A/N: I've always thought that a Troy-Cully pairing would be interesting, if for no other reason than to explore Barnaby's certain fit of apoplexy at its revelation. I'm using several of the episodes as the background for the story, mostly because I can't write mysteries to save my life. They will be incorporated in an order I find useful, rather than the one in which they were broadcast. Some background details for the characters and a few secondary characters will be pulled from the books. Props to Caroline Graham for such wonderful characters and ITV for making such a wonderful show.

"Actually, I think he's a policeman, too."

OVERTURE

"Is human love the growth of human will?"
—Lord Byron

His Hour Upon the Stage

It was a new dream, but the same dream: different, but identical. And it was madness...especially that. They had come more frequently as of late, the frank and intrusive dreams that Troy was unable—unwilling?—to turn away. Those bloody dreams replayed so many memories more happily forgotten than embraced:

their first meeting (the introduction from that single mutual acquaintance whose differing position in their separate lives threw a wrench into everything) (his stupid reach for her shoulder just a moment after first beholding her) (awkwardly jumping up to offer the seats to his left...the offer unseen as they sat beside the man he later learned to be Colin Smy) (a long white dress with a fruit-and-leaf print descending far enough to almost touch her ankles, a tan-camel-whatever the hell neutral it really was blazer on her shoulders, and hair a beautiful mix of gold and red pulled up behind her head)*;

that mess with the Brazilian cigarette model (another evening at the theater, a much more professional evening than the last he had spent at the Causton Playhouse) (disappointment at her father's absence not disappearing, but quickly diminishing in the wake of his substitute companionship) (drinks on her—a couple glasses of wine each—the alcohol loosening her tongue to stretch beyond the theater and his to respond in kind) (food on him, a quick stop by a café afterward for something between a snack and a meal, time for her to fully elucidate the play and briefly dwell on those previously discussed Not Theater topics) (a self-conscious goodbye as he dropped her at home, certain her father sat beside the light he saw as she opened the front door)**;

the new world of possibilities, intensifying beyond his control (the first call she made to him, afternoon plans in which he was not an emergency substitute for the father whose occupation often cut into the private world, but the desired person) (the not constant but frequent meetings before she disappeared for another role in another play) (a first kiss, shared over a few glasses of wine, happily and anxiously remembered his next working day) (the first time his extraordinary caution wavered...and an unending task list of imagined punishments planted it firmly again) (The Discussion That Had Become An Argument, accusations of cowardice and recklessness, and so much silence in their wake) (missing her, as the possibilities moulded in her absence);

the evening when, in spite of their separate paths, she had again kissed him (her action,her choice, a long wanted-desired-needed-for god's sake I was a drowning man and I can breathe again-everything but demanded kiss) (a kiss-moment-evening-future?-god only knew what ruined by another bloody murder) (and how she quietly, gently pushed him away, did not look at him)***.

They were silly and nearly unwanted memories Troy refused to push aside completely as he now woke, his eyes opening to a still dark room. God, she could drive him to the brink, even in the form he had constructed in his dreams. That was the safest place for her, and the worst. Sparing a quick glance at the clock, Troy groaned...it was only half two. He pressed the back of a hand to his eyes, almost ready to beg for the phone to ring with news of some nasty Midsomer corpse to distract him. But then, how poorly would that distraction fare with her father delivering orders and brusque commands? That might be worse than fidgeting here in his own bed.

DCI Barnaby—sir—whatever the occasion demanded—was simultaneously a known and unknown person. He was the familiar man who headed discussions about cases, clues, and conclusions—and usually deduced the final answer as well. But then, after all that, he was also the stranger who went home to his family each evening, to the wife and daughter he dearly loved and of whom he was very proud. As much as Troy knew of both Joyce and Cully Barnaby, the chief inspector kept his family at arm's length when he was on the job. They might as well be on the other side of the country, Barnaby kept them so far removed from the realities and horrors of his work...just as they should be.

God, hadn't he already learned his lesson? Troy had wondered that so many times in the last months, for it had all been painful enough that it would have been best to do so then. And, besides, what was the point in pining for the forbidden? True, no words to such effect had ever been stated, though they had been more than implied; actually saying them aloud was unnecessary. Cully Barnaby was a woman apart, with whom he had no business speaking, embracing, kissing—even if it was her doing!—and dreaming of...

Troy turned to his side, away from the glowing numbers of the clock, ignoring the rustling sheets. God, he was in too deep. It would all happen again: the morning would shake him awake too soon, Barnaby would fix him with that sharper stare he'd cultivated since dealing with those bloody murderous children, and nothing would change.

What a mess. Certain doom awaited him if he did nothing; Troy did not want to consider what sort of doom it might be as he closed his eyes in hopes of falling back asleep. Yet it might be a swifter fate if he struggled, playing those thoughts again and again to destroy them...all in vain.

What a bloody mess.

* "Death of a Hollow Man", S01E03
** "Strangler's Wood", S02E02
*** "Death and Dreams", S06E02