Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; they belong to Shaftesbury, Maureen Jennings and the CBC, and not necessarily in that order :)
Author's Note: So I have a serious plot bunny problem now in the form of Constable Crabtree. And I've found the best way to fix the problem is to indulge the bunny. And perhaps if I indulge the bunny enough, the bunny will let me go back to my original fiction. In the meantime, you all get short little glimpses into the thoughts of Constable Crabtree throughout various points in the series. There will be various genres and forms of them, and this is the first.
The Sting of Betrayal: "Hell to Pay," 10x18
Someone had called it in to Station 4-reports of strange lights and noise coming from inside City Records. George was out the alley door in an instant, practically sprinting as Gus Jackson and Henry Higgins struggled to keep up with him. It's him. It's got be.
I need it to be him.
He could see it as they stepped into the front offices-a light, playing around in the stacks in the back. George held up a finger to his lips, urging his fellow constables to move quietly. He reached out a gloved hand, his fingers shaking underneath the leather. What if it is him? What do I do? George grabbed the doorknob, gave it a turn to the right. It didn't budge. He played his flashlight on the knob, noting the lock was engaged. He turned back to Jackson and Higgins. This is it.
George flicked the lock and threw the door open.
His eyes widened. "Sir," he breathed, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice.
William Murdoch staggered back from the desk, fear in his eyes. It was an expression George had only seen on his face a handful of times in the ten years he'd been working with Detective Murdoch, and quite frankly, it scared the hell out of him. "George," Murdoch said cautiously.
George's heart sank. He doesn't trust us. Not that I blame him, truth be told. "You're not supposed to be in here, sir," George admonished quietly.
His superior gestured to the exit. "I can leave," he said. It would've been humorous, had the situation not been so dire. The detective really was quite funny when the situation called for it.
He took a step farther into the room, Higgins and Jackson blocking the door behind him. Neither of them had spoken a word, letting George take the lead. "I can't let you do that." It unnerved George to speak to him like that.
Murdoch held up his hands, his eyes pleading. "George, no."
George didn't know whether to empathize with him, or be furious with him. "Sir, it's for the best," he reasoned with him.
"I can't." The detective sounded exhausted.
Considering he's been on the run, that makes sense. And no doubt not sleeping, nor shaving, judging by his face. I have to make him understand. "Sir, you're wanted for murder," George pointed out.
Murdoch's eyes bored into George's. "You don't really believe that to be true?"
The fact that he has asked the question made George all the more annoyed, and felt like a betrayal, after-after...After ten years together, after everything we've been through? How can you even ask me that? "No!" George said, a little stronger than he'd meant to. "Of course not," he said, tempering his voice. "But come in with us-" Murdoch opened his mouth to protest and George pushed ahead hurriedly. "-We'll work together, we'll clear your name!" Just like it's always been done. It's better if we work together!
The detective shook his head. "You won't be able to. I won't be able to-not behind bars." The detective was being surprisingly rational, and it was frustrating George. Why can't you trust us right now? he wanted to burst out. Does our friendship, does that mean nothing to you? He knew it was an irrational thought, but it was too late now.
George came around the desk. He looked his superior in the eye. "Sir…I can't let you leave," he told him.
"George, please," Murdoch begged. "Tell Julia that you saw me, and that I'm fine."
George held his gaze. He wrestled with the idea. The detective can take care of himself, can't he? And perhaps he's right; any manner of things could happen to him behind bars. A nagging voice reminded him, But at least at the station you can post a guard. You, or Watts, or Higgins, or Jackson, or hell, the Inspector himself could camp outside the cell door!
George's mind was made up.
"You can tell her yourself." He glanced back at Higgins and Jackson, who had remained silent through the whole exchange. Perhaps they'd thought that George's friendship with the detective would make him see reason. In that respect, I've failed, George noted miserably. "Lads," he added, motioning Higgins and Jackson forward. His order seemed to surprise them, and make them hesitate, and that instant was all Murdoch needed.
"I'm sorry, George."
George never saw the punch coming. One moment, he was on his feet, the next, he was on the floor, the right side of his face stinging, and he saw stars in the dark room. He landed on his hands and knees on the floorboards. He hit me? Holy mother of Mary, he hit me!
Higgins was pulling him to his feet. "George! Are you all right, George?"
George pushed his hands away, and looked up as Jackson came back through the open door. "Where is he?" he demanded, rubbing his jaw. "Where is he?!" He didn't bother to hide the panic in his voice.
"He got away," Jackson said breathlessly.
A plethora of words came to George's mind, but only two of them came out. "Damn it!" he growled, his frustration, and his anger and the sheer feeling of helplessness exploding out in those two words. "We're supposed to bring him in!"
Higgins looked at him in alarm. "George-"
You don't understand. He doesn't understand! "Higgins, he's safer with us than without us!" George exploded. I can't protect him out there. At least I had a chance if he'd be back at the station house!
He closed his eyes in frustration. Damn it, Detective Murdoch, I can't help you if you don't trust me!
That knowledge stung worse than the punch had.