The invitation was quickly relegated to the very back of Kent's mind with the arrival of a couple of messy (and, unfortunately very public) bodies in Whitechapel Market a few days later. They jumped into action as soon as the call came in, and luckily it hadn't turned out to be one of their cryptic cases. Even Buchan missed his chance; they had the crucial pieces of evidence down to forensics before lunch, a good couple of hours before he surfaced with some loosely related historical deaths. Even the woman the higher-ups had seconded to them as a public relations advisor was impressed—enough, in fact, to lead her to ask Chandler if he'd fancy a drink sometime despite her initial icy attitude. (His reputation preceded him.)

It always had to happen, didn't it? At first, in those initial few months, Kent had minded. He hadn't liked it at all—then he'd got it into his head that Chandler's torn look didn't have anything to do with him, just the uncomfortable situation as a whole. He was a good man, he didn't like having to be blunt, but sometimes… sometimes he had to, with a well-placed white lie. Now Kent just watched out of the corner of his eye with the rest of the team, the lot of them trying to smother amused expressions as Chandler fumbled his way through an excuse.

Thankfully Hannah was one of those women who couldn't be fazed—not unlike Erica, in a way, although Kent wouldn't want to think about leaving her in charge of anyone's PR—and they all parted ways with a friendly handshake and a chorus of Well done, you lot and Good work, lads. She had given Kent a bit of a beady look as she'd walked out, accompanied by what might have been a small knowing smile, but he'd just convinced himself he'd imagined that. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd thought he'd seen something worth panicking about.

'Environmental Health'll be on our backs tomorrow,' Mansell muttered to Kent as they straightened the desks.

(They all did it, now. Kent suspected that the others only chipped in for the sake of the off chance that they'd be able to catch him and Chandler off-guard after hours; they hadn't managed that quite yet.)

Miles made a gruff sound from somewhere behind both their shoulders. 'Forget them. The Commander won't be pleased with the fact we've just had to shut down a public market for the week. Lots of claims there for disrupted business. Plenty to complain about.'

'You heard what Hannah said—that's not our problem anymore.'

Even as he said it, Kent wasn't sure. He knew what Miles was getting at; there had been a few terse phone conversations that put them all on edge. The council hadn't been pleased. Bloody bureaucracy. There was always someone grasping for straws, looking for someone to blame. The most obvious answer would be Tetlock, since he was the one who throttled the victims and left them draped over food stalls, but he'd rushed into the path of an oncoming car and that was that. The team who had supposed to be responsible for bringing him in was the next best thing, wasn't it?

'Yes, well.' Miles flicked through a haphazard pile of files on the edge of Riley's desk. 'I'd be careful answering your phone for a while. All our names have been plastered over this since day one.'

Kent made a small assenting sound in his throat as he sorted the wrinkled papers on his desk, separated the rubbish from the worse-for-wear paperwork. He'd seen the blocked numbers come up on Chandler's phone; all reporters who hadn't taken a polite decline to comment as an answer. Chandler never picked those up, just switched his mobile to vibrate and let it ring out, but Kent couldn't miss the look on his face. It spoke volumes about past experience, and Kent couldn't help but remember the first time he'd noticed Chandler's stunned face looking back at him from newspaper ink on the Tube. It had sent something hot and painful through him even then.

'Reckon he's alright?' Mansell asked, nodding towards Chandler's office.

Miles didn't even look. 'Nope. Kent?'

'You're back on form quick,' Kent replied, nudging the wire bin back beneath his desk.

'Wouldn't have lasted this long into my old age if I wasn't.'

Mansell chuckled at them both as Kent put down the file in his hands and turned to walk towards where Chandler was pacing from one end of his desk to another. He looked up when Kent's footsteps got close enough, paused his own steps as Kent came to a stop and leant against the doorframe. There was something odd about his face, something vaguely apologetic, but even that scarpered when he (presumably) caught sight of Mansell and Miles smothering amused expressions behind Kent's back.

Chandler looked between them and Kent, searching for answers. 'Yes?'

'Come on. Pub.' Kent paused, then glanced over his shoulder despite the DI's confused glance. 'Skip's paying.'

Kent relished the well-deserved sense of satisfaction he got from both Chandler's half-smiling nod and the low exclamation of 'Bugger,' that came from Miles' direction.

(Mansell's laughed 'You cocked that one up, skip,' didn't hurt either.)


There was a bit of juggling that needed doing in the following days, a good few hours of treading carefully, but they were back in their normal routine of paperwork and complaining before long. They had it down to a fine art. Perhaps they could get an award for that, if nothing else.

It was one of those rare days when Chandler had left the station on time. Of course, he wouldn't think of it like that—he'd sent the rest of them home early, after all. It wouldn't be right if he left before they did; Miles and Riley would probably try and carry him into hospital and get him checked out if that ever happened. Kent wouldn't even stop them. He'd probably hold the doors open, in fact.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. Chandler was perfectly capable of putting the key in the lock himself, and the following creak of the door and shift of floorboards was the same as it always was. Kent smiled at the screen of his laptop as the rattle of metal against ceramic sounded through the small house, alongside the slight shuffle of a coat removed. It wasn't even particularly cold but Chandler still kept it with him, just in case; Kent had once thought that he'd got one coat, like the rest of them, only to find once they'd ended up sharing a wardrobe that Chandler had several versions of similar coats depending on the climate. Even in that moment Kent had flushed with the realisation that he only oscillated between wearing a coat and not—he only had the one that would reach Chandler's standards for work, after all, and it was thick wool and certainly not suited to summer days at crime scenes—until he'd found a similar self-conscious smile on Chandler's face. It was too easy to forget they all had their own idiosyncrasies and worried about them accordingly.

Chandler appeared from behind the corner, glancing around the room until he found what he was looking for.

'There you are,' he said, drawing the entirety of Kent's attention to him.

Kent smiled brightly, then flicked his gaze back to his laptop as one of the programs he had open made an impatient noise. 'Did you get everything you wanted done?'

There was a pause, then: 'Enough.'

Kent didn't look up again. He didn't have to, he could picture Chandler's face just fine without the reminder. His mouth twitched into a resigned half-smile instead, directed only at the screen in front of him as Chandler's footfalls took his body towards the kitchen. There was no need to make a fuss of it, as much as the lilt in Chandler's voice gave Kent reason to pause and wonder if there was anything that might have set him off, might have worried him. But there wasn't, and sometimes that was the only explanation, and Kent couldn't do anything about it in that particular moment. (Maybe later.)

A thought occurred to him, and Kent leant back on the legs of his chair. 'I left your post on the side.'

Chandler hummed and waved the pile of letters in his hand in front of the clear doorway; Kent watched until the DI's face appeared, smile creasing his eyes at the edges in a warm expression that hadn't surfaced at the station. It rarely did—not honestly, anyway. Half the time Kent didn't even know what would prompt it (like then, for instance), but he wasn't about to turn it down. So instead he held it, caught Chandler's eyes with his own, resisted the impulse to imply exactly what it was that stirred in his chest at the momentary glint of canine. He just tightened his grip on the edge of the table at that ever so slightly, a minute change that only a policeman might see.

(Good thing they were detectives, then.)

But the longer they looked at one another, the realisation dawned. Chandler's look turned disparaging, albeit fondly—that had been another of his crusades, getting his officers to stop only keeping two legs of their chairs on the ground. A surprisingly difficult habit to break, actually, through the only person to have taken a tumble was Ed and that was only magnified by the fact he took a pile of files with him. The rest of them had the manoeuvre down pat, even if they didn't do it as much anymore. Kent just grinned at Chandler from across the room; his expression faltered, softened, and a small smile appeared.

Kent looked away when his smile threatened to break into a grin; that was beyond his control, and he didn't really know what to do with it. Instead he stared at the browser he'd left open, wondering what he'd been doing before Chandler had distracted him. (That happened a lot.) Or, at least, he did until there was a familiar ping and Mark's name popped up on one of the tabs. His stomach dropped and he didn't waste any time closing that particular window; it was still too late, though, he'd get another message on his phone soon enough. Mark would know.

'Uh, Em?'

Kent was glad for the distraction, especially as his suspicions had just been confirmed as another message popped up on his phone. He covered the screen with the end of a newspaper; he'd deal with that later. Tomorrow, if he could push it. Possibly even the day after.

'Yes?'

Chandler leant back just far enough to catch his eye. 'The fridge is empty.'

'There's milk,' Kent said, frowning, as he got up with his mug of cold tea in hand. 'If there isn't then what the hell did I just put in my drink?'

'I know you can survive on tea,' Chandler replied as Kent approached with a lopsided smile, gesturing with a hand towards the still-open fridge, 'but I'm not sure I can.'

'Honestly.' Kent came to a stop closer than strictly necessary and laid his mouth against Chandler's cheek in a brief kiss. 'I've seen you work forty-eight hour shifts on nothing more than two boxes of sushi.'

Chandler huffed but leant closer anyway. 'I wouldn't recommend it.'

'There's cheese in there,' Kent said, keeping one hand on Chandler's side as he ducked to get a better look, 'and the bread's not gone odd yet. You're capable of cheese on toast, aren't you?'

Chandler fixed him with an overdone exasperated look. 'Do I have to be?'

Kent grinned, and pressed another kiss to Chandler's jaw. 'I'll go.'

Chandler turned to watch Kent rinse out his mug, though his hand didn't forget to nudge the fridge door closed. 'What?'

'To the shops.'

'You don't have to—'

'You just got in.'

'You've settled.'

'It doesn't matter,' Kent said, doing his best to emulate the tone of voice Miles used when he wanted Chandler to shut up. They'd had this variety of argument before and it always seemed to work; it did this time, too, as Chandler's mouth snapped shut. Kent smirked at him and left his cup on the draining board. 'Go on, sit down, have your tea. I've had mine.'

It was still a distinctly odd feeling when Chandler did something Kent said. It churned with something much warmer, much more akin to overwhelming affection as Chandler shifted close to kiss him as he passed, only a brief press of lips but even that left Kent smiling as he grabbed at his phone, his keys, his wallet. There was a Tesco Metro on Bethnal Green Road, it'd do for the night even if Kent knew Chandler favoured Waitrose.

'Anything in particular?' Kent called back, a light jacket in hand. It was sunny enough, but you never really knew, did you?

There was a sound that might have suggested an intake of breath from where Chandler had settled at the kitchen table, but it was quickly interrupted by his phone. Kent frowned, twisting the collar of his jacket between his fingers—that was the ringtone they both used exclusively for calls from the station. Not Miles or any of the others, just the station itself. The mainframe. Presumably the Higher-Ups, if he dared to let his thoughts get that far. Kent's breaths caught in his throat as he positioned himself where he could see; even so, he forced himself to push an arm through a sleeve and keep on going. Keep calm and carry on, and all that.

(God, how he hated seeing that phrase.)

'DI Chandler.'

Chandler answered how he always did, without enough syllables to betray any sort of suspicion or fear, but when he looked up and met Kent's eye he switched the setting to speakerphone.

The fuzziness of the line crackled to life, badly amplified by the inadequate speakers. 'It's Mansell, boss.'

Kent groaned from where he'd stood shrugging on his coat, successfully masking the rush of relief, and marched over to the kitchen doorway. 'What is it this time?'

'What a warm welcome.' The DC fell back on sarcasm; he always did when he fancied winding them up.

(In fact, Kent wouldn't have been surprised if calling them from the station's number was just part of one big wind up.)

'Mansell,' Chandler said, the words coming out as more of an impatient sigh than anything else. 'What's this about?'

There was just a long enough pause for Kent to get suspicious and for Chandler to run a hand across his forehead. And really, Kent reckoned he should have known it was coming. They were speaking to Mansell, after all, and to him there was only one thing he could have interrupted that would annoy both of them at the same time.

'Are you and him having sex?'

Chandler spluttered, all sternness dissipating from his face. 'Not… not at this exact moment.'

Even Kent's face cracked into a grin at that feeble attempt at deflective humour. If that was even what it was; he wouldn't have been surprised if Chandler had just panicked and said the first thing that had come to mind, regardless of how casually offhand it might have seemed. Chandler frowned at the phone as Mansell was killing himself laughing on the other end, and Kent pushed his shoulder away from the doorframe to walk towards where he sat in the pool of late afternoon sun.

'What gave you that idea?' Chandler snapped back into the terseness of the office, bracing one elbow against the table.

'If I'm honest, sir,' Mansell continued, voice betraying the fact he was smothering laughter. 'Riley and I were putting our heads together an' we couldn't think of a better reason why our workaholic boss would send us home before end of shift.'

Chandler looked between Kent and the phone, mildly panicked and possibly thinking about mentioning something about insubordination or the consequences of contumacy, but something in Kent's amused grin caught his attention. If he was being honest then he'd admit that something in Chandler's inarticulate shock had caught in the back of Kent's head, unconsciously prompted him to lick his lips and plan further action, but he didn't have to be honest. They were at home, after all. Certain guidelines no longer applied.

The DI eyed him with a mixture of trepidation and displaced interest. 'Kent—'

Kent didn't give him a chance to finish; he interrupted whatever thought Chandler had been trying to articular with a firm kiss, one hand curling its way around the back of Chandler's neck. For a split second Chandler froze, stunned, but (and almost surprisingly) he relaxed into Kent's touch, let him nip and press make a bit of a spectacle of it—because who was there to see? No one. Just Mansell on the end of a phone line, him and the mind he lost in the gutter a decade and a half ago. They might as well give him something tenuous to work with. Even Kent couldn't tell which one of them provided that slight moan as Chandler opened his mouth, let Kent in. Either way it reminded them who they were, what they were doing, who was on the other end of the phone, and despite the hand Chandler had laid on Kent's side they pulled apart only half reluctantly.

Kent pressed close for one last moment, speaking in a faux-hush against Chandler's cheek. 'That'll shut him up.'

Another bout of laughter emerged from the phone in Chandler's hand; Kent was surprised he'd been able to keep ahold of it.

Mansell had a dirty chuckle that wasn't helped by circumstance. 'Not a chance.'

'If this is one of you lot's games,' Kent said towards the phone, still resting his palm on the back of Chandler's neck just because he could, 'then give yourself ten points.'

Chandler looked intensely embarrassed, a little mollified, very much disorientated—as if he couldn't quite place what just happened.

'Can I go to the shops now, Mansell?' Kent continued, daring to stroke his thumb against Chandler's jaw. 'I, for one, would like to eat this evening.'

Something dropped out of the other constable's voice. 'You won't after you've heard this.'

'Shit.'

'An understatement.'

'Shit.'

Chandler cleared his throat, one hand rubbing at where Kent had just let his touch slip away. 'If you could both get to the point, please?'

'Either we've got two eerily similar suicides in a space of six weeks, or that suicide last month wasn't a suicide.'

They just looked at one another through the ensuing silence; neither had answers, nor questions. They'd find them soon enough. Eventually, after what felt like minutes but was probably only a handful of seconds, Kent brushed his fingers against Chandler's arm and mouthed 'I'll get your coat,' after which the DI nodded and turned back to the phone.

(He'd always done that, almost spoken to the device as if it was a person, affording it his full attention. Kent thought it was charming.)

Chandler's coat was heavy and comforting against his arm, almost like the man himself. For a moment Kent wondered if it was the same for him, if it was some sort of protection against the world even when the sun warmed his back and there wasn't a modicum of fog in sight, but then he noticed that everything about him had slipped back into place—the crispness of his buttoned collar and the line of the Windsor knot, the line of his sleeves and the watch on his wrist—and he couldn't remember if that inspired confidence or concern or both.

'Miles—'

Mansell interrupted with what sounded like papers held between his teeth. 'Already on his way in, boss. So is Riley.'

'And you are?' Chandler asked, voice tighter.

'Still in the station.'

So that was why it was Mansell phoning himself. Kent shook his head for a moment as he replaced his khaki jacket with the corresponding part of his suit; probably that girl down in filing. The redhead—Katie, he thought her name was. Mansell had taken a liking to her the moment she'd introduced herself, and if Kent had any observational skill at all he'd have said it went both ways. The last dealings he'd had with her suggested that he might just meet his match—not maritally, certainly not. In character, rather. He'd be kept on his toes. Might take him down a peg or two. He'd buy her a bottle of wine if that ever came to pass.

Chandler took his coat from Kent's outstretched hand as he got to his feet. 'We'll go straight to the scene.'

'Headlam Street, sir,' Mansell replied. There was a sound like he was grabbing his own jacket and keys. 'You won't miss it.'

Kent handed Chandler his keys just as he said 'Right,' but Mansell had already hung up. The DI pulled a face at his phone, drew it away from his ear then back again before shaking his head and giving up.

'Well,' he said, reaching for the front door as they approached, 'at least one of us had a sit down.'

Kent smiled at him. He didn't need to do much else. 'One car or two?'

'One.' Chandler huffed a final lurch of laughter as they stepped out into the sunlight. 'It can't hurt now.'


As it turned it, one had been a suicide and one hadn't.

It was odd, really, having a case where the prime suspect was one of the victims. The chief superintendent hadn't been at all happy with it, he thought they'd all just been barking up the wrong tree but no, there it was. They'd all had to play psychoanalyst and none of them had liked it. Chandler had mumbled something about not even having a chance with this one, everyone was dead before they started, but Miles had said something acerbic that Kent had missed and even Chandler had smiled.

At least they had an answer, and no matter how much Chandler tried to twist it he couldn't blame himself for this one. It had gone wrong long before they got involved.

None of them had felt like a trip down the pub—a rarity, really. Kent had just planned to go home and prop himself up in front of his laptop; emails didn't answer themselves, after all. Chandler had stayed behind at the station, citing the complexity of the report and the relative annoyance of their chief super. Kent hadn't blamed him—he'd have wanted the thing off his hands, too, at this rate—and dared to press a quiet kiss to Chandler's cheekbone before leaving. It didn't matter, they didn't normally do it but it was only Riley left in the incident room (and she was rather preoccupied with swearing at her bag while she tried to disentangle her scarf from the zip). Chandler's hand had done some atrophied twitch towards Kent's own in the moment afterwards, but he reined himself in; Kent had grinned and turned on his heel, expression just knowing enough for Riley to give his shoulder a chummy push on her way out.

'Sod off,' was all he'd said when she rounded on him near his bike, all wide grin and waggling eyebrows.

'Sod off yourself.'

'That's an inventive comeback.'

'Shut it.' She sounded like a cat who'd got the cream. 'You're sweet.'

Kent didn't know whether to believe her. Sometimes he didn't feel it at all. In the end he muttered something vaguely acquiescent and pulled on his helmet, but neither the rumble of the engine or the madness of London traffic really got his mind off what Riley had said. He was smothering a smile by the time he pushed the front door open, key still in the lock, but he froze when his toe clipped the pile of post that had gathered just inside the doorstep.

That definitely wasn't another electricity bill—although Kent was pretty sure there should be one hiding in there somewhere.

Keeping his helmet tucked against his side, he bent to grab at the papers, the plasticky envelopes and the thin newspaper stock. He let his thumb run across the raised addresses of the heaviest two, the letters that spelled out his and Chandler's names.

He recognised the envelopes—well, perhaps not recognized exactly but anything with that sort of paper weight and heft wasn't going to just be another letter from the council. The things were embossed, for God's sake, Kent hadn't realised they'd decided to go that far. He certainly hadn't expected to get two invitations, one addressed to him and the other to Chandler. He bit at his lip as he flipped the envelope over, stared at the blank back; it was out of his hands now, wasn't it? He'd left it a bit late. Asking Chandler to be his plus one was on his own head. Delivering a personally addressed letter from someone Chandler had never met was a little different.

In any case, he couldn't do anything about it stood in the hall still in his coat. For a brief moment Kent wondered if it was too early to justify having a beer before he tried to deal with this latest development, but he decided it probably was and made to fill the kettle instead. He left the post in a neat pile on the edge of the end table, the corners aligned with the wood. (As if that would soften the blow.) Even as he did it he was restless, unsure exactly what he wanted to do with himself.

In the end he'd just left the kettle to its own devices and gone to change. The collar on his shirt had suddenly felt stifling, the waistcoat restrictive. He pulled on one of Chandler's jumpers instead, its cashmere contradictory to the tears in his jeans, the dark hunter green one that Kent had accidentally commandeered one morning. The postman had come early one morning (or had they been late? It didn't matter anymore, not that Kent could tell why) and Kent had rolled out of bed with a muttered curse, grabbed the closest thing that looked vaguely like a top, and made his way downstairs to sign for whatever parcel had arrived that time. He didn't even bother checking what it was once he'd shut the door, just left it on the side table and went straight back to bed. Chandler had turned and thrown an arm over him as he returned and resettled beside him, warm and solid, but cracked an eye a moment later and asked 'is that my jumper?' It had been, and Kent said as much. Chandler had just chuckled, still sleep-sodden, and pulled him to his chest.

Kent smiled at the memory and refreshed the page on his laptop before him for the third time, stood at the corner of the counter and still vaguely embarrassed that he'd only just realised the kettle wasn't switched on at the wall. He really did hate the Met's external access systems. His phone vibrated in his back pocket; he tensed and fished it out with a growing sense of trepidation that fell away once he realised it was just another promotional email. Kent scowled at it and peered at the fine print, trying to find the link that would unsubscribe him; even as he swore under his breath when the touchscreen jumped he knew he couldn't keep on like this for much longer. Jumping every time the phone went. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't even for a good reason. He should be able to talk about this. They should be able to.

(Could they? They haven't even tried yet.)

He was rooted to the spot with that thought; so much so that when both the front door opened and the kettle boiled simultaneously he didn't really know where to look. Or what to do, really, so maybe it was that that made him turn on his socked heel and pad back through the sitting room looking for something to occupy his hands. He didn't trust himself with boiling water. He'd accidentally done enough to himself with that in the past to make him wary. A small voice in the back of his head murmured that it hadn't all been bad, had it now, but he silenced it with a secreted smile and waited for the moment.

The one he knew was coming.

'That's odd.'

(Oh, God. It was too late now, wasn't it?)

(Kent should have known it was the sort of thing that requires some preparation.)

(Shit.)

'Emerson?' Chandler's voice was level, though questioning. 'Em?'

Kent cleared his throat and rubbed at his arm. 'Round here.'

He didn't really know what he expected. The world to implode, maybe? But it didn't, the only thing that happened was that Kent tightened his own grip around his wrist and Chandler appeared, and it wasn't at all what he'd thought—though whether it was better or worse he couldn't tell. Kent didn't even know what he hoped for, either, just knew that Chandler had unfastened the top button of his collar and loosened his tie but his face wasn't the same as it usually was. It wasn't wrong, it wasn't the opposite, it just… wasn't. Wary wasn't the word. Kent couldn't tell what was.

'I don't think we've had anything here addressed to me before, have we?'

Chandler looked to him, gesturing with the letters Kent had tried so hard to temporarily discard. His mind wasn't quite keeping up; usually he'd have been thrilled with pronoun, the inclusion, but instead all he could notice were the signs, the muffled strain in Chandler's voice.

He still had his coat on.

Kent had a creeping suspicion he placed more significance on that than strictly necessary.

'You don't think…'

Chandler trailed off; exactly what he was frightened of was clear. The problem was that Kent was approaching it from clear the opposite direction, with an entirely different backstory, and it took him a minute. When it did slot into place, when it clicked, Kent's mouth morphed into a soft 'oh' and he felt the anxiety drain from his bones, the infernal fight or flight fizzle out to a vague desire to press his palms to the breadth of Chandler's collarbone, curl his fingers around his shoulders. Pull him close.

But, instead, he shrugged. 'It's only from Mark and Jess.'

That revelation didn't seem to soothe Chandler.

Kent pressed on, half-frowning. 'My old flatmates.'

'Yes, I know.'

'They're getting married, remember?'

Chandler hummed, nodded, and kept his gaze on the letter in his hand. There wasn't anything particularly tense about him anymore, not as far as Kent could see, and it took him a moment to realise that he might be looking at confusion. As if it wasn't the fact that he was standing there with an invitation sent to this address in his hand that bothered him, but that he didn't know why that had come to pass in the first place.

It was incredibly endearing. It lessened the tension in Kent's chest for a split second, and although it prompted the familiar urge to pull Chandler to his chest and nestle his profile into the line of his neck he only managed to get as far as laying hand on Chandler's arm and flexing his fingers against his expensive suit jacket. (Even that was familiar, now. Of all things.) Chandler might have shifted closer to him, but they were both so well-versed in the necessary subtlety that it could very well have been a figment of Kent's imagination.

Chandler swallowed, then looked away from the paper in favour of meeting Kent's gaze. 'How'd you know it was them?'

'Oh,' Kent said, caught a little off guard by the question. He let his fingers slip away from the crook of Chandler's elbow. 'Mark rang me.'

'When…?'

'I meant to mention it.' Kent didn't want to say ages ago, although it was true. 'Sorry. We, uh—we got a bit busy.'

Chandler hummed in agreement, flipping the filigreed card to read the other side.

'Are you going to go?'

'I was planning to, yeah,' Kent said, shoving his hands in his front pockets. He knew it was a telling sign, a sort of nervous gesture, but it didn't stop him from doing it with a gentle shrug and a huffed laugh. 'I suppose I'd best get round to putting in a request for a couple of days off.'

Chandler gave him a half-hearted smile. 'There's time.'

Like with many things Chandler said, Kent didn't quite know what he meant. There was something knowing about his words, something suggestive, hidden; a degree of easy consciousness that might imply agreement. Kent couldn't be sure. He might just have been reading into it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd done that. He hadn't been wrong the first time, though, so perhaps… Kent didn't quite dare to hope.

Just as Kent was gathering the courage to spit out some sort of variation of What do you think, then? You coming?, Chandler's mouth tightened and he turned away from him, angling his trajectory towards the kitchen. Kent watched him go, fingers fidgeting; when he came to a halt and began separating the rest of the post stood in the patch of sun that fell on the table, he looked towards his desk instead, the controlled mess.

It didn't give him any answers. It didn't even enlighten him to what the questions were.

There was nothing to do except move along, but Chandler had clearly prioritized thinking over speaking.

Kent had an urge to press a kiss to the back of Chandler's neck, to wrap his arms around his middle from behind and press his face to Chandler's shoulder blade, say Forget it or I told them you wouldn't go for it, don't worry. But doing all that would be covering a trail with bare-faced lies and they knew how to pick those apart in their sleep. Chandler would recognize the tremor in his voice, any slight hesitation; Kent couldn't look for comfort in him and give it, too. They were both a bit too unstable for that.

He followed him into the kitchen anyway. The house was too small for them both to avoid each other, and Kent didn't really want to start doing that anytime soon. Plus, he'd filled the kettle and not done anything about it; it was something to do now, he supposed, and wasn't a cup of tea supposed to fix everything?

(He'd had a decent run of experience that would corroborate that suggestion, too.)

Kent opened a cupboard to choose a mug just as Chandler chose to come to a momentary stop. 'Tea?'

He looked up, half-distracted, but shook his head and said, 'No, it's fine.'

'Right.'

Kent went through the motions, trying to think more about them than the way Chandler moved through the room behind him. It didn't help that the sounds he made, his gentle noises that just came from coexistence, were almost as familiar as making tea, the ritual his aunt had instilled in him the moment he could be trusted with boiling water. Kent might have suspected that bringing Chandler into his life would be that easy (he'd always been an accommodating sort of man, and even he'd admit he'd been devoted to Chandler the minute he'd laid eyes on him, in various incarnations), but he wouldn't have thought it could be that… total. All-encompassing. Trust him to notice only then.

Kent watched the tea steep in silence as Chandler opened another of his letters, the tear much neater than any Kent had ever managed to do, and read it leaning against the opposite counter. The silence wasn't especially uncomfortable but even as Kent distracted himself with the task at hand, he couldn't help but wonder. They hadn't got an answer, had they? Jess wouldn't be pleased. She'd been even worse than Mark, even going as far as threatening to come down to London herself to see what on earth was going on. She wouldn't, of course, it was all hot air but it gave Kent reason to pause.

It had been easy for them, he supposed. There was more to think about with him and Chandler, both with their own personal neuroses and what it would mean for them professionally. What they would mean for them professionally. They might have been doing a pretty good job at keeping it discreet but every now and then the thought entered Kent's head that if it came down to it, would either of them choose the job over what they had now?

It was one of those questions he couldn't answer so he tried not to think about. The burn of hot liquid against his tongue snapped him away from it that time, made his mind conjure up a creative combination of curses instead of the plethora of scenarios he dreaded. The smarting would stay with him, too, keep a tenderness inside his mouth that a quick jab with a tooth would reawaken. He was all set, then, with his particular questionable method of distraction. A quick glance over his shoulder told him Chandler had another letter in his hands, one page folded back as he read the second. Kent decided to make himself scarce and made as if to walk off somewhere else; he was close enough if he was needed, no matter where he decided to end up.

'Em.'

Kent slowed to a stop before he really thought about what he was doing. Something in Chandler's voice called him back, and it wasn't the same thing that kept them all in the office after hours, kept them working when they really should be taking breaks. It was something softer than that. Something more akin to a question without being one, and even at a moment like this Kent wouldn't leave him without some sort of an answer. So he turned back, took a step towards Chandler, and when his expression beckoned him closer he didn't resist.

Chandler curled an arm around his waist, drawing him to his side. Kent went where he was guided, he'd missed the warmth of Chandler's skin all day, keeping one eye on the mug in his hand as they bumped shoulders. The last thing he wanted was scalding tea on both their suits, but Chandler didn't seem to mind the fact he was holding it as he tightened his grip and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. He rested his mouth again Kent's temple as he sighed out through his nose, almost contented.

Kent pressed his nose into Chandler's shoulder. He didn't know what it all meant.

(Had he ever?)


Kent glanced up and down the street before stepping into the road, jogging the last couple of feet as a taxi rounded the corner. He scowled after the back window as it sped off, swerving around the other corner a bit too wide to be safe, but kept on walking nonetheless. The lingering annoyance was just another remnant of his years as a cyclist; he'd had more than a few handfuls of close scrapes with black cabs.

Even summer afternoon sun couldn't burn the smell of cigarettes out of the air. Kent sniffed and curled his lip; he didn't mind the smell of smoke most of the time, but as far as he could tell there were certain ones that were sub-par and that stale scent hung the doorway to the block of flats. It was strongest under the no smoking sign, ironically, and someone was having a shouting match that drifted down to the street from one of the open windows. Kent turned up the volume on his earphones by a couple of notches and watched his shadow stretch across those of the leaves as he rounded the next corner.

They were in August now; he'd even had a couple of Any news? texts from both Mark and Jess, fishing for more information. Not that he had any to give them. At first he had just felt the familiar gentle amusement that came from their references to Chandler—Jess was particularly keen to meet him, if only to administer some sort of warning speech that Kent felt was plainly unnecessary—then there came the wave of dread that he had to push aside in order to get on with things. It wasn't even necessarily only because Chandler could refuse, tell Kent that it would be better if he went on his own; it was because an answer would change things, wouldn't it? Any answer. And he'd been so happy.

He wanted it—well, he did and he didn't. The last thing he'd felt like that about had been his move to CID. All in all, that had been a good decision, but at the time there was a part of him who had mourned for what he'd left behind in uniform. It had been an… uncomfortable time. It had passed, obviously, he couldn't think of going back to uniform now but he wasn't sure whether or not it would be the same when it came to his relationship. He couldn't leave that behind after the shift and refuel, and Chandler was too well-tuned to his moods now to not notice if he was off.

Kent came from a family of easy affection, of open gesture and off the cuff acknowledgement. His friends had all been the same, falling into the right thing at the right time and never denying it, tempering it. He'd never thought, never presumed that he'd have that with Chandler. He was over the moon with everything they already had, from the gentle familiarity to the hard, grasping kisses, but it was difficult to dissociate from the question when it was in front of him.

But, in the end, Kent just scolded himself and reminded his treacherous mind that it was only early days, that he was a patient sort of man and eight or nine months was nothing. People didn't fall into these things fully formed, not even them, no matter how much that might seem like the case. They've worked enough cases with surface-level perfection for him to know that much. It wasn't that he wasn't confident in them. He just didn't have much faith in the rest of the variables.

A silver car passed him as Kent was making sure the road was clear at the last intersection. He'd only vaguely registered it as familiar when he realised he recognized the registration as Chandler's. When precisely he'd come to store that sort of information in the back alleys of his brain was a question for an entirely different day—probably the same one where he'd wonder how on earth Chandler had managed to amass a passable knowledge of Kent's particular taste in music—but he knew it. Somehow.

He recognised Chandler from silhouette alone now, too, from the cut of his coat and the way his hair tipped out of place as he climbed out of the car. He was lucky that afternoon. Either they were earlier or someone else was late; it was unusual for him to park so close to the front door. Typical London parking, but at least it wasn't two pound an hour.

Kent approached with a nose full of smog and a mouth full of summer air; he wanted neither. What he wanted was for Chandler to look at him, to catch his eye, to seek him out in the surroundings as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As far as Kent was concerned, the opposite had been true for years, but every time he saw it mirrored in Chandler's face was one for the books.

When Chandler did turn, Kent had approached closer than he thought he could have. Chandler was usually quick with footsteps, inquisitive with his gaze. This time he paused, as if it was surprising that they should find themselves on the same road, but the following smile suggested it was a happy coincidence. Kent knew he was pleased with this version of events; he hadn't seen that smile for a few days. He doubted Chandler even knew he'd done it, bewitched him with a flash of tooth and a handsome glance through the London sun. It made him brilliant.

Or, at least, Kent thought so.

He definitely didn't say it. Instead, he went for a grin and, 'You only just beat me this time.'

'I didn't realise we were racing.' That lopsided smile appeared again.

'We could be.'

Chandler shrugged and locked the car with a flick of his wrist. 'We know better.'

Kent could feel the flush rise on the back of his neck, the prickle along his shoulders. Chandler didn't even link the implication. Maybe he had a one track mind, he didn't know, but Chandler valued the slow, the careful. The intent and the execution. In everything. Kent swallowed, remembered, tried not to. It was difficult enough at work.

(It wasn't much easier anywhere else, given the right glance or graze of fingers or tone of voice. Kent didn't know what had done it this time, only that it had, and he couldn't quite wrap his head around it yet.)

'Inside?' Chandler asked with a glancing touch to Kent's arm, a site of ignition.

Kent nodded, wrapping the wire of his earphones around his fingers, and followed Chandler's lead into the house.

Chandler had only just got his jacket off when Kent made the decision; it had been welling in the back of his throat ever since he'd caught sight of the man climbing out of his car, the way his face lit up that little bit when he spotted him come around the corner. He didn't want to lose that, desperately wanted to keep it, to commit it to some sort of memory that wouldn't fail him. He wanted to feel it, as much as he knew he couldn't touch an abstraction.

He tried anyway, reaching out with a tentative nudge to the back of Chandler's waistcoat. 'Joe.'

(The wistfulness in his voice was a bit telling, but he couldn't do anything about that.)

Chandler turned with a soft expression, a slight frown that had nothing to do with work. That one was Kent's, one Chandler kept exclusively for them.

'Em?'

Kent held out a hand, not really sure what he was doing with it. Chandler seemed to understand what he meant, though, as he slipped his fingers into the spaces between Kent's. No questions asked, although they must have been there.

He tugged Chandler to him by his shirt with his other hand and pulled their mouths together with a sigh. He'd wanted to do that all day, the urge flaring up now and again when he caught sight of Chandler out of the corner of his eye, but it was so far out of the question that he'd got used to pushing it aside by now. Chandler didn't resist, just molded his mouth against his; it was a relief that they didn't have to speak.

Kent knew Chandler could tell there was something off about him; the awareness came through every careful push, each flick of his tongue a question. But his hands were warm and sure and that's all Kent wanted in that moment, a bit of confidence between them both.

'I need you,' he said to the skin at the edge of Chandler's collar, lips against his pulse point, cradling the back of his neck and lightly stroking his fingers along his jaw.

Chandler swallowed, wet his lips—Kent could feel each movement against the side of his skull—and for a moment a shot of dread shot through Kent. But no, Chandler's hand came up to his jaw and Kent let him tilt his chin up to kiss him again. Kent hummed into Chandler's mouth, a low, pleased sound, and Chandler gripped at his side. It all escalated from there; tentative turning to demanding, a glancing touch turning into something much more concrete as Chandler crowded Kent against the doorframe, kisses once tender turning a little darker, a little richer.

'What's this about?' Chandler asked as he pulled back for a moment, his breathing already altered.

Kent ran his thumb across Chandler's bottom lip, toyed with the knot of Chandler's tie. 'Does it have to be anything?'

The answer was You, you, just being there but Kent didn't say it. Not out loud, anyway, but there must have been some part of him that did because although Kent could still feel Chandler's bounding pulse beneath his fingers and the way his breathing went just that bit too hard he didn't do anything for a moment. Just looked, watched, and (presumably) thought. Kent thought they'd done enough of that for a while.

He took the opportunity to walk Chandler back, push him towards the stairs, hands at his belt. Kent wouldn't have been surprised if he looked undone already; sometimes it didn't take much. When Chandler trembled like that it didn't take much at all. The muscle jumped under Kent's fingers, knuckles, and Chandler made a wanting sound in the back of his throat, taking Kent's head between his hands and holding him in place for a barely-controlled kiss before reluctantly turning to navigate the stairs. Even though he was right there, right there, with one hand trailing across his jaw and shoulder, Kent still felt alone until he could plaster himself along Chandler's front again as they stumbled across the landing.

The bed, uncharacteristically unmade (Chandler had gone in early, and Kent had left it a bit late to bother straightening it before rushing into work) beckoned. They were both in various states of undress, rumpled and half-undone without much thought, and Kent could only just stand to wait until they'd finished the line of buttons on their shirts and kicked off shoes before he pulled Chandler atop him, pawing at the fabric on his shoulders until it went somewhere else. Kent was too enamoured with the spread of Chandler's collarbone to care exactly where. He'd lost his shirt somewhere in the commotion—was it a commotion? It felt like one, a very lovely one, in Kent's head—and Chandler wasted no time in running his hands across Kent's sides, his ribs, the in-out of his lungs as they tumbled against the haphazard pillows and arranged their limbs, and tried not to lose track of each other's mouths.

Chandler broke the kiss first but Kent didn't allow it, chased it and captured Chandler's mouth again with a mixture of a huff and a whimper. It worked, for a while, as they clashed noses and teeth and Chandler worked the last of the fabric from their hips.

Kent tried to pull him back down, so he could be hidden. (It was one of those days.)

Chandler obliged and Kent curled his hands under Chandler's arm, over his shoulder, feeling the shift of bone and muscle as Chandler tipped his head to mouth at the curve of Kent's neck, the crook of his jaw. His heart raced and this throat tightened as he arched into Chandler's warmth, the line of his body and his promise; a half-strangled moan escaped him as Chandler nipped at his ear, at the tendons in his neck. The tender laugh that came with them only served to make Kent grip at him harder, pressing his skin white.

'Joe,' he gasped as Chandler painted a bruise on the slope of his shoulder with a press of tongue.

The response was infuriatingly, intoxicatingly lazy. 'Yes?'

'Don't—' Kent was interrupted by a kiss, teeth at his lower lip, but that didn't stop him from sliding his grip to Chandler's hips and biting out a half-frustrated, 'Don't dawdle,' as soon as he was able.

Chandler tried to silence him with an eloquent crook of his brow, but Kent pulled and arched his back and he was interrupted by the arriving whimpering moan that took him by surprise. Kent wrinkled his nose and grinned, letting out half a laugh as Chandler lurched forward to kiss him, pressing them both back into the nearest pillow.

He locked his arms around Chandler's neck, pushing up into his grasp, blindly trying to align their hips. In some hazy region of his brain he knew that they could go about this better, they had enough knowledge to be precise, to be efficient, but for some reason he preferred the slips, the way they distracted themselves and lost sight of the endgame. Kent wasn't sure what that was anymore, but when they got the angle right and Chandler rocked against him he found he thought he was halfway there. More than. He didn't even care where he was going—if anywhere-as long as Chandler kept pressing, kept pushing, kept his hand on Kent's hip right there—

He threw his head back, moaning long and low, and Chandler pressed gentle kisses to the column of his throat that contrasted sharply with the rasp of touch, the shift and roll of their hips. Each falter, when they started, each overreach. Kent hooked one leg across Chandler's, did his best to meet each movement with an equal one of his own, until Chandler released his joint in favour of wrapping the hand around them both. Kent tightened the grip he'd got in the back of Chandler's hair with a groan, panting (hard, harder) unless they managed to smear out another kiss, until he was spilling into his hand, his mouth pressed against Chandler's shoulder.

Oxygen seemed in short supply as Kent tried to catch his breath, but he was too preoccupied with the feeling of the man on top of him to notice. He bit his bottom lip and glanced up at Chandler, his blown pupils and reddened mouth, and with a warm kiss stroked and pressed until Chandler gave in completely, butter-soft and moaning.

Yes. That was what he wanted.

Kent laid there gulping in air, drowsy and limp, reveling in the press of Chandler's laboured breathing against his ribs. He didn't really know if he was coming or going, or what day it was, or if he cared. He probably did but it felt distant. Kent carded a hand through Chandler's hair instead, smiled at the ceiling as he felt the twitch of Chandler's lips against his chest.

Chandler pushed himself up on an elbow and twisted away from him, wrestling with the sheets. Kent watched until he managed to get to his feet, then turned his face into the rucked pillow.

'Come back, you were warm.'

Kent mumbled the words before he really knew he was speaking at all, but Chandler chuckled nonetheless. They had these moments, now and then. These careless seconds. But his head never stayed empty for long, and Kent followed Chandler's suit sooner rather than later. If he wasn't going to stay then he'd go and get him; they had hours, hours.

The bathroom was warm, the air moist; the best Kent could see of Chandler was the spread of his shoulders under the hot spray, the soft jut of his spine. The room was a mist of sandalwood and fir, a coating of scent that would have just been vaguely warm and wintery before but now just spelled out Chandler and the silk of his skin, the huff of his breath in the middle of the night. Kent daubed at himself with the corner of a wet towel, breathed in deeply, promptly chucked it in the washing basket. He always went hazy in times like this, in the bliss and the warmth, and he gripped onto the side of the cool sink basin until Chandler stepped out onto the tile.

Beads of water transferred onto Kent's shoulder as Chandler pressed close, nudged at the skin behind Kent's ear. 'Hey.'

Kent leant into him, his heat, his damp warmth; with a kiss Chandler pulled away, toweled off. Kent almost forgot it was the afternoon until Chandler pressed back against him, hot and dry, and the cool breeze from the open window suddenly felt icy.

Kent bundled them back into bed, wheezing as he let himself take an ungainly fall backwards, and gathered the light sheet around them. He kicked the duvet to the end of the bed, already comfortably warm without the layer of cotton and down, and Chandler paused to straighten it the best he could. Their awkward routine. When had he ever thought routine could be boring? The knowing was half the excitement, half the adoration.

He rubbed his hand along Chandler's ribs, nuzzled his neck. There was a headache stirring somewhere behind Kent's eyes, a shooting pain in his leg that came back periodically, but even as the sun pushed its way through his bedroom curtains he turned his face into Chandler's neck and rested there, breathing deeply. He wasn't going to move, not yet, not for a couple of hours if he could help it. Chandler could, if he wanted, but that didn't seem likely either as he stroked his hand across Kent's back, the movement across his spine in time with their breathing.

Chandler took in a breath to speak as his hand slowed, coming to a stop splayed across Kent's hip. 'Em?'

Kent didn't answer immediately, just sighed through his nose and hummed. The warmth and familiarity of Chandler's skin commanded too much of his already limited attention.

'Are you…' Chandler started, obviously unsure about where he was going with the thought. 'There isn't anything the matter, is there?'

As much as Kent would have liked to give him an answer, there wasn't one. Not anything straightforward, anyway, nothing he could have wrapped his head around in that moment. He just wanted to lie there, let his mind be empty for a while, focus on the way Chandler's shoulder pressed into his collarbone, the way his skin was still mottled pink from the heat of the shower, the slight rasp of the day's stubble against the bridge of his nose.

He sighed again, more contented than anything else, and just said, 'Stay.'

(It was inflected as a question but he didn't want to think about that, either. He had to believe Chandler would.)

That time Chandler didn't answer either, just shifted onto his side and slid an arm beneath Kent's head to wrap around his shoulders, pull him close to his chest. Kent went where he was directed, the arm he wasn't lying on curling around Chandler's middle as he pressed close, his head nestled into the curve of Chandler's neck and jaw. His leg twinged again as he tried to rearrange his limbs; Kent's sharp intake of breath and muttered curse prompted Chandler to tighten his grip.

'It's all right,' Kent said, almost mouthing the words against skin. Then he smiled, almost chuckled, and said, 'Damn my leg.'

Chandler didn't catch the reference; Kent didn't expect him to. Instead he just sighed out through his nose with his mouth pressed against Kent's forehead, and Kent listened with eyes shut as their breathing evened out.

The answer could wait.

They had time.


They had a quiet few days. Chandler had suggested they all use the time to get caught up on paperwork, but they didn't, not really. Especially not when Riley came back from the ladies' one morning and announced there was fresh meat in the building.

Miles looked up from the file Buchan had dropped on his desk. 'What?'

'Right, sorry,' Riley said after a moment of confusion. 'I forgot this is Whitechapel. It wouldn't be impossible for there actually to be fresh meat in the building.'

'Wouldn't shock me,' Miles grumbled, and despite his cynicism Riley chuckled as she explained.

A DI Laurence had been sent down from Manchester and promptly managed put everyone on edge. Thankfully it was nothing to do with them—something closer to the Commander's rank, whispers of something to do with internal investigations—but it didn't stop him from managing to get on everyone's nerves by lunchtime. Kent would never understand the animosity towards London coppers, they're all just the same really whether or not they work in the capital, but clearly some people took it more seriously than he did.

Kent just didn't like the fella because he was a prick. He breathed an odd sigh of relief when he'd popped upstairs and seen him shaking hands with one of the DCIs and making his way out the front doors. He tried to ignore the fact he'd spent too many moments irrationally concerned that the internal affair was something about them. It wasn't, of course, because why on earth would Manchester be bothered, but he'd still thought it.

He could be such an idiot.

Once Laurence had gone Kent settled down at his desk, nursing a cappuccino he'd popped down the street to get when he'd tasted the dire state of the coffee in the station. The rest of them sat around discussing their rapidly approaching evenings; Kent steered well clear although he answered some of their questions with a silent, sly smile. That was all they were getting from him and they knew it. It didn't stop him from grinning at his own papers as they shuffled out.

Miles clapped a hand to his shoulder as he passed. 'Don't work too hard, kid,'

'I won't.'

'I know,' Miles said as he shrugged on his coat, and even he had the audacity to wink at him on his way out.

Kent just stared at the form in front of him and shook his head. He honestly had no idea how they'd got to this point.

More pointedly, he had no idea how he'd got so comfortable with it.


'Train or car?'

'What?'

Kent looked up from where he was cross-referencing witness statements to find Chandler leant against the doorframe of his office. He hadn't even heard him get up; either he was going deaf or he was getting far too absorbed in deciphering handwriting. Perhaps he was. Perhaps that meant something.

They were alone in the incident room, the summer sky still illuminated despite the late hour. It felt like Miles had only just left, taking Riley and Mansell with him for an apparently long-promised drink. Kent had watched them go through the corner of his eye, vaguely suspicious of the fact he hadn't heard a word about it, but let them think he'd just ignored them. If that what they wanted, that's what they'd get. They usually had a reason for trying to be underhand. Kent resisted the urge to chew on the end of his pen; perhaps they knew this was coming before he did.

'Your flatmates' wedding,' Chandler clarified, taking another step towards Kent's desk. 'Would you prefer us to go by train, or by car?'

Kent tried to cram what should have been ten minutes of reasoning into a few seconds. His immediate reaction was train, but it wasn't that simple. Chandler would undoubtedly hate trains as he hated all public transport—and Kent couldn't really fault him for that, some of the things were absolutely foul. He only put up with them because he had to. Plus they'd be restricted by timetables, they'd probably have to change at some point, and they'd end up waiting on a station somewhere in London in a decidedly non-work-related manner. But the drive down to Somerset was awkward, they'd have to go through Bristol unless they wanted to use the winding (and, in Kent's opinion, infuriating) rural roads, and there was petrol to think about. And getting around once they arrived, too—it wasn't in Chandler's nature to go for public transport any more than for trains, as he'd already thought, but at least in London Kent knew what he was doing. They'd both be lost trying to decipher anything else.

'So—'

'Wait—' Kent interrupted, backtracking. 'You—you want to go?'

Chandler looked a little embarrassed, as if he was hyperaware of the situation without Kent drawing more attention to it. He tried to shrug but it didn't quite work; Kent's mouth twitched into a momentary sympathetic smile.

In the end, Chandler settled for clearing his throat and a slightly awkward, 'If you do.'

Kent felt like saying that of course he did, of course he wanted them to go and not just for him to show up on his own to do his duty as ex-flatmate to retell every embarrassing story he could possibly remember about Mark, of course he wanted Chandler there—but that would be saying too much, wouldn't it?

He grinned instead, putting down the pen still in his hand, and said, 'I can't imagine you on a train.'

Chandler smiled a little, the edges wavering. 'I have a Network Railcard, you know.'

'Fat lot of good that'll do you trying to get down to the southwest.'

'True.'

Kent squashed down the overwhelming happiness he felt at the prospect and tapped his pen against the pile of papers.'I suppose it depends on when we want to go.'

Chandler looked at him oddly. 'The twentieth.'

'Well, yes,' Kent began, 'but we could go the day before and spare ourselves the early morning, or the day of and spend hours traveling either way. I'd expect we'd have to stay down there that night, unless you fancy driving back overnight. Though, knowing Jess and Mark, I wouldn't bank on being able to operate heavy machinery after any party of theirs.'

Chandler's quiet laugh echoed through the room. Kent didn't quite know how serious he was being. (Probably very.)

'You don't think…' He began after a moment's quiet, swiping at something invisible on his sleeve.

Kent resisted the urge to get up and still his hand. 'There'll be no paper trail. I'm sure we can orchestrate that.'

'You say that like you've done it before.'

Kent didn't say anything, just shot Chandler an overdone shushing expression and listened to him chuckle. It was almost as if they weren't discussing something that might just shift everything they'd built a little bit to the left. Or the right, Kent couldn't tell, just that it might move.

'I don't mind either way, really,' he said eventually, turning back to his papers but not really seeing them. 'I'll have a look at the timetable later, see what's available.'

'No, you don't—' Chandler caught himself, stumbling over his words until he fell silent and placed his hands in his pockets. 'I'll—we'll drive. If you don't mind.'

'Yeah.' Kent nodded, trying to train himself not to smile too widely yet. 'Yeah, all right.'

(How could he mind? It felt as if it might be physically impossible.)

Chandler smiled, eyes downcast, and Kent watched him oscillate between walking back into his office and further into the incident room. He knew the feeling, the leftover adrenaline. Many a time Kent had taken a chance like that and felt restless for ages afterwards. Not known what to do with himself. Kent usually found that trying to walk somewhere put paid to that, the annoyance at people meandering all over the pavement overtaking the vague, aimless elation. He glanced up for another moment and saw Chandler leafing through one of his perfectly organized drawers, the familiar glint of gold twisted between his fingers.

But, funnily enough, he didn't look distressed. He didn't even look relieved. He just looked… well, happy.

Something pleased tapped at the inside of Kent's chest as he turned back to the forms.

Chandler reappeared at his shoulder a moment later, coat in hand. 'Home?'

'Yeah,' Kent said, looking up and grinning. 'Go on then.'


Kent's stupidly low alcohol tolerance meant that it took him two tries to get his key in the lock. He didn't know why; he'd been fine walking home from the pub. He'd even managed to avoid that odd paving stone that always got him even when he hadn't been near the drink for days. Something in the back of his mind said he shouldn't have agreed to a quick pint at the pub, taken a leaf out of Chandler's book, especially when it was a Wednesday and it was Mansell who had suggested it. For a policeman, that man was never up to any good. It was just that when it was a lovely summer's day and you worked in an office that was mostly basement, then even the prospect of a smoky beer garden started to sound appealing.

It had been, and he shouldn't have let Miles buy him that second pint. Beginning of a slippery slope, and all that. Kent reckoned he was in the running for a headache later, probably, if he was unlucky. The fact the slamming of the door behind him didn't hurt gave him hope, though, and he dropped his keys on the sideboard. Mark Lawson's voice drifted through from the kitchen, discussing some new release neither he nor Chandler had the time to think about, let alone look for in Waterstones. Still, the thought made him smile as he glanced through the sitting room, the kitchen in question. Or perhaps that was the drink.

Chandler was nowhere to be found, at least not on the ground floor. Kent knew he should be home, at the very least; he'd managed to read that text before Riley had grabbed at his phone with a playful, almost-sly grin and he'd pushed it into his jacket pocket for safekeeping. Even so, it was strangely quiet. Neither of them were especially loud people, especially not Chandler, but Kent would have expected there to be a little more as far as sounds of life. Maybe he was too sensitive; he'd always hated the silent houses, the rooms you could tell were empty. It was more than noise. You could feel existence.

He found Chandler upstairs; it wasn't a large place, after all, and he wasn't hiding. At least, Kent didn't think so. If he was he wasn't doing it very well, sat on their end of their bed studying the open wardrobe. His jacket was folded, draped across the duvet behind him; he hadn't undone his tie. Kent couldn't help but think that meant something.

'Hello,' he said, bracing one shoulder against the door jamb.

'What?' Chandler almost jumped but calmed as soon as he met Kent's eye. 'Oh, hello.' His gaze slid back to somewhere indeterminate in front of him. 'Didn't hear you come in.'

Kent smiled despite himself. 'What you doing, then?'

Chandler's shoulders did something that might have betrayed a laugh, but no sound came out. 'Trying to wrap my head around packing.'

'There's another week yet.'

'Precisely. I might have left it a bit late.'

Kent suddenly felt a lot more clear-headed, except for the confusion. 'You've lost me.'

'You know me, Emerson.'

Chandler was right; he did know him. He didn't need this spelling out for him. He didn't particularly want to make Chandler explain unless he wanted to.

'Do you want a hand, or…?' Kent trailed off; this could be one of those things Chandler had to do himself.

'I, um,' Chandler turned his gaze back to the edge of the carpet and let out a self-depricating laugh. 'Well, I don't get invited to much, as you might expect.' He paused, choosing his words. 'Most people stop bothering after a while.'

'We didn't,' Kent said with a careful laugh, although his voice gentled and softened as a nearby bird sung something through an open window. 'I didn't.'

Chandler smiled, but only for a moment before it fell away as he glanced back towards the open wardrobe. 'I don't really know where to start.'

Neither did Kent, really, not when it came to this, but he'd give it a go.

'I wouldn't worry about Mark and Jess,' Kent said, good-natured in the face of Chandler's resignation, as he moved to sit beside him at the foot of the bed. 'Trust me. Mark's got the largest collection of denim shirts and retro t-shirts I've ever seen. I doubt he even knows there's a difference between black and white tie.'

Chandler huffed out a laugh, and Kent smiled. He wasn't even sure if he knew the difference, if he was being honest, but he knew there was one and that was enough.

'Jess might have more of an idea,' he continued. 'But she's very open minded. You could show up in pajamas and she'd still like you.'

The other man turned to him with an expression that couldn't possibly have been more disbelieving.

Kent smiled with half his mouth, glanced across Chandler's features and nudged his shoulder with his own. 'Actually, she might even prefer it if you did. What an anecdote that would be.'

He wasn't kidding. Jess probably would think it was hilarious and try and get him in each and every photograph, just for the laughs.

'God,' Chandler said with a heavy sigh, 'what do you see in me?'

Kent had an answer for that. 'I liked the look of you, sir.'

Chandler laughed in a way that seemed almost surprised he could do it at all, then lowered his head to rest on Kent's shoulder, tucking his nose against Kent's neck. He breathed deeply, in measured breaths, though whether it was supposed to be calming Kent couldn't tell. Kent leaned into him anyway, still reveling in the fact that they fit. That Chandler felt safe (safe? Was safe the word?) enough to do this. He smelled wonderful, like warm cotton just out of the dryer (probably was, knowing him) and Kent felt a rush of something that defied even his own logic and reasoning. He'd learnt long ago not to question it.

Kent pressed a kiss to the side of his head and said, 'Come on, then. Let's get this sorted.'

They probably wouldn't. It would probably take another three days and a dark evening, one where Chandler didn't say much and Kent couldn't do anything about it. They both had them, for different reasons and at different times. It didn't mean they had to live in fear, dreading them before they arrived. If they started doing that they wouldn't have time for much else, so instead Kent tugged at Chandler's shoulder.

Even if they got nowhere by the end of the evening, they could say they tried. Chandler never usually believed that was enough, but Kent did, so it was him who stood in front of the row of clothes they'd managed to fit into Kent's small wardrobe with an appraising expression. Chandler hovered somewhere near his shoulder.

Kent didn't really know where to start either, but that was mainly because he didn't think there was a bad choice available.

'There's an awful lot of Cambridge blue in here.'

Chandler turned to him with a look that implied he knew exactly what Kent was insinuating, and that he wasn't the first.

'I've been a London boy all my life.'

Kent dropped the sleeve he'd been holding. 'You're joking.'

'I'm not,' Chandler said, almost smirking as he walked towards where he stood.

'I can't imagine anyone calling you a a London boy.'

'No,' Chandler said, coming to a snug stop beside him. 'I can't say they have.'

Kent turned away, unable to repress the coming smile. 'Probably because you've got an accent a bit like the BBC.'

'Problem?'

(He could tease when he wanted to).

Kent let him have the smile anyway. 'Not at all.'

Chandler didn't laugh, but he did leave a kiss on the nape of Kent's neck. That was much the same thing, really.

'North London,' Chandler said, after a beat. 'Northwest.'

'Harrow?' Kent asked, smiling. Only half joking.

There was a pause, just a second too long, before Chandler sighed. 'My mother liked Hampstead.'

Kent got a distinct feeling that that was all he was going to say on the matter. He didn't press; he didn't want to. Instead he reached an arm out to curl around Chandler's lower back, draw him close. Closer, anyway. It was Chandler who pulled the last few inches and rested his chin on Kent's head.

'On a similar train of thought,' he began, and Kent could almost feel the change in his voice, the humour. 'Are you actually from Kent?'

Kent chuckled and pressed his fingers into Chandler's side. 'That would just be cruel.'

The taller man nodded at nothing with raised eyebrows, as if that was the most rational thing he'd heard in years.

'Anyway, you know I'm not,' Kent continued, only musing until he realised the logic and pulled away slightly to fix the DI with a surprised look. 'You've been waiting to use that line for ages, haven't you?'

Chandler shrugged. 'I've only got about four jokes.'

'And apparently a lost cause.'

'How kind of you to notice.'

Kent grinned up at him, just because he could, and Chandler lowered his head to brush his mouth against Kent's. It started as just a soft nudge, but Kent got his hand around the back of Chandler's neck and he coaxed out another touch, another flick of tongue and muffled exhale. There was more than one method of distraction, after all.

'You know any of them would do,' Kent said when they parted, quiet in the ensuing silence, running a finger along the line of Chandler's waistcoat.

Chandler sighed and rested his cheek against the top of Kent's head.

'That's the problem.'