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"If you were having an affair with her that would be one thing—" Helen says, and then the thought pops into his head—unlooked for, unsolicited, un-bloody-believably.
An affair with Havers, he thinks, there's an idea.
It's a bloody stupid idea, of course. Helen is pregnant, and he loves her, and whatever his many faults, infidelity has never been one of them. He's not even sure why his brain jumps to the thought. That an affair with Barbara Havers—his irascible, recalcitrant, bloody-minded DS—might possibly be a good idea. Not that she is his DS at the moment. God, the look of her in that uniform. He'd have taken a picture if she wouldn't have clobbered him.
So, it wouldn't be good, of course. An affair. It would be very, very wrong, not least because he's her superior officer, but God, he thinks, we'd work well. The same way they worked well on an investigation, when they were on top form, all cylinders firing, humming like a well-tuned engine, each bringing something to the case that the other might have missed, each following each other's lead. Like dancing, really. Or brawling. Some kind of contact sport. They'd be good at that, he thinks. They'd be good in bed.
It's a passing thought, at the time. He really does love Helen. He's committed to her—to their baby and the life they're building together, however shakily. And then—well, then, that life just disappears.
It's years, after that, before he thinks of Havers like that again. Before he thinks of any woman again in any meaningful way. Years in the bottle. Years in the arms of beautiful strangers—passing ships in the night—who help him exorcise his pain but do nothing to heal the root of it. The gaping hole in his heart where his wife and son should be.
But still, there's Havers. The world's most difficult woman and his best friend—the reason he gets up in the morning—and sometime after she's finally promoted—finally made a DI in her own right—sometime when he finds himself at the case board, turning to look for her snarky observation that will blow the case wide open and all he finds is a pimply DC with a deer-in-headlights expression on his face—sometime then, he remembers Helen's words all those years ago and thinks again, there's an idea.
He asks her later, down the pub. They're comparing notes—his murder, her jewel theft, of all things—and he looks at her, laughing at his tale of woe over the pimply DC and the DS who never snarks, and he asks, without pausing to think, "Why have we never gotten together, Havers?" And then she stops laughing abruptly and stares at him with those big green eyes—her expression not far off from his gormless DC’s—and he thinks, right. That could have been put a little more delicately.
They stare at each other for a while. The pub bustles on around them, but he takes no notice. It's just him and Havers, sitting in the snug, breathing the same air, cocooned by the same old closeness that used to drive Helen wild.
"Well," Havers says finally, "I don't know, sir, but I'd guess it might have something to do with the fact that you still call me Havers unless one of us is in mortal peril, and I still call you sir, sir."
He laughs then, rueful. She still does call him sir, even though it's been a year since he was her governor. He still calls her Havers—the habit of a lifetime—even though most of their time together now is spent in pubs like this one, talking through their cases, helping each other get ahead. Hillier must know—the whole MET must. The two of them have been a packaged deal since that very first case. He figures it suits the higher ups to have the benefit of two DIs on any given case while they only have to pay one. Because that's how it works out. Wherever they are—whatever case they've each got—the other is just on the other end of the line. Bouncing off ideas, coming up with new leads, talking each other out of—or sometimes into—dangerous ploys that get results. That's what Hillier's always said. Pain in the ass they may be, but you can't argue with their results.
"We could try,” he says, softly now. “First names, I mean. And the other, maybe. If you like.”
Havers—Barbara—she’s still staring at him, all pink cheeks and awkward bangs falling into her eyes, and she’s not his type at all, but she’s everything he’s ever wanted in a partner. In a woman. Loyal. Brave. Clever. Tough as nails, but soft, too. Caring. When it counts. When it’s him.
“You mean it, don’t you?” she asks. “You wanna try. After all this time, Tommy and Barbara. What did you call it? Getting together. We get together, and then what? We get a flat? Get a dog? Keep getting the bad guys until one day we retire and move home to Cornwall to watch sheep graze for the rest of our lives, is that it?”
“You want to get a dog?”
“Sir—”
“Tommy.”
“Sir,” Barbara says, sternly, “forget the dog. It won’t work. You know that as well as I do. You need a wife—an heir—and I need my career. I’m good at it. I like it. I only just made DI, and if I stop off for a baby now, that’ll be the end of it.”
“It wouldn’t,” he says, “not if you were a countess.”
“Oh God,” Barbara says, burying her face in her palms, “don’t say that. Can you imagine? Me? Lady of the bleeding manor?”
For a moment he does imagine it. Imagines her at Howenstowe surrounded by all that green—the gardens, the woods, the rolling hills. She’d be glorious in the wild like that, away from all the dreary dross of London and the never ending string of crime that keeps them both so busy, day and night. She’d be wonderful at the rest of it, too. Managing the house, keeping an eye on the locals, helping to make sure the estate serves the community, not just the aristocracy. Moving home has never really appealed to him, not until this exact moment. Not until he could imagine sharing the responsibility with her.
“I can see it,” he says. “You’d be a natural. If you wanted to be.”
She peeks out at him from behind her hands, fingers pulling at her bangs
“Sir, you’re not—you can’t—”
“What?”
“It’s just—are you seriously proposing that we get married—now—just like that?”
That does give him pause, for a moment. Does he actually want to get married again? It hadn’t been easy, the first time. With Helen. He’d loved her, but it hadn’t worked. Not really. Not when he was never home, never with her, never able to leave the case or Barbara behind, not even when he was meant to be lost in Helen’s arms. It had been a beautiful dream, their marriage, and like a dream, it hadn’t really stood up to the harsh light of day.
What he has with Barbara—it’s not a dream. Just the opposite. Sometimes it’s been a complete nightmare. The times he’s disappointed her—the times she’s disobeyed him, and he couldn’t protect her—the time she got shot—the time he nearly got sent down. And still, here they are. Alive. Together. In love.
Because he does love her—sometimes he thinks he always has—and he knows that she loves him. She’s loved him for so long he barely even notices the way she looks at him now—like he’s a storybook hero, and she’s a damsel who certainly doesn’t need rescuing but wouldn’t say no to joining forces with another questing knight now and again. He looks at her much the same way, if he's honest. He’s a much better fit for the role of the damsel, anyway.
So maybe he does want to get married again. To her. Maybe he’s still in need of a little rescuing. Maybe she can save him from himself. Maybe he can figure out how to save her a little, in return.
“I think I am,” he says, finally. “Barbara Havers, will you marry me?”
“Don’t be daft,” she says. “We haven’t even gone out yet. Haven’t even kissed. I’m not marrying you only to find out you’re a lousy kisser.”
He smiles at her and all her flushed indignation—and then he leans in even closer.
“How many meals have we shared? How many pints? We've been 'going out' for years. But the rest—it's a fair cop,” he says. “So let’s see, shall we?”
And then he kisses her. There’s no choir of angels—no bolt of lightning—but there is heat and need and years upon years of pent up desire and love all finding its way between their lips. He reaches for her waist—she reaches for his neck—and then they’re sliding down the back of the snug, sinking into each other and the cushions in the corner, moving deeper and deeper into their own little world until the barman slams his fist on the bar and shouts, “Oi, you can’t be doing that in here! You’ll get done for indecency.”
Reluctantly, they break apart, and Tommy realizes belatedly how far his hands have traveled beneath her sensible t-shirt.
“Sorry,” he whispers, tugging it back down. “Forgot.”
“Yeah,” she breathes, making a valiant but futile attempt to smooth out his rumpled collar. “We should—”
“Go,” he finishes. “Couldn’t agree more. Lead the way, Havers.”
She snorts and slides out of the snug.
“Yes, sir.”
He stops in the process of following her, looking up into her wide eyes, sparkling with mischief.
“You’re not going to call me that in bed, are you?” he asks, not entirely sure he’s looking for a denial. She just smirks.
“You never know,” she says. “Play your cards right, maybe ask real nice...”
He feels the lightning then. The shock of electricity, the boom echoing in his head.
“Barbara, I really do love you,” he says. “Marry me? Please?”
Her smirk turns soft—warm and welcoming—and she leans in for another kiss.
“I’ll think about it,” she says. “Sir.”