Written for the Lewis Fright Fest 2016. Warnings for character with suicidal tendancies and discussions regarding dementia.
Robbie frowns at the back of James' head, as the lad sits at his computer opposite. There's something off about the young man, there has been for a while now, but Robbie can't put his finger on exactly what it is. James doesn't seem to have actually changed; his wit is still sharp, and he's still being cheeky. He's still playing with his band, he's still bringing Robbie coffee in the morning. He's still quoting random poetry and he's still treating their victims with the gentleness and compassion that Lewis has come to expect from him. But something isn't right.
He knows that at best, trying to have a conversation about it will make them 'have words', and at worst, he'll make Hathaway go all prickly and cold for the next few days. Even so, there's a little voice in his head that insists that Hathaway needs help, regardless if neither of them know why.
"That's enough for today James." James stretches and nods, getting up and reaching for his coat.
"I thought you were never going to say that." Robbie returns the smile, before taking a breath. Best to say something now, while Lizzie is on secondment. She's not back till the New Year, and he'll get nothing out of James is he undermines him in front of hi sergeant.
"James is...is everything alright?" He wishes he didn't, but Robbie sees the stiffening of James' shoulders, signalling that he's having none of it today.
"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know. You just seem..."
"What? I just seem what? I'm fine."
"Look if you ever need to talk about anything." The younger man snorts bitterly.
"What is it that I'm supposed to need to talk about?"
"Your Dad maybe?"
"Nothing to say is there. We've never got on, and now he doesn't know who I am. So now I've bared my soul, can I leave?" Robbie just shrugs at him, somehow he doesn't think that his suggestion of a pint at The Trout will be warmly received. James leaves without saying goodbye, and Robbie drives home in silence. Something is eating the lad, something definitely has him wound up. However, its going to be a few days before James thaws enough to let Robbie have another crack at finding out what. Just as well they are off rotation this weekend. A few days apart will help get rid of the tension.
.
.
.
James has calmed down by the time he gets home. Oh he's still irritated at Robbie, but he's more irritated at himself if truth be told. He'd forgotten Robbie's uncanny ability to see straight through the mask he puts up when things get bad.
Fuck it. He's a grown man, he doesn't need his former mentor watching out for him. Doesn't need anyone to watch out for him. James pours a generous measure of whiskey, and gulps it down, before it has chance to burn. He immediately pours another, and takes this one slower, although still not as slowly as he probably should, considering he's eaten little today.
He takes his third whisky over to the window and opens it, lighting a cigarette and smoking into the Oxford evening. Could go into the garden, but he can't be bothered, and he's on the bottom floor, not like anyone is going to complain about cig ash on their windowsill.
The cigarette smoke and whiskey burn combine in his mouth, and he knows already how rough he's going to feel tomorrow morning. He should stop, go make himself some food, and drink a couple of glasses of water. But as he's thinking this, he pours himself another whiskey and resigns himself to the fact he's going to get rat-arsed again tonight.
Laura would tell him off if she could see this. She could give him reams of statistics and studies about how this combination of nicotine and alcohol was going to damage him beyond repair.
Deep down, James has accepted that he doesn't really give much of a shit.
He passes out half an hour later, still in his suit, sprawled on the sofa.
The shadowy figure that has been watching him through his living room window sighs sadly before turning away.
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The intelligence is that Merchant has a firearm. His sister says its an air pistol, he's just mocked it up to look real. No one knows for sure, hence the wait for the firearms team to arrive as back up. Lewis turns to look at Hathaway out of the corner of his eye. The man is jittery, and he looks knackered. There's a frustration on his face, that Robbie doesn't often see. James is never normally this impatient with back up, when either of them remembers to call for it. He looks back at the front door to Merchant's house. The door doesn't look too solid, so armed response should be able to get in with no trouble.
He and Hathaway hear it at the same time. A shout for help from the bottom floor window. Merchant has a hostage. James grinds his teeth next to him.
"How far away is the armed unit?"
"Twenty minutes apparently."
"We don't have that time Robbie."
"There's nothing to suggest-" but to his disbelief, James has stood up, and rounded the corner, with a muttered 'Fuck this'.
"James, what the hell?" The inspector doesn't reply, but Lewis knows the bloody sod heard him. The fool is walking straight up to Merchant's door, and knocking loudly. Robbie waits for the shots, waits for both James and the hostage to be shot.
But incredibly, it doesn't come. Lewis is too far away to hear what's said, but the door opens, and Merchant comes out, without the gun, just as armed response scream around the corner. Hathaway comes back towards him, shoving Merchant ahead as a couple of uniformed officers arrest him and take him away.
Lewis follows a rapidly departing Hathaway, shouting for the younger man to wait.
The shadowy figure sighs again, watching them both go.
.
.
.
They are both standing on the pavement, just at the edge of the pedestrianised area. They are the stop gap, in case the drug dealers escape the drugs raid and try to make their escape through Oxford's shopping district. They have their radios, and they have their orders. James' hands twitch, and Robbie rolls his eyes.
"Go on, get your nicotine fix."
"You don't normally encourage me."
"No, but I know what you get like without it and we could be waiting about here for a while yet. Go on, chances of the dealers coming this way are slim anyhow. All their known associates are on the other side of the city." James nods gratefully and lights up, inhaling deeply. Robbie chuckles at the contended noise from his lips, even as he makes a mental note to drop some of those NHS smoking cessation leaflets on James' desk at the next available opportunity.
Their radios simultaneously crackle into life, spurting out staccato information.
"Stolen car heading towards Alpha Papa Three... Not related to the current operation...Silver Ford Mondeo...Reg Number Hotel-Golf-Zero-Five-Papa-Romeo-Yankee...Information coming through that there is a child in the back...Not being treated as kidnap...All received?"
"That's us." James says, as Robbie gets onto the radio.
"Aye, Alpha Papa Three received, we'll keep an eye out, might be good to get a traffic unit down here for a safe stop tactic."
Just as he finishes, the car comes around the corner at speed, and Robbie runs back to their car, preparing to give chase.
What he isn't prepared for as he turns around, is the sight of Hathaway, walking out into the road, straight into the path of the speeding Mondeo. He can only watch in horror, as James stands head on to the vehicle and holds out his warrant card.
The car screeches to a stop, ending up barely a metre from Hathaway's kneecaps. James is hauling the suspect out of the car, before Robbie even has time to register that another unit has turned up to take charge of the crying child in the back seat.
Hathaway strides towards him, lighting up another bloody ciggie and looking totally un-bothered by what just happened.
"What the hell was that Hathaway?"
"Figured it'd make him stop."
"Oh you did, did you? Knew for absolute certain that he wasn't going to just plough right into you? Bloody irresponsible that was James."
James just shrugs at him, and the bloody boy has the audacity to smirk, as he heads back over to the uniformed officers, to give his account of what happened.
"Sod it!" Lewis growls after him.
The shadowy figure looks on, sighing sadly, and shaking his head.