"Are you insane?" Charlie hissed.
Danny just smiled at him, quick and bright and sharp the way he always did, and between the glow of the torch in his hand and the open hatch framing his face he looked, for a moment, almost angelic. Not angelic like the round-cheeked cherubs in the paintings at the art museum; angelic like the Old Testament, wheels of fire and eyes that burned.
"Not scared are you, Davis?" Danny answered, and before Charlie could protest he disappeared from view, leaving one rather distressed Detective Senior Constable loitering on the ladder in Blake's attic.
And then, even though it was stupid, juvenile and dangerous and impulsive and probably more than a little bit discourteous to their hosts, Charlie went scrambling up after him. Curiosity compelled him, but only in part; the very dry, rational part of Charlie's consciousness that dictated most every action he undertook had come to the conclusion that he had to go, if only so he could stop Danny breaking his neck on Christmas Eve.
The little hatch opened out onto the steep slope of the roof at the back of the house, because of course it did, because of course it was foolish of Charlie to even hope for a nice flat place to come to rest. There was no elegance in it, the way Charlie heaved himself through the hatch, head first, one leg after the other, both hands clinging to the frame for dear life until he was able to plop down on his bum and take a moment to examine his predicament.
It was a warm night, and the sky was clear, and the trees at the back of the property shielded the neighbors' homes from view, gave some illusion of privacy. Under any other circumstance Charlie might even have taken a moment to draw in a deep breath and appreciate the wash of the breeze upon his face, but Danny was nowhere to be seen, and the roof was steep, and Mrs. Blake would flay him alive if he let anything happen to her beloved nephew. Charlie craned his head, looking this way and that, and finally caught the bob of the torch off to his left, the faint sound of laughter carrying on the wind.
"Are you coming, or what?" Danny's voice floated to him.
Charlie gritted his teeth, resisting the temptation to point out, yet again, what a bloody stupid idea this was. The party was long over; Bill Hobart had - much to Charlie's relief - begrudgingly agreed to escort Rose back to her hotel, Mattie had trotted up the stairs to her old room for the evening, the boss had made a show of escorting Doctor Harvey to the door before discreetly guiding her into his bedroom, and the Doc and Mrs. Blake had been oblivious to all of it, sharing a dance and the last of the champagne in the sitting room before waltzing straight into the studio and closing the door on the sound of their laughter. No one was around to see what Charlie and Danny were getting up to, now. No one else would come running if Danny got himself into trouble, and so it would fall to Charlie to look after him - again.
So it was that he went crawling off in the general direction of the bobbing torch, swearing under his breath as he went. He could have stood, he supposed, could have attempted to walk, to preserve what little remained of his dignity, but preserving his life made more sense, in the moment. It had been quite some time since last Charlie had gone wandering around on a rooftop with a handsome lad late at night, and he feared he was rather out of practice. On hands and knees he went, then, the torch beckoning him on, to what end he could not say. At last he made it to Danny's side, pulled his legs under him and took a seat, breathing a little bit harder than he would have liked.
"Not so bad, is it?" Danny asked with that same easy grin.
Charlie just stared at him, somewhat aghast, but before he could come up with anything clever to say Danny was reaching into his jacket and retrieving a pilfered bottle of the Doc's champagne.
"A toast," he said.
"Oh, Christ, no, don't-" Charlie started to say, reaching out as if to stop him, but Danny was too quick, and the cork came shooting out of the bottle with a perilously loud pop. Danny lost his footing and slid down the roof about half a meter, laughing like a little boy on a rollercoaster all the while, champagne spilling over his hand while Charlie desperately grabbed hold of his jacket, trying to hold him in place.
He's all right, he's all right, Charlie tried to reassure himself, even as his heart pounded in his chest. He peered down into the inky darkness below the gutter, tried to gauge the distance. It's not so very far, he thought. And he's drunk enough, he'd probably just bounce. Still, though, Charlie did not release his grip on Danny's jacket.
"To Detective Senior Constable Davis," Danny said winsomely, taking a long swig before holding out the bottle for Charlie to take it.
With his right hand still firmly fisted in Danny's jacket Charlie reached for the bottle with his left, but he didn't drink, just tucked it between his knees to keep it from tumbling off the roof.
"You'll get there, Danny," he said softly.
Danny's eyes darkened and Charlie knew at once it was the wrong thing to say, but as far as he was concerned they'd spent long enough putting off this conversation, and he didn't know when next he'd get a chance to speak to Danny alone. Maybe on the train back to Melbourne on Boxing Day, but there would precious little privacy in a train compartment packed with holiday travellers, and Charlie had just enough liquid courage to send the words spilling out of his mouth.
It wasn't fair, and he knew it. Danny had gone to Melbourne for detective training more than year before Charlie had, and yet Charlie had received his commission first. No matter what Danny said, no matter how he tried to shrug it off, Charlie knew that truth had stung, and he was tired of feeling guilty for something he'd had no control over. Danny had been a friend to him from the moment he arrived, helped him study, helped him learn which officers to butter up and which to avoid altogether. Danny had helped him find new accomodations when he grew tired of living in the boarding house, had taken him out to all the best pubs, had followed him home with the air of a kicked puppy about him one night and kissed him like no one else had ever kissed Charlie Davis in his entire life. Somehow, quite without Charlie realizing it, Danny Parks had become the most important person in his world, and he couldn't bear the thought that he had, however inadvertently, caused him such pain.
"Yeah, well, I'm not there yet, am I?" Danny grumbled. "Just wanted to do something nice for you, I don't need a lecture. If you're not going to drink pass that bottle back, would you?"
Silently Charlie handed him the bottle, and Danny took a long drink, and Charlie didn't even try to disguise the way his gaze lingered on the slope of Danny's throat, the way his muscles and tendons shifted as he swallowed.
"How long do we have to stay out here?" Charlie asked after a moment. It was a warm night, but something in the air had changed, grown suddenly oppressive, and he wanted, more than anything, to go back inside. Danny seemed steady enough, and though Charlie was no longer holding on to him for dear life he kept his right hand pressed against Danny's back, wishing he could feel the beat of his heart beneath his palm.
The question seemed to brighten Danny's mood; wordlessly he passed the bottle back, and Charlie tucked it between his knees again, watching all bemused as Danny leaned back until he was laying flat on the slope of the roof, his arms crossed behind his head.
"We are going to stay out here, Detective Senior Constable Davis, until you stop babbling and look at the stars with me."
It was Charlie's turn to smile, if somewhat wryly. It was such a Danny thing to do, drag him up to the roof in the dead of night just to look at the stars. Danny had all the clumsy romanticism of a teenager, sometimes. Wide eyes and an eagerness to please, a penchant for leaving anonymous presents in conspicuous places for Charlie to find, a tendency towards engineering little moments like this one, when they could be alone, properly alone, just the two of them and the unspoken yearning that churned between them like the sea in a storm. Every time Danny teased him like a little boy pulling a girl's pigtails at recess Charlie felt a heat and a fear simmering low in his belly, wondering what came next, wondering if it would be worth the cost, once he found out.
This is dangerous, he thought, no longer concerned with the slope of the roof and rather more preoccupied with Danny, with himself, with what was to become of them.
They hadn't talked about it, that kiss, that swirling uncertainty. It was hardly the first time Charlie had been sucked under the waves of longing, hardly the first time he had found himself toeing the line of discretion with a thoroughly unsuitable man, hardly the first time he'd had cause to question himself, his own heart, but he was rather less informed as regarded Danny's proclivities, and he was, quite frankly, too scared to ask. It simply wasn't the sort of thing a new-made detective discussed with a uniformed officer, even one who had become, for all intents and purposes, his very best friend. Melbourne cops were no more refined than Bill Hobart when it came to dealing with pillow biters, and he could not risk his career, his reputation, his safety, his freedom. Not even for Danny.
"Would you stop thinking and lay down?" Danny called from somewhere in the vicinity of Charlie's knees.
It was plain from his tone that Danny had no intention of moving until Charlie indulged him, and so he did. He passed the bottle back, watched as Danny carefully took a sip and somehow managed not to choke on it. Once he was satisfied that both Danny and the champagne were safe Charlie shuffled around, lying down very slowly and then inching his way along the slope of the roof until his head was level with Danny's.
"Come here often?" he asked, half teasing and half desperate, wanting to ease the bands of tension that had wrapped round his chest, wanting to steal some of Danny's ease for himself.
"I used to," Danny said, and there was something pensive and sad and small in his voice that left Charlie cursing himself for having put it there.
"Jack and I used to sit up here. Throw rocks at the birds."
Charlie turned to stare at him, aghast at the very thought, though he could not say what troubled him more, that Danny had indulged in such frivilous cruelty or that he had done it with Jack Beazley of all people. Having met and run afoul of Mrs. Blake's youngest son before, Charlie did not hold the man in high esteem; how could he, when Jack was the sort of man who cheated and lied and kept company with criminals and left nineteen year old girls in strife and threw his mother's kindness back in her face?
"Oh, I know you don't like him," Danny said, "but his mum and my mum have been best friends since they were kids. Auntie Jean used to look after me while my mum was at work. Old Doctor Blake didn't mind having us around so long as we stayed out of the way. And Chris was never any fun."
Having met Mrs. Blake's oldest son as well Charlie could see how Danny had arrived at such an assessment, but still, given the choice between the two, Jack was not the one he would have elected to hang about with.
"Jack was always game for a laugh."
I bet he was, Charlie thought darkly. Somewhere deep in his heart where he feared to tread Charlie had begun to feel the slightest stirring of an emotion that most closely resembled jealousy, though he was trying hard not to acknowledge it. Danny was always game for a laugh, as well, always telling him to relax, to have some fun. Maybe Danny wished sometimes that Charlie was more like his old friend Jack. Maybe Charlie wasn't the first boy Danny had kissed, either.
"Anyway. The point is, after Frank Ashby shipped him off to Melbourne I used to come up here sometimes. And that's how I found out that this is the best place in town to look at the stars."
Charlie had heard those words - or something very similar, at any rate - from someone else years before, and if he were being entirely honest with himself the girl at the airstrip had provided Charlie with a significantly better view of the night sky than Danny had. The tower at the top of the Colonists' probably would have been better than Blake's roof; hell, the top of the police station would have afforded a clearer view. But this place was the one Danny liked best, the one he had chosen to share with Charlie, and in that moment, he found he could not help but agree.
"It's nice," he said slowly.
It was nice. It was Christmas Eve, and a warm wind was blowing, and Danny was passing him a bottle of champagne, and all the world was asleep, and they were lying side-by-side, looking up at the stars.
"Bet the Doc knows all their names," Danny said, gesturing vaguely towards the twinkling lights in the inky black far above their heads.
"Bet he does," Charlie agreed. It was exactly the sort of thing Blake would know. Charlie didn't know all of them, but he knew a few, and suddenly it seemed very important that he relay that information to Danny.
"That's Canis Major," he said, pointing towards a vaguely rectangular shaped cluster of stars and the little points that branched off to form the rest of the dog. "And that's Orion."
"That one's easy," Danny said. "Everyone knows that one."
Eager to prove his worth Charlie pressed on. "That's Monoceros," he said, drawing the E pattern in the sky over his head.
"You're making that one up," Danny teased him, turning his head to regard Charlie with a skeptical eye. It didn't work, not really, because when he looked at Danny now he forgot all about the stars, and his worries, and the slope of the roof, and the way Rose had practically thrown herself at Danny over dinner. All he saw now was Danny, and all he felt was a strange, not entirely unwelcome surge of hope.
"Anyway, I don't care what they're called." Danny turned away from him and shifted around until he was more comfortable, the champagne bottle clutched in his left hand and his right hand lying empty and temptingly close to Charlie's left. "I just like to look at them."
"Yeah," Charlie said, never taking his eyes from the line of Danny's profile. "It's nice just to look."
They were quiet then, for quite some time, as the seconds ticked by and the night dragged on. Somehow Danny had managed to smooth over the tension Charlie had stirred up earlier in the evening, and all was still, and peaceful, and silent, the way it should have been on Christmas Eve. There was a softness to the moment, as they regarded the stars, lying together in darkness for the first - and perhaps the only - time. Charlie did his best to just enjoy it, the way he knew Danny wanted him to.
And then something quite odd and not altogether unwelcome happened, as Danny shifted and the back of his hand came into contact with Charlie's knuckles. With the last of the champagne buzzing through his veins and his heart thundering in his chest Charlie gave into his own impulse, for once, and covered Danny's hand with his own, winding their fingers together. A heartbeat passed, and then another, while Charlie slowly ate himself alive with fear and doubt, but Danny made no move to pull away, did not shout at him or flinch from his touch.
"Yeah," Danny said. "It's nice."
And it was.