd ever managed to arrange themselves in such as way. There wasn't really the room for the both of them on his slightly useless old furniture, but it seemed to have worked well enough. Before he'd really managed to process the situation, Chandler's back was bowed as he leant over him, the book in his hands temporarily forgotten.

'Hello.'

Kent blinked up at him, comfortably warm, and settled for a slow smile. 'Hello.'

Chandler returned his attention to his book, but somehow managed to balance the wide spine in one palm in order to card a gentle hand through Kent's hair. He sighed, smiled; after a moment Kent turned his head to press his mouth to the inside of Chandler's wrist as he trailed touch over his neck and shoulder. He pressed his nose to the skin and muscle as Chandler let his hand settle somewhere over Kent's heart.

'What time is it?'

Chandler didn't even need to look at his watch. 'Quarter past nine.'

'Shit,' Kent muttered, raising a hand to rub at his eyes. 'Why'd you let me fall asleep?'

There was a sigh, and the slightly awkward turning of a page, then: 'You seemed like you needed it.'

Kent stilled, then stretched his neck to look up at Chandler with a furrowed brow. 'You didn't wake up.'

That was enough; Chandler knew what he meant. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation, although it was the first in a while. No matter how many times they went through it, they always reached the same conclusion: Kent didn't think there was anything to worry about, it was only a couple of nights every so often, but Chandler was always a little bit concerned, a little anxious.

For a moment all Kent could feel was the thump of his heart against the edge of Chandler's palm, one focal point against the entire world.

'No,' Chandler said with a sigh as he met Kent's eye. 'I can still tell, though. When you've not slept.'

Kent felt an inexplicable urge to apologise, for some unknown reason, but he knew Chandler would never accept it so he kept his mouth shut. Instead he hummed, a quiet acknowledgement, and didn't make any move to get up. He was comfortable, after all, and Chandler still had a way to go with that Gibbon book.

(He'd been chipping away at it for ages. Kent didn't even know why he owned the thing in the first place, really, but Chandler had taken a shine to it. It'd come up a lot at school, apparently, and he'd thought he should probably get around to reading it. Why he wanted to bother with the fall of Rome was another mystery of Chandler's, but one that Kent was happy to ponder for as long as he liked.)

When Chandler retrieved his hand to turn another page Kent heaved himself into a sitting position, glancing down at his rumpled shirt with a slightly irked expression, and rubbed at his face again. Naps really were more trouble than they were worth; he didn't even feel that refreshed. Getting to his feet turned into a slightly stumbling occasion, as well; disentangling his limbs from the remnants of whatever sleep he'd been in was more always more problematic than he expected. He still appreciated the gentle steadying hand on his hip even if he didn't strictly need it, the slight squeeze of Chandler's fingers around his side as he turned to face him. When Kent found Chandler watching him instead of the words on the page he didn't try to resist the urge to bend to kiss at his mouth, to pull back and regard the way Chandler's face looked equal parts pleased and embarrassed.

'You're going soft,' he murmured against Chandler's mouth, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Chandler didn't say anything, eyes flickering between Kent's, and he pressed close for another quick kiss.

(A yes, then.)

As tempted as he was just to give up there and then, flop back down on top of Chandler and just stay there until he was contractually obliged to be somewhere else, Kent pulled away from Chandler with a gentle pat to the side of his neck and made for the kitchen. He wasn't really that hungry but he'd have to eat something before he ended up standing over the toaster at midnight, woken again by a rumbling stomach. All his routines were off—the bloody summer sun always did that, he'd find out it was ten o'clock when he'd thought the it had only just gone dark only to remember that yes, it had only just gone dark. He walked through onto the tiled floor and preemptively flicked on the light; there was still some pink in the sky, if he squinted, but they might as well start relying on artificial light. Chandler already was, sat with the end table light over his shoulder illuminating the pages in his hands. Just imagining him trying to stretch to turn it on without disturbing him from sleep was enough to make Kent smile at his own reflection in the window. (It must have required some contortion.)

Then, with a shot of something uncomfortable, Kent remembered what Mark had said. The invitation. He glanced back towards the sitting room, the familiar set of shoulders, the shadow of a profile he could recognize from touch alone. Chandler would never go for it, would he? Probably not. They weren't exactly keeping each other secret—they couldn't, not when they shared a house—but there were some things that Kent just assumed were beyond a line. Attending a wedding as a couple was probably well past it.

He hadn't thought about it much at first. They'd been too engrossed with the newness of it all—the novelty of being able to show how much he cared about Chandler, the thrill of being able to press his tongue to the dip in Chandler's neck or feel the curl of his hands around his hips—to think too much further forward. In a way Kent had always assumed they'd gone as far as they would, they couldn't go any further without doing anything that would alert the Met and that… well that wasn't about to happen, was it? They were barely getting away with having the same address. They had Miles to thank for that—he'd been in the job long enough to know all the loopholes.

(Kent hadn't asked.)

But, sat there at his desk in the late afternoon trying to resist foregoing reviewing the Chapman case in favour of wasting the last hour of the shift on banter, he realised. It had taken him eight months to realise, but they'd never been on a date.

'Have you eaten?' he asked, pulling himself away from that particular train of thought.

'No.' Chandler glanced back at him for a moment, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with honest amusement. 'I didn't have much of a chance, did I?'

Kent shrugged, grinning. 'Should have just moved me, then.'

Chandler didn't reply; Kent didn't need him to, and he smiled at the breadboard instead. Chandler would never say—possibly didn't even have the words—but Kent suspected he enjoyed the easy, unnecessary closeness. He hadn't expected Chandler to be as tactile as he was, actually. There was very little in their interaction in public that would suggest the nature of their acquaintance (as Chandler had once put it, much to Kent's amusement), but when they were on their own—well. That was different. Pleasantly different. Chandler seemed to use every excuse in the book to touch him, however briefly, and although he'd never encouraged it, he always let Kent slump against his shoulder when sleep overtook him. Once Kent had even cracked an eye and caught him smiling.

Kent cleared his throat and peered into the fridge, trying to think of what he could do with what was in there at this time of night. Nothing came to mind immediately; Chandler would probably know. The man was a walking encyclopedia about some things—and not the things Kent had expected, if he was going to be honest. He'd expected the decent proficiency at literature questions on University Challenge; he hadn't expected Chandler to get quite so fond of Just a Minute. He knew the little things now, too: the vague irritation at the way the bones in his neck would sometimes creak, the specific degrees of frustrated sighs that betrayed the severity of whatever situation they found themselves in. The thought brought another smile to Kent's face—they were just a mere selection of the things he'd learnt about Chandler, since, in an odd haphazard way.

Just as he heard Chandler sigh and get up, the sofa creaking in protest of any sort of moment, Kent decided he wasn't going to ask—not yet. He didn't have the energy for that conversation. He didn't even really have the right words for the question. And, if he wanted to be entirely clear with himself, he was a little surprised he wasn't confident in the answer. He didn't know. He could guess on most things, come to an educated conclusion like he'd been taught in years of detective work, but this… with this, he didn't know how Chandler would react.

(Something low in his stomach suggested badly, even as Chandler walked past and laid his hand across Kent's back, warm and comforting.)

He didn't need it, it wasn't any sort of prerequisite but… it would be nice.

Kent wished he would, wished he and Chandler would, but he was used to hoping.