Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Grab us both a coffee, will you, Troy?”

DCI Tom Barnaby dropped a fiver on Troy’s desk, making some sort of significant face that Gavin wasn’t in the mood to translate. He’d been in a grump all morning; slept poorly the night before, got a mountain of paperwork to get through, and his Nan was still in hospital, her broken hip healing slower than it should be.

But Barnaby was right, of course. Once outside, with Causton’s damp Autumn air nipping on his skin and leaves scuttling along the footpath beside him, Troy’s ill humour stripped back some and he felt he could, perhaps, breathe a little better.

The bell on the shop door jangled as he shouldered his way in, trying in vain to comb the tangles from his hair.

“Mornin’, mate. Large flat white and a regular long black with sugar?”

His eyebrows soared to his hairline at this, delivered cheerily and in a deeply Irish accent.

The bloke behind the counter laughed. “I’m not a mind reader, don’t worry. Gracie said to expect you—Detective Sergeant Troy, right? She says you and DCI Barnaby are regular customers.”

“That’s right. Probably got more coffee than blood in me at this point.”

The man grinned again and set about measuring out grounds.

Part of the reason he was good at his job—and Sergeant Troy had just enough confidence to know that he was actually pretty good—was the attention he paid to people. Not just to get to the root of things, but because he was interested and people responded to that, even if he reckoned he spent half of his employed hours with a foot in his mouth.

The man in front of him wasn’t hard to get an initial read on. Good cheer radiated off him and, though he didn’t fumble, there was enough hesitancy in his movements that Troy would bet good money he hadn’t been in the job more than a week. Plus, of course, he hadn’t seen him before: the proprietor, Gracie, normally took his and Barnaby’s orders when they were too desperate for proper coffee to hit up the horrid lunchroom urns. What really struck him, though, was the faint but definite wariness in the man’s blue, blue eyes. His smile was broad, and seemed genuine, but there was something… something almost like fear behind the twinkling smile and Irish drawl. That, Gavin Troy knew, was the face of a man with something to hide.

Well, fair enough. He had things to hide, too, and it was really none of his business unless the bloke made it so.

Realising he’d been watching the man wordlessly for a few minutes, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and raised his voice over the milk steamer’s whine. 

“Been at Gracie’s long, then?”

“Nah, I—I was working at a bar, before, but I managed to get myself fired for cussing out a customer. Gracie knows my Mam, so she said she could make a space for me if I minded my manners, ‘til I finish my degree.”

“Lot there to unpack.”

He took the coffees that were slid toward him, but leant against the counter, unwilling to leave yet and oddly charmed by the open, chatty… God, they were probably calling themselves ‘baristas’ these days, weren’t they?

He got another darting grin for his trouble, and squashed down the part of him that noticed the man’s hands (he could play piano with hands like those, his mind helpfully supplied. Very nice hands, they were).

“Ahh, where to start? I’m studying paramed—nearly done, too. And the bloke kinda deserved it, he was being a right casserole. But management takes a dim view of these things.” He stopped his sunny stream and grinned up at Gavin. “Oh, but I’m babblin’ awfully. I’m Martin, by the way. Martin Thielemann. Not very Irish, I know; Da was German Catholic.”

Something about being around this man made it hard not to smile. He was just… Just nice, and open, and a little bit awkward in a way that made Sergeant Troy want to draw him deeper, follow all the threads of his chatter.

But, because he was a coward and scared, scared, scared all the bloody time, Gavin did not. Instead, he straightened, smiled tightly and pushed the note toward Thielemann. 

He said, “Well, thanks for these; I expect I’ll see you around?”

And Martin, picking up on his change in manner, just said “Of course. Nice to meet ya, Sergeant Troy.”

And then Troy left.

Gavin had given up telling himself he wasn’t gay in his last year of school, when Matthew Kitts had kissed him for a dare and he’d felt it down to his toes. But he wasn’t ever going to do anything about it (because he was a coward, and scared all the bloody time, and he wasn’t like those other fags, he was… he was a copper, for God’s sake, and he was good at his job!)

He stomped back toward the station clutching the paper cups like they’d personally wronged him. Tried to imagine Cully’s face instead of, of—well, of any man’s, and only saw her laughing at him.

“Thielemann. Thielemann. No, I don’t know the name. What’s he like?”

Troy shrugged, watching as Barnaby took a sip of his coffee and smacked his lips, satisfied. He’d been working with the man more than a year now and he still couldn’t believe Barnaby actually liked his coffee black and sugared.

“Short-ish. Irish. Friendly, but not too friendly, if you know what I mean. Might be blonde, or brunette; depends on the light, I ‘spose.”

For some reason, the chief was smiling into his coffee cup. “Enlightening as always, Sergeant Troy.”

“He had nice eyes. Very blue,” he added, a touch defensive, to prove he had actually been paying attention. Of course he had! And not, he told himself firmly, because of anything to do with clever, competent hands or a sharp, interesting face, or twinkling smiles and wary eyes and a way of darting around the corners of what seemed a most interesting life. No. He paid attention because that was his job, and he was good at it. For some reason, he felt a little rumble of nausea, and he chased it away with more coffee.

Barnaby’s smile deepened and even the open window and the smell of Autumn couldn’t chase off the return of Troy’s bad mood.

The next time Barnaby chucked him a fiver and shooed him toward Gracie’s, Troy learned that Martin had grown up in Midsomer Deverell, a pretty village on the other side of the Marsh Woods from Causton, but spent most of his youth at boarding school in Dublin on the wish of his “properly Irish Mam.” He had worked the family trade for a little before aiming for paramedicine and now was three months out from earning his qualifications, he had a sweet tooth something wicked and he privately agreed that coffee was better with milk, but made Troy promise he wouldn’t pass that on to Barnaby.

The time after that, Martin somehow inveigled a very abridged life story out of Troy: educated at the local school (hated it), Dad wanted him to go to university (hated it), Mum encouraged him to drop out of uni and give the police force a go (loved it, stayed, became a detective, got assigned as the DCI’s sergeant after a year, which was pretty bloody good if he said so himself, and now he helped solve murders and kicked the occasional door down and… yeah, things were pretty alright).

And the time after that, when he came rushing in all of his own accord looking flushed and happy and the least uptight Martin had ever seen him, it was to tell him that Nan was finally out of hospital and back on her feet. Martin’s smile could have kept a hot air balloon aloft, he reckoned—it was that buoyant. He’d rummaged around at the back of the cake cabinet and emerged with a box full of various treats: a spare quiche he was sure wouldn’t sell, a couple of brownies, a slightly-too-small-to-be-picture-perfect slice of carrot cake, a jam-topped scone and a handful of cookies. When Gavin had reached for his wallet, the other man had fixed him with such a glare that he was almost (almost) frightened.

“They’re not for you, they’re for your Nan. Restorative, and such. You’re not to pay for restorative scones.”

Of course, they ran into each other outside the shop all the time, because Causton was a small town and everybody knew everybody.

Partly out of the nature of his job but mostly because he kept to his own space, Gavin wouldn’t say he had many friends per se: plenty of old ladies he got on with, and people his age who nodded to him, but nobody outside the force he’d go to the pub with. Somehow, though, Martin had managed to charm the whole bloody village—to date, Sergeant Troy had spotted him swapping cake recipes with Sue Clapper, walking with Cully and Nico through the Sunday markets, sitting drinking coffee with Gracie and Lil, the other baker at Gracie’s, and several times browsing or drinking wine with Tim and Avery at the bookshop. By pure luck, he and Barnaby hadn’t yet bumped into each other, but Gavin bet it was only a matter of time. He’d started to dread running into Martin, not because he’d done anything except be cheerful and generous, but because Gavin had realised something awful—something with repercussions, something he one hundred per cent did not want to deal with on top of the fact that it seemed like someone was being pushed down the stairs or accidentally shot or otherwise mutilated and murdered every other week.

The fact of the matter was, he felt better after seeing him. Even if they didn’t talk, even if he only caught a glimpse of blue eyes and big grin and a flop of hair that could, given the right light, be blonde, the world seemed brighter and better around Martin Thielemann.

So it was that a month after he’d first met him, Gavin Troy was forced to admit he was infatuated with the bloody barista.

Chapter Text

October was sidling up to the doorsteps of Midsomer county with sly winds and browning leaves when Troy arrived in the office that morning. He wasn’t late—or, at least, he wasn’t that late—but the Chief was already sitting at his desk, Styrofoam cup of muddy coffee next to a half-eaten slice of toast.

“You’re in early, sir,” he said in greeting.

“Ah, Troy, good morning! Your Nan enjoying being home?”

“She’s doing very well, sir.” He made to place his satchel on his desk—there were no big cases at the moment, just paperwork, paperwork and more bloody paperwork—and found it blocked by a large fruit crate filled with mis-matched mugs.

“What’s this, then?”

Barnaby looked up from where he’d gone back to peering at a report and clucked his tongue. “Ah, yes. Gracie has decided to put her establishment at the cutting edge of climate action and outlaw paper cups. She asked if we had any mugs knocking around the station that we could donate, and this is what Detective Ponsonby managed to rustle up. You wouldn’t mind taking them over now, would you?”

Troy rolled his eyes and tried to quash the flutter of… something in his belly. “Lucky I haven’t taken my coat off yet, sir.”

As usual, Barnaby smiled to acknowledge the sarcasm but let it slide right off him. “Lucky. Oh, and Troy?”

Busy trying to find a way to carry the bulky crate that didn’t knock the mugs against each other too much, Troy grunted in response.

“Be kind, won’t you?”

“Sir?”

But Barnaby was nose-deep in reports of recent burglaries compared to this time last year and Gavin couldn’t get another word out of him.

When Troy made it down the street, chin shoved into his coat, cursing himself for forgetting his gloves, Gracie’s wasn’t yet open. He managed to bang on the door with his elbow and, after a minute, caught Martin’s attention.

The shorter man hurried over and unlocked the door, beckoning him in.

“You’re in early! And you brought mugs—bless your soul.”

It was a harmless enough thing that did it; as Troy struggled to fit himself and the crate through the door, Martin reached out and took his elbow, presumably to help guide him in.

Gavin shied away from his touch and, in the process, dropped the crate. It didn’t hit the ground—Martin managed to catch it and only one mug was jolted from the top of the stack. It fell, bounced once on the lino floor and, miraculously, didn’t break.

For a moment, both men just stared at the mug where it lay. Gavin reached behind himself to shut the door and, abashed, looked up to meet Martin’s eyes. To his horror, he recognised at once what he saw there. He couldn’t forget it. It was the sharp thing behind the softness of their gentle blue, the scared, something-to-hide thing he’d seen the first time they’d met. At the exact second he recognised it, he realised that his hands had clenched defensively into fists at his side, and that Martin had seen this too.

Martin’s eyes looked like that because Martin was scared of him.

The clock ticked heavy on the wall and the wind made the windows bang and, in the kitchen out the back, someone was whistling over the muted roar of the oven.

Martin closed his eyes for a moment and breathed out heavy through his nose. When he spoke, it was very quiet and very flat.

“What the fuck was that, then?”

“I—” The adrenaline was dissipating from his system but anxiety was clawing its way up his throat and the heady mix was making him feel dizzy. Still, Gavin knew that if he didn’t say something now, things would be worse. If he didn’t say something, he’d hurt Martin—hurt him worse than rearing back like a horse at the slightest touch, as though he were disgusted by Martin rather than terrified by the way he made him feel. “I—it was a surprise, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” Still, that awfully blank voice. “Thanks for the mugs, Gavin.”

He turned away and this time it was Gavin who reached for his elbow, though he hovered his hand above it and did not touch him.

“Martin, wait. Please.”

The other man turned slowly and there were tears pooling in his eyes that he was trying desperately to blink away.

“What do you want, Gavin?” Before he could put together an answer, words were spilling from Martin like a compulsion. “What the fuck do you want from me? You—you smile at me like I’m the fucking sun, you spend half an hour here when it takes me five minutes to make you coffee and you’re, you’re interested in me and, and always in my space and then—I’m not stupid, Gavin. I’m careful, and I thought I read the signs right and even if I didn’t, I’m not a monster, I’m not gunna hurt you, you can’t—you can’t get fuckin’ AIDS from me touchin’ your coat. Was this, I dunno, a joke with your mates at the station? Lead the fag on and see if he gets hooked? Because I’m a person, you know. Irish and annoying and gay, but still a person.”

He let out a choked sob and Gavin realised he was gaping at him like a landed fish.

“No. No, no, it isn’t that at all. Ah, Mum would hide me, I don’t have a hanky…” He plucked the crate out of Martin’s hands, setting it on a nearby table and then for want of a better option, shrugged down the sleeves of his shirt, using the cuffs to oh-so-gently wipe away Martin’s tears a second before they fell.

For the second time in as many minutes, time seemed to freeze, Gavin with his thumbs on the graceful sweep of Martin’s cheekbones, Martin blotchy-faced with his chin tilted up toward Gavin.

“I don’t think you’re annoying.”

It was plainly spoken, because Sergeant Troy couldn’t put together a grand declaration of his feelings if he wanted to, but it did something magic: it made Martin laugh. Just a little laugh, more than a bit thick with unshed tears, but as he stepped back and scrubbed at his eyes, it was with a definite smile.

“Fuck me sideways and call me Mary, you’re a confusing one.”

“I’m sorry. Not for being confusing—not just for being confusing, that is. But for frightening you. For making you… That was wrong of me, even though I didn’t mean…” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and looked up at Martin through the curtains of his fringe. “I’d never want to hurt you.”

“Call me crazy, but despite thinkin’ you were gonna punch me not ten minutes ago, I think I believe ya. Now,” his tone was suddenly brisk, “I need to finish opening up before the hordes arrive, but you are staying right here and tellin’ me what went through your head.”

Ah. Talking about feelings. Gavin’s favourite activity. Stalling so he could get his thoughts together, he hefted the crate of mugs once more and set it on the front counter. Against the wall, planks had been nailed in as rough shelves—new since he’d last been here—and he gestured at them to Martin.

“Want me to put them up here?”

“They’re clean?” When Gavin nodded, he smiled. “Thanks, then.”

For a few minutes, he just placed mugs on the shelves, working through the crate from the station and then the other boxes of donations lined up along the skirting board. Martin was wiping down tables and Lil periodically appeared to dump more baked goods along the counter. Once Martin was done with the tables and Lil had waved a cheery farewell, seemingly having missed all the drama, Gavin thought he might have his words together.

“I do try and spend time with you. And I do think you’re interesting. And I do—every time you accidentally touch me, it’s like…” He shivered, trailed off and kept setting out mugs. Martin, slipping various baked things into the display cabinet, looked at him sideways but let him keep going.

“It’s nice. It is. But, I dunno if this makes sense, but sometimes I feel very, very old, like when me and Barnaby are on the third murder of the month and it’s just awful and I hate that I’m used to it. But in other places, I’m sort of… young. Immature, I guess. And relationships… I’ve never had a relationship with anyone, ‘specially not another man.”

“You could, you know.”

Gavin looked up, surprised, to meet Martin’s frank gaze. “Be with a man?”

“Uh huh.”

“It doesn’t seem… It’s not quite fair, is it?”

Martin wrinkled up his nose and dusted the sugar off his hands. “Explain.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to be cross at Martin for making him step it out, though really he was touched by how he patient the other man was being. “I know that I’m, you know, gay. But I ‘spose it’s not fair for someone else to have to hold my hand teach me things and put up with my self-loathing and, and crisises of confidence or some such.” He thought over what he’d said and sighed. “Crisises isn’t a word, is it?”

“Nup. ‘Crises’ is what you’re lookin’ for. I knew what you were saying, though.” Martin’s tone was warm. “Look, Gav. You’re very sweet, and I feel better knowin’ you’re aware of places things could get tricky. But I like you, and I wouldn't mind teaching you. Besides,” he opened the jar of biscuits by the till and shook it under Gavin’s nose until he took one, “I’m not all that experienced either. Maybe just a bit more secure in who I am and who I fancy.”

“D’you fancy me, then?”

It was said through a mouthful before he could think it through and Gavin’s hand came up to block the spray of crumbs, further masking the mumble. Still, Martin’s smile went soft and wide, like he was utterly charmed by his bumbling classlessness.

“Yes, ya goose. I fancy you heaps.”

Sergeant Troy looked at his shoes, scuffed them a little, realised he was acting like a child and looked back up. “’m glad. I am. Coz, obviously, I fancy you too. I’m just… not used to feeling like I’m allowed to.”

“And so you become part of the system that oppresses ya.” It was delivered lightly, but Gavin felt it like a blow. “Did kids make fun of you at school for it?”

Gavin shook his head. “Not really. Didn’t give them the chance. By the time I figured it out, I was one of the lads—big, on the football team, rubbish at school. Everyone thought the fairies were skinny artsy-fartsy folks.”

Martin’s mouth was twitching in the way that meant he was trying hard not to smile. “Sonny, we are really going to have to work on your use of slurs.”

It took Gavin a second, but his face fell. “Oh. Sorry. Instinct.” And then, a moment later: “Did people give you shit at your fancy boarding school?”

“It wasn’t fancy, it was for poor Catholics. But let’s just say that, being the artsy-fartsy type, I learned to duck pretty quick.”

Gavin grimaced. “I’m sorry, again. For scaring you.”

“Pshaw. I wasn’t scared. Ya might be a big strong copper, but I could take you easy.”

For the first time this morning, Gavin felt his mouth quirk up into a smile. “If you say so. But so you know, I am properly sorry. And I’ll work on it; the slurs too.”

“Thank you.” Martin’s voice was warm and sincere. “You’d better work on it, though, else you’ll be out on the curb quick as a wink. Now, hurry out of my shop before you scare off all the customers.”

He’d heard plenty of talk about grace at the Presbyterian church his parents went to, but never really understood what it meant. Now, he thought it might look like someone letting him take up space in their life, giving him a second chance, smiling up at him like he’d done good, when all he’d tried to do was un-fuck up.

“Oh, um. Martin.” Once again, his hands were in his pockets. “Since you’re still pretty new to town. Would you like to come to the chapel museum with me on Saturday? We could get tea at the pub after.”

For a moment, Martin only gaped. Then he shook his head and blinked twice before breaking into a massive grin. “That sounds lovely, Sergeant Troy. I’d love to.”

Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting so quick an agreement, because Gavin definitely hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Oh! Good. Right then. I’ll—I’ll meet you here, then, when you finish your shift?”

“Lovely,” Martin said again.

“Right. Well. I’ll see you then.”

“Lovely. Bye now.”

“Goodbye.”

Martin knew if he laughed now, sweet Troy would probably take it as an insult and run for the hills. So, he bit down on the giggle bubbling up and turned away to write up the menu on the board behind the till, giving Gavin a chance to duck out. Only once he heard the jingle of the bells and the click of the door shutting did he turn back around, whistling as he slid the final tray of muffins into the cabinet.

Lil was surely going to demand answers tomorrow morning and his housemate Rasha was going to give him so much shit, but for the moment, he was going to enjoy his visit to cloud nine.

Chapter Text

Gracie’s closed at four on Saturdays, he knew that. And if Martin was closing, which he would be because he usually did, then he ought to turn up around half past so if Martin needed a hand, he could lend it, and if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be kept waiting around too long. It was a ten minute drive, so he’d leave at twenty past. And what tie to wear so that Martin knew he was making an effort but nobody else could tell he was, you know, on a date with a man? And was the fact that he was worried about other people proof of his own bad-personhood?

Gavin groaned and dropped his head to the kitchen table. Why did it all have to be so complicated? Worse still, he was aware that at least forty percent of his current conniptions were self-induced and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it because he was going on a date with a man and he couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Gav, that mighty thump wasn’t your head, was it?”

 Startled, he looked up, shoving his hair out of his face and feeling a vague and nonspecific guilt. “Nan! The shops not busy then?”

Gavin’s grandmother narrowed her eyes at him and clucked her tongue, a masterful balance of affection and judgement in her sharp gaze. “I took the usual time shopping, lad, and you were moping at the table when I left too.”

He shifted uncomfortably and, despite knowing that it was a useless manoeuvre, asked another question instead of answering. “Need a hand putting things away?”

This time, she only raised an eyebrow. “I do not; I’m not an invalid yet. I do, however, need my favourite grandson to tell me what’s got him practicing for a Hamlet audition.”

She plonked the grocery bags on the floor, rustled around for a few seconds and pulled out a packet of biscuits. Dorothy Troy was many marvellous things, but an avid baker was not one of them, particularly when shop-bought ones could do such interesting things with icing.

For a moment, the two only munched biscuits in companionable silence, Gavin reflecting on the fact that the people he cared about seemed to share the frightening knowledge that the way to his heart was through baked goods.

Nan was his best and closest family. She was kind, honest and generous, with a silly streak that was occasionally embarrassing but more often endearing. When Mum and Dad had been in one of their shouting matches, back when they still lived together, Nan had made up stories about the world of his train sets, until he was more focussed on her words than oh God, I made my parents hate each other. And when Mum moved back up north with her mum and Dad had buggered off to Spain with his new girlfriend, Nan had insisted Gavin move in with her.

She was the best. He told her most everything. She knew most everything, even things he didn’t tell her. So why did he feel like he was going to chunder or cry or commit some mortifying combination of the two?

Nan had progressed from eagle-eyed peering to tapping at the table, a sure sign that her patience was running out.

“I’m… going out. This afternoon. And this evening. Not sure when I’ll be back, actually.” Gavin brightened, spotting another avenue of escape. “D’you need me to make you dinner before I leave? I can rustle up something for you to chuck in the microwave.”

“I’ll get me a take-out from that lovely Chinese place down the road. Now. Gavvy. Stop your prevaricating and tell me where you’re going that’s got you in such a black mood. Is your delicious Inspector dragging you out at all hours again? Because there are laws around these sorts of things, they can’t make you work on a Saturday unless they pay you overtime.”

“I know, Nan, you’ve read me my labour rights before.” Still, there was a smile in his voice. “It’s not Barnaby, though please don’t call him delicious.”

Dorothy only smiled placidly back at him—it was an argument they’d had many times before.

“It’s… I’m going to the museum, up at the little chapel. And then to dinner.”

“Oh!” The confusion cleared from his Nan’s face. “A date. Oh, Gavvy, I’m very pleased for you.”

“Thanks, Nan,” he mumbled, blush creeping up his neck.

“I still don’t understand why you’re moping and twitching like a particularly anxious Pekinese, though. You’ve been on dates before, haven’t you?”

He grunted something to the affirmative and watched Dorothy’s eyebrow raise another inch.

“So? Is she from the wrong side of the tracks or something? Because you know those distinctions are ridiculous and reductive, but your father was always so anxious about class and—oh, she’s not one of those Jackson girls, is she? You probably don’t remember, but Mrs Jackson always put peanut butter in things for the school bake sale, even though she knew Petey Crawford, poor lamb, was allergic.”

Normally at this point in their conversation, Gavin would be halfway between laughter and mortification. But right now, he wasn’t even thinking, really. Everything was agony, because Nan knew him and Barnaby knew him, and Cully and the lads at the nick and all of bloody Causton and half of Midsomer besides knew him, and he thought he’d known himself until he had to go tell the stupid bloody truth just because a blue-eyed soon-to-be-paramedic asked him to. Things were changing; he had made them change, and now he had to figure out what that meant.

“Gavin?” Dorothy’s gaze was gentler now. “Oh, dear, there’s something really wrong, isn’t there?”

He nodded, remembered he was home and didn’t have to worry about looking like a sissy, and let his Nan take his hand.

“It’s not… It’s good, mostly, I think. I just… It’s not one of the Jackson girls, Nan. It’s… A boy. A man. Um. Sorry.”

The last word slipped out before he could help it and he saw something pass over his Nan’s face that wasn’t anything like disgust or even surprise. It looked more like sadness and maybe a bit of anger, and she squeezed his hand hard in her cool, garden-calloused hands.

“What in God’s name are you sorry for, my darling boy? Unless he’s one of the Jackson boys, in which case I might have to severely question your judgement…”

“Nan! Yuck! Do you know how old Andrew Jackson is?”

At that, she laughed out loud. “Forty-five, and he doesn’t look a day over forty-four. Do I know this mystery lad, then?”

“I think people know he’s…” he’d been going to say ‘a poof’ but remembered his promise and settled on, “…you know, not interested in girls. But I don’t know for sure and I don’t…”

“You want to make sure he’s safe. I understand, Gav dear. But you’d better bring him home for your old Nan to meet eventually, d’you hear me? Can’t have you galivanting around with those loose types—and don’t you let him treat you like anything less than Dorothy Troy’s own grandson, or there will be words.”

He nearly laughed at how completely opposite the picture she had was—God bless her and her relentless faith in him. After all, Gavin had learned first hand that he could put fear in the other man’s eyes without even thinking. However this ill-thought-out date went, he knew he never wanted to see that haunted look again.

The clock above the kitchen door caught his eye and he gasped. “I’ve got to go! Argh, Nan, is this tie alright?”

A warm smile spread across her face and she leant forward to press a kiss to Gavin’s forehead. “You look lovely, my boy. I’m very proud of you, and anyone on your arm ought to be too.”

She shepherded him toward the door, brushing biscuit crumbs from his shirt and handing him his coat and scarf.

“Proud of you,” she repeated.

“…And it’s, uh, Norman, obviously—I think Nan said it was built in 1306?” He cast around frantically, convinced that at any minute, Martin would realise he was actually an idiot. “The windows they took from a Saxon chapel, though. Seems a bit rude, but at least they didn’t waste ‘em.”

Martin slid his own pamphlet into his pocket—oh God, he’d just read it too, hadn’t he?—and smiled across at him. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, they are.” He wasn’t even just saying it; there were three of them, skinny and nestled up close to each other, their long slim forms tapering to a peak, and the afternoon sun set the glass in them glittering before it splashed across the chapel’s old, yellow-grey stone.

Martin leaned in and pointed, shoulder brushing Gav’s in a way that might have been accidental. “See how it’s got those sort of,” he gestured, “plank-shaped things, but stone, that make the top pointed?” When Gavin nodded, he continued, “Any time you’ve got a triangular-headed window like that, it’s gonna be Anglo-Saxon. Or, you know, Frankish of some sort—nobody ever thinks of the Frisians or the Jutes.”

“D’you know, I have no clue what you’re talking about?”

Martin huffed out a quiet laugh, setting a column of illuminated dust spinning. “It’s your own fuckin’ country, Troy, did you not pay attention in school at all?”

“Not really, no.” Oddly, he didn’t feel the normal clench in his belly he did around smart people: maybe it was the lightness of Martin’s tone, or the fact that he seemed pleased to share things, not cross that he didn’t know them.

“Well, any time you want to know more about your ancient ancestors, you let me know.” He leant away, propping his elbows on the pew behind him, and Gavin pretended not to miss his warmth. “Did you grow up in the church, then?”

Gavin copied his pose, elbows back and head tilted back to take in the height and space of the roof. It really was a lovely place, even if it did smell a bit odd.

“Yeah, my Mum and Dad went to the Presbyterian church on, you know Scarfield Street? But they split up when I was fourteen and I went to live with Nan, and she could never be bothered. I missed the morning teas, but not much else.”

“Oh, they make a mean cuppa tea, the Presbyterians. ‘Spose they’ve not got much else to take joy in.”

“Oi, now. We took refuge in the Holy Spirit, we did.” Martin laughed, and he shot him an amused glance. “Anyway, you were Catholic, right?”

“I surely was. 8AM Mass on Sunday, Wednesday evensong coz that’s when Da got off work early enough, and I was in the cathedral choir for… God, too many years. I don’t know if I…” He broke off, started again. “Sometimes I think I believe in God, and the way the Church does things, and sometimes only one or the other. Most of the time, it’s neither. But it’s still home, you know? Familiar. Not exactly safe, though.”

He grimaced, and Gavin reached out to grasp his shoulder, terribly awkward but needing to do something.

“Time for a pint, d’you reckon?”

For a moment, the shadow stayed on Martin’s face, and Gavin felt… he wasn’t sure how to describe it, other than history, all crowded up behind the two of them; all the people who’d worshipped and gossiped and gazed boredly at the exposed beams of the ceiling here; the wars and the peace and the people who stole windows from churches older still; all the people who’d chucked shit at each other and sung in choirs and not been, exactly, safe.

Then the moment passed; Martin shook his head, grinned, and followed Gavin out of the chapel and into the gathering dusk.