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It starts in the pub, and maybe that’s part of why I give the idea space in my head, even for a second. My guard’s down.
We’re in my local, me with a second G&T on the table and Sophie laughing next to me and Steve doing a god-awful impression of Roche on the other side of the table. There’s a scatter of other techs with us, but I haven’t bothered learning all their names yet - I’ll wait to see if Soph deems them worthy. We’re out celebrating, or near enough; another domestic closed, but one that took us a bit more work, tricky blood spatter analysis and lots of finicky tests before we could tie it up in a bow. Coming out like this was Stevie-boy’s idea, but I don’t hate it. It’s nice. Easy, almost. Soph got me wheezing once we sat down, going on about hitting squash with different edged weapons to match the patterns in the vic’s skin, and then Steve started in on Roche and now none of us can catch our breath.
Sophie’s the first one to get control of herself, while I'm still watching Steve act the eejit. She drains her glass - some fruity Belgian beer, one that sounds like Barbie would drink it but kicks like hell - and slides by to pop to the jacks. When she comes back, instead of going for another round, she sits down on my other side. Away from the rest of the table.
That, I notice, and I turn towards her, giving us the illusion of privacy in the loud atmosphere. “Something up?” I ask.
Suddenly, I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I’ve been trying not to think about it all night, Soph sitting close to me, looking at me. It’s got me on edge, but in a good way, the same kind of adrenaline I feel when I’m just hitting my stride on a long run and I know the rest of it’s going to fly. It’s not new, that buzz, but it’s never felt like the right time before. Now, though… Soph glances up at me sideways, and I feel my heart rate kick up a notch.
“Have you heard?” she says, and it takes me a second to catch myself. She must see the confusion on my face, even if she doesn’t know why. “About Mackey?” And that’s so unexpected I lean back. Something like regret flickers across Sophie’s elegant face and she pauses.
“Frank?” I ask, though it’s not like I need the clarification. No one else inspires that kind of uncertain awe - even from Sophie, which surprises me a little. I thought maybe it was just the lads in the Castle who took him so seriously. Never underestimate a legend, I guess.
Sophie nods. “Word is, he’s building another undercover op. A big one. No one’s said anything?”
The subtext is clear. She’s trying to figure out if I’m part of the op. If I’m about to chuck Murder and drop out of sight. She doesn’t know this is the first I’m hearing of it. And after the gut-punch of surprise, I’m glad to be having it from her. From anyone else, I’d’ve been looking for the catch straight off.
Turns out I should’ve been looking anyway.
For a moment, I imagine hearing this news in the squad room. It’s been better, the past few months, or better for me, anyway. The whole place is still off-kilter: McCann gone, Breslin hollowed out, O’Kelley’s replacement Rafferty treating the position like it’s only temporary. No one’s had the energy to take it out of me, not even Roche. But still, none of them would bring this to me as a question. It’d be a dagger, or at least a needle, another way to imply I wasn’t up for the job any more.
In the pub, under Sophie’s watchful eye, I’m not expecting to feel the possibility like a shock - like the bolt of lightning that sometimes hits when I get a big solve. And I see Soph clock my reaction, too, and that shocks me more. She’s working through something, the same calculation I get to see when I visit her at the lab to hassle her into running my exhibits first. I love watching her puzzle through a tricky piece of analysis, seeing the case come together in her brain - but I’m not sure how I feel about having that scrutiny trained on me. What does she know, that she heard about Mackey and thought of me?
Of course, Sophie was there for the Kilda’s case, if only bits. We couldn’t’ve cracked it without her, but she wasn’t on the scene, not at the end, not when all the pieces came together in that staggering rush. It was just me and Steve, in those last moments - and the sheer bloody luck of Steve being able to pick up on my last desperate pass. Us, and Frank Mackey, and the way he looked when he knew I’d arrest Holly if I had to.
It might’ve ruined my career, or it might not. Mackey’s a legend, yeah, but he’s a madman, too, or at least that’s what half the force think. I’ve heard about the miraculous solves, but sometimes it’s what they don’t say in the squad room. The stories that get passed around on nights out just like this, the ones you don’t believe unless you’ve got your beer goggles on, or that you can look at in the morning and say, nah, we were pissed to believe that at all. I’ve heard enough of those too, and some of them are wild enough I can barely believe them even of Frank Mackey.
If Mackey offered to bring me into Undercover, it wouldn’t be to fuck me around. He knows his own job too well, and he’s too good at it to throw it away for the sake of payback. Hell, if he offered me the job and I took it, he might actually respect me for it. But he’s never going to forget who I am, or those moments on the lawn at Kilda’s where we both knew the choices I would make - and we knew the ones he’d make too. If he comes looking for me, it’ll either be because he thinks I won’t be controlled or because he thinks I’ll be reckless.
Reckless is a death sentence, undercover.
I’ve been quiet long enough for Steve to notice. He leans over with a laugh - he’s a pint or two ahead of me, maybe because I agreed to come out, or maybe because it was his solve more than the rest of us and he’s riding high on the pure simple joy of an uncomplicated end to the week for fucking once. Whatever it is, he gives me a chance to get hold of myself, his warm familiar smile and the way he asks, “You two plotting our grim demise?” like there’s no reason we wouldn’t be thick as thieves otherwise.
I take the space and take my cue, matching the lightness in his voice. “Sounds like Mackey’s stirring up trouble in Undercover again. You heard any chatter?”
“Nah,” he says easily, “but I wouldn’t, would I? Undercover never wants gingers. Too noticeable.” He ruffles his hair, sticking up as usual, and we all smile at that. “You’ve not been tapped?” he asks, and there’s none of the tension to it there would’ve been even a few months earlier.
“Nah,” I say in my turn, casually. “Sophie just mentioned.”
Steve’s eyes flick from my face to Soph’s and back again, fast enough I’m not sure she notices. He laughs again, and you’d have to know him like I do to hear the difference. “Well, no fear for you,” he says. “I know you’ll never give up the glory of seeing your face on the front page of all the papers, now.”
It hits me, then, that the other person who might’ve brought me this news like a gift is Fleas. And if he had - if he’d dropped into that inbox, Howya, Rach, fancy a visit, or even shown up again to give me shite about my new alarm system… back those two or three months ago, I’m not sure I wouldn’t’ve fallen for it. To stay on the force and not lose face - it would’ve been a powerful draw.
It isn’t, not anymore, and that realisation washes all the adrenaline out of my veins and leaves me smooth and certain. I reach for my drink and take a gulp, maybe too big, but it settles warm in my stomach as I laugh back at Steve and watch his shoulders drop. “Yeah, I’m in Murder for what it does for my image, you know it. No other way to feel the love rising up from the gutters of Dublin than this, yeah? How could I trade that away?”
It feels good to say it. To see the smile on Steve’s face and know I’m here for a reason. I’m here by choice.
The last of the ice rattles in my glass and Soph clocks it. Before I can offer to get another round in, she stands, graceful as always. “Time to get out of here, I think,” she says. “You wanna?” And there’s something in her eyes. I was planning on another, but instead I find myself putting the glass down and reaching for my jacket. Steve and the techs boo us and I wave my middle finger behind me as I follow Soph to the door.
Outside, the wind whips Sophie’s cheeks until they’re red. It’s a typical Dublin spring evening, spitting rain, but at last the days are getting longer. The sky’s a soft grey, instead of pitch black, and the streetlights crown Sophie’s head like a halo. Her hair tangles around her face as she looks up and says, “So, you’ll be sticking around, then.” It’s not a question.
I nearly miss a step. “You knew?”
“Yeah, ‘course.” She shrugs. “I was the one getting hassle about keeping your evidence yours, remember? You don’t think we notice, when one detective is trying to undercut another? We see everything.” She twists her mouth, lips pursed in distaste. “I heard it in your voice, Antoinette. Every time you called.”
“So, what.” I stumble over my words, feeling uncharacteristically on the back foot. “You just wanted to see if I’m good now? Is that what this is? I’m fine.” I struggle to shut my gob there, but the rest of what I’m thinking comes out anyway, proof that I’m flustered. “I hadn’t pegged you for a sneak, Sophie.”
“It’s not like that,” she blurts. I don’t think all the colour in her cheeks is from the wind, but she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t want to ask straight out, is all, but you know I like to look at all the evidence before I make a call.” She shrugs, a quick jerky movement. “It’s just… I don't date undercovers. Too much drama. Too much mystery. But murder.” She grins up at me then, cheeky, challenging. “You always know where you stand with a murder D.”
Date? My brain goes blank. Talking about Mackey knocked my earlier preoccupation right out of my head and now I'm scrambling to catch up, for real this time. “That obvious, am I?” is all I can manage, and Soph’s grin just gets wickeder.
“Only to someone who’s looking,” she says, stepping closer. “And Antoinette, I’ve been looking.” She reaches out and twines her cold fingers between mine, a question.
Now, I try not to lie to myself, especially lately, so while I’ve been dreaming and hoping I can’t honestly say I saw this coming. Some detective I am. But I’m not slow as all that, either, and it doesn’t take me long to realise just how carefully Sophie’s gone about this. She’s sounded me out without committing either of us to anything, but she’s still putting herself out there, no games, no pretense. She knows how I’d respond to any of that shite.
Sophie’s been one of the only consistently good things about my time in Murder, up until the last few months, anyway. I’ve trusted my work, my reputation, my safety to her hands without question. Not a lot comes easy to me, not about this, but it’s easy to reach out and cup Sophie’s face in my free hand and lean down and kiss her.
Her lips are cold, too, and a little chapped, but when she opens her mouth her tongue is hot against mine. For a moment, I even forget that we’re just down the road from the pub, standing on the footpath where anyone could see us. It’s actually Sophie who pulls back first, who licks her lips and clears her throat and smiles up at me, a little dopey, and I know I’m probably smiling back just the same. “Could we maybe take this someplace else?” she says, tipping her head towards the pub door. “Only I don’t like my techs to know too much about my personal life.”
“Yeah,” I say, “yeah,” and run a hand through my hair, catching my breath. “Um, mine’s not far?”
“I figured,” Soph says with that cheeky grin again. She doesn’t let go of my hand, and I don’t want her to.
It’s only ten minutes or so to my place, and we don’t talk much on the way. Even though Sophie’s shorter than me, she keeps up easily. Usually I’d spend a walk like this worrying - did I leave dirty knickers on the floor, or clean laundry hanging, when did I change the bed - but Soph’s seen a lot worse than that when it comes to me. It’s strange to feel so comfortable with her already. I think I like it.
And after all, when we get inside, everything’s neat enough, especially for the end of a case.
I toss my coat on the couch and look into the kitchen. “Did you want anything else to drink?” I ask, turning back.
Sophie’s pulling off her jacket. Her scarf’s askew around her neck, one end unravelling towards the floor, absurdly long. It’s a soft powder blue, a stark contrast to the black trousers and cream blouse she’s still wearing from work. Something about the picture she makes - standing in my sitting room, in her stocking feet, brown hair still mussed from the spring breeze and lips still red from me kissing her - something about it makes me take a step towards her, and another. I unravel the scarf and set it aside, gazing into her deep brown eyes.
“Or maybe,” I say, bending so my lips just brush against hers, “you want to show me what else you’ve figured out about me, with all that watching you’ve been doing?”
Sophie smiles against my lips. “What about those deductive skills of yours,” she says, going up on her tiptoes just enough to tease me with a quick kiss. “There must be some perks to riding a detective?”
We both laugh at that - we both know there aren’t, unless you count late hours, shite food, and cancelled dates. But because we both know it, this is easy, too - easy to kiss Sophie again, to take her hand and lead her into my bedroom and sit her down on my bed, to unbutton those neat professional clothes and discover her anew.
The first thing I learn about her is that she’s got a tattoo, a ribcage with vines twined through it on her right shoulder. I stop once I’ve got her blouse off, her trousers unbuttoned, and press a kiss to the sharp black lines. “You don’t look at bones enough?” I ask with a smile.
“Not when they’re pretty,” she says, and shoves at my shoulder, harder than I expect. I let myself fall to the side and she clambers on top of me, thighs around my hips. “One thing you should know about me by now,” she says, her fingers nimble on my buttons now. I arch my brows, waiting. “I’m very…”
She pauses and leans down to kiss my sternum.
“Very…”
This time she bites the slight swell of my belly, below my navel. My hips jump despite myself.
“Thorough,” she finishes, spreading my shirt open and pressing her palms against my belly. Her fingers are still just slightly chilled from the outdoors.
“Well, thank fuck.” I wrap my hands around her wrists and tug them upwards till she’s cupping my tits through my bra. “All this time, I thought you were just telling me what I wanted to hear with that techy shite. Glad to know there’s some actual method to your madness, yeah?”
When she kisses me again, we’re both laughing.
After, lying in bed, Soph’s got her head on my chest. She’s drawing patterns on my stomach and I’m running my hands through her hair. Turns out I really like seeing it down instead of tucked back in a bun for work.
“Hey,” I say, and Soph makes a noise. “If I’d been interested in that undercover job, this wouldn’t have happened? You and me?”
Soph shakes her head, her hair tickling over my skin. “No,” she says. “I told you, too much uncertainty with undercovers.”
I snort at that, a sharp, mirthless puff of air. “That’s reason enough to stay on the squad, right there. You should’ve tried it on with me earlier.”
Soph pulls away, and for a moment I think I’ve upset her. But she just wiggles up against me so she can meet my gaze. “Would you have let me, earlier?” she asks, and again, her directness takes me by surprise. I’m trying to figure out how to reply when she asks again, “Was it always very bad, Antoinette?”
My first instinct is to deny, to disarm. Sophie’s never been anything but straight with me, though. And I don’t feel quite so urgent about it, don’t need to protect the small soft heart of myself at any price. Soph doesn’t press, but she watches, and I’m sure she can see the way I work through how I feel about telling her. I don’t mind that, after all. And I think I don’t mind telling her some of it - some of the worst of it, even, at least not while we’re here like this, safe in the little cocoon of my bed. I can feel Sophie’s chest rising and falling against mine, our breathing in sync. There’s a hum in the air, the truth circling, waiting.
“Not always,” I say, anchoring my hand back in Sophie’s hair. We breathe in and out together. “Not always.”