Slight NSFW Warning: Nothing too major, but if that makes you uncomfortable, please skip the first large italicized portion. The overall plot won't be impacted by missing it.

Chapter 48: Crashing

Thud. The impact of his shoe against the first set of stairs to his flat rushed all the way up Troy's spine, rippling through the nerves. Thud. It was almost in his brain, ready to throb as a headache for the rest of the night. Thud. Thud. Thud. He lifted his head, and the base of his skull released a crack of air. One more flight, he thought.

The morning had begun at a fevered pace, not even generous enough to give him an hour or two to ease into the day. Dudley Carew's body had drawn the worry of the head of sport and the groundskeeper at Devington School. Their concern for the cricket pitch they weeded and trimmed for pampered teenage boys, in turn, raised Troy's ire. Carew might have been a madman, but he was still a victim of murder. He took each step faster as his anger churned again.

At the door of his second-floor flat, he fumbled for his keys in his pocket. He thrust the proper one into the lock with his right hand, twisting his other wrist to check his watch: half ten. If the morning had begun bright and early, the evening had stalled, first at the Chalk and Gown, then at CID. You wouldn't think it would take so much time, seeing a roomful of rich snobs back to their bloody school, he thought, turning the door knob hard. He shoved the door open and nearly slammed it shut as his back slumped against it. As Carter ferried boys to the school proper and girls to the annex, he and Barnaby had sat with the dwindling group, until only Marcus Heywood and Charlie Meynell remained in the pub. Those boys sat in the upstairs room, fidgeting and whispering a few foul words at one another between glares; Troy had spent most of the last few minutes swallowing against bile. After all, it wasn't their fault they were spoiled twats.

Even when their babysitting duties were completed, the night wore on. In the vacant squad room—sat at their opposite desks—he and Barnaby had plotted their questions for those two young men, Troy's chin almost on his desk when they finished. Then, with that discussed, they came to the newly discovered scene of the attack, what it meant. ("How do we know the holdall was taken during the attack, sir? Couldn't he have taken it before? It would distract Daniel Talbot, looking around for it, make him vulnerable—" "But why leave it covered in dirt and mud when returning it, Troy, if it was taken and secreted beforehand? Obvious marker, that—and why leave the razor behind in the stump? Why not take that bit too?")

But that was all for tomorrow. Now, Troy just thought on the air and his breath, his chest rising and falling. His right hand fumbled up the plaster wall, fingers flitting around for the switch. When it snapped up, he squinted at the sharp overhead lights, casting a glow over everything...that was it had been before. Nothing had been moved, jiggled, touched…No surprise there. Troy shook his head, slipping his keys into his jacket pocket again.

A mess of things crashed on him together: exhaustion, exasperation, anger...loneliness? He lifted his shoulders, stretching the muscles against the stiffness in his neck and upper back. That last hardly mattered; he'd spent most of the last few years alone, after all. Not that it was like that now— Like hell it isn't. He scrubbed at his eyes, stars dancing in the darkness as he did. But…

A growl rose up from his stomach, the memory of a missed evening meal no longer willing to be ignored. Approaching the counter of his small kitchen, Troy shoved his fingers through his tie's silk knot, loosening it and the first buttons from his throat. Just a few more minutes, he thought. Just that, and you can fall into bed.

He tugged open the small refrigerator beneath the rough counter, pulling out last night's chicken korma in its foam packaging, the rice already mixed in. A couple minutes in the microwave brought it from cold to at least lukewarm, enough to soften the rice. Grabbing a clean spoon and not bothering to drop into a chair at his kitchen table, Troy took a few quick bites, not tasting anything beyond salt and grease and heat. All he sought was a few mouthfuls to tame the hunger. He washed it down with a glass of water, then dropped the spoon in the sink and shoved the foam takeout container in the bin. The washing up could wait until the next day.

A burp rose as he yawned, closing his eyes. And when they opened again, his gaze landed on the dark settee nestled in the corner of the large space: his sitting room, as it were. Sunday still burned so bright. What was, what could have been, what could still…

With every bit of his body knowing Cully, knowing how close she was, his mouth burned. He combed his fingers through her hair—desperate to think of her, not the tightness at his groin. Each time he fell into her, drowning in her taste and scent, he found himself more and more tangled. Her name escaped his lips with a breath, his fingers following her shoulder and neck and collarbone, slipping lower. Falling deeper and deeper…

He couldn't stand it any longer, crushing his lips and body to hers like a starving man. His own body weight pushed her back into the dark cushions of the settee, and he collapsed atop her. "Sorry," he whispered, his face only a couple inches from hers.

Spread out from her flushed face, her pale hair and skin gleamed against the black beneath, a light shining in the darkness. She lay so close to him, every breath warming his own cheeks as she dragged a delicate finger along his spine; he gasped, closing his eyes against the fantasies pulsing in his mind and veins. "No," Cully whispered, "it's fine—"

He didn't want to hear anything else, kissing her once more, almost biting her lower lip with the force. It was only when he needed to gulp down a mouthful air that he broke away, now drifting to the soft skin between her neck and shoulder. "Gavin—" Her chest and breasts rose beneath him with a deep breath. His hands slipped beneath her jumper, grazing her skin lightly with his fingertips, tracing her waist as she first laughed—then shivered and jolted beneath him as those same fingers ventured beneath the waistband of her jeans.

And now, her hands were at his neck, clawing at the first button, then the next—the skin of his own chest suddenly hit by the cooler air of his flat and the heat radiating from her. Her mouth was almost pressed to his ear, and her words tickled his skin and hair. "I like you like this. Just—like this."

His right hand drifted up anew, his wrist drawing the hem of her jumper higher as his fingers grazed the bottom curve of her breasts. He pressed another kiss to her mouth, his left hand wrapped around her chin. "How so?" he whispered as he released her lips, needing another breath of air as she unfastened the next button on his shirt.

"Here, ready to—to..." Her hands slid beneath the fabric, over the skin on his shoulders, soft—delicate. "Ready..." Her voice caught again as he pinched her nipple, and she shuddered beneath him once more.

"Ready?" He pulled his hand away, sliding it around her body to the small of her back, sweeping it below her waist to the soft swell of her hips. "For what?" he asked quietly, her body writhing beneath his fingers. Not that he didn't know. Since that night over two months ago when all things had nearly unraveled into chaos and madness and lust, he had kept a fresh package of condoms in the drawer beside his bed, unwilling to possibly be caught unawares. And good that he had, for when…

Her hands only continued lower, her fingers now working at the bottom button and glancing across his belly. "Yes..." Her voice was low against his neck, throbbing in his bones. "Please." His hands traveled even lower, beneath the waistband of her jeans, along her bones, desperate to relieve her need and his…

"Of course," he managed, his mouth pressed to her cheek again, starving, desperate to kiss and know her again. Of course, he thought. Of course. He traced his thumbs along her collarbone, drinking and breathing in her warmth and shivering as he buried his face in the curve of her shoulder...

Even as the need pounded through him, the vision faded: the settee sat empty again, and he was the only person in the flat. But he could not quite hold everything back, the happiness at that memory, what he had just seen as could have been. "But it wasn't," he muttered, running his fingers through his hair. He was always wondering about what might have been, all his life, and whenever his mind turned to Cully, those questions were stoked even harder. Someday, would she become a part of the life he was running away from, every memento of their time hidden from his eyes? He'd already done it once before, leaving only a single photograph of his family in the front room, one he rarely looked at. At least she had happier moments in her childhood than he did.

The exhaustion hit him anew, through his arms and legs as he stared at the empty settee. No point in dreaming about it, he thought, ruffling his own hair. But the thought of her—Cully—beneath him, sweat and tears mingling as he lost himself within her...Troy shook his head. It wasn't right to want it—but he did. It couldn't come to pass, but it was all he desired. All he needed. The ache and need and desire crushed his heart.

"No," he whispered, pushing himself away from the counter and the last few memories and imaginings. And that was good, but for the fact that it left him closer to the settee and his bedroom, both where…"Shove it." As he strode to his bedroom, he stripped his coat off, leaving his dress shirt for the moment. He slipped the jacket it onto a hanger, smoothing a few folds from the shoulders before returning it to his closet. Every muscle in his body ached with the exhaustion, desperate for rest as he began to unbutton his shirt.

He stubbed his foot against the foot of his bed, and he bit his lip against a curse. Finally reaching his side table, he switched the lamp on, squinting as he had a few minutes before. Troy fished his keys and mobile from his pocket, dropping them onto the table before returning his jacket to the cupboard. No use in losing either overnight. Even with his suit's pants on, all he wanted to do was fall into his bed, and sleep for a few days. The noises and interviews were pounding beneath his skull, refusing to be silenced.

As the next few minutes rolled on, Troy washed his face and brushed his teeth, the latter leaving a film around his mouth that he immediately wiped away. His mind drifted, finding Cully as he loosened the first then second button of his shirt. Breath and life snagged in his throat, remembering her that night, naked and bare before him, every want exposed to him in exchange for his own. And then drowning in her, desire finally sated, replaced with...what? God, he didn't know, but he did know that desire had not disappeared. Will it ever? he wondered, pressing a hand to his face. Maybe someday he would have an answer he realized as he stripped his shirt away.

He slipped off his pants, exchanging them for a loose pair of plaid pajamas before hanging them as well. He sat on the edge of his bed heavily, his forehead falling into his palms...and he nearly felt her hands on his shoulders like a gentle breeze whispering that all would be well in the morning. Lifting his face, Troy reached for his mobile. The electric blue display now read close to eleven, but he still opened it, scrolling through his text messages, searching for her name. He quickly tapped out a short pair of sentences: i hope you had a good day. sorry its so late call you tomorrow Snapping it closed, he pressed the fingers of his right hand to his temple, rubbing them against a dull pain in his skull.

Evenings like these, Troy missed her the most, when the exhaustion and the solitude melded; he didn't even know why it was all so troubling tonight. Whether it was how suddenly their last moments together had ended, how brusque her final words were, or the weight of the day and the snobs of Devington School. The case was merely treading water, draining him as he kept his head above the rippling waves. If it could all stop for a time—if she and he could disappear for a spell…

Still in his hand, his mobile rang, the sound vibrating against his palm. He didn't even look at the blue letters now printed across the tiny screen as he opened it again. "Hey," he said quietly, sitting straighter.

"Hi," Cully said, clipping the word sharply.

Troy winced, rolling his shoulders. "Ah..." Somehow—even after a day of driving and interviews, sitting and waiting—everything ached, and hearing her voice had not soothed it like he hoped it might. "How was your day?"

"About the same as all of them."

"Don't make it sound that exciting," he said, almost smiling even as he kneaded the top of his arm.

"It's not that, Gavin, I just...I'm going a bit mad, sitting around Causton."

Troy stood for a second, peeling back the blankets from the head of his bed, collapsing back onto the white sheets. "Still no word from the Playhouse?"

"Not yet."

"Like to dither, do they?" he asked, drawing up his legs and feet. Even though her voice was distant and short, he could still envision her beside him, pressed to his side as he draped an arm over her shoulder. Though it was just in his mind, it chased away the worst of the day: the thought of simply being with her, feeling her body rise and fall against his, hearing her breathing as she curled herself closer to him.

"It's a little more than that," she said, the image he had constructed dissolving. "If no one wants to see a play, it doesn't matter if it's good enough to be in the West End."

"I guess you're right."

"You sound tired," Cully added, her voice softening.

He leaned back against the headboard, the wood cold against his bare skin as he ruffled a hand through his hair, raising one knee. "A bit. You wouldn't believe how tiring babysitting a bunch of sixth form ponces can be."

She laughed quietly. "On your nerves by the end of it?"

"You could say that." He smiled; he recognized her voice, now, the woman he— No, he thought.

"Well, I just wanted to say 'hi'—or I guess 'good night', now."

He let out a quick breath, propping his right elbow on his knee. "Right."

"I just wanted to...hear your voice." She stopped, and Troy wondered if she was where he was: abed, cold, aching..."I feel we don't have much time to talk anymore."

He winced. "Sorry—"

"You know the rules, Gavin."

"Right." As much as he missed her voice, he missed seeing her—being with her. "Ah, since you're on the line—I just wanted to ask..." He let the words trail off, now hating that they had begun, his tongue having gone ahead of his brain.

"Yes?"

There was no going back. "Are you free, day after tomorrow?"

"Should be. Why?"

Get on with it. "I was wondering...if maybe you'd like to go—to the cinema?" On the other end of the line, Cully was silent. Damn. "If you don't—"

"I'd love to," she said, laughing again, the sound bright and happy. "It's just surprising, after...well, to finally go to the cinema."

Slipping his right hand behind his neck, Troy said, "You did take me to the theater."

"But I didn't set out to."

"Right."

"Do you have a film in mind?"

"No." What was even out? He'd hardly had time to pay attention. "Would you?"

"Not as yet." Something on her end of the line rustled. "Meet by the green on Friday? Seven?"

"Sounds great." His eyelids drifted down, and his arm slid from its perch, slapping against the mattress when it landed. "I think I'm going to have to ring off, Cully," he said, struggling against a yawn. "I'm almost falling asleep sitting up."

"I know, I shouldn't have— I'll call you tomorrow evening."

He didn't want to hang up, for her voice to vanish into the darkness even as he struggled to remain awake. "I'll hold you to that."

"Bye." She'd hardly finished when he heard the click of the call's end.

"You can't blame her," Troy muttered, reaching for his mobile's charging cable. After all, the past few days had afforded him little time even talk to her, let alone see her. Between interviews, another body, traipsing through Friar's Copse on the hunt for a new crime scene...He hardly had a moment to think about her, let alone see her. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was what was.

Sliding his mobile to the far side of the table, he checked his clock, setting the alarm for the next morning. He smacked his pillow, a small hollow forming around his hand, and he settled back. Before he drew the blanket and sheet up, he stretched his arm out to switch off his lamp, falling into darkness illuminated only by his clock and the faint blue glow of his phone's display—

He wasn't sure what woke him, but it was still dark. Middle of the night, he assumed. With a muffled yawn, Troy rolled onto his side, her back rising in his sight. Her shirt dipped well low on her back, the small bumps of her spine rising through her skin. They had made love twice earlier that evening, exhausting one another until all they could do was collapse side by side. He had bruised her lips, he knew, and left another mark on her neck, a twin to the one on her breast. But turnabout was fair play—she'd bitten him often enough.

But that was for another time (and he very much looked forward to that moment). Now, he just wanted to feel her against him, her heat and her breath. Sweeping her hair back from her shoulders, he kissed the back of her neck. She shivered beneath his touch, twisting her face toward him. "Gavin?"

"I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered. His hand drifted over her body, coming to rest at her belly, just at the curve of her hips.

She turned onto her back, rubbing the back of her hand across her face. "It's fine." The moon and starlight trickled through the window and melded with the street lights, glistening on the tip of her nose and the tops of her cheekbones. Now rolling onto her other side, she ran a finger along his jaw from his ear to his chin. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing." Her shirt had caught, drifting down her shoulder, and he tugged it higher, probably baring her stomach as it rose.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Just remembering."

Cully crumpled the top hem of the sheet in her fist, sliding closer. "Remembering what?"

Troy felt the blood rushing to his cheeks; even after so many months, the memories of her and her body could still transform him into a schoolboy with his first crush pounding in his chest. "Just you."

She shifted even closer, patting his hair flat before tucking her arm into her chest and closing her eyes as she nestled her head onto his pillow. "Good," she said quietly. "Good."

Bzzt. Troy clenched his eyes, trying to block...whatever that sound was. Bzzt. If it was so dark, it was still too early—

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. The ringing fell silent, then it began again as Troy opened his eyes to his darkened bedroom. Bzzt. His phone's screen glowed, the only light apart from his clock, though the red numbers blurred into a fuzzy glow. Reaching for his mobile, his fingers scrabbled over the dark wood, bumping the landline he still maintained for...who knew why. The cool morning air drew goosebumps from his skin as it crept beneath the sheets.

Fumbling as he flipped it open, he barely avoided the red end button before pressing the receiver to his face. "'ello?"

"Troy?"

The chief inspector's voice cut through the fog as he rose on one elbow, ignoring the ache spreading through his muscles. "Yes, sir?" As he blinked, the time became clearer, legible: almost seven.

"I need you at the office. As soon as possible."

Sitting up with a small shiver, Troy rubbed at his left eye, a few crusty bits from the corner falling away as he yawned before asking, "Something wrong?"

"They've found him."

He yawned once more as his bare feet struck the carpet and dragged a hand through his mussed hair. "Who?" Touching his face, Troy frowned as his fingers found sticky, dried spit mixed with more stubble than the night before.

On the other end of the phone, something clattered. "That missing diplomat the papers have all been going on about, and Carew, too. Archie Bellingham."

Troy stood, his back cracking as he straightened. "Where?"

"Easier to explain when you get here, Troy." Without anything more, the call ended, the sudden silence echoing in his right ear. Lifting his mobile from his skin, he snapped it closed, running his cold palm over his cheek again. There wasn't really much else for it, was there: a quick shave, a short shower, breakfast at the staff canteen if Barnaby didn't determine that Midsomer Parva and Devington School needed their instant attention. But he probably would.

Never enough time, he thought, setting his mobile down again. The second a murder case in Midsomer began, it almost inevitably transformed day and night into almost a single, endless shift—each day starting early, each night ending late, rolling from one into the next—as one death multiplied, becoming two, three, even four. And all Troy wanted was that time, those short moments with the woman…

He shook his head, trying to clear the last haze of sleep. Something during sleep had fled, like a dream he had already forgotten, fading into a wisp of smoke he could no longer hold. More and more often, Troy awoke searching for something—a touch or a memory—that had already been swallowed by his unconsciousness.