A/N: Everything I know about British police rankings, I learned from watching Broadchurch a few days ago. That's to say, I know nothing. If the ones used in this story don't make any sense, please let me know and I'll fix it. And if there are any glaring grammatical errors, I'll fix those too.
Warnings: Alcohol, some language. Also, I'm classifying this as a dramedy. It's not quite fluff, but it's not as angsterific as some of my other stuff.
Heartbeat
She's actually to go to bed at a reasonable time when her phone starts to go crazy. Vibrating and lighting up the dark room. Rolling over with a groan, DS Phyllis Baxter, picks up the awful contraption.
It was supposed to be her night off.
Seven missed messages from Molesley. And she's gone from being annoyed to concerned in a blink of an eye.
All gibbrish.
Oh dear god. Is he drunk?
Her phone buzzes again. This time, it's from Thomas. Get over here. Now.
Baxter sighs and types up a quick response. He only ever reaches out to her when he needs something. Why?
Your friend Molesley is ruining my reputation.
That only raised more questions then it answered.
Thomas' nightclub, Heartbeat, is not the type of establishment Baxter has chosen to frequent since the early '90s. It's too dark, too loud, and the floor is always sticky from what she hopes is alcohol. To Thomas's credit, it is significantly less terrible than it was when he took it over.
The new Irish Pub across the street is more to her and Molesely's liking, but she will never let Thomas know for risk of being branded as traitors.
They're going to owe me, Baxter thinks as she rolls out of bed. She only got home a few hours ago. The case that had taken over her and Molesley's waking hours had been taken out of their hands and reassigned to a different unit. And she was just about to fall asleep for the first time in days.
But the message is unusual, even for Thomas, and because of that she's clumsily pulling on the first pair of slacks she can find and an old t-shirt from the depths of her closet. She grabs her car keys, pulls on her boots and jacket, and ventures into the rainy March night to retrieve her pissed partner.
When she arrives, she pushes through to get to the front of the line.
"Please, you've got to let me in," she begs the bouncer. "I know the owner!"
When he doesn't react, she pulls out her badge with a sigh. She had hoped that it wouldn't come to this. She hates misusing her badge like this, but her feeble attempts to negotiate are clearly going nowhere. She wishes that the other one, William, was working tonight instead.
The bouncer inspects her badge warily. "Why didn't you just say so?"
When she finally gets in, she fights her way through the throng of drunks. She does not understand how they can be wearing so few items of clothing considering the cold weather. Eventually, she finds Thomas at the bar.
"Thomas!" she yells over the music. The repetitive call of the snare drums and synths are already making her ears bleed.
"About time you got here!" he calls back. He's watching somebody in the crowd. "I think the worst of it is over."
She's about to question him further, but she follows the direction of his gaze.
The man they're watching can not be Molsley. It can not possibly be him. Not DCI Molesley. Not her vinegar-making, Dungeons & Dragons-playing, cricket-loving Molesley.
This is not the man she has worked alongside for two years. And yet, she would recognize him anywhere. His normally gelled hair is unruly, his button down shirt is untucked and dancing with an empty glass in hand.
And most disconcerting of all, he's wearing jeans.
It's so very very un-Molesley and she doesn't know how she's supposed to feel about it.
"Is he twerking?" she squeaks.
Thomas nods sagely. "This is actually an improvement. He was doing the Macarena earlier."
The bartender, Jimmy, pipes up from behind them. "Did you know he knows all the words to "Anaconda"?"
Baxter has never been more confused in her life.
"It's eerie, isn't it?" Thomas says. "Like entering into an alternate universe." Baxter supposes that is one way of putting it.
"Why did you text me then?" she asks. There is a small crowd forming around Molesley. They're hooting and howling and some quite understand how he's destroying Thomas' precious party atmosphere.
Thomas pulls out his phone and shows her a series candid photos of Molesley at the bar with a description on the bottom of the screen. "You really need Snapchat." Baxter rolls her eyes.
11:30pm Molesley sad.
11:35pm Molesley really sad.
11:40pm Molesley drowning sorrows.
11:45pm People leaving.
11:49pm Molesley continuing to kill the vibe.
Baxter raises a questioning eyebrow at a sudden selfie of Thomas. 11:50pm Just called for backup.
"What? I couldn't have him ruining the night, could I?" Thomas protests. "Anyways, after I texted you, he discovered Prairie fires and his mood turned around. So I suppose you didn't need to come afterall!" He tucks his phone back into his pocket.
"So why do you need me?" Baxter asks, exasperated.
"I'm not going to be the one to clean up after him," he says it like it should have been obvious.
She's about to say something, when Molesley takes notice of her and starts heading towards them.
"If you ain't getting drunk, get the fuck out the club," he sings and shoves a shot in her hand and downs one of his own."Baxter! You're here!"
"Where did you get these?" she asks in a panic. Sensing that she wasn't going to drink it, Molesley took back the shot he had just given her and threw it back. "Who's letting him have shots?"
Thomas shrugs and downs one himself.
"Thomas!" she cries over the infernal racket. "Stop exploiting him!"
"It's good for business!"
"I don't care!" she cries. She turns to the bartender. "Jimmy, please stop enabling him."
"Yes, ma'am," Jimmy sheepishly pockets the money in his hand and turns his attention to a young blonde who is strikingly close to dancing on the bar.
"Molesley," she grabs his flailing arm and tries to stop him from dancing back into the hoard of people. "When LMFAO tells you to have a shot, you do not need to have a shot."
"Yes, you do. It's the rule!" he says before getting distracted by a song change. "Oh! I like this song! This hit. That ice cold...Michelle Pfeiffer..."
"That's it-" she loops her arm through his. "We're leaving."
He's surprisingly cooperative on the walk to her car. Once they were out of that dreadful environment, he calmed down a bit. Her arm has gone from being wrapped around his arm, to snaking around his back to help keep him upright. For all his dancing prowess, Molesley is useless at walking in a straight line.
"I'm sorry, Baxter," he mumbles against her shoulder.
She smiles softly as she fumbles to unlock her car with a click of a button. "It's fine, Molesley. Really."
"I didn't want you to see me like this," he moans as he climbs into the passenger seat.
"You've seen me at my worst before," she reminds him gently. Back when she made the mistake of letting DI Peter Coyle come back into her life. Back when she was going absolutely mad over a case and Coyle was whispering in her ear to tamper with the evidence. And she would have, if it wasn't for Molesley. "You saved me from myself."
He doesn't respond to that. She didn't really expect him to.
His head is resting against the window as they drive in silence. She keeps one eye on the road, the other on him, to make sure he doesn't get sick.
Somehow, they manage to stumble up the stairs to his flat. He all but collapses onto his couch when they arrive. His eyes are closing drowsily when she forces a glass of cold water in one hand, and a breadroll in the other.
"Now will you tell me what tonight was about?" Baxter finally asks.
He doesn't answer; he sips at his water and nibbles on some stale bread.
"Is it about the Green case?" she presses lightly. "Molesley, I know you're upset that the case was given to another division- I am too. But they'll be better equipped to deal with-"
"I let him down," he finally says, and she blinks wondering if she heard his drunken confession correctly.
"Molesley, listen to me," she places a firm hand over his and rests the half-empty glass on the coffee table. "You did not let CS Bates down."
He turns his hand over in hers, and laces his fingers with hers. He doesn't look up at her; his eyes stay fixated on their intertwined fingers. "I went to school with him, you know."
This information is not a complete surprise. She feels like she knew this somehow. While he never told her explicitly, she knew that he had known Bates and his wife, Anna, for many years.
Molesley continues. "He was always smarter than me, more athletic than me, kinder than me... Bates was always just a little better than me," he pauses, unsure of how to continue.
"That must have been difficult," Baxter prompts gently.
"Oh, I used to resent it," he confesses, with a wry little grin. "Always being second best. But I never resented him. Bates is a good man, an honourable man. It's impossible to resent him."
Baxter smiles softly, draws small circles on his hand with her thumb, waits patiently for him to continue.
He takes a deep breath. "A couple of years ago, I was in trouble – financial trouble- and Bates and Anna helped me when I needed it most."
She knew this particular case was personal for him, but she didn't know the extent of it. "Is this why you've been working yourself ragged?" Baxter asks softly.. "You feel like you owe them?"
He nods. "And instead of giving them closure, CS Bates is now Prime Suspect Number One," he finally looks up at her, the disappointment evident in his eyes. "I couldn't help him. He trusted me with this, Baxter, and I fucked it all up."
"He trusted us, Molesley," she reminds him. "You are not alone in this."
"Thank you, Baxter," he squeezes her hand lazily. His eyes fluttered shut at some point in the conversation. "I don't know what I would do with you."
She chuckles at this. The poor man is exhausted. She grabs a blanket that was draped on the back of the couch and lets it fall over his sleepy frame.
"I love you, Baxter, " he yawns and promptly rolls over.
Her heart stops beating for a fraction of a second. "What did you say?"
She can't possibly have heard that right.
He snores in response.
Shaking her head off all nonsense, she grabs the glass and his neglected bread, and takes it back into the kitchen. She's about to turn off the lights, and sneak back out, when she hears him snore again. From the doorway, she watches him for a moment, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He looks so peaceful. The most peaceful she'd seen him in weeks. The corners of her mouth turn upwards.
"I love you too, Molesley," she whispers.
She shuts off the lights, closes the door slowly, drives home, and has the best sleep she's had all year.
Thank you for reading!