FINALE

"It will shine still brighter when night is about you. May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

—Galadriel, The Fellowship Of the Ring

New Roles In Love

17 July, 2005

Just beside Cully's ear, the alarm clock blared, cutting into her sleep. Rolling away from the noise and groaning into the early morning air, she threw one wrist up over her eyes. When she set the alarm the night before, out of breath and sweaty just like Gavin beside her, half seven felt so far in the future. Those last hours few hours of yesterday had miraculously slowed, and Cully had been happier than ever to remember every detail: his fingernails digging into her shoulders, her own moans, shuddering in time with Gavin, everything but their incoherent words.

But this morning, it was far too early. Blindly reaching for the side table—still trying to remember where everything was in the new flat—she slapped the top of the clock once, twice, thrice before it finally fell silent...at least for a few minutes. Turning onto her side again, she breathed deeply, trying not to think about the throbbing twinges growing beneath her temples after last night's wine.

Lying beside her on his back, quilt only half covering his chest, Gavin snored lightly as he often did; she'd grown used to it over the past few months, but every now and then, it did grate on her nerves. Not that she should complain, Cully knew, having smacked him with a hand or arm in her sleep more often than she should admit. "Gavin?" The snoring continued, unabated. "Gavin!" she said again, louder as she shook his shoulder.

He coughed, suddenly restless beneath the sheet and quilt. "Don't...What time is it?"

"Half seven. We talked about this last night."

Turning on his side toward her, his eyes were only half open, like he was drifting back to the final hours of last night. "Just a few more minutes..."

"Maybe if we'd finished more last night."

He slid closer, one of his hands drifting around her waist, still as hot as when they'd finally tumbled into bed last night after picking at dinner, both of their heads already a little turned by everything. "It couldn't be helped."

Cully almost laughed, not resisting as he tugged her to him, the heat of his body drawing fresh goosebumps from under her skin...yet again. "You said that before. You're a liar and you know it!"

The landlord handed them the keys to the mid-century flat two weeks ago, pushing the date back from the first of the month to halfway through. Gavin grumbled on about the man passing the landlord's exam and Cully rolled her eyes as she listened to him mutter as they unloaded the first boxes from the back seat of his car. And for two other people, maybe that would have been enough time to unpack and organize a small flat, even with the handful used pieces they had sought out after they emptied Gavin's old place. But a new murder landed on his desk the next day, leaving her father and him out on Midsomer's ancient winding roads, back and forth to Aspern Tallow from morning to late evening until it became obvious even to her dad that no answers awaited them, no matter the time and petrol wasted in desperate pursuit. And after nearly a fortnight, they had at last turned in the paperwork, the continual walking over the same ground—asking the same questions, exploring the crime scene again and again—declared finally and obviously useless. (Her father hadn't said much, it seemed, though he was unused to cases languishing until admitting defeat was inevitable.)

For her part, Cully found herself on the train to London more and more, voice-overs and commercial work plentiful hardly an hour from home...so long as she received a call back. At the beginning of the year, she was cast as one of the supporting actresses in Little Shop Of Horrors in Oxford, struggling through the voice lessons more than she wanted to admit. The weeks away from Causton had weighed on her more than she thought possible, missing Gavin more and more as each night whiled away in quiet conversation between them until hell week commenced and she had to be content with a few texts throughout the day, lonely as she collapsed into bed in the room she had let for the duration of the production. But these last two weeks saw them both returning to their new home late: tired, sometimes grumpy from the day, and ready to seek solace in bed and one another.

Last night was no different, apart from somehow being worse than usual. Cully had found herself returning home on a crowded mid-afternoon train after a rare and unexpected overnight stay in London due to a more complicated than usual recording session that languished through the evening on Friday. Gavin called her as she was nearly at Causton's train station, muttering on about another late evening at CID. "I think they're manufacturing more paperwork by the day," he'd said. "Start on things without me?"

"As you long as you don't moan about anything I decide."

"Would it make a difference?"

"It will if you're right."

After the taxi ride home, happily stepping through the front door into the next arc of her life—the next act, really—Cully sighed, falling against the front door as she twisted the lock into place. The small flat—front room and kitchen, bedroom and washroom, all of them showing their age—was still rather empty, most of their combined possessions still taped up in cardboard. Disorganized, scattered, and still so much left.

Over the next couple hours with a welcome cup of herbal tea to hand, she opened several of the packages still towered in the front room, piling spare towels and sheets into the small cupboard just outside the washroom and moving the final boxes of clothes into their bedroom. She hung hers on what was already her side of the closet, leaving Gavin's for him to organize; she'd quickly learned not to touch his clothes, his vanity something she'd come to accept as she found herself in his flat more and more, rather than the small one she'd let after leaving Causton turned impossible.

Nearly eight in the evening, already flagging from her long recording session over the last day and a half, Cully laid down on the settee, pushing the little bits of moving rubbish out of the way, just needing to close her eyes for a few minutes—until her mobile rang and dragged her from her short nap, the crust already scabbed in the corner of her eyes. Tugging her phone from her back jeans' pocket, almost catching her elbow on the back cushions, she didn't even look at the screen before answering. "Gavin?"

"Hey."

"Longer night than you thought?" she asked, pulling herself up with her other hand and squinting at the glare of the lamp on the end table.

"Truth will out."

"As long as you're not avoiding me."

At the other end of the line, he laughed softly. "Not after last night."

"Will you be home soon?"

"Yeah. Have you eaten dinner?"

Her head falling back against the top of the settee, Cully smiled. "You always ask me that."

"Well, have you?"

If he had been sitting beside her, the new growl from her stomach would have answered his question. "No—I was waiting for you."

"Sorry, love."

"Well, I was the one stuck in London overnight."

"If you'll take the blame, I'll let you."

"Oh, thank you." Even now, a year after he simply walked back into her life, she sometimes had to roll her eyes at the things he said, wondering whether he spoke without thinking or in jest.

"Look, I'll pick something up on the drive home."

Cully tried to rub away the grumbling in her belly. He was hoping to win the discussion, she knew, she'd discovered that so long ago. "Still know all your takeaway places?"

"It's useful on a night like this."

"I'm sure." Even when she complained at him, Cully struggled to stay annoyed with Gavin. Something about him was always so young, almost delicate. "I'll see you then."

"Bye."

Despite the work that remained and how eager she was to see Gavin, Cully couldn't resist lying back down, not even bothering to shove her mobile back into her pocket, instead dropping it onto the cushion beside her face. She tucked one of her hands beneath her ear, her eyes falling closed again as she took a deep breath. Everything finally smelled right: a little musky, the barest scent of the cigarettes Gavin still occasionally smoked whenever the day turned too stressful—and fancied he hid them better than he did. It was the smell of life and (usually) happiness, not the sterile stench of a hotel room that had no knowledge of the world twisting and turning outside its walls. That familiar warmth wrapped around her, her free hand tightening on the cushion beneath her face. Life together with Gavin had so quickly become home, wherever that was, and she smiled against the rough fabric. She'd missed him more than she thought she would after just one night; the hotel room had felt so lonely after all these months always eager to come home to him.

Cully was half-asleep when the front door's hinges squeaked—once as it opened, another time as it closed—a plastic bag rustling across the room, bringing her back to the evening as she rubbed the grit from her eyes. Her vision stayed blurry for a few seconds, still squinting into the lamp light—and she heard footsteps before she saw anyone. And when her eyes finally cleared, it was Gavin's face right before hers, just peering at her, a half smile on his mouth. "Hello," he murmured, running one of his hands over her shoulders.

"Hello," she answered before he kissed her lightly, his hand rising to her cheek.

"Sorry I'm so late."

As she drew herself upright again—his suit coat already vanished, though she wasn't certain where it had landed—Cully shook her head. "Well, I was a day late."

"No worries," he said, kissing her again. "But I'm sure you're as hungry as I am."

It was nothing less than she expected from Gavin: a greasy Indian takeaway—chicken tikka masala and naan, with a punnet of rice and mango chutney on the side—and a bottle of red wine in tow as well. Still warm enough, Cully found a pair of plates in the cupboards, only half-filled with their combined collection of dishes, not bothering to look for wine glasses, selecting water glasses instead, and happy he had remembered the plastic utensils from the restaurant. Even though they most often shared their evening meal at the kitchen table in his old flat—really theirs after almost six months—it was so covered with moving clutter, they opted to eat on the settee, their dinners balanced on their knees as they had for the last few days.

He asked about the marathon recording session—she inquired about the case he and her father had just set to the side and consigned to the bin of unsolved murders—as they just sat beside one another, the wine cutting through the oil and salt. Once or twice, Cully mentioned her thoughts about where one thing or another should land, the last things they should finish tonight before going to bed. Gavin was rather silent, nodding every now and then, sometimes offering his own opinion about where this or that should go—though Cully often rolled her eyes.

With every mouthful of wine, her mind grew fuzzier, the hunger in her stomach abating little by little—with another hunger rising in its stead. She tried to think on dinner, not the tightening in her belly, taking a larger sip of wine than before. But well before her plate was finished, she placed it on the coffee table, downing the last sip of the wine in her glass.

"Gavin?"

"What?" he asked around a mouthful of curry.

"I missed you."

He almost coughed before he swallowed, setting his plate beside hers on the lightly scratched table beside them, a recent purchase from a charity shop as they tried desperately to find everything they needed to fill out the new flat on his sergeant's salary and her admittedly unpredictable earnings. The one production at the Causton Playhouse she'd found a role in hadn't earned much to speak of, despite the sharp words she'd been able to fling across the stage. "It was only one night."

"But not expecting it..."

He laughed quietly, draining the last of his wine as well. "We can't expect everything in life, Cully, you know that."

He'd never said anything truer. Little more than a year ago, Cully hadn't even given him a thought, though the unhappier memories of their time together were already faded and nearly forgotten, time healing the wounds that arguments had dug into their souls. If not for that day, one moment when their paths crossed anew...She shivered thinking about what she might have lost. "Still—"

Gavin didn't let her answer, instead kissing her, pulling her against him with his palm on the small of her back. She was used to his heat, the warmth of him so close to her as she slept; a night without him had left her chilled, desperate to banish the cold from her veins and bones. (If she was honest, she even missed his dull snoring.) Now his hands rose beneath her wrinkled blouse—well worn after two days and one night as her only shirt—before finally sliding down along her side, drawing a soft laugh and shudder from deep beneath her skin. "Are you done?" he whispered, his palm threatening to to rise up the front of her chest.

Cully had to draw a deep breath before she managed an answer. "Yes." His hand found the bottom curve of her breast, kneading at it—and that breath vanished in a gasp as her belly tightened. "Gavin, what are you doing?"

"Hoping to make love to you."

Almost laughing, she dropped her forehead against his. "Isn't that most nights?"

"Yes," he murmured, his kisses traveling along her jaw, down her neck, lingering against her collarbone as her head fell back against her shoulders...only to feel his mouth lower and lower on her chest.

"But?" she managed, still almost gasping at his touches on her body, his free hand fiddling with her crumpled blouse, like it was desperate to feel everything that lay beneath.

"Maybe I just want you and everything to just myself for a little while longer."

"Gavin, we talked about it earlier this week."

He was already easing her back, the weight of his body now crushing her into the cushions, the first button at her throat twisted open between his fingers. "I know."

Her breath shuddered in her throat as her chest rose and fell faster against his. "Then why do you want to keep me all to yourself all of a sudden?"

"Maybe I'm used to it and I can't quite help it."

Another button came apart under his touch, Cully's pulse quickening, unable to look away from his pale eyes that somehow always captured her, like she was happily his prisoner. Somehow, somehow, he had her utterly, as he always did. "Just..." She had to start again after a gulp of air. "Just because you're used to it—"

"And maybe I like you right here."

"What, the last night before anyone else knows?"

"If you say so," he whispered against her neck, still pinning her down as his damp gasps on her skin drew a jolt from her muscles. And then Gavin's mouth was on her again—first against the swell of her neck, then lower along the skin of the top of her chest.

He was taking her breath away, as he so often did. How he did, Cully still didn't quite understand; sometimes, everything about Gavin that overwhelmed her seemed to burst from the darkness, sudden and utterly unexpected...almost impossible if it wasn't so real. "What—what else would you expect I would think?"

"No idea, but you already said 'yes', don't forget it."

"I can always say 'no' if you annoy me enough."

Another button fell open, his hand finding the top of one of her breasts, sliding lower over the curve. "But would you?"

Cully groaned, closing her eyes for a second as his fingers tightened and pinched her nipple. "No," she whispered as she opened her eyes again, Gavin's gaze still hungry and starving...like it almost always was when she caught him peering at her, no longer caring when anyone saw.

"So what's the matter?" he asked. His breath was harsher—choppy and rough—his other hand drifting down her body, searching as it usually did.

"Nothing, but we have things to finish before tomorrow afternoon."

Gavin's fingers wrapped around her jeans' waistband, again fiddling with the button before he found her hip anyway, kneading it before squeezing the muscle. "That's tomorrow, not now."

Her heart pounded harder and sharper, the rise of her body against him even more sharply—each breath faster, louder, raspier. Everything beneath her clothes was hot, ready to boil over onto her skin, and everywhere his hands and fingers danced, she shivered with the burn of his touch. It could all wait, couldn't it, if he was ready to devour her and she was ready to offer herself up to him? "Then not here, Gavin," she murmured against his ear, still shaking beneath him, "we've made enough mistakes right here."

"But I like mistakes with you."

"I know. But there's more room elsewhere."

Gavin's hand finally dove beneath that waistband, clenching her hip. "So? I like you here."

Her head pressed back into the cushions, opening the top of her throat and the base of her neck to him, shivering against his kisses. "Yes. Please, Gavin." She tried not to think about anything else—the next day, or the day after that, just now and him—them.

"It never can be," Gavin murmured, running one of his hands down her bare back and ignoring how she jumped with the ticklish shivers left in its wake. Neither of them had bothered to tug anything on last night, not wanting to wake up with skin left clammy under dried sweat trapped beneath clothes. "And you were just as eager—"

"Gavin!"

"Well, you were!"

She nearly blushed in a way she hadn't for almost a year. "I know, but—"

Cully yelped—but didn't resist as he finally pulled her atop him, nor as he drew her mouth down to his, searching for more than a simple kiss. It was all she wanted after the last days: a lazy Sunday morning in bed with him, but with everything waiting to be finished..."Not now, Gavin. There's too much left to do."

He sighed against her, kissing her cheek as his hand now drifted along her spine. "Can't we just ring them in an hour or so, and ask them to come next Sunday?"

"We already did that last week—and at least then it was because we were running behind because of your caseload!"

"It's not my fault we can't find things that aren't there."

"And it's not our fault, either!"

"So why not again?"

Cully pushed herself up—away from him—the weight of his gaze burning as it roved her bare frame, along every curve and soft bit of skin. "Because they might think we're trying to avoid them."

"Sometimes, I wish your parents were more like mine."

"Oh? Calling only when it suits them? Or vanishing to another county?"

"A little more...hands off, that's all I mean."

She ran her fingers through his hair, already wild and tousled through the night. "Well, I think you'll just have to get used to that now, unless you've changed your mind."

Gavin reached for her waist, his touch light and delicate before his hand rose along those ticklish patches on her sides, pulling another laugh from her as the shudders rumbled beneath her skin. "Never that, love." Cully couldn't resist him—deny him—any longer, falling back onto him, the same hunger from the night before still not quite satisfied.

But at last, a few minutes later, they pulled themselves from bed, Cully finding her forgotten pajamas in the bureau shoved into the far corner of their bedroom. It was one of the few bits of furniture drawn from her childhood bedroom; until she'd let the flat in Causton, she'd never lived in one place long enough or close enough to bring it with her. Gavin had instantly rolled his eyes at the worn bureau—though he hadn't said anything yet. Both their collections of nightclothes and underwear lived there, and after she pulled on underwear and a bra, searching for a t-shirt and pajamas, she felt his arms on her shoulders, falling to her middle, holding her tight against him. "I love you," he whispered against her neck.

No matter how often he said those words—and he frequently did, to her delight—they still left her stomach in a knot, just like the first time she heard them. He had to know how that simple sentence turned her head, sent her mind up into the clouds. Folding her palms around his wrists, she pushed them away, not that he resisted. "No distractions, Sergeant Troy."

His mouth still buried in the curve of her neck, Gavin whispered, "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Right now, it is. And the sooner we're both dressed, the sooner we can have this done."

The cafetière—alongside the electric kettle—was one of the first things they unpacked after the delayed receipt of the keys. Cully didn't hesitate with the brew this morning, both of them eager for a mug of coffee as the war zone in the flat finally came under some sense of control. The last of the dishes found their way into the cupboards, books and pictures found their homes on bookcases in the front room, and more boxes lay flattened in a stack, ready for the skip. Gavin at first tried to tuck the only picture of his family away into a far corner of the room, but Cully pulled it forward, beside the one of her with her parents just before she boarded the train to start her short years at Cambridge. "You tried to forget about him before, don't do it again."

"Well, letters don't seem to be doing much good," Gavin murmured over another mouthful of sweet milky coffee.

"Don't you have your father's phone number?"

"I might have to talk to him."

Setting her own mug of half-finished coffee on the table, Cully rolled her eyes even as she reached for his free hand. "He's still your father, Gavin, even if you don't always like him."

"I suppose."

"You don't sound convinced."

For once when they talked about his brother and father, he almost smiled. "I'm not. And I never like him.*"

As the morning grew later, they bickered back and forth, still uncertain where everything should be. For his part, Gavin sipped at his coffee, not arguing with her if she thought something should land somewhere other than where he thought; Barnaby had muttered more than once—even years ago—about her eye for unusual things. After the first few hours, he was content not to argue with her but just put things where she told him to. In the end, he didn't have any complaints...though perhaps he was happy to watch her meander around the flat rather than worry over anything himself. Or just to watch her at all.

By the time one in the afternoon approached, they had both changed out of their pajamas, presentable for a Sunday afternoon: a plain white blouse and jeans for her, a blue button up shirt over jeans for Gavin. At least he didn't bother with a tie, Cully thought. She hadn't bothered with makeup and Gavin didn't worry about shaving the stubbly beard that sometimes scratched at her face early in the morning. They were still straightening the last things when the buzzer rang, just a minute or so after the hour.

"They would be right on time," Gavin muttered, shoving one of the few remaining unopened boxes into the far corner of the front room.

"Would you think anything less?"

"Not after all this long."

Cully kissed him softly, lingering more than she dared to allow herself this morning. "I'll go fetch them—you can do the same when you finally invite your mum around for an afternoon."

It was quiet, but she heard him sigh against her mouth as he laced his hand through hers. "You're never going to let that go."

"And neither should you."

"You've only met her twice, Cully, that's not enough."

"And that's not the point," she whispered, tugging her hand away.

Her parents were waiting just outside on the street, her mother with a small colorful bag cradled in her elbow, a tuft of pale purple tissue paper peeking from the top. Her father had a rather stronger hug for her than usual; between boxing and taping up everything in both of their old flats and her more frequent trips to London—even before her unexpected overnight stay on Friday—it had been at least three weeks since she had seen either of them. She thought she heard him murmur he saw Gavin more often than her—and then her mother sigh before whispering, "Tom..."

It was only a couple of minutes to climb the two flights of stairs to the second floor flat, one of the middle units in a row of five. The building was several decades old, a few blocks from the edge of the city center, part of the building resurgence in the aftermath of the Second World War as Causton began to grow with the flight from nearby London. "Do you have much left to do?" her mother asked as they approached the front door.

"Some, after I was in town overnight."

"Gavin didn't finish everything for you?" her father asked.

Cully didn't bother to dignify his question with an answer, just rolling her eyes as she reached for the door knob, twisting it and pushing the door inward...to everything just as she'd left it, the boxes and chaos untouched. (Not that she was surprised.). In the kitchen half visible from the front door, just as she had done earlier, Gavin had brewed a pot of coffee, the cafetière still waiting to be pressed with four fresh, if mismatched, mugs waiting by its side alongside the milk and sugar he always craved in his own brew. His shirt was a little straighter, his sleeves rolled halfway up his lower arms, and his face tight. Why are you nervous? she thought, pulling the door closed behind her parents. We have to tell them eventually.

"Hello, Gavin," her mother said, handing the small bag to her father before she pulled the younger man into a short hug.

He was stiff in her mother's embrace, and Cully recognized the strained smile as he pulled himself back: it was the same one he had worn in the dressing room at that premiere, everything bubbling and boiling beneath the surface, still unable to break through into the light. "Are you having a nice weekend, um..."

"Yes, and I've told you before, please call me Joyce."

His face didn't change, though fortunately he didn't flush as he often had. Even if they tried to stop by her parents' home at the weekend—much more reasonable than them coming by the his flat, it had been so small—Gavin never acted as comfortable around her parents as she had managed to do with his mother. But then again, she remembered, he had never been paid to act for a living. "Right."

"We do have something for you," her father said quietly, holding the patterned bag out to her, the handles dangling from his fingers.

Taking it from him gently, it was heavier than Cully expected, a woody and damp scent rising from the crinkled paper. She thrust her hand to the bottom, finding a smooth vase—and a few branches and brambles scratching at her wrist as she pulled it from the paper. The blossoms were orange, almost red, purple veins running along the petals. "Oh, it's lovely, Dad," Cully said softly, nudging one of the short stems forward to see the full blossom, a soft waft of floral headiness rising to her nose, not quite a rose but something brighter, not so heavy, nothing she quite recognized.

Reaching for Gavin beside her, she squeezed his hand hard, digging her fingernails into his skin for a short second. Gavin! "Yes, very nice," he said quickly, returning her favor as best he could.

"Since you don't have a garden of your own."

Already looking over her shoulder at the windows that looked out over the road, Cully murmured, "I'm sure we'll find a spot with plenty of light." Well, perhaps not along any of those sills, facing the road and looking to the north side of Causton, but it might have to do.

"We just thought we'd return the favor."

"Ah—thank you." Cully bit back a quiet giggle: he remembered as well as she did the day he showed up to her parents' new home, a small potted cactus as a housewarming gift. Even all these years on, she still remembered—and hated—their strained words in front of her parents until they both left the kitchen, still debating the paint for the walls of the ground floor...and everything turned harsh and cold in the new solitude. "I guess it's hard to overwater this one?"

Oh, Gavin...You really do put your foot in your mouth when you needn't. They don't need to know how we killed the simplest plant from the shop.

"I hope you have better luck with it than I did," her father said quietly, coughing into his fist as his eyes drifted to her. "I think I tried to look after it a bit too much, when I didn't need to."

Even without him saying anything else—or her asking anything else—Cully knew. All the quiet comments—the unpleasant glances across the dinner table that Sunday evening as her own new memories of Gavin and passion burned under her cheeks—every whispered word from her father Gavin had ever confided in her...It was almost an apology, words never yet said despite the happiness of the last year. (Not that she and Gavin had avoided disagreements; her tendency to turn sharp and occasionally abrasive when mixed with Gavin's unconsidered words often lent itself to the most deliciously soothing evenings in lieu of whispered apologies. And none of their parents needed or wanted the details about those nights.)

"Gavin?" she said suddenly, setting the plant in its ceramic pot on the side table alongside the multicolored bag, "can you show Mum the kitchen?" His eyes narrowed, as though she had sprouted another head. "She might have some other thoughts on—whether we should rearrange the plates."

"What? But I thought you were finishing—"

"Please!" she said, widening her eyes as she waved him away toward the mostly organized kitchen. "It would be very nice of you." You're the policeman!

"Uh, yes," he managed after a second, taking the first few steps to the kitchen with a scratch at the collar of his shirt. As her mother followed, he went on: "We...well, ran out of time to really give a lot of thought to where everything belonged, what with Cully stuck in London overnight and the case running late..."

Cully heard her mother's questions fading away along with Gavin's stammers, and for a moment, she was almost nervous standing alone with her father. After more than a year, they'd never wandered down this path, finally looking back on everything that had passed between them. "Thank you," she said after a few seconds, squeezing his hand for a short second.

"What for?"

"For letting Mum keep you on your best behavior."

He cleared his throat. "She is not—"

"Then you're being very nice on your own," she interrupted, running a finger over the fragrant tiny blossoms sprouting from the cut stem, the scent still something she couldn't quite place. "And thank you."

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've had to learn it."

As her father dropped an arm over her shoulders, he kissed her cheek, the same sort she remembered from all those childhood afternoon and evenings when he suddenly vanished into the world with just a phone call—like sometimes Gavin did now—all those minutes she had never understood. "I like to learn, Cully, why wouldn't you think that?"

"I suppose you can't imagine a year ago being a good reason?"

"Well, some of us have changed," he added, pulling her closer. It was a lifetime of those embraces she remembered, the tight knit relationship between a father and a daughter, nothing between the years that lay behind them.

"Just some?"

He nearly smiled as he let her go. "All of us, I think."

Her father likely had no idea, at least yet; together, she and Gavin had agreed to tell her parents at the weekend—today—not an odd evening that found them stopping by. "You think?"

"I know, Cully."

They joined Gavin and her mum in the kitchen after a minute, Cully sighing at his attempts at brewing a pot of coffee and batting his hands away from the cafetière before finishing the brew herself. And as she expected, her mother had opinions on where this and that should go—half of it to be relocated if they listened—though Cully didn't file away too many of her comments. By the time they sat down around the worn table in the front room with their coffees in hand, chairs from the kitchen table borrowed for her parents, most of her half-helpful thoughts had run their course.

Beside Gavin on the settee, she sipped at her coffee, listening to her mum's continuing thoughts about the state of the flat, once or twice glancing at him. "We agreed we would tell them today," she whispered in his ear once as her her parents exchanged their own words, a little closer than she usually allowed them to see. "There's no point in holding back."

"Did you say something, Cully?" her father asked.

The flush was already spreading across her skin; why, she didn't understand. "Ah, no, I was just reminding Gavin about—"

The familiar, shrill squeal of a phone ringing in the front room cut through her words, both Gavin and her father searching for their mobiles. Gavin's was silent, but her father's rang anew, at last silent as he flipped it open. "Barnaby." His eyes were gone—somewhere else—already exploring a crime being described to him before he turned away, perhaps imagining the scene even before he saw it with his own eyes. "So it looks like...No?...And you don't know what it was yet, George?" Cully clenched Gavin's hand, her nails curling into his palm as he hissed. Just one normal day, that's all we needed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. His thumb danced across her skin, and somehow Cully wished she hadn't pulled them both out of bed so early this morning. As she prepared to say farewell to her father and her fiancé, perhaps addressing the lingering chaos hadn't been worth it, if Gavin was about to disappear into the county for...well, only time would tell.

"I know. Just...I wish we'd had time to tell them."

("So you've eliminated all the most common?")

"There's always tonight, Cully," Gavin murmured. "After all, we won't be out chasing a new murderer forever."

"You always seem to be running into them."

"At least they don't follow me home."

"You mean, you hope they don't."

"I'm not the one who always brings work home."

"Oh, you mean all my lines?"

"You said it, I didn't."

("Of course...All right, we'll see you there.")

"You didn't need to," Cully snapped, though she wanted to snatch them back. She hadn't meant to be so sharp, the words had simply tumbled from her mouth.

"After—that last play came through town—"

"So you don't even remember the title after helping me learn my lines?"

"It's not my job to remember your work—"

"But you'll tell me all about yours?"

"You usually ask."

"Not always, sometimes you just talk about your cases through dinner!"

Across from the two of them, her mother took another sip of coffee, shaking her head gently. "Children," she whispered. Cully still thought she saw a smile behind the mug.

Across the room, her father cleared his throat, pulling them out of their own tiny world. "Sorry, Cully—Gavin." Even after all these months, Gavin's name was still sometimes awkward, rolling off his tongue. "The rest of the tour is going to have to wait. Badger's Drift is calling again."

"I hate that bloody village," Gavin muttered, setting his mug on the table beside hers, his fingers lingering against her hand for a second. "Nothing good ever happens there. Maybe everything...another day?"

"Gavin," Cully said quietly again, "we talked about this." Then, louder, "Dad, there's just one more thing—"

"I think it will have to wait, Cully, whatever it is."

She knew better than to continue after a lifetime of watching her father stand up and walk out of family gatherings—holidays—school plays—unhappy to go but unable to stay. Instead, Cully contented herself with a hug for him and a goodbye kiss for Gavin, just whispering, "I'll see you tonight," and not letting herself sigh until he and her father both gathered their keys and mobiles and the front door to the flat snapped closed. "Of course," she groaned, not shying away as her mother changed seats, finding a place on the settee beside her.

With an arm around her shoulder, her mum squeezed her close and offered half a hug. "Cully, you know these things happen."

Cully let out another deep breath as she leaned in, trying to release the frustration. "But it's like we can never get a break."

"You knew what you were getting yourself into."

"It's just always at the worst time, Mum."

"It always feels like that."

Loosing herself, Cully reached for her coffee again, folding her palms around the warm ceramic. "But—you remember, a few weeks ago."

"A few things have happened since then. How many times have they found themselves in Aspern Tallow?"

"I know, but even with...even in Edinburgh—just for that long weekend—he still scoured the paper every morning for anything about that murder the morning we left. And called Dad two or three times to learn what wasn't in the papers."

"You have things going for you."

Another sip of coffee wasn't as soothing as Cully hoped, acrid and cool on an early summer afternoon. "I'm just hoping he'll sit the exam eventually, but maybe not right now."

"You know that might just make it worse."

She grinned against the mug. At the very least, Gavin knew how to hold work at arm's length. All through the winter holidays, when her father's mobile was ever present as they all wished each other Happy Christmas over Christmas dinner at her parents' house ahead of paying an obligatory visit to his mum's house that evening, Gavin's phone was off, shoved into his pocket as he was happy to ignore it for the rest of the day. "Maybe. After all these years working with Dad, he might become one, someday."

"Your father was married to his work from the start, long before we got married."

Cully tried to laugh at her mother's words, but somehow, it didn't strike the frustration—the annoyance—of Gavin's departure yet again, even if she knew it couldn't be helped. "I know, I know."

"And promptly disappeared to go chase down the murderer, right after we were married," her mum went on.

"Well, I certainly hope Gavin doesn't do that," Cully muttered, almost sputtering against the now tepid coffee as she heard her own words. They'd hoped to do everything together, but...

"Oh?" her mother asked, reaching for her hand, folding their fingers together. "Is that the 'one more thing' you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes..."

X X X

"So Badger's Drift, sir?" Troy asked, pushing the car into reverse a little faster than he intended to, his eyes only half flickering to any of the mirrors.

"Quite," Barnaby said, one of his hands already clutching the door. "A middle-aged woman found dead by her cleaning lady."

Troy shivered, long buried memories of blood and slashes rising in his eyes anew. "Don't tell me it's like—what were their names again?" With the first turn onto the main south road out of Causton, he found the name again, buried deep in his mind alongside the retching he had hardly suppressed upon seeing her slit throat, the gash in his chest: Rainbird.

"No, thank god."

With the first turn onto the road that veered to the east, Troy muttered, "Never thought I'd see something that vicious."

"Well, you were young, Troy, and even more inexperienced than you are now."

Over the last few months, Barnaby had had more and more of those comments for him, constant little reminders as the opportunity to sit the inspector's exam approached. "I suppose."

"But there's no obvious violence as Bullard tells it," the chief inspector went on. "In good health from the neighbors' description—just some discoloration and symptoms he can't immediately identify."

"So for once, he's willing to say he's not sure?"

"I have infinite respect for George Bullard, as should you," Barnaby muttered. "Just keep your eyes on where we're going for once."

"Sorry, sir." Gazing down the road, it was half empty, unusual even for a Sunday afternoon. Troy could hardly make out the next car, though he knew they were gaining on it rapidly as it dawdled. Old man, Troy thought, glancing over his shoulder before he wrenched the wheel over and pressed his foot more heavily on the accelerator. He ignored Barnaby's sudden hiss of breath as they roared past the slower car. "So it's poison, sir?"

"Seems like it." The chief inspector's voice was tighter. "And that leaves us in the dark about the actual substance until the toxicology report comes through."

Troy turned the steering wheel over again, just as sharply as before. Already, the outer edge of Causton was approaching, giving way to the wilder countryside that dominated Midsomer's rural hills and fields. "So a few days on a wild goose chase, then?"

"There'll be plenty to investigate," Barnaby muttered, his eyes straight ahead, watching for the first fork approaching in the road. "A wealthy woman has heirs—all of whom are now suspects in a murder apparently committed by someone who walked through walls."

He nearly laughed. "I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

"I don't—but I do believe in arresting poisoners who think they're clever enough to outsmart us."

The next miles ambled on, trees now rising on either side of the road, no longer trimmed or controlled. It was harsher, just sitting in the small car with the chief inspector, remembering what Cully and he had discussed these last few weeks, talking everything over again and again, sometimes forgetting the need to talk at all. "Sir, I was just thinking—remembering, I guess." God, he wasn't quite ready to say any of this. "I could be wrong. I mean—"

"Cat got your tongue?" Barnaby interrupted, not bothering to look at him, still staring straight ahead down the road.

"No, sir. I'm just trying to remember what Cully told me—a little while ago. That when—you and her mother—got—that is..."

Barnaby chuckled for a second. "Indeed, the Pimlico Poisoner. She's never entirely forgiven me for that, even this many years on."

"I'm sure."

The next turn was almost nauseating, a sharp curve on the road neither of them remembered in spite of how many times they had been called to Badger's Drift over all these years. "Yes, Troy, this has all happened before.** And Joyce will be the first to tell you I said 'I've got it', not 'I do'."

Troy's stomach tightened. He hadn't quite meant to say that, no matter what the plans for today had been. "That's not precisely what I meant."

"And that stage would make more sense, wouldn't it? You really do need to be more cautious with what you say."

"Yes, sir. And, well, we already—"

"Don't worry," Barnaby interrupted. "I won't say a word."

It's not that, sir! Troy desperately wanted to shout. We've already talked about this...I can't even remember when it started. "Right," was all he managed, just struggling to remember the road, not the man who had despised him for loving his daughter so many months ago.

With another turn, again clutching the door—just visible out of the corner of Troy's eye—Barnaby laughed again. "What's so funny, sir?"

"Somehow, we're heading back to Badger's Drift."

"What of it?"

"It's just so fitting, isn't it? One of our very first cases together investigated there, and now you tell me you want to marry my daughter as we're heading out there again."

Troy hissed, a new weight on the accelerator. "You don't need to remind me that I spend more time with her than you do. Again."

"That isn't the point."

His hands twisted faster than he wanted, his right almost slipping on the steering wheel. "Maybe, but next time I'll keep my thoughts to myself."

"No, you were right to tell me."

"Hmm?"

"As I expect you both were planning to—"

"Sir—"

"But now I know how much more I need to correct your driving."

With another annoyed sigh, Troy swerved into another curve on the road, rocks and deadened leaves squealing beneath the tires. "Cully was right, sir, when she said you're impossible."

"Perhaps. But she's just like her mother."

It couldn't be that far before the southeast corner of the county emerged, and maybe his mind could be off Barnaby's endless comments. "How so?" Troy asked, ticking the turn signal to the left and again turning the wheel over faster than he meant, trying to keep his gaze on the bushes lining the rural road before the wheels spun too far—too harsh—out of his control.

Beside him, the chief inspector drew a heavy breath—just at the edge of his eye, reaching for the surer grab handle above the door. "She couldn't be married to anyone but a policeman, either.*** I just don't want to see her in a roadside ditch like we've been before, Troy."

"It's not quite that—" The sound of livestock pulled Troy's eyes back to the road, a herd of sheep crossing the grey pavement a few yards down the road, their bleating heightened as he slammed his foot on the brake, squealing to a halt perhaps a foot before the one closest to them. The nearest turned, bleating at the car with what could only be a scowl. "Sorry, sir—"

"For god's sake, man, if you want to marry her, at least stay alive long enough to ask!"

Troy was silent, glancing into the mirror and then over his shoulder as he took the first bumpy turn off the main road as the herd drifted into their new field, away from the countryside's verdant lawns on either side, trees and fens and moors. The signs announcing the distance to Badger's Drift made their first appearance, metamorphosing from blue letters on white metal to names and numbers carved in low-set round stones, ancient rural markers long forgotten by the modern curators of England's roads. He knew his knuckles were growing white, tightening as he struggled for words. "What makes you think I haven't already done?"

"And what did she say?" Barnaby asked quietly.

It was another curve along the road, the next turn hidden within trees and their branches out of control, the rocks and gravel from the roadside thrown up on the road as the car's tires crunched over top: the future and new days coming closer and closer, rounding back to the beginning of all things. "What do you think, sir?"

THE END

* Despite this, I stand by what my therapist told me years ago: you are not obligated to love your family.

** Scooby Doo: Mystery Incorporated, across many episodes. Dang, but I still love that show.

*** Paraphrase from "Death's Shadow", S02E01

A/N: Well, we've finally reached the end. I didn't imagine this story would take this much time or grow to be so long, but...it is what it is. In many ways, taking so long to write it may have helped, since I definitely went through some personal experiences along the way that I think made me able to give the plot a lil' bit more nuance. I hope anyone who has come along the journey of this story can at least say they saw growth, whether for my writing or the characters. Or at least that neither went backwards. Or at least that they enjoyed it. I didn't want this epilogue to take so long, but I lost three weeks working time between realizing Chapter 80 was completely unnecessary and my parents visiting. And at that point, I just didn't want to totally spaff it.

I am self-aware that it reads like draft 1.24, not draft 3. I know some locales have mysteriously evolved (but the show doesn't seem too concerned with the continuity of spaces either), terminology has been fluid (the reality of the UK and US being two countries divided by a common language), and there has been uneven plotting alongside some of the feelings kind of getting beaten over your head (the woes of doing this serially). Certain themes such as trust vs. betrayal truly emerged in the middle and are not really reflected in the beginning (but happily relationships in the beginning were neither advanced nor strained enough to be tested by either, so it's not totally jarring...or so I tell myself). The attempt to create a real family background for Troy that didn't make me reread the books appeared in the last third and had to be ret-conned in. But I at least have learned some things and had fun, most of the time. I mean, I'm assuming anyone who was along for the whole ride just wanted to see Cully and Troy together and adorable at the end. I hope I delivered, with a boatload of human emotions along the way?