Chapter 76: Full Visibility

If the last few minutes had been a dream, they had suddenly melted into a nightmare. The lovely silken echo of Cully's voice in his ear, still so curious after what he had almost said to her this morning (or perhaps more appropriately, nearly confessed), sharply interrupted. The delicious memory of those early hours ebbed away—the joy of simply speaking to her gone—as his gaze rose to Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby returned to the squad room, taking one slow step after another. Jacket still in the crook of his arm, briefcase in his hand, mouth clenched, eyes tight and trained right on him. It had been safe a few minutes ago, reaching for his mobile to call her knowing her father had finally thrown in the towel for the evening. The security and happiness of those minutes vanished in just a second, just with darker tone of the man's voice.

"Uh, yes, sir?" Troy finally mumbled, pressing his mobile against his suddenly tacky cheek to still the new trembling of his hand.

He was closer now, slower in his paces. "Could you let my daughter go, at least until I go?"

"One second, that's all—"

"Don't you have more important things to do with your time, Troy?" At the edge of his desk, Barnaby's anger was clear, seething and glowing, his briefcase clattering to the floor as he tossed his coat onto the pile of folders at the front corner, flinging a few of them forward. "I thought you were finishing some paperwork."

"Gavin?" It was her, really, that was all he knew, clinging to her voice and those delicious memories—just her. "Is everything all right?"

"Something's just come up," he murmured, gulping against the thump of Barnaby's hands against the front of his desk. "I'll call you again in a bit."

"And not spending the rest of the evening on the phone with my daughter."

The squad room had emptied over the last minutes, quiet goodbyes between partners wishing each other a good night and a farewell until tomorrow morning drumming in his ears since Barnaby first left. But now...only some constables he didn't know by sight remained, Audrey* just coming back from the hallway, a folder clutched in her hands. "Bye," was all he managed, barely whispered as he snapped his mobile closed, peering up at his boss. At her father.

There was nowhere to hide now, Barnaby glowering at him. Wanting something—an answer? "Yes, sir, I was about—"

"You do know that's a stretch, don't you?"

Troy saw Audrey coming closer, even as a few of the last dawdling constables glanced to their corner, escaping into the hallway as quickly as their feet could take them. He saw her draw a deep breath. "Uh, sir—"

"Even for you."

"Did the lab tell you about the delay—" she stopped, probably trying to recall words and names that meant nothing to her—"for the toxicology report on..." She fell silent again, flipping through her folder as anything she might have remembered failed her.

"No, they did not," Barnaby snapped, looking over his shoulder at her for one brief second. "I know how long it takes."

"I think Dr. Bullard said there's a bit of a backlog, it might need more time for anything beyond the postmortem—"

"I would be the first person told, not you."

"It's just that—"

"Thank you, Sergeant Brierley," Barnaby said loudly, refusing to look away from Troy again, "I will come straight to you the next time I want to know how much work Bullard has let pile up on his slab."

All she did now was shrug before she turned back, and he understood the frown she had given him: I tried, she seemed to want to say. And with that, Troy was alone with his boss and his newly unleashed anger.

"Should I ask, Troy, or simply continue to make my own assumptions? I assume you still won't tell me anything."

He swallowed; there was no right answer. "I just wanted to tell her—" Troy had to stop. That there was no time for her to come over this evening certainly wasn't the answer Barnaby wanted to hear, even if it was true.

"Oh, no time to see her tonight—like almost every night this week?"

Troy returned his gaze—if not his attention—to the paperwork, the tip of his pen tearing through the first few pages. There had almost certainly been no chance of avoiding the chief inspector's working things out, that Cully hadn't bothered to come home the night before. And if he had whispered to her last night as they huddled together in his bed, both of them still fully clothed and sleepier by the minute, that he didn't care any longer...well, perhaps he should have thought better of it.

"Troy."

"Sir?" From Barnaby, his name was sometimes an accusation—and now, there was no doubt.

"Don't take me for a blind man."

"I don't." The pen tore through the next few pages, his words and letters scrawled and slanted.

"Or a stupid one."

Through another sheet of paper. "I don't, sir—"

"Then stop acting like I'm blind and stupid." Troy at last looked up, ready for his protest in reply—but Barnaby was even closer, staring at him with narrowed eyes, the same way he sometimes watched suspects across the worn table through a smokey haze in the interview room. Like he could peer right into your mind, even your soul, almost tearing it apart at the seams as he did. "I have eyes and a brain, and as I recall they usually work a damn sight better than yours!"

"Sir, I—"

"And don't tell me another bloody lie," Barnaby snapped.

He needed another breath, something to calm his fraying nerves. "I'm not going to say anything at this rate—"

"That might be for the best, Sergeant Troy."

Do you think that's all I am to Cully, just your sergeant? "What the hell do you want?" he hissed, tossing the pen onto his desk. For once, he didn't care where it landed.

"What I want from everyone: the truth! And that's something I haven't had from you for weeks! For months!"

"I've never lied to you—"

"You're lying right now," Barnaby said, refusing to let him finish.

"I don't know what—"

"Oh, maybe you haven't made up excuses, Troy, but you and I both know there's more than one way to deceive." The chief inspector was leaning forward, his hands still curled around the front edge of Troy's desk, still staring and demanding an answer. "Ignoring questions, leaving out the details—"

"That's shit and you know it!" The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, a way he had never spoken to his boss all these long years through. Maybe he hadn't said everything—he did, after all, appreciate his neck being in one piece—but he had never hidden how much he enjoyed spending time with Cully. Especially now, when he was finally beginning to understand everything, at the end of it all, waiting and hoping for something new.

"Then tell me what to make of it, Troy. The copper's nose never stops twitching when there's a trail to follow." Barnaby tapped his nose, like he was remembering a smell, some trace of Cully he hadn't managed to wash away after one of those too few afternoons and nights they stole from the world that preferred to wrench them apart.

It was so many months—years, if he allowed himself the truth—desperately wanting the future that Barnaby feared and worried over. And Troy didn't care anymore, he knew precisely what he wanted and needed— He had to suck down a new breath as his heart throbbed deep in his chest, a new and growing ache he hardly understood, apart from the fact that he never wanted it to fade or go away. "What I do when I leave CID is none of your concern—"

"My daughter is! And if you and she overlap, you are my concern, too."

"It's still our time—"

"I've hardly seen her the past few months, except when she was angry with you."

"That wasn't—"

"She didn't need to tell me what all happened for me to know." One hand came up from the desk, a single finger stabbed at Troy's face, nearly sharp as a knife. "But otherwise, she's been at the theater, heading off to an audition, or with you."

"If she wants to be with me, what of it?"

"That's not a question for me, that's one for you," Barnaby snapped. "So, what is it, Troy—what is really going on?"

Troy's eyes fell back to his desk, the paperwork and pages melting together. I hardly know, he wanted to say, but he couldn't—not anymore. Gazing out into the future, wondering and watching it twist into the cloudiness of the unknown, he did know. She simply had to be there with him, her hand in his while each new step of that path emerged from the darkness. Just three short weeks ago, she shouted at him that she no longer wanted to live in the shadows—and he couldn't keep her there any longer, not when he needed to embrace her in the bright light of day, kiss her without the fear of watchful eyes, and love her fully—completely. It was so clear, suddenly: so sharp, so very right.

"Don't want to talk about it?"

Barnaby's voice broke him, the pages and reports in focus once again, his heart pounding harder than ever against his ribs. His mouth was dry—his pulse pounding—all words slipping away between his fingers. "No—"

"Nothing at all you want to say?" the man snapped.

There was everything to say, but not here, not when he needed to feel and hear her, capture her and know her answer. "Nothing to you—"

"I am her father, you are my sergeant, what should I think?"

What's the point of what you think, when I finally know what is real? "It's not like that!"

"Of course it is. It's the way it always has been and will be: inappropriate and uncalled for."

"No, it's not—and you know it's not."

Because it wasn't. Troy still didn't understand what Cully hoped for when she called out to him across the street all those months ago. Resolution, forgiveness, friendship—certainly not something more. But it was something more, something better and good, and somehow they always wound back to this point, faster and faster, like they were always more tangled together than before. And now, Troy readied himself to fall over the precipice, and find what awaited him at the bottom of the valley before him: a crash (he doubted it) or the warm embrace he craved (and hoped would never end). "Don't make it all too complicated," she'd told him last night as exhaustion clawed over them both and everything fell to the side. And it isn't, he thought. It's so easy to understand, now. I love you, Cully. God, he really had forgotten himself, committed the cardinal sin: fallen in love with the governor's daughter, and he couldn't regret a moment of it.

"Nothing to admit?"

"That's not what I said!" Troy nearly shouted. Not here, not now, not to DCI Barnaby, not to his boss.

"Then what do you mean? What is going on? Tell me yourself, what is really going on? What do you really want out of all this?"

"If you're so on top of everything, what the hell do you think?"

Barnaby turned away for a second, but right back around again. "Don't make me ask again—"

"Would you have even wanted to know?"

He shook his head. "That's beside the point—"

"It won't make a difference what I tell you...even if it is the truth." Where was everything: his mobile and keys lay on his desk, his wallet was still in his back pocket, his jacket hung on the back of his chair. He couldn't be here any longer, not when he knew exactly where he needed to be and precisely what he needed to do.

"I'll decide that."

Troy's chair scraped against the floor as he shoved it back and stood, reaching behind for his jacket, seizing it and shoving his arms into the sleeves. He realized he had been holding his breath, finally releasing it with a sigh. "Do you think I planned this—"

"Troy—"

"That I thought it would be some sort of game?" Not that, never that, he loved her too much, too deeply, too recklessly. "I didn't—" No, he couldn't say anymore. I didn't even start the ball rolling, he thought, finding his keys and his mobile—tossing the latter into a pocket—tugging his jacket tighter against his shoulders, his chest tightening beneath his shirt. It was an ache, now, to see her and hold her. She found me, sir, I didn't go looking for her. And she was right: it was always real, it was never pretend. "It isn't that," he added quietly.

Barnaby's face sagged, as though at last he couldn't ignore a single thing anymore, couldn't act as though he didn't see exactly what was before his eyes. I never planned this, sir, but I don't regret a moment I've spent with her. I can't. "Then tell me, Troy"—Barnaby's voice was failing, like the storm of anger had at last burned itself out—"what is it?"

"I think—" But he didn't think anymore, that much was clear to him, now. When he had stopped thinking or considering, Troy had no idea. These last weeks—missing her, desperate for her, indulging all his desire for her—he didn't understand when it had changed, when it fully transformed to love, something he didn't know if he'd ever truly experienced before and hadn't expected to know in the future...But it had, turning into something beautiful and wonderful, as warm and soft in his soul as her hands and face were beneath his palms.

Barnaby's hands finally fell back from the desk and he stepped away. "You think?" he breathed.

"No, I don't. I stopped just thinking about...I stopped thinking—I don't know when." But what was there to do, except understand he needed Cully, and now. He'd said he would call her later, right when her father interrupted that precious conversation, but he needed to do so more than ever. Her voice, her face beneath his hand...he was craving it anew again, needing at last to say everything that had been changing and growing between them over the last months...Not just how he adored those burning touches when he at last felt her in his bed, sometimes the pair of them coming undone at a blistering pace, but everything since he first saw her on the Causton street at the end of June: her, and nothing else. The actress he saw transformed on the stage, the woman who comforted and asked after him, the lover who offered up every part of herself to him, the combatant who refused to allow things left unsaid and festering in the dusk.

So...what now? he asked himself, twisting his keys as he thrust his mobile into his pocket. What was it she said this morning as he kissed her cheek, already eager to see her again. "I think you had something you wanted to tell me." Yes, Cully, he thought, drawing a deep breath, I do need to tell you something—and I shouldn't have stopped myself last night, let you stop me last night. Or this morning—

"Troy?"

Barnaby's voice broke through his thoughts once again, drawing him back to CID and their small corner—to the father of the woman he loved. Not here, not now. "And you can't be the first one to hear it," he said quietly. This wasn't where he needed to be: he didn't know where he needed to be, but wherever that was, he needed to be with Cully. "You can finish the bloody paperwork yourself." Snapping off his small lamp, he stepped around his desk, past Barnaby toward the hallway, the harsh overhead lights casting their spray of shadows where their reach found the twists and corners.

"Troy—"

"I'll see you tomorrow," Troy interrupted, already fishing for his mobile, regretting tossing it into his pocket. "Sir."

"Troy!"

It was mercifully vacant, just one or two people hurrying about and finishing their business, some of them perhaps able to enjoy a weekend that was certainly about to be denied him. How much of their argument had wafted out there, perhaps clearing the corridor? At least he could be sure he didn't hear Barnaby coming after him, still not knowing what—if anything—he was prepared to say to the man—

"Gavin?" But it wasn't the chief inspector, instead it was someone quieter, and female. He looked back to Audrey Brierley, taking a few fast steps towards him, her eyes wide as she still clutched a few folders in her hands. "Are you all right? I heard—"

"I'm fine," Troy said quickly. She'd raised her voice against him many times over the years, all those words with which he'd teased and annoyed her, wanting something from her that he had no right to ask, he understood that now. He couldn't find the words now, not when she might spit back that he should have found Cully earlier—because he should have done, when he found himself unattached, escorting her to the theater, should have held her closer then, and abandoned his fears of her father.

"No—"

"Look, I have to go." He couldn't stand here watching her watching him, wondering about everything she had clearly just overheard. "It doesn't matter here, anymore." And he turned away from her, at last finding his mobile again, flipping it open with one hand—his thumb scrolling through his most recent phone calls to her name, almost aching as he slammed the green button to dial her number.

Passing through the lobby—trying not to run—not even glancing at the duty officer still sitting at the desk, Troy wrenched open the door to the world still churning outside with a damp palm, not caring as it clanged shut with a squeal. All he knew was the ringing in his ear—once, twice, thrice—

"Gavin?"

How was it that Cully's voice set him at ease, everything suddenly simpler, just remembering her? "Are you at home?" he asked, his paces faster as he wound his way into the car park. Where had he left the damn thing when they final returned from the eternal unhappiness of Midsomer Worthy.

"Yes." He heard her take a deep breath. "Is something wrong? That sounded horrible at the end."

Still wandering between the vehicles, all of them somehow the same in harsh glare of the overhead lights, he said softly, "I need to talk to you."

"Of course."

Suddenly muffled, he thought he heard her call to someone else—probably her mum—"It's Gavin...I don't know." Then, louder again: "What is it?"

He couldn't say it here, almost shivering—quivering—in the night. "No, Cully—I need to talk to you. I need to see you."

"Of course. I'll be right over."

He shook his head, almost like she was standing before him already, his arms around her, ready to whisper such fateful words into her ear...Could he say it aloud, even if he had at last heard it echoing in his mind? "I'm about to leave the office. Just—stay there with your mum, I'll be there as soon as I can. Please?"

"Really, is something wrong? Don't shut me—"

"I'm not, Cully, but..." He couldn't do that again, never again. "Not over the phone. I need you."

"Of course," she said quietly, and he could nearly see her gathering her knees to her chest, closing herself in smaller and smaller. "I'll be here." It burned to close his mobile and push her voice aside, even for so short a time.

At last alone outside in the growing chill of the night, Troy pulled his suit coat closer, his hands already twitching. He was desperate for the sear in his throat and the heat threatening his fingertips as the tip of a fag burned lower and lower. He tasted the smoke on his tongue, and if she hadn't answered, Troy well knew he would have found himself at the corner shop, handing over a few pounds for a pack, smoking two, three, or four of them in rapid succession, calling her again and again until she finally answered. But no never matter, she already had, and he had never really doubted she would.

Finally finding his car, Troy yanked open the driver's door, throwing himself into seat and slamming the door with a bang. It drew him out of the deepest corners of his mind, to the evening and what lay ahead. A future he had never imagined? Shoving the key into the ignition, Troy was glad of the engine's grumbling into life; it drowned out the pounding in his ears, though not the screech of the tires. It wasn't the sound he needed to hear, not now.

* Sergeant Brierley, who has been very much a side character in this story, but is often featured in the books. Troy famously harassed her in the books, which I have attempted to demonstrate as toning down here as he grows up little by little.

A/N: For some reason, I think of "Collideascope" by The Dukes of Stratosphear as describing this chapter: a spell broken.