Uptight (But Still Everything's Alright)

by mildetryth

Dominic Twatt is accidentally drawn into the world of Radio Rock... and finds it addictive. Continues after the end of the movie. Warning for language (though if you get offended by that, how did you manage to watch the film?). Also, knowledge of the deleted scenes helps. One-shot.

Uptight (But Still Everything's Alright)

By mildetryth

Dominic Twatt was an absolute expert at what he did. In fact, he might be the only expert in his area. There were many lawyers, but there was only one Dominic Twatt. He was a veritable encyclopaedia of laws, regulations and precedents. This he combined with a faultless understanding of the letter of the law, seeing every possible back door and bypass.

His name was not well-known with the public: indeed, he had never appeared in a court room (and didn't intend to do so: he could imagine the reaction of the jury when his name would be announced and he preferred to keep it by imagining). Most of his clients had been in fact other lawyers, mostly employed by large companies or wealthy individuals, who were looking for a hole in the web of the law. He had worked like that for years before the government had decided to recruit him, figuring that, if he could not be stopped, they could at least use him. It had been his job to reread law propositions and point out the flaws.

His reputation, as far as he was aware, was one of an intelligent, quiet and efficient man, who would get the job done without a fuss. He was also known as unflappable and completely unaware of the humorous side to his surname. In truth, he was very much aware of it – after all, he had spent the largest part of his childhood on public schools. He had simply found that people got flabbergasted if he pretended not to understand when they chuckled. Apart from the amusement derived from their expression, it gave him the advantage at the start of the conversation. He then simply had to retain it instead of gain it.

So he wasn't truly surprised when Sir Alistair Dormandy turned to him to stop the pirate radios. In fact, there were few situations where he would truly be speechless.

He was however now.

"Happens to the best of us, mister Twatt. Happens to the very best of us."

Next there was only the loud tone of the phone in his ear. Dominic exhaled loudly, at a loss of what to do. They might die.

"Sir?" The officer in charge of the operation looked at him expectantly. He dumbly shook his head and the man immediately gave a curt nod back.

"Attention! We return to the barracks!" he bellowed even as he whirled around on his heels. Immediately there was a flurry of movement as the troops broke up. The commander turned back. "Do you need to be dropped off anywhere, sir?"

Dominic shook his head again, turning to look out over the dark sea. Somewhere, far out of his sight, the men he had glimpsed on that boat so long ago, were drowning. He heard the clicking of heels and no doubt the man saluted once more, but he didn't bother looking. He was trying desperately to come up with a plan.

With a flick of his hand he took a decision – it probably would not lead to anything, but he'd try anyhow. He returned to the pay phone and started pushing coins in again. The phone started ringing. Part of him was still wondering what he was doing – he was calling the office in the middle of the night. There would be nobody there.

Click. "Sir Dormandy's office, how can I help?"

"Miss C?" he asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Mister Twatt?" She sounded as surprised as he was. "What's going on? Aren't you responding to the distress call?"

"How do you know –" he halted. She listened to Radio Rock. Of course. Apart from him and the Cabinet, everybody seemed to. "Never mind," he continued quickly, "Miss C, we have a problem. The Minister wouldn't give me permission to go out again. The operation is done." He stopped, trying to remain calm. "I don't know a way around that." They might die.

"The soldiers have already gone?" There was also panic evident in her voice.

"Yes." He dragged a hand through his hair.

"I – oh dear God – I can't believe he would –" the last sounded more indignant. "Oh, never mind that. Look, where are you?" He blinked, surprised by the sudden determination in her voice, and replied. "Good. Look, I have two friends, they don't have a boat of their own, but they do know how to sail. I'll call them immediately. Wait there and get a boat. Then you can go out and – just get a boat from somewhere, okay?"

"Done," he promised without thinking and next there was a click as the receiver was put down. He whirled around, intending to look for a suitable boat to steal (commandeer, a part of his mind pointed out and immediately cited several laws which would support this term). His gaze fell on two policemen who were standing a bit further on the quay. They were both looking at him.

"Yes?" he asked loudly over the hammering of the blood in his ears. He kept his eyes firmly on the first ray of boats, dismissing several as too little or too old.

One coughed and stepped forward, looking a bit awkward. "'scuse me, mister Twatt, sir, but..." Dominic now recognised them as Sergeant Stilt and Constable Powell. They had been dispatched from the local police force to help with the operation, namely point out where the ship was anchored. His heart pummelled – it was impossible that anyone had foreseen he would call Miss C, Dormandy couldn't possibly have sent them to keep an eye on him... "Marvin and I both listen to Radio Rock, sir," the man continued in an obvious attempt at bravery that would have been amusing in any other situation. "And well, sir..." he trailed off, sweat gathering on his brow. Powell stepped forward to prod his superior with an elbow, throwing a nervous look in Dominic's direction. "We both feel it is wrong to leave them out there, sir," Stilt finished in a rush and then apparently stopped breathing. Powell was nodding violently next to him.

Dominic gritted his teeth and ignored them, looking out over the harbour. His eye fell on a large yacht and a small disbelieving smile flitted over his face.

It was a stupid idea, but...

"I plan on commandeering a vessel to save the members of Radio Rock," he said suddenly, turning back to the policemen. They both jumped slightly at being addressed. "The operation would be illegal and going against a direct order." He was silent for a moment, catching sight of a pair of car lights coming down to the harbour. "If you're willing to join," he continued slower, as the lights disappeared and two car doors slammed, "you are most welcome."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heels and started running in the direction of two pair of quick footsteps. A tall, thin man and a sturdy woman loomed up from the darkness. "Dominic Twatt?" the man asked in a rush. His sharp, confirming nod was met with an offered hand. "Kevin and Evelyn Mallory. Doris called us," he said quickly as they shook hands.

Dominic gave another nod. "These are Sergeant Stilt and Constable Powell. They are joining us." He saw Mallory's raised eyebrows and followed his gaze: Stilt was pale again and Powell had resumed his enthusiastic nodding. He sighed but instead pointed at the yacht. "Can you work with that?" They both looked at it for a moment and then both answered in the affirmative. "Good. Let's go."

Dominic quickly opened the latch on a small door in the railing and reached out a hand. The drowning man clamped onto it, nearly pulling him into the water. He felt more than saw Powell and Stilt jump forward, one tugging at his coat, the other reaching out to the man in the water. With combined forces, they managed to get the man on the deck, where he sprawled out on his back, gasping for breath.

Only then Dominic recognised the owner of the radio station. The man slowly sat up, coughing and swearing under his breath. Funnily enough, he had managed to hold on to a thin designer shawl that was draped over his thick sailor's coat. He sniffed once and then looked up to them as Kevin and Evelyn came running from the steering cabinet. Dominic saw him look Stilt and Powell up and down, but he seemed to find it impolite to remark upon their uniforms. His gaze slid to Dominic who suddenly felt a jittering in his stomach he hadn't experienced since his first school day. The man frowned and then smiled in recognition. "Ah. The twat. Hello again."

"Hello." Dominic felt his cheeks warm. To save face, he quickly offered a hand as the other man got to his feet.

"Thank you." The man took off the thin shawl and wrung it out. "And thank you for coming to our aid," he added as water splattered on the deck. "Including the arm of the law, of course," the last was said with a glance at Stilt and Powell. Dominic quickly threw a look in their direction. Both had apparently realised that they were visibly outsiders, with their police uniform and bobby caps, and now looked distinctly uneasy. "Ah, thank you. Much obliged," this the man said to Evelyn, who spread a large pink towel on his shoulders.

She caught his gaze and said apologetically: "It was the only thing I could find quickly." Dominic blinked and looked at the towel again with a frown. Then he blinked again. It wasn't so much a towel as a bedspread.

A very expensive looking bedspread. Which was being used to towel up salt water. And a bit of seaweed.

Dominic felt backwards for the railing and slowly sat down on one of the wooden benches that bordered the railing. He was aware only on an unconscious level of the surprised stares, as he was too busy berating himself internally for this colossally stupid, stupid idea. What had he been thinking picking this boat out of all the ones in the harbour... "You alright, sir?" he heard Stilt ask. "You look a bit peaky."

Dominic careful cleared his throat. "I should perhaps point out," he said carefully, "That Constable Powell, Sergeant Stilt and I are not present. There was a failed government attempt to shut down Radio Rock and after that all participants went home. We do not partake in any civilian action to help the crew of this radio station. And," he continued quickly when Evelyn opened her mouth in the corner of his eye, "Minister Dormandy's private yacht isn't here either."

The sudden silence was punctuated by the cheering that was still going on on the other boats. Then there was high-pitched shriek and Powell disappeared under one of the benches, keeping up a litany of complaints. "I didn't know that, you didn't say it was his ship, oh God, have you any idea what he did to old Jonesy for smoking on the job?! You should have said, I don't want to die!" Stilt had chosen what was probably the lesser option, namely freezing in place, face ashen and mouth opened in a silent scream.

The ex-owner of the boat looked around carefully, studying the yacht. Kevin and Evelyn followed his example, even though they had been on it for the last hour. "This is Dormouse's?"

Dominic latched onto the changed topic gratefully. "You call him Dormouse?"

"– never knew, there are some of us who have children to think of! Alright, so I'm not one of them, but that doesn't make any difference, oh help –"

"Well, Andy, his big brother did," the man sniffed, using the bedspread to towel his hair. Dominic resolutely kept his eyes averted. "Never knew him personally. I don't look for people who even in their first year were described as soporific." Dominic gave a small laugh and the man smiled. "I'm Quentin. I owned that," he gestured to the sinking ship.

"Dominic. I wrote the Marines Broadcasting Offences Act," he returned drily.

"Ah. Charming piece of legislation, I've heard. Impossible to get around," Quentin said politely over Powell's lamentations.

Dominic chuckled. "Thank you." Quentin nodded, seemingly unshaken, and went to sit next to him.

"Erm, excuse me." Evelyn stepped forward, looking intently at the soaked man. "Aren't you the one who said' fuck' on the air?"

Dominic watched the other man flinch. "Well, yes, but in my defence, I was tricked. I truly had no idea the fuckers had let the mike on."

"It was brilliant!" Kevin now interjected, grinning broadly. "Best piece of radio I've ever heard!" He held out a hand. "Kevin Mallory, sir, and this is my wife Evelyn."

"How d' you do." They shook hands. "And just Quentin will do."

"Well, I was glad we'd sent the kids out, I can tell you that!" Stilt seemed to have slightly defrosted from his Munchen-imitation. His right eye was still twitching, but at least he was speaking again. "A bit more warning would have been nice." He looked at Quentin, hesitated and then also offered a hand. "Sergeant Arthur Stilt." They shook.

"I'm Marvin Powell." Powell warily peered from under the bench. "And if I get arrested for this, I'd like somebody to warn my mother."

"I'm sure it won't come that far," Evelyn tried gently. "In fact, if you put off your helmets, I'm sure no one will notice you're not civilians."

"You think so?" Stilt asked hopefully. Powell apparently did not need the conformation, as he was already trying to pry it off under continuous swearing.

"Definitely," Kevin assured him. Put at ease, Stilt started to fiddle with the strap under his chin. Powell was cursing again, now because he had hit his uncovered head against the wooden bench.

Next to Dominic, Quentin gave a deep chuckle. "Excuse me for a moment, I need to go and inspect my troops." He removed the bedspread and gently put it on the bench before getting up and turning to the open sea. He stilled.

Dominic followed his gaze. The last of the Radio Rock boat was disappearing under the surface, the sea bubbling for a moment longer before calming. Silence was spreading over the many boats.

Then a man broke through the surface.

When everything had quieted down somewhat after the burly man had been dragged aboard a ship, Quentin moved to the railing again. He raised his arms, but was halted at Powell's cry: "Wait a minute!" The man dived under the bench again, rummaged around and came up triumphantly (but with a small 'fuck!' as he had hit his head again) with a megaphone in a hand. Still knelt, he offered it to Quentin, who accepted it with a smile.

"Thank you. Ingenious idea." While Powell was practically glowing, the standing man raised the megaphone. "Attention everyone!"

There was an immediate response of clapping and cheering. Some people called Quentin's name. "Thank you, thank you. I thought I'd better check if everybody is still among the living. It looks like the Count is alright at any rate –" more cheers. From one of the furthest boats, a man hollered back: "You bet I am!"

Quentin raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Alright. Is Gavin here?" Women's screams were heard. "I'll take that as a yes." Dominic smiled at that, dragging a hand through his hair absentmindedly as he looked out over the sea. Quentin kept calling out a long list of names, which was each met with applause.

"Young Carl?"

"I'm here!" a young man on a smaller boat close by waved.

"Angus Nutsford?"

"Present!"

"Ah. Well, you can't have everything, I suppose."

"Oi!"

"And finally: Mark? Is Mark here?" A dark figure a while away saluted. "Alright. Everybody seems to be here. So shall we return to the coast?"

There was a great deal of cheering, but a voice boomed back over the water: "Hang on a bit there, Captain!"

"Yes, Count?" Quentin shouted back.

"I'm allergic to quiet!" There was another salvo of laughter.

"That can be arranged, my good man!" a tall figure on a sailing boat yelled. "We have a megaphone and a record player here. Give me a minute!"

It took less than that before music drifted over the water. Evelyn started moving along to it and Quentin was tapping the rhythm out on the railing. "Martha and the Vendellas," Dominic heard him murmur, "wonderful." He raised the megaphone one last time. "Let's dance!"

It had been the night after his failed attempt at espionage. He had been unable to go asleep, turning over the day in his mind. He kept going back to the only conversation he had had with a Radio Rock member: the older man, who apparently wasn't a DJ or anything alike.

"You look like a twat." He didn't know whether to be amused or embarrassed. Or maybe even bothered. He had always been Twatt, but he had never thought of himself as a twat. Did other people view him in the same way?

The sniggering behind his back when he went up the stairs again hadn't really helped.

In the end, he decided to give up. He had taken another whiskey (against his normal routine: he normally only drank one at nine o'clock pm every evening) and settled down on the couch. He never thought of it as his couch: he had bought the apartment furnished as he was rather unconcerned about colour schemes. Nevertheless, he never seemed to be truly comfortable, even though the rooms were nicely furnished in the latest trend, all white and black. Maybe it was because he had grown up in the small, cramped rooms of his parents' house in Suffolk and after that in the sparely furnished dorms of the public schools. He just needed to settle in. He'd get used to it.

Then again, he'd been trying to get used to it for the last ten years.

After a couple of sips, he had hesitantly put on the radio and changed the channel.

The music on Radio Rock was cheerful and a woman was... not singing, as there seemed to be no words to the song, but she wasn't vocalising either. His resolution to listen only a minute and then go to bed again disappeared like smoke as he listened in fascination as the woman did not sing along, but seemed to become an instrument as well. Without conscious thought, he shifted forward in his seat as the cheerful song became a slow lullaby. It was still the same woman's voice, but now there were lyrics.

He couldn't do much else but clutch his glass, his head feeling warm, as a man's voice informed him that he had just listened to Ella Fitzgerald, performing Flying Home and Dream a Little Dream of Me. Next there were instrumental numbers, not as sophisticated as some classical works, but which nevertheless seemed to create a picture as lively as any masterpiece. They were slowness and water and foreign and heat and he was utterly enthralled by it...

He woke up with a start as what sounded like a horn coming from the radio. An overly cheery and high-pitched voice asked him to stay for the "funtime" after the news. The last was alright, just up till the last item, upon which he resolved to buy a newspaper as soon as possible. (Cuneo was a town in Italy, true, but he doubted the local dialect was called cuni lingus.) After that he turned the radio off – people who said "funtime" in that tone of voice seemed to be rather too close to insanity.

The enchantment of last night had gone. Indeed, he felt rather silly for having listened to it. There was nothing there that couldn't be expressed by classical music, he was fairly certain. He simply hadn't found the right work yet.

The next night, he didn't turn the radio to Radio Rock again.

Dominic made his way to the elevator, one of the last to leave. He was brooding and it was probably visible on his face, as the few people still present left him wide berth. Normally, he would hide his expression, especially if he felt upset, but today he really couldn't care. He was this close to handing in his resignation. The Minister had been in a foul mood for the last two weeks ever since Radio Rock had sunk. And as Dominic had been taken into service especially to deal with that problem, he apparently was the only one to blame. Hardly a day went by without him getting called 'arse' and he got nothing but the tedious, easy tasks any intern could have done.

As he passed by her office, he ignored the small, beckoning wave Miss C gave him. She had been trying to get his attention the entire day now, but he really didn't feel like getting another inane task just before he left.

The elevator arrived and he stepped inside. Imagine that, being angry because people didn't die, he thought viciously, as he pressed the button for the ground floor and the doors started closing again. To his irritation, Miss C slipped inside at the last moment. He stared forwards, set on ignoring her, but he could feel her eyes on his face, clearly intent on relaying her message. One floor lower, he conceded. "Yes, Miss C?" He kept his voice cold and refused to look at her, hoping in vain she'd get the idea.

"I was wondering... I don't suppose you still have contact with any of the people of Radio Rock?" The question was so unexpected that he actually forgot his resolution and looked aside. She was looking up at him in fierce desperation, wringing her hands. His astonishment must have been visible on his face, for she continued quickly: "Because Kevin said you and that man were talking for quite a while –"

"No, we didn't," he interrupted, nearly defensively. "I haven't seen him since."

He quickly regretted his outburst when she visibly deflated. For a moment it looked like she would cry. "But Evelyn said you gave him your coat..."

"His own was wet," he explained awkwardly. "It seemed more prudent to give him mine." He shifted, turning to her more fully. "What's going on?"

Her eyes shifted around the small space. He suppressed the urge to do the same. They were alone, for god's sake. "He's planning an action against them." The words tumbled out. "For breaking the Marine Broadcasting Offences Act. And..." she swallowed, "he's meddling with the appointment of the magistrate. He's trying to – to get Judge Kay."

Dominic was speechless. That was... He had known the Minister to be vicious, but to do something illegal... It was possible, of course, he knew that. Judge John Kay liked to be in Court most of the year, especially when others took a holiday. If the court days were planned right and the evidence gathering took just enough time, there was ninety – ninety and a half, the more accurate part of his mind corrected – percent chance that Kay would be the magistrate appointed. But it wouldn't be a fair trial. Kay was perhaps the only man in the entirety of Britain who hated pirate radios more than the Minister. It was rumoured he knew the entire libretto of Mozart's Don Giovanni by heart. Dominic looked away, trying to refind his balance, to think of a course of action. Trying to prove what the Minister was doing would be neigh on impossible. He had worked for the man long enough to know there would be no trail to follow back.

"I'll try and find them," he promised, hardly realising what he said. "They have to be warned." Dormandy was probably going for the surprise effect, he thought as he started pacing. That was what he would do. He'd work in secret on the case until it was watertight and all evidence was gathered. And then he'd jump the unsuspecting victim. If the element of surprise was gone, however... If they could get a lawyer, perhaps lengthen the investigation until more judges were present... Well, things could turn out quite differently.

"You will?" Miss C's relief was tangible. "That's wonderful, Dominic."

He answered her smile without thinking. "Well, it needs to be done, doesn't it?" He stopped his pacing. "Doris, isn't it?"

She went red, but kept smiling. "Yes. Yes, it is." Silence reigned until they reached the ground floor. As the doors opened, she suddenly held out a hand. "Well, good luck."

He shook it. "Thank you." He turned around and exited the building without looking back. A thought flitted through his head, something about loyalty and sabotaging his own employer, but it was quickly buried under strategies and courses of action and the memory of a tall man wearing his coat.

A couple of days later, he was a lot less enthusiastic. He had searched half London, walking in and out of pubs, looking for faces he recognised. He often would stay out till two, three o'clock before collapsing in his bed. Every morning, Miss C would give him a hopeful look, but every time he had had to shake his head and see her face crumple. His frustration had only upped another notch when he noticed he could not search the government files as had been his plan – it now required a code, which would mean it would be noticed if he attempted it. All he could do was roam the streets of London in the assumption that the DJs would prefer the noise of the metropolis and would be in search of alcohol.

This is the last one, he thought as he opened the door to the Underground Bar. It was nearing half past two and he was bone tired. He looked around the dimly lit room – austere, minimalistic design; polished black surfaces; soft jazz coming out of discretely placed speakers; colourful drinks in high steeled glasses; quietly talking people in designer clothes – more out of habit than truly expecting to find something. And froze.

A young bartender, hardly more than a boy, was pouring a drink for a young lady in a small black dress. The bar seat and the dress probably cost more than anything Dominic was currently wearing, but that was not what got his attention.

The bartender was lanky, pale and had bangs that fell into his eyes. When Dominic had seen him last, he had been wet but content, climbing up the yacht to hug Quentin.

Young Carl.

Dominic made his way to the bar, not sitting down when he got there. Carl turned to him, smiling. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Dominic drew in a breath. "I need to talk to Quentin." It was interesting to see how quickly the boy's expression just shut down.

He rested his arms on the bar. "And why is that, sir?" His tone was still polite, but all the previous warmth was gone. The girl to Dominic's left had stopped drinking. Her face was heart-shaped and she was rather pretty. Or she would be if she wouldn't be trying to kill him with her look.

"Look –" Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. The fatigue, which had disappeared temporarily when he had recognised Carl, came back full force. He was too tired for this. "They're starting a lawsuit against you," he said bluntly. "All the members of Radio Rock. You need to get a lawyer. Just tell him that, will you?"

The girl and Carl exchanged a look. "Who is the message from?" the girl asked in a clear voice. She was still narrowing her eyes at him.

"He knows me as Dominic," he replied immediately. "Or –" he faltered, for the first time since Eton reluctant to divulge his full name. He settled for a compromise. "The twat. I got him out of the water." The girl smirked and he narrowed his eyes at her for a change. He was tired, his feet ached and he was trying to help. "Just tell him that, will you?" he said curtly and made to leave. He wanted to sleep.

"Hang on." A hand grasped his coat. He turned and saw something that resembled recognition in Carl's expression. "Can you get here tomorrow? At five?"

"I can't," he replied gruffly. "I only finish then."

"Half past then," the boy proposed, undeterred. Dominic hesitated and then nodded stiffly. A smile immediately bloomed in answer and for a heartbeat, he was unsettled at how much Carl reminded him of Quentin. "Good. We'll see you then."

He regained his balance, gave another curt nod and swept out.

When Dominic stepped through the door of the Underground Bar for the second time, everything fell silent. In the otherwise empty bar, there were sitting more than ten people. Some looked ridiculously out of place (the woman who was wearing something bright yellow was an outright eyesore), others looked completely at home (a long figure with sunglasses and a feathered hat had draped himself over one of the small couches in a corner). All of them were staring at him.

"Ah, the twat. Would you like some tea?" Quentin was sitting in the back at a small, black table that was pushed against the wall. He was gently stirring a cup of tea, which seemed to be made of rather delicate china. There was another teacup standing before the empty seat opposite him.

Dominic moved again. "Yes, please." He slowly made his way past the staring members of Radio Rock – for he supposed that was who they were – and sat down in the empty chair. If he turned his head, he could survey the entire room. On the other hand, they only had to stare ahead of themselves to keep an eye on him and they were all doing so unapologetically. Even the two men in shades, the one with the feathered hat and the burlier one in a leather jacket next to him, seemed to study him.

Well, he was used to plenty of bullying. He could handle a bit of intimidation. He looked back at Quentin and unconsciously straightened his back. The older man was wearing a cream-colored suit with a soft green shirt underneath. There was no tie, but a scarf in the same green was lying haphazardly over the back of his chair. The man truly was a dandy.

"Milk or sugar?"

"Sugar. Just the one."

"Ah. I had taken you for a milk person." Quentin's hand, which had been reaching for the milk can, dwelt back to the sugar lumps. He added a spoon and handed the cup to Dominic with an elegant gesture. "Now, I understand we are to be brought before court?" It was said nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather.

Dominic gently put the saucer down and took a deep breath. And started to talk.

When he had finished, a large man with glasses asked: "Can they do that? Choose the judge?"

Dominic turned to him. "Officially not, but there are a lot of things they can influence: the date, the court..." he shrugged. "Plus, Kay likes taking cases. He thinks his moral compass is infallible."

"Why is he bad?" this question came from a ginger man with a high voice. He reminded Dominic strangely of a rodent.

"He is known for supporting legislation banning pop music," he answered. "And he's the biggest Wagner fan in the entirety of Britain."

"How do we know this is true?" the sturdy woman in yellow asked suspiciously.

"You don't," he replied impatiently.

"Kay is certainly a classical music man," Quentin mused. Dominic turned back to him. He was lazily stirring his tea. "Used to insist on playing Bach all through the night. And he had a stuffed deer in his room," the older man remembered. "And not to hide stash in either. I don't even think he had stash."

There was a moment of silence. Dominic was wondering if he should ask what the stash was of, but before he could decide whether that was wise a small man in glasses and a brown suit asked: "Why a deer?"

Quentin shrugged. It was not, Dominic noted, a normal shrug, where you would consciously lift and lower your shoulders. Qentin lifted one shoulder and then seemed to find it too much trouble to slowly lower it again. Instead, he just dropped it. "Family tradition, I believe. They're a rather old family. His brother is officially Lord Kay. They do everything, y'know," he made a vague handgesture, "hunting, a manor, house maids and butlers, calling people 'old sport'... They're only a few generations away from absolute insanity." He coughed. "Now, does anyone else have a question for mister the twat?"

Sunglasses-Leather Jacket turned to Sunglasses-Feathered Hat. They seemed to communicate in silence. Hat nodded and Jacket turned back to him and Quentin. "Yes, sir."

"Count?" Quentin inquired politely.

The Count slowly exhaled a cigarette cloud of enormous proportions. "Why are you telling us? Since you know, you work for them and all?"

Dominic blinked. Strangely enough, he had been prepared for every kind of question, but this one hadn't been among them. For a moment, he searched for words. "I – it wouldn't be right," he said finally. "You broke the law, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't get a proper trial. It's all being done so – so underhanded and unfair. Plus... the Minister... he'd had left you to die on that boat. It – It's just not right," he finished helplessly.

Silence reigned again. Dominic hadn't felt this ridiculous in a long time and had to stop himself from shifting in his seat. The Count took his cigarette from between his lips and spoke.

"That has got to be the crappiest answer ever."

"Too true, my foulmouthed friend." Sunglasses-Feathered Hat put up a cigarette and gave Dominic a broad grin. "I believe him."

The Count slowly nodded. "Aye."

"Aye," Carl agreed.

One by one, everyone in the room repeated the word (except for a young man with curls, who simply nodded). Dominic followed it, eyes large and with a feeling of having missed something. At the end, Quentin smiled. "Good. Now that is settled, why don't you all, y'know," a lazy hand made a shooing motion, "bugger off?"

There was some laughter and a few salutes as Dominic released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. Next there was the scraping of chairs and a low murmur of voices. The Count, Feathered Hat and an older man with glasses and a beard relocated to a table with records. The silent youngster with curls took out a pack of cards while the heavy man with glasses protested: "I'm not playing with you anymore man, your poker face is just –". Others simply moved to different tables and struck up a conversation.

Dominic turned back to Quentin, who was watching him over the rim of his cup. "They wanted to see if you were trustworthy," the other man explained without waiting for the question. "They've decided you are." He put the cup down. "Now –"

"I'm not telling you anything else," Dominic interrupted. Quentin raised his eyebrows and he immediately softened his tone. "I mean, I just want things to go fairly, not start spying for the other side." He contemplated for a moment. "I am willing to tell you when he's crossing the line, but no more than that."

Quentin seemed to mull this over and then gave a half-shrug. "Okay." Dominic felt out of his depth again. He had expected obstinacy, wheedling, perhaps even a half-veiled threat. Not this easy acceptance. These people seemed to be good at throwing him off. "The thing is," Quentin continued, oblivious to Dominic's confusion, "I don't really know all that much about the law. I studied economics myself. I was hoping for some background." He was silent for a moment and then looked up hopefully. "How about I ask you a question and you tell me the answer if you feel it's alright for me to know?"

Dominic frowned, considering the concept. He couldn't find anything wrong with it however. "Alright," he agreed, a bit hesitantly.

The man opposite beamed. "Wonderful! Now, what can you tell me about the Broadcasting Marines Offences Act?"

That evening, he spoke for another hour. Quentin wanted not just the text, but all the implications, other victims of the law, who had supported it and who hadn't. They switched to other topics, though still in the area of law, with Dominic hardly noticing. And when Carl shouted "Time's up!", which apparently meant they all had to leave, Quentin shook his hand and somehow extracted a promise that they would meet again next week, same time, same place. Then he winked and left the younger man standing on the pavement, feeling slightly squirmish and suppressing the urge to smile.

Their meetings went on, every Friday, for another month. The Underground Bar apparently belonged to a friend of Carl's mother (he didn't inquire any further: Dave's waggled eyebrows made more than enough clear). As Carl had turned out to be a natural cocktail maker and Mark looked after the background music, the group was allowed to hang around before opening hours.

Dominic often arrived slightly before Quentin in the bar, but there were always members of Radio Rock present, who now seemed to regard him as part of – well, perhaps not the group, but nevertheless a fixed... protuberance of the group, so to speak. He got sometimes included in conversations and he always got addressed by "mister the twat". They greeted him when he came in and greeted him when he left.

When he calmly stated he vastly preferred classical music, they all seemed to decide he simply hadn't heard enough modern music. All through his conversation with Quentin he got asked "And how about this one?" as they put on yet another record. Finally, a bit despairing, he admitted to listening to Radio Rock once, and if they could just play the genre they had played between four and six o'clock in the morning, please? This got Bob beaming, who had apparently been the DJ at that time of night. But, as Dominic couldn't help but point out to the Count, Simon and Young Carl, he hadn't truly liked the morning programme ("That's Angus," the Count said. "He only gets special people,") and their news was mostly fiction. (He didn't mention which exact item he had doubted and the fact that nobody disputed his claim was enough. Though it had to be said that John threw an accusing look in the Count's direction.)

Apart from all that, there were the conversations with Quentin, who wanted to know, well, nearly everything. From broad views to obscure little facts and from interpretation to precise phrasings. He didn't mind it, not even when he noticed that he fairly often accidentally included bits about his personal life and the older man did not comment upon them. It was... nice, that someone would listen to him with such attention.

So, when at the end of the month, Quentin pushed a note with an address in his hand and asked him to be there next Monday, he did not argue.

Again, he found himself in a state of surprise. If he had pictured anything in his mind, it would have been a crossover between the Underground Bar and his own apartment: modern, with glass and metal. Instead, when he had parked outside the hedge between the other cars and had walked through the gate, he found a lovely, slightly wild garden and an old farmhouse in red brick. The only sign that he had not misread Quentin's languid scrawl was the drifting sound of rock'n'roll coming from beyond the open front door.

When he stepped inside, the first thing he noticed (couldn't help but noticing) was how very crowded it was. People were moving around in the room, yes, but they had to push other people away to do so. (He could see Angus for example when two giggling women bent towards each other. It looked as if he were trying to chat up a girl. The girl looked as if she was trying to find means of escape, violence allowed if necessary.) Most of the people were also people he had never seen before.

"Drink?" Dominic started. In this crowd, it should have been impossible for a sturdy man like the Count to sneak up on anyone, but the American had somehow managed. He was also offering him one of two hellishly yellow drinks.

"Thank you," Dominic replied, not entirely sure if he should be thankful. The liquid resembled paint more than something ingestible. He looked out over the people again, trying to see above their heads. (Mark was talking with a girl in a nearby corner, he saw from the corner of his eye. Well, perhaps not so much talking as getting talked at.) "You wouldn't happen to know where –"

"The back garden, in the sun." The Count took a large gulp of the glass. "He's like them, y'know, lizards? Has to soak up energy before he can move."

"Alright." Dominic looked back at the Count, feeling awkward. Apparently he had become see-through obvious since making the Radio Rock crew's acquaintance. "Do you mind if I –"

The Count shrugged. His belly tried to move along but gave up halfway. "No problem. Go ahead. The party's the entire night." He gave a two-fingered salute. "Catcha later, mister the twat."

Dominic smiled and tried to make his way through the mass. It turned out to be slightly easier than he had expected, though he had to make a few detours when people truly refused to budge. On the way he encountered Gavin, who winked at him, and Felicity, who hugged him. She did seem as surprised about it as he was and the empty glass with blue residuals in her hand probably went a long way to explain it. Just before he slipped into the garden through the open garden windows he caught a glimpse of Carl, who was throwing all kinds of things into the air under cheering. The garden wasn't empty, but there were a lot less people than inside the house. Most of them were talking in small groups.

On a large wooden reclining chair with cushions lay Quentin. He was dressed in a navy blue suit today with a red shirt and a handkerchief in the same colour peeping out of the breast pocket. On his nose rested brown shades. Dominic felt himself relax.

He put the yellow cocktail on the garden table next to the chair. At the sound Quentin stirred. He smiled when he caught sight of him. "Hullo, twat." He looked over the rim of his shades at the glass. "Is that yours?"

Dominic rolled his eyes at the subtlety but kept smiling. "You can have it. I don't really like cocktails."

"Ah. Thank you." As he reached for the glass, the older man shuffled his legs out of the way. "Sit down, if you like."

Dominic obligingly sat down on the reclining chair, his mood lifting already. The Ministry and all its troubles seemed far less important with the sun gently warming his dark suit and Quentin's legs pressed against his back. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked aside. "This is a nice place."

"Mmh." Quentin took a sip. "Yes, I quite like it myself as well. And when the shed's finished," he motioned to the back of the garden and Dominic's gaze followed. There was indeed an old barn, in the same brick as the main house, "well, things can really get started."

"Finished?" he could hear the puzzlement in his own voice.

"Yes." He didn't have to turn around: the glee was evident in the other man's voice. "We're turning it into a studio."

"Studio?" He turned back, frowning. Quentin looked like the proverbial cat who had gotten hold of the proverbial cream.

"Look at this." He was handed a sheet of paper from the garden table. He gave Quentin another questioning look, but the older man just nodded at the paper again. He bowed his head and read, immediately frowning.

It was a schematic overview. Or not so much an overview as – as references to laws, opinions and cases, all connected with arrows, some accompanied by exclamation marks. He had told Quentin about some of these. And all together they formed – he felt his eyes widen as it all clicked in his head. "A legal commercial radio station?"

"Yes." The older man was still looking smug. "Donne over there –" he gestured to a small group in the garden, where a white-haired man was laughing uproariously, "says it would work."

"Donne? Of Donne & King?" Dominic couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.

"The very one." Quentin fished an orange slice out of the glass. "They're going to defend Radio Rock in court. So," he started nibbling on the fruit flesh, "do you think it would work?"

Dominic looked back at the page. "I never saw you note anything down."

"Ridiculously good memory. Once it's said out loud, I can easily remember stuff," was the flippant reply.

"I told you some of these. I told you most of these." He still had some difficulty wrapping his head around it.

"Of course you did. My dear boy, why else did you think I listened to you?" He sounded amused and utterly unaware of the block of ice that had just dropped into Dominic's stomach.

Unconsciously, the grip on the paper became white-knuckled. "You had better change the name of the station." He listened to his own voice, which sounded cold and detached. "That way, if Radio Rock gets convicted, the new station won't have to close down."

"Okay... Are you feeling alright?" The frown was audible. "You sound a bit weird."

"I'm fine, thank you," he replied stiffly, smoothing his outer jacket as he stood up.

"If you're sure." The suspicion hadn't completely disappeared from Quentin's voice yet. "Would you like me to introduce you to someone? I've got some nieces around here. Or," he could feel the older man's eyes on him, pondering, "I think there's even a nephew, if you like."

Without conscious direction, his hands formed fists. "No, thank you," he spat and to his horror heard his voice tremble. "I am not partial to this kind of parties. I shall leave you to it."

He made to go, but thin fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist. "Dominic, what –"

He brusquely moved his hand backwards and easily broke the grip. Turning back to the reclining figure, he didn't bother to hide his anger. "I've helped you all I can and you don't need me anymore. I'm leaving." Quentin made to get up and instinctively, he took a step back. "I don't suppose we will see each other again." He forced his voice to sound calm. "So goodbye."

He turned on his heels and stalked away to his car. He wasn't running. This was a logical conclusion to a task, just like it had been in every other job he'd had. They had used his expertise and now they didn't need him anymore. It had been a stupid decision helping them in the first place, fuelled by a sense of justice, yes, but stupid nevertheless.

The whole idea had been stupid.

To think they might have liked him for his personality... he slammed his car door shut. Was stupid.

His feet had automatically led him to the Underground Bar. He had only gone out because his own whiskey bottle had only lasted for a glass and he really, really needed another drink. Or two.

He hesitated a moment at the threshold but then squared his shoulders. He was getting drunk and no overweight DJ would stop him.

Besides, it was Thursday. With any luck, no members of Radio Rock would be present.

Carl smiled in surprise as he made his way to the bar. "Hey, haven't seen –"

"A whiskey please," Dominic cut him off as he sat down on a bar seat.

Carl frowned, but took out a glass. "Okay."

Dominic took it and downed it in one gulp. He sat the glass down and looked at Carl's dumbfounded expression. "Another one."

"O-okay." The nervousness in the young man's voice would have amused him at any other time. He drank his second (or third, depending how you looked at it) slower, sipping and staring at himself in the mirror behind the bar. He looked awful. He had forgotten his coat, he was still in the suit he wore to work, tie half untied, and his hair was a mess because he had repeatedly dragged a hand through it in frustration. Strands of hair were falling into his eyes.

Well, he supposed he looked like he needed another drink.

His next whiskey came from another bartender, who had probably been called in because of how busy the place was getting. It meant Carl couldn't come over to try and talk to him, but he could feel the young man's worried glances from the other side of the bar.

And yes, when he wanted to start on his next glass, Carl's hand landed on his arm. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

He slowly looked up and glared forcibly, as he never allowed himself at the Ministry. Apparently it was more effective than he had assumed: Carl did not only remove his hand but actually took a step back. "No," he said, enunciating the word slowly before he looked back at his drink. He heard the youngster stutter an apology before disappearing again and felt strangely satisfied.

Apparently Carl had decided to call in help. Dominic was slowly swishing the last swallow in his glass, resting his forehead on his palm, when a large, meaty hand landed on his shoulder. "Hello, mister the twat." He looked up into the mirror and saw the large form of Dave stand next to him. Behind him stood the Count, who winked when he saw him look. "We heard you were trying to get criminally drunk," Dave continued conversationally as he hoisted himself on an empty bar seat.

Dominic drank the last of the glass and motioned to the second bartender. "Did you now?" he said uninterestedly as the man poured him another drink. He had always heard that things got muddy if you drank too much, but to him everything seemed clearer, from the bartender's nervous smile to the smell of the Count's cigar.

Dave conspiratorially leant forward. "It's a girl, isn't it?"

Dominic slowly turned his head and tried the full glare again. To his glee, Dave blinked rapidly and leant away. "No."

He looked at the counter again. After a while the heavy DJ seemed to have gathered his courage again. "Look, there's no shame in asking advice, mate. I'd be more than happy to share some tips with you. I have more than enough experience with the – ladies." Dominic didn't need to look up to know that Dave would be wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"You could call that taking advantage of the blind," Dominic muttered before taking another swallow. The Count guffawed.

"None of them were blind!" Dave's indignation was nearly tangible.

"The mentally ill, then." The Count attempted to disguise his laughter as a cough, but failed miserably.

"Will you –!" In the mirror, Dave made a visible try to keep his composure, but some of his irritation bled through in his voice. "Twat is really only a euphemism in your case, isn't it?"

Dominic turned to face Dave and arched an eyebrow. "Like fat is one in yours?"

Dave was now looking murderous, only force of will keeping him from hitting Dominic. The younger man looked at the other's clamped fist in interest. He had never been in a bar fight before. It might be an interesting experience and he was fairly certain he could goad the other man enough to get him to throw the first punch.

He opened his mouth to do just that when a familiar voice next to him asked: "What's going on?" He whipped his head around. There stood Quentin, this time in a brown suit and a dark scarf, looking between the three of them.

"I've lost my job," he heard his mouth blurt out. As on command, his entire body sagged in the older man's direction.

Quentin's only sign of surprise was a quick blink. "You were fired?"

"Not exactly, no," he replied tiredly.

"You quit?" the Count suggested.

He slowly shook his head, keeping his eyes on Quentin. "I doubt Dormandy wanted to fire me when I was called to his office and I certainly didn't want to quit." Quentin kept looking expectantly, so he gave in to his desire to tell all. "He started to shout and I shouted back." The last weeks his disdain for his superior had only grown with every temper tantrum the man had thrown when things didn't go his way. When he had managed to pin the guilt of some stupid little mistake on him again, something in Dominic had snapped. "In the end, he said that if I left now, I didn't have to hope for a government job ever again and then I called him a childish, hypocritical wannabe dictator with a ridiculous moustache and slammed the door." He heard the Count whistle.

"I thought you didn't like your job?" Dave raised his hands in surrender as he finally tore his eyes of Quentin and glared at him again.

"I love my job. Just not my boss," he replied coldly.

"Alright, jeez, just asking." He ignored Dave's muttering and raised his arm to down the last of the glass.

A hand on his arm stopped him. He looked up at Quentin questioningly. "I think we'd better get you home, don't you?" the older man said in a gently tone.

Dominic tried to think this over, but found that the promised muddiness of his thoughts had finally set in. In the end he just shrugged and got up, which revealed another unfortunate side-effect of drinking more than is wise. Luckily Quentin quickly threw an arm around his waist before he made contact with the floor. "C'mon, let's get you –"

He didn't remember anything after that.

He woke up in a moving car. His stomach gave a violent lurch and he grabbed the door lever blindly, rolling out of the car into what felt like grass. He managed to get on all fours before the contents of his stomach were violently expelled. Tears pricked into his eyes but he screwed them shut. His stomach kept churning dangerously. He had not heard the car stop, but felt someone kneel next to him.

"There, there, my dear boy," Quentin's voice soothed over his gulps of breath. A hand brushed his hair from his sweaty forehead. "It'll be over soon. Considerate of you not to throw up in the car, by the way. Now, now. Just breathe. That's it."

He didn't know how long they sat there, him heaving and eyes closed with Quentin's hand rubbing between his shoulder blades and a handkerchief that smelled of the older man's aftershave mopping his brow. Finally, the cloth slowly rubbed against his lips and Quentin's voice said: "Now let's try and get you back into the car, eh?"

He slowly nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Quentin helped him up and slowly led him to the car, as he refused to open his eyes. He sat down in the car seat and promptly passed out again.

He opened his eyes in a sundrenched bed, his mouth feeling fuzzy and dry, his head pounding. The light was unbearable. He crunched his eyes shut again and pressed his palms against his eyelids. The dark was a relief as he attempted to calm down. When he thought he would be able to handle the world, he slowly opened his eyes again. The pounding in his head intensified, but he did not feel the overwhelming need to crawl under the blankets once again. He looked down. Not blankets. A grass green duvet.

He slowly looked around. He wasn't in his apartment, but in an unknown bedroom. The walls were a slightly softer green than the duvet and there was a large wooden wardrobe standing in one corner and a small desk with chair in the other. The bed frame was also wooden, with soft cushions and a firm mattress. There were two mahogany doors, one opposite the bed and one opposite the window. They had brass doorknobs.

Dominic slowly got up, swinging his feet from under the duvet to the floor, which was also made of a dark wood and pleasantly warmed up from the sun. He looked at his toes and tried to remember when he had taken his socks and shoes off. Or his tie. Or his outer jacket, for that matter.

He couldn't remember though. The last thing he remembered was a cool hand on his forehead and a murmuring, deep voice...

Oh. He carefully got up and walked to the window with the complementary curtains and looked out. He knew that lawn and the barn at the end of it.

Quentin hadn't driven him to his apartment.

He had driven him to his house.

Only logical, if one thought about it. After all, he had never told any of them his address. But it was a bit awkward. Especially since his storming off a few weeks ago and then getting drunk last night.

Ah well. There was nothing for it then. Dominic turned again, took a deep breath and walked to the door opposite the bed. He let his hand rest hesitantly on the handle, his stomach churning, before firmly pushing it down.

He blinked. Not exactly what he expected.

Behind the door was a bathroom, in white and blue ceramic tiles and with another door. He looked a bit lost at the bath tub, thick white towels and the small sink and mirror opposite. There was a lonely toothbrush in a glass and a tube of toothpaste. The fuzzy feeling in his mouth intensified and he stumbled to the sink. He put some of the toothpaste on a finger and brushed his teeth to the best of his ability, rinsing a couple of times extra to chase the horrible feeling from his mouth. After that he raided the cupboards on each side of the mirror, steadfastly ignoring the mirror. In one of them he found aspirin and he gratefully swallowed two tablets dry before gulping down a few mouthfuls of water from the tab.

His head still felt awful, but he nevertheless felt slightly better when he tried the second door. It lead to a second bedroom, the mirror image of the one he woke up in, but this one in blue tints and obviously lived in. Clothes were strewn all over the floor, the duvet was lying crumpled at the end of the bed, a cup was balancing on a large stack of paper in the middle of the floor and the doors of the wardrobe stood wide open. In it hung a collection of suits in every possible colour.

Dominic closed the door and went back to the green room. He found his shoes next to the second door, but his other clothes were nowhere to be found. He shrugged to himself and immediately regretted doing so, as a pain flash immediately stabbed upwards into his brain. Holding his shoes firmly in one hand and his eyes slit shut as much as possible without actually closing them, he opened the second door. He ended up in a cream coloured corridor with three other doors, one of which probably lead to the blue room. On one end of the hall there was a large window, but the end closest to Dominic lead to stairs going downwards. There was the sound of music drifting up.

He stumbled more than stepped down, ending up in the large living room where the Count had offered him a drink two weeks ago. The glass doors to the garden were closed, but the last of the October sun was lighting the room. Now all the people were gone, he could actually see the furniture and walls. The last were the same colour as the corridor upstairs, the comfortable looking couches and various cupboards in different sizes were all in soft blue and brown. On a small table a record player was playing. A voice in the kitchen hummed along. Dominic slowly walked towards it.

Again, most of the room was cream coloured, with dark wooden cupboards and a large scrubbed table in the middle of the space. Quentin stood at the stove, his back to the door. He was in lilac today. The smell of eggs hung in the kitchen and Dominic felt his stomach move uncomfortably again. He swallowed the nausea down and rapped his knuckles against the doorpost.

Quentin turned around and smiled broadly. "Ah! Hello. Slept well? You'd better drink that, by the way," he continued, pointing with a spatula at a glass on the table, filled to the brim with a drab, brown liquid.

Dominic made his way to the table, sinking into a chair. He dropped his shoes next to it. "Some horrible hangover cure?" he asked, slightly surprised at the gravelly sound of his own voice. "Because I've already taken some of your aspirin."

Quentin chuckled deeply as he turned back to the stove. "That works better than aspirin, believe you me. Besides," he gestured once with the spatula at the wall, "it'll give you a bit of an appetite. After a night of boozing, you need a good breakfast. Or lunch," he added, throwing a look to Dominic's left.

He followed the older man's gaze and saw another door with a clock above it. He felt his mouth fall open. "Good lord!" It was one o'clock. He had never in his life slept this late.

Then again, he had never gotten that drunk before.

Quentin chuckled again, throwing him an amused look over his shoulder. "Such surprise. Now c'mon, drink up."

Dominic raised the tall glass, looking at the liquid in trepidation. Then he said, dread obvious in his voice, "Well cheers," scrunched his eyes closed and took a deep gulp.

He opened his eyes in surprise again. "I thought hangover cures were supposed to taste bad."

"Oh, I always thought that to be stupid," Quentin said vaguely, picking up what looked to be parsley from a small bowl next to the stove and sprinkling it over the pan. "Like they're trying to tell you something."

Dominic snorted and drank some more. True, it looked awful, but it tasted rather sweet, and – he took another swallow – like berries. Blueberries. And a hint of strawberry and mint as well. And – he noticed to his surprise he had finished the glass.

He blinked and put the glass down. His stomach had calmed down and the eggs didn't seem to smell as horrible as before. Indeed, he thought as Quentin put a large pan on the table and handed him a fork, he might be able to even swallow a few mouthfuls of the omelette. Quentin had added what looked like every vegetable he had been able to think of, including some he didn't even recognize. On the side, a few straps of bacon sizzled happily.

"Now where's the bread?" Quentin muttered, rummaging through cupboards. "Ah – here it is." He took a long, strange looking bread to the table and tore it in two, handing Dominic one half. "Bon appétit or something like that. Hope you don't mind eating out of the pan."

"Not at all," Dominic said quickly as the other man sat down and also lifted his fork.

They shared the omelette. Dominic found to his surprise after a few bites he was actually hungry and after half the omelette he wolfed down the half bit of bread, which was called 'ciabatta' according to Quentin, and also another quarter of Quentin's, who had pushed it into his direction without a glance.

When chewing his last bite, he suddenly caught Quentin's amused look. He immediately slowed down and swallowed while his cheeks were heating. "I'm sorry, that was –"

"Don't apologize," the older man interrupted, rolling his eyes. "You were hungry. I've been in the same position." He stabbed the final bit of omelette. "Now about last night –"

"I'm sorry for that as well," he said hastily, "I behaved abominably. I'll go back tonight and..." he stopped, frowning. "Did I pay?"

Quentin hummed while swallowing his bite. "Sort of. You had passed out, but we got out your wallet, so you don't have to worry about that." He put down his fork and looked sternly at Dominic. "And don't go apologizing to everybody. You were feeling miserable. The only thing fun about that is that you can make other people feel bad as well. And it probably did Dave good as well," he added, musing. "His ego was getting bigger than his belly." Dominic felt himself redden, but Quentin continued, oblivious. "Anyhow, I actually wanted to discuss your job offer."

Dominic frowned in thought. "My new job offer? I don't –" Quentin raised a hand and he obediently fell silent.

"Donne called this morning, you see. The news of your resignation has spread incredibly quickly and he was hoping I might know where to find you. Apart from him, apparently four other companies are interested in you and he was quite desperate to be the first to contact you." Quentin folded his hands under his chin and smiled rather teasingly as Dominic felt the blush climb up all the way to his ears. He decided to stare at the pan instead. "I had no idea you were that popular."

"I told you," he sputtered at the pan. "I'm good at my job."

"Clearly," Quentin agreed. "But seeing as Donne isn't here, perhaps you'd like to hear my offer first?"

His gaze snapped up. "Your job offer?"

"Mmh. I need a secretary," Quentin explained, stretching lazily. "Being a legal radio station apparently means double the amount of paperwork," he sounded slightly irritated at that and Dominic couldn't help but smile. "And I'm lazy," he admitted. "I'd love some help."

"I – that's very kind of you, Quentin, but –" he was silent for a moment. "I really don't need charity," he said finally.

Quentin now folded his arms, frowning. "It's not charity. I really am lazy." Dominic guffawed at that and a small answering smile flitted over the other's face. "Yes, yes. But I do mean it, Dominic," he sounded serious. "I suppose I could easily get a secretary somewhere, but I'd like it to be you."

"Why?" he frowned in puzzlement.

Quentin stilled for a moment and then shrugged his half-shrug. "I rather like you."

Dominic felt the just-disappeared blush come up again. When he didn't reply, Quentin got up and started gathering the dishes, putting them into the sink. "Oh, by the by, how much did you get paid?" he asked conversationally.

Slightly confused, Dominic named the amount. "I'd pay you..." Quentin halted a moment before opening the tab and named a - well, a frankly ridiculous figure.

His mouth fell open. "Quentin... Have you any idea how much money that is?"

The older man quickly rinsed the pan and put it to the side. "Yes, it's the double, isn't it?" He closed the tab again, muttering, "Oh, I'll do the rest later," and turned back to Dominic. "Is it too little?"

"Too much, more likely," he replied feebly.

"Oh." Quentin chewed his lower lip for a moment and then gave another half-shrug. "Well, I could pay you less, if you prefer. I don't really know what secretaries earn these days."

"Er... Thank you." Dominic looked down and scratched his hair. "I'll – I'll think about it."

"Good." Quentin's smile was audible in his voice. "Now," he clapped his hands. "Would you like to see the studio?"

Before they left, Quentin made them each a mug of tea. They stood in companionable silence until the water boiled. Dominic also borrowed a pair of socks, as the other man explained he had washed whatever clothes of his were "dirty or drenched with sweat." It had seemed him better not to inquire any further.

After that, Dominic followed the older man as they marched across the lawn to the barn. "This was originally meant as a bed and breakfast," he called over his shoulder as Dominic tried to keep up and not to spill any tea. "I bought it before any guests got in. Turns out it's too remote to actually work."

"Where did you get the money?" Dominic inquired. Even without profit, these old farmhouses did not come cheap.

"Hmm? Oh, I sold my old place." Quentin sounded quite disinterested. "And I own some houses up in the north, so I got the rent coming in every month."

"I see," was all he knew to reply. He had suspected Quentin to have money, but there was still a difference between having money and being rich.

"Here we are then." Quentin pushed the (obviously newly installed) oaken door open. "What do you think?"

Dominic slowly stepped inside. It was huge, was his first thought. The entire space had to be the same surface area as the entire farmhouse itself. Most of it was covered in large troughs, only they were filled with records instead of feed. Another quarter of the space was occupied by two glass cubicles, each with what looked like a chair and desk, plus a collection of head phones, microphones and record players. The light was coming in from large windows in each side. "It's – It's very impressive," he said honestly. "Are all studios this large?"

Behind him, Quentin chuckled. "No, no, not at all. Even on the boat we didn't have this much space. But I thought, y'know," he didn't even have to turn to know Quentin would half-shrug, "why not? I've got this anyhow."

"And all those records?"

"Had to rebuy most of them," Quentin grumbled and nearly unconsciously, Dominic smiled. "They went under with the ship. Including some very precious first recordings, I might add." There was a sigh. "But enough of that. Would you like to see my office?"

"Yes, please." He turned, but the older man simply slipped past him.

"Great, follow me." He moved in the direction of a small staircase Dominic hadn't noticed before, to his right. The wood creaked under their feet.

When he reached the top, Dominic instinctively held his breath. The large windows downstairs simply went on in this room and above his head the roof began to slant sideways. Everything was made of wood: the floor, the roof, the walls, the giant desk standing before the left wall... There was a small table surrounded by blue seats and one canapé on a small blue rug to the wall closest to his right. Above it hung a magnificent painting.

"Is that..." his voice trailed off, captivated by the colour play on the painting.

"A Monet? Yes." Quentin's deep voice came from behind him. "The only thing I kept from the old house. And I hardly could hang it in the main house, somebody might spill on it."

Dominic tore his gaze from the painting to turn around. Quentin had seated himself behind the giant desk. "It's beautiful," he managed to say.

"Ah. Yes." For the first time since they met, Quentin actually seemed uncomfortable. "I quite agree. Of course," he continued, sounding slightly more self-assured, "if you'd agree to work here, we'd get you another desk. And a filing cabinet." He looked searchingly at him above his tea cup. "You do like filing cabinets, don't you?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Again, Quentin looked rather smug. "I rather thought so." Still smiling, Dominic walked to one of the large windows and looked back to the farmhouse. He sipped his now lukewarm tea. "Oh, and the green room is yours," Quentin added offhandedly.

He whirled around. "I beg your pardon?"

"The green room." Quentin waved into the direction of the main house. "Consider it yours. Felicity has already demanded the yellow one and I'll keep the purple one for people who really aren't fit for driving anymore, but the green room is yours. Please." His voice sounded more firm as he caught sight of Dominic's expression. "It'll be lowering the chance to wake up to Dave's snoring."

Dominic turned back to the main house. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head and laughing at the same time, trying to ignore the voice that said this house felt much, much more like home than the apartment he had lived in for the last ten years.

It was a stupid idea, not responsible, not thought-through, not like him at all.

But then again, he was getting quite experienced in the stupid-idea area.

"Oh hell," he finally said, still laughing. "Alright, I'll do it. I'll be your secretary."

He turned around again and noticed he had apparently surprised Quentin, who was looking at him astounded. "Are you certain? Don't you, y'know, have to think about it for another week?" He sounded outright disbelieving.

"I probably should, yes," he smiled. "Shall we draw up the contract?"

Quentin studied him for another second and then a grin broke through. "Why don't you sit down, my dear."

Drawing up the contract didn't take too long: it turned out that, under two publicity agreements, a couple of contracts (Harold's, Felicity's and Gavin's), a bill for a hand-weaved scarf and a hat, Quentin actually had put a couple of generic contracts, which they adapted for Dominic. He managed to get his pay down to three-quarters of the original number, which was still more than he had expected to earn ever. When he had to sign however, he hesitated. Quentin, of course, noticed.

"If you have second doubts –"

"I don't," he interrupted. "It's just..." he took a deep breath, "oh well. You're going to laugh," he warned and signed.

Quentin took the document with raised eyebrows and looked down. His eyebrows climbed even higher. "Oh. I was being prophetical when we first spoke."

Dominic blew out a breath. "Pretty much, yes."

"Mmm." Quentin signed as well. "Well, if you don't tell..." with a flourish he turned the page around again, so he could read the second autograph, "I won't tell."

Dominic looked at the autograph and stopped. And looked again. "You're the –"

"I don't like the official title," Quentin quickly intervened with a wince.

"So the old house..."

"Is more of an estate, yes."

"And those 'some houses' are..."

"More like a complete village." Quentin sounded rather wary. "Please don't remind me of it."

Dominic snorted and leant back. "Alright."

The days to the start of the new radio station sailed by. There was paperwork (lots of it), meetings with potential sponsors (even more) and cleaning up after Quentin (most of all). Nevertheless, Dominic doubted he had ever been this happy. He didn't mind doing most of the work – in fact, when Quentin tried to help, things went slower than ever. He enjoyed organizing and reorganizing while Quentin talked to high-ups in firms, most of which he had gone to school with at one point or another. The meetings were, well, fun. He would do most of the negotiations, looking sharp and polished, while Quentin lounged in the next chair. And if things got difficult, the older man would drop a little fact which usually had the effect of a bombshell and clinched the discussions into their favour. He thoroughly enjoyed the expression on their faces when they all of a sudden realised the sleepy, reclining man was laying bare all their weak points, that Quentin was smart, could probably run rounds around their brains and had a truly wonderful memory. He never could stop grinning after one of those assemblies, which would make Quentin smile in turn.

He had hardly been back to his apartment since it all started, only now and then to change clothes. There were almost always things to do at the farmhouse and there nearly always were people belonging to Radio Rock. It felt more, well, like home.

"Mister the twat. I have a preposition."

"Hmm?" He looked up from the file Donne & King had sent them with details about the court case. "What did you say, Dave?"

"Would you like to earn fifty pounds?"

The kitchen table fell silent. It had just been a rather busy afternoon and there were plenty of people. Apart from Dave, Simon, the Count, Angus, Marianne and Carl were having tea. Everybody had stopped drinking, looking between Dave and him apart from Felicity, who had just stooped down to get some cookies and had frozen with her hand half in the oven. Dominic blinked. "In return for?"

"Four eggs cracked on your head." Dave had his arms folded above his belly and he was smiling reassuringly. "But a moment discomfort."

It was like a tennis match, he thought to himself as everybody's eyes flitted from him to Dave. Apparently they actually expected him to agree. "Thank you, but no," he said clearly, bowing back over the file.

"A hundred pounds." The tension went up a notch higher. Angus gave a squeak but a look from the Count silenced him.

Dominic guffawed but shook his head. "Honestly, no." When Dave opened his mouth again, he added: "Not for any money."

For a moment there was silence again and he actually thought he might be able to continue reading now he had done their little test, but before he could start again a cacophony of sound broke loose. Simon jumped up, lifted his arms into the air and started shouting: "He did it! He actually fucking did it!" Angus turned to Dave, voice high and complaining that all he had ever been offered were ten pounds. Dave was telling him to shut up rather loudly. The Count started pounding Dominic on his back as if he had won a marathon, shaking his head and grinning wildly. Marianne was laughing loudly and Felicity had finally managed to get her cookies out of the oven and was now depositing shakily at least ten of them next to his mug. Carl just leant forward with a smile and asked: "How did you know?"

"What, that it wouldn't be fair?" Dominic asked back when the rumour had quieted down a bit. Carl nodded and he shrugged in reply. "There's always a catch," he said simply. When none of them reacted he looked around. "Have none of you been to public school?"

Most of them shook their heads, but Carl hesitatingly said: "Yes."

Dominic looked him up and down and then smiled a bit bitterly. "But your parents had money."

"Yes," Carl admitted. "Or well, my mother did. And she knew the headmaster."

He shrugged again. "There you are. I got in via a scholarship. They tried that kind of thing on me all the time."

"What, always the three-egg deal?" Simon asked.

Dominic blinked and looked at him. "Is that what you call it? No, not that," he shook his head. "But always games that, if you participated, would end up with you embarrassed and with no money." He bowed back over the file. "Besides, it's always better to be poor and dignified than dirty and rich." He shrugged again. "Or that's what I was taught."

There was quiet again. He refound his sentence and had just started reading it again when Angus added: "Or at least, when the rich part is depending on Dave."

"True," Dave conceded. "I've been broke since Monday."

They had somehow managed to figure out it was his birthday. Felicity had made a large cake, Bob was the only one who was allowed to touch the recorder (and he played nothing but Ella Fitzgerald) and they refused to let him into the barn to work. Quentin had bought him yet another filing cabinet (his third), but all ideas to explain he really didn't need another one disappeared when he saw the older man beaming proudly. So instead he just thanked him earnestly as the Count and Gavin guffawed behind Quentin's back. In the evening, they unanimously decided it wasn't possible for him to dislike all cocktails and Carl started working. By twelve o'clock, the coffee table, floor and various cupboards were filled up with empty glasses (as after Dominic's sip to taste there was always somebody willing to empty the rest of it) and there were five cocktails Dominic had admitted to not tasting awful. Finally a bright red glass was plucked out of his hand as Dave worriedly said: "Stop it Carl, he gets nasty when he's drunk." Dominic looked at his empty hand in wonder for a moment, then shrugged.

Things might actually get to be alright, he thought sleepily before falling asleep on Quentin's shoulder.

The message spread out through Britain. There were posters, true, hung up all over the country, but most people heard the news from other people. It was whispered at work, discussed at the pub and gossiped about when standing in line in the supermarket.

And at December the 9th, at a quarter to seven, people all through Britain gathered around whichever radio was close by. Families gathered round the only one in the house; teenagers all tried to fit in one bed as the static crackled; in a home for the elderly one of the nurses had put the radio in the middle of the room as the occupants of the home all stared at it; in the back of a factory a man put on the speaker normally reserved to call out emergencies and put it next to the appliance; in a couple of streets, there was one radio standing in the middle of the road with a megaphone next to it and all the neighbours had gathered around it with garden chairs and blankets; a couple of strict looking men (one of them sporting a ridiculous moustache) in an office, all looking rather hostile at the machine, shuffled a bit closer; a young girl called Jemima who lived in a mansion, carefully lifted a radio from under her pillow and slowly turned it on; and in a comfy living room, two women were speaking while a man searched for the right airwave.

"He said he was alright when I last saw him," the mousy-looking one with glasses said. "And he did look... happy."

"Then why are you worried?" the other, more firmly built, asked.

Her friend stopped rubbing her hands. "I suppose... because I've never seen him happy before. And his hair was loose. He never had his hair loose."

The firmly built one laughed. "He did look rather uptight when we met him. Do you miss him, Doris?" she continued softly.

Doris snorted. "Oh god, not like that. It was never like that." She giggled. "Good heavens, no. It's more like..." she paused. "You know, people who've lived through a war? I know it sounds dramatic, but –"

"To hear you talk about that boss of yours, I wouldn't say so," the man called as he got up from his knees. "It should be alright. Seven, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was seven," the woman who wasn't Doris agreed. They all turned to the standing clock expectantly, watching the minute hand shuffle closer to its goal. Any minute now...

At exactly seven o'clock, a deep voice broke through the speakers. "Test, test... Is it working?" the voice was silent for a moment and then continued: "Apparently it is. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this brand new radio station, called The Boat. We will broadcast 24/7, with only pop and rock 'n' roll. Any resemblance to a pre-existing radio station is, of course, complete coincidence." There were some enthusiastic roars and whistles in the background. "And as you can no doubt hear," the voice added drily, "the entire team that made this radio station possible, is standing next to me. Let me introduce them to you.

First the DJs: the Count!" There was a whole lot of applause and whistling coming from the speakers. "Gavin Cavanagh!" Again more noise from the speakers. "Doctor Dave!" Noise. "Simon Swafford! 'Motormouth' Midnight Mark! 'The DawnTreader' Bob Silver!" After every name there was a storm of applause and roars from the radio. "And last but not least: Angus 'The Nut' Nutsford!" There was the sound of one person clapping.

Then there was silence, until high voice broke through. "Not funny, guys!"

There was an explosion of laughter on every side of the radio and even the introducing voice chuckled along. "No, that wasn't too nice. Anyway, these musical maestros will now and then be interrupted by our own 'News' John Mayford." The applause continued. "There is also a backup crew, ready to take care of these diligent workers. Harold and Thick Kevin will be looking after the technical aspects." The crowd on the other end kept cheering diligently. "Felicity, the resident lesbian, will be taking care of any kitchen demands," more applause and someone called "Wonderwoman!" from what sounded the other end of the room, "helped by Young Carl, who will make the most heavenly cocktails man has ever encountered." This time whistles ruled. "He will not make these for broadcasting DJs, of course, and never for Simon."

"Oh c'mon, why not?!" a voice from far away asked.

"Do we need to remind you of what happened last time?" A sultry, Welsh voice questioned. A girl in Manchester, surrounded by her friends, fainted.

"That was once! Just once!"

"Which only leaves," the deep voice continued over the still audible arguing, "the ones who actually make sure this station keeps running by doing the boring paperwork, namely my secretary, Dominic 'the' Twatt and myself, Quentin." In a small living room, two women and a man stared at each other open-mouthed; miles away, a girl called Jemima had quickly placed both hands over her mouth so her laughter wouldn't be audible; and from an office with hostile-looking men, there was suddenly heard the loud cry "ARSE!"

The voice from the radio went on, oblivious. "Thank you very much. I will now leave you into the capable hands of the Count."

"Thank you, Quentin," a voice with a clear American accent continued. "Yes, dear listeners, as you just heard, the little crew on 'The Boat' has grown slightly. Both Young Carl – whose drinks are really sent from heaven, I guarantee it – and Dominic or 'the twat', as he is better known, are both already indispensible."

"The twat is a converted man by the way," the high voice of Angus broke through. "From Beethoven to The Seekers, people."

"Angus, will you –"

"I am not!" The new voice was clearly close and had an impeccable English accent. The three people in the small living room were now grinning widely. Somewhere else a man with a moustache grinded his teeth audibly.

"What?"

"He said he's not converted," the Count repeated. "And I can honestly get that. 'The Seekers', my ass..."

"WHAT?!"

"Oh, do stop screaming, Angus," the civilised voice snapped back. "I got enough of that at the Ministry."

"Now, now," the deep voice that had done the introductions soothed as the Count laughed. Somewhere else in the country, six men who had been looking hostile now looked taken aback at a broken radio in a corner of the office while a seventh man stalked out. "Why don't we all leave the Count to it, eh? C'mon, let's get to the kitchen."

"I've still got some cookies left, if you like, Angus," a woman's voice offered.

"I don't want no fucking cookies!" a disappearing voice snapped back.

"Now that's all done and we're all alone again," the Count chuckled back, while a last vague, high-pitched "What kind of cookies?" drifted from the speakers, "I'd like you not to be alone. We've been all alone for far too long, folks, and this airwave has been far too quiet. A bit later in the evening, I will gladly take you along to the new Beatles, The Magical Mystery Tour, and the new Rolling Stones' masterpiece, Their Satanic Majesties Request. But first, I'm dedicating this song to some special people. You all know who you are." The start of a song was softly slipping from the speakers.

"Now get out there, people. It's a chance for folks to meet, these ladies say, and I'd like y'all to do just that. Pick up that radio and get out there. You can dance yourself warm and you might just meet someone. They didn't get us down, so don't you get down. Go on, it's out there." The voice was replaced by music which grew in volume.

In streets all through Britain people streamed out of their houses, radio in hand, and started dancing. A whole group of teenagers all took each other's hands and danced down the stairs to the front door. In a mansion, a young woman quickly put on some trousers, took the radio and slipped out of the house before starting to run in the direction of the nearest town. She was laughing and crying at the same time. And a small living room miles away, was empty. Three friends had taken the radio and each other's hands and had started dancing.

---

A/N: songs used in this fic:

- Dancing in the Streets from the album Dance Party by Martha and the Vandellas (1964).

- Flying Home from the release Lullabies of Birdland, originally written by Lionel Hampton and others and sung by Ella Fitzgerald (1945).

- Dream a Little Dream of Me written by Fabian Andre and others and sung by Ella Fitzgerald. I have not been able to trace the album, but the song should have been recorded about the '50s.

The title is a reference to the Stevie Wonder hit Uptight (Everything's Alright) from 1964. I have shamelessly changed the meaning of the word uptight to refer to Dominic Twatt's behaviour.

If I have made any mistake in my references or my depiction of the times, please forgive me. I was born in the 90s and the only thing my father would tell me, was that I definitely didn't want to know what he or my grandparents were up to in those crazy times, as I would probably die of shame.

Finally, this story is my love letter to Bill Nighy and his languid grace. I regret nothing.