14 July 1990

"This is ridiculous!" Stewart snapped, throwing his crutches onto the floor in anger. "I should be walking properly! I should be fucking walking properly! You people aren't doing your jobs right!" He sank back down into the chair and shook his head. "Fucking useless the lot of you!"

Christina shrank back against the far wall, almost hoping to make herself invisible whilst her husband launched his tirade. Some six weeks on since the incident, he had made slow progress with his mobility and the frustration grew with each passing day. Two weeks after the shooting he had been allowed to go home and she had spent every moment caring for him. She had made up a bed for him on the couch so as he wouldn't need to climb the stairs and she had run around at his beck and call, catering to every whim. Initially, he had been upbeat, confident that within a short space of time he would be running around like he used to, but as the time had passed, he had grown more melancholic and more angry. Needless to say, Paris had been indefinitely postponed.

"You're doing better than you think, Stewart," Ned the physio said, his calm manner something which she couldn't help but admire. "But you need to keep doing your exercises and I can tell that you haven't."

"Oh yeah?" Stewart snarled. "What would you know about it anyway?"

"Quite a lot. I do this for a living."

"I bet you've never been shot in the back though, never been in a situation where you can't move and can't do anything for yourself. Where you have to rely on your wife for everything!" he gestured carelessly in her direction and she met Ned's gaze briefly. "I need to be able to walk again!"

"You can walk," Ned said.

"Without those fucking crutches I mean!"

"You need to be realistic, Stewart," she spoke up. "You know what the doctor said…"

"Oh, don't you start!" he glared at her. "Florence fucking Nightingale over there! It's all right for you, isn't it?"

She lapsed into silence again, unwilling to get embroiled in yet another argument with him. His frustration at being, what he considered, incapable, often boiled over into digs at her, at the fact that she was able-bodied, at the fact that she could go back to work any time, at the fact that it was generally just all right for her. In the beginning, she had countered what he had said and tried to chivvy him along, but as the comments grew more and more personal and his anger more vitriolic, she had left him to him, let him get out everything he wanted to say and then usually offer him a cup of tea.

"If you don't do the exercises, you won't make any progress," Ned said. "If you're so desperate to get back to work, Stewart, then you need to try a bit harder." Stewart scowled but remained silent. "Come on, let's try the bars again."

She watched as her husband pulled him up and in between the walking bars, his face reddening as he tried to move his legs beyond the tiny fraction they were able to go, before he gave up halfway through and he collapsed down onto the ground. As she moved to help him, he rounded on her sharply. "Don't touch me! I don't need you to help me up!" She stepped back wordlessly and watched as he hauled himself back up and over to the chair. "That's enough for today."

Ned glanced at his watch, "We've still got ten minutes left on the session."

"I said, that's enough for today!" Stewart repeated, his voice raised. "Are you bloody deaf?!"

"There was no need for that," she said once they were back in the car and headed for home. "Ned doesn't deserve to be spoken to like that. He's trying to help you."

"He's getting paid, isn't he?"

"Yeah, by the NHS which probably means he's not getting paid much and he doesn't need to take that kind of anger from you."

"Oh…be quiet," Stewart sighed and looked out of the window as she pulled out of the hospital car park. "It's all right for you."

"Is it? Is it really?" she asked, turning into the traffic. "I don't deserve that kind of attitude from you either." He said nothing. "Everyone is trying to help you, Stewart. I want you back at work as much as you want to be there."

"Yeah, well…" he sighed. "I suppose you saw the letter this morning."

"The one from Occupational Health? Yes, I saw it."

"They want me to go for an examination."

"I know."

"Well, you know what they're going to say, don't you? That I'm not fit to be back at work, that I can't be a policeman."

"Not right now, but that doesn't mean that in a few weeks time…"

"Oh, what do you know about it?" he interrupted her. "You've no idea what it's like to watch your career swirling the fucking bowl, do you? No, you get to back to Sun Hill and DI bloody Burnside whenever the notion takes you!"

She clenched her jaw and tried to focus on the road in front of her. "Yes, but that doesn't mean that I'm not still hurting too over what happened to you. That doesn't mean that I'm not trying to help and support you as much as I possibly can whilst you just throw it all back in my face." Again, he said nothing. "Is it all right if I pop to the station once I've seen you back home? I need to check on a couple of my investigations."

"I thought all your work had been given out to your colleagues?"

"It has but, well, there's still a couple of things I need to check on." It was a lie of course. There was nothing that the others couldn't handle in her absence, but she found herself desperate for a change of scene, a change of conversation. "I won't be long, an hour, hour and a half at the most."

"Fine," he grumbled. "You do what you like."

Once home, she helped him onto the couch and then made him a cup of tea, ignoring the look of disdain he threw at it, and then left as quickly as she could. As she drove towards the station, she felt her mind clear, as though she was leaving the fog of Stewart behind her and, shamefully, almost wished she never needed to go back.

XXXX

"Hi."

Her voice startled him slightly and he looked up to see her framed in his office doorway. It had been a week since he'd last seen her, and even then, it had been a fleeting exchange in the car park. She was dressed simply in jeans and a black t-shirt and he couldn't help admiring her curves. "No-one told me you were here," he said quickly without thinking.

"Do I need to be announced?"

"No, I just meant…" he cursed himself for his stupidity and got up from his chair. "I would have come and met you somewhere."

"What's wrong with here? I do still work here, don't I?"

"Yes, of course you do, but you're on compassionate leave, so you shouldn't need to come all the way in here, is what I meant." He surveyed her critically. She had put on some make-up but underneath it, her face bore the hallmarks of her current situation. "You look tired."

"I am tired," she admitted. "Stewart's still sleeping on the couch but I've always got one ear open in case he needs something and he gets sore at night so…"

"How's his back? Has he made much progress?"

"His walking's getting better, but he's still using the crutches and he's got a terrible limp…" she paused. "The physio said that there's still room for improvement, but I don't know. Maybe if he put a bit more effort into it..."

"Oh yeah?"

She flushed slightly, as though she had said something out of turn. "Sorry…I shouldn't have said that. I know he's trying…"

It was nothing less than he would have expected her to say, A wife's defence of her husband, even if it was clear that it was a lie. Moving around behind her, he closed the office door and gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "Come on, sit down."

"I only stopped by for a minute…"

"Sit down." After a moment's hesitation, she did as bidden, and he sat facing her. "You need to remember to look after yourself too, not just him."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"It's just…it's just that he's not keen on doing his exercises because they cause him discomfort, and I get that, but…by not doing them he's not making any improvement and if he doesn't make any improvement, he won't get back to work which is what I know he desperately wants…" she sighed heavily. "He got a letter in today from Occupational Health wanting him to go for an examination."

"To see if he's fit for duty?" She nodded. "Standard practice."

"I know but I also know what they're going to say right now." She looked down at her hands. "So does he. He hates the fact that he can't do things, but he won't help himself."

"Typical bloke, I suppose."

"Oh, so you'd be the same then, would you? Pig-headed, stubborn…"

"Have you met me?" She laughed suddenly and he felt himself gladden at her smile. "Maybe you just need to let him work through this on his own. His pride's hurt. I imagine he holds himself in quite high esteem, physically, and if he can't do what he used to be able to do…"

"You're right," she sighed, "I know you're right. It's just…"

"It's just what?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, you can tell me. It won't go any further."

She held his gaze for a moment as though weighing up how much she could trust him, before speaking. "Well, he's started drinking a bit. I mean, nothing serious, but the doctor told me after his operation that the damage to his liver might mean he had a lower tolerance for alcohol in the future."

"How much is he drinking?"

"Couple of cans a night. I made him a cup of tea before I left just now but I'm guessing that as soon as I was out the door he would have hobbled over to the fridge. I reckon he thinks I'm stupid or something."

Frank paused. "Do you want me to talk to him? Man to man?"

She looked at him as though he was insane, "You're not serious."

"Why not?"

"Frank, the last person he's going to want to speak to is you."

"Why?"

"Because…. well because…"

"Because he doesn't like me? The feeling's mutual, but if it would help…"

"It wouldn't," she said quickly. "Thanks for the offer, but I reckon it would just make things worse. Anyway," she got to her feet. "I really just dropped in to see how things were going, not moan about all my problems."

"Well, the place hasn't quite fallen apart without you, but it's close. You heard that Tony Marshall got fifteen years?"

"Yeah, silly twat. He still refused to give up the names of the others?"

"More fool him. Old Charlie was breaking his heart at the court when he got sentenced, not that he had any business. The boy got his ideas from him."

"Families, eh?"

"Indeed. Speaking of which, what about Stewart's folks? Have they been back down to see him?"

"Yeah, a few times, but there's not really much they can do. His brother's flying over from Germany again in a few weeks so hopefully he might be a bit more mobile by then." She paused. "I've put in for leave until at least the end of the month, I hope that's all right."

"Course it is, well with me anyway, I can't speak for Gordon."

"No, he's been really good actually, really understanding. Right, I'm off."

"You don't have to go, do you? You just got here."

"I know, but if I stay any longer, I'll probably want to start doing some work and that would probably just piss Stewart off even more."

He paused, "He's not being off with you, is he?"

She shrugged, "No more than any husband would be with his wife in these circumstances I suppose. Who else are you supposed to take your anger out on? It's what I signed up for, better or worse, sickness and in health and all that."

He wanted to say something more, something about how that wasn't how it should be after all, but sense made him bite his tongue. "Well come back any time, you know you're always welcome. And Chris?" she turned back from the door. "If you do ever want to meet somewhere that, well, isn't this place just let me know, all right?"

"Like that drink in the pub that we never got to have during Middleman?"

He smiled, "Yeah, exactly."

"I'll let you know," she smiled, "thanks Frank."

He watched as she spoke briefly to the others before turning and shooting him a final tight smile as she left the office and, despite everything he recognised the other man was going through, he realised he had never disliked Stewart Church more.

XXXX

"I'm not a fucking child," Stewart protested that night when she asked if he wanted her to make him comfortable on the couch for bed. "You don't have to nanny me."

"Sorry, that's not what I'm trying to do. I'm only trying to help."

"Well, if you want to help, you can get me another beer."

She paused, "You've already had two."

"So?"

"So, the doctor said…"

"Stuff the doctor! Stuff the bloody doctor! If I want another beer, I'll have another beer and nothing you or anybody can say will stop me!" he glared at her for a long moment and then sighed heavily, resting back against the cushions. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. I'm just…" he closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Instantly, she felt bad. He was the one suffering after all. He was the one putting up with the pain and discomfort and the knowledge that he might never be the person he had been before the shooting. It was selfish of her to feel disgruntled by his behaviour. As she walked through to the kitchen to bring him another can, she thought back over the conversation she had had with Frank and how just being in his company had briefly lifted her spirits. The memory of him asking her if she wanted him to talk to Stewart came back to her and she found herself giggling at the prospect.

"I suppose I should have asked you how things were at Sun Hill," Stewart said, accepting the can from her. "Burnside desperate to get you back to work?"

"No, he's been very good actually," she replied, sitting down next to him. "Very understanding. So has Gordon."

"Well Gordon's a decent bloke," he said, opening the can with a hiss. "But Burnside on the other hand…" She tried to ignore the bait, well aware that he was spoiling for a fight and merely turned her attention to the news on the TV. "I bet he's loving this."

"Loving what?"

"Me, being like this."

She looked over at him again. "Why would he be loving it? He was asking after you today, actually. He hoped you were feeling better."

"Did he now."

"Yes, he did. You've got him all wrong you know."

"Really? There was a time you couldn't shut up about how much of a bastard he was."

"Well, that was a long time ago." So much had happened since then. So much…she had ashamedly found herself looking at him that afternoon during their meeting in his office, watching the inflections on his face, thinking once more about what it would be like if…she started slightly as Stewart's hand slid onto her thigh.

"I love you, you know," he said. "I know I've not been easy to live with since this happened but…I wouldn't be able to get through this without you, Chris."

She rested her hand on top of his, "What are wives for at the end of the day?"

"We've travelled a long road together, you and me."

"I'll say."

"When I look at you, I still see that awkward sixteen-year-old girl that you were the first time I met you. I reckon I knew that very first day that we'd end up together and here we are, fourteen years later." He looked at her meaningfully. "Come here."

"What do you mean?"

"Come here," he said again and, realising what he meant, leant over to kiss him. His hands moved instantly to her hair, then down her back, pulling her closer to him. "That's my girl…"

A primitive need suddenly rose within her, the unmistakable feeling of needing to touch and be touched and yet, how could they, with his limitations? What would that look like, feel like? Without thinking, she swung one leg over his body and sat astride him, pulling her sweater up and over her head in one fluid movement. With practiced ease, he reached around and unclipped her bra, her breasts tumbling out of the stiff fabric, his mouth instinctively finding each hardened bud in turn. She gasped, her head falling back, her eyes closing, her body reacting both at the scene of his mouth and between her legs. She could feel him harden underneath her and he pulled back from her, a flash of annoyance crossing his face,

"Shit."

"What is it?"

"How the fuck are we supposed to…?" he shook his head. "Jesus Christ I'm as hard as a fucking rock and I don't know how to…"

She paused momentarily and then realised what she had to do. It wasn't something she had ever particularly enjoyed, the very sensation making her feel somewhat used. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the act itself, per se, just that it wouldn't have been one that she would have chosen, if she'd had the choice. But he was her husband, he was in need, as was she, and she could only hope that reciprocation would be on his mind once he had had his way. Slowly, gently, so as not to cause him too much pain, she helped him rise slightly off the couch, enough for her to be able to slide his jogging bottoms and pants down over his bottom and legs onto the floor. Then she took a deep breath and lowered her head. Six weeks of a lack of sexual contact had made Stewart desperate almost to the point of premature ejaculation. For once, she found herself thankful for that, that there only needed to be a few minutes of her almost gagging on him before he spasmed and came in her mouth. She wanted to spit the acrid tasting liquid out, but instead she gamely swallowed before looking up to see a satisfied look on her husband's face.

"Just what I was needing…" he said breathlessly, leaning back. "Christ, that was good. Why don't you go down on me more often?"

She didn't reply, well aware that anything positive she might say would be a lie and that the truth would no doubt hurt. In addition to that, her own need was still vibrating strongly inside her and she quickly pulled down her own trousers and pants and climbed hurriedly onto the couch. "Can you do me?"

He opened his eyes, "I can't go down on you."

"Why not?"

"How am I supposed to get into position to do it, short of you doing some sort of handstand and sticking your pussy in my face?"

"I…" the suggestion was ludicrous and yet she found herself momentarily considering it. "Well, can you use your hand then? I could do this…" she wriggled her legs across his lap so that she was lying at a right angle to him. "There. You'd barely have to move."

"I'd rather just fuck you," he replied, "but I can't do that now."

"No, I know." The twitching between her thighs was growing stronger. "But you could just do this, couldn't you? I'm as wired as you were, so I doubt it would take long…" The sound of her own words disgusted her. Her tone was almost that of a pleading child. There she was, a thirty-year-old woman, pleading with her husband to sexually satisfy her. "Please."

With a sigh that sounded uncannily frustrated, Stewart's fingers found their way between her thighs and began gently stroking her. Instantly, she closed her eyes and felt her mind wander. As she had thought, her own recent lack of sexual satisfaction meant that it took but a few firm strokes of her clit to feel the heat rising within her and she could feel and hear the slickness of her own desires as he continued to work her. She felt one then two fingers push inside her and she clamped down on them, her breath coming in spurts as she built towards a long overdue orgasm. As it approached, she opened her eyes and lifted her head to look at her husband, hoping to see him watching her and delighting in the passion he was creating within her.

His head was turned towards the muted television, the reflection of the images dancing across his face. His free hand, that he could have used in so many ways on her belly, her breasts, anywhere, was crooked behind his head. He looked for all the world as though he had absolutely no realisation of what he was doing at all.

She wanted to stop, wanted to push him away, get off the couch and storm out in a huff at his lack of care, but it was too late. She was hurtling towards the crescendo of her own desires and she couldn't have stopped the inevitable even if she'd wanted to. She felt her body buck and writhe against his hand, heard guttural sounds of need pour from her throat and, closing her eyes, tried desperately not to say someone else's name.