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After releasing the two angry people they had left tied up in his office, Jackson sat down at his desk and put his feet up on it, using the remote control to turn the tv on and lower the volume.
"You can't expect to get away with that, and if there's anything else questionable in this building, you better believe we're going to find it and add it to list." Welles threatened, bristling with barely contained anger.
"Knock yourself out," Jackson replied. The guy with her twitched, but she stopped him with a gesture and the two of them trooped across the landing to poke about in Catherine's office.
He could hear Welles quizzing her colleague about his head injuries as they rifled through drawers when his phone buzzed. When the message appeared on the screen, from 'Deliveroo Manager', Jackson's first thought was how the fuck has Ho got a phone? Taverner wouldn't have given the fruit loop internet access so soon — she was a lot of things but she wasn't stupid. But then again, perhaps the IT whizz kid had set up automated alerts or something?
Curious, he set aside the unlit cigarette he had been about to enjoy while there was no risk of being discovered and opened the message. A video file appeared on his screen, the mayor on a podium droning the usual bullshit and he turned the phone sideways to make the footage bigger.
The footage blurred disorientatingly as the camera swung towards an accusing voice yelling "why do you hate motorists?" He barely had time to process his recognition of the voice and figure that came into focus onscreen as Catherine, magnificently framed, fierce and apparently furious, as she finished "you wanker!"
Her shoulders twisted as she lobbed something — he couldn't see what, but it appeared to be a reassuringly a forceful, overarm throw, so she wasn't drunk — and glared after whatever her missile of choice had been. The microphone picked up a solid noise and a yelp followed by the bustle of people moving, but the focus of the camera remained on Standish, perfectly positioned to catch the way she pursed her lips with grim satisfaction when it landed then grew wide-eyed with panic and scurried away, the camera following her until she was lost in the crowd. The footage stopped as whoever was holding the camera began to lower it, the hubbub cutting off abruptly.
Fuck me, he thought, a tangled knot of emotions in his gut. Concern and exasperation over how close she was to a fucking potential assassination target, because of course she was, the complete lunatic. Surprise, and a fair amount of delight at the audacity and ingenuity. Jackson ignored the warm glow of pride and affection and especially the low pull of attraction. Where the fuck was Shirley, he wanted to know, focusing on his irritation instead. How had Standish ended up having to improvise whatever the fuck that was?
He was about to replay the file when his phone buzzed with another message from Ho, a screen shot, link and another video file appearing below the previous one. When he tapped it, it was a post from Twitter or whatever the fuck it was called now, with a video recorded from a different position. Jackson paused as the dogs stomped down the stairs, apparently giving up their mission to search Catherine's office, and waited until they were on the floor below. In the new recording, the mayor pontificated, then a disturbance in the crowd of spectators drew Jackson's eye. It was Catherine, forcing her way through to the front and lobbing a bottle of water at him after her battle cry "you wanker!"
For a woman who did little upper body exercise, other than the occasional ladylike swim, it was a respectable performance. The mayor flinched away when it hit his arm and his security detail immediately hustled him off the stage like they were taking a bullet for an American President as Catherine hurried away, weaving through the crowd of taller people like a frightened mouse.
Well, he thought, at least she had the sense to GTFO immediately. That was more than could be said for the rest of them. He still didn't know where Dandruff was, and he didn't like that Catherine had clearly felt she had to intervene to get Jaffrey offstage — he didn't like it one bit. That suggested they had identified a would-be assassin and that person was still at large in the building, presumably with a lethal weapon. Fuck, he thought again, fear tightening his throat. He had hoped the security at a mayoral event would be more of a deterrent, that the incumbent mayor couldn't be the target.
Another message made his phone vibrate. It was Shirley reporting in, which sent a wave of relief surging through him. Two joes presumably intact. She would have called if anything had happened to Catherine.
'Attempted delivery failure,' her message read, 'Recipient intact. Courier away before I could catch him about it, sorry. Coming back 4 wallet then going 2 get something 2 eat.'
Trying to get himself back into a more professional frame of mind, he typed a brusque message to River to meet him at the underpass near the Park. Given that Jaffrey was the target after all, it ought to be one of the quickest debriefs of all time and then they could try and get ahead of the next steps in the plan.
Another buzz. Shirley again. 'Not bringing u something back 2 unless u give me £ upfront.'
Fuck you too, he thought, but the main emotion was still relief. Bugger me but this is exhausting. Had it always been such a mind fuck, like herding so many cats? For the briefest of moments, he wanted to complain to Sam, and the re-realisation that he couldn't and never would again hit him like a punch to the gut.
Why do you hate motorists, you wanker? He forced his attention back to lighter things. Ought to order a mug with that on, the mischievous part of his mind suggested. Two, even. One for me, one for her, so she can see it whichever office she's in. He played the videos again. Christ, he wished he'd been there to see her do it. It was almost as good as that time she pointed a gun at that pillock Webb. Re-living that memory had kept him warm on more lonely nights than he was comfortable with.
Another message arrived from Ho. There was a link and screenshots of a blog article with the headline 'Mayor attacked by Boomer pro-cars activist'. A snort of amusement escaped him. He saved all the files to his phone. Maybe he'd have the article blown up and framed to hang on the wall in her office for posterity. She did look good, as usual, in the dress she'd worn for Louisa's leaving party, and the green corduroy jacket she'd bought last year, even in the grainy still taken from the Twitter video the webpage was illustrated with. Opening the first video file, he played it again. He couldn't stifle the surge of attraction, watching her that time.
A fourth message arrived from Roddy, or whatever bot he might've created to do the work for him, with a screenshot of a report from the mayor's security team with a description of the woman responsible. It matched Standish, but then it probably matched half the women of her age and ethnicity in a sixty mile radius. A reference to her outfit was the only factor that might mark her out from amongst other women at the event, but he wasn't worried about that — throwing a bottle of water wasn't worth pursuing, and in the unlikely event some jobsworth prick did try to make anything of it, he'd deal with it.
He still didn't like that she was in the field — at all — but at least she was with Shirley, the best of a hopeless bunch. He even missed Louisa, less prone to monumental fuck-ups than most of the others — though she was far better off out of Slough House, as everyone would be, excepting the two of them. He'd rather it was Shirley and Louisa flanking Catherine, if she insisted on doing things.
He played the video again. Christ, apart from the general insanity, it was impeccable — whoever had been filming had managed to catch her in perfect profile. He couldn't deny he loved her face — not to himself, not when he'd thought she was lovely the first time he saw her and every time since. Irritating her was the only way to survive having those blue eyes aimed at him on a daily basis.
There was nothing to be done about how attractive he found her, although he'd built up a sort of resilience to the every-day — well, mostly. Her bossing him about over his smoking and generally watching him like a hawk when she thought he wasn't looking for the past few months warmed the dry husk that remained of his heart. His defences were probably weaker because she was dressed differently for the leaving do, that's all.
He pressed play again, and perhaps it was the night without sleep, on top of all those things, that did for him because he felt a definite twitch of arousal when she gave her battle cry. Christ, he thought, been a while. What with everything that had happened and not being a spring chicken anymore, his cock had been less lively of late. He had wondered, fleetingly, if the days of it demanding attention without making an appointment were behind him. Probably shouldn't be surprised it was woken by Catherine cursing at an authority figure, he thought wryly. Though he still felt a twinge of guilt over it, she had starred in certain fantasies for longer than he cared to admit. But he only let himself think about those alone in the dark in his own home. Couldn't risk forming any association between the office and getting off to thoughts of her. He was hopeless, not stupid.
Now though, as he played the video yet again — a decision he knew was dangerously self-indulgent — he found his hand resting in his lap, just shy of the erection making itself known beneath his clothes. He'd half hoped he had been exaggerating it in his head, but she really did look magnificent. And that wasn't just his anti-authoritarian streak talking, it was that sodding outfit. He'd had to work to keep his eyes off her with the way that dress fitted since she waltzed into the café wearing the fucking thing.
He shifted his hips, easing the tension in his clothing where it had been growing restrictive below his belt. It didn't help, and neither did trying to will it away. He watched the video again, stubbornly ignoring the situation in his underwear, telling himself he was looking for any sign of the assassin.
Far from his body subsiding and freeing him from the distraction, it made the most of the greater freedom beneath the looser fabric. The weight of his hand rested innocuously by what was definitely the most lively hard-on he'd had for a while, almost close enough to touch, and the urge to do so was growing even more insistent. Fucking inconvenient timing, in the middle of whatever fuckery this destabilisation business is, he told his body, irritated by its noncompliance.
Passing his hand across it did nothing to alleviate the situation and just heightened the temptation to undo his fly and deal with it. He wanted to blame someone or something else for the way his body was acting but he couldn't. He couldn't even blame Catherine — she was only at that fucking rally because events had overtaken them and now there was no choice but to deploy the people he had. He still would have preferred that she went home and stayed there, safe, even as he knew she'd never do that once she'd caught the scent of something.
"Why do you hate motorists, you wanker?" His eyelids closed as he let his hand do what the rest of his body wanted. The nighttime traffic noise from the road outside and the soft drone of the news channel on the TV receded, his attention narrowing to the heat prickling beneath his skin and the idea of Catherine hitting the mayor with a plastic bottle. A reluctant sigh of satisfaction escaped him. There was probably nothing for it but to rub a quick one out and be done with it, he thought, recognising the urgent way it felt, and would continue to feel, if he did nothing. That would be the most efficient course of action, so he could get back to work without the distraction. He just about had enough dignity left that he disliked the idea of hiding in the mildewed lav off his office — even though fantasising about his captivating PA would still get him there — so he stayed where he was.
Arousal still nagged at him, despite the fact he'd already allowed his own touch, demanding more attention, so he gave in, sliding his palm deliberately over his suit trousers and letting his head fall back, eyes closed. There was no one on the same floor or the one below, and the angle he sat in his chair helped shield his lap from the doorway in any case.
In his mind's eye, he imagined seeing Catherine lobbing that bottle in person and allowed his hips to rock minutely into the strokes of his hand. Might as well hurry things along, he told himself, knowing it was a thin excuse for what he was doing. The problem was that thoughts of her did reliably made this go quicker and easier.
Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he put it on the desk, propping his phone against it and played the video again, "why do you hate motorists, you wanker?" playing softly through the speakers, quiet but still clear over the volume of the television. Fuck, he thought, feeling like his blood had heated several degrees. She was fucking magnificent sometimes.
The exterior door screeched and he froze, alert and listening in spite of the hot need throbbing under his clothes. The noise from below sounded like Shirley and Catherine exchanging words with the dogs, presumably on their own way out, if the slight delay before the door banged shut again was any indication. It was followed by footsteps and the murmur of voices moving towards Shirley's desk before they headed back out, the door slamming open and closed again.
When silence fell again, Jackson found his body hadn't cared about the interruption, and was still keen for him to get off before it would let him concentrate. He was still annoyed by its timing, but part of him had already surrendered to the idea and was impatient for him to get on with it. Maybe he'd accidentally conditioned himself, in spite of his precautions, to associate memories of the ways Catherine Standish had surprised him with hurrying things along, alone in his bed, too many times over the years.
Leaning back in his chair, he adjusted his feet on the desk. A heavy sigh escaped through his nose as he began in earnest. He definitely shouldn't, he knew that. But he couldn't seem to stop himself from playing the video again and then again, his other hand moving to the button on his waistband.
"What are you doing?"
His surprised intake of breath at her voice, which came from the top of the stairs, caused his chest to seize with the urge to cough. Feet immediately back on the floor, he lurched forward in his seat and snatched the phone and cigarettes, hunching over the obvious problem in his lap and praying the desk would help hide it. Still coughing and fumbling with his phone at the same time, he hoped Catherine hadn't seen what he was up to.
"Why do you hate motorists, you wanker?" came from the phone again as he clutched the fucking thing. He jammed his thumb against the touchscreen while hacking and spluttering into his other sleeve and managed to turn it completely off in his determination to stop it playing. By the time the coughing subsided, she had weaved her way through the wreckage left by their escape act earlier, putting her jacket and bag on the chair in the corner with his, and turned on him with an unhappy frown. He dropped the phone on his desk hurriedly, pulled a cigarette from the packet, and produced a lighter from his pocket without thinking so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye.
"Don't you dare," she warned him, advancing on him determinedly.
Fuck, he swore inwardly, at both the fact he had been taken by surprise and his lack of foresight about the cigarette. She was still neatly turned out, despite the fact she'd been wearing the same outfit for about 36 hours, and was glaring at him in a way that meant business. In its present state, he found his body highly approved of everything about her, even the stern look.
He stood up from the chair, keeping his back to her and hoping the cigarette now between his lips would keep her attention near his face so the situation in his trousers had a chance to go down. Clearly, he realised belatedly, her blood was up after assaulting the mayor, because she carried on bearing down him like some sort of small, vengeful goddess, which did absolutely nothing to help him below the belt.
Jackson slipped the lighter into his pocket and stepped towards the TV, intending to escape around the other side of his desk, but she was faster. Much more assertive about invading his personal space than she usually was, she crowded him into a corner where he was boxed in by filing cabinets and redecorating clutter.
"Give me that," she demanded, far closer than usual, her body barely inches from his, stretching for the cigarette when he held it above his head. "Now, Jackson. I'm serious." She rose on her toes to try and grab it.
He should have known it was a feint. It was what he probably would have tried in her place, after all. Reaching with one hand towards the cigarette, so close he could feel the heat from her body through his shirt, she slipped the other into his trouser pocket, questing fingers looking for the lighter, without which he wouldn't be able to smoke it.
The angle wasn't good, her wrist bent awkwardly, so he felt the pull on the fabric as she did it but it didn't matter because it was far too late to stop her. His heart seemed to stop as he realised she must not have understood what he was up to when she walked in because, when her knuckles brushed an unexpected shape rather than the disposable plastic lighter she was after, she instinctively turned her hand to feel what it was.
He couldn't breathe, shock at the contact and stone-cold fear she was going to run screaming from the room closing his throat. Time slowed, her touch on his cock through nothing more than the thin pocket lining and his underwear drawn out far longer than could be real. Realisation dawned and she started, letting go with a gasp and almost toppling into him. Though she had released the brief hold that still had him weak at the knees, her hand remained caught by the edge of his pocket, tantalisingly close.
For an excruciating moment, she seemed frozen in shock, half-leaning against him. Then she pulled her hand free as though burned, and he knew she was going to leave, appalled and probably tossing another resignation over her shoulder as she went. His mind was spinning its wheels, unable to make a decision or plan a response, paralysed by his rising fear and the ghost of that fleeting touch.
A tentative brush of her hand over the front of his trousers emptied his head of everything except the places she was touching him. He forgot how to breathe entirely when she did it again, firmer and more deliberate, barely able to believe that she was still there and hadn't yet run away in disgust. Thank fuck they were standing so close they couldn't look each other in the face without moving, part of him observed distantly. If she looked him in the face, his heart would probably explode, her eyes too much to bear combined with the heat from her body, the pressure of her hand and the scent from her hair in his nose.
He stood rooted in place, still afraid she would leave but exhilarated by the closeness and her palm against the hard length of him. A gun to his head couldn't have made him move for fear of reminding her what an utter bastard she knew he was. He had no fucking idea what was happening, but he wasn't strong enough to want to stop her.
Carefully, she stroked in one direction before dragging her hand back, blunt fingernails scratching over the taut cloth threatening to make him come on the spot. Belatedly, he found his hands were already on her of their own accord, not hard but not gentle either. It must have betrayed how much he wanted her but he almost didn't care why she was staying, only that she was, and the molten surge of relief when she began to lean into him, then rested her cheek against his shirt, nearly buckled his knees. Thank Christ he'd showered and put on a clean shirt for the party like she'd asked.
It had been a long time since he had voluntarily had anyone that close or doing something intimate, and there was a flutter of nervousness in his stomach, even as the rest of him burned with the thrill of it. He was just unused to it, he told himself, to the newness of having someone pressed against him again. But he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't tell that was horse shit. It was the fact it was her, the woman he'd spent 20 years aching for and never dared hope she might think anything of him.
His breathing was loud in the quiet of the room, and as Catherine gained confidence in what she was doing, he surrendered to her will. He didn't care if it was pity, he'd take it even if that was all it was. It might break him but he wasn't strong enough to say no. Pleasure splintered through him when she traced his shape and he could no longer stop the way his hips chased her touch. They fell into a rhythm and he pressed his face to her hair, desperate to touch as much of her as she would allow, the feel of her tits pressed against him and her hand on his cock making him burn. It was going to be over embarrassingly quickly and there wasn't a single thing he could about it.
Through the haze of need, he realised they'd shifted so one of his thighs was between hers. He wanted to do more for her but didn't dare, afraid of wrecking everything, of losing her hands on him when he'd never wanted anything so much in his life as the orgasm she was determined to give him. And she was determined, her arm around his waist holding him as tightly as he held her, both of them panting and grinding against each other like horny teenagers. She wanted him, wanted this, whatever the fuck this was—
He felt his body pass the tipping point and knew that finishing in his underwear like a schoolboy was inevitable. Perhaps she felt it too, because her rhythm grew more insistent. The tension building in his gut stole his breath, coiled impossibly tight, then snapped, a broken groan forced from his throat by full body shudders as pleasure overwhelmed everything.
He couldn't have said how long they stood there, feeling like he'd been hit by a bus and trying to not let his weight sag onto her as the tide slowly ebbed. His breathing was harsh, as if he'd run a race, making still more of a mess of her hair where he had had his face pressed against it. He felt light-headed, not only wrung out by the strongest orgasm he remembered having any time recently but also with the relief that she was still there, still holding him.
Christ, he wanted to kiss her. It seemed like the only thing it made sense to do when she hadn't run, when he wanted to make her feel so good she forgot her own name, when it was such a miracle anything like that had happened at all that he didn't even care about the mess rapidly cooling in his y-fronts.
She was lifting her face, the warmth of her breath on his lips, when the external door screeched three floors below. They sprang apart like guilty teenagers and the sound of Shirley's characteristic footfalls made its way up to them. All there was time for was a brief, silent look that he hoped told her they weren't finished with whatever that had been. She took the clip from her hair and began combing her fingers through the parts where he'd mussed it, hurrying to her jacket and bag as he made a beeline for the tiny loo.
Fuck, he thought vehemently, as he cleaned himself up. There wasn't going to be time to address whatever that was while the whole destabilisation plan shit was going down and the kids were all going off the rails. It might be more than a day or more before the next opportunity arose to be alone together. He no idea what he was going to fucking say, but he knew he had to do something. You don't just ignore a woman after that, he told the cowardly part of himself that wanted to shy away from the idea of talking. The wistful attraction he'd nursed for so long paled in comparison to how much he wanted her to cross that line again now.
Exiting the dingy cubicle, he could hear Catherine apparently emerging from her office, murmuring something to Shirley as she climbed the final flight of stairs to the landing. The news was playing on the television on the wall, so Jackson sat at his desk, put his feet up and grabbed his whiskey glass.
"I sent you to protect Jaffrey," he accused, not looking at either of the pair as they slunk into his office. "Someone answering your description assaulted him with a waterbottle."
"Um," Catherine hesitated, and he felt a prickle of guilt, "I needed to get him off the stage." She had her jacket and bag back on, and if it weren't for the tension in the way she carried herself, she looked no different than usual.
"Yeah," Shirley put in, "Jaffrey was the target." She rattled off a report of what happened, and he dropped in the most acidic comments he could muster, concentrating hard on not looking at Catherine, who was backing Shirley up, some of her earlier assertiveness returning. He was saved by the TV, when the news displayed the headline he least wanted to see.
"Gimball's dead, you idiots."
"What?" Catherine gasped. He could feel disbelief roll off Shirley, barely within the furthest reaches of his peripheral vision.
"What's River and Coe saying?"
"I'm off to meet them near the Park." He got up from his seat. He couldn't quite believe he was doing it, or that all this shit was happening at once, but he was going to have to leave without addressing him getting off and doing nothing for her beyond a juvenile fumble. A tiny part of him was relieved to put it all off, but it was outweighed by the immediate feeling of guilt that followed. He wasn’t that much of a bastard. Not to her.
"Jackson, what's next?" Catherine asked, as he put his coat on.
"If memory serves, blind your enemy."
"But that could be anything." Clearly, she was trying to focus on the job in hand too. The pinch of disappointment inside him wasn't tiny enough that he could pretend to himself that he hadn't noticed it. What a fucking hypocrite he was.
"Yeah, well," he stood between them adjusting how the collar of his coat sat, a glance at the bruising on Shirley's face tightening his stomach with an echo of the fear he'd had for them earlier, "given that 'assassinate a populist leader' couldn't have been clearer and we failed to stop that, I think we're fucked."
He turned and strode out, turning his phone back on in his coat pocket as he went and wondering what he'd done in a past life to deserve events swinging so wildly between glorious and catastrophic in mere minutes. Whatever it was, he hoped he had fucking enjoyed it at the time.
***
"You knew that was going to happen, didn't you?"
There was a brittle quality to her fury that made Jackson feel, for the first time in a very long time, like he had made an avoidable blunder and someone else had paid the price.
"Yeah."
He knew immediately, in hindsight, where he'd been wrong, realisation crashing into his mind like a slow horse into a covert surveillance situation. He had told her the truth when he said Tara Younis wasn't in charge. The kid wasn't stupid, though — she was never going to shoot the hostage whose wellbeing was the only thing between her and, best case scenario, rough treatment while in restraints, if not a gunshot wound or two. But he hadn't factored in how Catherine still flinched if Coe made a sudden move or there was an unexpected loud noise. Of course she'd be worried by a gun to her head, you fucking pillock, he berated himself.
More than that, he'd failed to account for how badly he'd hurt her all those months ago — though he hated himself far more for it than she'd ever know. She had loyally followed his orders to get the girl out of the embassy, in spite of her doubts, and getting held at gunpoint had clearly shaken her recovering faith in him badly.
"Like I said, she’s just a kid. She was never going to shoot you." It was inadequate, he knew, but he didn't have anything else. If he gave her too much of a reaction, she might fall apart or, worse, think he hadn't been certain there was no risk but had sent her anyway.
"Well, it didn’t feel like that."
Fuck, he thought, the hurt undertone beneath her anger causing something painful to twist in his chest. Instinctively, he knew losing her trust would taint everything, including whatever she felt about what had happened between them earlier.
She bent down to rub her leg and the way she winced was too natural for it to be merely an excuse not to look at him, making him swear inwardly again. She was hurt. Guilt momentarily paralysed him where he leaned against his car and it took an effort of will to shake it off.
"Come on." He stood up and stepped towards her, hand half outstretched in apology. "I’ll buy you a lemonade." Catherine sighed, but murmured a begrudging sound of agreement. "Take the edge off."
The absence of her usual sarcastic response kicked his conscience directly in the balls as she limped towards the passenger side of the car without looking at him, but the fact she hadn't tried to walk away was reassurance enough. He didn't deserve her forgiveness, but, God help him, that didn't stop him wanting it.
***
The lemonade did the trick. Sort of. The over-priced can of San Pellegrino and a cup of tea, with even more than her usual mountain of sugar in it, at a coffee shop on the way back to Slough House told him she was persuading herself that her reaction to the whole thing was just shock. He didn't deserve her excusing it like that either. It would have served him right if she had placed the blame on the double whammy of physical fear and the emotional betrayal of whatever faith in him had made her leave the small square opposite the embassy to do his bidding.
Jackson muttered an offer of painkillers, intending to nip across the street to get some from a small chemist's, but she shook her head, producing some from her cavernous handbag instead, which she swallowed with some water while he went back to the counter and placed another order. Borrowing the biro by the till, he scribbled five letters on a paper napkin, which he put in his pocket before returning to their table with two coffees and a plate of carrot cake for her alongside two cream buns for him. When she raised her eyebrows at the coffee cup he placed with the tea and lemonade glass already in front of her, he shrugged.
"You go on about it going with carrot cake but, if you don't want it, don't drink it."
He managed to keep his eyes mostly off her, focusing instead on obliterating the two cream cakes he'd got for himself and washing them down with his own coffee. Surruptitious glances at her reflection in the window or cake counter, or directly at her when she was occupied with something else, like rummaging in her bag, were only permitted when he was certain she wouldn't catch him.
When they'd finished, having spoken not a word more to each other, he helped her stand, slipping the folded napkin into the pocket of her jacket as he did so. He could only hope she'd find it sooner rather than later. He had no other ideas for how to deal with the matter of the two of them — they were in the middle of a complete shit-show of an op, Cartwright and Coe were giving the Chuckle Brothers a run for their money and Dander might commit a more purposeful homicide at any moment, so who knew when there would be time to think about it next.
He pushed through the café door, leading the way out, and in the reflection of a parked car's window saw her pull the napkin from her pocket in the doorway, her gait slowing momentarily as she read his scrawl. 'IOU', signed with his initials, which she must know almost as well as her own after so many years. He couldn't bear to watch her reaction, turning instead to walk to his car, parked a few vehicles away. It was too little, too late, he knew — he hadn't been able to curb the instinct to give himself deniability and perhaps she might find the unsubtle suggestion disgusting. It was up to her to tell him, somehow, what she wanted.
The car ride back to the office was quiet, and he made no attempt at conversation because she appeared to be deep in thought. About what, he couldn't tell. His phone buzzed as as they were on the stairs, heading for their floor of Slough House to await the return of their wayward charges. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes. Cartwright the Younger. She shifted away automatically to let him move faster than they had been moving, ever deferring to Service business. He wanted to ignore what River was saying and keep his hand lightly at her elbow for her to lean on if she needed to, but the kid was right, for once, there was still one terorist unaccounted for.
On the landing between their offices, she hesitated and gave him an odd, slightly vulnerable look — uncertain, concerned, and perhaps slightly wistful, all at the same time, mixed with something he couldn't name but filled his chest with hope — before hobbling into her own office.
"Lamb?"
Part of him wished he could drop everything and go after her there and then, a flicker of warmth in his chest, but he pushed it down and forced all of his attention to the phone conversation, where Cartwright sounded concerned the call had dropped.
"Yeah, I'm here... Well, part of her dating Ho was to get a file." Jackson heaved a sigh. "I read it." He wondered if River would work it out. Couldn’t hurt to throw the boy a bone for once, he thought. "Who do you think deserves a punishment greater than utter humiliation?"
Phone call concluded and Cartwright steaming off to play the hero, Jackson wondered if he should cross the landing, a flutter of nervous anticipation in his stomach. But then his fucking phone went off again, one of the newer dogs, whose name he hadn't bothered to learn, calling to request that he collect Roddy. Some bullshit about protocol and debriefing that was ultimately the usual arse-covering.
"Yeah," he sighed, "I'll come and collect him. Just make sure you've fed him before I get there, alright?" He hung up without waiting for an answer and moved to the doorway of Standish's office.
"That was the Park." He gestured with his phone and then put it in his pocket. "I've gotta collect the halfwit from their custody and debrief him, apparently." She met his eyes, a faint echo of that odd look on her face. "Stay off your feet, yeah? I'll bring you back some frozen peas."
"What about River?" She asked, and he rolled his eyes.
"He's rounding up the last bad guy. In theory, he ought to do it before Whelan gets shot but you know what he's like." Jackson shrugged and Catherine gave him a reproving glare. "Relax, he'll be fine. He loves the running around stuff."
Catherine sighed, and he felt their usual dynamic slipping back into place like putting on a pair of comfortable shoes. Part of him still wanted to forget everything and find out how she wanted to collect on that IOU, but he also knew she would only send him on his way if there was unfinished business. Especially if any of the kids were on the loose.
"See you later, then," she said, turning to her computer. He thought about reminding her it was Saturday, but knew it wouldn't make a difference.
"Yeah. Later." Her eyes flicked to his and for a moment there was that spark again, but she returned her gaze to her monitor almost immediately and he was already turning towards the stairs.
They'd find time at some point, he thought, as he returned to his car. Soon, hopefully. It had already been years and time was slipping through their fingers. When this op was done and dusted, they'd have address whatever it was. Fuck knows how, he thought. But she had come back, after their row at that godforsaken petrol station, after all, and she hadn't run out of his office screaming earlier, she'd chosen to... Well, assuming he'd read her right, now all he had to do was gather the courage to do something about it.
Fuck, he sighed inwardly, then remembered how he had felt with her pressed against him, invested in getting him off. That'd be worth it — it might make him a dirty old man and a pervert of a boss, but it would be worth it, if that's what she wanted.