Conversations We Never Had
Summary: Conversations between Martha and Clive following on from the end of Series 3. Because there is so much more left to say. And with Martha and Clive there is so much left unsaid.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. If I did, Silk would not be over!
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A.N. Well, this is a revelation! Ansy Pansy aka Panz is back! Although it seems so long ago that I chose that name that she feels like a different person! I apologise to all my lovely O.C.-fan readers who I imagine may be cursing that this isn't an O.C. fic. But you know, you might really love Silk if you watched it…give it a go! If any of you are still around, say hi! And new readers say hi too! This is for the lovely Silk fans who I have been messaging with, especially csjr and HedgieX. You're getting me through the withdrawal, I hope this helps too!
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1.
Clive had been glancing across at her, away and back again, for the last twenty minutes. It belied the law of averages that she hadn't caught him looking or looked back once, but she was doing a rather stellar job of ignoring him. He didn't have the guts right then, or ever, to say her name without some sort of invitation. It was twenty two minutes since they'd been kicked out of Billy's room before their eyes met. He hoped they'd be let back in, or at least that they'd let Martha back in before the end, if this is what it was. She looked away quickly, uncomfortable at finding him watching her, but it was enough.
'Marth…' he began, leaning forward on the uncomfortable row of chairs they were occupying, hands balancing in the air between his knees, ready to duet with his words.
'Don't,' she said sharply, staring steadfastly ahead.
He noticed, absently, that her lipstick had worn off. She looked vulnerable somehow, without her bright red shield.
'Marth,' he tried again. 'Look…'
'Don't Clive!' she snapped. 'Just don't. This is neither the time nor the place.'
Clive nodded mutely. He couldn't argue with that though he desperately wanted to explain everything. Almost as desperately as he wished he could hold her hand.
Martha lent back, eyes closed, her head hitting the white emulsion wall with a hollow thud. The day had gone on forever, one loss after another; Sean, Head of Chambers, her place in Chambers itself; her family, her home, and now Billy. She wasn't sure she was ready to face that loss, even though she'd had a little more preparation than most. To let the man in the next room, who was more than a colleague, more than a friend; family, slip away. But she didn't have a choice. And bloody Clive thought this was an opportune moment for a chat. To plead his case for fucking her over, or for fucking Harriet, one of the two, or both. The thought that he may have simply wanted to offer comfort crept into her head, unbidden, and she pushed it away angrily. She was done giving Clive Reader the benefit of the doubt.
She was roused from that frustrating train of thought by the door to Billy's room opening and his son ushering her back inside.
'He's asking for you,' he said and she jumped up, glancing at Clive who was watching her again.
'I'll be here,' he said and she allowed him the slightest of nods before going back into the room. She'd left to give the family some privacy, her goodbyes all but done, but she was glad to be here for him too. To be amongst those who loved Billy most, who loved him like she did. Whether he was family or friend, father or clerk, he was a fighter, a protector, in his element ducking and diving for those he loved. Mrs Lamb nodded to the seat on Billy's right and she sank into it with a small, tight smile, not really registering her or her daughter, not hearing the sound of the door swinging shut again, the scrape of the chair as the son sat back down. Billy didn't look any worse and his eyelids flickered as she took his hand.
'Miss,' he ground out, eyes fighting to open against the pain and the medication. His voice was weak but it was still him, his face twisting the slightest increment in a ghost of his former smirk.
'You can go Billy,' she told him, straightforward and unwavering as always, although she didn't know how.
He squeezed her hand and she squeezed back. Then he relaxed and though he was still with them another three hours he didn't do it again.
She had to admit, much as she didn't want to, that she was glad Clive was still there when she stepped out of the room. He stood up as she came out, expectant, jumping to attention, even though he must have known the reason she was back in the corridor. She nodded at the silent question and he held his arms out. The need for comfort overcame her pride and with just a little hesitation she let herself be folded into his arms, tears springing to soak the shoulder of his overcoat. It was comforting too to know that even when he did fuck up, Clive was always there, in the end. He was loyal like that at least. He was a good friend. They made such good friends. She wondered why he had been so persistent in trying to change that. It was all ending in tears just like she knew it would. Not that she was crying about that. Losing Billy was likely to use up her limited quota of tears for a very long time.
'I'm so sorry,' Clive whispered and she knew for once they weren't talking in riddles, no double meaning, no secret subtext about themselves. He meant it, about Billy. It was only about Billy right now. She gripped the thick fabric at his back for a few more minutes before pulling away.
'I'll take you home,' he said, looking away as she gathered herself.
'It's fine, I can take a cab.'
'I'm taking you home,' he repeated, leaving no room for argument and Martha was too tired and wrung out with grief to try.
She nodded and let him help her into her coat. He led her down the corridor and she let herself go onto autopilot. Billy was gone. Billy. It was all her brain could do to try and comprehend that.
She didn't remember much of the rest of the night after that, little as there was of it left. The sun was high in the sky, streaming through a crack in the curtains that she vaguely remembered Clive tugging closed. The crushing weight of reality appeared a moment later, along with the desire to curl under the covers and block it out. She felt like wallowing for the first time in a long time; three years in fact, but some strange preservation instinct, some sense of honour to Billy, got her out of bed, that and overwhelming thirst. She shuffled into the other room, shifting uncomfortably in the white oxford shirt which she'd slept in and was now twisted. She'd shed the skirt before she crawled into bed and the jacket had been abandoned some time before, she wasn't quite sure where on when. She hoped, absently, that Clive had picked it up. And speaking of Clive, she stopped in her tracks to see the man himself stretched out as best he could on her sofa.
She felt annoyance and affection in equal measure and a moment of indecision as to whether she should continue to pad about barefoot in only her shirt and pants. She shrugged off the thought; she really didn't care about that right now and it wasn't as though it was anything Clive hadn't already seen. She continued into the kitchen, filling a tall glass at the tap and downing it quickly. She refilled it and settled back against the counter as she drank, her eyes, though she would never admit it, on Clive. He looked younger when he was asleep, laughter lines softened, usually neat hair mussed, looking the way it had the morning after she'd spent the night running her hands through it. She shook that thought off too. She was mad at him, betrayed by him, why did her brain think this was a good time to think about that?
As though he knew he was being watched, the blue eyes blinked open, it was uncanny how he always knew, and he smiled at her. It was nice, in a way, that moment of sleepy, unguarded, genuine Clive. Smiling just because she was there. It helped too that the smile wasn't accompanied by a wisecrack.
'You're too tall for that couch,' she said, before she could say something stupid. Although the couch comment was hardly an astute observation.
'Morning Marth,' he said, lips quirking a little more over the words, voice gravelly.
Martha hated the way she liked it.
'You're still here,' she said. It came out more snappish than she'd intended in an attempt to control her feelings. Now was not the time to acknowledge finding anything about Clive Reader attractive. It was the grief she told herself, the shock, the lack of sleep, the onslaught of change that had come upon her in the last forty eight hours that was making her cling to the familiarity of Clive, just their long friendship making her feel affectionate. Though, truth be told, it was far more than affection, far more than friendship and that throaty purr of his warmed a lot more than her heart. She needed a good shake. Honestly. The man was an ass. An ass who had slept on her uncomfortable couch all night.
'Marth?'
That voice shook her out of that train of thought.
'What? What did you say?' she asked, flustered.
'I said, where else would I be?'
Martha bit back a retort about willing women and plenty of offers.
'Tea?' she offered and he nodded so she turned away from him stretching languidly and busied herself with the kettle. If she didn't know better she'd think he was doing it on purpose.
He accepted the tea gratefully, a little put out when she sat herself down at the table rather than beside him but it was to be expected, he knew that, and at least she was still talking to him. So far. He eyed her over the rim of his mug. He knew, objectively, that they both must look a state; yesterday's slept in clothes, shadows under their eyes from grief and too little sleep. But somehow Martha still looked good, crumpled shirt, wild hair and all. He wasn't sure what it was; she wasn't conventionally attractive, yet exhausted, grieving, with her make up all but cried off, she still captivated him. He guessed that was what love was. Too bad it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough. Not for Martha Costello. What the hell had he been thinking?
She intrigued and frustrated him in equal measure and she just kept saying no. A part of him knew he'd been on probation the last few months, that she was testing him and he'd failed. That's why she'd pushed so hard, fought him on everything, just to see how far he'd go. But she'd teased and flirted too and then there was that kiss. Why did one kiss from Martha get him more riled up than anything? Why could he remember it in such vivid, painful, wonderful detail when his tryst with Harriet just the other evening was so blurred? A fast forward film of the wrong touch, the wrong lips, the wrong body. A release that brought no relief.
He didn't want to feel guilty. Whatever was going on with him and Martha was done; she'd said so, not in so many words, but the double meaning of their conversation was clear. Not that there had been anything defined to begin with. Not that she had ever said anything back, not to any of it. And yet the guilt had settled in his stomach the moment he came down from his short-lived high. And now with Martha's sad eyes sat across from him he could feel it prickling up his spine. He looked away, down into his tea and wondered when it had all got so complicated. He knew the answer; Nottingham. But that brought with it a whole host of dark thoughts that he'd rather not revisit.
He might not have known it then but Martha Costello stole his heart the night she got drunk enough to sleep with him. But the worst thing was that even once he knew and even once she knew, she seemed to care so very little. At least he was in good company, he thought mutinously; everyone was at least a little bit in love with Martha Costello. Clients, pupils, judges, clerks from Jake to Billy…
Billy.
The thought was a punch in the gut. He knew Martha would never believe him now, in light of recent events, but he had the highest respect for Billy. Feared him as a clerk, loved him as a man, loved him for the way he loved Martha. His death was unimaginable, unreal. He could only imagine how much Martha was hurting if this was the way he felt. He wished he knew how to tell her that, wished he knew how to make her believe it. In the absence of that kind of knowledge he took a gulp of tea, focussing on the hot water burning down his throat as a distraction from the burning behind his eyes. He was supposed to be here looking after her, because Billy was gone, because Billy couldn't do it anymore, because it was all he wanted to do, because he'd meant what he said when he'd said where else would he be, but he was doing a shit job of it. She'd only been up ten minutes, barely said ten words to him and he was already failing. He wished he knew how to stop loving her quite so much and then immediately wished he'd never thought such a thing. Loving Martha was a painful pleasure, a strangely pleasurable pain. He wasn't sure he wanted to give that up, not really.
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