A/N: Warning to readers who may be, like the author herself, sarcastic and/or cynical: this chapter has an unusually high level of shmoop content, which may be toxic to some. In other words, "Promised warm fuzzies herein."

Chapter Six: Greeks Bearing Gifts*

"Here's hoping this goes better than last time," Gerry mutters, pulling out a chair at the table set for five. "You'd think if he's only going to treat us once every four years or so, he could splash out a bit."

"That's what I like to see, Gerry." Sandra smirks as she settles between Brian and the empty place. "Gratitude."

"Maybe he only eats one type of food," Brian suggests from his seat between Sandra and Gerry. "Have any of you ever actually seen him eat anything?"

"Only if coffee counts," Jack replies darkly.

"Here he is, so behave, you lot." As she speaks, Sandra offers a muted smile to her boss.

"Ah, sir," Jack greets Strickland, rising to shake the younger man's hand. Sandra doesn't fail to notice that Jack is pouring the hail-fellow-well-met on a bit, as if to obliterate the memory of their last, aborted attempt to share a meal here with the D.A.C. Fortunately this evening there isn't a Hanson in sight.

"Everyone likes Greek food?" Strickland asks blithely as he settles in, tuning a brighter smile on Sandra.

"It'd be a bit too late if we didn't," Brian mumbles at his menu, just loudly enough for everyone to hear. Sandra shoots a glare in his direction before turning one of her radiant, all-teeth smiles on her superior.

"These three are old bill, sir. They'll eat anything."

Strickland nods as he reaches for a warm piece of pita bread. "I know a meal isn't much, but I wanted to do something to recognise your recent exceptional work. That you were able to solve both the CredEx bank robbery and the murder of one of London's most notorious underworld figures is an achievement that truly demonstrates both the high calibre of your skillset and your outstanding work ethic. Not that I'm surprised." He focuses on the gov. "It's seldom anything other than a great pleasure to have UCOS in my section."

Gerry and Jack exchange a glance. Do you think he wrote that out and memorized it?

"Thank you, sir."

"Sandra, after all this time, I don't think the police hierarchy would collapse if you called me Rob on occasion."

This time Brian, Jack, and Gerry all share a significant look. Bloody hell, again?

Sandra's smile dims slightly, but she simply sips her water.

The meal is uneventful and even reasonably pleasant. Gerry, Brian, and Jack each get their respective moment in the sun as they recount rather colourful anecdotes from their long careers, but Strickland opens the floodgates when he asks, "So Jack, what was D.S. Sandra Pullman like?"

"She hasn't changed," Jack replies briefly, meeting the eyes of the woman in question. "She was a good copper."

Jack isn't exactly one for handing out effusive praise. Gerry watches the soft smile that curves Sandra's wide mouth.

Uh-oh, Gerald. Don't focus on her mouth.

It's Thursday, and Gerry would be telling a hell of a porky if he denied being extremely, er, interested in how Sandra is planning – or not planning – to end the evening. They haven't had a real conversation about anything not work-related in the last seven days, and while she has been treating him more or less normally, he can't tell what she's thinking.

God knows he's been trying. Gerry Standing has been on his very, very best behaviour.

Fortunately Jack distracts him by telling them how Sandra reacted when, on her first murder inquiry, the chief suspect she was questioning stopped the interview and asked her, none too politely, to "Get me a cuppa rosie and a biscuit, would you, sweetheart?"

"He went down," Sandra puts in smugly, finishing the last of the white wine in her glass.

"For murder?" Gerry asks, propping his elbows on the table. "Or for callin' you sweetheart, gov?"

"You lived to tell the tale," Brian points out.

"Barely," Sandra shoots back, and they all laugh as Strickland looks on, bemused.

"That was very nice, sir," Sandra says as she and the D.A.C. lead the way out into the now rain-soaked evening. She reaches instinctively for her umbrella and realizes it's innocently and uselessly propped up in the corner of her office. Before she even has time to swear, she finds herself beneath the shelter of her boss's brolly.

"Cheers, thanks, sir," she says with a quick smile.

"Rob." The single word is emphatic. "It's early yet. Can I buy you a drink, Sandra?"

She hesitates for only an instant, but Gerry pipes up from behind them. "I think we're all heading to the pub, aren't we, lads? So you come along with us and we'll buy you one."

Strickland doesn't look wildly thrilled, but he readily agrees. After all, Gerry thinks, Sandra is sharing his umbrella as they walk down the rain-spattered street. Pillock, Gerry mentally adds, ducking into a doorway where it's dry enough to light a cigarette.

At the pub there are no empty tables, so Strickland gets Sandra all to himself at one end of the highly polished bar, while Gerry is stuck way down at the other end, with Jack, Brian, and Strickland himself separating him from the governor.

It's fine, he thinks, sipping the foam from the surface of his pint. She's not stupid; she won't go home with the D.A.C.

Nah, but she'll go home with you, which is entirely different, is it?

He wants to insist to that extremely irritating little voice that it is different, because they've known each other for so long and they're friends as well as colleagues and… and…

Bollocks.

Maybe Gerry is just imagining things. He's doing that thing blokes do: he wants to sleep with Sandra, so he thinks every other man in the place (Jack and Brian excepted) wants to shag her rotten too.

"That's getting a bit thick for me," comments Brian as he comes around to stand on the other side of Gerry.

"What, Strickland trying to pull her?" Jack puts in, hellishly amused.

"Maybe we should go over there," Gerry manages through clenched teeth.

Jack raises his eyebrows. "I don't think she'd appreciate that, do you? She can look after herself."

"And maybe she doesn't want us interfering anyway." Brian is crunching through a dish of bar snacks, leaving peanut and pretzel detritus in his wake.

That's exactly what Gerry's afraid of.

He has no claim on Sandra. She's certainly not interested in asserting any claim on him – but who are they kidding? She doesn't have to. It's not as if scores of women are beating his door down. He's chuffed not to have to trawl online poker sites any more.

She'd pretty much told Gerry that being with him was a step above shagging a total stranger.

Strickland's not a stranger.

A bit of a ponce, yeah.

Gerry looks over at the D.A.C. and his governor. Their heads are tilted together and he has his hand on her shoulder.

Scratch that. Total ponce.

But well-educated, Sandra's age, and probably not a total fright to look at, if you like that sort of thing (which Gerry doesn't, at all).

Brian drains his tonic water. "Jack, fancy giving me a lift home?"

"I can think of nothing I'd like better," he responds drily.

Sandra has turned on her bar stool. "You're off?" As the other two say their good-nights to Strickland, Sandra sips her wine and regards Gerry steadily. "You too, then?"

The question is totally casual, he thinks, and he can't read her expression. "I might hang about for a bit."

She smiles slightly. Is she amused by him, or pleased? "Then have another drink," she invites. "My shout."

"Nah, I've got it." He orders another, and as he stands waiting, he watches Sandra and the D.A.C. gather their belongings and move to a vacated two-person table. Sandra tosses her coat over the back of one of the chairs and immediately draws up a third. Strickland asks a question and she gestures toward Gerry as she responds. Strickland's expression is not that of a man best pleased.

Good, Gerry thinks gleefully. Let's keep it that way. He may not go happy tonight, but he'll consider a minor victory won as long as the other man doesn't either. He seizes his second pint and saunters over to the table.

Twenty minutes later he has realized that this is set to be a war of attrition. Strickland isn't going to make a move on Sandra in front of Gerry, since to do so would be an enormous cock-up, professionally speaking. Neither is he going to leave before Gerry. The older man is starting to worry about how long he can hang about before Strickland gets suspicious. He'll park outside and wait it out in the Stag, if he has to, before he leaves the field of battle.

Sandra excuses herself to go to the toilet, and Gerry sees an opportunity. He pulls his cigarettes from his pocket. "Just popping out," he breezily informs Strickland, whose back is to both the entrance and the door that leads down to the toilets. Gerry crosses the pub, glancing back once at the D.A.C. for safety's sake, then trots down the stairs.

Sandra does a double-take when she emerges from the loo. "Taken to hanging round the ladies' for a cheap thrill, Gerald?" she asks lightly.

"Just be straight with me, right? Robby boy out there has stuck himself in for the duration, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I wasn't really planning to leave any time soon myself. So which one of us do you want just to piss off?"

Her eyes glimmer. "How do you know it isn't both of you?"

"I don't," he admits frankly. "I'm not a mind-reader. So do you want me to go home, drink me Ovaltine, and leave you to lover boy out there?"

Unmistakably, Sandra Pullman giggles. Then she says what currently seems to Gerry Standing like the sweetest word in the English language: "No."

"No?" he repeats, wanting to watch her lips again form the single syllable.

She smiles softly. "No."

He allows his eyes to close briefly at the overwhelming release. "After that Eddie Bracknell balls-up, I didn't know if you'd ever want –"

"Shh." Her fingers are cool and so smooth against his lips. "Don't, Gerry, not now."

In response he catches her hand in his and presses a kiss to her fingertips. There are other things he wants to tell her about why he kept information from her, but he knows she doesn't want to hear them. Not now, anyway.

Her sweet smile turns devious. "You're just lucky it's Thursday, Don Juan," she says, "and not, say, Friday or Wednesday."

"Lucky me." He doesn't want to let her go, but they can't just stay here outside the toilets. Strickland will already be wondering what's keeping Sandra. "Lucky, lucky me."

"How do you suggest we get rid of Strickland?"

"Go back up there and start talking about your girlfriend."

Those big blue eyes roll toward the ceiling. "Say you're paralytic and ask me for a ride home," she retorts.

"He'd have me in a cab in under sixty seconds."

"Not if I had anything to say about it."

Sandra is giving him that one-sided smirk, and the look in her eyes is devilish but affectionate, and Gerry throws aloft a little prayer of thanksgiving, just in case there's someone up there listening. Yes, he's itching to touch her, and now that he knows he's going to get to the waiting won't be any easier. But it's the laughter and warmth in her eyes that finally eases the knot of tension that has taken up residence somewhere near his small intestine.

"We should go back."

She sounds reluctant, which thrills him. "You first, and I'll follow."

"Right." Sandra doesn't turn away immediately, though. Instead she runs her fingers down his brightly coloured tie and lightly smoothes the still-crisp fabric of his dress shirt where it covers his sternum. She must notice how his breath hitches. It's a soothing gesture, but has totally the opposite effect on him.

He waits for a couple of minutes before heading up to rejoin their little three-handed game. What he sees from the top of the stairs makes his eyebrows leap toward his hairline.

There are already three people at their table: Strickland, Sandra, and Frank Patterson.

For a split second he wants to stomp his feet; then he takes in Strickland's rigid posture and lowering brow, and chortles. If anyone can dislodge the D.A.C. from Sandra, it's Patterson, who is certainly not Strickland's favourite person.

"Oh, hello, Frank," Gerry greets him magnanimously. Strickland is just rising. "You going so soon, sir?" From the corner of his eye Gerry sees Sandra shoot him a warning look, but he also sees the grin she's fighting to hide.

"Ah, yes, I really must be off home. Early morning tomorrow." He directs his body toward the superintendent, doing his best to exclude the two other men. "May I offer you a ride home, Sandra? It's not out of my way."

The grin has been suppressed to be replaced by a guileless smile. "Oh, thank you, sir, but I have my car, and I'm well under the limit."

Take that, Strickers, Gerry thinks, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. I may be older, a bit fatter, hell, shorter than you, mate, but she's chosen me, and you don't even realize it.

The D.A.C. now has no choice but to retreat, which he does by clearing his throat and announcing that he'll see the two of them in the morning, just as if this was exactly what he'd planned all along. "Thanks again for the meal, sir," Gerry calls after him very politely before turning to Patterson and flashing him a toothy smile. "Buy you a drink, mate?"

"No, no, this one's my shout. Can I get you another? Sandra?"

They shake their heads.

With Strickland gone, Gerry edges slightly closer to the gov, and she pretends not to notice, but when his angled knee brushes against the outside of her leg, she presses back lightly and looks directly into his eyes. The message is clear: Get rid of Frank.

There's the rub. Frank unwittingly ousted Strickland, but the former detective is the human barnacle of all time, as Gerry knows only too well. Generally he doesn't mind a few hours in the other man's presence, but when there's a warm, sexy, willing woman giving Gerry an impatient look, there's no contest.

And this isn't just any woman. It's Sandra, Gerry's fantasy miraculously made reality.

Suddenly Gerry decides that four weeks is his absolute limit. He can't wait another hour; hell, he can't wait ten minutes. This is agony. Frank or no Frank, he has to touch her, has to kiss her. He has a crazed memory of listening to a villain rattling on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs, and knows he needs Sandra as much as he needs air to breathe. He has to get her alone, or he'll have no choice but to haul her into his lap and stick his tongue down her throat in the middle of their local – and then she'll murder him, which will be advantageous to neither party.

Frank reaches for his crumpled pack of fags; consternation spreads across his face as he realizes he's smoked the last one. "Oi, Gerry, give us a fag, would you?"

"Sorry, mate, I'm all out. You could nip round the corner." Gerry can predict the behavior of a nicotine addict, and as Frank stands, he holds out a tenner. "Marlboro," he reminds the other man, despite the fact that the pack shoved deep in his jacket pocket is currently almost full.

Before Frank is fully out the door, Sandra has disappeared down the stairs again, and Gerry follows, thinking, That's my girl. The knowledge that she's as impatient as he is does nothing to quell his enthusiasm.

She is standing in the deep shadows at the far end of the short corridor, hip braced on the open door of the disused call box, expectant. They share a wide grin before Gerry moves, and then they are tangled in one another's arms like a couple of adolescents and the door is banging shut behind him, secluding them in the murky world of the call box.

Her open mouth is warm and eager, challenging as always as she surges against him, and Gerry lets his hands roam over her back and her hips. The weight of his body is pressing her against the wood and glass panes at her back, determined to get as close to her as possible, and still Sandra is tugging at him, pulling him painfully close, determined not to be outdone. His hands shake as he relearns the contours of her body through the barriers of her clothing, and when she tears her mouth away from his and sinks her teeth sharply into the tendon at the side of his neck, he's a goner. His eyes fly open as her tongue laps at his skin, soothing away the sting.

And that's when he sees it, or thinks he does. His vision swims, distorted by the grimy glass, and he blinks rapidly. When he opens his eyes again the corridor as he sees it over Sandra's shoulder is reassuringly empty.

Right, then; it was just his fevered imagination playing horrible tricks on him. Frank Patterson may look a bit like a deranged elf, but Gerry's quite sure he has no magical powers of appearing and vanishing. He releases a pent-up breath.

That decides it: he hasn't seen Frank in the hallway, peering lewdly at Sandra and himself.

Now that Gerry has gone still, Sandra steps back, instinctively bringing her fingers up to press against her tingling lips. She is flushed, slightly sheepish, and attempting to cover it with irritation. "What?" she snaps, smoothing her hair as best she can.

Gerry reaches out and tucks a strand behind her ear. "Time to go home," he says simply. "You go, and I'll be right behind you." He presses a quick kiss to her parted lips.

Her eyes narrow. "I'll give you ten minutes," she warns, and he obediently replies, "Yes, gov."

Patterson is lounging against the bar, attempting to chat up the very uninterested bar maid, who's heard it all before, when Gerry joins him. "Where's Sandra?" Gerry asks, as if he'd expected to find her at the table. "She didn't just piss off without so much as a by-your-leave, did she?"

"Oh, no, Gerald, the lovely Detective Superintendent Pullman wouldn't do that, would she?" Frank's tone is suggestive; but then, Frank's tone is always suggestive. Gerry is paranoid and being hyper-sensitive. "Speak of the devil."

She has popped up at the top of the stairs and is making a beeline for them. Her mobile catches the light from its position tucked into her palm. "Had to make a call," she says breezily, and Gerry's glad he has nearly forty years of being a copper behind him to help him keep a straight face. "And now I'm off home. Night, boys."

Exactly eight minutes later Gerry makes a move as well. Frank doesn't protest – he still hasn't given up on the bar maid – but says, "Time for good little working boys to be tucked up in bed, ay?"

Gerry leaves him laughing merrily at his own joke. Oh, yes – he plans to let Sandra tuck him in and tell him a very nice bedtime story.

He knows better than to ask about breakfast again, but she seems to be in no particular hurry to leave tonight as she stretches languorously and tugs the duvet up and over herself. She shivers, her skin cooling rapidly as her heartbeat slows, and rolls to rest her cheek on her upper arm. She blinks, and then her bright eyes focus on Gerry's. There's something there that makes him want to use every three-syllable adjective he's ever heard in an attempt to tell her how beautiful she is, how incredible, how rare, how he knows he's the luckiest son-of-a-bitch alive. He knows perfectly well that she'd laugh and tease him for having used the same lines a dozen, two dozen times before, and she wouldn't be entirely wrong. So he contents himself with saying her name very softly, very slowly, and is rewarded with a smile.

A few minutes earlier they were both frantic, and now they're more relaxed than they've ever been together. Sandra seems comfortable in his bed; content. If Gerry can make her smile like she's doing now just one day a week for the rest of his life, he reflects, it will be by far the most successful relationship he's ever had, as well as the most unconventional.

Well, Sandra Pullman is not conventional.

He says her name again, and she props herself up on her elbow and leans down to kiss him very, very softly, her lips whisper-light on his. Tenderness, he thinks: that's what this is.

"Oh, Sandra." His calloused fingers trail lightly over her arm, her hair, and finally her face, stroking along her jaw, her brow, the straight line of her nose.

"Gerry, this is – We have to be careful." His fingers move gently down her neck to slide along her collarbone, and she lets her eyes drift closed. "I don't want to lose this."

Coming from her, the simple admission floors Gerry, and then buoys him up, up, up. This is the confirmation he didn't even know he wanted that what they're doing isn't just the convenient fulfillment of a basic need, no different from eating microwavable meals or buying cheap plonk because it's right beside the checkout at the Tesco Express. It isn't like mediocre take-away coffee or most of the stops on the Circle line.

"We're being careful. I'll be more careful, less of an idiot –"

She chuckles. "You won't, Gerry."

"Old habits die hard?" he suggests, toying with the edge of the duvet, teasingly trying to pull it away from her.

"I don't expect you to be any different." As if to prove her point, she lets him have his way, and the cover slips from her armpit to the bottom of her rib cage. "I like you." She smiles slightly as his eyes move slowly over her in the light that filters in from the street. Typical Gerry, that smile said.

He reaches out, his palm smoothing down her exposed side, and she says simply, "Be honest with me. That's all I want."

His hand stills, then finds hers under the covers and squeezes. "I promise you," he says.

He has probably broken as many promises as he has kept, but his word is still good enough for her. "You're a good man," Sandra whispers, and when she says the words, he believes them.

*Chapter title unashamedly ripped off from a very old episode of Inspector Morse.