TITLE: Another Reprise
AUTHOR: coolbyrne
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: An argument leads to introspection. Carol POV.
DISCLAIMER: Christmas has come and gone and while my stocking wasn't filled with coal, it certainly didn't have Tony Hill in it. (Long pause) Sorry, my mind wandered there for a bit. Everything but my stocking belongs to Val McDermid.
FEEDBACK: Compliments and/or constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Send any combination to the email addy.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: When the story's not a case file and only involves two people, I often like to write the same story twice, from two different viewpoints, just to see what would be the same and what would be different. So this is "Reprise" from Carol's POV. Someone left a fantastic review for "Reprise" which basically said, if I wrote one T/C piece every month that would tide her over until the next Val McDermid book. I thought how incredibly flattering that was… until I realized the book probably won't be out for another two years and that would mean I'd have to push out about twenty-four stories. My gratitude for the compliment quickly turned to an, "Are you nuts??" grin Anyway, here's one, at least. Thanks to my beta reader, papiliondae, who would beta all twenty-four without complaint if I could actually write them.

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His stillness is unsettling. Rarely is he not moving or shifting in some manner or another. His feet, his arms, his hands. Even when he appears to be motionless, his fingers will still fidget at his side, or his brow twitch, as his mind works its wonders. His silence is even more disturbing. He is always verbalizing some thought or another and in those moments when he is, surprisingly, without a theory or idea, his lips press together to make a quiet popping sound, as if trying to jump start his train of thought.

Even asleep he is not silent. One night, after a particularly difficult case, he dozed off on my office sofa and, in the early hours of the morning, his incoherent muttering startled me from my own restless sleep in a nearby chair. He was mumbling, fragments of nocturnal story telling, narrating the dreams I can only imagine he would have.

There is no sound coming from him now, mumbling or otherwise.

We've been engaged in this silent tug-of-war for about ten minutes. My peripheral vision catches the clock behind him without making me turn my head. God forbid I wave a white flag, yeah? I'm not really angry with him. Okay, maybe I am a little angry with him, but if I'm honest, I'm angrier with myself. Not only am I participating in this childish stand-off, but it began in front of Don, Kevin and Paula, people I lead not only by direction but by example. At the height of our shouting match I saw them sheepishly slip out of the room. Can't say that I blame them.

What is it that we're even arguing about? I know this case is more difficult than others –cases involving children usually are –I also know this is a particular hot button for me, but who isn't affected by it? I think maybe, in my desire to close this case and get my emotions back on some kind of even keel, I'm not listening to the voice in my head telling me to remain objective. And I'm ignoring the voice in my heart telling me to listen to Tony.

I press my lips into a firm line in an effort to not laugh at myself. Remain objective and listen to Tony? I'm not sure I have any kind of objectivity when it comes to Tony Hill. Enigma. Brilliant. Pain in the ass. I press my lips firmer. I stare at the board, but I'm not really seeing anything. My equal. My friend. My…

'God, don't even go there, Carol,' I chastize myself, too little, too late.

I'm not a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of girl by any stretch of the imagination, and in fact, I've been the one who's been loved and left more often than the other way round. But I have had my fair share of relationships, and yet this… whatever this is that Tony and I have, is nothing like any relationship I've ever known. Of course, the absence of anything resembling a physical nature is probably the biggest difference. But even that's not quite it, because when the time comes that our relationship does evolve physically, it won't undermine this odd unspoken bond between us.

I wonder if part of my interest stems from the fact that I can't quite pin down his nature, what drives him, what motivates him. The cop in me always wants to tie up loose ends, to come to satisfactory conclusions. So I look at him often, scrutinizing every angle of his impassive face, looking for clues. Rarely do I tie up any loose ends at all; yet somehow, that doesn't bother me. What I do know is enough –in the most dire moments of my life, he has been there, whether in body or in spirit. I trust him. I trust him implicitly. I'd like to think he could say the same about me.

He saves me from any further introspection when he breaks the silence.

"We're being childish."

I inadvertently jump at the sound and swivel my head in his direction. "What?"

"I feel like I've been sent to the corner as punishment. And you're sitting over there, practically pouting."

'Cheeky bastard,' I think to myself and cover up my amazement with a cough. I cross my arms tighter, but I can already feel my resolve melting away. "I'm telling Don you're bothering me,"

And just like that, we forgive and are forgiven.

"Let's arm-wrestle for it," he suggests.

"What?" I ask, this time unable to disguise my amazement.

But he's already up and running with his idea; his eyes alive and full of mirth, his hands happy to be moving again. He clears a space on the table and looks up. "Do you remember the last time we did this?"

I can't believe we're doing this, but if I had a quid for every time I've thought that during the time I've known him… Instead of questioning his actions, I pull my chair across the floor to the table and answer him. "I do. The last and only time. In a chip shop full of people."

"To settle a point," he adds. "So let's do it, right here. You win, we'll follow your theory. I win, we follow mine." He gives me an obvious once over and again I marvel at his cheek. "I bet you've been working out since the last time, and I'm still a weed. It might be closer this time."

Taking off my jacket, I drape it on the back of the chair, narrowing my gaze. "It was close last time, if I recall." I rest my right elbow on the table and look straight into his eyes. When I first met him, I catalogued him in the cop manner I had been taught –about five foot eight, average build, short dark hair, blue eyes. Cut and dried, simple and to the point. It didn't take me long to learn Tony Hill was anything but. And I can't help but smile at the knowledge that he has made my life anything but as well. "You're mad, you know that, don't you?"

"You've made me this way, Carol."

A charged moment crackles between us, until I disarm the fuse with a smirk. "Oh, I think you were all sorts of wacko long before I met you."

He puts his elbow on the table and pouts, "I'm telling Don you're calling me names."

Now I give a full laugh and he smiles. I flex open my fingers, inviting, challenging his hand to meet my own. With only a hint of hesitation, he accepts. As our fingers slowly enfold each other's hand, our gazes lock across the table. Long looks into the eyes of Tony Hill are few and far between as they are, quite literally, windows into his soul and he is not comfortable in revealing much about himself. But this time he does not look away and I am treated to a long look. Bluer than any blue I've ever seen. Bright, playful and with a softness that seems out of place in this moment. The smile hasn't left his face and I wonder what he's thinking. Before I can give it any more thought, his grip tightens in mine and he leans forward.

"On the count of three," he intones in a very serious voice. "One…"

I laugh then join in.

"Two… three!"

-end.