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Early on, it was usually still light out when Jimmy came home. This particular day had mostly been paperwork, folders and folders of it: redundant forms, columns of statistics, drafts of a few different reports, bullet points for an annual review. But even after a whole day of it, a big pile was still coming home with him.
He managed to sidle through the kitchen door without dropping the stack. But then something, some keystone, shifted in his arms; one thing started sliding, and another, until the whole great heap came scattering down.
"Well," said Duncan from the cooker. "Okay then."
Jimmy stood in the wreckage of his homework and looked at him. He had his sleeves rolled up, a wooden spoon in his hand, vigorously sautéeing something that smelled like ginger and onions.
"What're you doing?"
"What's it look like I'm doing?" Duncan kept hold of the spoon, but started leaning away from the cooker, elongating himself. His outstretched hand just barely reached the neck of a new bottle of whisky sitting by the kitchen window, and he lifted it between two of his fingers. "Pouring you a dram, boy. Looks like you need it."
Jimmy's sense of strangeness, the free-floating irritation, faded before Duncan's grin. "Oh, fine, yes, that's what I need, not someone to help me pick all this up."
But it was what he needed, Duncan's smile and his stir fry and his generous splashes of whisky. The paperwork didn't end up taking over the dining table, either. First time in a while for that.
The sun was setting earlier and earlier, and now Jimmy was getting home at first dark. The house was still warm and alight most times—usually with Duncan in the kitchen, or at the table looking at blueprints and spreadsheets while something finished cooking in the oven.
Once Jimmy came in to find him grating parmesan over a mysterious pan of some lumpy white mixture. "What're you doing," he said, as was his habit by now, but without the irritated edge.
"Smoked haddock," said Duncan.
Jimmy peered into the pan uncertainly. "Oh, aye?"
"With tatties," Duncan said, shouldering him out of the way. "And I got the low-fat crème fraîche, so don't give me a whinge about your arteries, will you."
Jimmy rolled his eyes, then set the table and poured some beer. It turned out that the haddock and tatties also had peas and broad beans in it, and the parmesan had crisped on top. They talked about football and the local efforts at high-speed internet—not coincidentally, as Sandy had been trying to stream one of the matches on a computer at the station until it choked and froze.
Duncan had a football pool going, of course, and Jimmy got a bit lost in his enthusiastic explanation of the odds offered in his homes-and-aways.
"S'why you went into the police," Duncan said at last. "The last refuge of those without maths."
Jimmy couldn't argue. But he argued for a while anyway.
Well dark now, whenever he came home, and usually with the rain blowing in off the sea. He'd had a good long stretch of shockingly ordinary workdays, community policing, with the occasional public-intoxication visiting the cells for a quiet night and a chat about harm reduction and substance counselling. Some property crime, but little violence. For a while it felt the way people thought life in a small police station really was all the time.
But then Jimmy's luck ran out. Two suspicious persons last seen offshore, no reliable identification, a trail of mysterious circumstances. The weather was too bad for aircraft, but Jimmy spent some of his time clinging to the gunwale of a patrol boat as it ducked round the smaller islands, following a futile lead.
When they'd come back into cell range, he called Duncan, hunching over to keep rain and spray from his phone.
"Won't be back tonight," he shouted over the sound of the engine and the sea.
Duncan's voice skipped in and out.
"What?" Jimmy shouted, listening hard. He wasn't entirely sure why he had called.
"I said, anything I can do!"
"No, I—" Jimmy began reflexively, but then he paused. Duncan knew everyone, everyone knew Duncan, especially those making up the infrastructure of the tourist trade. "Any of your mates handled a let to a couple of boaters? Young men, white, sounded American, said they were here on holiday."
"Bit late for boating."
"Aye," said Jimmy, meaningfully.
"Oka—" but his voice cut off; the signal was lost again, and the skipper gave an apologetic shrug. Jimmy gestured to the next little cove, and the boat bumped through the waves toward it.
He got home in the very wee hours, the rain going sideways like needles. He kicked off his boots in the hall and hung up his damp peacoat; the house was dark and quiet, but smelled good. No sign of Duncan. A pot of what turned out to be thick vegetable soup was on the hob, and on the table was a bakery box of fresh oatcakes from town.
Jimmy ate his way through two bowls of hot soup and half of the oatcakes, and by the time he'd finished, he'd stopped shivering. Only then did he notice the notepad at Duncan's usual place, with a pencil pointing at it like an arrow.
He read through it over the crumbs of his last oatcake. Duncan had talked to what looked like every landlord or manager of rental properties Jimmy could think of, and many he couldn't. It was organised, detailed, outlined with bullet points, the sort of thing someone did when he was used to handling contractor bids and inventory audits.
Jimmy took the pad with him to his bedroom and made some calls, then left for the station before his coat was dry. By the time Aberdeen was able to send an inspector over the next day, the young men and their smuggled contraband from Norway had already been located, and Jimmy came out of it looking like a savant.
"Hey," he said that night, as soon as he stepped in the door.
Duncan looked up from where he sat on the couch surrounded by fabric swatches and paint chip cards. He seemed a bit dazed, his hair disordered as if he'd been raking his hand through it. "Hey yourself. Jesus, did I lose track of the time."
"Get your coat," Jimmy said. "I'm taking you out."
They'd been to every restaurant in Lerwick over the years, of course, so it wasn't like he could surprise him with something new. But they neither of them cooked proper Chinese at home, and they ended up with half a dozen little plates of dumplings and rice dishes and tall glasses of beer, so it was the next best thing.
Jimmy raised his glass. "Here's to you."
"Can't drink to myself, it's unlucky," Duncan said, thumping him on the arm. "So toast to something else quick, I'm dead parched."
"How about you don't be daft," offered Jimmy, "and drink your beer."
"Then I'll toast," Duncan said grandly. He raised his glass. "To dafties. Present company very much not excepted."
They drank, and started making inroads into the dumplings.
"Seriously," Jimmy said after a while. "Here's to you. You did me a big favour with all that information. It helped a lot."
"Aye? Well, I'm glad about it." He sounded a little distracted, scanning the table. Then he plucked the last soup dumpling from the plate by Jimmy's elbow and carefully slurped it down.
"I mean it, Duncan."
Duncan finished chewing. "Okay?" he said mildly, brows up.
Jimmy pushed some rice round his plate, and finally said, "You know... you don't have to."
"Don't what," said Duncan, his sights obviously set on another of Jimmy's dumplings. Jimmy pushed the plate toward him before he could steal it; he looked disappointed, but took it anyway.
"All this..." Jimmy gestured circles in the air. "The dinners, the drink. And now the legwork of a police force with twice our budget! We wouldn't have got all that done in an evening, and then when the mainland force arrived they'd get to treat us like we're some sort of joskins, plowing the peat."
Duncan was eyeing him now, looking wary. The dumpling lay forgotten in a dab of sauce. "It's okay, Jimmy."
"I'm just saying, you know, you don't have to do all this. It isn't like— There's no need to overcompensate."
"Overcompensate," said Duncan. He leaned back in his chair.
"Yeah, you know. I just mean that there's no need to think you owe me anything, that's all."
Duncan smiled, but it didn't light his eyes. "You're a paragon of diplomacy."
This wasn't coming out right at all. "Just so you're aware," Jimmy insisted. "So you don't feel you need to— to pay it like rent."
"Oh, aye," said Duncan. He sipped his beer. "Of course. I know."
"I just meant—" Jimmy stopped, wondering just what the hell he did mean. Finally, carefully, he said, "I suppose I'm trying to thank you."
"You're welcome," said Duncan. But the rest of dinner was subdued, and back at the house it was quiet. Duncan finished his work, packed up his fabric and paint samples, and went to Cassie's room—his room—with a pleasant and formal goodnight. Jimmy sat up awhile and tried to read a book. Cold rain tapped on the windows, spattering and crackling, like the sound of an approaching fire.
The next day at work, they were still basking in the quick success of the contraband case, and Jimmy felt able to leave most of the mopping-up in Tosh's hands. She in fact insisted—nearly chased him from the station at the end—and it was even still light out when he left.
He got home to an empty house, which was a rarity these days. But though empty, it was still lived-in, with Duncan's coffee mug on the drainboard by Jimmy's, his extra jackets and scarves hung up by Jimmy's with their faint scents of peat smoke and cologne. His toothbrush stood in the bathroom glass, and mounted on the wall was his complicated little beard trimmer charging in its holder.
Jimmy washed his hands, unpacked his groceries, and started chopping an onion. No news radio on, not even any music, just the familiar sounds of the sea and the gulls, Shetland's own white noise machine. The background of his youth, and Duncan's too.
Onion, olive oil, celery and carrot, garlic, beef mince, red wine. A dash of Worcester sauce from the bottle he'd forgotten was in the cupboard. Tomatoes, maybe too many different herbs, bits of stems and leaves everywhere from his method of cutting them up. By the time the bolognese was simmering away, the kitchen looked like a disaster area.
He got it tidied up, worktop clean, knife and board drying. Put a pot of salted water on to heat. And when he finally heard Duncan's voice outside, he was stretched out on the couch, marveling at how pleasantly long an evening could feel when you weren't at work half the night.
Duncan didn't come in for a while; from the rhythms of his voice, he was talking to someone, and from the gaps and silences, it was on the phone. Cassie said that only people his and Duncan's age actually talked on the phone anymore. Jimmy half-drowsed to the sound as it harmonised comfortably with the gulls and the ocean.
At last, the door opened, and Duncan entered on a gust of cold air. Jimmy sat up and stretched. Duncan was standing just inside the kitchen, tucking his cell into his jeans, face chilly and flushed above his scarf. It was the new one Cassie'd sent him from Glasgow, and the blue picked up the colour of his eyes.
"Spag bol's on." Jimmy went to the cooker, turned up the heat under the water. "Ten minutes."
And then, maybe because Duncan was still standing there in his jacket, Jimmy said, "Uh— if you're staying in. It makes for good leftovers too, so...if you have plans...." He dug for the packet of spaghetti noodles. Very casual.
Duncan slowly unwound his scarf. "No. Thanks. This is grand." His smile was a little tentative, but real.
Jimmy boiled the spaghetti, saw to the straining, tossed it in the sauce. When he finally carried the pan to the table, he saw that Duncan had set out the dishes and a bottle of wine. His jacket and scarf were hanging up in their places, and he was leaning against the wall, sending a text. Cassie would be proud of him.
They settled in, touched glasses—without a toast this time—and set to.
"Haven't had this in a while," Duncan said. "Not from you, anyway."
"You know," said Jimmy, "Cassie always says I don't understand al dente."
Duncan took a drink of wine, and said reasonably, "Well, if you did then it might not taste like yours."
"Of course you'd be on her side. Traitor."
"We have a very smart child." Duncan forked in another bite.
"Smart-arse child," Jimmy muttered. "Like her father."
Afterward, Duncan washed up while Jimmy sat at the worktop and supervised, the last of his glass of wine warming in his palm.
"Okay," said Duncan, drying his hands. "That's me off, then."
Jimmy blinked. He finished his wine. "Yeah, okay."
"Here, I'll do that one too." Duncan reached for the empty glass.
"It's fine. You'd best get goin'."
Duncan hesitated, then went to the hall. After a moment he stepped back into the kitchen doorway, holding his jacket. "It's a poker game with that pal of mine works the claw at Gremista, some of his mates," he said. "Why not come along?"
"To a poker game," said Jimmy.
"Aye." Duncan put his jacket on. "Oh, come on, Jimmy, they'd make you welcome."
Jimmy smiled ruefully. "I don't know about that."
"They would, I promise you." He grinned, clenched a fist. "Or else."
Jimmy let himself imagine it for a moment, sitting round a smoky table, playing cards and haivering. He wouldn't be able to stay all night, as Duncan surely would, but he could be out late, come to the station a bit fuzzy-headed in the morning, his jacket smelling like cigars.
Duncan went and fetched Jimmy's peacoat, shook it sternly. "James."
"Ah. No." Jimmy went to the sink, ran water in the wine glass. He could feel Duncan watching him.
"Conflict of interest, is it," said Duncan at last.
Jimmy could so easily see everyone's eyes on him, startled, the conversation drying up when he sat down. He didn't think even Duncan could glad-hand his way out of that little scene. "No, I just— You know. There's work."
"Jimmy..."
"Aye, away you go." Jimmy wiped the glass clean, set it by the sink. "Get on."
He unpacked his laptop and settled in with some old evidence files that needed organizing. Somewhere in there, Duncan left.
The next night, Jimmy came home to find Duncan had brought in takeaway, a few curries to mix and match—some even vegetarian, so Cassie wouldn't find them perished of scurvy when she called. She Skyped them that night, and they sat close together on the couch to fit both their heads in the frame. Duncan said that Jimmy's head just naturally took up two-thirds of the camera, he couldn't help his genetics, and Jimmy subtly elbowed him in a spot that had him calling for a yellow card. Cassie laughed at them in a way that made Jimmy's heart glow. She was so busy, so high-spirited and outgoing, so fearless, their girl.
When she'd hung up to go out on something she insisted was most definitely not a date, thank you very much, Jimmy wiped his eyes.
"Oh, you held on till the end there, did you," said Duncan. He pressed something into Jimmy's hand, and it was a tissue.
"Shut up," said Jimmy. "You looked a wee bit misty yourself."
"Webcams give me eyestrain." He leaned his shoulder against Jimmy's, and they sat for awhile.
"She's okay, isn't she," Jimmy said into the quiet. "I mean...she really is."
Duncan shifted, slung an arm round his back, patted him. "Aye. More than okay. And thanks to you."
Jimmy turned his head. Duncan was studying him closely, his eyes shining and solemn in the light from the kitchen.
"What," Jimmy said.
"Nothing. Just..." His hand, warm and strong, slipped up to the nape of Jimmy's neck. And before Jimmy could think about where he was going, Duncan had pulled his head down to lay a smacking kiss right on the top. Then he roughly tousled Jimmy's hair, got up from the couch, and wandered away into the kitchen.
Jimmy took himself off to bed.
They alternated for a time—pizza, kebabs, fish and chips—until they were fair well sick of it. It was colder now, and even the best takeaway didn't quite suit as the days plunged more and more swiftly into dark.
Finally Jimmy came in late and exhausted to a house warm with steam, and a big dish of kailkenny in the oven. His stomach growled, as if suddenly resenting his day's intake of little but station coffee and cheese-and-pickle from the shop.
He'd already served himself a full bowl of the stuff, a glorious mash of potato and cabbage and black pepper and cream, when Duncan opened the door to his room. He was sleepy and mussed and warm, tugging on an old wool pullover. "I put a couple of neeps in. Thought you wouldn't hate it."
Jimmy looked at him from his seat at the worktop, his mouth overfull.
"Oh aye," Duncan said. His eyes creased at the corners when he smiled. He shuffled to the kettle, made himself a hot whisky with boiling water and a little sugar, while Jimmy shoveled his supper in like he'd never stop.
He did slow down eventually, and the last few spoonfuls scraped from the sides of the bowl were just, as his mam used to put it, to keep his mouth company. He licked the spoon clean, and as he was putting his dishes in the sink, he gave an enormous long yawn. His eyes had got heavy while he wasn't paying attention.
Duncan had finished his toddy and was putting the last of the kailkenny in the fridge. And there was a part of Jimmy—still too strong a part, the one who lived alone, stood alone, drew the firm line round himself—that kept wanting to say, Thanks but you didn't have to do that. Thanks but you're already welcome to stay. Thanks but I'm used to shifting for myself.
Thanks, but.
He shook it off as best he could. And instead, he walked behind Duncan as they both left the kitchen, and put his hands on Duncan's shoulders.
"Hm?" said Duncan, stopping obediently.
"Nothin'," said Jimmy. He squeezed Duncan's shoulders, rubbed them through the wool. Duncan let his head drop forward, warm and relaxed, giving Jimmy access to the rising muscle of his neck. So Jimmy ran a hand up his nape as well, into his fine hair, pressing with his fingertips.
Duncan flinched, like a hard, fast shiver.
"Hurt?" said Jimmy, gentling the touch.
"Nah," said Duncan. He stood quietly under a few slow rubs of his neck and the base of his skull.
Then Jimmy let go, patted his back. "Night."
Duncan rolled his head from side to side and gave a long sigh. Lifting a hand, he disappeared into his room.
"You comin' tonight, then?" Duncan asked him the next week.
"Poker again?" Jimmy stuck his head in the fridge.
"You know, that's what I love about a rural policeman, he always has his fingers on the pulse of the community."
Jimmy considered, staring idly at a jar of chutney shoved way to the back. "...the benefit."
"The benefit," Duncan echoed. "Put a nice jumper on, there'll be ladies present."
"I don't know."
Duncan leaned on the worktop, hands spread. "You don't know. What is there not to know? It's a benefit, for God's sake. It's for charity. Pretend you're working!"
Jimmy combed his hair, but left his jumper alone. He wore his black leather jacket. Turned out the biting wind went right down its collar, though, and halfway through the walk there he borrowed Duncan's scarf.
The youth center was bustling when they arrived, already a few people in a corner playing something lively on fiddles and smallpipes. Jimmy saw Drew working behind the makeshift bar, setting out plastic cups of wine and beer, and he rolled his eyes.
Tosh was there, too, but not at all in Drew's orbit. She had her new man on her arm, and a lot of her friends, all bright and laughing and smart. She mingled comfortably, she nodded her head for a while when the current Guizer Jarl bent her ear with some rambling joke or other. She took a few dance steps with one of her pals whose name Jimmy didn't remember, a lively blonde. She didn't seem to need to pretend she was working.
"Sir!" she said, catching sight of him at last. She sounded surprised.
They stood together, drinking a beer and a wine, and couldn't help but fall into some shop talk. Tosh was taking local point on an embezzling case triangulated between Glasgow, London, and the oil rigs, and Jimmy enjoyed watching her put the mainland staff through their paces. He also thought about Duncan and his maths.
"How's Duncan?" Tosh asked, startling him.
"Fine—why, you need him for the case?"
She raised her eyebrows at him, shook her head. And she was just finishing her wine when Duncan himself fetched up at Jimmy's shoulder.
"Better stuff than usual for one of these dos," he said contentedly, and handed Jimmy a fresh cup of beer. Jimmy gulped the last of his old one and slid the new cup inside it. Duncan lifted his own drink to Tosh in an amiable gesture and headed off again, threading among the crowds as if born to it.
Jimmy made an effort then—at last—and stepped away from his cozy corner, shooing Tosh back to her friends. He himself eventually ended up in a small group of docents and curators from the various ancient sites round the islands, and actually enjoyed himself talking a bit of their shop for a change. It was nice to hear some educated discussion about peat that didn't involve a corpse being pulled out of it—or at least, the corpses they did discuss were safely from the Iron Age.
Duncan stopped by now and then, either to bring him another little cup of something, or just to lean on Jimmy's shoulder as if taking a break from a long swim. Jimmy'd had him in the corner of his eye, and it did seem like the social-butterfly routine was a job of work...he'd never really thought about that before, the efforts Duncan put in to his small talk and light, roving cheer. He was a people person, well- and widely-known, but the reputation and the web of connections took a lot of gardening to stay in flower.
They left later than Jimmy would have stayed on his own, but earlier than Duncan would have stuck around on his. Jimmy's ears rang a little from the music and the crowd; the dim, quiet house was a comfort.
"Nightcap?" Duncan suggested, taking off his shoes.
"What do you think my head's made of? All those wee beers you brought me, you know, they do add up."
Duncan leaned against the doorjamb. "You had a good time, didn't you."
"Were you trying to get me drunk?" Jimmy asked, half-affronted and half-curious.
"Nah, nah." He eyed Jimmy. "Did it work?"
"Och, away with you." Jimmy reached out to thump Duncan on the arm or the shoulder or something, but he ended up patting the side of his neck, still chilly from the outdoors. Made sense, since Jimmy had worn his scarf. Duncan smiled.
"You know," Jimmy said after a moment, "I think I did have a good time." He considered. "I didn't have a bad time."
"There's my detective," said Duncan. "Cautious as ever."
Jimmy peeled out of his jumper, tugged his T-shirt back down. Cooler air prickled along his arms. "I do have to confess, though...I did get a little work done."
"Course you did." Duncan sounded reassuring, not like he was taking the piss. "Look, I'm having a nightcap, anyway—I talked too much to get enough drink down me."
"Slacker," Jimmy said. "Maybe I'll just keep you company."
He sat on the couch, draped his jumper on his lap, ran his fingers back and forth over the soft weave of it. Duncan arrived with glasses of whisky; Jimmy took his and inhaled the vapours. It smelled tangy and refreshing.
Duncan sipped, and sighed. He was sitting in the armchair, slouched back in his typical fashion, his legs stretched out long and crossed at the ankle. His torso was compact and slim, his jeans low and snug on his hips. Now that Jimmy thought about it, he was surprised Duncan hadn't come away from the benefit with five new numbers in his phone. Course maybe he had, and just didn't tell Jimmy.
He took a sip, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed. He watched Duncan do the same, saw the sinuous movement of his throat. Then he rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes.
"Jimmy," Duncan said softly, close to his ear.
Jimmy groped muzzily at his pocket for his phone.
"It's not work. It's just me."
Jimmy opened his eyes, squinted and blinked. Duncan was perched by him on the couch. The glasses were set neatly on the floor by the armchair, one empty, one not.
"Don't you worry," said Duncan. "I won't let yours go to waste."
Jimmy yawned. He'd been in the kind of deep sleep that's hard to break free of, and he only sat and blinked some more at Duncan. He meant to say something—had he been dreaming, Duncan and his jeans, his eyes on Jimmy so soft and almost sad, the one-sided curl of his mouth?
Duncan patted his leg. "Up you go."
Jimmy climbed to his feet, feeling stiff and chilly. The jumper on his lap slipped to the floor. Duncan picked it up, pushed it into his hands in a bundle. And as Jimmy made his way to the stairs, Duncan guided him along for a few moments, one arm round his waist. Jimmy's T-shirt had ridden up, and Duncan's hand there felt so warm against his bare skin that he wanted to lean into it, soak it in. He felt the ghost of it all the way up to his room.
That week, there was a sizeable off-season conference of linguists meeting in Lerwick, to discuss what they called "Shetlandic" and the back-country folk called braid Shetland. And while they were peaceable, the station was involved in some of the logistics, as they would be with any big organised event. Everything went so smoothly that Jimmy frankly forgot about them.
Until, at the end of the week, he heard Sandy in the next room chatting with a London woman from the conference committee. She didn't seem to have any complaints, so Jimmy left them to it, but he idly listened. He himself was finishing the report on a death that he and Tosh had been called to in the early morning, and it was slow going, so he could use the distraction.
"The closing night ceremonies are tomorrow at seven," the woman said. "And I wanted to extend an invitation to you and your colleagues. Dinner, a brief lecture—nothing too boring, I promise."
They laughed.
"That's kind of you," said Sandy, though Jimmy knew he'd sooner jump into the winter sea. "I can pass it along to the others."
"Please do. Especially Detective-Inspector Perez...and will you please tell him his partner is more than welcome as well."
"We're a wee small force here," Sandy explained patiently. "We don't get partners like the mainland police do."
"No no," said the woman, "I mean his partner. I can't remember his name, but we met at the conference keynote, he arranged the lodging?"
Jimmy had one second to stare at his own hand gripping the pen, ballpoint frozen on the paper, before Sandy answered.
"Oh, aye," he said, untroubled. "That'd be Duncan."
Now would be when he followed up with an oh but they're not—still polite, but careful to be accurate, with the attention to detail important to a police officer.
Now would be that time.
Now would—
"Duncan, that was the name," said the woman. "I'm sure they'd enjoy it—he said their daughter is in a linguistics class at University?"
Sandy murmured on, casual and unhurried, a good representative of the force as well as the local community.
Sandy, Shetland born and bred, his extended family spread throughout the islands since time immemorial.
If it was what Sandy thought...then it was what Shetland thought.
He stopped for a bottle on the way home. Nothing in particular, just whatever came to hand. But when he'd paid and Shauna was putting it in a carrier bag, he realised it was a nice Glenfiddich. Not a special edition, but still toward the aged end, the sort of thing he usually got Duncan for Christmas.
Just Jimmy Perez buying a nice bottle for the partner.
He took the bag out into the wind and the dark. But not straight home—he wandered along the sea with his scarf pulled up.
Duncan's scarf, wasn't it.
There were clouds billowing up over the water. Soon it would storm. But for now Jimmy just leaned on the wind in the way that any Shetlander knew. It was second nature.
He imagined what would happen at home. Light and warmth, Duncan's smiling surprise at the early gift, maybe dinner waiting or maybe not. Maybe they'd roll up their sleeves and make something side-by-side, talking about Cassie's plans for the holiday. They'd sit quietly over a drink as they always had. Duncan would take a call from some contractor or other, and Jimmy would privately enjoy hearing him negotiate and argue, the sort of quicksilver risk-taker bullshitting back-and-forth that Jimmy could never in a million years manage himself.
But it would get late. Duncan would nudge him amiably in passing with a shoulder or hip, he'd smile through a yawn or a remark, he'd disappear into his room. Jimmy would go up to his own, with that painful shock of cold that met him under the duvet. And now, he'd know too well just what he missed.
The rain swept in on the front edge of the clouds, first a misty drizzle and then cold little pellets. It would be a hard night.
When the body of the gale finally struck, Jimmy hurried for home. The sleet was fast and icy now, blowing into his face with the wind, catching in his eyelashes. He paused in the hall to brush ice crystals off his hair and shake them off his coat, stomp his boots on the step before lining them up against the wall.
The house was dark, chilly, uninhabited...but the ghosts and shadows of his earlier thoughts were there still, playing out their pantomime. He lay on the couch in his sock feet with the blanket over his legs, listening to the wind blow freezing slush against the windows like swirling grit on a gravel road. He wanted Duncan to come home; he dreaded Duncan coming home.
Then the ordinary, comfortable rattle of the key in the lock—others in Lerwick might never lock their doors, but Jimmy was no longer one of them—and Duncan’s step in the hall. His boots thumped down onto the floor, his coat rustled. When he came in, Jimmy could tell from the hesitation the moment he noticed Jimmy was there.
"You’re quiet," Duncan said. "Why’re you lying here in the dark?"
He leaned on the back of the couch and peered down, the hall light shining faintly across him. His hair had flecks of wet ice in it, along with some actual snowflakes like delicate spangles. His cheeks were flushed with wind and cold, his grin was warm and crooked.
"Hey," Jimmy said. He reached up to touch the largest snowflake, above Duncan's ear. It melted at once over his fingers. "Come into the warm."
"Don't have to tell me twice," said Duncan, and retreated into the kitchen. "D'you fancy a— What's this?"
Jimmy smiled to himself. "Go on, then." He listened to the happy sounds of Duncan pouring out a couple of drams. And when Duncan arrived at the couch with the glasses cradled against his chest like kittens, Jimmy didn't sit up; he bent his knees and drew up his feet, making room.
Duncan handed Jimmy his, settled himself, pulled some of the blanket over his lap. Jimmy let his feet stay where they were, toes against Duncan's thigh.
"Bit of a mess to go out in," Duncan said.
"Poker?" Jimmy asked. The Glenfiddich was sweeter and spicier than Jimmy's favourite whiskies—he preferred smoke and peat—but it said Duncan to him, and he savoured it.
"Not tonight. And even if there were, I'm well set where I am." He drank and slouched comfortably down.
They lazily discussed the merits of pasta versus hake fillets, considered trying to combine them somehow, decided against it. Then Duncan got a series of texts from a supplier, about shipping and weather and substitutions, and he muttered over his phone for a while with his thumbs hunting and pecking.
Jimmy finished his drink and set the glass on the floor. Gradually, easing stiff muscles, he straightened his legs a bit and slid them over Duncan's lap. Duncan rested his elbows on Jimmy's shins and kept texting away. To the sounds of the wind and the sleet, and the little ticky-taps of Duncan's texting (Cassie had told him how to turn those off, but he never seemed to get round to it), with the spicy-sweet taste in his mouth, Jimmy let himself half-doze. It was perfect.
He never did quite fall asleep, but it took some time for him to become aware that Duncan's text conversation had stopped. Now he could feel Duncan's arms and hands resting on him. And eventually, one of Duncan's thumbs began to pass back and forth along Jimmy's calf, idly and lightly.
It wasn't clear that Duncan even knew he was doing it. But it lit up all the nerves in Jimmy's legs and northward, and after a few guilty moments of savouring the closeness, Jimmy knew he'd have to put a stop to it. Or if not that—
He stirred, slid his legs to the floor, and sat up. Duncan might have looked startled, but if so, it was gone.
Jimmy knew they should have one of those difficult mature conversations, the kind they'd wrestled with for years as Cassie grew up. The kind that had forged the ties they had today. But instead, he said abruptly, "Did you know the whole of the islands think we're coupled up?"
Duncan looked at him for a long moment. He drew a cautious breath. "They used to just say we were shagging."
Of course, Jimmy should have known—Duncan, the people person, connected across the islands to a web of colleagues and pals and chatty acquaintance, he'd hear about it long before Jimmy would, off in his self-imposed isolation.
Were you planning to tell me?, he wanted to ask. But he saw the answer already in Duncan's wary face.
"I'm sorry," he said instead.
Duncan swallowed as if his throat hurt.
"You shouldn’t feel—" Jimmy continued, groping his way along. "I mean— I don’t want you to be uncomfortable in your own home."
Whatever Duncan had been going to say, he stopped flat. Then he slowly smiled and waved a hand. "No need to worry about me."
Jimmy said, "I might've got used to worrying about you."
"No, seriously, you're the one to worry about here. You're the one with the good reputation." Something about his smile was brittle, being held up with conscious effort. "Try not to take it personally, eh? Anyone who really knows you knows you have much better taste."
Jimmy looked at that smile and the hollow shine of Duncan’s eyes. He remembered the softening, trustful muscles in his shoulders, the heat of his hand on Jimmy’s skin. But more, he remembered how coming home these days wasn't really about coming into the house.
"You know," Jimmy said, his mouth dry. "The thing is, I’m not sure that I do."
They stared at each other to the sound of the rising wind and the clattering sleet. All Jimmy could think was that this was what it came to: when he couldn't get relationship advice from Duncan, he was left to his own devices. And no one should be left to these devices.
But before he could regroup to apologise, or throw himself into the sea, or something else appropriate, Duncan grinned more naturally and said, "Ah, God, you don't know how you sound, do you. You could keep the rumor mill churning all on your own."
Take the out, or do the hard work of explaining? Jimmy was frozen for a moment at the temptation. But only for a moment. He always paid what he owed.
And so he shook his head, set his mouth. He was still doggedly groping for the right words when he saw the truth register on Duncan's face. But it was strange: not awkward, not surprised, not even sympathetic. Instead Duncan's face looked pale, his expression soft and even scared.
"Oh," he said on a long breath out. "Jimmy."
Jimmy gave a helpless shrug, his eyes prickling.
Duncan started to speak and then stopped. He reached out and touched Jimmy's arm, gripping in their familiar old way. And when he pulled him closer, Jimmy followed.
His body was familiar in Jimmy’s arms. He’d never held back from a hug, giving or getting comfort, Jimmy ducking down into the curve of his shoulder. The scent of him, the shape of him, welcome and known. Duncan rubbed his back, patted him, just as he might have on any other day.
But it went on longer than it would have on any other day, while Jimmy's mind came round slowly to the undeniable fact of what Duncan was telling him. And eventually Duncan pulled away, but only partly, one hand cool on the back of Jimmy's neck. His eyes were wide and anxious. A breath mingled between them, and then Duncan leaned slowly close, kissed him with great care.
His mouth was warm and gentle. His beard was softer than Jimmy had thought it would be, and only then did Jimmy realise how much he had in fact thought about it. When Jimmy kissed back, opening to him, Duncan made a small, needy sound.
Duncan—the gambler, the chancer, with his cell perennially on three percent charge and his bank accounts fizzing up and down like fireworks. Jimmy gave thanks for his mad courage, which he admired when it wasn't driving him insane.
"What're you smiling at," said Duncan tightly against his cheek.
"Beard burn," said Jimmy, and kissed him again.
He had never just sat and snogged on this couch, and for a minute it almost made him feel like a boy, the unpractised eagerness of it all. But the very familiarity of the man with him, so frustratingly dear, kept him grounded in their long history, and there was something in the desperation of Duncan's touch, his hands still so cold, that wrung Jimmy's heart.
"All right?" he asked after a while, lips against Duncan's ear. Duncan shivered.
"Christ," Duncan said. "No."
He delved under Jimmy's sweater, tugging at the undershirt. They yanked and scrabbled at it, getting in each other's way, clawing it up to let the cold air rush in. Finally Duncan basically peeled the whole tangle up inside-out over Jimmy's head and threw it aside. Then he held Jimmy to him like a hot water bottle. Duncan's mouth on his neck sent a lightning bolt straight to Jimmy's groin, and when he swore, Duncan did it again.
With Duncan still at his throat, he started in on the buttons of Duncan's shirt, soft slim-cut flannel. His exploring fingers found an unusual smoothness underneath, and he pulled back enough to take a proper look, leaving Duncan blinking and dazed.
Beneath the flannel was a thin silk thermal shirt. And not the ordinary kind from the island shops, but fine and sleek and almost no weight at all.
"Is that why you don't get cold," he said admiringly. Duncan started to say something, but when Jimmy dragged his winter-rough hands hard over the warm silk, he choked it off.
Jimmy looked up at him, giving a wild grin. "These aren't the long john kind, are they?"
A moment while Duncan breathed hard. And then, his eyes sparking alight, he said, "Well...you're the detective."
Jimmy shoved him back against the cushions and investigated. It turned out that Duncan favoured separates; soon enough the fine things were heaped somewhere in the dark with Jimmy's clothes. Both of them were shivering now, and not only with the cold.
Then Duncan lay down on the couch, pulling Jimmy up over him, onto him, wrapping his arms tightly round Jimmy's ribs. He was slender but strong. Jimmy remembered Asha taking the lead with him, pushing him down onto the bed, and how grateful he'd been—no more indecisive fear, someone there to meet him in the dark.
And so he gladly met Duncan there. He let himself lay on him, with him, both of them straining to touch each other, to reach each other, with the haste and care and awkward, stubborn love they had always had, despite everything.
They lay breathing heavily for a while, the sweat cold on Jimmy's skin even under the couch blanket. Duncan was warm against him, though, including his hands, once more at Jimmy's waist.
Eventually, though, Duncan sighed, and it didn't sound like anything glad or relieved. It sounded, in fact, like the puff of someone about to lift something heavy. And he said against Jimmy's bare shoulder, "You know...I'm really not Fran, though."
Jimmy didn't think he could disentangle from Duncan just yet, and he wasn't inclined to try. But he did palm the side of his head and shake him slightly. "Is that what you think this is, then?"
"Course," said Duncan. And the worst thing was that it had no emotion in it, nothing manipulative or argumentative. Only resigned.
Jimmy longed to get exasperated, even to make it Duncan's fault, somehow—it was easier, and he was tired.
But he knew how much reason Duncan had to think like that. And only now was he fully realizing himself, with Duncan in his arms, not only that he hadn't been seeking Fran in Duncan's body, but also that he hadn't in the end found anything of her there, even accidentally. It was glad and wistful together, like a faintly bitter dram.
So instead he trailed his hand along Duncan's neck, rubbed those same tight muscles at the base of his skull, and said, "Listen, d'you mind if I talk about work."
Duncan's very skin and bone felt confused, the way he shifted against him. But finally he said blankly, "...No, be my guest."
Jimmy settled closer, if there were such a thing with two grown men on a couch. "Tosh and I, we were called away to a death this morning, first thing."
"I'm sorry," Duncan said more naturally. "You all right?"
"Aye, aye," said Jimmy. "It was a natural death...even expected. The postie found her on his rounds, though. Called us in a bit of shock. Anyway, Cora came out for the pro forma investigation. And in the afternoon I was reading through her report, attaching it to mine and Tosh's. Paperwork."
Duncan nodded. His beard tickled pleasurably against Jimmy's skin.
"I read the height, frame, weight, hair...all the physical details. And only then did I look again at the photos from the scene, and I saw that she was actually just Fran's size. Just Fran's colouring. So much like her. And her family, so much like all of us."
Duncan was very still now.
"But you see, don't you. I hadn't thought of Fran before then. I hadn't felt I was seeing her, or Cassie, or you or me. I would have, before. But now I just did my job. And later, when I realised...I was relieved. So relieved. And a little bit sad, to feel so relieved. You know?"
One more slow nod, and Duncan's hands tracing gently up and down Jimmy's back a few times. Then they lay quietly for a little while more.
But he was getting too cold where Duncan wasn't touching him, and too cramped everywhere. If he fell asleep, his back would punish him. So finally Jimmy did lever himself off and stand up.
Duncan headed into the kitchen, walking gingerly on the cold floor, and drank a handful of water from the tap. "Night," he said, rubbing his mouth, and for God's sake it looked as if he was heading into his own room, back to that little bed.
"Ah," said Jimmy blankly, holding the couch blanket in both hands. "You're not comin' up, then."
Duncan wrapped his arms round himself; he looked petrified. "I'm," he said, and then stopped, shaking his head.
"It's okay," Jimmy said.
"It's not." His voice cracked. "I ruin things, Jimmy."
"Oh, Duncan." He tossed the blanket onto the couch. "Come with me. Come to bed."
And when Duncan drew a breath, presumably to argue, Jimmy said, stretching out a hand, "It's cold."
Maybe Duncan heard more of what was there beneath, because he responded, if slowly. He went into Jimmy's arms, and Jimmy held him and warmed him.
"I ruin things," Duncan murmured into his neck, a reminder.
"Shut your head," Jimmy said lovingly. He kissed Duncan's ear.
"Means if...you know, if this is a Thing..."
"I know what you meant." Jimmy took him by the shoulders as he had before, but this time he gently steered him up the stairs.
It was bloody cold in Jimmy's room, cold and empty, and by the time he'd bundled Duncan under the duvet and climbed in himself they were both of them shivering again. This time Duncan pulled him close, which suited Jimmy fine.
Darker in here, darker and slowly getting warm. The sleet on the window came in slower, fainter bursts as the sea-wind passed over.
He'd so seldom slept next to anyone else in recent years that he never quite found himself slipping all the way under. He dozed and woke, shifted to ease his muscles or make sure he didn't pin Duncan's arm down, dozed again.
Once he woke to see Duncan's eyes open, watching him, lit faintly by the window where the clouds had finally let the moon through.
He tugged the duvet more securely over Duncan's shoulders. "You know," he said, his voice husky with sleep. "If I know anything, it's that by now I'm stuck with you. So."
Duncan studied him closely. Jimmy lay there, enjoying the warmth, Duncan's touch a ghost no longer.
"On the other hand..." Duncan said at last, musingly, "it seems pretty clear that I'm stuck with you."
"Aye, well..." Jimmy probably had an end to that sentence, but he pushed his head into the crook of Duncan's shoulder, and Duncan's gentle hand on his neck followed him down into sleep.
He woke well before the sun—not hard at all, this time of year. The stars shone in a sky that promised an actual clear morning. Duncan's side of the bed was empty and cool; his used towel hung to dry in the bath.
Jimmy rubbed his face carefully under the shower's stream as he shaved. Sensitive, but nothing that couldn't just be windburn, with his complexion. And he was waking up all right, patchy sleep or no.
He emerged in fresh clothes to the smell of coffee, and Duncan in the kitchen, checking his watch.
"Meetings," Duncan groaned. "And I didn't plug my phone in—is there such a thing as a charger on you?"
Jimmy ferreted out one of Cassie's; luckily the plug matched. "You need one in your car."
"Aye, well, this'll do." He grabbed up his keys, his bag, his coffee, and ducked into the hall.
Jimmy was just pouring himself a cup when Duncan looked back in.
"You, uh," he said. His eyes were smudged with tiredness. "Feel like something special tonight? Word is they have the venison on again, down at the Breakwater. We could go out."
Jimmy considered. "Something special'd be nice," he said at last. "...Let's stay in."
Duncan face brightened with that shy smile Jimmy hardly ever saw. "I'll bring something home."
"You do that." Jimmy raised his brows, sipped deadpan from his coffee cup.
Flushed with more than the cold, Duncan went on his way. Jimmy finished his coffee, put on his coat, and stepped outside. The wind was docile now, just an ordinary breeze, playful and brisk. But still, he took a moment to run the scarf through his fingers, the soft blue of Duncan's eyes. And as he set out, he slung it comfortably round his neck.