TITLE: Days In Between

AUTHOR: Isabelle Kennedy

FEEDBACK: kennedyisabelle@hotmail.com

ARCHIVE: Anywhere, just drop me a line first.

CATEGORY: Jackie/Robbie

SPOILERS: General, including 'Death Trap'

RATING: R/NC-17

DISCLAIMER: All characters are the property of Glenn Chandler, ITV and SMG Productions. No copyright infringement intended. Summary is courtesy of Tori Amos.

SUMMARY: "The truth is in between the first and the fortieth drink"

*

[This is, quite possibly, the stupidest thing that she's ever done]

The summer is hot, stiflingly so and Glasgow wilts under its oppressive heat.

She can hear the noise of the traffic through the open window, as the air - unseasonably warm, even for July and especially for 6am - flows across her body. Yet the faint scent of sweat and sex still permeates the room, reminding her, taunting her even.

She had decided last time that this thing between them was simply an aberration, a temporary lapse of concentration; something that she could halt with an ounce of attention. Not that it even amounted to much: a succession of desperate, mostly alcohol fuelled, encounters - once in her car - an occasion that shattered the faith she'd had in her self-control. And yet she finds herself here again.

Sliding out of his bed, she realises that her thighs ache; not enough to be uncomfortable, more like the vestigial twinge of a missing limb, another reminder of her mistake. Her legs tremble ever so slightly, like a young animal, as she walks into his bathroom and looks into the mirror, her hands gripping the sides of the sink.

It hasn't been going on for as long as it could have been - only since Michael's death, which really isn't long at all. Her marriage had been falling apart and, if she's honest, so had she. And he'd been there to console her, to look after her; something that she never thought she'd want, or need, from any man. But the first time wasn't what she'd thought it would be. It was slightly clumsy, all teeth and fumbling hands. She knows that fantasies often conceal the less than perfect reality of sex, but it was none the worse for that - more about lust and desire than slick expertise.

Stepping back into the bedroom, she glances down at him: he looks younger in his sleep, but not vulnerable. Never that. Yet she feels a sudden surge of tenderness just the same and considers leaving a note.

But there is nothing, really, that she can say and so she just kisses him, leaving in silence.

*

Because despite herself, despite everything, it had happened again.

Yesterday morning had been warm, humid and she'd wondered why she had even brought her jacket. Folding it over her arms, she'd leant back against the railing, not caring about the dirt. The metal had been cold as it pressed into her back and she'd shivered, in the heat. The walkway had been crowded with police, press and bystanders, but she'd stood alone, watching them.

[The phone call was blunt: 'They've fished a body out of the river, by Glasgow bridge.'

She knew what they were all thinking. She knew because she was thinking the same]

Someone had called her name and, reluctantly, she'd ducked under the police tape, walking onto the bridge. The smell of the river in summer had been almost overpowering and she'd halted for a moment, trying to inhale clean air, feeling the sweat begin to prickle on her back.

"Morning, Jackie."

She had nodded at Burke, unsure whether edge in his voice was sarcasm or simply frustration.

"What do we know?"

"Not much," Stuart had answered. His face had been drawn, tired and she'd wondered how long they'd been there before they'd called her. "The pathologist reckons that he hadn't been in the water long - six hours at most."

"Drowned?" she had asked, looking out over the river, over the distorted reflections of concrete buildings in the dark water.

Burke had looked at her quickly. "No. Strangled, probably garrotted, judging from the bruising on his neck."

"Where's the body?"

She'd watched the three men shift uncomfortably and had wanted to shout: 'I'm not a fucking child. I can cope with this, I did before'. Instead, she had just repeated the question.

He had inclined his head toward the flat mud of the riverbank, next to the steel base of the bridge. The similarities had been striking and the force of the memories had threatened to overwhelm her. A black sheet had covered the corpse, but she'd been able to see enough, to see that the face of the corpse had been red and bloated almost beyond recognition.

Stumbling, she'd turned away, her stomach seizing, fighting to control the nausea. She'd felt Robbie's hand on her back, pressing into her spine, but had ignored him.

*

She'd sensed his presence throughout the day though, had known that he was watching her, waiting for her crack.

That evening, she'd sat at her desk. The sky had been dusk-dark and the streetlights a pale shade of amber, but she hadn't wanted to turn on the lights, to see the harsh glare of the fluorescent bulb. Stuart had sat opposite her, brown manila folders spread between them.

Sighing, she'd let her pen drop onto the table. He had looked up, studying her carefully for a moment, and then he'd returned to his file. She had felt like shouting, screaming, anything to break the desperate silence. Then Robbie had entered, a paper cup in his hand: he'd passed it to her and had then taken his familiar seat on the corner of her desk.

"Thought you could do with some coffee, you looked exhausted."

She had known that wasn't what he meant, had known that he was really asking if she was okay, and had smiled briefly.

"Aye, and what about me?" Stuart had asked, looking up. "I'm going to fall asleep over these files."

Robbie had grinned. "How would we tell?"

She'd listened to their exchange, relieved that they were both smiling, that they'd moved on. It had been too hot for coffee, but she'd sipped it anyway, both hands wrapped around the cup.

"Do you want to get a proper drink," he'd asked, startling her.

"I..."

"Come on, it's time we got out of her. Stuart," he'd said, turning to the younger man. "What about you?"

They'd both stood up and she hadn't been able to decide whether she was glad the invitation wasn't for her alone.

*

Yet she had still ended up in the back booth of a smoky pub, the wooden tables splintered and the vinyl seats cracked with the stuffing showing in places. But it had been nearby and she hadn't felt like the West End, not that night.

He had returned from the bar, placing the wine glass in front of her and sliding the pint across the table to Stuart. Then he'd sat next to her and she had been aware of his body warmth, leg pressed against hers.

"I think I've got a lead," Stuart had begun, after taking a mouthful of ale.

She'd put down her glass, hard enough so that the wine splashed against the side. "No shop talk. We've done enough of that today."

"Okay."

There had been silence then, so depressing that it'd made her want to laugh.

"It's been over six months now."

She had known immediately what he meant, even though it had become a taboo subject between them, and she'd felt her head start to ache. "Stuart..."

"You're not the only one who misses him, Jackie."

"I know."

"It isn't the same anymore."

"No," she'd agreed softly. "It isn't."

The tension had been almost tangible and she'd traced her finger around the edge of the glass, not meeting their eyes.

She'd felt Robbie rest his hand on her knee, a silent gesture of comfort that had quickly turned into something else, inhaling sharply as she'd felt the heat of his hand through the thin nylon.

"I'm sorry, Jackie, I didn't..." Stuart had said suddenly, perhaps mistaking the sound she’d made as one of distress.

"It's okay," she'd replied, meaning it

"Do you want another drink?"

She'd looked at her glass and, realising that it was nearly empty, nodded. Stuart had stood, the vinyl creaking beneath him and walked to the bar.

"You okay?" Robbie had asked.

"Yeah."

He had then trailed his hand higher and, apart from a brief flicker of panic, she'd made no move to stop him. Instead, she had shifted on her seat, leaning back and resting her head against the panelling of the booth.

She'd been aware that he was watching her, even without looking at him directly, and had wondered just how good her poker face was. And she had known that he'd been going considerably too far, that her response was only a product of her grief and, more importantly, that one of her colleagues, her friends was only a few yards away. It was a mistake.

Her breathing had been short as he'd stroked the inside of her thigh, as his hand had slipped further up and she'd imagined that everyone had known what was transpiring in their booth. But, despite this, she'd begun to relax into it - had laid a hand on his knee, her grip tensing and slackening with the movement of his fingers.

She'd been about to push his hand away and lead him outside when Stuart returned. He had stopped then, but hadn't placed his hand back on the table and she'd almost blushed as Stuart had regarded them thoughtfully.

*

Later, at the door, he had helped her on with her jacket, his hand lingering longer than necessary on her shoulders. It'd been still too warm to wear it, the air retaining some of the day's humidity, but she hadn't minded.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Stuart had said, when they'd been standing on the pavement too long, the sounds of the city muffled by the darkness.

"Okay."

When Stuart had left, he'd turned to face her. "What now?"

She had known that he'd been giving her the chance to walk away, but this was laughable because, really, the outcome was inevitable. It was comforting, in a way, that their friendship, her need for comfort, was so predictable.

Now they'd been so close that she'd felt his breath on her face. "Something we probably shouldn't."

She'd kissed him anyway.

Softly, but only for a moment, then she'd pulled him closer, tangling her fingers in his hair as he'd backed her into the wall, his hand sliding down over her hips.

And she'd hated herself for doing this again, letting him do this again.

*

His bedroom had been dark, darker than the street outside and she hadn't been able to remember ever seeing his face when she fucked him. Even with the windows open, it had been warm and the back of her neck had already felt damp as she'd straddled him, her knees pressing into his side. His hands had grazed her shoulders and then her hair, pressing down harder as he'd kissed her. And, soon, his fingers had trailed down her ribcage until they'd rested on her bare thighs; then, he'd drawn her over until she had been underneath him.

This was his assertion of power and it hadn't bothered her like she'd thought it should. Instead, she'd supposed that it was his rejoinder for allowing her to initiate the sex.

His fingers had been on her, inside her and before long, she'd come hard against his hand, arching her hips into his palm. Then he had slid inside her, whispering words which, at that moment, had meant everything. His hands had moved under her body, palms flat against her lower back and she'd folded her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as they'd moved together. Skimming over her stomach, his fingers had then dug into her hipbones and glided between their bodies, but he'd never broken eye contact. Then soon, too soon, she'd gripped his arms, murmuring his name over again as she had come. A minute later, it'd been her name on his lips. Afterwards, he'd dropped his head onto her chest and she'd wrapped her arms around him, absently stroking his back as their breathing had returned to normal.

And it hadn't been tender or romantic, but it had been enough. It'd been them.

*

[This is, she is now sure, the stupidest thing that she's ever done]

By the time she gets home, the sudden surge of tenderness that she felt has manifested itself into something altogether more painful. She feels ashamed of herself, ashamed that she can be so weak as to hurl herself at him again. And yet, it's not the weakness that really bothers her; it's the need.

She doesn't want to need him. Desiring him is fine, but need implies dependency and she doesn't think she has the strength to be dependent on anyone at the moment. She can't risk it, can't afford the fallout.

Especially with someone as dangerous as him. And he is dangerous, of this, she is certain. From the beginning, she'd known that he was difficult, often reckless and too proud to admit his feelings, but she hadn't realised how seductive and enticing it could become. Not just him - although this is a significant part of it - but the whole situation, how easy it would be to rely on him for more than comfort sex, for something more real than that.

And she doesn't think that she's quite ready to do that yet. She's been dependent on men before, some men more than others, and handing control to someone else in the name of love isn't something she particularly enjoys. Perhaps she's assuming too much in supposing that he wants some form of co-dependency; in the past, she's seen little evidence of that, but with her, for some reason, it's different.

And, right now, she isn't willing to explore why.

*

She wakes up alone the next morning. Not that this is unusual; she can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that he's been in her bed. But it feels different, she feels lonely as well as alone. Her curtains are open and she can't remember if she closed them the night before. She is glad, watching the pale dawn light slicing through the room, that she didn't. For a minute, she lies still as the light reflects off the windows, casting patterns onto the faded carpet. Then, with a side-glance at the clock, she climbs from her bed.

It is early, too early she thinks, for rational thought.

She stands under the shower for so long that the hot water runs out and, for several seconds, she doesn't notice. Then, in front of the mirror, she realises that it was only yesterday that she'd stood in his bathroom. Except now, it feels like a different life.

The city is barely awake when she arrives at work. The office is quiet and empty, apart from the hum of computers and the slow movements of the night shift officers who nod at her when they leave. She thinks that she ought to be doing something, but there is nothing to do.

An hour later, he walks in and, although she's aware how ridiculous it is, she picks up a sheet of paper, pretending to be busy. Anything so that she doesn't have to look at him, face him. Except that, of course, she can't keep it up, can't pretend that she's interested in - she reads the heading - police procedures for the 21st Century.

So, she raises her head and watches him watching her. But the half-smile on his face makes her blush slightly and she looks away. She doesn't know why because, really, nothing has changed since she got out of his bed yesterday morning. And yet, everything has changed because she's had this wonderful, awful revelation that she might actually need him and she isn't ready for that. So the best that she can think of is to avoid him, ignore him and pretend that she doesn't need him at all.

*

She spent her twenties fucking unsuitable men: men she didn't care about and, sometimes, men whose names she didn't know. And now she thinks that she should be old enough to know better, know that life's too short to waste on something without a future.

Except the future is the part that terrifies her.

So, of course, when she gets home, he is sitting on her doorstep, all shirtsleeves, stubble and cigarette smoke. She knows that he doesn't smoke that often now, only when he's frustrated or angry. Aware of the danger, she sits beside him on the cold stone and, in spite of the vow she made this morning, feels her resolve weaken.

The air, almost unbearably hot earlier in the day, is cooler now and the noise of the traffic is faint. She thinks that it is, perhaps, too quiet, too calm and that the night feels heavy with anticipation as they sit in contemplative silence.

"What's wrong?" he asks, without looking at her.

"What?"

"Well, either I'm being paranoid or you've been ignoring me."

She stumbles slightly. "I haven't... not really."

"What's wrong?" he repeats, like he already knows.

And she's angry with him that he can presume this, angry with herself because he knows her too well.

She takes a deep breath. "I can't do this anymore, Robbie. I can't keep going to bed with you and waking up and feeling like this."

She wants him to tell her that it's not just sex, if only so that she can disagree. But he doesn't.

"I didn't know you wanted something serious," and his voice is inscrutable.

"I don't. I just can't do this with you."

"You should have found someone else to fuck then."

The unsaid 'but you didn't' hangs in the air.

"I didn't think that it would be this complicated, this hard."

He is silent for so long that she thinks that maybe he didn't hear her.

"I didn't think that it would be anything but complicated," he replies. "I never thought it was hard."

Suddenly, although it seems like she's been half-expecting it, electricity sears across the horizon. She pauses for a moment to watch the sky, now inky black again, and imagines that she can see where the lightning has been.

He stands, grinding his cigarette into the ground, even though it's already out. "I'd better be going."

She nods and watches him walk away, thinking that she's lost someone more than a friend, less than a lover. Then the thunder explodes and she realises that she's been counting the seconds in her head, waiting for the storm.

Except, when it comes, she knows it isn't rain falling down her cheeks.

*

The weather changes, becomes cooler as summer fades into autumn.

Yet, with him, nothing changes; they remain caught in a form of checkmate with no foreseeable chance of resolution. She had supposed - on an erroneous assumption, she now realises - that things would return to normal, or as normal as they could, considering the circumstances under which she had first ended up in his bed.

She hadn't thought that it would hurt this much. She tells herself that it is only because she sees him everyday, isn't able to gain perspective on the situation. Then she has to remind herself that it was never meant to be about perspective, rational thinking. It was about casualness, carelessness and now she's acting as if he's the hinge on which her happiness might depend.

Yet, there's a barrier that they can't move past: a line that, once crossed, is impossible to recover. There is awkwardness and shame between them where once there was, even before they had acted upon their feelings, intimacy and passion. She knows that she is to blame for her inability to realise what she had, but it is no comfort that she can recognise her own foolishness.

And she thinks that people are starting to speculate about them; the degeneration of their friendship is obvious. Sometimes, she catches Stuart watching them and likes to imagine that he knew from the beginning, even before they did. Others, however, are not so intuitive and that's exactly what she didn't want. She didn't want her evolving sentiments to be observed, didn't want to have a relationship monitored, didn't want to be judged on her emotions. To be seen as weak - as female - for needing him.

*

[It is only now that she dares to examine the place he has in her life]

It is when, one day, she watches him flirt with another woman, someone he is meant to be interviewing. This is what she imagines his type to be, all neat dyed hair and long painted nails - impractical and feminine - and she thinks that, maybe, his passion for her was just an aberration.

She knows, she hopes that he's only doing it to provoke her; he must be aware that she is in the room. But when the woman looks up at him, coquettishly, through her eyelashes, she realises that it's working. The sudden surge of jealousy is uncomfortable, unpleasant, but not only does it strengthen the revelation she's already had - that she might actually need him - but, more importantly, that she only wants him to look at her that way.

Except it's terribly arrogant of her to believe that he might want her after all the shit she's put him through. It would be the ultimate irony for her to open herself up, to tell him the truth and then for him to inform her that he's moved on, that he doesn't need her. And it's no more than she deserves, but she has to try and now, really, she hasn't anything left to lose.

And she realises that loving him doesn't mean needing him, but wanting him.

Because, watching this woman, she finally admits that she's been half in love with him, more than half in love sometimes, for too long not to try.

Finis.