What She's Made Of

Genre: Family, Angst, FUTURE FIC

Pairings: Greg and Molly, Rosie and Julian, both backround

Main characters: Greg and adult Greer

Minor warning: Two bad words said in angsty context

Greer stood outside the pub door, her gut telling her this is where she'd find him.

Police Sergeant Greer Lestrade wasn't just a daddy's girl, she was well and truly her father's daughter. For as well as Greg knew her, she knew her dad just as well. She'd grown up knowing him, after all.

She knew his habits, his moods, his mannerisms. She knew inflections in his voice, the subtle muscle twitches in his face, she could read his moods and very nearly read his thoughts, but most of all, she knew his heart, and his deep rooted dedication to all things that meant something to him.

She could read her dad like a bloody book. And her dad – indeed everyone in CID – had had a bloody awful shit kicker of a day.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out with resolve, she pushed on the door and walked in.

Stopping at the bar to pick up a scotch – neat – and a pint of Greg's preferred ale, she paid her tab and his, then smiled at the barmaid warmly. She paused to consider what she knew about the day, running it through her head, analyzing it, then finally proceeded to the corner table - what had become known by the staff and close friends and fellow Yarders alike as the "Lestrade Family Nook".

She stopped before sitting down, watching her dad for a few moments, thinking, taking in the subtle clues she was receiving.

"Another round, Sir?" she finally asked, still waiting patiently. When Greg failed to notice her standing there, she set the glasses down, then sat down.

"DCI Lestrade, Sir? Your daughter wishes to have a word, if convenient, Sir. If NOT convenient, she wishes to have a word anyway."

Greg finally seemed to break out of his own thoughts, looking up. He gave Greer a sad, exhausted half smile.

"Sergeant," he said, then, "thanks, Little Love."

"Anytime, Daddy," she said, sitting down and scootching close to him. "So," she started lightly, hoping to give herself more chance to read him. "We've had a bit of a day of it, haven't we." She paused a second to take a sip from her tumbler.

"You could say that, Greer. It isn't every day we lose…" he trailed off, his voice catching unexpectedly.

"Yeah," she said, placing her hand on the table and sliding it over to rest on top of his. "It's a dark, dark day, Dad. In case you're worried, I'm not actually in a good mood. I'm only just in a bearable one… but I've gotten a few things from you, besides your eyes and your height. I got that good old reliable Lestrade stiff upper lip." She took another small sip. "If you're wondering, I've already reported to Julian and when I asked him for permission to speak freely, and he granted it… well I'm afraid all professional decorum went rather pear shaped. That's about when I turned into a blubbering bundle of snot and tears."

"And how did Julian take it?"

"Well, given that Rosie is busy this week on a course, he threw out all protocol, and our favourite Detective Sergeant fell apart along with me, on my shoulder. It happens with family," she said softly, matter of factly. She huffed a humourless laugh. "Snot and tears are the great unifier between the ranks. We're all human after all, aren't we."

They were quiet for a few minutes, lost in thought, the only sounds at their table the soft clink of glasses being set down on the worn hardwood.

"Two young uniforms and a Detective Constable," Greg finally said. "You know Little Love, I think the worst of it for me isn't so much that we've lost three good people in their prime today… it's that my daughter and my nephew are now in the line of fire every single day. I could handle it until you and Julian joined up. And now here you are, two weeks away from detective school, Julian is a bloody Detective Sergeant, and it's not feeling any better."

"Dad," Greer said carefully, before lifting her glass for another sip, then setting it down to twirl it thoughtfully, "Do you worry about yourself when you're in danger? How many countless times over the years has that happened? Or do you just do your job as best you can, and leave the bloody aftermath for later?"

Greg closed his eyes, smiling to himself with resignation.

"I do my job as expected, of course. If I worried about my own safety every time I stepped into the field I'd be bloody useless as a copper."

"EXACTLY, Daddy," Greer said, grasping his arm and snugging up to him. She gave him a reassuring squeeze, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment. "I don't worry about myself and neither does Julian. YOU taught me everything I needed to know to be a bloody kickass copper, years before I ever went to Hendon. You taught me that I was a strong girl, that I take after you and Mum, you taught me that where there is breath there is life and goddamnit daddy we're still breathing. After a day that has gone completely to shit, we. are. still. breathing."

Greer paused as her breath threatened to catch, and she allowed her eyes to mist over, surrendering to the remnants of her emotions from earlier in the day.

"Within the week we'll be in our dress uniforms and we'll be watching three of our own carried by eighteen of THEIR own," she said thickly, as she impatiently brushed away tears, her voice breaking. "And it's going to be bloody fucking hard. But we're going to do it. I can do it, Daddy," she breathed softly, "because you taught me. You taught me how to, but most importantly you raised me to be someone who CAN."

Greg smiled weakly, turning to look his daughter in the eyes. "When did you get so bloody wise, Little Love?" he asked with tired wonder.

"The old man," she said casually, clearing her throat, grateful that her minor aftershock of emotion had passed for the moment. "He's a bit wise himself. Word has it I'm quite a lot like him, too. I'm a bit proud of that fact, myself," she said, hoping to put forth the sort of strength she knew her dad needed to see from her right about now.

"Really," Greg said. "Well word has it he's bloody proud of you himself. Word further has it that he should also know better than to worry about what sort of mettle you're made of."

Greer smiled briefly, then turned her expression curious, before looking at him again.

"Oh?" she asked. "And how should he know that?"

Greg sighed, giving his daughter a half smile. He jabbed his thumb towards her tumbler, saying, "Any lass who takes her scotch neat is a force to be reckoned with."

He watched her as she gazed into the amber pool in her tumbler, her mouth twitching in deep thought. "Well, then, I hope that he also knows she's right where she wants to be, without a single doubt or fear."

Greg smiled softly as Greer leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"He knows, Little Love. No worries. He knows."