Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kembleford can do nothing but surprise him, it seems.

First, a meddling priest, sticking his nose into police business, sleuthing and deducing where he’s not wanted, nor needed — though in fairness, Valentine had warned him about that.

Then, the frankly mind-boggling homicide rate — murders seemingly every week, a stabbing, a poisoning, always something. Never for straightforward reasons, either, always over something horrendously unhinged, like upper-class hereditary insanity or radioactive girls going missing.

London really should have prepared him better; he’d been expecting quaint countryside crimes, stolen livestock, land disputes, that sort of thing.

Sullivan can handle the meddling priest and his bizarre little cadre, can handle the murders and the perils of the countryside and the people and the unfamiliar smells and sounds and sights, however infuriating he finds them.

What he can’t handle are the fairs.

They’re incessant. Every season, every month, every week. A bake sale, a fête, a festival, always something on the calendar.

Events damn near weekly, and Sullivan is expected to attend all of them. Community outreach, his superiors had said. Good for our relationship with the public. Well, Sullivan isn’t interested in any ‘public relationships’, he’d made his position quite clear. And yet.

And yet he’s here, wandering pointlessly around another church fair — or is this one for the WI? He doesn’t know, nor does he particularly care.

So many people, laughing and talking and eating and not looking where they’re going — so far he’s counted three who’ve walked into him, full of simpering apologies that set Sullivan’s teeth on edge.

So many sounds that morph into one, a cacophony of noise that thunders in his ears. People laughing, children shrieking, cars from the road nearby, all screaming over each other in Sullivan’s head.

He’s sequestered himself in a marginally quieter area, lurking beneath the shade of a grand old oak on the village green. Sooner or later, someone will make a move to approach him, and he’ll have to make another tactical retreat to a different area of seclusion.

At this rate, he’ll be in Wales by midnight.

Goodfellow passes him occasionally and Sullivan does his best to smile back at him, but he’s not quite successful given the commiserating look he receives in return.

He supposes, from a distance, the fair is maybe not all bad. The baking is quite nice. He’s even treated himself to an iced bun from the stall — not a common indulgence for him by any means.

It’s a lovely day for it, as well. Clear, sapphire skies, fluffy wisps of cloud feathering across, with a gentle breeze that cuts through the summer warmth perfectly.

There’s certainly nothing like this back in London — at least, nothing he was ever invited to. In Kembleford he’s rarely short of an invitation to something, which never fails to baffle him. He’s never been wanted at things like this - no one wants a copper, even an off-duty one, do they?

Although Goodfellow doesn’t seem to have an issue, nor any of the rest of his men, so it must be him that’s the problem.

“Alright?”

A familiar voice startles him out of his maudlin thoughts. Much to Sullivan’s annoyance, he doesn’t quite hide his jump.

“Carter,” he greets, slightly irked that the other man has so visibly wormed his way under his skin.

“Did I frighten you?” Sidney Carter grins, a bright, beaming smile that sets something alight in Sullivan’s chest.

“No,” Sullivan huffs, well aware he sounds like a petulant child.

Sid just snorts and carries on scoffing down yet another bun from the cake stand. Does he ever stop? How he stays as lithe and limber and graceful as he is, Sullivan will never know.

Of course, he’s only been looking for purely professional reasons. No better way to catch a thief than to keep the thief in eyeshot, surely?

Carter swallows and smiles again.

“What you hiding over ‘ere for? Don’t fancy a go on the coconut shy? Tombola? Splat the rat?”

“Not really. And I’m not hiding,” Sullivan insists.

Sid scoffs, but to his credit, doesn’t argue.

“Nobody’d laugh at you, y’know. If that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just a bit of fun.”

Carter has proved himself more observant than he has any right to be — too much time with Father Brown, Sullivan suspects.

Sullivan drops his gaze to his feet, unnerved to have been read so perfectly by Sid Carter, of all people.

“Come on. Just have a go at one thing, that’s all. You’ll enjoy it,” Carter cajoles, even daring to give Sullivan a little nudge with his elbow.

There’s something in Carter’s eyes, his boyish eagerness and bright smile that makes Sullivan want to do anything he can to please him. He wants to be smiled at like that more often, wants to be the one that puts the light in Sid’s eyes, but that’s dangerous thinking. Shameful thinking.

Clearly, Sid can see his hesitance, because he speaks again.

“How about we make it a competition? Coconut shy, three throws each. If you win, I’ll leave you alone to your brooding or whatever you call it. If I win — well. I’ll think of something.”

Oh, now he’s tempted. Show Carter up, and finally be left alone in return? As far as Sullivan can see, it’s a win-win. Sid winks, and immediately Sullivan knows that he’s already agreed.

Sullivan heaves a hearty sigh, and curses himself for being so easily goaded.

“Very well, Carter. You’re on.”

They toss a coin to decide who starts, and it’s Sid who’s… blessed? Cursed? With the honour of going first.

Sullivan stands a little to the side, watching as Carter positions himself in front of the shy. Long, supple legs stood slightly apart, deft fingers curled around the ball, St Christopher around his neck gleaming in the summer sunlight. Something swells in Sullivan at the sight of it - annoyance? Yes, it must be. Annoyed that he’s been dragged over here to make a fool of himself, and annoyed at watching Sid pose and preen, ladies tittering and waving as he does. Annoyance, that’s all it is.

“I’m watching you, Carter. No cheating,” He calls from his position at the side.

Sid turns to him and huffs an amused gasp, playing at offended. “Is that what you think of me, Sullivan? Cheating at honourable games like this?”

“Just throw the ball.”

Sid chuckles and turns back to the coconuts. The ball leaves his hand almost casually, rolling through the air and, to Sullivan’s chagrin, meeting its target with a satisfying thunk.

“Ha! Whaddaya think of that, eh?”

Sullivan rolls his eyes.

“Yes, very good, Carter, well done. Now get out of the way.”

Sid gestures widely to the playing area, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. He steps backwards, giving Sullivan a bit of space, a bit of room to breathe.

At least Sid paid, he consoles himself as he tosses the wooden ball between his hands, trying to get a feel for the weight. Decent, light enough for a good throw, heavy enough to knock the coconut off of its stand.

Sullivan raises his arm, ready to throw, and feels the shoulders of his suit jacket pull slightly at the movement. Damaging a suit like this certainly isn’t worth a paltry victory over Carter, he decides, tugging the fabric from his torso.

“Hold this, Carter. Don’t crease it.” Sid takes the blazer without a word, eyes lingering over Sullivan’s… shirt? Sullivan glances down — there’s certainly no stains or anything that would warrant such attention, he’s meticulous about his appearance. Odd.

Sullivan turns back to the coconuts, eyes narrowing in focus.

He pulls his arm back, one eye closed to perfect his aim. It’s a good shot, if he does say so himself - smooth release, flying straight, and the coconut falls to the ground with a gratifying clonk.

Sullivan turns and sends a very satisfied smirk to his competitor. Sid meets his eye, with a begrudgingly impressed nod.

“D’you call this a challenge, Carter?” He teases. God, what is he doing?

“Alright, alright. Now shift — my go again,” Sid scoffs, sauntering forwards once more and passing the jacket back to him. Sullivan merely raises an eyebrow and steps out of Sid’s way before either of them can do anything as foolish as touch each other.

There’s a bit of an audience gathered, now — nothing excessive, but still a little more than Sullivan is comfortable with. Father Brown is front and centre, watching their contest with rapt, amused attention. He catches Sullivan looking, and sends a polite little smile his way.

Sullivan turns his attention back to Carter.

Sid’s sizing up his next shot. A touch higher, this time. The ball sails through the air, and just like last time, the coconut falls neatly off the podium, slapping the grass as it lands.

“Two for two. Don’t lose your nerve, eh, Sullivan?” Carter taunts as they swap places again.

God, is it Carter’s goal in life to be so very aggravating?

Just as he picks up another ball, a thought strikes Sullivan.

“What if we tie?” He asks. They can’t continue forever, but Sullivan’ll be damned if he lets this end in a draw.

“Sudden death, I reckon. Keep going til someone loses?”

Sudden death is more apt for Kembleford than any of them would like to admit, his unhelpful brain adds.

“Suits me.”

Sullivan takes aim once again. A little bit higher, a little bit further back. Slightly more power than last time, wrist up a touch, and there - another satisfying clonk, then a dull thud of both items hitting the soft grass beneath them.

Despite himself, Sullivan grins. Christ, maybe Carter was right about fun. It’s certainly not as bad as he was expecting — nobody seems to be laughing at him, despite the looks they’re drawing. Maybe it’s just the competition talking.

Sid grins back.

“Told you you’d have fun, didn’t I?” He teases.

“Yes, alright, Carter. Less talking, more deciding what’ll you ask me for if you win. Which you won’t, of course.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, inspector — reckon I’ve already decided,” Sid says, fingers fidgeting with one of the wooden balls.

“Oh, have you now? Let me guess. Let you off next time you’ve been hauled into the station for something? Or perhaps pick up your no doubt colossal bar tab? Rest assured that neither of them will be happening, Carter.”

Sid chuckles, then leans in a little closer, voice almost inaudible to all but Sullivan.

“Good guesses, but nah.”

“Then please, enlighten me.”

“You and I have one drink together. Your house, my caravan, the Red Lion, whatever you’d prefer, but one drink, that’s all I’m asking.”

Oh.

Sullivan steps back a little, slightly stunned, cursing himself as he feels a light blush appear on his cheeks. A drink? His stomach flips, twisting into anxious knots, wriggling snakes worming their way through his abdomen. It sounds nice. It sounds really nice, but also terrifying. Dangerous.

Sid turns back to the coconut shy as if that simple request hasn’t sent Sullivan reeling, shocked and stunned and more than a little confused.

Sullivan must get lost in his racing thoughts, because it seems like not even a second has passed before Sid’s turning back to him with twinkling eyes and another radiant smile. He leans over, peers down at the coconuts and yes, there another one lies, stationary on the grass just below the plinth.

“Haha! Might have to be sudden death after all, eh?”

Sullivan huffs, but some strange little voice in his head is telling him that he doesn’t really mean it. Sid has knocked all of his down, which means he has to get this if he wants any chance at winning.

But… What does winning really mean? Carter’ll leave him alone for good, or at least the rest of the afternoon, and he can go back to brooding on his own? The prospect is a damn sight less appealing than it had been before this impromptu competition.

The other option is losing. Miss the coconut, and have a drink with Sidney Carter. Something small and innocent begins to flutter in Sullivan’s stomach, a tiny little butterfly wriggling with excitement. Just him and Sid. Alone.

God, he wants it.

There’s another voice in his head now, louder and harsher and cruel. It’s wrong. Unnatural. This shame of his, known to him since his teens, baring its teeth once more. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of all the eyes fixed on him, passersby intrigued by the competition, Goodfellow, Father Brown, Sid.

It’s fine. It’s alright. None of them know, there’s no way any of them can know. He takes a deep, bracing breath, and makes a decision.

His turn again. Sid’s looking at him expectantly, fingers holding Sullivan’s jacket with much more care than Sullivan would ever expect of him.

Sullivan sizes his target up, palms suddenly sweaty.

He raises his arm, hand sloping past his ear, elbow back. He sweeps it forwards, curving over his head, letting go of the ball.

It looks like a good shot. It would have been a good shot, had Sullivan not jerked his hand to the left at the very last second.

The ball streaks easily past the final coconut, coming to rest on the swaying grass well wide of its intended target.

Sullivan puts on a little performance for the gathered crowd. He brings his left hand up to his shoulder, rubbing away an imaginary cramp and tries to put on the closest expression to annoyance he can muster.

He’s vaguely aware of murmured sympathies from the audience, layered with cheerful applause and an odd cheer here and there, but really, he only has eyes and ears for Sid.

The man in question gapes at the still standing coconut for a second, then he turns, and Sullivan feels the full force of the biggest, broadest grin he’s ever seen, sees enchanting bright blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Ha, yes!” Sid chortles, ambling back over to Sullivan. He even adds a jaunty little skip, the bloody fool. “What d’you think of that, eh? Was all that fancy Met training worth it, Inspector?” Sid teases.

Sullivan’s struck with the vision of what Sid must have been like as a little boy, energetic and boisterous and enchanting. No wonder Mrs McCarthy and Father Brown indulge him the way they do.

“Stop your gloating, Carter,” He’s pretending to sound put-out. The butterfly in his stomach is fluttering even quicker now, and his lips seem to have a mind of their own, twisting up into a tiny little smile that he can’t quite hide.

Thank God their little audience has dispersed, their attentions quickly pulled in other directions now the show is over. The last thing Sullivan needs is to be seen smiling at Sid Carter.

“So then. Your place or mine? Or the pub — unless you’re chickening out?”

Not a chance.

“No, no, I’m a man of my word,” Sullivan replies. “Though, I, er— I’d really rather not go to the pub, if that’s alright?” Too much noise, too many people, people that know exactly who he is, and exactly who he’d be there with.

Sid doesn’t seem particularly surprised.

“Fine by me,” He shrugs, still smiling. “Come to mine, then, round eight-ish?”

“I’ll be there,” Sullivan assures.

“‘Course you will — and bring one of those coconuts,” Sid quips with a slightly salacious wink, then he’s turning away and making yet another move towards the baking stalls.

Sullivan, left alone once more, chuckles a slightly disbelieving laugh as he watches Sid walk off. He turns around, intending to head back to the shelter of the oak tree, then he stops, and catches Father Brown’s eye.

The black-clad priest has been watching the whole thing. There’s a twinkle in his eye that tells Sullivan he knows exactly what’s going on. That cruel little voice rears its head again, a Catholic priest, he’ll think you’re a disgrace, you’re depraved— It’s cut right off when Father Brown sends him a quick little wink, amused and mirthful and clearly delighted.