Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Adam angled the toe of his shoe, scrubbing it against the moss on the side of the footpath. Mud and wet grimed up the shine of the leather as he did, but no matter how hard he scratched- even with the hard rubber edge of his sole- the moss flashed blue at him, defiant.

“DI Lallana?”

Adam took a long drag of his cigarette before he looked up; let it fill his lungs, let it calm him.

“Yes?” he said, blinking in the glare of the blue light from the rooves of the cars, parked in a barrier around the house. The one reflected even in the moss. Urgent blue cut right through his eyes.

“DSI Klopp,” the man said, holding his hand out. He looked down at Adam through wiry-framed glasses that reflected the overcast sky. “Forensics have given the thumbs up, we can go in now.”

Adam clasped back firmly and tried to offer him an encouraging smile, but he had a feeling that it came out rather grim.

Klopp nodded, and twitched his head in the direction of the house. Adam crushed his cigarette onto the moist pavement with his heel. Then he half-heartedly kicked it in the direction of the drain and followed.

“I’m sorry about this,” Klopp said, when he held up the tape that barred the gate to let Adam duck under, “I realise that you were barely off the train, but as you can probably understand, we need fresh eyes for this.”

“It’s why I’m here,” Adam agreed, watching his feet as they made their way up the short garden path. Gravel was infinitely less awkward than the eyes he felt on him. His mind flashed to his suitcases, still sitting in the back of the squad car that had picked him up at the train station. Overnight train. Coffee for breakfast. A cigarette for lunch.

Concentrate. This is your job, now.

“This is Doctor Moreno, our resident forensic pathologist,” Klopp explained, indicating the man standing in the doorway.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dr Moreno a shorter, gingery-haired man with warm brown eyes addressed them both, his head bouncing in acknowledgement. “We’ve most of it done but I’ll need you to put the kit on please. Slippers, gloves, and the onesie- you know. Can’t be too careful.”

He offered Adam a bleak smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It had to be a first, Adam realised, but he had never seen a pathologist look, well, green before. He decided that, under the circumstances, it would be perfectly reasonable to feel nauseous.

“This is where I leave you,” Klopp bowed his head, “I’ll see you down at the precinct later. Please,” he waved Adam through the front door.

“The, uh,” Moreno lead the way up the hall, “um. He’s in the kitchen. But we have signs of struggle here,” he pointed briefly into the front room of the house, and Adam quickly ducked his head inside: chair knocked, TV smashed, “and along here,” Moreno pointed to the wall, where dark stains dragged in thin, jagged lines, “and we finish here.”

The kitchen was very bright- large windows faced onto the garden and the walls and floor were tiled white. Newly furbished, simply decorated. So the dead man in a pool of blood on the floor really stood out.

Moreno cleared his throat. “Preliminary confirmation, but- DI Joe Allen.”

Former DI , Adam’s head corrected. He lifted his gaze, looked around the room. He took two steps towards the back door.

“How long?” he asked.

“Can’t say for sure until the examination,” Moreno said, his voice shaking. “But it- he’s- still relatively fresh. I’d say last night, maybe early morning.”

Adam ran his rubber-clad finger along the bolts of the back door. “Who found him?”

“A neighbour, she was worried when she heard his dog barking to get in this morning, called us. He never forgot to feed Barney. Neighbour on the right,” he finished, as Adam squinted out the window, throwing his eyes over Joe Allen’s back garden.

“Front door?” he asked, twisting the handle.

“Locked from the inside,” Moreno said. “Same with all of the windows, and upstairs. No signs of forced entry anywhere.”

“Have you checked the back?”

“Next on the list. Don’t worry,” he said, gravely, “we’ll do this right.”

Adam was sure it wasn’t meant to be a dig at him, but he felt it anyway. This is still my mess, after all.

He turned his attention to the former DI Allen.

“Weapon?” He asked, falling into a squat beside him. Allen stared blankly at the roof, unblinking. An uneven, splintered red hole between his eyes the only evidence gracing his face that suggested this wasn’t a daydream.

“Not the murder weapon. Clean shot, the fight must have ended by now. A knife is missing from the rack,” Alberto added, “we found it under the fridge.”

“But he still tried to defend himself?”

“Looks like it, we’ll double check the prints.”

Adam swallowed. It was easy for him to be impartial; truly, he had seen worse from crime scenes- even though he was relatively new to actual murder. But how would he feel if it was DI Lambert on the floor, instead? Try empathy for once, you dickhead.

“CCTV on the street?”

“Stops right before the house.”

Damn.

“Anything else?” he asked, gently. Mostly to the corpse.

There was a rustle of scrubs as Moreno shook his head. “We’ve only picked up one set of footprints in the house, no weapon, no forced entry. Our only hope is that some of the blood in the hall belongs to the perpetrator- the, uh, wounds on the, um. The other wounds present on the body aren’t deep enough for that kind of bleeding. Abrasions and bruises to the face and costal margin from a possible fight, probably the one you saw in the hall, but not arterial bleeding. See the impression?” He pointed at the shot wound. “Square. Means it’s from a handgun, a Glock.”

Adam felt his own features draw together, in thought.

“Any guesses?” Moreno said, his tone pitching with hope. “Can I ask?”

Adam looked up into his desperate, pale face. “Nothing you probably don’t already know. No forced entry suggests he knew who killed him. No trace of the guy who did it, but still left a mess. Whoever did this either left in a hurry, or both intended it and meant to leave a message. Because they either cleaned up or avoided footprints suggests the latter.”

He reached out and hesitated. “Can I?” he asked.

Moreno nodded. “We’re about to move him anyway.”

Adam carefully pressed his fingers into Allen’s cheek, pushing his head to one side, and the dead eyes away from him. He saw the long, thin line drawn in Allen’s skin, behind his ear. There we go, he thought- his entire chest cavity sinking.

“Doctor, can I get a second opinion on this?”

He felt Moreno move to crouch beside him.

“This cut,” he said, tracing the air above the line with his free hand. “Neat. Not very bloody. Would you say it was made after he died?”

Moreno’s eyes widened in surprise. “I missed that in my initial exam,” he admitted. “I’ll be able to confirm for sure, later, but it seems consistent. Why?” He looked at Adam suddenly, desperately. “What does it mean?”

“It means,” Adam said, “that we know who did it.”

“Adam Lallana?” The voice came from behind him, just as Adam had been fishing in his pocket for his lighter, another smoke to quieten his growling stomach. To top it off, it had started to rain the moment he’d stepped outside- but weak rain, not enough to get properly wet and be bothered to seek shelter, but still really annoying.

“Yes?” he asked, the word just about getting out past the cigarette clenched tight between his teeth.

“Lucas Leiva,” the sandy haired man in the patrol uniform said. “Officially, but it’s just Lucas. Welcome to the Merseyside Police, buddy.” The last word came out long, bud-dee. His smile was also rather hollow.

Cut it out, Adam told himself. It’s not you. They just lost their colleague.

“Hi,” he said, tucking his cigarette back into the packet and holding his hand out to shake, too. Lucas looked at his hand and looked back up at him. Adam could’ve sworn that this time, his eyes smiled a bit.

“Klopp told me to bring you to the precinct,” he explained, shaking back a good deal more heartily. “But I thought we could grab lunch first.”

Adam liked this guy already. “Lead the way. Wait, hang on- I need to get my stuff.”

Lucas reversed his car from the barrier around the house, and in the reflection of the wing mirror Adam saw the body bag carefully being wheeled from the front door.

“How well did you know him?” Adam asked, quietly, glancing over at Lucas for a reaction.

Lucas’ lips set in a thin line. “We were on the same team.”

Adam felt his eyebrows soar. “You’re not a detective?” He said, nodding to the insignia on Lucas’ uniform.

This was met with a soft shake of the head. “It wasn’t anything authorised, but we gelled well. I helped him with his case.”

“Which case?”

Lucas looked at him in surprise. “The gun-running syndicate. Van Gaal and his mob.”

“Right,” Adam said dully, deciding to look out the window, and change the subject- because there was about to be so much of that. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked, deciding to comment on the distinctly non-Scouse inflection in his Scouse accent.

“Is it that obvious, eh?” Lucas flashed him a small grin. “Haven’t heard of many Leivas? I’m from Brazil, originally.”

“Oh,” Adam said, surprised.

“Yeah. Been on this force, what- seven or eight years now. No escaping the accent. Anyway, never mind me. You’ll be easy pickings with that posh London accent.”

“It’s not posh,” Adam shot back. “Hampshire Constabulary isn’t even near London.”

Lucas hummed. “Meh. Everything south of Birmingham is London to me.”

The drove on in silence, apart from the rhythmic whoosh, whoosh of the windscreen wipers- the rain now falling with more intent.

“I hope you like this place,” Lucas said, still smiling at him when he twisted his body to watch his boot reverse. “It’s my favourite, I’m here every day. And, it’s only just around the corner from where I believe they’ve got you some temporary accommodation.”

Adam looked past him out the window, at the wooden shop front; the banner on top littered with the remaining flakes of what must have been gold lettering, once upon a time- The Next Chapter . He glimpsed brass hanging lamps and the back of a plush leather couch pressed to the steamed-up window before he was distracted by Lucas opening his door.

“Alright, buddy?” he asked, pausing.

“Should we really be stopping?” Adam asked. “Should we not go straight, and get everything sorted?” You’ve lost your friend. You don’t really want to hang out with me.

“Yes,” Lucas nodded his head, tilting it in a way that Adam could only describe as good-naturedly. “But you’re hungry. Don’t think we all didn’t notice.” Then he stepped out.

Adam didn’t know if he should feel embarrassed. He opened his door a crack, pulling his hood up and lifted his body out onto the footpath with literally all of his strength.

It was hard to regret his decision however, when he stepped in the front door to a wave of heat and crispy bacon incense, and his stomach moaned for him. It was definitely a hipster spot: small, with far too many wooden tables and chairs clustered together on the floor, and a combination of motivational quotes in mismatched frames on the walls.

“Have a seat,” Lucas said, gesturing to one of the corners. “What do you like? Pasta? Salad? Bagel? This place runs on daily specials.”

“Uh,” Adam said, distracted with trying to take in as much of the place as possible. “Bagel.”

“And coffee?”

“Americano. Please,” he added, an afterthought. He started to pull his heavy, wet, wool coat from his shoulders as he crossed the floor to sit, manoeuvring the table/chair obstacle course as he did. It wasn’t his most gracious attempt, if he had been trying not to draw attention to himself. He elbowed at least three people in the head.

He finally, eventually, after a million years collapsed back into the couch pushed against the far wall, sinking into the cushions. He sighed, trying to relax, trying to stop himself from checking the emergency exits, checking the emergency, emergency exits, the fire hazards, his eyes drawing across the counter and guessing where the sharpest knives were kept in the kitchen, in case he needed one to hand.

Surely, he thought, there must have been a time when I wasn’t always like this.

He was even eyeing up the staff, in case he had to take them on. Stranger things had happened. The shorter one was in conversation with Lucas at the counter and looked more delighted about the fact than any other human could ever be, and couldn’t be long out of his teens. Adam frowned at his lips when they moved. Was it this strange northern dialect, or were they even speaking English? Not that Baby Face was a problem. His partner behind the bar was a lot broader along the shoulders, of a bench-pressing fashion. Adam’s stomach dropped, unexpectedly, and he quickly looked away.

“Alright?” Lucas said, appearing his line of vision suddenly with two cups balanced on saucers. Alrigheeet. Adam was certain that if his stomach wasn’t so empty, he would even find the enthusiasm forever present in Lucas’ speech endearing.

“Cheers,” he said, carefully taking the cup from him, spilling darkened foam over the side when he tried to place it down. Dammit . He reached for the sugar and attempted conversation. “They know you well here, then?”

“Well,” Lucas sipped at his own monstrosity, what looked like several different flavours of syrup heaped on top of each other in a tall glass. “The kid is Philippe, he’s also from Brazil.” Adam poked around in the sugar bowl, hoping to find something other than brown sugar cubes. He didn’t. Ugh. Brown sugar it is . “His folks are friends of a friend of the family of the Missus, and when he came over to England for his studies we helped him get a job with Hendo,” he waved his hand to indicate the other barista, behind him. “This is his shop, you see. A good guy, Jordan Henderson. Always fights your corner.”

“Right,” Adam agreed, half-focused on his stirring.

Lucas paused, to sip.

“You got a missus, then?” he asked, into the silence. “Back down south?”

“No,” Adam said, probably too firmly. He looked up quickly from the swirls created by his spoon and opened his mouth to apologise, just as he saw Lucas’ eyebrows rise up to meet his hairline.

“Ah,” he said, comprehension beaming across his face like a dawn. “A mister , then?”

Adam looked back down quickly, embarrassed. “No,” he replied. He let his lips quirk slightly, a dead weight when they dragged on his teeth.  “Not in a long time.”

“Married to the job,” Lucas agreed, ironic and sad that it had been a version of the break-up line the other member of Adam’s last serious relationship had used.

“I wouldn’t say that,” because he just had to argue such a statement, agreeing with it would just be too bleak.

“Buddy,” Lucas said, grinning. “Anyone who drinks black coffee is trying to tell the rest of the world he thinks that he has no soul.”

“Then what does your drink say about you?” Adam urged. “Whatever it is.”

“A grande , quad, non-fat, one-pump, no-whip, mocha,” Lucas declared, proudly.

“A quad? You mean- that thing has four espresso shots in it?” Adam looked at it again, amazed that such a drink existed, let alone that someone was drinking it. “It must be lethal .”

“I shows that I am happy to go out in style,” and Lucas drank some more of it, and licked his lips afterwards to prove his point.

“Bagels?” the small barista said, cheerfully, enough so that Adam was sure he’d picked his moment to interrupt. The plate he placed in front of Adam was too small for the sandwich, a mess of lettuce and bacon squished between two halves of some over-poppy seeded doughy gluten houses.

“Uh,” Adam said, when the small barista had backed off. Philippe , he remembered. “What is this?”

“From what I can recall,” Lucas said, “Chicken, bacon, lettuce, mayo, sweet chili sauce.” He listed them off his fingers. “Simple,” he took a large bite, “and effective,” spraying bits of bread over the table. “Oops, sorry!”

Adam was sceptical, but hungry. He took a careful mouthful, and was suddenly full of an explosion of taste against his tongue- salt from the bacon and spice and sweet.

“Oh my God ,” he mumbled, and started shoving it into his mouth. His stomach purred its approval, and finally started to fill. “Witchcraft,” he moaned, at the crumbs on his plate.

“You like it,” Lucas stated, somehow smiling through the chew.

Adam nodded with vigour, swallowing.

Lucas was already mopping up sweet chili sauce from his plate with some spare bagel. “Faster you eat,” he warned, “faster we have to leave.”

Adam nodded, slower this time. He brought his jaw to a halt, and Lucas grinned.

“I like you,” he said.

Adam swallowed, hard. “Thanks?”

Lucas leaned back in his seat. “So,” he began, and dread built in Adam’s lungs. He looked up at the counter suddenly, to see the taller guy looking at them with his arms folded, his eyebrows a thick, straight line; low enough to almost run horizontally through his eyes. When he noticed Adam watching back, he jumped to life- suddenly Very Busy. Adam’s stomach clenched again, which was awkward now that it was full.

Not fear. Something else equally uneasy. If only he was awake enough to put his finger on it.

“What did you think,” Lucas’ voice interrupted his thoughts. “Today.”

Adam took another large bite of his bagel. “Juan Mata,” he said, dully. “He left his trademark. The cut, the one right behind the ear. He must know that I’ve arrived.”

Lucas paled. “The cop killer? He’s in Liverpool ?”

“Yes,” Adam explained. “To link up with the, whatever- North West division of the cartel. He can’t work in London anymore, but it looks like he’s managed to get a better boss, probably his old buddy Van Gaal.” He cleared his throat, looking down at his food. Why had he suddenly dropped his guard? It wasn’t like he knew Lucas. But then again, it had been a while since he’d been around someone that he could articulate his thoughts to.

“Do you think he’s after you?” Lucas asked, curious.

Adam shrugged, more carefree than his thoughts. This wasn’t a big leap, he knew that; given the very public nature of the shouting match he’d had with Mata in the entrance hall of the Old Bailey. “Why?” he asked, lightly. “What do you know?”

“That he was the bodyguard for all the major dealings in the South. The ones going through the ports,” Lucas was saying. Adam could just hear him after deciding to fiercely concentrate on what remained of his lunch. “Got into the habit of cutting down detectives before they could find out what was going on.” Adam forced the last morsel in his mouth, a little regretfully. Would it be bad if he asked for a second? Yes , said his now over-full gut. “Left a mess of bodies all over the South West. Until you caught him, in Southampton.”

Adam manoeuvred his thumb between his lips, to sit against his teeth, to suck the last of the sauce from it. “Hmmm,” he nodded. “Anything else?”

Lucas leaned forward now, balanced his head level on his hands. “He got off. Confession was inadmissible, he had been injured during the arrest and hadn’t seen a doctor before you taped him.”

“Nothing to prove that there hadn’t been a kick in the ribs before he talked. Like we would even resort to that, he was so bloody proud of himself he was already bragging on the way to the station,” Adam continued, darkly. “Without it, it was enough to get reasonable doubt. Mata walked.”

There was silence. Lucas sighed, and rubbed his face with his hands. Suddenly, he looked as exhausted as Adam felt. “Juries are funny animals.”

Adam grunted in agreement. “I had heard a rumour he went north.”

“Good of you to come and help us with Van Gaal, all the same. Two birds, same stone. If we can get Van Gaal the whole English branch of their,” Lucas cleared his throat, “business will fall apart.”

Adam snorted. “You, and I, and the entirety of the Metropolitan Police Force, know that this isn’t a reassignment for me. This is banishment ,” he spat. “For publicly humiliating the justice system. Turns out I can’t even do that right, because there’s already a body count. I’m sorry,” he finished, softer. “I am so sorry, about Allen. I could’ve stopped it.” He ran out of words and reached for his coffee, swirled the last of it around the bottom of the cup. His eyes stung.

“We’ll get him,” Lucas promised, firmly. “We’ll get him for Joe, we’ll get him for you. We’ll make sure the case is watertight.”

“Yeah.” Adam’s stomach was suddenly too heavy, and he wished he hadn’t eaten, despite how glorious it had tasted. “Shall we settle? How much?” But Lucas was already shaking his head.

“No worries, buddy. Your first lunch is on me,” he smiled and they got up, and Adam felt weirdly relieved that he’d been in a new town a few hours and had already found someone who liked him enough to buy him lunch. Even if it wasn’t like that.

Against his will, as he pulled his coat up his arms, his eyes swept over the counter again. This time, there was no sign of Lucas’s Henderson friend. What had he said? That he was someone who would always fight your corner? Maybe Adam should consider befriending him too.

“I’m sorry again,” Klopp said, gesturing for Adam to sit down at the other side of his desk. “This was an unfortunate time for you to have arrived. We were very excited that someone so involved in this case had agreed to help us.” Define “agreed”, Adam thought, through his polite smile. Why couldn’t I have been sent to exile in the Bahamas, and not the far north. “Maybe it’s not so bad, everyone is in shock today and while arrangements are made for DI Allen, things will be slow around here for a while. You will have some time to adjust,” he finished, kindly.

He had an accent, too, Adam decided. Stiffer than Lucas’- maybe German. He liked it though- there was a nice sort of directness to Klopp; like he was Adam’s favourite uncle giving him career advice.

“Thanks,” Adam offered. “Really. Don’t worry about me, there’s probably enough going on for you. We can start on the case whenever you’re ready.”

Klopp nodded, even though he looked like he was thinking about saying something else. “Yes,” he agreed. “Ah! Here we go,” he reached into a drawer beside his desk, and shuffled around a bit before he pulled out a tiny memory stick, and handed it across the table to Adam. “The case files so far. Apologies,” as Adam turned it over in his hands, “if you’re anything like me, it’s easier to figure this stuff out when it’s on bits of paper. But this case has been going on for ten years, and I didn’t think you’d want a moving van full of files to show up at your place.”

“No,” Adam agreed. “Thank you again, for everything- for the flat and all, and the tour. Do you, um, was there anything that Joe Allen was working on; that isn’t in here?” He held up the memory stick.

“They’re in the evidence room. We can go through it after tomorrow.” Adam blinked, looking confused, and he saw Klopp’s face soften in a way that suggested he had just made some sort of uncordial mistake. “After the funeral.” He paused. “I’m afraid things will be a bit slow around here, until then, too.”

“Oh,” Adam managed, swallowing hard. Damn. Put your foot in it, Lallana, why don’t you?

Klopp’s phone beeped, on the desk beside his hand. He lifted it, and frowned.

“Dr. Moreno is about to start his autopsy, wants to get it done today. Are you okay to join him?”

“Sure,” Adam made to stand up. “Lucas showed me where that would be happening earlier.”

“He volunteered to bring you to your new place, too. I’ll wager you’ll find them both in the kitchen.” That uncle-y smile, again. Clearly, not much got past Klopp.

They shook hands.

“Thanks,” Adam said.

“You won’t be thanking me next week,” Klopp replied, and it sounded uncomfortably like a promise.

Adam hated autopsies. He especially hated them right after lunch. That kind of stuff was, quite literally, hard to stomach. Thankfully, he hadn’t been present at too many to date, with this one he could count them on two hands and that was it.

Doctor Moreno- Alberto , as he had asked to be known- had been a transformation of his earlier self: now brighter, chattier. He kind of looked like a puppy, the more Adam thought about it. Big, bright, brown eyes and with the lower half is his face decorated with a fluffy, gingery beard.

“It’s easier,” he said, “when it’s this work. Stops being a person, starts being my job.”

In the present, Lucas’ car slid to a halt in front of a large apartment block.

“I’ll help you with your stuff,” he insisted.

Adam’s new place- temporary place, was only just about larger than a shoebox. The appliances and furnishings were new, but looked like they desperately needed space, packed in on top of each other. Adam’s thoughts wandered back to his apartment in Southampton. One with interior walls, at least. And a view of the sea. Granted, that sea was often very choppy and not particularly picturesque; but the alternative was the view of the next building, was small and set high off the ground- more for allowing light in, then looking out of.

Lucas coughed. “I’ve got to run, but it’s just this evening. Tomorrow I’ll show you around the neighbourhood.”

“Thanks,” Adam accepted, suddenly spotting the bed and feeling exhausted.

Lucas waved at him before he left, and Adam slid back onto the blanket. The bed creaked under him, and felt unnecessarily hard.

He fiddled with his pocket, and pulled the memory key out into his hands, turned it over in his fingers. Images flipped through his head: rain, the moss, the pavement, then his bagel, chirpy Brazilians, stern coffee house owners, Klopp looking at him both kindly and sadly.

Fully clothed, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

Adam woke up in the middle of the night, and realised he was still wearing his tie, realised that the heat hadn’t been turned on, realised he was starving .

This was the whole issue with messing with his sleep schedule. Adam’s normal bed time was about one a.m., and he didn’t even think it had been dark before he fell asleep. Groaning, he rolled off the edge on the bed and into a heap on the carpet; stretching out his arms and legs like a cat. Then he lifted himself up, a long process, to which motivation was key: his stomach was hungry, but what if the cupboards were disappointing, or empty? And really- would it matter that much to anyone if he withered away here on the floor?

Mata .

Then Mata would win, wouldn’t he?

With that, he straightened, clicked his back into place, and dragged his feet across the tiny space.

He found relief in the second cupboard- baked beans, batch bread and tea bags. In the fridge there was some more- the light blinded him for a second, but then there was milk, and butter.

Lucas , his brain told him. Surely . He would have to thank him tomorrow, and try and relay the gratitude that sent tingles down his neck and made his throat swell.

Disorientated in the dark after he’d closed the neon white of the fridge, Adam felt his way along the walls, smoothing the tips of his fingers along the plaster until his nail hit the firm edge of the light switch, and he snapped the room full of buttery yellow light.

He shivered as he kicked off his shoes and pulled his tie loose, and he searched the pockets of his coat for his phone. It lit up at a time of five in the morning, which was just, bloody, fantastic. Even better- all the wifi signals were password protected. A quick check of the apartment showed no modem of any kind, and Adam decided that silly a.m. was no time to start fixing that problem.

In his largest hoodie and track pants he made tea and beans on toast, good enough to rival his bagel the afternoon before. He curled up on his bed as he ate, staring at the wall. He wanted to think about the case, but he was still too tired to function, so when he finished his food he placed the cutlery on the floor and slithered back under the covers.

I bet the Bahamas are nice in January, he thought.

An hour later, he was still awake, and still too exhausted to think. In an effort to save himself from going completely nuts, he decided to pack up his laptop, take a shower- that ended up being much icier than expected, or pleasant- and find somewhere to set himself up for the day, to go through the stuff Klopp had given him.

Down the elevator, through the lobby, out into the biting cold of the morning. Wind ruffled his hair and he made the decision- more like, spun the imaginary wheel in his head- and set off to the right.

He wandered down the street- past pubs and winding terraced neighbourhoods and tiny green spaces bookended with rusty white goalposts. He stopped, fascinated by their stark rigidity in the not-quite morning light.

Home now . Because how temporary was temporary? This had been a Merseyside police case for years, and it wasn’t going to be solved just by Adam showing up. And Adam was only here because he had nowhere else to go.

He aimed a kick at a stone on the pavement, sending it flying through the air over the grass and falling well short of the posts. Not his best shot. He tried again, but this time he dragged his foot a little too much off the ground, and he felt the twinge spring awkwardly up his knee.

He had been happy in his last job. He knew the town, had his friends and he really had been a very good detective. And then there had been Mata and this had all blown up in his face.

Mata was free now to walk the streets and Adam just could not live with himself. He would not be able to, until Mata was deep inside the prison system with no hope of getting out, no hope of him staring down Adam again with a gun and those cold, calculating eyes.

Adam had seen the movies, and the TV series, but through all of his training up to this point; never, ever had expected to see a gun out in the field, let alone have one pointed at him. And he worked on a gun running case.

Adam hadn’t been watching where his feet were leading him, and when his stomach growled again- boredom, probably- he realised that there was something he recognised: across the road, the shop front with the peeling gold lettering. The windows glowed, throwing the promise of warmth out onto the cold January street. When Adam’s breath fogged in front of him, he remembered that the coffee really hadn’t been all that bad; so with a final shiver, he made his way to the front door.

A bell tinkled now when he pushed it open- a tiny, shrill, brass sound- he hadn’t noticed that yesterday. Open! Said the sign pressed against the interior glass. Wifi!

Warm , Adam thought. He could feel the cold of the glass even through his gloves as he’d pushed.

The happy, small Brazilian was there on his own, and Adam could see that he recognised him, because he beamed at him. This was a peculiar feat for the hour, because nothing was beaming on anything just yet outside.

“Good morning!” he chirped. “Can I get you anything?” His accent was the same mix of Brazilian and Scouse as Lucas’, but maybe a little more on the Brazilian end of things. It only sought to make him more adorable, and Adam wondered how much of their customer demographic was made up of middle-aged women looking for something to mother.

“Black coffee. Please.”

“For here, or to take away?”

Adam thought about the cold outside. He also considered how comfortable that couch had been yesterday.

“Here’s fine.”

“No problem,” Philippe sang back. Adam should probably change his order to whatever he’d just had, obviously some sort of miracle juice. He was even humming as he set to work.

“Feels like snow,” he said conversationally, shaking his head. “I can really feel it, you know?”

“Really?” Adam looked back out the shop window. “Surely it isn’t cold enough?”

Philippe just shook his head faster. “No, no,” he explained. “Can’t you feel it in your bones ? Anyway, second week of January? It always snows. I feel sorry for them at the cemetery today.”

The what? Adam wondered. Then he remembered, the funeral, and felt immediately guilty. No one had mentioned the arrangements, but then he hadn’t exactly asked , had he? Maybe he should have gone, to save face.

“Don’t worry,” Philippe had been watching him, and his hospitality training must have sprung into action. “I’m not going either- someone has to clean up the shop, right?” He winked. “But we’re going to close today after lunch, Hendo doesn’t want to work when he gets back, and my shift will finish.” When he saw Adam’s face blank, he nodded back in the direction of, what Adam presumed was, the kitchen. “You know,” he said. “ Hendo .”

Adam remembered the taller half of the bartending duo with an: “oh, yeah. Him”.

Philippe had been working as he spoke, and Adam jumped to life when the coffee was placed on the counter beside him; hunting in his pockets for change. When he looked up, Philippe was watching him with a sly look on his face.

“What?” Adam asked, spilling change on to the counter.

“Nothing,” Philippe said, really not looking like it was nothing, and then he broke into a grin. “If you need anything,” he said, in now what was clearly his customer voice, “I’ll be right here.”

Adam looked at him in confusion for what was probably too long, given his actual occupation of mystery-solver. He then decided to shelve that interpretation for later, and crossed the empty shop to the couch.

The morning passed in no time at all. Adam dove into the case file, and as the hours passed, he was less and less distracted by people coming into the shop and more completely preoccupied by the absolute tangle of facts.

The problem was that this whole operation ran in a tandem: literally, supply, and then demand. Van Gaal linked up with contacts in the Netherlands and Germany to ship in his supplies- weapons, normally, drugs, sometimes- which were then distributed by an Italian, Pellegrini, and his henchmen, throughout the North West. The issue was therefore simple: take out Van Gaal, and the whole arrangement would crumble.

This had all been put together, Adam learned as he flicked through the different files, over many sting operations: an interrupted shipment here, an undercover agent there, and it went on, and on.

Several problems, though, remained. Van Gaal, from all they could gather, was a bit of an urban myth. For all anyone could tell, “he” could even be several people, sharing responsibilities. No one had seen him, or met him, despite his reputation following him all over Europe. Nothing, apart from witness testimony, linked him to any of the crimes. Adam was tucking into his lunch by the time he reached the last file: a tuna melt bagel today, with a totally ridiculous, but very enjoyable, cheese-to-tuna ratio.

The last file was the most recent, and the reason Adam was even here. Fed up with his deliveries being intercepted, Van Gaal had hired cover: someone to root out the snitches and protect the shipments and even carried a cop-killing reputation that was alarming enough to scare any sensible officer from the case. Juan Mata.

Adam knew it all by heart, but he read it anyway: Juan Manuel Mata Garcia, native of Madrid, Spain; moved from petty crime and small-time dealings in the shadow of some of the biggest players in the Spanish underworld, to London, to the entirety of Southern England. Arrested once, tried, released without conviction (ouch). His mugshot sat there, scanned to the top of the page: his face blank apart from the ice of his eyes.

Adam shivered, and quickly closed out of the file.

He remembered Rickie pointing out Mata’s birthday, how is was only older than Adam by a week- already a notorious criminal, while Adam was still a little bit on the fresh side of his detective exams. Rickie would routinely tell him that he had picked the wrong career.

A bit belatedly, he realised that someone was trying to get his attention, and his head jerked up like he’d been tugged from a very disturbing dream.

“Hey,” Philippe waved him awake and started piling his plate up in his arms. “Sorry to pull you from your work. We’re closing up in a bit so… last call, I guess?”

“Oh,” Adam said, dazed. “Uh. Thanks.”

“We’re all out of bleach,” Philippe continued, “so when this place empties a bit I’ll have to go get some.”

“Right.”

“Just in case you’re wondering where I’ve gone,” Philippe smiled at him, wider than his face. “But Hendo’s out the back, in case you need anything.”

Adam blinked, and then he realised what Philippe was saying. “Your security is a bit lax for that, don’t you think?”

“Huh,” Philippe said, raising an eyebrow. “What are you going to try, officer ? The door says we’re closed. Anyway, if you do anything funky I can always get Lucas to kick your ass.”

Adam had to concede that Philippe had an excellent point. He thanked him, and turned back to his work. More like: turned back to hate on himself internally- he had no notes, nothing to add and had only just about understood where the case had been going until now. To top it all off, once he’d ex-ed out of all the open files and documents, and even Safely Removed his USB; when he attempted to turn his computer off it went on to inform him that it was now updating, and to please not turn it off.

Adam actually groaned out loud at that. “Come on ,” he snarled, very usefully, at the inanimate object on the table in front of him.

He pulled himself up, and by the time he’d curled his spine back into a long, long stretch the computer had died with a sigh. Relieved, he began to properly pack and wrap up.

Where to now? He wondered, as he pushed out the door. Maybe call Lucas. Or, maybe have a cigarette first. He reached for his pocket. Huh, so much for restricting it to social smoking.

He had taken exactly two and a half steps down the street- one foot was still in mid-air, when he felt every hair prickle up on  the back of his neck, and stopped.

Something was off. Something was very, very off.

Bracing himself, he slowly turned, trying to keep it casual, still half searching for the cigarettes in his pocket.

It was three in the afternoon, the street wasn’t exactly quiet anymore, but the clouds hung low and those who were outside were rushing to get out of the cold, and Adam felt the goose-bumps spread down his arms and his spine, and he knew: all of a sudden he knew that he was being watched.

People watched other people all the time, of course they did. This was different, something sinister had set Adam off like this and before he could think too much about it; he turned, and headed back into the coffee shop.

Hide, he told himself. Where?!

The back of the shop, he remembered. Maybe there’s a way out, through the back of the shop . Especially if it was a kitchen: there had to be at least an emergency exit, maybe a back door for deliveries?

He was already behind the bar and nearly at the door before he collided with something that was more soft than it was solid. And it was wearing a navy suit. And, as Adam’s neck stretched up he noticed that it looked a hell of a lot like Lucas’ friend that owned the place.

But no time for that: since obviously going through the guy was ruled out by how easily Adam had bounced off him; Adam grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him to the ground with an “ oof! ”

“Shhhh,” he pleaded, softly, in the direction of his ear. “ Please .”

“What the- Who the fuck are you?“

Adam was the first to right himself, and as he saw his now-captive do the same he bit his lip, before elbowing him in the back.

“Ow!” He reached out to clutch at his back and in his moment of distraction Adam grabbed his face in both of his hands.

“Listen,” he hissed, “I’m not here to hurt you, okay? Someone is following me, and I have to hide. Please.”

Jordan, Hendo, Henderson looked at him for a long second, totally astonished. Adam held his gaze, helped with his hands- his eyes were a deep blue: not like ice, more like the sea Adam used to look at so much- and Adam could even see his own totally spooked reflection in them.

“Okay,” he said, finally, and Adam let go, flopping back to sit against the fridge. “You’re a friend of Lucas, so okay, but-”

Adam held two fingers to his lips to hold his mouth shut, to silence him, and shook his own head. For some reason, Jordan’s lips were cooler than his cheeks had been. Despite this, Jordan opened his mouth to continue and that was when the bell clanged at the door to the shop, and they both stilled. Adam got the distinct feeling that they both knew this was it, because they heard it toll slowly, like the door was being opened carefully- never, ever what the bell into a busy coffee shop should sound like. Then there was the first foot fall, they were both so still, both so unable to breathe that they heard that first footstep inside the door, heard the slow creak of the floorboard.

Jordan lifted his body slowly, and for a horrible moment, Adam thought he was going to stand up. But instead he quite delicately placed himself down beside Adam at the fridge. Cold now hummed at one of his shoulders while Jordan warmed the other, and the bag on his back poked all sorts of hard angles against his spine, this was officially the worst hiding place ever.

The mental question echoed between them. Who ?

A customer? Even though the shop was now closed?

Philippe, back from his errand? But why would he feel the need to creep through his own shop?

Another slow footstep creaked against the floor, sinister. Adam didn’t know how he knew, but he knew that this was for him, and that this was not good, and all it would take was for someone to crane their neck over the counter top and see them huddled there.

Another slow creak of the floorboard reached his ear. He wasn’t breathing, and he got the distinct impression that Jordan wasn’t either- with his head tilted back against a shelf, and his eyes closed.

Sudden, inexplicable fear gripped Adam: that now this was about two of them. Whatever, whoever was after Adam, fine. But now there was a second person- a blonde, bartending, third party to proceedings, and shit- what would happen to him?

This had never happened to Adam before. He had never, really, been asked to consider someone else, because it never really came down to that. And Jordan was so completely unaware of this, all silent and still and stupidly loyal to Lucas and in his suit and, of-fucking-course, Jordan was wearing a suit because he was on his way back from a funeral.

Fucking poetic.

Then, the click, the one of a rolling cartridge, sliding into place in the gun barrel. The one that made Adam squeeze his eyes shut in oh fuck oh shit frustration and made Jordan jump on the floor beside him, and Adam could feel his glare too- he didn’t even need to look to see it, it practically radiated off the guy: what the fuck have you done?

Before he could even consider coming up with an ingenious escape plan- and thank god, because Adam didn’t think he would have been able to rearrange his thoughts fast enough- the bell rang at the door again, and again, differently; stopping mid-tinkle.

“Uh,” Philippe’s voice said, and Adam grabbed Jordan just as Jordan grabbed Adam, “who are you?”

Think, Lallana! Jordan had eyes like thunder, muddy blue like a sea in turmoil. Think. Think! Think!

“Who are you?” Philippe asked again, braver now. Jordan’s nails needled Adam’s already slightly numb arms where he gripped him, just short of shaking sense into him, probably.

Philippe hasn’t see the weapon , Adam realised, eventually. They’re hiding the gun. Then: I can hear cars. The street! The door’s open.  Our Super Sleuth isn’t going to try anything stupid with the door open, on a busy street. It wouldn’t be worth it.

He shook his head softly at Jordan. No. Philippe is safer if we do nothing. But Jordan wasn’t following Adam’s thought process. Jordan didn’t know why. Adam turned his hands- gripping tight to the starchy blazer of Jordan’s upper arms, pressing his thumbs into the fabric and slowly drawing them in circles; the only soothing gesture that would come to him.

Oh, he realised, rubbing. He’s pretty solid under there . And his face burst into flames.

Slowly, he tried shaking his head again. “No,” he mouthed, “he’s safer.” A little bit of voice came out with that one, not much louder than breathing. The shape of his lips were suddenly reflected in Jordan’s eyes- he was watching them.

And Adam had needed to swallow very badly a minute ago but now his throat was dry, so dry. His stomach was clenching and unclenching to a beat that wasn’t all that different, or out of time with, his heart. Jordan’s breath was warm like his hands, on Adam. His eyes moved up and they were so wide and round compared to the stiffness of his brows. He was close, he was so close, as they sat here, holding each other.

“We’re closed,” Philippe’s voice said, cutting right through that sudden onslaught of electric current and bringing them both back to earth with a bump. A nasty one, given that the reality of the situation came flying back.

Jordan let go. Adam couldn’t, straining his ears, listening.

A rustle of fabric, close to the other side of the counter. Then footsteps. Fast. Away .

The bell rang fully this time, and Jordan breathed out, while Adam pulled himself up into a crouch, to peer over the top of their hiding place.

“Good riddance,” Philippe’s voice said.

Nothing. Empty, apart from Philippe with his nose pressed to the front door glass, watching out after the weird intruder.

“Hey,” Adam said, making Philippe leap out of his skin, and let out a long stream of what Adam guessed, by the venom which they were delivered, were Brazilian curses. “Philippe-“

“What,” Philippe babbled, clutching at his heart. “Why.”

Adam was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “Can you tell me,” he flipped through the apps, looking for the voice recorder, probably passing it several times in his haste, “what that guy looked like?”

“Uh,” Philippe said, “he had brown hair?” He motioned down over his cheeks with spread fingers. “A beard, you know? Like yours.”

Because that narrows it down . “What else?”

“Hmmm. His eyes were blue? And his jaw was kind of square. I guess he looked like a Versace model. You know,” he added for emphasis, annoyed that this latest attempt at a description was not the least bit satisfactory. “ Versace .”

Adam paused, then flicked through his phone again. “Did he look like this?” he asked, holding up the mugshot. “For the record,” he murmured against the mouthpiece, “witness is presented with-“

“Cor!” Philippe said, looking totally delighted, “am I a witness now?”

Adam stopped, cursing. “Uh,” well, certainly not now, because he hadn’t informed Philippe of his rights as a witness, and he had violated procedure, again, and he wanted to hit himself repeatedly; “well, no. A habit,” he explained, and wondered why Philippe was so disappointed. Being a witness wasn’t fun. “It’s okay,” he coaxed, “just have a look at the picture.”

And as Philippe’s face cleared, his heart sank.

“Yeah,” Philippe said, tilting his head, and squinting to be sure. “That’s the guy. A real weirdo. Didn’t say anything. Wait, weren’t you hiding?”

“Uh,” Adam began, glad he had turned the recording off before this accusation.

Philippe narrowed his eyes at him. “Aren’t you meant to be a police officer? Why were you hiding?”

Adam coughed, and cleared his throat. “Listen, Philippe, thanks- I gotta make a call, though, so…” The phone was already dialling against his ear while he shrugged.

Philippe gave him another quizzical look, and then rolled his eyes, gathering his supplies off the table where he’d left them.

Adam’s phone rang and rang and rang. Then, “hi!” Lucas’ voice said, and Adam was about to begin when it continued, “-you’ve reached Sergeant Lucas, I’m currently unavailable but-“

Adam hung up, angrily, he was about to dial again when Jordan’s voice said, “if you’re ringing Lucas, he won’t pick up.”

Adam nearly leapt out of his skin, because Jordan was so close behind him, he might as well have said the words right into Adam’s ear; and Adam Lallana, Certified Detective, hadn’t heard him coming.

“Why?” he demanded.

Jordan was still looking at Adam’s phone. “They went for a drink,” he explained, his eyes drawing slowly upwards. Like a precaution. “After the ceremony. Just the team.”

“The team?” Adam echoed.

Jordan shrugged. “At Fenway’s.” Then he stopped. “The team, you know.”

“No,” Adam said, very patiently; considering that his nerves were totally shot.

Ha. Shot.

Jordan paused, frowning. Adam found himself looking at his nose, and thinking about how it was a nice, untampered shape. It was weird, he wasn’t jealous- despite his own twice-broken nozzle. He decided that maybe it had something to do with the lower risk of fist fights in Jordan’s day job. After all, Adam’s last incident had come at the hands of a particularly feisty DUI.

“Okay,” Jordan said, breaking Adam’s train of thought and coming to his own conclusion. “Hold on,” he turned back to the counter. “I’ll drive you.”

“What?” Adam asked, following. “You don’t have to. Just tell me where it is. And what team?”

But Jordan was already lifting his coat from behind the counter, his t-shirt bunching between his shoulder blades. He looked carefully around the shop and then leaned closer. Adam tensed when he felt the hand touch his arm, looking at it, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly warm in the cheekbone area.

“It didn’t imagine that. Someone came in here, after you, with a gun .”

“Happens all the time,” Adam replied, the joke falling totally flat into Jordan’s face, like stone. But joking seemed to be the most appropriate thing to do in the situation: having completely avoided his duties, and hid, and only nearly died because he hid, and almost nearly made out with the guy he was hiding with.

Jordan’s eyebrows lifted from a straight line to an arch, right up to his hairline. “Right,” he said, clearly unsure of whether or not Adam was kidding. “But I’m going to drive you anyway.”

“Drive me?” Adam said, as Jordan went through the door to the back of the shop. And because this meant he would be truly out of earshot, Adam gritted his teeth, and followed. “Why?” he demanded, when he finally pushed his way out into the cold street; a goods entrance at the back of the terrace.

Jordan stopped, the door of the car already open. “I owe Lucas,” he admitted. “I will forever owe Lucas. And he likes you, so I don’t think he’d really appreciate it if… anything happened to you.”

“If I died,” Adam finished, bluntly.

Jordan didn’t answer, but started the car.

Adam sighed, his need to smoke suddenly returning and pressing against the inside of his head, but he climbed in the car anyway.

The drive wasn’t long, but it was completely silent. Adam tried, he really tried to keep himself fixated on a random point in front of the windscreen, but his eyes wandered. It was like Jordan’s entire face creased in the direction of that one point between his brows, and there was a stiff edge to his jaw to demonstrate that it was shut fast. Adam could practically see the over-stretch of tendon.

It was really hard for Adam to tell if Jordan was now more angry at Adam or himself, but Adam decided it would be wise not to probe.

They drew up in front of Fenway’s, a bright red pub tucked in between a Spar and a Chinese take-away. Inside was a smoky, poky, poorly furnished parlour; with wooden booths and a vomit-coloured carpet, tread concrete-flat from years and years of heavy boots. The wallpaper was tasteless and decorated with dart boards, the windows frosted and only allowing enough winter sun in to see. It smelled of beer, and smoke, and was everything Adam had expected of an Old Man Pub, but not quite what he had expected from Lucas.

“Heyah, buddy!” Lucas was already in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh,” Adam started, and then realised that Lucas was actually addressing Jordan, behind him. Immediately behind him. So immediately behind him that when Adam turned he got an eyeful of jaw and cheekbone sitting parallel and distinctly chiselled in nature, and when Jordan angled past him he was very aware of the empty space that neither of their bodies occupied between them.

This was wandering dangerously into nasty crush territory, and was totally fantastic and exactly what Adam needed. Not.

“He was looking for you,” Jordan said, nodding at Adam and smiling at him for the first time ever.

“Really?” Lucas beamed. “That’s great! Some of the rest of the CID team working on the Van Gaal case are here, just-“

Adam cleared his throat. “Lucas,” he said, in a low voice, reaching out to touch his arm, just above his elbow. “I need to talk to you. I think-“

“Hendo!” Someone called, from behind Lucas, and catching all of their attentions. The culprit was a man with black hair sitting in a packed booth, smiggy beard decorating his short chin.

“Dejan,” Jordan nodded, saluting him back.

“Come on,” Lucas grinned, dragging Adam behind him.

“No, Lucas ,” Adam insisted. “This really is important .”

“Oh, come off it. It can wait one pint,” Lucas countered. “Hendo, go and get yourself and Adam one. We have a tab.”

Jordan held up his hands, palms out. “I have to get back to the shop,” he said, good-naturedly, and shook his head in the direction of the booth.

“Awh, Hendo ,” the booth chorused, and he grinned at them.

Grin at me, Adam thought, grumpily.

“Lucas,” he insisted, and now he looked to Jordan for help; but he was already backing away amidst the boos from the rest of their company.  As he reached the front door his eyes caught Adam’s for a second, filled with steely resolve, and lost them again.

Well, Adam decided, he did meet me today, and nearly die. I guess I can understand that.

Lucas nudged his rib with the pointiest part of his elbow. “I think he likes you.”

“What?” Adam almost-shrieked in surprise, colouring.

Lucas winked, which made it worse. “Adam,” he continued, seamlessly, “this is Dejan, and you know Alberto, Mamadou, or we call him Mama,” Adam was instantly distracted by the yellow tuft of hair running in a line over his otherwise hairless head, “Milly,” instantly and gruffly corrected to DCI Milner when Adam shook his hand, “and Emre, from the drugs squad,” to the rather self-satisfied looking guy at the end of the row. “Budge up, you lot.”

“Hi,” he said, keeping his tone easy, sliding in beside Dejan. Adam was pretty good, socially, and he kind of relished that expectant look they were all giving him. “Good to meet you all. What are we drinking?” He nodded to the pint glasses around the circle, of various contents, and at varying stages of consumption.

“Strong stuff,” Alberto said, bringing the attention to him now. He nodded at Adam, because he was the only other one apart from Lucas that he knew, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That was a tough two hours at the cemetery.”

The others rumbled their agreement, apart from Emre, who caught Adam’s eye. Then he said, “hey, Alberto: I thought you were on a diet? Cutting out the beer and biscuits after Christmas?”

Adam felt Dejan catch on beside him, he went suddenly stiff, his back straightening.

Alberto snorted, indignant. “When did I say that? I don’t diet. It has the word ‘die’ in it.”

There was a brief silence, as they all spelled “diet” in their heads.

Emre and Dejan looked at each other.

“No way did you come up with that yourself,” Dejan said.

“Own up,” Emre agreed, leaning forward onto the table, just about holding back the fact that he was having a really good time. “Who really said it?”

Alberto looked down into his drink.

“C’mon, Alberto,” Lucas said, teasingly, when Alberto sunk back against the back of the bench, scowling.

“Khloé Kardashian,” he grumbled.

Everyone laughed- helpless, sobs of laugher; even Adam, the first in a long time; and it was really, really, nice. Emre caught Adam’s eye again, and grinned: in a, welcome, you are now a member of our club , fashion. Philippe needs to meet Emre, Adam decided, to revisit his definition of ‘Versace model’.

Lucas leaned across the table and patted his shoulder. “It’s been a long day,” he said, nodding at the bar, “let’s get you a drink.”

Adam sobered up, and followed.

“Lucas,” he said, gravely. He grabbed at his elbow, but only just caught the edges of his shirt. “I need to talk to you,” he said, in a low voice, when Lucas turned around, expectantly, with a wide grin on his face.

“Look,” Adam took a deep breath, “it’s about Juan Mata, he-“

“Don’t,” Lucas said-snapped - and suddenly Adam recognised the tiny creases around his eyes, saw them grow tight; when Lucas closed his lids and took a deep breath.

“Don’t,” Lucas tried again, softer. Hard enough to still be a warning, though. “Please. Do we have to do this today?” Adam opened his mouth to say yes . “We just buried our friend , Adam. Can we please leave the case out of tonight? It’s not the most important thing right now.”

“But-“ Adam started. But what if I’m next!

“Don’t,” Lucas pleaded now, desperately. Adam practically choked on the guilt, and he could barely look Lucas in one of his wide eyes. “I have to keep,” he glanced back at the table, the inhabitants of which had not noticed the nature of their conversation, “them going. If we’re going to get to the bottom of this, I need to keep them together. Please. ”

Adam considered him, for a long second. This went against his every instinct, as an officer- they should be back on the scene, they should be acting now.

Lucas was begging, though- all this: sucking on the inside of his lip, eyes like white saucers with sky-blue depressions. And Lucas knew this town. And Lucas had promised to look out for Adam.

“Okay,” he agreed, finally, and letting go of the edge of his shirt. “First thing tomorrow, though.”

“At the crack of dawn,” Lucas promised. “Try and get to know the boys a bit tonight though, eh?”

“Let me guess,” Adam said, dully, when they reached the bar. “My reputation precedes me.”

Lucas shook his head, back to his good natured self- although Adam would never be able to un-see the strain around his eyes: like the Atlas of this police unit, carrying it all on his shoulders. “Nah,” he said, “I’ve repaired it a bit for you. Up to yourself though, if you want this clean break.”

“Thanks,” Adam said, quietly, just as the barman reached them.

Lucas gave him another long-lipped grin, and rubbed Adam’s shoulder heartily. Don’t mention it.

Lucas even offered to drive Adam home, leaving Adam to wonder what on earth he had done to deserve a nanny. Lucas was obviously worried about him: all the feeding was a dead give-away. Adam felt a bit light in the head after his second beer, though, and was sort of relieved that he wouldn’t have to navigate the maze of streets alone, or even, heaven forbid, a bus timetable.

They dropped Alberto home on the way, and he left the car still in mid-sentence. Adam’s lungs hurt from the leftover laughter- Alberto was funny on his own, even outside the games Emre and Dejan played with him. Milly and Mama were serious in comparison- Mama, because he couldn’t keep up, and Milly because he clearly saw himself as above banter, being the official head of the team and all, but acknowledged when they were funny, all the same.

“You’ll meet the rest of the squad tomorrow,” Lucas promised. “There are a few junior officers who were on duty tonight, they help out too- surveillance and that kind of thing.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Why is Emre there, though, if he’s from the drugs squad?”

Lucas grinned, shaking his head. “He’s more of a rep, if I’m honest. This case has been going on for so long they were getting pretty fed up of only sticking their head in when things got interesting, so they’ve sent Emre in now to, well, supervise.”

“That doesn’t sound fun,” Adam tried. “Not really part of one team, spying on the other?” But Lucas was already shaking his head.

“He likes it,” he replied. “Also, he gets to do more stuff working with us, he’s not just on the side lines.”

“I can imagine,” Adam murmured. “Hey, you want tea?”

Lucas looked surprised, but obviously guessed that Adam was dreading being on his own.

Adam was dreading being on his own, but only because Juan Mata had a price on his head out there somewhere. He knew to appeal to Lucas’ nanny instincts though, happy to pretend that it was nerves and loneliness. Just until he was in the door.

“It’s good to know the elevator works,” Lucas said, when Adam pressed the button.

“I live on the fifth floor,” Adam moaned. “Imagine if it broke?”

Lucas laughed, and the lift opened. “One of the guys who left us recently lived on the tenth floor,” he said, as the door slid closed again behind them. “And the lift broke routinely.”

“What did he do?” Adam smiled, already knowing the answer.

“Call in sick, rather than facing walking back up the stairs” Lucas said, sniggering.

The lift ground open again, and Adam stopped. The sixth sense was back- that horrible, crawly feeling slowly working its way up his neck.

He grabbed Lucas by his elbow, taking him by surprise.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, in a low voice, to the expression on Lucas’ face questioning why his arm kept being manhandled.

“What?” Lucas tried. “One pint too many?” Then Adam looked at him, and he grew serious. “Okay. What is it?”

“I don’t… know,” Adam said, lowering his voice, stepping out of the lift, pulling Lucas along after him. “Wait here,” he ordered, leaving Lucas at the corner.

The door to his apartment sat open, just about, just a hairline crack. Adam squinted at the lock, at the scratches on the bronzed metal- an amateur lock-picking job.

He tip-toed back to Lucas. “Call back up,” he started to say, but Lucas was already dialling.

“What do we do?” he breathed, at Adam, and then whispered down the phone.

Adam had already shrunk out of one police duty today, but it was different now. Lucas was another member of the force, he knew how an ambush worked- but neither of them were armed, and given the events of today, well- he didn’t fancy their chances. Better to wait for back-up. Be safe. Don’t get cocky. Don’t fuck up the procedure, again.

“It’s Mata,” he said. “He came looking for me at Jordan’s coffee shop today. Armed.”

It took a minute for this news to sink in, but when it did, Lucas dropped his phone to the floor with a loud bump, and another when it bounced.

“ What?” he hissed. “And you didn’t think it would be important to tell me that.”

“I tried, you know-“

“ Armed? If someone comes after you armed, Adam, you shouldn’t have let me get a word in -“

“Fuck’s sake, I really tried -“

Lucas had already slammed his own forehead with his palm.

“Holy crap,” Adam suddenly wondered if they should be carefully of how urgent their whispers were getting. “You think he’s in there?” Lucas finished, his lips thin where he pressed them together.

“I don’t think ,” he replied.

“What should we do?” Lucas asked, again.

“Wait,” Adam said. “For the backup.”

But he saw Lucas pause, and the dread set in.

“Why not test him? See what he wants?” Lucas started, thoughtfully.

“He wants me to die ,” Adam said, exasperated.

“So bait him out,” Lucas said, “make him slip up. Find out who he’s working for, what he’s doing up here. Because, no offense, this isn’t a revenge trip. He could have tried that in London.”

Adam’s blood ran cold, remembering how much Mata liked to talk.

“Okay,” he said, finally.

“Best case scenario,” Lucas said, with absolutely no conviction, “it’s empty, because someone was just after your TV.”

Adam swallowed.

“Alright,” he said. “You wait here.” He pointed at the fire extinguisher, on the wall beside the emergency exit down the corridor. “Stop him if he tries to get out this way.” Carefully, he placed his bag on the ground, leaning it against the wall.

Lucas nodded, his shoulders tight.

Adam moved down the hall again, pressed his fingers to his door, wincing as it creaked when it opened. He reached in, dragged his fingers into the space, until the found the light switch. It flicked on, and carefully, Adam pushed the door open as wide as he could.

Nothing. Nothing in the straight view from the front door, anyway, into the shoebox. Behind the door? The bathroom? Had Mata been expecting him to wander home blind drunk, and not notice the door open?

He moved inside, throwing his eyes towards the shadows in the corners of the room, behind the bed. Braced, when the arms closed around his neck, and over his eyes.

But Adam had been ready, and jabbed with his elbow. Solar plexus, he thought, smugly, when the grip lessened, and then angled his heel to collide with Mata’s shin. He missed, and the grip grew tighter. He tried to yell through his crushed windpipe, but a strangled, guttural sound come out instead; he tugged at the arm around his neck and-

There was a metallic, clunking sound; almost hollow, and loud enough to make Adam’s ear ring. The pressure was gone from his neck, and he tumbled forwards- one hand out to catch himself as he fell, the other to rub at his throat, to get the blood back into it.

“I gotcha buddy!”

Lucas , Adam thought, in a wild panic- he turned over on his back: Lucas was there, moving over him, arms outstretched, worry creasing his face, a fire extinguisher forgotten on the floor.

Adam’s ears were still ringing from the first shot when he realised that he was hearing a second. Mind-splittingly loud, sucking air from his lungs, the world spinning- he only saw shoes when they walked out of the flat, polished black.

His eyes flashed back, to Lucas, frowning. Something warm and wet oozed down, across Adam’s eyebrow. Lucas’s expression shifted- surprise, confusion.

The ooze on Adam’s eyebrow threatened to run into his face, and he lifted a hand to wipe it- to wipe shiny, luminous red onto the back of his hand.

Unable to breathe, he looked to Lucas again- Lucas grabbing his stomach, his eyes wide- a mottled, dark colour spreading with haste over the sky blue of his shirt. Adam was already pulling off his coat, lifting his jumper over his shoulders.

“Hold it,” he hissed, pressing the jumper over Lucas’ hands. His fingers shook, both their fingers shook, Adam the only one applying any kind of force.

Lucas coughed, bent over, sending bright red spray over the carpet, and running down his lips.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, “I’ve been shot.”

Still pressing with one hand, Adam glanced over Lucas’s back, tracing the air- two entry wounds, one exit one. Then, how long does he have? Where is the backup?

“It’s okay, just a graze,” he tried, the first non-problem he could think of. Keep him calm! Where were all those first aid classes? Why were they buried so deep in his head? Think!

Lucas coughed again, a little incredulously. “I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die ,” Adam insisted. “Help is coming, okay? You called help. We are five minutes from the station. You are going to be fine ,” he ended, wondering if he’d even believe himself.

“You’re a good one, Adam,” Lucas was saying, the moan coming up from the very depths of his throat. His voice was weak, his eyes closing. Adam felt him slump, against him, and he wished for more hands.

“You’re not going to die¸” he yelped, desperately. Somewhere, a million miles away, an elevator dinged open. “We’re in here!” he screamed, feeling the strength fade from Lucas’s hands. “For God’s sake: Lucas, I am not going to let you die! ”

“He’s not going to die,” Klopp said, drawing out a chair and sitting down.

Across the table, Adam’s shaking fingers curled into fists. Stains ran down his wrists, now crusted and brown, like dirt- he hadn’t cleaned them yet, hadn’t attempted to clean them yet, hadn’t been allowed.

Beside him, Dejan sighed, slumping back in his chair. The first on the scene, the first to the rescue. Adam had the distinct impression that Dejan was making a very conscious effort to keep him in his sight, and had done right until now- sitting in Klopp’s office, waiting for news from the hospital.

“He’s in the theatre now,” Klopp was saying. “But the damage is minimal. He was really, really, lucky- from that range, and if we can confirm the shooter really was Mata. There’ll be some internal damage, they have a lung to reflate at the very least- but he should make it through tonight.”

Across the room, behind Klopp, Milly stood- white faced, thin-lipped; beside him was another man, on duty when they’d all fallen in the front door of the station, PC Flanagan emblazoned on his name tag.

“He wasn’t aiming for Lucas,” Adam said, into the silence that followed. He leaned forward, placing his head into his hands and scrubbing his face awake. The smell of rust filled his nose. “That’s why.” Lucas wasn’t meant to be there, bending over between the shot fired and Adam’s head. And Adam had seen the trajectory, afterwards, of the bullet that hadn’t been trapped in Lucas’ internal cavity, and was now lodged in the wall of his apartment. Mata had missed him by a whisker.

“We have the CCTV,” Klopp said to him, gently. “And we’re doing a door-to-door throughout the night. Alberto and Joao are there right now with the rest of forensics, we’re going to try and corroborate your story as fast as we can.”

“It was him,” Adam said, strangled. “I know it was him.”

“I believe you, Adam,” Klopp said. “I do. But I have superiors who need hard evidence.”

“Okay,” Adam said, feeling the other eyes in the room, all on him. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

Klopp sighed, and rubbed the nearly-beard on his jaw. “Right now? Nothing,” he smiled, softly. “Because it’s three a.m., and you look like you’re about to fall over. If anything, I want you to sleep. But see, right now we have another, I’ll admit- minor, problem” he paused, and smiled. “Where can I put you? Your apartment is a crime scene.”

“I can take him,” Dejan offered. “We have a spare room. Anita won’t mind.” He clasped Adam’s shoulder tight.

Flanagan was shaking his head, though. “It has to be off the force. I don’t trust anyone outside this room, if they found him that fast. Adam,” he actually addressed him now. “Do you know anyone else in the city who we can leave you with for a couple of days? Someone you trust, where you’ll be safe.”

Adam’s throat dried. Because, no. Shit. Shit he was going to have to live on the couches in the precinct, wasn’t he?

He shook his head, sliding down in his seat. Dejan’s grip held fast.

“Milly,” he was saying. “Milly, do you think…? We know he’s sound. I mean, Flanno could take him there. We could use Razza to make sure the area’s clear. What do you say?”

Adam looked back and forth between the two of them, now in what closely resembled a telepathic mind battle. Klopp threw his eyes up to heaven, used to it.

“Yeah,” Milner said. Then he looked at Adam, suddenly enough to make him freeze. “Clean yourself up, we’re leaving in ten.”

And so, Adam found himself standing in the beginnings of the snow, on a strange front porch deep in the maze of terraced estates that he had passed that morning. The house was impossibly small from this close- a front door upstairs, one window, with what must have been a separate flat below. A, distinctly, one-person house.

“You think he’s going to be okay with this?” he whispered.

PC Flanagan, who had introduced himself as Flanno, cleared his throat. “No.”

Adam’s eyes drew to his feet again as the door opened, ashamed.

“Hey Hendo,” Flanno said, surprisingly chirpy, “we, uh. Do you have a minute.”

Adam allowed himself to peek up, as nonchalantly as he could. Jordan stood in the doorway, wrapped in a mud-coloured, hastily-tied nightgown and fluffy, grandad slippers; and he glared at Flanno with a hell of a lot of disgruntlement for someone who had just woken up.

“Do I have a choice?” he sighed, pushing the door open to let them in.

Jordan’s house was small and warm and very, very well lived in. At the end of the hall: a staircase leading up to the roof, and off the hall, two doors. One, Adam discovered when they stepped into it, was a living room- containing one very comfortable looking couch under the front window, almost squished smaller to fit the space; a very large, very shiny flat screen TV and a chronic lack of bookshelves- books lined up in piles along the walls, multi-coloured stacks that still held a distinct semblance of order to them that Adam didn’t fail to miss.

Jordan gestured at them to sit and disappeared through the opposite door. Flanno seconded it and followed, leaving Adam to flop back onto the couch, and cast his eyes around the room.

“Hendo,” Flanno’s voice floated through the gap in the frosted French doors between the two rooms. “You need to sit.” There was a distinct scrape of wood against tiles. The kitchen .

“What’s going on?” Jordan asked, his voice now exhausted. “Why is he here?”

There was more tile scraping. Flanno sitting down.

“Lucas,” he started, gently. “He was badly hurt tonight.”

Silence from Jordan.

“He’s in hospital,” Flanno continued. “It’s bad. It’s really bad.” More silence. “It happened in Adam’s flat, and he needs somewhere to stay.”

“No,” Jordan said.

“Come on, Hendo,” Flanno pleaded. “Just until we get the scene bagged up.”

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you? That confidentiality bollocks.”

“It’s three in the morning , Hendo.”

Jordan was silent for a really long time then.

“For Lucas,” he said, finally, and Adam heard Flanno let out a long breath. He heard himself let out a long breath.

“We can compensate you,” Flanno was promising. The chairs squealed on the floor again, in unison now- Adam had been straining hard to listen and the din made him jump. “Seriously. Write down expenses and we’ll compensate you.”

Adam heard Jordan mutter something, and then the French doors opened.

Flanno obviously noticed the hard look on Adam’s face- surely , there had to be someone that they didn’t have to bargain with - and looked down at his shuffling feet.

“Hendo’s going to take you for a while,” he muttered. “See you in the morning, Adam.” He nodded at them both, eyes averted, and left.

Jordan waited for the front door to close before he spoke.

“You’re trouble,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

Adam was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question. He shrugged.

Jordan rubbed at his jaw with his hand, the scratch of one-day stubble audible across the small room.

“I don’t mean it in a good way,” he continued. His accent seemed to make his voice boom- even more northern than the Scouse accent that was already starting to hurt Adam’s ears. Mackem. “I don’t mean it in a cute way. This is more than just getting you off a crime scene. They’re,” he pointed out into the hall, after Flanno, “hiding you. From that guy. The one who came into the shop today.”

Adam’s head muddled around with an explanation, and finally settled on: “it’s complicated.”

“Right,” Jordan said, flatly. Then, “how is he? Lucas?” Whispered, now. He’d barely taken it in, Adam realised, with a nasty pang of guilt.

Adam swallowed hard. He shook his head. “Bad,” he admitted, in a low voice. He didn’t know what else to add? He saved my life? Very dramatic. It was too late for that. Or, it was too early for that.

“Why,” he added, after a moment, “are you doing this? Taking in a totally stranger, who is being followed around by… I dunno, dangerous blokes? What did Lucas do to deserve this level of gratitude?”

Jordan paused. “It’s complicated.” Then, he did the most astonishing thing. He grinned . A real grin, as pure as the sharp angle of his canines. “Touché. Alright,” he sighed, although his shoulders were distinctly looser now. “There’s a blanket there, and some smaller cushions. If you’re cold, the hot press is in the hall. More sheets,” he explained. “Bathroom’s there too. Okay?”

Adam stared at him, still a little star struck by the suddenness of his smile.

“Okay,” he echoed. Then, “thank you”, as sincerely as he could manage.

Jordan examined him for several more seconds, then nodded, and left the room.

In a bid to save his work clothes Adam stripped to his shirt and boxers. He’d managed to pull himself together enough to pack a change from his flat, but the concept of pyjamas hadn’t really been at the forefront of his thoughts. The couch was far too plushy and uneven, but Adam liked it better than his previous bed already.

Adam couldn’t be exactly sure what woke him up: some combination of clanging utensils, the radio, the creak of the door and the smell of coffee.

His eyes hurt when they opened, an awful reminder of how long it had taken for him to fall asleep: staring at the books stacked to the wall, developing a fun game where he squinted to decipher the different titles until he eventually dozed off. His feet hit the end of the couch suddenly when he stretched, and made him press his forehead to the cool headboard when he arched his back instead.

He stretched his wrist so he could squint at his watch through his bleary eyes.

Six a.m. What the actual fuck time is this? There are normal people who get up at this time?

The room looked different in the daylight- just about daylight, blocked by the blinds. One of the double doors to the kitchen sat slightly open- allowing the mish-mash of sounds and smells of another person in- and where Jordan stood, with his head poking through the gap.

Adam jumped, but still in a rather sleepy way, letting out a rather pathetic attempt at a surprised yelp. He dug his palms into his face, to wake himself up.

All this time Jordan was waiting very patiently for him to regain full consciousness, and just as Adam began to fully comprehend that he was only wearing a smelly shirt and boxers on a total stranger’s couch Jordan said, “how do you like your eggs?”

Adam coughed, what could probably be interpreted as a “ what? ”

“How do you like your eggs?” Jordan repeated.

“How… I… what?”

“I normally have mine poached. Are poached ones okay?” Jordan asked, still deadpan. The smile had been a one-off, then.

Adam’s stomach rumbled, reminding him that the last thing he’d eaten was a stodgy waffle from a vending machine in the station some time past midnight.

“Definitely,” he said, pulling himself upright. “Uh.”

“And toast?”

“You what?”

“Do you want some toast with ‘em?”

“With what?”

“The eggs.” Adam did wonder if Jordan was going to start spelling individual words next, to make himself understood.

He scrubbed his face some more. “Sure. Thanks.”

His entire body screamed for more sleep, but he managed to convince himself to pull it out into the hall, and down to the tiny, poky bathroom. There was a shower in it, and boy, did a shower seem like a good idea.

He arrived in the kitchen several minutes later, rubbing the last of his hair dry with a towel.

“I’ll get the rest of my stuff today,” he said, by way of apology to Jordan- between the two of them they filled most of the space in the very cream, very clean kitchen. Well, the two of them, and the sturdy farmer’s table in the middle of it; that seemed to require a lot of steering around. “I don’t want to feel like I’m intruding too much.”

“But you are,” Jordan said, calmly. He looked up at Adam from where he was buttering toast, up from under his brows- it was mildly menacing. “Intruding.”

Adam opened his mouth to reply, but had no idea where to start.

“Maybe,” he decided on, eventually, “you could tell me how to make things easy for you. I can help out? I’m a decent cook. I’m not completely averse to cleaning toilets. If you tell me how I can help you, it could make things way easier for the both of us.” The toaster pinged. “See? I can get that-“

“You don’t have to-“

“No, it’s fine -“

Their hands collided in the hot air above the toaster as they both reached, but that was no excuse for the fever that swept Adam as both their bodies collided in their haste to reach first. In the time it took Adam’s lips to part to form an apology, Jordan had already completely retracted across the kitchen, his back to him. Adam wasn’t that unobservant in the morning to realise that some of the heat he felt wasn’t from the toaster, or himself; and was very definitely linked to the deepening scarlet colour spreading over the back of Jordan’s neck, down from his ears.

So Jordan, too, had felt that weird spark in the coffee shop yesterday. Jordan had really felt it- like Adam was now recovering from that most brief of contacts: warm, clammy, and completely derailed.

“Just eat,” Jordan growled, just turning his head enough to aim the words over his shoulder.

Adam slumped down into one of the chairs, beyond protest, slightly amazed. A steaming pile of eggs and toast sat in front of him, and he dug in. Jordan sat with his back to him the whole time.

“Good morning, everyone,” Klopp spread his hands as he smiled around the tiny meeting room, definitely packed to over-capacity.

Adam had been super early, and one of the few to bag a seat. He had been sure that he had forgotten something, and was wondering what it could be, when he felt a slight nudge to his shoulder, and looked up.

“You look like you could use one of these.”

Emre handed the steaming mug down to him, and Adam enveloped it in his still-freezing hands. Coffee, black coffee: that wonderful, burning, miracle juice.

“You are a saint,” he offered, gravely. Emre smirked in reply, the opposite of modesty.

“Do you need the lowdown on the audience?” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned in. “I’ll swap, for the edge of your seat.”

Adam knew better than to pass on help. He nudged over on his chair, and Emre leaned in beside him.

“Our forensic team have been very active on both crime scenes,” Klopp was continuing, “I’ll now leave it to Alberto and Joao to fill you all in.” He waved to Alberto, and a smaller, fluffier accomplice.

“That’s Joao,” Emre murmured beside him. “Forensic expert. Puts things into plastic bags for a living.”

“I know what a forensic expert it,” Adam retorted, as the slideshow began; and it became evident that Alberto talked for both the duo. “What about that guy?” Tall, solemn, silent- he stood with his hands behind his back at the door like the most formidable bouncer Adam had ever seen.

“Christian,” Emre said, out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why do you say that like it’s funny?”

“Single-handedly the most cursed individual I have ever encountered. If he uses the photocopier, it’ll break. One time, he turned on the kettle and the power went out in the whole building. But,” he mused, nodding to himself, “when luck shines on him… once, he diffused a hostage situation and arrested all the involved kidnappers, alone. I have no idea how he did it. He has no idea how he did it.”

Adam scanned the room. Alberto was going through the results of the previous day’s autopsy, and he could do with a distraction.

“Him?”

“Martin,” Emre acknowledged.

“He looks like he could kill me.”

“He works in ballistics.”

“Let me guess: his knowledge of weaponry comes from his background as a trained assassin?” Adam said it lightly, but truth: the guy looked so intense it made him nervous. Emre made it worse, taking an ill-timed sip of his own coffee and coughing it everywhere.

“He’s the second-longest serving member at the station,” Emre informed him, when he’d regained his breath. “After Lucas. If you want to find out how he’s doing, Martin is the guy to ask.”

“Noted. And those two?”

“Ibey’s the tall one, the other is Gomez. Junior officers. The guy over there,” Emre directed his gaze to the gangly blond guy who had managed to nab another seat, “is Simon. We call him Mings, but anyway-“

“-like you call Milner, Milly? Because it drives him up the wall?”

-“right. Mings occasionally shows up as an in-house evidence lawyer. He doesn’t have to, but he likes us.”

“And these guys are all of the team on the Van Gaal gun running case?”

“Objectively, we are a bit of a mess. But sometimes it sort of works.”

Adam thought then, about how long it was taking them to solve it. It made sense given this comfortable, but confusing set up.

They then, in silence, watched Alberto elaborate on the matching bullets- one pulled from Adam’s bathroom door, after having gone through Lucas, and missed Adam by a whisker. It was a surreal fact, almost like a dream, a movie. They’d matched footprints too- at least, the same make of fancy leather soled dress shoes; and were now working on getting a matching DNA profile at both scenes. Alberto wrapped things up shortly after, and all attention then swivelled to Klopp.

“This is a very important turning point in the advancement of this case,” Klopp started, calmly. “I know we’ve all been a bit shaken up, but I’d ask you all to try your best to dedicate time to it despite your other work. We’re nearly at the bottom of it. I can feel it.”

The attendees all grouped off after that: apart from Emre, who sat diligently beside Adam while he finished his coffee.

“Oh yeah,” he said, absently. “I almost forgot. Milly wanted to see you, after the briefing.”

Adam wasn’t particularly taken by surprise.

Jordan’s phoned up, he decided. And asked them to take me back.

“We’re going out,” Milly announced, when he reached his cubicle. “Get your coat and put it on.”

“What?” Adam still hadn’t finished his coffee, which made this tragic.

“We’re going to leave the station, and go and meet someone,” Milly explained, rhetorical reaction exclamations just not cutting it with people today.

Adam compensated when, half an hour later, they pulled up outside a McDonalds at a petrol station, out by the ring-road.

“I’ll be in in a minute,” he promised, as they got out of the car. “Who are we meeting?”

“Our informer,” Milly said, as-a-matter-of-factly.

“Your what?” But Milly had promptly turned and walked straight into the restaurant.

Adam sighed, and leaned up to the car as he smoked. It had snowed overnight, but not enough to really stick- the roads were extra slushy though.

An informer? For who? At a McDonalds? Adam watched the people approaching with a certain level of caution, wondering who .

Eventually, he finished up and followed- lovely, deep fried, warm air greeted him.

James was sitting in a booth at the other end of the restaurant, frowning at his phone, and Adam took this time to consider, and then decide on, getting another coffee. He lined up behind a shorter guy: black, with dreadlocks, and sideburns that reminded Adam fiercely of Billy Bob Thornton in The Alamo . At that moment he turned, caught Adam staring, sized him up and scowled at him.

Adam just about stopped himself from jumping back, startled. The cheek! It was like yapped at by a Chihuahua.

Chihuahua himself anyway went ahead and ordered a truly ridiculous amount of food- for himself, and multiple other friends too, the only explanation for the two cheeseburgers, mozzarella sticks, curly fries, milkshake, nuggets, diet coke and McChicken Legend. And he scowled at Adam on his way past, just to let Adam know that his judging had been noted.

It was unfortunate, then, that when Adam made his way over to Milly’s table, the overly hungry Chihuahua was sitting right across from him.

“Adam,” Milly said, blatantly unaware, “this is Raheem.”

“Razza.” The correction came through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

“Right,” Adam said, slowly turning to give Milly his most discreet look of seriously?

“So what’s up?” Razza sat back in his chair.

Milly looked more like a proud dad, than anything.

“Raheem is…” he started to explain.

“A field officer,” Razza finished. “Let’s just say I’m a field officer. Under,” he leaned forward, lowering his voice, “Pellegrini.” He raised his eyebrows at the both of them

“Right,” Milly finished. “Anyway, he hears things.”

“Depends on what you need to hear.”

Milly chuckled. “Juan Mata.”

Razza frowned for a second, then shook his head. “Not with us,” he announced.

“Hmmm,” Milly said.

“I know you,” Razza said, to Adam.

“You do?” Adam asked, surprised.

This seemed to interest Milly. “Any surveillance instructions recently?”

Razza clicked his fingers. “That’s it! I’m meant to be looking out for you. Sheesh man, what did you do?”

“Really?” Adam said, as Milly said: “Where?”

Razza listed off several place names that might as well have been Swedish to Adam.

Milly listed several back, like a rally. And he finished, “think you can take over there?”

Razza shrugged. “I can try.” Then, “you’re going to have to give me something good though. I’d need to be in some serious good books to be on surveillance that close to the station.”

“Can you do that?” Adam asked, a little bit to both of them, really alarmed.

“Yes,” they both said at the same time.

“Don’t worry about Raheem,” Milly said, as they got back in the car.

“He’s a solid?” Adam asked.

Milly shrugged. “A pawn. And easy to buy, if you get him enough McDonalds.”

Adam shook his head, the only way he could really convey his astonishment when he had to concentrate on fastening his seatbelt. “But he can get McDonalds anytime?”

“He says it tastes better when someone else buys it,” the reply was given in total seriousness.

They drove back in silence.

“Are you okay living with Jordan?” Milly asked suddenly, as though he had made a mental note to ask it.

Adam knew it was a yes/no question, and he opened his mouth to answer. Any fool-proof remedies for sexual tension?

Instead, he looked out the window, while Milly looked at him.

“I can fix that,” Milly said.

Adam arrived back on Jordan’s doorstep after the second longest day of his life- after the previous one. Back at the station Milly had insisted on going through most of the file with him, even though Adam had equally insisted that he knew it already, thanks very much. Milly also insisted on it while walking the entire way around the station, and Adam had noticed that, definitely, Emre and Dejan were following them- they always seems to be lurking nearby, in deep conversation, and were always holding coffee.

Adam soon found out why, when he went to see Klopp before he left. Scary Martin from Ballistics was there, with Emre and Dejan.

“So we had a talk,” Klopp began, by way of greeting. “Please, sit.”

Adam sat.

The other three looked at each other.

“We have your records from CID HQ,” Emre said.

“And we know that you did a stint in the Firearms Division,” Martin added.

Adam shrugged. This was old news.

“We’ve decided to arm you,” Klopp said. He reached down and unlocked a drawer behind his desk, drawing out a handgun and placing it on the table.

“Beretta,” Martin said. “Are you familiar with it?”

Adam was too busy staring at the gun in horror.

“Is this really necessary?” he choked.

Martin looked confused. “Do you not know how to use it?”

“No, no,” Adam explained hastily. “I’ve trained with semi-automatics it’s just… it seems extreme. I’m already in hiding.”

“We can’t be sure,” Klopp said. “And I don’t think it’s safe for you to be out there without one.”

“He’s not asking,” Emre translated, from the corner.

“We’re only giving you one magazine,” Martin continued, like it would help. “And it’s a last resort.”

The gun now felt horribly heavy in its holster, hidden against Adam’s side under his jacket. He sure hoped Jordan wouldn’t hug him when he came in the door, as likely as that might be.

“Surprise,” he said, when he stepped into the hall, holding up a plastic bag.

Jordan was wearing what looked like mis-matching training gear- as Milly had said he would be-but his eyes seemed a little brighter.

He peered into the bag when he took it off Adam, and sighed.

“Jalfreezi,” he said, clicking his tongue. “Tell Milly I said nice try .”

Milly had warned Adam, though- Jordan’ll come in from the gym , he’d said; and will probably be ready to sell his soul for a curry. Just you wait. This is how you win the guy over.

Sure enough, Adam was pulling off his coat when Jordan said: “Fine.”

“Excuse me?” Adam tried it innocently.

“You’re just as bad,” Jordan sighed, and he handed the bag back to Adam as he made his way down the hall, and into the bathroom.

The shower started to run. “You’re welcome!” Adam yelled at the shut door, pleased with himself.

He dumped the food on the counter, and wandered back into the living room. Jordan had fixed it up a bit since Adam’s half-asleep attempt this morning: the cushions on the couch sat with ruled precision and the blanket Adam had slept under was folded neatly across the back. If it had been anyone else, Adam would have been touched, but instead he just felt more like an inconvenience.

He checked the hall- to make sure the shower was still running. Then he reached into his jacket, and pulled out the gun.

It had been a long, long time since Adam’s stint in Firearms, and he had forgotten what it felt like to hold one of them: it felt heavier though, when he thought about what he had to use it for. A last resort.

He had to hide it somewhere- Jordan would ask if Adam was wandering around in a holster. He checked around the room, considering tucking it in a couch cushion. But would he sleep? Probably not. Under the couch was too obvious, and probably too hard to get at in an emergency.

In the end, he settled for pulling a stack of books out from behind the wall and tucking it in behind them, right up against a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy , praying the Jordan wasn’t the type to launch into a big spring clean every few weeks.

The curry smelled totally divine, and Adam hadn’t eaten much today out of pure preoccupation. He was busy tipping it on to plates to put in the microwave when the door to the kitchen opened and Jordan was there.

“I forgot to say,” he started, while Adam forgot everything else: because Jordan was obviously very recently out of his shower and his arm wound around the door- still damp, rather defined, and looking soft because-and this was the worst- the hairs that garnished his arm from his wrist to his elbow were blonde.

“Uh,” Adam said, when it, finally, dawned on him that Jordan had finished his sentence. He knew his eyes swept up very conspicuously from the part of the door where he was guessing, behind which, Jordan’s towel was fastened across his hips.

There was silence. Oh God , the most awkward, heavy silence.

“I said,” Jordan repeated, the muscles in his arms slowly bunching. “If you want, there’s a bottle of red wine under the sink.”

“Okay,” Adam said.

Then Jordan went a bit pink.

“Erm, I don’t usually have company, so…” He trailed off, and then vanished. Adam could hear him stomping up the stairs.

After some shuffling, Adam found the Claret under the sink; and then the hunt for glasses began. He still had his nose in a cupboard when Jordan returned.

“I’m looking for wine glasses,” he explained, before Jordan could ask the question.

“I’ll get them,” Jordan said. “You can get the curry.”

“Should I always expect this treatment?” Adam knew he was teasing at his own peril.

“Expensive treatment,” Jordan countered, but smiling a bit, even if it wasn’t enough to get his brows to lift. His lips quirked to one side when he smiled, it was nice. “I can’t bring St Emillion into the house every week.”

Adam thought about probing into why he had this one in the first place, but decided: better not. It might wander into painful ex territory. At least, it would if it were Adam’s bottle of red wine.

They both seemed determined not to eat in silence, though, this time; but while Adam struggled to look for a question, Jordan already had one.

“Any update on Lucas?”

“He’s had two operations but they can’t tell us if they were a success for not,” Adam answered, regurgitating the news that Studge, temporary Desk Sergeant until his broken arm healed, had been passing around throughout the day. “Still sedated in Intensive Care, but we should know more by tomorrow.” He paused. “We’ll probably be able to go and see him soon.” He was about to add: do you want to come? But it would definitely have come out as asking him on the most morbid date, ever.

He wasn’t sure where to bring the conversation to next. His appetite had faded a bit, thinking of Lucas- and how Adam had better things to worry about, more important, world-changing things that he should really be concerned with: all of them were not whether or not, one day, he would get into Jordan Henderson’s pants, and how exactly he should go about it.

He cut the thought short, before it ran away with itself.

“How long have you owned your coffee shop?” he tried, instead.

“Four years.” Jordan shrugged. “It’s what I’d always wanted to do, so.”

“It’s good,” Adam said. “I really like it.” He waved his fork. “Your bagels are really amazing.”

Jordan smiled at his dinner. Smiled in response to Adam. This was twice now in twenty-four hours, so clearly Adam was getting the hang of this. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m always looking for new variations. I really like the cooking end of it too- but it’s hard to tell if things work, since I only have myself to practice on.”

“I volunteer,” Adam said, before he could stop himself. “Seriously.”

“Good,” Jordan replied. “You look like you need feeding.”

Adam grinned. “When I’m this busy I forget to eat.”

“I don’t understand how anyone can forget to eat.”

“It’s a mystery to me. I really wish it also meant that I forgot to smoke, too.”

Jordan looked surprised. “You smoke?”

When I’m stressed, Adam was about to say, but he just stopped himself. Gym-going, healthy-food-café-owning Jordan Henderson might be the kind of guy to get preachy on the topic. Instead, he shrugged, and reached for his wine.

It really was good wine. Warming and rich- like drinking expensive, gold threaded curtains, or a Persian rug, or something. He probably shouldn’t be drinking it as fast as he was.

“So,” Jordan was trying, really trying. “Where are you from?”

Adam told him: about growing up in St Albans, then Bournemouth, about Southampton and his friends and how good it had been, to be promoted, to be able to be so useful . He forgot he had an audience: realising how he missed it, how this stupid case had turned everything upside down and before he would have been honoured to be head-hunted but now? Now everything was a mess.

He had to stop when Jordan stood up, gathering the cutlery from the table and stacking the plates.

“I can clean up,” he offered.

On his way past Adam to the sink, Jordan’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, brief: almost without meaning to- Adam hadn’t realised before how much he’d needed it, that he’d needed someone to tell him that he’d heard him. Heat spread across his collar and down his spine and swirled around his stomach. Jordan lifted it again, just short of squeezing, and continued like nothing had happened.

Adam tipped forward to refill the wine glasses to the top, since it seemed to be working. He took a rather large- too large- mouthful, which really didn’t help.

The dishes clashed with the bottom of the sink. Jordan didn’t touch him again on the way back to his seat, lifted his glass; and looked at Adam carefully.

Adam made sure to look back. Maybe it was because of the wine, sloshing slightly between his ears, but the moment in the shop came back to him, suddenly.

He pushed himself up, clinging to the table with one hand, maybe shaking a bit.

Was he going to do this? The thought didn’t even halt him, because he was going to go insane if he didn’t do something about the chemicals that constantly mulled between them.

He was going to do this.

He fixed on Jordan: who was first puzzled, then, totally astonished, when Adam sat down again across his lap; stretching his arms around his neck, holding the back of his head, pressing his hips to him.

Adam didn’t even wait for Jordan to protest, although it didn’t look like one was coming- he just kissed him, and Jordan met him with his mouth open. As they kissed Adam sunk his nails into Jordan’s scalp and felt the press of palms to his hips, to the back of his spine, pushing them together.

Adam sunk deeper into him, deeper into the heat, into the fire of Jordan’s mouth and his teeth and the ragged beat of their breathing, a sound that made his heart go faster- already drumming impossibly against the inside of his ribs, trying to get out.

And Jordan pressed again, pressed down until Adam lifted into him. Where the front of their trousers met Adam burned.

Jordan knew, and that’s where Jordan touched him next- pressing Adam there just like his lips: with pressure and agenda. So Adam let go of his mouth to reach down and loosen his button, his zip, let Jordan touch his skin.

Jordan took hold and Adam held their faces together when he worked him- blazing foreheads welding them close, close enough that when Jordan’s lips moved, Adam felt them brush; and their breath mingled, making the air light.

Adam finished and his knees trembled and expletives fell out of his mouth and straight into Jordan’s, turning to into a half-kiss on a really, wonderful, reflex. He could hear himself breathing- heaving- his body light with the relief.

“Yes,” he murmured, into Jordan’s lips, into his cheek. “ Yes . That is it. ” Finally. He settled for the space just below Jordan’s ear, on his neck where it was soft, and he ran his teeth over the skin- hungry for more. That’s was it was- hunger , because for all of Adam’s life he’d been starved of electricity quite like this.

“Do you want,” he tried, because he ran his fingers down Jordan’s chest, curled them around the front of his trousers, and Jordan’s breath increased ever rapidly against his ear, “me to return the favour?” Carefully, he began to press down as he smoothed his palm over him- pressing his body close again, because there was apparently only one answer to that question.

Although, it wasn’t the one Jordan gave.

“I can’t.”

It seemed to take a really long time for what he said to sink in. Adam sat back, way back, with a “ what ?” and Jordan grabbed at his waist in panic, as though to catch him before he fell back.

“Why can’t you?” Adam yipped, in shock, still a little bit high. Because Jordan’s lips were the same red as his cheeks and his eyes bright platinum, and Adam just wanted to melt against him again, this was awful. “What does that even mean after that ?”

“Aren’t you,” Jordan said, as Adam stepped back off his lap and started tucking himself back into his trousers, on fire with embarrassment. “You’re on the run from some serious criminals.”

“ So ?” Adam shrieked.

Jordan looked at the floor suddenly. “I’m not sure,” he closed his eyes, “about this. Okay? I can’t .”

Adam took several more seconds to stare at him in amazement, dumbfounded. This was surreal.

He swung around and marched back into the living room.

“Enjoy the cold shower,” he snapped, over his shoulder.

The next morning, Adam didn’t get to wake up on his own, either. In what was very unfair: Jordan didn’t seem to understand that Sundays were practically invented for sleeping.

“Eggs?” his voice the first thing Adam heard as he pulled himself from sleep.

“Nnnnuuurrggh,” Adam replied, smushing his head into the couch.

He vaguely heard Jordan’s hand tap against the door frame, and a sizzling frying pan.

Bacon . The thought made his head lift.

Jordan , was only his second thought, because he was still standing there, watching him with his head tucked around the door.

“Morning,” Adam offered, rolling on his back and failing to stretch properly again. His muscles ached deep in his legs, from stretching them around someone’s waist, notably: meaning when he looked at Jordan again it was with the full spectrum of emotion: embarrassment, envy at Jordan’s restraint, fury from his own very wounded pride, a miserable twinge of yearning thrown in for good measure. And all muddied together like a well-used paint palette.

Jordan was, again, waiting for him to regain his senses.

“On Sundays I go to the markets,” he said, stiffly. “To pick things up cheap for the shop.”

Adam blinked through what this meant.

“Your safe house duties have now evolved into babysitting?” he offered, as an interpretation.

Jordan grunted. “I’m leaving in half an hour,” he agreed, “or the good stuff will be gone.”

“I’ll be ready,” Adam yawned, and rolled back over to face the back of the couch.

He waited for Jordan to close the door over before he got up- barely managing to pull himself up to sit.

This is all such a mess. A massive, surreal, mess. He wondered, staring after Jordan. How do I even begin to fix everything that has happened since I arrived?

After his shower, he dug out the lumpiest jumper he had thought to bring with him and pulled it over his shirt- the gun holster strapped between them.

I would’ve preferred a bullet-proof jacket, he thought. Still obvious, but I’d look beefier.

After double-checking that the door was still pulled over, he quickly retrieved the Beretta and tucked it away.

Jordan nodded at him when he finally arrived in the kitchen, already half-finished. In silence, Adam sat down, watched as Jordan reached for the coffee pot, reached across the small space, and poured the coffee into Adam’s cup- the politest form of hurry up! That Adam had ever been on the end of.

Nice of him, Adam thought. Still, I can think of nicer things we could have done. Yesterday.

There was a small, dark mark under Jordan’s ear- too big to be a freckle, too oddly placed to be a bruise: mostly probably, Adam’s own handiwork.

Jordan definitely noticed him staring, because he slowly turned a satisfying shade of magenta.

“I’m still thinking about it,” he muttered, as the air in the room froze from the awkwardness.

“Take your time,” Adam sing-songed, pulling the sugar bowl towards him. Eggs, bacon and toast had previously been in danger of very quick ingestion but Adam’s stomach was twisting again. It was easy to front: to be blasé about what had happened, but the truth was that rejection, however well-founded, really hurt .

Whatever it was about Jordan: being with him that like had felt really good.

“Where’s the market?” Adam asked, to interrupt his own thoughts.

“The docks,” Jordan mumbled, still not looking at him.

“Oh,” Adam agreed, with not even the vaguest notion of where they were. “That’s good. Do you go every week?” He looked up, only just noticing the age in the rafters that held up the roof. “How long have you been living here?”

“Christ,” Jordan muttered. “I didn’t ask for the Spanish Inquisition.” He stood up, and brought his plate over to the dishwasher.

Adam quickly scraped his uneaten breakfast into the bin. “No one asks for the Spanish Inquisition!” he chirped, following Jordan out into the hall. “Wait. You did mean the Monty Python reference, right?”

“Woah,” Adam said. “Is it always like this?”

The market hall was packed to over capacity; thronged with people and a million smells. Adam hadn’t expected it from the dull concrete of the multi-storey where they’d parked above it.

If Adam was about to suddenly regret chucking his breakfast, it disappeared with the appearance of fish stands: he was suddenly, so glad it was empty.

Jordan noticed him blanching in disgust, and hid a smile behind his hand when he scratched his nose. Adam couldn’t miss it. “Don’t wander,” he warned.

“Aye, aye,” Adam grinned, becoming immediately distracted by the cheese counter.

Jordan moved in and out between the stands, and smiled more when he made easy conversation with the people at the other side of every counter. They knew him, too: he asked about people’s kids, seemed to know who owned dogs, made friendly banter about prices. He clearly hadn’t been joking when he said he came here often.

Adam realised that he had firmly decided that the shop’s charisma came from Philippe- quippy, chatty Philippe; but no: Jordan was a natural with people too.

I mean he must have always been, Adam wondered, because everyone speaks so highly of him. Maybe it’s not an acquired taste. Maybe it’s me.

He had charm, oodles of it, and Adam didn’t know about it, because Jordan hadn’t turned it up for him.

He didn’t know how he felt about that, but he did try and keep up. He smiled his politest smiles to Jordan’s friends every time they shot him a quizzical look as he mooched just behind, awkward and unintroduced, and then: became a parcel carrier, the more Jordan picked up from the maze of stalls. By the time Jordan had reached the other end of the hall, Adam- now barely able to carry them all- was beginning to suspect why he had really been brought along.

“Is this enough?” he asked, finally. “To run a coffee shop?”

Jordan looked at him, surprised. “No,” he said, his face transforming into a smile as he accepted change from the lady at the rhubarb stand. “It’s to practise a menu to know what to order for the week.” He looked at Adam like he was mad. “It pays to be prepared.”

They didn’t speak again until they were back at the car, everything was safely stowed in the boot, and Jordan moved slower, then paused.

Adam waited for him to make up his mind about whether or not to actually say what he had looked like saying the whole way back up the stairs.

Jordan coughed, and reached a long arm up to scratch the back of his neck. “We can go for lunch,” he said, looking at the contents of the newly-filled boot of his car and not at Adam. “I sometimes go for lunch. Uh.”

The absolute lack of smoothness in his delivery just made Adam’s heart beat even faster, and when Jordan realised and looked cross with himself, well- that made it worse.

“Sure,” he replied, easily, pushing his hands firmly down into his coat pockets- resisting the urge to reach out and touch Jordan where he was slowly going red from embarrassment. “I can lunch.”

Jordan swallowed, and closed the boot of his car.

“The food will be fine here, it’s pretty cool out.” He fell into step beside Adam as they headed out of the car park in silence. It wasn’t the easiest of silences: Jordan was clearly still reeling from the delivery of his lunch invitation, and the fact that Adam was making him so uncomfortable was… weirdly satisfying. Adam couldn’t explain why, at least not precisely, but he was enjoying it.

Jordan had been so friendly and his interactions had been so easy with exactly everyone up until he had to talk to Adam.

Adam knew now that it didn’t have much to do with whether or not he was enjoying Adam’s company, or was very pissed that he had been lumped with babysitting him, or anything like that.

Adam knew that it had everything to do with the intensity of last night’s kissing. And due to that fact, he was now grinning so hard that the sides of his face hurt. And plus, Jordan was distinctly not looking at him, and that just made it so much better.

For Adam this was quickly becoming part-undeniable lust, part-game: to see how fast Jordan could crumble. What a fantastic challenge.

They had turned out of the car park and on to the busier of the streets away from it when Adam saw it. Brief enough that he could have dreamed it, long enough that he reached out and grabbed Jordan’s elbow to make sure he hadn’t. Every alarm bell in his head shrieked when he stopped, and waited, and felt Jordan tense under his palm.

The tide of people pitched and yawed and Adam waited, the hairs on his body lifting, on such high alert that even Jordan’s hand pressed to his back couldn’t have made him move.

“What is it?” Jordan’s voice said, not far from his ear but still miles and miles away. “What do you see?”

Adam dropped his hand.

“Mata’s here,” he said, as he started forwards, straight at the crowd. Quick, before he flashed out of sight again- but it was him, it was definitely Mata who had leered at him from that street corner. He had been waiting.

Adam fumbled through his coat pockets for his phone, the Beretta now weighing one hundred pounds against his side, digging into his ribs. The shift roster for Sunday had been pinned up in the station yesterday and he knew exactly who to call.

“Dejan?” he panted, when he picked up on the second ring. He was chopping through the crowd with his other hand, wriggling through the gaps he found between Sunday shoppers in their droves. “Dejan, I’m at the market. He’s here. Dejan: Mata’s here. ”

He dropped the phone from his ear when he reached the corner- Mata had disappeared so it might as well have been deserted- but he didn’t drop it far enough to miss Dejan’s rather unroyal exclamation.

“The market?” he was asking, when Adam decided that he had finished. “Which market?”

Adam had been scanning- scanning the crowd, the road, all the spaces he could find for someone to make a swift getaway so it took him several long moments to hear the question. He clicked his tongue. “Jordan knows,” he said, finally. “There’s a carpark-“

He stopped. As he’d glanced back the way they’d come, back to the shadow of the multi-storey: Mata’s face was there as clear and definite through the mix of people as though there were none between them at all. When their eyes met, Mata grinned: an invitation.

“Adam,” Dejan’s voice said, crisply and right into his ear: “don’t do anything stupid. We’re coming.”

“Stupid?” Adam echoed. Then, “he’s going back into the carpark.”

“Yes, stupid ,” Dejan said desperately, probably already sensing a lost cause. “Like: don’t follow him, because we’re coming.”

Joe Allen on his kitchen floor, forever staring at the ceiling. Lucas’s face the colour of ash, swarmed by paramedics. Adam’s blood began to seethe and the only things going through his mind were, definitely, stupid.

“You,” he swallowed- and his feet began to move. “You gave me a gun.”

“ Self-defense, Adam,” Dejan was saying, his breath short- like he was running. “I’m at the station. We’re calling Hendo to see where you are, okay? We’re coming .”

All this time Mata watched him, leered at him with the clearest eyes, smirked when he saw Adam’s steps falter. Adam watched him walk over to the carpark exit, to the pedestrian stairwell; pull the door open- then turn his head and throw Adam the question.

“He’s going into the building,” Adam said, dully. His chest grew tight: defeat. “He’s getting away.”

Dejan paused. “Wait,” he said, “hold on.”

“I can’t wait ,” Adam snapped, his legs finding motor function again to let him march in the direction the door. “He’s here and he’s dangerous ! I have to follow him!”

“What planet are you on,” Dejan shot back, “the only person he keeps trying to kill is you !”

Furious, and out of smarmy answers- Adam considered hanging up.

“Listen to me,” Dejan said, regaining some self-control. “We both know he’s not going to touch you in public, alright? You need to stay on the street, at the market place, on a Sunday.”

“And if he’s gone before you get here? And he tries again, and again? I have to stop him,” Adam said, breaking into a run- to disguise the break in his voice. “I have to stop this mess. ”

He reached the heavy metal door and shoved it open. By the time he’d returned the phone to his ear, he recognised Dejan’s voice in furious conversation with someone else.

Adam stared up through the gap between the loops of stairs. His heart slammed against his ribcage- nervous, not brave. Even Adam knew that what he was doing was beyond idiotic.

“Okay,” Dejan’s voice said, finally, back through the phone. “Klopp says tail him.”

Adam wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not when he hung up. He stowed his phone away deep in his coat and reached now under his jumper, freeing the weapon from its holster, digging around his pocket for the magazine. His leg felt like lead as he took the first step, and his fingers trembled now when he slid the bullets into place- they were warm from his pocket.

But with his gun loaded he felt more prepared, and with that confidence his old training kicked in- the careful brace, the delicately placed footsteps; easier than breathing. He remembered the feeling of his breath bouncing back from his arm where he’d pressed his cheek, and even his joints moved fluidly at each corner check. He had nearly forgotten how good he had been at this.

There had been no movement by the time he’d reached the third floor- silence bar the quiet buzz of the fluorescent lights and the slight scuffle of Adam’s shoes on the concrete.

Tail him . Well, he was doing a right job of that, wasn’t he? Already nearly at the fourth floor of the car park and there wasn’t a soul.

The door to the fifth sat propped open, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved. His legs definitely were: stuck in a crouch for the last twenty minutes. It could have been a decoy, a distraction- but Mata wasn’t here to play games.

Adam took a deep breath. And then he took another. He pulled out his phone, dismissed the seven missed calls from Dejan, and sent him a text about the floor number instead. He should wait. He knew he should wait. But if he waited, Mata would be long gone. This was a private audience.

His heart was in great danger of forcing itself the full way up his throat and into his mouth. This was the emptiest floor for sure: cars parked near the exit to the stairs but with great, open spaces that would make it nearly impossible to move through with any kind of stealth, even in the awful light.

He fell further into a squat to creep behind the first row of cars, blaming the tension in his legs from the low angle on the trembling in them. He very carefully craned his neck through the windows- squinting into a world distorted by layers and layers of glass.

It wasn’t deserted. Every hair on Adam’s body- standing completely on end- knew that someone else was also on this floor. Someone who didn’t want to be seen, not yet.

Some who, as Adam neared the last full row of cars and began to despair as to what to do next, pressed something very hard and pointy into the back of Adam’s head.

“Hullo,” a voice said- both horribly and familiarly inflected with Spanish, “it has been a pleasure, Lallana.”

It was like a massive relief had lifted from his shoulders. Adam wondered if he should be angry- but here they were. Finally, no more running.

“Always,” he said, not even trying to raise his voice from the dead weight this realisation had let it sink too. “ Juan .”

“Heh, heh,” Mata pressed the sharp, flat edge of his weapon deeper into Adam’s skull, just at the top of his neck. Alberto’s voice suddenly floated in through Adam’s ear: see the impression? Square. Means it’s from a handgun, a Glock. “Good to know that at last we’re on familiar terms.”

“Oh yeah,” Adam said, icily. “We’re old friends by now, right?”

“Nice try,” Mata said. Adam could just about see his horribly elongated and distorted reflection in the silver of the car he faced- could just about see him shrug. “You can put your gun down now.”

“Do I have to?”

Mata laughed. “You try so hard. But yes, yes you do.”

“I try hard to make you laugh?” Adam said, with mock innocence, pressing his gun to the floor. “Does it work?”

“I… how do you say it? Hmmm. I laugh at you, not with you. Yes- I think that’s it. Now-“ more force to the back of Adam’s head, “- push it under the car for me. Please.”

The metal made a skating noise across the concrete, echoing against the underside of the car.

“Good,” Mata hummed. “Now, get up.”

Adam paused. “Why?” And Mata laughed again.

“Silly,” he mocked. “I’d hate to accidentally ruin the paint job on a Mercedes X-Class. It would be a nightmare trying to replace any of the body.”

Adam stopped thinking about the reflection in the car, and started rapidly calculating his likelihood of getting out of this without any kind of metal in his head.

“That’s better,” Mata said, and as Adam turned his head he saw the sharp edge of his jaw under the scruff, and when his eyes dropped he saw the shiny black shoes. “On your knees, there we go. Make sure to look at the ground, now.”

Adam slid to the floor in the middle of the road, without even enough energy to curl his trembling fingers into fists. There had to be a way out of this, he just needed to think .

This cannot end now. Not like this.

“You and I,” Mata was saying, lazily. “We’re not so different. We both messed up. We’ve both been demoted. Both,” and at that he shoved the sharp corner of his gun into Adam’s head, hard enough to send the feeling shooting down his neck, “had a hand in the fall from grace in the other’s career. Didn’t we?”

If Adam was going to die- and it still seemed a weird notion to him, despite the circumstances- he had some questions first.

“Joe Allen,” he said, pleased when Mata hesitated. “What does Joe Allen have to do with any of this?”

“Who says you get to ask?” Mata growled, on the defensive, suddenly.

Defiance flickered in Adam’s gut. “Why are you so touchy?” he tried, very bravely. “It was so classic you, you know. So come on,” he snarled, “what did Joe Allen know?”

There was silence from Mata. Adam’s knees were frozen from the cold ground. He wondered how much longer he’d feel it.

“Oh, I see.” Mata purred. Adam wished he could turn to look him in the eyes- he wondered if he might have felt less defeated. “I bet you like to think that you’re my… hmmm, there’s a good word for it in English.” He reflected briefly on how he thought signing up to be a Detective Inspector would mean a lifetime of hit-and-runs and cat burglaries. He had no idea what to do. Defeat. Defeat, defeat. This was it. The end. “ Adversary . That’s it. But you’re not. This ends now.”

Adam heard the shot and waited for his life to flash before his eyes.

He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t able to. His heart had stopped beating. The inside of his head was an empty vacuum.

And then he waited some more.

Then it occurred to him that his knees were still cold, irritatingly so- like, more irritating than they should be if Adam would have had a massive hole in his head.

He’d heard the whole sound. The fire, the recoil- both sounds he should not be reflecting on if he were dead.

On that realisation his heart sprung suddenly to life; sprung right out of his chest as it began to beat, as though to beat its way through Adam’s entire life in the next minute. His ears rang, impossibly loud- a happy, happy chorus; searing one ear more than the other and making Adam’s head spin when he turned it in that direction.

Someone else was there, in this weird situation between life and death, half hidden between the cars. Someone who was plank shouldered and falling out of stance and who looked weirdly like Jordan Henderson.

Adam’s head now spun the whole way off his shoulders and he couldn’t feel his hands catch him when he fell forward. His stomach began to heave the breakfast he hadn’t eaten, and bile burned his lips where he licked them.

Hands were on his arms suddenly, and he could feel them, only just- his eyes full of the image of his gun being placed on the ground in front of him: the one he’d dejectedly tossed under a car, the one that had just saved him- the irony like a kick in the throat. Hands kneaded just at his shoulders now, and carefully pulled him upright again. They were shaking too. They were shaking almost as much as Adam’s whole body.

“You’re alright,” he heard, a million miles away through the ringing bells at a constant tinkle in his ears. Jordan’s eyes weren’t though, they were right there- that familiar turbulent sea colour, only the best colour Adam had ever seen. “You’re fine,” Jordan said, but this time Adam read his lips- firm and thin and white.

Adam was being pulled towards him now and he reached, too- to take giant fistfuls of Jordan’s quilted jacket, to feel something warm and soft after cold metal and concrete.

“Did you get him,” Adam croaked, not looking. Not able to. “Is he gone.”

Jordan’s chin rubbed into his forehead when he nodded- Adam now fitting into the perfectly Adam’s-head-sized hole between Jordan’s jaw and his collar. “You’re safe now.”

Adam sighed. The air smelled of fireworks. This was the safest he’d ever felt.

Klopp sighed, and sat back in his chair, watching Adam through the top of his glasses.

“So,” he began, very carefully. “We’ve lost our best lead in the Van Gaal case. Lost to,” and he sighed, “a police-registered weapon, fired by a civilian.” He smiled grimly, raising his hands to rub his eyes: probably so Adam wouldn’t be able to read them. “ Ah . You can only imagine the paperwork. And the press!”

It hurt that he tried to joke about it. The whole thing hurt. Adam looked down at his fingers, twisting and still shaking all these hours later. He wished Klopp would yell at him, so he could at least yell back. Adam could be chewed out, but he hated being a disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry I messed up.” He raised his head again, to level it with Klopp’s- whose expression went from surprised, to concerned.

“ Sorry ?” Klopp said. “Why are you sorry? You followed our orders. We sent Mr. Henderson after you.”

Adam shook his head to unblock his throat. “The case,” he choked. “I messed up the case.”

Klopp grunted and stood up to stretch. “I said it was our best lead. It’s not our only one.”

“I’ve been through the file,” Adam said, miserably. “It is.”

“There will be other leads.” Klopp rounded the edge of his table, and started to pat Adam on the back. “And there will also be other cases. I can’t afford to lose a great detective like you on one case, can I? Come on, up you get.” It was less that Adam got up, more that Klopp lifted him by the elbow. Adam eventually realised that he was being hugged, and that his back was being rubbed, and emotion welled in his throat and he wanted to sob, suddenly.

“I need you to not think about it,” Klopp was saying, as Adam was thinking about how he needed a cuddle like this: shaken and relieved and guilty to the end. “Go home. Sleep. Have some soup? And tea.” He stood back, and gave Adam’s shoulders a small shake. Adam almost smiled at how he said tea like it was a dirty world. “You English love tea, eh? Just: look after yourself. Tomorrow we’ll begin to solve this. Okay? Together. The whole team is grateful for the bravery you showed today. We have one less murderous lunatic to worry about.”

Adam’s ears were still ringing, and he looked at his shoes. “Okay.”

Klopp gave him another small shake. “Okay!” he said, ushering him out of the room. “Look! There’s even someone here to take you home.”

Klopp’s office lead out on to the main hallway from the front desk to the evidence rooms and the first thing Adam came across when he exited on to it was Jordan, sitting at the end of a line of bucket chairs holding a mug and with a large, fleecy blanket draped across his shoulders.

He looked up when Adam slid wordlessly into the chair beside him, startled. Adam thought about explaining himself, but wasn’t sure what to explain. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall; and breathed.

Something warm touched his hand down the side of the chair, and he had already started to jerk it away and on to his lap when he realised that it was actually fingers- Jordan’s fingers: winding over Adam’s hand and curling in to his palm, and squeezing.

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned. But Jordan’s concern was different: Jordan had held Adam while he’d sobbed his way to terms with his own mortality, on the floor of a public car park. He asked now like he didn’t expect Adam to lie, because there were just some things you couldn’t come back from living through with someone.

Adam scrubbed his closed lids with one hand, and squeezed back with the other. “A bit like you’re cold,” he said. When he let his eyes roll open, he flicked at the edge of Jordan’s blanket with his nails.

“Apparently I’m still in shock,” Jordan said, the ends of his lips curling into a smile. “I only have it because every time I try to give it back, Studge refuses to take it off me. People keep handing me tea, too.” He raised his untouched mug, to prove his point.

Adam was returning the grin before he’d even realised. “You probably just look too comfortable in it,” he said, butting Jordan’s shoulder gently with his forehead. An affectionate gesture that he hadn’t thought through. He blamed the blanket, for making Jordan look so cosy. He wasn’t sure if it was worth it, as Jordan stiffened a bit, but when he squeezed at his hand Jordan squeezed back hard enough to cut off the blood to Adam’s fingers.

A fake cough made them both look up.

“Um,” Dejan said. “Hendo, we’ve printed your statement up at the front desk.”

“Okay,” Jordan said, and made to let go of Adam’s hand. Adam just held on tighter.

“He, uh,” Dejan looked at Adam, and then their hands in Adam’s lap, and finally; back at Jordan. “We need you to go and sign it.”

Jordan tugged again and Adam resignedly let go, let him stand up, let Dejan settle back in to his seat instead.

Jordan took a step before he paused. He lifted the blanket from his shoulders, and faster than anyone could register- laid it around Adam. His face was close again as he tucked the ends around his chest, gently pulling it to sit tight on him. Warmth grew, up and through Adam’s lungs; a bit like it did through the high edge of Jordan’s cheeks when their eyes met. His hands reached up and squeezed gently at Adam’s shoulders- right close to the tense base of his neck- before he stood back, looked vaguely embarrassed, and turned down the hall in the direction of reception.

Dejan made another fake, strangled, coughing noise.

“I have a question,” he said, and Adam, a little bit stunned to add on to all the other shock that he’d had in the last few hours, managed to tear his eyes from Jordan’s retreating back. “It’s a really inappropriate one, right now. But.” He nodded past Adam, down the hall. “You’ve known each other, like, two days. Don’t tell me you’re already fucking.”

Adam cast his eyes at the opposite wall. He realised that instead of feeling embarrassed, this actually left him pleased.

“That’s not a question,” he said, grinning.

“Oh, come on,” Dejan exclaimed, with a little laugh and exaggerated wave of his hand, “when was he ever this touchy-touchy . Why do you keep looking at each other with these big, soppy, doe-eyes? You’re worse. I mean, you really know how to give someone doe-eyes.”

Adam was laughing. Real, out-loud laughing. He reached for the edges of the blanket, and wondered if they were still warm from where Jordan had held them. He tugged it around himself some more, wanting to bury his smile in the folds. He was smiling so hard that it made him squint.

“Okay,” he said. “Since we’re asking questions. I have a real question.”

Dejan turned in his seat, expectant. “I can give you the low-down on all of his exes,” he promised on a very loud whisper. “All the places he likes to go eat. Best date-spots on a Saturday,” Adam’s delight was now Dejan’s delight. “Just say the word.”

“Nah,” Adam said, sinking down in his seat. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve been kind of thinking all afternoon.” He felt his smile fade. “Why did you send him after me, in to the carpark? How,” he continued, as Dejan suddenly shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “does a coffee shop owner know how to fire, with that kind of accuracy? I saw the shot,” he gave Dejan a small nudge with his knee. “When forensics came to take the body away. He wasn’t even a centimetre off-target.”

Dejan swallowed, and avoided Adam’s eyes. He nodded in the direction of the front desk. “You’ll have to ask Hendo,” he said. “It’s not my story to tell.”

It felt like an entire year had passed since they’d left Jordan’s flat that morning, the smell even felt new: like a house always did after you came back from a long holiday. Adam hadn’t even realised that he’d been used to it. Used to Jordan’s smell.

He placed the bags of food in the kitchen- probably ruined food by now, but it felt like a necessary task to complete the cycle. His shoulders ached as he pulled his coat down his arms.

Back in the hall, Jordan took his coat from him and hung it up with the collection behind the door. Adam watched his hands shake- still- searching for the tag at the collar, to loop over the hook. He then smoothed it down, pausing with his grip halfway down the lapel.

“I keep thinking,” he said quietly into Adam’s silence. “If I had been even a second late, I wouldn’t have seen you throwing the gun away.” Adam took a step closer, close enough to hear Jordan’s deep breath leave his body. “What would I have done ?”

Adam wasn’t sure what to do. He knew what Jordan was trying to say. He wasn’t entirely sure how to tell him that coming to his rescue was the bravest thing anyone had ever done for him. In this new world where Jordan didn’t completely retract when Adam touched him, he decided to reach out and press his hand to his side; then move closer and press his head into his shoulder. Jordan’s arms wrapped around his neck, and Adam let his other arm twist around his waist too.

They breathed. Then it changed.

Jordan’s breath pitched in his ear when he moved closer, pushed his head deeper into his shoulder. Adam could feel the angle of his chin against the side of his head, felt it move down, felt Jordan’s nose push against the edge of his ear.

There was a weird stiffness to his clutch on Adam suddenly: like he wanted to hold him there, and as he breathed Adam could feel the very corner of his lips against his cheek; moving back a cross it, a distance measureable by a hair’s width.

And again, a little further.

Adam considered letting them stand here for the next two years while Jordan made his mind up. He drew back too, slowly and pressed tight to Jordan’s cheek. Drew back enough so that Jordan definitely, intentionally, could brush the very edge of their lips together. So Jordan could kiss him.

It was more of a caress than a kiss, but Adam couldn’t miss how Jordan held him closer. Two hearts beat against his chest- he could feel Jordan’s even through their clothes. His brain was surprisingly calm- not haywire, not like last night. Now it was an ocean of serenity. His heart was pounding and his throat was tight but the pressure in his head was gone.

Jordan lips lifted slightly, as though he was making to move back and Adam tipped forward with him to pull another kiss from his mouth- wanting to savour it, wanting it to last for longer. For much longer. Forever, he decided, with certainty that he then kissed him with. Jordan’s hands spread across his cheeks, Adam felt the edges of his fingers press in to his jaw when Jordan cupped his face close.

They kissed in the hall for decades, for not nearly long enough- relishing having someone to be close to, Adam unsure if he could go back from it; because no one had ever touched him with as much care as Jordan did.

Later, Adam took Jordan on his bed, when he sat across his hips: filling the whole way, making his spine curl back. Jordan’s hands guided Adam when he moved, rubbing softly against his waist; at the edge of his ribs. Adam rocked forward and took the sheet behind Jordan’s head, curled his fingers in to it, lost himself in Jordan’s eyes, his heady smell, his lips; even when he came too close to the edge and had to let go- only able to feel Jordan inside him and only able to see his eyes shine.

They lay close, after, unable to move. Adam’s head was a muddied mess- thoughts flew about the inside of his cranium looking for things to connect with, but kind of lazily, kind of like it didn’t matter. Like: maybe they should talk. Maybe they should kiss. Maybe Adam should touch him again? But Jordan’s hand was around his on the bed between them, his thumb rubbing softly into the creases of Adam’s palm… and anyway, Adam was floating. Adam wanted to float for a few more minutes. Or at least, a few more breaths.

He let his head loll, his eyes sweep up the shine of the sharp edge of Jordan’s collar. The long lines of his profile. The softness of his eyelashes as his eyes twitched under his closed lids.

It took effort, but Adam rolled over- right up next to him so he could reach out and run his fingers through the soft down on his chest, so it didn’t take much for him to press kisses- a million kisses- in to Jordan’s cheek, his jaw, his neck- only stopping when Jordan let out what could only be described as a giggle, tucking his chin away like he was being slobbered on by a very affectionate dog.

Adam’s world was Jordan’s smile, then. It was both euphoric and shy and it tied Adam’s stomach into knots: like he was twelve, and this was the first crush he would ever have.

He curled into Jordan’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He spread his palm over his wide chest, feeling it draw long breaths. He thought about nothing. He thought about everything. Everything that had happened that day felt like it had happened months ago.

Jordan’s breath changed, then, just as Adam had started to properly drift. He had been sighing for some time, but this was different. This one was heavy and sad.

Are you okay? Adam thought about asking. But that was stupid and rhetorical. What’s wrong ? Equally so, and could lead to dead-end answers, like “ nothing ”. Instead, he lifted his chin to prop his head on Jordan’s arm and murmured: “You can tell me. I’m here.”

Jordan groaned, and rubbed his face with his palm to wake himself.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not you.” A pause. “I guess.” Which made Adam wonder what on Earth he had done: since nothing that had happened since he’d walked back in the door had really made him feel like sighing sadly.

Adam saw him thinking though, and left it to Jordan to find the words.

“I know,” he began. “I know , that I had to. I’ve never felt better about pulling a trigger, that’s not it. It’s… someone died. I… A living, breathing person died. Because of me.” He swallowed. “Because I wanted it.” He let his chin drop, so he could meet Adam’s eyes. “I’ve been finding it hard to wrap my head around that. I mean,” his lips softened, almost into a smile, and Adam’s heart fluttered. “I had been. I had stopped thinking about it until. Well. Now.”

Adam craned his neck to nudge carefully at the end of Jordan’s nose with his own. “It’s okay,” he promised. “That’s allowed.”

Jordan swallowed. “I didn’t even think,” he whispered, against Adam’s mouth now. “I just did it.” Adam could even feel the strain from his creased brows, battling with his thoughts. He slowly moved his hand across Jordan’s chest, over his heart. It sped up under his hand for the brief moment he pressed their mouths together.

“I, uh,” he began. His head repeated what he’d asked Dejan earlier. “Where did you learn to shoot like that? That well, ” he finished. Jordan’s heart thumped once and very hard against his hand as he digested the question. “I haven’t seen that since I was in the Firearms Division. And there, we trained with that model- that Beretta-  every day. I mean, I’m just,” he twitched, fidgeted, he couldn’t help himself. “Wondering.”

“It’s the most widely used model in the world,” Jordan said, a little quickly. A regurgitated fact.

“Right,” Adam said. “That’s not what I asked.”

Jordan paused, then shifted away. Not far, but far enough to let Adam know that he had poorly timed his question, and left him to wonder. Had his new colleagues left him in the care of a crazy gun enthusiast? But Jordan seemed so normal, he thought, with no shortage of disappointment.

Jordan cleared his throat, looking at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, deep enough to nearly lift his chest from the bed.

His heartbeat slowed against Adam’s palm. The truth.

“I was in with a bad lot when I was younger,” he murmured, at the roof. “Before I moved here. Drugs, but you know: not using them, procuring them. I wasn’t that good at it, but my people didn’t totally hate me and I didn’t say much; so I became… protection. I…”

He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. Adam ached for him.

“I was taught things. You know the drill. Useful, bodyguard things. Like how to use different weapons. How to dispose of stuff. I wasn’t a hitman, or anything. Nothing ever happened for me to put it in to practise, and I started to hate sitting around and waiting for something to go wrong. It was all I did, for years .”

Jordan shifted suddenly, turning on to his side, facing Adam- curling his hands, his arms around him. Adam, the king of nervous fidgeting, recognised the symptoms. He touched at Jordan’s cheek, his lips, promised that everything was okay, again and again, on a breath.

“I came to Liverpool nearly five years ago, and that’s when I met Lucas. An accident. He rear-ended my car and bought me coffee to apologise. I started to tell him about how I used to pretend I owned a restaurant as a kid, like it was what I wanted to grow up to do; but I ended up telling him all of it. He even told me he was a cop,” Jordan winced, still feeling the sting of that mistake, “but it was too late. He offered to do the most amazing thing, though. He offered to get me out.”

“What?” Adam whispered it, before he could stop himself.

Jordan either nodded, or nuzzled his way closer over the pillow. “And he did. He got me out. He told me what to say, how to act. It was easy in the end, I wasn’t that important. He made me come back here. He even wrote the recommendation letter that helped me rent the shop.” He paused. “I will always owe Lucas.”

Adam had been stroking down his cheek, taking it in. The story made his head hurt, and the soft rumble of Jordan’s voice made his eyes heavy. “Okay,” he assured. “It’s fine. I still like you.”

The creases in Jordan’s face fell away. He almost smiled.

“I want to hold you,” Adam murmured, fading fast from consciousness. “Can I hold you?”

Jordan fit a little too well against him, even for all of his broadness. The skin across his shoulders was so soft. His body relaxed in to Adam’s. And Adam held him. He decided that he wanted to be worthy of someone this brave. He decided that he would start the minute his eyes opened again.

“Are you okay?” Emre asked, practically ambushing Adam on his way through the front door of the station. Adam guessed by how he was quickly straightening the front of his jacket, that he had been sitting in one of the reception chairs, waiting for him.

“Good morning,” he replied, on a reflex. “Good morning to you, too.”

Emre paused, his eyebrows narrowing together with weariness. “Fine,” he said, dismissively. Then: “because you seem… okay.”

Adam couldn’t really put a finger on what he was: probably still shell-shocked, or something along those lines. But, despite the lows he had sunk to yesterday to add to everything else he had felt since he’d arrived: he felt refreshingly, well, okay.

It might have had something to do with that morning. Possibly. After Adam’s shower Jordan had moved up close, right in his space in front of him and asked the same question. Adam’s sleep had still to recently been butchered mercilessly by Jordan’s five-thirty a.m. alarm to have been expected to answer reasonably (or anyway past a: I dunno, I guess? ), and Jordan that close- close that Adam could see his irises ticking around his pupils- still seemed to have the effect of making him misplace his thoughts.

“If you are, I am.” Jordan’s voice had been warm and low when he’d taken Adam’s face in his hands. “I can be okay, if you can be too.”

Adam’s heart had nearly exploded from his chest when Jordan had then brought his lips to his cheek; deciding that the only way to respond to how that kind of sweetness and how it made him feel, was to drop his towel and kiss Jordan properly against the bathroom doorframe.

He was still a little bit drunk from it, so when Emre levelled with him about his mental state he could only grin- grin like he had truly lost it. It was if as though living through it all with Jordan had reduced the weight of all of Adam’s problems by half.

“I’m fine,” he promised. “What are we doing today?”

Emre regarded him carefully for several more seconds.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Alberto has news. Shall we go up?”