Chapter Text
It all starts with a case.
…But of course it does.
A student had been killed in the stacks, and even though it hadn't happened on Nick's shift it had nonetheless thrown the whole department off, and he was feeling the strain. One can't simply stroll by a crime scene in one's workplace without it having some psychological effect, he tells himself, as he shivers and avoids that corner for the third time in one day.
It's as he's rounding the corner that he nearly collides with a Detective Sergeant Hathaway, who asks a load of questions Nick knows nothing about. It's a shame, really; he'd like to be able to help, not only because the man is dishy-as-fuck and Nick would love to make him smile, but because someone was murdered in his library, and there's an inherent protectiveness involved in that.
He's aware that doesn't really make sense, but it is what it is.
Hathaway follows him to his desk to ask more questions. Nick answers them. The conversation flies then slows then idles, and they both try not to be caught looking at each other, and Nick fusses with a stack of books piled on his desk, lining up the edges and squaring the corners.
Hathaway prods the top book in the pile. "John Donne," he rumbles, and lifts up his head to quote. "MARK but this flea, and mark in this/How little that which thou deniest me is/It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee/And in this flea our two bloods mingled be."
Nick thinks he might come in his pants on the spot.
He pushes down three awkward retorts, one an ill-advised joke about bloodplay, and swallows hard, and there follow several dragging seconds where his mind races and he tries to get enough saliva in his mouth not to croak.
"Most people prefer poetry about butterflies," he manages, then blushes at how fatuous he sounds.
"Harder to make a parasitic organism sexy."
Suck. Hard. Sexy. This conversation is becoming distracting. Nick suddenly wants desperately to put his mouth against that flat stomach and suck until it leaves a bruise.
They stand in awkward silence again for a few interminable moments before Hathway shuffles his feet and takes his leave. But before he rounds the corner of the stacks—
"Sergeant."
Hathaway turns and stares at Nick, waiting.
"Erm, if you…have any more questions. I'm here, er, Tuesday through Saturday."
Finally, after a few tense seconds, Hathaway smiles.
...
Nick looks up—and up and up—when the shadow crosses his pile of papers. He fights down a grin. "Sergeant."
"Mr..."
"Driscoll." He shakes his head quickly. "Nick." He smiles, feeling unaccountably shy.
And to his relief, Hathaway smiles back. Just a little. "Nick. Has Professor Mayhew been through this morning?"
"I haven't seen her. Do you want me to—" Nick reaches for the phone, eyebrows raised.
"No, no," Hathaway says airily, looking over Nick's shoulder. "I know where she'll be."
Nick feels his cheeks pink a little, wondering why Hathaway had come by if he'd known his quarry wasn't going to be there, then blushes more just at the sheer fact of his embarrassment. He searches desperately for something to say.
Hathaway's eyes fall to the pile on the desk. "No poetry today," he comments. Nick suspects Hathaway might have been blushing as well, but Nick is so desperate not to stare he’s only looking for bare milliseconds at a time. Besides, the lighting could be better.
"No. Periodicals. Less mariposa, more Maritime News Quarterly." Internally, Nick rolls his eyes at himself.
To his surprise, that actually gets another piece of a smile. Hathaway's gaze locks with his for one long, stomach-dropping moment before it flicks away again. "Anything about an albatross this quarter?"
"Not that I've seen. Just something about a large white whale upsetting the shipping forecast."
Hathaway lets out a chuckle, staring resolutely out the window over Nick's head. For his part, Nick stares at the way his mouth quirks at the corners. You're so lovely. The hush of the library falls around them, and after a few seconds and a bit of a nod, Hathaway turns to go. "Thank y—"
"Dinner?" Nick stands and blurts out before he knows he’s going to do it. It is, in a word, horrifying. He stares, dry-mouthed and with his heart thumping in his throat, as Hathaway obviously tries to compose a response. Nick cuts across Hathaway's thought process; if it’s taking that long to form an answer, the answer is clearly a no.
"No. Sorry. Never mind," he says in a rush. "Obviously it's. I mean, you're on duty. I mean, a case, and you…”
Hathaway's stance seems to relax a little, though when Nick dares to look at him, sure enough, his cheeks are very pink. "Yes, I've…had some…problems before, and so I can't really, while I'm investi—"
"No, no, that's fine. Really. Fine." Nick is reminded of the sensation of spending his entire evening working the grill in his former life as a chef, though he’s sure even then his ears had never felt this goddamn warm. "Sorry."
"No, that's— Sorry." Looking just as mortified as Nick feels, Hathaway turns to go again.
And Nick lets him, tucking his trembling hands in his pockets and not having the faintest clue what else he can possibly say.
...
When their first date begins, Nick isn’t exactly sure what is going on.
"Yes."
Startled, Nick looks up from the computer to see a blurry Sergeant Hathaway standing in front of the reference desk. It is late enough that there’s no queue. Nick blinks his eyes a few times and presses his hands over his face to wake himself up a bit. "Sorry?"
"I said yes."
Nick looks down to the database he’s working on, then up to Hathaway's face, then off to a bit of space to the man's side. Then again, back up into his face. "What?" Unsurprisingly, he feels himself start to blush. If the past two meetings are any indication, Nick is comfortable expecting that trend to continue. Sunny with a 85% chance of embarrassment.
"Dinner." Even in the low light coming in through the vaulted windows, Hathaway himself looks pink. "Yes."
"Yes."
"My— The case is…finished."
It occurs to Nick he can, perhaps, permit himself a little hope. "So…dinner."
Hathaway huffs a laugh, looking at the bulletin board behind the desk with intense concentration. "Yes."
A bright grin slowly stretches its way across Nick's face. "Tonight?"
"If you like." Now, now, Hathaway is clearly starting to smile. Nick can tell by the way the corners of his mouth are twitching.
"I do," Nick says, and shoves to his feet. He begins shuffling papers into a pile.
Hathaway's eyes flick to the clock above the desk. "It's only just half seven."
Nick stops. "Oh. Right. I'm, er, not finished until 8."
"I know."
The simple statement draws Nick up short. "How do you know that?"
Hathaway looks away. "I'll be—" he waves his hand into the emptiness of the library "— if that's alright with you."
"Y—Yeah, that's fine." Flustered, Nick sits down again, not expecting to be able to focus on any of his work for the rest of his shift.
But Hathaway wanders off almost immediately, so Nick manages a few minutes of work in between worrying about the suitability of his clothing for a date and whether the state of his bedroom matters. Precisely at 8, Hathaway appears at the desk, looking over-warm in his coat and with tension tight in his shoulders as he slips his phone back into his pocket.
"Yes?"
Nick finishes filing a sheath of papers behind the desk. "Yes." He looks up, and his breath stutters. Hathaway is smiling, ear to ear, and his eyes catch the light just the right way to gleam brilliantly.
I would kiss you right this second, Nick thinks, but I don't even know your given name.
He walks around the massive desk and stands awkwardly at Hathaway's side. "Where are we off to?"
"What do you like?"
"Everything."
“Everything everything? A lot of people say that, but then—"
"Sergeant." Hathaway stops and looked at Nick. "I like food.”
Slowly, Hathaway smiles. "The Ginger Palace, then."
"Why there?"
"You can survive off a platter of their pad thai for days."
Quantity vs quality, Nick thinks. Okay. Yeah, sure, I can work with that.
They walk toward the exit and Nick, feeling bold, slips his hand between Hathaway's arm and body and curls it around his elbow. He feels the drag as Hathaway's steps stall momentarily, and he looks up to catch a shatteringly-vulnerable expression flash across his face before he smiles. There is a tentative slide of fingers, and they start again to the door with Hathaway's hand warmly covering Nick's own.
"James."
Nick looks up, startled out of his spinning thoughts. "Hm?"
"You should call me James."
Judging by the ache in his cheeks, Nick grins all the way to the restaurant and most of the way through the meal. Even through the slightly-awkward banter, the incessant blushing, and the mediocre noodles that fill the evening, he barely stops at all. The meal passes in a flash.
Before he knows it, James has gotten up to go to the men's and Nick is left staring at the remains of their suppers in a panic, trying to suss out whether he is meant to get the bill. Ordinarily if he asks then he pays, but James turned him down only to ambush him with yes tonight. Did that mean he’s supposed to— Or did it switch over when— Oh, sod it. Nick waves to get the bill himself.
James takes longer than Nick expects, and he returns just in time to see Nick putting a slip of paper into his wallet. His eyes dart to the pile of coins on the table. "Ah."
Warmth blooms in Nick's chest at the disappointed look on his face. "You can pay next time."
James looks a bit surprised at that. "Next time?"
Nick bursts out laughing so suddenly he embarrasses himself in front of the other diners. He gently ushers James out by his elbow. "You must be a rubbish detective."
They walk for a while after their meal, and after the first minute Nick starts to become overly aware of his hand pressed between James's side and his elbow. He isn’t entirely sure what keeps compelling him to do that. It’s…awkward.
He tries to focus on their conversation.
"…And then the old man tried to climb out the bedroom window."
"While you were in the front?"
"Mmhmm." James smirks and settles his coat closer around his shoulders. "My DI practically chased him right into my hands."
Nick shivers a little, and uses that as cover to pull his hand away from James's side and wrap his arms around himself. Best not to seem too eager.
James casts him a sidelong glance. "I'm sorry. You're cold—"
"No, I'm fine—"
"You probably didn't plan to walk tonight—"
"No, I don't mind." James sounds so unsure, so dear, that Nick regrets pulling his hand away.
"Would you like to go home?" James stops and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He turns toward Nick, but examines the pub sign opposite them.
Nick studies his face. "James." Finally, he manages to catch his eye. They stare at each other for a few moments, and Nick feels himself blushing. "Hi," he murmurs.
A smile plays around the corners of James's mouth. "Hello."
Nick doesn't want to go home. Yet. At all. In the slightest. He's mentally casting about for something to drag out the evening when there's a small noise from over the road. Nick hopes this is the blessing he's looking for. "Do you have to work tomorrow?"
Warily, James looks at him. "Not until the afternoon, unless there's another case."
"Do you…like live music?"
For some reason, that's funny. Nick watches James chuckle for a few seconds, grinning, then adds smoothly, "There's a session tonight. Have a drink with me."
James stops laughing just long enough to answer, looking more calm than Nick had yet seen him. "Irish?"
Nick points over his shoulder, "Over there?"
"I'd wondered if that's what I was hearing."
"I try to go in whenever Clive is playing."
"Who's Clive?"
Does he sound…jealous? Doubtful. "On fiddle. About eighty. A master." The delight that transforms James's face is beautiful. "Come." Nick threads his arm around James's and leads him in the direction of the pub. "Let's see if they'll play us The Butterfly.”
James laughs.
The sound of some cricket game follows them outside after the session ends. Nick is giggling and shoves his shoulder against James's as they stroll down the pavement. "I give you a month. You'll be back, toting your guitar and wanting to sit in."
"Maybe," James says with a reserved smile.
"Make sure you know what you're doing—they get a lot of rubbish guitarists wanting to be young guitar gods who don't have a clue."
"I'll be aware." James smiles.
"Better than being a bodhran player, I suppose."
"Mmm?"
"Anybody thinks they can bang a drum these days." A smile creeps over Nick's face. "I trust you. You seem like the sort of bloke who doesn't enter into things lightly."
James doesn't answer that, and they walk the rest of the way back the library without talking. The silence is oddly comfortable.
Then James stops. "My, er, my car is down here." He gestures to the alley.
It's cold out, this late at night, this early in the spring, and Nick shivers. "I'm parked at the library still." He steps up closer to James. Nick can feel the heat from his body, and it takes an unreasonable amount of self-control not to just close the distance right then and there. He tilts up his face. The clouds of their breath mingle in the cold night air as James leans in, and Nick feels his pulse pounding in his throat. He can feel James’s breath, and hear it, deep and rapid as running.
Their lips catch. James tastes plush, and a bit like ale, and the kiss is soft and near-chaste and lovely. Nick pulls back a few inches to look at James's face and is surprised to find the other man’s eyes still closed, eyelashes pale and translucent in the light of the streetlamp. His heart flips at the idea that James could be so affected by such a small thing as that kiss. Then James's eyes flicker open, and Nick watches them turn from misty to focussed, the emotion in them go from transported to sheer terror.
James steps back, blinking rapidly. "Erm." He swallows. "I need to, er, I should go."
The fear in James's eyes sits like lead shot in Nick's throat, heavy and hard. He has no idea what he's done wrong. "Sorry. I…won't keep you," he says quietly. His stomach is currently dwelling somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.
James is looking at the building next to them, and he swallows hard. He drags his eyes to Nick's. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He says roughly, “This was lovely. Thank you."
Nick attempts a smile. "You're welcome. Anytime you like."
"Maybe…" James bites his thumbnail and shoves the other hand deep in his pocket. "Maybe next weekend?"
Oh. "Yes. Sure. I'd love that. Yes." In his surprise, Nick tries not to look like an absolute twit.
James gives him a small, bashful smile. "You can pick next time. Just— I know how you chefs are. Can I request a place where the portions are suitable for grown humans? It takes a lot of dainty microgreens to fuel this machine."
Heart thudding, Nick chuckles weakly. "I'll take that into consideration, Sergeant Hathaway sir."
The corners of James's mouth quirk up. "Thank you, Chef."
"That's Mr. Driscoll to you," Nick says with mocking venom.
"Yes. Of course." James ventures a full-on smile as he turns to go, and Nick's stomach twists with the loveliness of it. "My mistake."
Nick smiles softly. "Goodnight, James."
"Goodnight."