OFFERING

by elfin


It comes to a head so peacefully, rising slowly, curving gently, that he hardly notices until it's done.

A beautiful, early summer's evening in Fennacombe Bay.  Oddly relaxed in the Hatchards' garden, left alone while the couple do� whatever it is that couples do when they have guests they barely know.  The sea is somewhere in front of them, in the distance.  And somewhere, the same distance behind them, is the rest of the world. 

Between them, two freshly opened bottled beers squat on the short grass.  Tom lies on his back, ankles linked, arms crossed behind his head, eyes closed against the brightness of the low evening sun.  To his right Ben lies, propped up on one elbow on his side, his crisp white cotton shirt casually open at the neck, sleeves rolled loosely up his honey-tanned arms.

His fingers slide down the neck of the condensation-cool bottle, the gesture unconsciously erotic, before he lifts it to his lips, pouring the fizzy pale liquid down his throat. 

"Why?" he asks.

And Tom tells him. 

"His name was Gavin."  A start which for Tom explains everything, for Ben nothing.  But he remains quiet and Tom continues.

"He was my sergeant, before Scott.  And maybe that's why I detested Scott, or maybe not.  Gavin was very young and na�ve when he joined CID - the son of a friend who'd long moved out of Midsomer - he was wise but not weary when he left me. 

"At first it was like dragging a bored student around after me.  But he learnt quickly, and along with wisdom came friendship.  He was invited into our house as you've been - and may I say you're as welcome as he was, whereas Scott most definitely was not.

"He came round for dinner, even for breakfast if we faced an early start.  BBQs in the summer, parties at Christmas.  He settled, became a member of the family, a part of life - my life - until I couldn't imagine it without him. 

"One evening he came for dinner even though Cully was in back London and Joyce was staying at her Mother's for the week.  We drank beer and barbecued steak and sat talking over the picnic table until the sun set.  Then as dusk settled he leaned across the table and kissed me.  Slowly.  So certain of himself - of us.

"We made love in the guest room where he sometimes stayed.  We did it all night; dozing, sleeping, then waking into each others' arms. 

"In the morning I made him breakfast and we went to work like nothing had happened.  But it had.  And over the next six months it did again and again.  Lazy, stolen afternoons in his rented flat in town, nights when Joyce was away or evenings when she was just out.  Even a weekend in Oxford under the pretence of following up a lead.

"I knew he'd leave one day.  I was the one to mention it first - to push him into doing something about promotion and moving on.  He got caught up in it and I think by the time he realised what he was doing he was caught up in it.  He became an Inspector.  He took a job in Middlesborough.  He left one spring morning and I never saw him again. 

"We emailed one another for a while, promised we'd meet, have a couple of drinks - book a room, we both knew what we meant even if we didn't say it.  It's two-hundred and fifty miles from Causton to Middlesborough, it might as well have been a thousand.

"I don't know when we stopped talking, when we lost touch.  Not deliberately.  It just happened.  I don't know if he ever loved me or if I ever loved him.  But when we were together it worked and when he was gone I missed him.  I blamed Scott for everything - I hated him just for being alive. 

"And by the time I saw sense and that it wasn't his fault, he hated me too, hated Midsomer and everything it stood for."

Ben Jones still doesn't have his answer, so he asks again, "Why?" 

And Tom tells him.

"Because I don't want to do it all again.  I'm too old now." 

That simple.  A simple lie, straightforward lie.

So now he gazes at Tom still lying on his back a foot away, eyes closed; relaxed, chilled even, despite what he's just disclosed.  He knows trust when he hears it and it just draws him further in.   

Maybe Tom's remembering other summer evenings.

"You put Gavin down to a mid-life crisis and turned your back on something you never thought you needed in the first place.  Do you ever think Joyce wonders - if it wasn't a sports car and it wasn't a twenty-one year old waitress called Tracy, then what or who was it?  Or do you think she saw the way you looked at one another, saw the affection there and was relieved?  Because even though you were sleeping with your sergeant - another man no less - you were never going to leave her for him. 

"Then he left anyway, and you stayed, and even though she tried to replace him with Scott you never took the bait.  And how much of a relief was it for her to know that you weren't ever going to leave her, to know her marriage is forever safe?"

Tom turns his head on his arms.  Ben expects roaring anger but sees only a faint curiosity mingled with invited intimacy - stolen familiarity mirrored back at him. 

"What makes you say that?"

"Women know, Tom.  Women sense things, see things, smell things that we don't even know are there.  When I picked you up this morning she told me she found this place too blustery, too cold, and was glad you were dragging me down here this time around instead of her.  When she said it there was this look in her eyes like she was wondering about me. 

"And when we arrived, Mrs Hatchard said she'd make up our rooms but the question in her eyes was on the plural.  If she hadn't already met Joyce she might have even asked.  Like Joyce, she was wondering why I'm here.

"But we both know. 

"I'm here because you want to but you won't.  I'm here because you think about it but won't act on it.  I'm here because every time I make a move you push me away and you think this will make up for that - some silent gesture that you need what I'm offering but won't allow yourself to have it."

He looks at Tom the same way he's always looked at him - a cautious mix of subordination and heat - and Tom looks right back. 

"Insightful man, aren't you, Ben?" he murmurs softly after a long time.

Ben nods once.  "It's what makes me so good at my job."  And his tone is almost teasing.  Almost.  Never crossing that un-drawn line of master and slave. 

"Yes."  Tom nods decisively.

Ben watches, holds his breath although he doesn't realise he's doing it, as Tom unfolds one arm from behind his head and reaches out across the narrow space, the palm of his hand hovering so close to Ben's left cheek that he can feel the sticky heat from it.   

"You're a beautiful man, Ben.  I think I'm too old that I don't want to go through it all again.  But I look at you and a part of me wants to take everything I know you're offering me, sink into it.  Into you."

Ben can't help his arousal - the delicate, caress of the words, the almost-caress of the hand - and he thinks it must darken his eyes - or maybe it lights them up - because Tom smiles like he knows and finally smoothes his thumb over Ben's stubbled cheek. 

"You do the same to me every day," he admits, voice rough so that Ben would have missed the confession had he not been listening for it.

"You don't have to deny yourself.  It'll be a long time before I make Inspector." 

And Ben hesitates just to be sure, before turning his head to kiss Tom's palm - a kiss brimming over with promises.

"I suppose it will be, Ben.  I suppose it will."