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James Hathaway sprawled unhappily on the couch, guitar in his lap. He'd tried listening to music but where the calming harmonies normally soothed him, this time they'd just underscored his dissatisfaction. He'd tried playing but had realised very quickly that neither his mind or his heart were in it. His fingers picked dissolutely across the strings, random scatterings of notes that occasionally bled into a few bars of a tune before dissolving again into fancy. He could feel the frustration, sourceless and eternal, building within him and demanding something more than the release that could be found in his baby's strings.
It wasn't that he didn't have a life - he had his band, his music - it was just that, beyond those necessities, he didn't chose to go out often or to look for company beyond himself. Partly it was that his job that made socialisation difficult (both the seminary and police training had prepared him well for that), but mostly it was awareness of previous mistakes. Love was a many splendoured but dangerous thing - and that applied to agape and philias as much as the more obvious eros. He plucked a few more distracted notes, his baby purring responsively under his hands. He wasn't gun shy - he just didn't see the point of throwing himself into the middle of a target range. He strummed a few more measures before acknowledging to himself that he needed something more. Gently wiping down the strings, he put his Gibson away.
Freed from the necessity of care his movements became more twitchy. One look at himself in the mirror and he decided that he needed to change. Lounging around the house was one thing but the old, comfortable clothes he wore were definitely not suitable for what he had planned. A quick consultation with his wardrobe later and he shrugged into loose cargo pants that practically hung off his hips and a couple of thin, layered t-shirts. It isn't perfect but he felt it would do. Plus they were clean, which was a strong argument in their favour. Grabbing his keys and wallet he headed for the door only to stop half way there and return for his phone. Sod's law said he would probably regret it later, but he wanted to relax and he wouldn't be able to if he left it behind. There were just too many reasons why he might need it and only a few of the more important ones related to emergencies.
He knew where he was going to end up but, despite everything, he didn't find himself ready to act on that probability. There were other options and he was thorough. Bars and clubs enticed him with their bright lights and chatter as he walked; lively music spilling out into the night in promise. He had a pint in a bar he liked, but moved on when the live music proved to have a more classical bent that evening. It just wasn't what he was looking for, the piano too regimented yet producing a unprincipled flurry of notes which suddenly felt discordant to his ordered soul. He used to play when he was younger although he'd eventually switched to guitar. He'd had the hands for it. Gifted. Special. But then he had the hands for many things. These days there might be considered a certain irony in trying to find solace in the Church.
He didn't get as far as ordering a drink in the next few places he tried. Too modern, too intellectual, too quiet. He gave into the inevitable eventually, his feet leading him where he wanted to go with a wholly false serendipity. He paid the entry fee and turned right on entry, finding the stairs down to the lower floor. He could feel the rightness of it in his bones as he sauntered through the low-light corridors, the energy leaking into him. Then he rounded the corner into the dance area proper and the subsonic beat became a wall of sound - a deep pulse that resonated with something deep inside. Trapped within it the music permeated the air, fluttering and twisting like a demented spirit. This was not the soul being uplifted but something far more primal - the base calling to the base.
James joined the seething mass and let himself dance.
It was a little gratifying how quickly his eye was caught - brief flirtatious signals seen by the flash of strobe; a flick of hair, a shimmy of hips, a smile, a wink... He ignored them all at first, letting himself settle into the place, get a feel. There were students here, it was Oxford, but they were a presence not a majority. Postgrads, research fellows, young professional-but-not-too-professionals and even a few cooler junior lecturers let loose in this modern bacchanalia. James made it a rule on those few occasions he came here to never look too hard in the dark corners so he wouldn't see anything he would have to get official about.
When it happened it did in the way of such things - the music and crowd shifted, two people started to echo each other, slightly at first, and then, where there had been two there became one cohesive unit. The man James found himself dancing with was lithe, hips swaying easily and unselfconsciously to the rhythm. He was shorter than James, most people were, but they fit together well. That was one of the reasons James liked the place; no one cared. They certainly weren't the only two (or three or four) men (or women) gyrating together amidst the straight couples and mixed groups. He thought that there might be an orgy going on in the by the DJ's booth - but that was one of those things he didn't look at too closely. A few songs played out as they moved together, not quite touching but aware, until a slower song, one designed to give the more energetic dancers a break, forced him to make a choice. His partner looked at him, gauging his interest. In the realm of the club what they had been doing didn't really signify anything. He smiled and was met halfway as he shifted closer.
They end up, a few songs later, on one side of the dance floor - hands down each other's trousers and tongues down each other's throats. The cock in his fist was hard and hot, a bit sweaty from their recent exertion. Most importantly it wasn't his. The hand jerking him of in return held him a little too firmly, and pumped him with slightly the wrong rhythm. It was perfect. Until he realised that the increasingly frantic vibration in his pocket was not a result of either the club's sub-woofer or their mutual wrist action.
"Tell me you're getting kinky?" his dance partner groaned against his skin.
"Unfortunately not."
He weighed the social faux pas against the professional one as he tried to reach for his phone with his spare hand.
Another groan, this time less playful and accompanied by an prompting thrust into his slackening grip. "Ignore it."
"I wish I could."
The other man seemed to catch something in his tone and straightened, withdrawing his hand and shifting enough that James had a better angle to do the same. The flashing lights of the room revealed snapshot images of a serious expression but no condemnation.
"A case of life and death?" he asked.
"It's my night off," James said with cynical conviction, "the death is pretty much a given."
It was properly better that he wasn't trying to talk to dispatch with while performing indecent acts but James found himself more than a little disappointed. And not just by the conversation which was short, predictable and mostly shouted.
"I don't have my car with me," he repeated hopelessly for the second time. "It'll take me at least..." He tried to work out the quickest route to the address he had been given. "Half an hour."
It went without saying that he would go straight there. He wondered whether Lewis had something he would rather be doing as well or if this was breaking up another night of ready-meal-and-television. Having finally made himself understood he hung up slightly bitterly.
"Pathologist?" his new acquaintance half-shouted sociably and James was surprised to find he was still there and hadn't just melted back into the crowd in search of a better time.
"Copper," he admitted at a slightly lower volume, leaning forwards to make sure he was heard. It was information he didn't feel like sharing with the crowd, as unlikely as he was to be heard. He frowned. "What made you say pathologist?"
A shrug and what he thought was "Dunno," then a grin. They were close together again, heads almost touching; lips against ears. "They're always quite sexy on TV."
"Ah," James opined, ignoring the implicit complement because he wasn't entirely sure it had been intended, "the difference between television and reality."
He got a laugh although he hadn't really intended to be funny. Normally he said things like that and Lewis just gave him a fond, and occasionally exasperated, look.
"Your's not then?"
James thought about that and then quickly concluded that was an image he didn't want in his head. He liked Dr Hobson, but he could never quite lose the feeling that she was going to give him a pat on the head and a plate of milk and chocy biccies. And she was definitely 'Dr Hobson' in his mind. "I think there something going on between her and my DI."
"Is that good or bad?" He, and James would really have to ask his name if they talked for much longer, didn't ask what a DI was, James noted. He wasn't sure if that signified anything.
"It remains to be seen."
"Look," the guy offered, "I have my car just round the corner. If you want I'll give you a lift - save you the walk."
James looked at him. He seemed nice enough, not that that meant anything - you could never really tell the type who was just waiting for means and opportunity. But he had been exactly what James needed and it was his night off.
"I'm not expected for another thirty minutes," he noted.
The gloom of the club was perfect for its purpose but less good for either conversations or reading expressions. Still, James was pretty sure that there was interest along with the surprise. "What about the body?"
"I doubt it's going to get any less dead." The dark humour was an instinctive response and, he realised with a jolt, possibly inappropriate. This wasn't someone he knew, who knew how the job worked, which had after all been part of the point of the evening. "If you don't want to... the job can be a bit of a..."
He was stopped by a hand on his arm.
"I've always wanted to be frisked by a friendly bobby."
"Really?"
"No. But it was better than any joke I could think of about liking 'dick's"
James thought about that for a moment. "Fair enough," he agreed.
"Yeah?"
The music rollicked about them, untiring and hypnotic. The driving beat thrummed through James' body chasing away the restlessness that had precipitated his meeting and replacing it with purpose.
"Right," James said decisively, "bathroom. Now."
They made it to the crime scene within the thirty minutes. But only just.
"Who was that?" Lewis asked as he raised his hand in thanks and goodbye. Dr Hobson's car was just pulling up as James weighed his options. He decided it was polite interest rather than active curiosity.
"Friend," James said shortly.
Lewis didn't comment further as they wandered through the bustle of the nascent investigation. James found he had to force himself to pay attention as they made their survey - you never knew what might be important but he felt exposed without the armour of his suit or the memory-knot of his tie against his throat. It wasn't that Lewis hadn't seen him in his civvie clothes, or that sod's law hadn't seen them both wearing stranger things at a murder site, but he could feel the sweat of the club drying clammily against his skin, his mouth tasted of artificial mint flavouring and he was only mostly sure he didn't have any seman anywhere visible on his clothing. Fuck, he needed a cigarette. Luckily forensics seemed to be clearing out so he wouldn't get to find out just how much he lit up under UV.
They circled back around to the body and the white clad ME bent over it like a particularly vicious Tellytubby.
"Well," Lewis asked.
Dr Hobson stood up slowly before she answered. "Officially, you will have to wait for my official report."
"And unofficially?"
"Repeated blows to the head by a blunt object. The wounds are fairly distinctive so I should be able to pinpoint the shape of whatever was used. For now you want to round up anything which has both a rounded and serrated edge."
James made a metal note, his eyes already skipping from one object to another as he tried to remember if he had seen any likely weapons earlier. They'd need to organise a general sweep of the area, see if the it had been discarded anywhere nearby. He caught Lewis' eye and knew they were thinking that same thing. Time to round up a few uniforms and set them to work.
Before he could move Hobson said "May I steal your Detective Sergeant for a minute?"
He froze, having nothing to contribute as Lewis looked from Hobson to him.
"Of course," Lewis replied. "Send him back when you are done with him."
Hobson smiled slightly. "In exactly the same state I found him," she promised.
Lewis didn't both to smother his snort. "Well, I suppose an upgrade was too much to hope for."
That, James thought, was slightly unfair - even if it wasn't his best night. "This is the very perfection of a man," he quoted, "to find out his own imperfections."
Lewis' mouth twisted. "Now I know that isn't Shakespeare."
"Saint Augustine," James confirmed.
Lewis nodded as if that was only to be expected. Maybe it was. Wilde's 'The true perfection of man lies not in what man has, but in what man is' sprang to mind. Apposite given his evening, but he kept it to himself. Hobson cleared her throat.
"I'll just go and get that search started," Lewis muttered.
Dr Hobson didn't say anything as he walked over to collar a passing Sergeant.
"Was there something you needed?" James asked when it became clear she wasn't going to start any time soon.
"No," Dr Hobson said with a slightly mischievous tone, "I just wanted to know if you got his number?"
James stared at her. Ignoring his shock she ripped a slip of paper out of her notebook and pressed it into his hand. He was still staring, dumbstruck, when she patted him on the arm before walking past him. It was easier to look down at the registration number scrawled there than to risk seeing her amusement as she left or Lewis' quizzical observation of their exchange, so James did that. At least until Lewis called him back to the matter in hand. He obediently stepped back into his life, but he did shove the note into his pocket first.