Author: freakily obsessed Yassen fan PM
Late night thoughts from our favourite detective duo, one chapter each. The two of them reflect on their friendship and what it means. Implied slash and language...Rated: Fiction T - English - Friendship - A. Dalziel & P. Pascoe - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,712 - Published: 04-16-11 - id: 6909061
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Wow, it's been way too long since I last put anything up on here! I apologise in advance for this two-shot. This is the reason that you NEVER read slash and watch Dalziel and Pascoe in the same evening. Implied slash here, people. Don't like, don't read. Simples! :) Enjoy...
Dalziel hadn't liked him at first. Some smart-arse, off-comer lad, still wet behind the ears and buoyed up with the confidence that only a degree can give, moving in on his patch? He'd given Pascoe a few months, six at the outside.
He hadn't exactly been supportive, he had to admit, but Pascoe had surprised him time and again. Gradually, Dalziel realised that the lad had steel inside him. Maybe only semi hardened so far, still pliable, but there was a hard core to Pascoe's apparently soft character. Dalziel unwittingly made it his mission to shape that core, to mould it into something that he himself would be proud of. A proper copper.
Over the years that followed, he'd come to respect, appreciate, and eventually to like the boy. He was one of those few people who Dalziel could see was an instinctive copper. He'd just managed to hide it quite well at first, under the impenetrable shield of a sodding degree. Of all the things he'd managed to accomplish when it came to Peter, stripping away that innate snobbishness was the one that he was most proud of. Course, there were problems to that. By making Pete more human, he'd made him more approachable, more attractive to women. Once he'd divorced Ellie, Peter had started dating again. Dalziel hated it. It was a stupid distraction from work. Of course, a man had his needs, but there was no harm in finding some nice lass, getting your leg over, and then buggering off by the time she woke up from her aching, backbroken stupor. But no, of course, this being Pascoe, he had to go the whole hog. He involved - notice Dalziel's suppressed shudder - emotions. That was where it all got complicated.
Of course, what Dalziel didn't admit, even to himself, except at the end of a very long night when he found himself semi conscious on Pete's sofa, was that there was another reason. It wasn't a good reason, and God knows that it felt fucked up to even consider thinking like that about the lad who had come to feel like the son he'd never been lucky enough to have. Or maybe a brother. Either way, he shouldn't even be opening the door to these thoughts without the chain firmly on, let alone allowing them in, inviting them to take their shoes and offering them a cuppa. Hell, he'd even put sugar in the sodding tea.
And of course, it wasn't like he was... like... well, like Wieldy. Not that there was owt wrong with it, but it just wasn't him. He was straight as a ruler. But Peter...
God, this was fucked. Why was he even thinking it? Must have been one of them nights. He was going to regret this one in the morning.
Anyway, Pete was special. They were friends. As close as brothers, but without the complexities that blood brought with it. It was strange, but Dalziel had to admit occasionally that he actually trusted him.
Plus there was the matter of Peter's looks. To start with, he'd been scrawny and skinny, too damn perfect. There had been a distinct lack of anything... well, human, about him. But he'd filled out, muscled up, got a tan. His hair was close cropped now, which made one hell of a difference.
And that steel had hardened, finally. Now Peter's mouth could set into a thin line which made Dalziel flush with protective, possessive pride, and he could even stand up for himself against the juggernaut fury of the Fat Man.
In all, Pete was the exception to the "straight as a ruler" rule - apologies for the crap pun, but he wasn't feeling his best, or even his most sober. Hell, by now, he was probably approaching sober from the other direction.
Some sound penetrated the thick bubble of alcohol and Dalziel turned his head sluggishly, the view not quite lining up with the movements his head was making.
It was Pete, dressed only in a pair of tight fitting shorts - real shorts, not boxers. The muscles of his back were clearly defined and Dalziel felt a shiver of something snake down his spine and nudge certain parts of him that were certainly not accustomed to this sort of call to attention. He dragged his gaze away and closed his eyes again.
He was so going to regret this tomorrow.