Chandler left the next morning without seeing Kent at all.

He had stopped outside his room just before heading to the station, the floorboards creaking under his step, and knocked on the door with tentative knuckles.

'Kent?'

The light wasn't on, and Chandler got no answer.

He made it to mid-morning before anyone really questioned why Kent hadn't come in. It was a good thing, too, as the kiss had left Chandler unraveled and he wasn't sure how well he'd put himself back together. Everyone was more concerned with the reported sighting of Ian Fowler in Bow; in fact Miles had rung Chandler to inform him of the development while the detective inspector was just walking into the station. They'd been so preoccupied with the impending operation that neither of them noticed they were on the phone to each other while standing in the same room until Mansell pointed it out. Thankfully the arrest went much more smoothly than Chandler's arrival, and Fowler was booked into a holding cell well before lunchtime.

Riley informed Ms Cooper just before she was discharged from the hospital, Mansell amused the rest of the officers with promises of drinks all round after the shift, and Chandler buried himself in the inevitable paperwork. It was easiest—no one would pester him about the whereabouts of their absent detective constable if he filled in all their forms on his own.

Miles, however, wasn't so easily dissuaded; when had he ever been? Chandler tried to ignore the steps that approached his open office door, the creak of the wooden frame as it supported a leaning body, the stifling noise of a silence about to be broken. He tried to focus on the ink, the scratch of ballpoint across copy paper, the letters his fingers formed without him having to think about it.

'What's the matter with Kent?'

The letter beneath Chandler's pen got an accidental tail as Chandler flinched. The moment, barely perceptible, was amplified in its recording.

'I don't know, he didn't say,' Chandler said with a brief glance towards Miles. 'Probably a stomach bug.'

Miles shifted his weight onto his other leg, keeping his arms folded against his chest. 'You don't say.'

Chandler hummed as he arbitrarily leafed through the pile of papers to his right. 'It's the time of year for that sort of thing.'

'Stomach bugs don't have a time of year.'

'Don't they?'

Chandler answered too quietly, too easily flippant. He was DI Joseph Chandler, and never in his life had he been flippant about illness. He expected Miles to make some sort of disbelieving noise, or tell him to get a grip and stop internalizing everything but there was nothing. Just an extended pause where Chandler stared at the paper and it stared back.

He took his first proper breath in ages when the framework creaked again, protesting the increase in applied pressure and its subsequent removal, and Chandler looked up to find an empty doorway. He was relieved despite himself. Maybe Miles had learnt to mind his own business occasionally. Chandler took another deep breath, reached for the pot of Tiger Balm at his elbow and rolled the glass and metal in his palm as he turned back to another in the long line of forms.

He shouldn't have expected to be so lucky.

Miles reappeared not even five minutes later, walking carefully as to not spill whatever liquid it was he was carrying in the overfilled cup. Chandler only recognized it as green tea when Miles placed it in front of him before settling into one of the chairs.

'Okay, spill,' he said with narrowed eyes. 'And I'm not talking about the tea.'

Chandler stared at him. Miles could really be too shrewd for his own good, sometimes. Then again, he'd been heading up teams of detectives for decades. If he didn't pick up on things he might have to be thinking about retirement. Chandler forced himself to breathe normally and reached out for the mug. He pulled a face once the liquid was close enough to smell—stewed.

'Oi!' exclaimed Miles when he noticed Chandler's curled lip. 'I had to read the back of the packet to get that right.'

'Not quite,' Chandler muttered, and he busied both his hands and his mind aligning the cup with the rest of the accoutrements on his desk.

Miles watched, but didn't stop him. 'What have you done?'

'Why does it have to be something I've done?'

Chandler's tone was terse, more irritated than he thought he actually was. But he wasn't really angry with Miles, was he? And it was plainly obvious to the both of them that something had gone on. Something.

Miles sat forward. 'Okay then. What's he done?'

Chandler cringed. Kent had done nothing. Nothing that wasn't already Chandler's fault.

He didn't need to say anything for Miles to understand. 'I can see from the look on your face it's not something he's done.'

A groan escaped him as he ran a hand across his face, the heel of his palm knocking the front of his hair out of place. It should have annoyed him but it just felt insignificant in face of what he was about to do. Miles got up to shut the door; his expression alone would have deterred the rest of the team from interrupting but the extra layer of sound protection was necessary. Chandler still wasn't any closer to speech when Miles sat back down and watched him carefully.

'I have all day.'

Chandler grunted. 'End of shift, at most.'

'Nope. All day.' Miles shook his head with a gruff half-laugh. 'You're not blundering off home in this state.'

'Oh, God,' Chandler started, cutting himself off preemptively. 'I, um…' he started, but trailed off. Words wouldn't come. 'I… well…'

'Would you prefer to write it down?'

'Miles!" Chandler snapped, wrapping one hand around the edge of his desk until his knuckles stood out white. 'I… I kissed him. I kissed him, all right?'

'Ah.'

Chandler couldn't look at him. 'Yes.'

'Well.'

'What?' Chandler couldn't comprehend why Miles was so calm. He was a mess about it, really; he'd only managed the morning because he'd been distracted. It had really hit him, in his office looking at Kent's empty desk. Yet Miles just sat there, expression pensive and decidedly not flipping his lid.

'I've been wondering when that would happen.'

Chandler frowned, more at Miles' current ability to string together a sentence than anything else, but he didn't really pay attention to the words because what the sergeant was saying didn't make much sense.

'I took advantage of him in a vulnerable moment.'

It was Miles' turn to frown. 'No, you didn't.'

'I think I'd know, Miles.'

(Of course he would. He'd been there, he'd leant over and kissed Kent when he was half frightened and half exhausted. When he was still recovering from an overstrong startle response. When he wasn't in the right state of mind to tell him no.)

'Did you ever think that might have been what he needed?'

Chandler snapped out from the inside of his own mind and stared at Miles. The words just didn't fit, he couldn't have said what Chandler thought he'd said. But there weren't that many other options—he couldn't have misheard all the words Miles had chosen. What sort of question was that? Miles didn't know the situation—or did he? He knew Kent, he knew what it must have been. His job was making educated guesses; he could guess what might make Kent vulnerable.

He shut his eyes, shaking his head. 'What?'

'Fine, then. Bad choice of words,' Miles said, slight annoyance in the edge of his voice. 'Did you ever think that might have been what he wanted?'

'Why?'

Miles made a noise that said he thought it was all painfully obvious. 'Because he went a bit barmy for you the minute you walked onto our patch.'

Chandler didn't know what to say.

'You must be blind. You never noticed?' When he received no answer, Miles barked out a short laugh. 'You never thought twice about something he said, or did?'

He tried to answer, but found that a pause was easier. When Chandler did find his voice, it was croaky. 'I never believed it.'

'You're a pillock,' Miles said simply, shaking his head to and fro. 'That lad's the most genuine person I've come across.'

Chandler knew what he meant, if he thought about it. Kent wasn't stone-faced, or hardened, or even moderately phlegmatic. Chandler could always tell when he wanted praise, or backup, or a bit of friendly commiseration. But he hadn't seen anything that would suggest Kent was interested in him romantically. But what would those sorts of signs have been? Chandler wasn't sure if he'd have noticed any of them unless they involved Kent just telling him. He scrubbed his hands over his face again. How much had he missed?

'So, what's the problem?' Miles seemed as if he was asking an honest question. 'You're not sporting another black eye so I assume he reciprocated. Though I can't see why he wouldn't. All the evidence says that he'd be the happiest man alive if you asked him to dinner.'

'I'm a… particular man,' Chandler said, slowly and carefully. He couldn't quite believe he was considering this at all, let alone talking it through with his sergeant.

'You've said that before,' Miles admitted, though not without a degree of humour. 'And you can say it again.'

'I'd be hell to live with. I'd take over his life.'

'You've already done both of those things.'

A shot of panic coursed through Chandler's veins. 'No, I—'

'You have,' Miles interrupted, clearly fighting to keep his tone one that would prevent his boss from getting the wrong idea. 'You've quite comfortably shared his flat for near on two weeks. You look better for it, by the way.'

Chandler squirmed in his seat. He couldn't really deny it, could he? He had, he had, and he'd even spared a thought for missing that comfortable existence when he'd thought he'd just ruined it.

'And you can't possibly think this has just occurred to him, can you? Tell me, sir,' Miles began, pausing for sarcastic effect. 'Have

you ever seen Kent with anyone else, male or female?'

Chandler sat in the ensuing awkward silence and tried to avoid Miles' gaze.

'At any of the official dos? At any of our lot's get-togethers? At Mansell's weddings? At birthdays? At lunch, after shifts, during drinks?'

The voice that came out was quieter than Chandler expected. 'No.'

'No. Precisely.' Miles sat back with a self-satisfied air. 'And he knows we'd welcome anyone he liked, providing they weren't obviously a tosser.'

Chandler couldn't quite pull himself out of the place he'd left himself, intensely aware of shame from all fronts.

Miles pressed forward, filling the silence. 'He spends most of his waking hours in your company. Here, at the station, with the team. He doesn't have to, he's got mates, I've even met some of them. He chooses to. Not that I think it's good for him, but he's a grown lad and he can do what he wants.'

At any other time, Chandler wouldn't have believed him. But, at there in the face of Miles' exasperated expression, he missed being able to see Kent's face through the interior windows. Mansell had been out often enough for various vague reasons, as Miles and Riley were sometimes when their kids fell ill, but Kent… he and Kent were the constants. They often found themselves to be the last ones in a deserted station once night had fallen. Each time Kent had been out had been the result of Chandler's own mistakes.

'And I don't know why you think he'd be shocked by your oddities, either,' Miles continued, ignoring Chandler's glances behind him. 'Kent knows you. He's seen you at your worst, like we all have. He's been on the receiving end of your worst. God knows why he's still interested after that. If you were a bird—that's a terrifying image—I'd have gone straight off you.'

The corner of Chandler's mouth twitched into a momentary smile; Miles was right. He often was, after all. But Chandler didn't understand any better than he did, and if Miles had known about Kent's feelings for so long and still couldn't fathom them, how could he ever comprehend them?

Miles made a show of glancing around the room. 'Plus, judging by the fact there's no bag in here and you don't look like you've spent the night in your car, he hasn't chucked you out of his flat. Does that really sound like someone you've coerced into accepting your admittedly ill-timed advances?'

Chandler shook his head but sighed. 'Unless you factor in the bit about my being his superior officer.'

'Bollocks!' Miles exclaimed. 'I'd have thought you'd have known he's not that sort of bloke.'

'You still think he's being an idiot, though.'

Miles gave him a wry smile. 'My gran told me I was being an idiot when I married Judy. She thought we wouldn't last, because Judy's that much younger than me and I was working vice—of all things—and we'd only been together a year. Looking back, it was a bit idiotic. But look how that worked out.' He paused, thinking. 'And, if you don't mind me saying so, sir, I think you're being an idiot, too.'

Chandler smiled, and a small bit of laughter fought its way up from his chest. Half-bitter, it was, but resigned to the truth. 'I'm a mess.'

Miles snorted. 'And you think he's not?'

'I can't help him.'

'He helps you, though,' Miles countered. 'I'm not blind. I can see the signs when they're there. You haven't been as bad, lately, have you? Apart from this morning.' He waited until Chandler nodded reluctantly. 'Plus, who said you have to be able to help him? I'm sure he doesn't want you to fix him. I think he'd just like you around.'

There was a part of Chandler's mind that wanted to say that's what they had, they'd had each other around, what was different about that—but he knew what Miles meant. What he'd insinuated. He'd been there, Kent had him around about not in the way he really wanted. If he did want that. Chandler still wasn't entirely convinced—and Miles could tell.

'Is it so wrong to care?'

Chandler's immediate answer would usually have been yes, when the person in question was one of his male subordinate officers in an organization not exactly famed for its inclusiveness. It would have been yes because it made problems for all of them, for him and for Kent and for every single case they'd ever taken to court. But, sat there with the arguments Miles had made for him and the memory of Kent's catching breath against his skin, the brightness of his eyes when he was amused and the easy familiarity, Chandler thought it might not be so wrong after all.

Even so, he rested his head against his hands, elbows propped on the desk. 'What if people found out?'

'True,' Miles said, chuckling. 'I've already found out and all I had to do was scowl.'

'Miles.'

'You know we don't mind. It'd be nice to see you both happy.'

Chandler made a show of reorganizing his files. 'Yes, well, I wasn't really talking about the team, was I?'

'What? The higher-ups? How are you planning on them finding out?'

'I can't condemn him to a life of sneaking around,' Chandler murmured, talking more to the sticky labels on the edge of manila than Miles.

'Then don't.' The sergeant shrugged. 'Discretion goes a long way with coppers.'

'What?' Chandler asked. He wasn't sure a room full of policeman could stop themselves from deducing anything that was there to deduce.

'If you don't provoke questions, no one will ask for answers,' Miles clarified. 'We've got enough bloody questions already.'

They fell into a more comfortable silence. It wasn't entirely comfortable, obviously—it wasn't every day that Chandler discussed the possibility of a romantic relationship with a member of his own team with another member of his team—but for once he didn't feel as if he'd had a bucket of water chucked over his head. Things—well, things might even have begun to make a little bit of sense. Because Miles didn't lie to him, not about this, and he'd tried to help before so it wasn't entirely out of character. And there was something about Chandler's memory of Kent's hands, of his grip, of his voice that he'd previously thought were his own augmentations, his own additions to make it more palatable. But no, apparently not, apparently that was Kent, a Kent that wanted him.

Emerson.

Miles made to stand up, and wafted his hand in front of Chandler's face. 'Go, then. Before you change your mind.'

'I never said I'd made up my mind,' he replied, indignant, but stood up anyway.

'Your face did.' Miles chuckled as Chandler gathered his things. 'Go on, get on with it. We need Kent here as much as you do.'

'I don't need him here—' Chandler protested, already aware that he'd chosen the wrong words but he couldn't quite think of any alternatives.

Miles laughed, and shook his head at him. 'Course you do. Who found you the chalk?'

The yellow door stared back at Chandler from where he stood on the pavement.

He didn't know why he'd listened to Miles.

He really, really didn't.

It was easy in theory, wasn't it? Standing outside Kent's door was a bit more difficult that that. His key weighed heavily in Chandler's palm, the pinnacle of his reluctance. It felt wrong just to barge straight in when Kent wouldn't be expecting him. They hadn't exactly made a habit of popping home for lunch. Chandler pocketed the metal and knocked instead; he was on Kent's territory now. He'd only ever been a temporary visitor, after all.

His heart thudded against bone and cartilage as there was a shuffling from the other side of the door, a heavy footfall that Chandler had only ever associated with Kent when he was upset. Which he probably was, really—upset with him. Because he'd upset the status quo. They'd been perfectly fine, hadn't they, looking from a distance and getting on. Tongues and hands and mouths tended to get in the way of getting on.

Chandler swallowed as he heard the twist of the lock.

For the split second after the door opened, they looked at each other without seeing. Not really. Chandler recovered first and felt something in his chest constrict. Kent stood there in a rumpled state, plain top and pajama pants, with an expression that suggested—despite his attire—he hadn't had much sleep at all.

Kent looked taken aback. 'Sir?'

'Yes?'

(It was as good a way to open as any.)

'You've got a key.' Kent's hand fell from where he'd left it hooked around the edge of the door.

'Um, yes.'

'I only answered because I thought it couldn't be you, if you were knocking.'

Chandler's heart sunk. 'I can go.'

'What?'

'If you don't want me here.' He gestured with a thumb thrown over his shoulder. 'I can go.'

Kent seemed to take a moment to deliberate; Chandler couldn't believe that he couldn't hear the hammering of his heart.

'Yes and no.'

'Yes and no?' Chandler repeated, bewilderment seeping over his features.

Kent sighed and stepped aside. 'Just come in.'

Chandler did as he was told. Kent shut the door behind them and brushed past, back into the sitting room, without giving Chandler much of a second glance. But he didn't seem actively cold—maybe just a little, little bit if he squinted—so Chandler took that as a good sign. A decent one, at least. He hadn't been sent straight off, so Miles must have been right. He followed Kent's lead and padded through to the sitting room. He didn't presume to take his coat off, though, not in a place that suddenly seemed so very much Kent's in both name and possession.

There were bits of him strewn around as well. He hadn't noticed it happening, but he was there, wasn't he? Had been, at least. Kent didn't seem to notice, or if he did he didn't say anything about it. Maybe he wanted it. Had wanted it, wasn't that what Miles has said? Might still do. Hope swelled in Chandler's chest as Kent walked through the sitting room without so much as a glance at their mingled possessions. If it was him, he'd have chucked his things long ago. But Kent hadn't, even after—

'We brought Fowler in this morning.'

'Did you?'

Chander nodded. 'It's just the paperwork now.'

Kent didn't answer. Chandler didn't expect him to. It was plain that that wasn't the reason he'd come; it was just an easy place to start. Not that it started anything, really, it was just somewhere. Somewhere safe. Some bit of conversation that Chandler could begin without veering into anything more personal. Although that was what he'd come to do, wasn't it?

God, he was shit at this sort of thing.

'Tea?'

'Mmhm.'

Chandler didn't really want any, not really, but it was the accepted answer and it flowed out without him having to think about it. He followed Kent into the kitchen without thinking as well, his shoes clicking with each step while the younger man walked almost silently. They assumed the same positions they always had in those past two weeks, although the time when it had felt comfortable seemed to have well and truly passed.

(He missed it terribly.)

'I, um,' Chandler started. He considered removing his coat; he'd suddenly gone very hot. 'I wanted to apologize.'

Kent looked at him from where he stood with a hand in the box of teabags. Just looked, and only for a long moment, before turning back to the work surface. Chandler had an uncontrollable moment when he thought Kent would ask what he was apologizing for—he didn't really want to have to answer that question, not really, not when it felt so blatantly obvious, as if their shades were still balancing on that chair—but he didn't.

'I appreciate the sentiment,' Kent said, keeping his eyes forward as he put the tea back in the cupboard. 'But I'd rather you didn't.'

'What?'

'You don't need to, sir.'

The honourific made Chandler flinch, an addition that felt terribly out of place with them stood in Kent's little sunny kitchen. He didn't feel like Kent's superior officer, stood there with his words failing him. It wasn't even anything to do with the fact that he wanted to forget completely the fact that he was, in fact, Kent's DI. It was just that he didn't really feel cut out to be a DI when they stood there, at opposite side of the room, trying to find the appropriate words. Chandler reached out and clasped the nearest chair, sitting down without being asked for once, and rubbed a hand across his face. Kent flicked the kettle on, ever patient in the face of possibility.

'Miles…'

Chandler trailed off. He really didn't know where he was going with this. He did, actually, but there was something very different about actually trying to string together some syllables and vocalize his thoughts rather than just thinking them.

'What about Skip?' Kent prompted, clearly interested but not really pushing.

'Miles is under the impression that…' Chandler stumbled through the sentence; words just wouldn't come out. '…that you wouldn't mind.'

'And those were his words exactly, were they?' Kent asked, his voice teasing though tentative.

Chandler felt awkward, sat at the kitchen table in his coat while Kent fiddled with the kettle in his pajamas—as if what he was trying to say wasn't cringe-making enough.

'Look,' Kent said, pushing the mugs further onto the counter as he turned around.

Chandler didn't move his head to meet his companion's gaze. The sigh and the hitch in Kent's voice were rejection enough; he'd known that it had been inevitable, though, really, so why had his stomach sunk? He'd barely had time to consider where that particular feeling left him when a warm hand cupped his cheek and maneuvered his head towards where Kent stood bent towards him. Every sensory neuron in Chandler's body seemed to be centered around where Kent's hand was in contact with his skin, firm in its message although gentle in its execution. The next thing Chandler knew was that Kent was kissing him, leaning close and kissing him, and his eyes slipped closed. That couldn't be happening; he hadn't come for that. He'd come to mumble some apologies and clear out his things and distance himself before maybe slowly—gently—coming back, not to let Kent kiss him whenever he wanted to. He definitely hadn't come to kiss him back. Not like that.

Kent half-smiled when he pulled away, letting his hand slide across Chandler's shoulder. 'No, I wouldn't mind.'

He sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the roll of the boil and Kent's breathing. He should probably have said something sooner than he did, he knew, but words were hard enough to come across as it were and Kent had kissed him.

If that didn't baffle someone into silence, Chandler didn't know what would.

A cup of tea appeared on the table in front of him with a gentle clink, and Kent took the seat next to him. Chandler was shocked to find uncertainty on his face.

'Should I be apologizing, sir?'

'What?' It was the first word that had come easily out of Chandler's mouth all day. 'No. No, please don't.' He reached out to touch Kent's wrist where he'd laid it on the table, but decided against it and rerouted his hand to the tea instead. 'You haven't misconstrued my meaning.'

Kent relaxed, a bit, and he did crook an amused eyebrow at Chandler's hand.

He wrapped his fingers around his own mug. 'What did Sarge say, exactly?'

'That you wouldn't have minded if I'd done that three years ago.'

'He's not wrong.'

Chandler looked up from the fingerprint on the glass he'd been studying. 'Should I have done?'

'I don't know,' Kent said, shrugging one shoulder. 'Would it have helped?'

No. Probably not. It wouldn't have been a good time—though Chandler always wondered when it was a good time, with him. With any of them. There didn't even seem to be the possibility for police officers to be in the right place at the right time. So could he just… do it? Not care and just… care? It was a leap of faith, a jump off a cliff, that most people seemed capable of taking. They weren't that different from most people, were they?

He sighed, and braced a hand against the glass. The metal edging bit into his palm. 'It feels like it's all come out of nowhere.'

'Has it?' Kent asked, concerned, as he lowered his mug.

'No,' Chandler admitted, casting his glance downwards as he moved the hand closer to Kent's across the surface. 'Probably not.'

Kent looked down at their hands, but still curled his fingers around the ones that Chandler offered. 'You said we couldn't.'

'I never said we wouldn't.' Chandler's smile was small until Kent outdid him and he had to catch up.

He would have been perfectly happy sitting there until he'd finished his tea, with Kent's soft stroking at the dips between his fingers, but Chandler's phone vibrated in his coat pocket and their hands slid apart.

'I'd better—'

'Yeah—'

Chandler didn't check his phone—he knew what it'd be, it was always going to be Miles who would end up pestering him—but he stood up nevertheless. Kent followed, leaving his half-drunk mug behind as he followed Chandler as far as the open doorway to the sitting room.

'Do you want me to come back in?' he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

'No, it's fine. You're owed a day off anyway,' Chandler said with a brief smile. 'Plus, it's been dead quiet all day. Nothing but witness statements and tax forms.'

'I'll stay well out of the way, then.' Kent chuckled, but his hands were trying to find pockets that weren't there. He ended up running a hand through his hair instead. 'The day's not over, though. Something could still come up.'

'Tell you what. Take the rest of today off, but I'll phone you if anything's called in.'

If any grin could be called ear-to-ear, Kent's could be. 'Yes, sir.'

The detective inspector shot him a softly deprecating look over his shoulder. He didn't mind, not really, because Kent was obviously teasing, but now that he let himself think about it just the addition of Kent's voice to the situation nudged him into a direction that definitely wasn't out the front door and back to his car. The entirely opposite direction, in fact, and Chandler hadn't even made it into the warmth of the red entryway before he had slowed to a stop.

Chandler turned and the grin had gone from Kent's face. Not entirely—bits of it lingered behind, tugging at the corners of his mouth and eyes, but its presence was eclipsed by the new look gracing his features. Open, for once, barely hiding; slack, intense, present but somewhere else. A thought in reality, a subconscious idea written through skin. It made a shiver run up Chandler's spine and drew him back, back towards the dark eyes and dark hair and twitching fingers.

He didn't stop where he'd stopped before.

Kent took a step closer and met him halfway, head tilted to accept Chandler's advance without crashing into each other. He whimpered into their kiss, relief and desperation rolled into one, and Chandler licked the sound right out of his mouth. He couldn't quite decide what he wanted; everything or nothing, just a nudge of his nose or the back of his throat, but Kent's hands had slipped beneath his coat and the implication was clear.

'Do you want—' Chandler started when they pulled away for breath.

Kent interrupted with both his hand and voice. 'Yes.'

'You've not heard the question.'

He smiled as he slipped a finger down the back of Chandler's shirt collar. 'Whatever it is, the answer's yes.'

Chandler shuddered, both at the contact and the promise, and Kent's grin widened. His coat ended up flung across the back of the sofa, the red lining a flash against brown in the corner of his eye, and his jacket soon followed. Between the flick of Kent's tongue against the hinge of his jaw and the brush of his fingers against each layer Chandler couldn't help but let him weave his knuckles between the buttons of his waistcoat, couldn't help but shrug out of it when Kent pushed it away, couldn't help but pull Kent's face back to his own as it fell to their feet. An abrupt surrender, abandon; Chandler flexed his fingers around Kent's hips as fingers brushed his neck, jaw, mouth in the extended attempt to get rid of his tie.

All of Chandler's past experience—not that there was very much at all—would suggest that there were conversations that come before this, there were things that were supposed to happen before they landed in bed, but he supposed that had already happened in some odd, oblique way. He wouldn't have been halfway there if he didn't want to actually end up there; he wasn't the sort of man who got that close without being comfortable with what he was getting close to. He hadn't actually thought about it, of course, but Kent's arm was wrapped around his shoulders and they were trip-walking back to the stairs, and he'd balled his hand in the soft fabric of Kent's tee shirt long ago and he wasn't going to let go. Not now. Not when he didn't need to.

They were so distracted by each other, by the shedding of the usual layers, that neither of them realised how close they were to the bottom stair; the wooden structure clipped the back of Chandler's heel first, and both he and Kent toppled over with a heavy thud.

'Shit,' Chandler hissed, blinking heavily as he rested his head on the stair behind.

'Are you all right?' Kent asked from somewhere close to his shoulder, voice strained with worry.

'Fine,' Chandler said, breathless, as he looked up to meet Kent's gaze. 'More than fine.'

It could have been considered a lie, really, because where his back had collided with the edge of the stairs was throbbing rather insistently, but Chandler was more concerned with pushing the hem of Kent's tee shirt up to reveal skin. Their arms collided as Kent's fingers tried to find their way around the buttons on Chandler's shirt. Kent gave up first, after only managing to open a few, and returned his mouth to Chandler's as he let a wayward hand explore skin underneath the cotton. Chandler wasn't so easily dissuaded and tugged at the offending fabric until Kent obliged and pulled it off himself. It landed somewhere in the expanse between wooden floors and well-trodden carpets but Chandler didn't mind as he pressed his mouth to the protrusion of Kent's wide collarbone, affixed a damp rosiness to the crook of his neck, ran a hand along his bare spine and picked out each vertebrae. He might have even growled when Kent's hands tightened in his hair as he pressed his tongue along the base of his ribcage.

Once he'd put his mind to it, Kent managed to undo all the buttons on Chandler's shirt and pull it free of his trousers, tugging the taller man back to his feet before pushing the fabric back off his shoulders. It ended up slung over the banister, pooling around the ornamental end, and once Chandler had toed off his shoes they ascended the steps. Kent managed to stop Chandler in his tracks, one hand braced against the wall, with a kiss to the back of his neck; it was only his soft chuckle and gentle nudging that got them upstairs at all.

Kent pushed him back once they reached the landing, reaching for the back of his skull to bring their mouths back together and pressing Chandler's back into his slightly open bedroom door. His hands travelled everywhere, mirror images across Chandler's cheeks, the tendons of his neck, the top of his arms, pressing over the swell of muscle in his chest, fingers picking out each rib. Chandler tried to do the same, one hand tangled in Kent's curls but the other wandering, tracing skin until they found bone and pulled hips flush to hips. There was a hitch in heavy breathing, and Kent pulled away for a moment, resting his forehead against Chandler's.

'Fuck,' he breathed with a glance down between them, at Chandler's possessive hand and everything inbetween, and he recaptured Chandler's reddened, bitten mouth.

His palms returned to Chandler's shoulders, pushing both backwards and down until the back of his knees collided with the edge of the bed. He sat down heavily, barely able to think about any movement that wasn't the slide of their tongues, but Kent ducked his head to Chandler's neck and crawled onto his lap.

'God, Joe—'

A moan caught in the back of Chandler's throat. It was the first time Kent had used his given name and it had been bitten into his shoulder, breath and teeth and tongue. Chandler turned to press his mouth to Kent's temple, a gentle askance which was answered with a biting kiss that mellowed as the older man made incoherent sounds into his mouth. Kent smiled into the slanting of lips, pressing each finger one at a time into the shifting muscles in the back of Chandler's neck. He rolled his hips, slowly and deliberately, before working Chandler back until he lay atop him.

Scooping an arm under him, Kent shoved him further up the bed best he could, his mouth moving to the soft spot under Chandler's chin and sucking—and although there was a panicked part of Chandler's brain that told him he shouldn't be doing it, shouldn't be enjoyed it because someone would definitely see that, oh how he did enjoy it with Kent's weight against his chest and his hands pulling their hips into clumsy contact. It wasn't enough, nowhere near, but it was something and that was brilliantly, brilliantly new.

They hadn't made it far enough up the furniture for Chandler to be resting his head on a pillow. He pressed his head back into the folds of duvet instead as Kent moved downwards, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin that pulled over tensed muscles. A wash of tongue over jutting bone, lips trailing over sternum, warm breaths seeping between each rib. Breathing suddenly didn't seem enough; Chandler had to keep his hands pressed to Kent's skin, to the harsh in-out of his inhale, his exhale. He slipped from his fingers, slowly, gently, with the trace of fingerprints trailing upwards until Chandler could only curl his hand into the curl at Kent's nape.

His chin knocked the cool metal of Chandler's belt buckle; before he could do anything about it Kent's fingers scraped against his skin, the muscles jumping, as he undid it. Chandler's body was a step ahead of his mind, for he lifted his hips as Kent's hands asked him to do so, and it was only when his pants joined the heap of his trousers somewhere on the floor that he really thought about what was happening.

'Kent—!' Chandler gasped.

'Do you mind?'

Kent sounded sure, confident as he nipped the skin near the jut of Chandler's hip, soothing the dull sting with the flat of his tongue. Their harsh breathing—panting—punctuated the moment's silence.

Chandler all but whined. 'No.'

'Do you want me to?' Kent asked, mouth and nose trailing across salty skin. Chandler could feel his smile more than see it.

'Yes,' he breathed, all the air leaving his lungs just when he needed it most.

He felt it everywhere, when it happened, when Kent grinned and took him in his mouth. He kept his mouth tight, tongue flattened out, forgoing the teasing for another time. Smoothly, all at once, with curled fingers at the base. It was all extraneous information when Chandler gave himself over to it and just felt.

Chandler tipped his back, eyes closed, and tried to breathe slowly in and out through his nose. The only way he'd be able to breathe, to last, to not groan incoherencies into the empty air around his mind. It didn't always work, not with Kent's tongue running circles around him, and he ghosted touches over the arch of Kent's shoulders, over the back of his head, while the other hand fisted into the sheets at their side. He even managed to say quiet until Kent did something with his tongue that made Chandler's eyes roll back in his head, and he keened, the first proper sound that fought its way out of his throat.

A slight shift of angle had Chandler groaning involuntarily, slightly wantonly, upwards; if he could have heard himself he would have blushed even harder than he already was but he was gone, long gone. Too far gone to still be hearing anything other than the rush of blood in his ears, to be aware of anything other than Kent's shoulder against his thigh and his fingers (God, his fingers) and his mouth and the inordinate warmth, the vibrations in his jaw, the swirl of expert movement—

He was close, too close, hurtling towards the edge without brakes and Kent's name pulled itself from his mouth, the only mixture of vowels and consonants that he recognized anymore. Chandler didn't know what it was, a begging or a warning or a telling but whatever it was Kent understood him, the guttural thrust that prophesied the one from his hips, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth as he came.

Out of the darkness of behind his eyelids came a slow, uncoordinated kiss; certainly not lazy, not as Kent tilted Chandler's head back with his hand and trailed his tongue across the inside of his upper lip. Chandler wasn't inclined to passivity, not really, but he accepted it then as the world came trickling back. He was intensely aware of the slide of fluid between their skin, the thin sheen of sweat, the patches wetted by mouths, tongues, saliva. He would have minded if he hadn't also felt Kent press against him, a solid point in the pleasant vagueness. The cotton of his pajama pants suddenly seemed superfluous and Chandler slipped a hand beyond the waistband.

'Emerson,' he breathed, eyes still closed, against Kent's mouth, as he curled his fingers around Kent's cock and began to stroke him, relishing the hitch it puts in Kent's fluid movements, the tightening of the grip on his shoulder.

Kent made a twitching, choking sound and rested his forehead against Chandler's chin, breath coming in hot gasps against his neck. They both knew he wasn't far behind, and even with Chandler's relative inexperience it was simple enough—they had time for complex later, didn't they? Not too tight, not too fast; just the fact that it was them was all they wanted, really, they just needed the friction they hadn't found already. Kent curled a hand into the back of Chandler's hair and pressed messy kisses to his mouth, chin, more teeth and gasps than anything else but Chandler wanted them, wanted them even in his state. He can't quite understand it but he presses up into them anyway, the same way Kent's pressing down into him and they're there, aren't they, they're there as Kent came with an aborted thrust and a spill of noise that sounded a bit like Chandler's name.

He collapsed boneless against him, limbs moving slower than normal as they came to brush against Chandler's heated skin. Initially Kent just buried his face in the curve of Chandler's shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing to a familiar in-and-out, in-and-out, and Chandler was happy enough to wait and just to stroke his hand through the back of Kent's hair as he'd wanted to before. When Kent raised his head to gaze at him he looked as though his entire world had just been tipped sideways, and he wasn't displeased about it at all.

Chandler smiled, and Kent kissed him on the chin.

Mustering the determination to shift Kent from where he'd nestled his nose under Chandler's jaw was a lengthy process. He knew he'd have to go back into the station before the shift ended, and by the time Chandler raised his hand from where it lay trailing circles on Kent's lower back it was well past the point when he could argue that he'd just taken a long lunch break. Chandler wheezed slightly as Kent shifted, their breathing long synchronized, and sighed as the younger man settled against his shoulder.

'You've got to go back in, haven't you?' Kent's lips dragged across Chandler's bare shoulder.

Chandler hummed, eyes closed, and Kent tightened the arm he'd draped across his torso. He really wasn't feeling as if he'd be able to move for a while yet, not while Kent rested his chin on his shoulder and their legs were tangled together at the bottom of the mussed bed. But he had to, didn't he, and when the guilt outweighed the weight against his side, Chandler yawned and turned to brush his mouth against Kent's forehead.

'I've got to.'

Kent smiled, lazy and lopsided. 'I don't mind. As long as you're coming back at some point.'

Chandler chuckled. 'Might be difficult not to.'

Kent let him go, dragging his fingers across still-warmed skin, and rolled off the side of his bed. The absence of a comfortable warmth forced Chandler to heave himself up, first only onto his elbows and then so he could stretch his feet to the floor. Another glance at his watch told him he might as well afford himself a quick shower—he was late on all counts, anyway—and it might help with the inevitable overly pleased expression that he could feel plaster itself across his face.

It didn't. Looking into the bathroom mirror only reinforced the smothered smile.

He was going to have to get a better poker face.

It wasn't long until he rejoined Kent in the bedroom, and although the younger man had pulled on the pajamas that Chandler had pulled off, he still looked pleasingly rumpled. A dark mark peeked out from the crew neck top, and Chandler sidled up behind him to press his mouth to the bruised skin.

Kent tilted his head and leaned back into Chandler's chest. 'I brought up your clothes. Mine, too. Sorry about leaving all of it thrown over the banisters.'

Chandler smiled against his skin. 'No, it's fine. More than fine.' He left another kiss before moving to reach for his trousers. 'Good.'

He could tell Kent didn't really believe him, but he didn't mind. It would take them both some time before they stopped thinking in the same ways they had for the years of their acquaintance. Though it honestly hadn't taken Chandler much time at all to accept the fact that he wanted to reach out and touch Kent, to connect with him in another way, and as he shook his shirt out he realised that he'd probably been feeling that for longer than he thought. From the look on Kent's face while Chandler slowly did up the line of buttons, he reckoned Miles had been right. He couldn't quite believe he hadn't seen it before.

They occupied the room in silence, and it was only when Chandler was shrugging on his jacket did he realise it was an uncomfortable one. Kent stood to one side, back braced against the side of a bookcase, his fingers picking at a loose thread on his waistband. Chandler watched him from the other side, fingers checking the knot of his tie and the clasp of his cufflinks without the need for his eyes; Kent kept his gaze slanted down, eyes occasionally slipping towards the toes of Chandler's shoes but never quite making it.

'Emerson?' Chandler asked, his tone forcibly light.

Kent looked up at him too quickly, his hands falling away from whatever they were worrying. 'Yeah?'

'Are you alright?'

His words seemed to strike something in Kent because he didn't look away in the face of Chandler's concern. Instead he held the gaze, mouth tightened. He looked like he wasn't sure if it had happened at all, despite the fact that he'd just watched Chandler dress. Despite the rucked bed on the edge of their vision. Despite the broken blood vessels in Kent's neck. Despite the fading teethmarks on Chandler's hip.

Kent took a breath and attempted a smile. 'I think so.'

It wasn't enough, not for Chandler—he wasn't sure, Kent wasn't sure that what had happened wasn't just an incident that he'd embellished in his head, and that didn't bode well for either of them.

Chandler leaned over and kissed him with a hand resting on the crook of Kent's jaw, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Kent didn't respond immediately to the brush of lips, and his hand oscillated between resting on his arm and brushing away. Chandler gripped at him harder, mirroring his hands on either side of Kent's face, and found the reaction he wanted. Even so, Kent was painfully careful not to make it obvious that this is what they'd been doing whilst out of the office; the hands Chandler so wanted to find on him, whose shadows lingered over his covered skin, stilled at his waist with loose grip.

'Em,' Chandler said when he pulled away just far enough to look at Kent's face properly. 'Yeah?'

Kent bit at his lip, but smiled.

Genuinely, this time.

'Yeah,' he said, at last, and the uncertainty broke.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Chandler half expected the world outside to look different somehow now that he'd left Kent drag him into his bedroom. Or was it him who had done the dragging? It didn't matter either way, though, because the ringing on his mobile was the same pitch, and the air was still the same sort of windy as it had been earlier in the day, and that couple from across the street was still walking their Maltese in the small green. Chandler was just raising a hand in distant greeting when Miles answered.

'Miles, I'm—'

The sergeant spoke over him. 'Don't bother.'

Chandler stopped walking, pausing mid-step and letting his hand drop heavily to his side. 'What?'

'Don't bother coming back in today.'

'Why?' Chandler managed as he walked forward again, fishing his keys out of his coat pocket one-handed.

'You know why.' Miles sounded smug. 'If it had gone badly, you'd have been back like a shot.'

Chandler wished he didn't know exactly which shade of red he was turning.

'I'm already at my car—'

'You're at your car?'

Chandler laid a hand on the door handle. 'Yes?'

Miles made a gruff, exasperated sound. 'Get back in there!'

'The car?'

'No, you muppet, the flat.'

There was a woman's laughter in the background; probably Riley, from the way it trailed off into truncated chuckles.

Chandler sighed, letting his fingers slip away from the handle. 'But, the team—'

'I managed well enough for years before you came along,' Miles interrupted. Chandler could almost hear the smirk. 'Go. If I see either of you coming in before tomorrow's shift, I'm marching you out myself.'

There was a blunt click as Miles hung up, but Chandler still stared at the screen for a moment as the call screen faded away to his contact list. That was an order he hadn't expected to get. He didn't doubt that Miles would go though with it, either. He'd probably had a plan in place from the moment Chandler let the incident room door close behind him, the sneaky sod.

Chandler made a mental note to buy him another bottle of single malt.

This time he didn't hesitate to shove the key into the lock, metal brushed with stray yellow paint. The door shifted under his hand, tempted by the flick of his wrist, and Chandler was back inside Kent's flat before the couple even managed to reach the opposite end of the green. It was a different sort of quiet, inside, without the outdoors it was just the quiet murmurations of words from speakers and stillness. Chandler smiled and began to shrug off his coat.

Kent appeared from around the corner, brow furrowed in silent question to the unexpected sound. The only difference to his person was the addition of a cup of tea; the way he craned his neck only reminded Chandler that there had been a real, proper change in their relationship. The mouth-shaped bruise definitely wasn't a figment of his imagination. He smiled before he could stop himself, and Kent pulled a bewildered face.

Chandler shrugged as an answer to the unasked question. 'I've been sent back.'

He shook his head, and deposited the tea on the edge of his desk. 'You can't have possibly been to the station.'

'I didn't even make it to my car,' Chandler said as he hung up the coat.

Kent did frown, then. 'I'm going to have a word with Miles.'

'What, don't you want me here?'

(Chandler hadn't realised it was so easy to be playful. He might have to try it more, here, with Kent.)

Kent grinned but didn't let the matter drop. 'I'd have thought you'd be more indignant about this.'

'So would I.' Chandler took a few steps further into the room, feeling a part of it for once. 'But I'm not.'

The younger man looked a little dubious, and fixed Chandler with a knowing glance that faded with Chandler's growing smile. It was fine. Really, it was. He didn't know why, or how, but for once he didn't have an overwhelming need to go back to the station and bury himself in case files. He didn't particularly want to—but he didn't always want to when he did—and he was just pleased that he was still there, in Kent's living room, welcomed.

He had the entire night to worry about going back, after all. They both did.

The smile turned crooked as a thought occurred to him. 'How did you know it was Miles?'

Kent scoffed. 'It's always Miles.'

Chandler laughed—actually, properly laughed—and reached out an arm to pull Kent to his chest. 'Don't I know it.'

The shorter man allowed himself to be drawn closer, and turned into the crook of Chandler's shoulder as he wrapped an arm around Kent's.

'What's he going to say?' Kent asked, wrapping his arms around Chandler's waist after a moment's hesitation.

'About what, exactly?'

'People will notice neither of us are there.'

'Stomach bugs, probably.' Chandler tried to shrug, but ended up resting his chin on top of Kent's head instead. 'If anyone even asks.'

Kent pulled back in order to gaze up at Chandler's face. 'What makes you think that?'

'A weak train of thought on my part. It was the best I could come up with at the time.'

'Your excuses have never been brilliant,' Kent said, cocking an eyebrow at him as he smoothed at Chandler's lapels with his palm.

'Not my forté,' Chandler quipped—or, at least, tried to. Kent's crooked smile could be very distracting, if he let it.

'I'm not complaining, mind.'

Kent's hand had made its way to the back of Chandler's neck, and for once he didn't fight the gentle pressure that brought him closer to the younger officer's mouth. Even the mental image of Miles chuckling as he walked around the station, well aware exactly what his DI and DC would be up to in their newly-free time, couldn't put him off as Kent nipped at his bottom lip. He might have even encouraged him with a hand slipped beneath both his top and the waistband of his pajamas.

And that time, Kent didn't even hesitate to run his hands through Chandler's hair.

They were careful to arrive separately the next morning, but they might as well not have bothered. Riley engulfed them both in wide-armed hugs as soon as she spotted them. Mansell waggled his eyebrows in their direction, winking as a red flush worked his way up Chandler's neck. Miles clapped them both on the shoulder and told them not to be idiots, as difficult as that might be. Ed just beamed at them when he came up to report some missing archival files.

It was all terribly cringe-worthy, and Chandler was annoyed that Miles had obviously taken it upon himself to inform them of the goings-on in Kent's house on Quilter Street, but there was something seated deep in his stomach that wasn't dissimilar to the warmth of happiness.

Chandler asked Miles for a private word in his office once everything had calmed down and they had a non-fatal stabbing on their hands. They left a snickering Mansell and a stern-faced Riley putting together the whiteboard, and Chandler shot Kent a guarded sympathetic look just before he shut the door. Miles had already settled into his usual chair by the time Chandler turned his attention to the office.

He sighed heavily as he gathered the words he wanted. 'Did you just announce it as soon as I got off the phone?'

Miles just grinned. 'I may have had a discrete word.'

'Or two?'

'Maybe even three,' he replied, widening his eyes theatrically.

'Miles!' Chandler scolded as he dropped into his chair, running his fingers over his brow.

'Us knowing helps you.'

Chandler looked up from where he'd dropped his head into his hands. 'Does it?'

'It does.' Miles sounded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 'Who else do you think will save your arses?'

Chandler knew he was right, and even though he wished it didn't, his resolve softened.

The sergeant smirked at him. 'It's not as if either you or Kent are used to being subtle.'

It didn't even stop when they got to the pub. Miles had insisted on drinks after the shift, and everyone was chipping in—apart from Chandler and Kent. They weren't allowed, apparently. Chandler was just getting the feeling that the entire thing was an underhand celebration of some sort when Riley sidled up to where he and Kent were standing.

'So,' she began with a grin and a wave of her chardonnay. 'You two.'

Chandler shot her a warning glance; he was very, very aware of the fact that he and Kent were standing side-by-side in a public house—public being the operative word. He didn't really need any more fuel for the fire. They all knew; when were they not going to mention it? Kent seemed to have a similar idea, but his dissuading expression outlived Chandler's.

'Don't worry, I'm not going to make you talk about it.' She bumped Kent's shoulder with her own, earning a shy grin.

'Just letting you know that Mansell might be a bit miffed with you for a few days.' She leant closer, feigning confidence. 'He had his money on nothing ever coming of it.'

Kent spluttered instead of swallowed and Chandler's mouth went uncomfortably dry.

Riley looked as if she was on the verge of laughter. 'I, on the other hand, can see inevitability when it stares me in the face.' She paused, and handed Kent a paper towel to aid his inexpert daubing at his shirt. 'So you two have just paid for some well needed window-cleaning!'

Chandler wasn't sure how he felt about the team running a bookie's office out of the incident room. The transient drinking den had been enough. Kent didn't seem that surprised, though, and even harbored a smile on his face in the face of Riley's glee. Perhaps it didn't matter. As long as they didn't start totting up the odds on the edge of the whiteboard. That would be a bit of a giveaway.

Kent's smile widened as Riley waggled her eyebrows at him. 'I'm… glad?'

'You should be, it's a wonder I've managed to dress for the weather.' She glanced down at herself as way of explanation before raising her glass to her lips. She nodded in Chandler's direction as she took a sip. 'Now, if you could just snog him at Miles' Christmas do, then I'll be able to get the drainpipes done!'

Kent went bright red.

Riley had never looked more pleased with herself.

Mansell and Miles were grinning over at them, each with an elbow on the bar and a pint in their hand.

Chandler smiled, watched the head on his beer as he nudged Kent's elbow with his own, and thought for the first time that this could really work—just might really work.

He wouldn't have expected it, but life remained pretty much the same once he and Kent were properly involved. In fact, being properly involved wasn't that much different to life before Chandler had padded into the kitchen and interrupted Kent's tea-making. They went to work and tried to ignore everyone's knowing glances and subtle innuendo, they came back to Kent's flat and discussed leads or drank tea or bumped into each other one too many times while making a meal. The only real difference was that when they ended up on the sofa, they didn't leave any space between each other any more.

Their ties ended up slipping under the edge of the furniture more than once.

Chandler abandoned his adopted bedroom in favour of Kent's smaller one; there was ample space in the unoccupied half of Kent's bed for him. They both slept much better than they had before, barring all-nighters at the station or decidedly hedonic distractions. Sometimes Kent twitched in his sleep, almost flinching, but Chandler just carded his fingers through the front of his hair and pressed a kiss to his furrowed brow. There wasn't anything else he could do but hold him tighter. Occasionally Chandler would wake in the night and find an empty space where he'd expected Kent to be, but he never followed him to wherever he went. Those were the nights when Kent needed to be on his own, just for a little while. More often than not Chandler was still awake when he came back, eyes tired, and the younger man slipped back under his arms as quickly and quietly as he'd left them.

Chandler had expected to be over the moon when his landlord called and told him he could have his flat back.

He emphatically wasn't.

He was perfectly comfortable where he was, thank you very much, with Have I Got News For You on in the background while Kent dozed against his shoulder. Kent seemed to have the same opinion when he mentioned it to him later on in the evening, and his reaction left them both panting on an unmade bed, the duvet long since kicked to the floor.

Even so, Chandler found himself stood in his own flat the following morning, but only half of his things were still in his overnight bag. The rest remained tucked next to Kent's in the space they'd made for them in the hour after midnight.

He still found himself in Kent's cramped bed most nights.

He was more pleased about that than he thought he should be.

The sheets were still warm by the time he and Kent had crawled back underneath them.

Chandler crowded close, his arm hooked around Kent's slim waist, and pressed a kiss to the still-damp hairline. Rain spattered against the windows, drumming lightly on the roof, but he was more interested in the soapy scent to Kent's skin, the traces of borrowed shower gel that had ended up in his very own bathroom.

Kent pressed back into Chandler's chest, and hummed. 'I'll miss this.'

'I wasn't aware this was going to change,' Chandler said, frowning slightly although Kent's words were warm.

'The lease,' Kent explained as he shifted, 'is up at the end of the month.'

'Oh.'

Chandler had almost forgotten; it hadn't weighed heavily on his mind when it was already mostly occupied with their investigations and navigating whatever it was he had with Kent and trying not to seem obvious about it. Occasionally the memory popped into his mind, often when it was least welcome, but Chandler had always tried to convince himself that it was Kent's problem, not his, and it definitely wasn't his place to try and fix it. But for all that he'd said he wasn't attached to his flat—and he still wasn't—he was (perhaps) a little bit fond of Kent's.

He absentmindedly pressed a kiss to the crook of Kent's shoulder. The younger man rolled back into the contact. 'I really should have been doing something about it before now.'

A hum rumbled against Kent's skin. 'Have you started looking?'

'I've seen a few. It's dire. Really bloody dire.' Kent groaned and pressed his face into the pillow. 'God, I'm going to end up living in a cardboard box next to the rails, aren't I?'

Chandler smiled against the sliver of Kent's shower-warm skin between his hairline and the neck of his tee-shirt, and felt the first stirrings of gentle laugher under his hand. 'No, you're not.'

Kent huffed; it was answer enough.

'Would you stay here?' Chandler asked as he pressed his nose into the space between Kent's shoulder blades. 'If you could?'

He could feel Kent's heavy sigh from all directions, skin and bone and mattress. 'Like a shot.'

Chandler paused, swallowed. 'What if you could?'

Kent went very still. 'What are you trying to say, Joe?'

'I could stay, too.'

The words came out as more of a whisper than Chandler had originally intended.

Kent wriggled under Chandler's arm, pulling the duvet with him as he rolled, and Chandler relinquished his grip. There wasn't really anywhere else to put his limbs, though, so when Kent settled facing him Chandler rested a hand against the base of his ribs. The younger man looked at him, dark eyes questioning through the dim light, watching each flick of Chandler's eyes with an odd mixture of amazement and unease.

'You've gone about this backwards.'

He laid a tentative hand against Chandler's bare stomach; the muscle jumped.

'Pardon?'

A small smile appeared as Kent pressed an extended finger into Chandler's chest. 'I'm supposed to ask you if you want to move in here.'

Guilt clawed at the inside of his ribcage; he almost regretted even bringing it up, now. 'Is that a no?'

Kent shifted closer, nudging their knees together. 'Are you sure?'

Chandler was sure that his confusion showed on his face, even if half of it was shrouded in pillow and the other in semi-darkness. That wasn't quite the answer he'd thought he'd get. In fact, he'd been more prepared for Kent to just tell him no. Or silence. Silence wouldn't have been especially surprising.

'Are you sure?' Kent repeated without added inflection—just a plain question. He shrugged the shoulder that wasn't pressed against the mattress. 'To be honest, I never expected you to want to.'

'You didn't think I'd want to live with you?'

(That didn't bode well, did it?)

Kent shook his head, curls splaying against the cotton. 'With anyone.'

'Oh.'

There must have been something hurt on his features because Kent's face shifted, and he lifted the hand from Chandler's chest to cup the side of his face. Chandler was glad for the contact—it didn't seem like he was about to be shoved out of bed, anyway—but it still felt incongruous, even with his own hand resting against the curve of Kent's spine.

'I—I don't mean because you might get on people's nerves,' Kent began, and Chandler could tell that he was choosing his words carefully. 'Not because you can be a bit awkward. Not—not because of what you're like—' He bit off the words. He wasn't articulating whatever it was he wanted to say very well.

They laid through the murmured pause, Kent's fingers stroking the curve of Chandler's neck.

'I'm digging a hole here, aren't I?' he asked, with a melancholy twist of his lips.

'A little bit.'

Chandler felt a smile slip out with the words, even if the situation didn't quite seem to warrant it. But Kent fell to the temptation as well, more relaxed that he'd been a minute ago; his eyes were smiling, his mouth only sort of. Chandler hadn't quite realised that Kent found it as difficult as he did to talk, to speak clearly; he hadn't realised that he was worried about where this left him. Chandler had always assumed Kent as a bit of a constant. He'd find it hard to be offended by anything he said.

'Just because…' Kent trailed off in favour of running his fingers down the length of Chandler's arm. 'Well, you like your own space, don't you?'

'Mmmhm.' Chandler drew Kent closer to him, flattening his palm across his lower back. 'I like yours, too, though.'

'What?'

'I like this house. I didn't think I would, when Miles shoved us in here. But I did. I—well, I relaxed, and for me—'

Kent filled in for him. 'That's difficult.'

'Precisely.' Chandler buried his face in the crook of Kent's neck. 'You helped, too.'

'Course I did,' Kent said with a soft chuckle. He coaxed Chandler's head back so that they could look at one another. 'So, you're sure?'

'I think so.' He stroked his palm up and down Kent's back until it rested low on his waist. 'I'd have to keep my flat on until the end of the lease, though, so I suppose that's—'

Something distressed flittered over Kent's features. 'Joe—'

'It's fine, Em,' Chandler interrupted, tightening his grip on Kent's hip. 'I'd rather be here, anyway.'

Kent paused, as if considering the verity of that particular statement, but a small smile gave him away. 'I've noticed.'

'I don't think I've slept in my flat for a week.'

The smile widened. 'Why bother in the future, then?'

Chandler's hand slipped neatly under the hem of Kent's t-shirt, and Kent pushed up on one elbow and bore Chandler back to the mattress. It was obvious to the both of them that Chandler could easily roll them both over, as he'd done quite deftly an hour beforehand, but Chandler was pleased to have Kent's weight against his bones. It was a physical reminder that he hadn't gone, that he wasn't going to let Chandler go. Not when he was bending to kiss at his skin, gentle, pleased.

'You're wonderful,' Kent said, the words brushing against skin as he pressed a kiss to just below Chandler's ear.

Chandler huffed in disbelief. 'Not entirely.'

'No, but enough.'

He still couldn't quite believe him, not even when he took into consideration the other compliments Kent paid him, but any inkling of his to protest were efficiently drowned out by Kent's mouth. It was warm, deep, lazy; there wasn't much intent in it, not yet, but their hands roamed anyway. Chandler pushed his palms further up Kent's back, pulling him closer, because it still felt like a thrill that he could—and Kent responded with quick, firm kisses to the corner of Chandler's mouth and the bow of his top lip.

One of their phones buzzed at the side of their heads; they would have ignored it if the vibration hadn't been immediately followed by the ringtone Kent used exclusively for calls from the station. Kent sighed and braced himself against the mattress as if he was making to leave, but Chandler pressed close, not letting the kiss end. The younger man obliged, just for a moment, before he broke the kiss; he licked Chandler's palate and upper lip before getting out completely, though, and left Chandler catching his breath.

Kent sat up, nestling into a comfortable seat on top of Chandler, and frowned at his phone.

He shot Chandler an apologetic glance before he answered. 'Skip.'

Chandler groaned and twisted the part of his torso that wasn't pinned down by Kent's weight in order to find his watch. The hands told him it was well past midnight, so if Miles was on the phone it could only mean one thing. He could only hope that he didn't look quite as debauched as he felt.

'Yes, he's here.'

Kent mouthed 'Miles says hello,' in response to Chandler's inquisitive look.

Chandler really didn't want to know why it was so easy for Miles to guess he was in Kent's bed.

'Yeah, we'll be there,' Kent said, replying to an unknown question, as he climbed off Chandler and the bed.

Chandler was surprised to find that he missed the weight, missed the warmth, missed the gentle beating of Kent's heart against his skin as they lay together. He'd missed it each time, and never quite understood why. He didn't then, not even as he heaved himself into a sitting position and followed Kent's example, but he did wonder if that was how his life was going to go, now.

Kent turned and grinned at him, phone still pressed against his ear as he reached for a suitable shirt.

It was strikingly easy for Chandler to smile back.