A/N – You guys would not believe how much trouble I have had getting this story actually on the internet. I hope it was worth the effort!
There's no lyrics for this one, because the name of the song was inspiration enough.
Also, I just really wanted to get the band back together ;)
January 1992
Malcolm was ensconced at the corner table with his fiancée, their heads bent close together over their drinks. Connie still couldn't imagine what they found to talk about – Sarah was deadly dull and in possession of perhaps half of Malcolm's wit and intelligence. They seemed happy enough, in their own way, but Connie didn't believe it would last. Then again, Malcolm was so shy and Sarah so clearly aware of her luck in snagging him that perhaps they would go the distance after all. For Malcolm's sake, Connie hoped not.
The Cricketers was quiet for a Thursday evening. She was supposed to have been meeting Hugo at a delicious little restaurant in the West End but he had telephoned to cancel at the last minute and now she was here. It wasn't all bad; Hugo had been terribly boring lately, always talking about some work thing or another, and at least when she was here she could keep an eye on things. With the whole team here, there was always something to see.
Besides Malcolm and Sarah, the junior officers were propping up the bar and drinking far too much. They were a rowdy lot, none of them older than thirty and all of them believing themselves to be The Next Big Thing. Jimmy Bogle was the oldest of the whole lot, a half-Australian who spoke seven languages and might actually have gone on to better things, if he had kept away from the beer bottle for long enough to do it. Kevin Olsen was a waste of space, one that the boss should have ousted by now. The youngest and quietest was Lucas North. He was largely untested until now but Connie imagined he might one day be really very good at his job, if only he stopped listening to Jimmy and Kevin. She made a note to speak to him soon. He would be much better off looking to Harry for his example.
As her thoughts turned to the senior case officer, she cast her eyes around the pub to find him. The Head of Section, John Knightley, was sitting in a shadowy corner with his senior analyst, a rat of man who spent all of his time staring at Connie's breasts. Throwing him as dirty a look as she could manage and grinning darkly when he blushed and looked away, Connie continued to search the place. Harry was nowhere to be seen.
His location became apparent soon enough.
There was a ruckus from the entrance hall, the sound of raised voices. A man and a woman were arguing. Connie perked up and sat higher in her chair. The man's voice was undoubtedly Harry. It seemed things were about to get much more interesting.
"You know what," the woman said, "You're an utter bastard, Marcus. I don't know why I didn't realise it before."
"And what exactly am I supposed to have done now?" Harry retorted, "Please, inform me."
"You know what you did. Tell me, did you even change your sheets before you invited my best friend into your bed?"
Harry said something that Connie couldn't hear, despite the fact that the pub had gone mostly silent in order to hear the argument better.
"Don't give me that bullshit," the woman cried shrilly, "I'm finished here, Marcus. I hope you die alone. God knows it would be the least you deserve."
There was silence. The noise of the pub picked up again slowly, the entertainment over. Connie drained her drink and went to the bar, ordering a gin and tonic for herself and a whisky for Harry. It sounded like he would need it.
A few moments later, as she predicted, he appeared at the door and strode into the lounge. There was nothing about him that suggested anything had just happened. He had the same arrogant strut he always had, a strut that oftentimes made Connie think women should have realised what they would be getting before they got into it with him. Then again, the rest of him was so very distracting; reddish blonde curly hair that he had only recently begun to wear short; eyes that could make you stop dead in your tracks; a solid body, with delicious shoulders, that he always dressed in the best fitting clothing. He was gorgeous. If Connie didn't know him so well, know exactly what he was like, she would have tempted him into her bed years ago. As it was, she had escaped that one rather unscathed.
"Whisky," she held the glass out to him. He took it and toasted her.
"My queen."
"You can cut that out straight away. Come on."
At some point in the last five minutes, Sarah had vacated her table, leaving Malcolm alone with a ridiculous dreamy look on his face. That wouldn't do at all. It was time to engage him in some more stimulating conversation.
"What was her name?" Connie asked, sitting herself down in Sarah's seat and getting straight to business.
"Ah," Harry sipped his drink, "You mean Gwen."
"Gwen. I assume it is safe to say the lovely Gwen is no more?"
"It is," Harry half shrugged, "I just can't seem to hold down a girlfriend at the moment."
"Perhaps because you sleep with their best friends," Malcolm interjected quietly.
Harry turned to him, a thoughtful look on his face.
"There is that, Malcolm. Perhaps that's where I'm going wrong."
To his credit, Malcolm no longer blushed when Harry was sarcastic or cutting, as he could sometimes be. It had taken almost two years but there was a kind of friendship between them now. It was unlikely – the spy with the ego and the techie with none – but it had happened, somehow. Connie knew that Harry, despite his outward demeanour, was fond of Malcolm; he was as concerned about the man's fiancée as she was. Malcolm seemed to have accepted Harry's faults, for his part. It made these little conversations much more pleasant, that was for sure.
"Don't be sarcastic, Henry, you know he's right," Connie said primly. Using Harry's proper name infuriated him and she did so love to bait him.
"Damn you," he growled into his whisky, draining the rest of the glass, "I'll get the next round. The usual, Malcolm?"
"Yes, please."
"Do you think he really enjoys it?" Malcolm asked under his breath, watching as Harry joined their younger colleagues at the bar, "The string of women and the dramas that come with them?"
"I think he's looking for something," Connie shrugged, "He has a good heart, under all those layers, although I don't think he knows it himself."
"He hasn't seen the children for months," Malcolm murmured, "Did you know?"
"Not through lack of trying, in his defence. Jane says it's too little too late, apparently. I think those children are in danger of losing their father forever if Harry and Jane don't buck their ideas up."
The conversation stopped then as Harry returned with three glasses and dropped back into his seat. He gave them a curious look though – whatever else he was, he was damn good at his job and he could tell they had been talking about him. Connie was much better at faking nonchalance than Malcolm. She'd been at it for years already, after all. She smiled brightly at Harry.
"Shall I tell you something very important, Harry?"
"If you want."
"I can see the future. Do you want to know yours?"
"By all means," he grinned, leaning back in his seat, "Enlighten me."
"In about five years, just before you hit the ripe old age of forty-five, you might finally become what we in the business call an adult. And when you are finally said adult, you are going to look back on these years of your life and wonder what you did with them."
"Everyone has regrets, Connie," he said, his face darkening enough to tell her that her words had hit a nerve, "I don't see why I should be any different."
"They do," she nodded, "Although I doubt your regrets will be in any way similar to say, Malcolm's. Or mine. The difference is that you could change your future and, I'm betting, you even know what you have to do to change it."
"Is this a lecture, Connie?"
"Not a lecture as such," she conceded gently, "I just know who it is you are looking for, if you would like to get the inside scoop."
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she was surprised to see the depth of the sadness in his eyes. For all his womanising, for all his bluster and ego and arrogance, she suspected he was lonely.
"Who am I looking for?" he asked softly, "Because I'll be damned if I know."
"You need someone who understands you. Someone who knows what it is you do and loves you despite of it."
"Well that's much easier said than done," he muttered, but his eyes were riveted to her face and she carried on.
"She will be smarter than you. You're a clever man, although you try to hide it. You need someone who can outthink you, because it is the only way you will ever really learn to accept a woman as an equal. I am an example of this, I think you will agree."
Malcolm was silent, watching the pair of them with intense interest. Connie didn't doubt for a second that he had already entertained similar thoughts himself, ones he would never be brave enough to share with the other man.
"She won't be beautiful, not in the conventional way and she won't fall into your bed the first time she looks at you. You will have to work at it and you will have to wait for her. But you will keep at it, because by then you will be so in love with her that the idea of another woman will put you off your morning toast."
Connie sat back and took a triumphant sip of her drink. Harry was speechless, staring at her as though she had done something vulgar like grow an extra limb. He seemed to be processing what she was saying and a delightful red flush crept up his face from under his collar.
"Well, that's a nice bedtime story, Connie," he said eventually, buckling his armour back into place even as he spoke, "But you have no way of knowing if that is true."
"I do."
"How?" he said sharply, "How do you know?"
"Because I have seen what doesn't work you for," she said patiently, "And I know that the only thing which could therefore work is the complete opposite of what you are doing now."
"Logical enough," Malcolm murmured.
Harry started as though he had forgotten the other man was there. He looked set to say something nasty, to deflect the attention away from himself as he was so prone to do, but then he stopped and sat back.
"People can't change overnight," he muttered.
"You don't have to," Connie patted his hand, "You're not a bad person, all in all. You just need to reconsider your priorities and start using your brain instead of other parts of you."
Harry and Malcolm blushed then and Connie knew her job for the evening was done. Nothing made her happier than a full frontal assault on their public school learned attitudes to women brazenly discussing bodily functions of one sort or another. In many ways, the pair of them were terribly old fashioned.
"I'm going home," she announced, "Think about what I said, Harry."
He didn't answer but his eyes flickered in her direction and she knew she had planted a seed. She would have to settle in for the long haul if this was to be her entertainment of choice. He was, after all, as stubborn as he was secretly really quite wonderful, and it would take more to convince him of that fact than it would any woman who happened to look at him twice. Connie knew ego. She was in possession of one herself, a carefully cultivated thing that was probably similar in size to the smallest moon of Saturn. Hugo had one, based on his deep rooted and self-assured belief that no one was quite as good as him in any way known to man. Harry's was based on insecurity; a way to cover up a gaping lack of that same self-assurance which went all the way back to his mother's death when he was young; a way to protect himself when no other way was clear to him. He needed women because they helped to fuel the illusion.
One day, Connie hoped, a woman would find her way through the maze instead.
Because, if there was one thing that she was sure of when it came to Harry Pearce, she was sure that, for all his faults, he had given enough of himself to help other people that one day he might deserve to be happy.