Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher

by H. K. Nightingale

  "Thanks." Morgan looked back at the canal.

  Hunter sat next to him and sighed. Morgan pressed his lips together, fighting to keep the tears at bay. The last thing he needed now was to let Hunter see him cry.

  "You're right," said Hunter.

  A little flame of hope flickered inside Morgan. He tried his best not to take any notice of it.

  "It's a horrible situation," Hunter continued. "But it's not for us to make judgements. We have to deal with the facts."

  Morgan looked at him. He must have looked grim, because Hunter pulled himself up tall and edged back a little, as if expecting a smack to the face. "Here's a fact for you," Morgan said. "That woman grew up thinking she was evil incarnate. I suggest you attempt to deal with that."

  It hurt him, too. Morgan could see it in his eyes. But Hunter didn't back down. "Here's another fact. Poppy is only fifteen. She's not old enough to be running around unsupervised."

  "Fifteen year olds can be very mature." When Morgan was fifteen he used to do the shopping, the laundry and all the household paperwork, because his mother worked two jobs.

  "It's her GCSE year. If she fails, what then?"

  "She might not fail," said Morgan, stubbornly. But a little bit of doubt poked at him.

  "What if she goes to a party and takes the wrong kind of drug?"

  "Alice says she's very responsible."

  "Well, she would. Wouldn't she? She doesn't want to lose her any more than Ozzie does."

  "You don't get it. Alice really cares about her. She does."

  "So does Ozzie."

  "Yes, but–"

  "You're seeing him through Alice's eyes. And only Alice's."

  "He's a bigot! He told her–"

  "No, you don't get what I'm saying. We have two points of view here, at polar opposites. But who really matters here?"

  Morgan opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  "Poppy," he said.

  "Yes," replied Hunter, softly. "The law is there to protect her, Morgan. We have to trust it, if nothing else."

  "The law's on his side," Morgan realised.

  "Only if Poppy doesn't get her act together."

  Morgan was quiet for a few moments, mulling things over. He tried to find a loophole in Hunter's argument, something he could throw in Hunter's face with a loud yell of 'ha! I'm right, you're wrong, sucker!' But nothing came to mind. Then something else popped up.

  "What matters most to you?" he asked. "That things end up the right way, or that you get paid?"

  A muscle in Hunter's cheek twitched.

  "If Poppy wants to stay," Morgan continued, "and we can find a way to make it happen, would you do it? Even if it means telling Ozzy to keep his money?"

  Hunter looked away, up the canal towards the bridge. His shoulders were rigid with tension.

  "Do you really think so little of me?" Hunter asked.

  Well. That wasn't what Morgan had expected.

  Hunter turned around. "Do you?"

  "I've only worked for you for seven working days," Morgan pointed out. "And you weren't around for a lot of that. I barely know you."

  "You only knew Poppy's mother for an hour and you believed her."

  That was a fair point, but Morgan wasn't about to admit it.

  Hunter said, "Where does Poppy hang out? Any idea where she goes in the evenings?"

  "I know where she'll be tonight. She's going to a talk about feminist art with Alice and Julia. Alice was very excited about it."

  "You know where that is?"

  "At the Bell Jar."

  "Right. We're going."

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope."

  "And what do we do when we get there?"

  "You'll see." Hunter checked his phone. "Let's get some food. Could end up being a long day."

  To Morgan's relief, they weren't the only men at the Bell Jar that evening. Of the thirty or so people there, about a quarter looked to be boyfriends or husbands, and there were one or two solo males too. The knitting-lady was there, and he spotted Alice sitting in the front row with a dark-haired woman he presumed to be Julia, and, much to his relief, Poppy, who looked much younger in person.

  Hunter didn't seem phased by the event, even when the first slide appearing on the big screen at the front of the room was one of Julia's most graphic vulvas. He listened carefully with an intelligent look on his face and watched everything. Morgan tried to concentrate on the talk, but he kept finding himself sneaking looks at Hunter's profile.

  The theme of the talk was women's crafts through the ages and how they'd never been taken seriously as arts because they were considered women's activities. Apart from a (female) heckler who claimed Tracy Emin's work in appliqué was largely 'sensationalist crap', the talk was well received and followed by a lively Q and A. Then there was wine and nibbles and mingling.

  As agreed, Morgan took Hunter over to meet Alice, Julia and Poppy.

  "Morgan!" Alice seemed really pleased to see him. "You came after all. Is this your partner?"

  Poppy hissed, "Mum!" at her. Morgan blushed and floundered, which was not at all helpful. It was just that this part of him that really liked Hunter and thought all the 'no sex with people at work who have a bad opinion of majos' rules were bollocks, really, really wanted to be Hunter's boyfriend.

  Hunter shook Alice's hand and said, "Damian Hunter. Nice to meet you. Morgan was very impressed with the gallery. I must say I agree. Fantastic place."

  "Isn't it?" said Alice, warmly. "Oh, this is my partner Julia, and my daughter Poppy."

  Poppy gave a brief, disinterested smile-and-wave. Julia shook hands with both of them. She looked less like an artist than anyone else in the room. Her hair was pulled back into a neat, glossy bun and she wore a business-like skirt and silk blouse. She had the same kind of makeup as the girls in Pearl's office did: muted, stylish, professional.

  "I saw your exhibition today," Morgan said. "It's great."

  "Thank you," said Julia. Thankfully she didn't seem keen to enter into an in-depth discussion about vulvas. But she did seem pleased.

  He noticed Poppy drifting off towards the table where drinks and nibbles were set out.

  "I'll go and get some wine," Hunter said. "Who wants what?"

  He took orders for Alice (red), Julia (white) and Morgan (orange juice) and followed Poppy. Smooth.

  "What do you do for a living, Morgan?" Julia asked. Her eyes were sharp, but her hand was folded around Alice's, her thumb smoothing at her knuckles.

  "I'm just an office temp."

  "And Damian?"

  "Same." The cover identity Hunter had offered up was basically Caleb. Possibly because he thought that way Morgan might actually remember it. "We met through work. How about you?"

  "Julia was running a workshop," said Alice.

  "Alice was an exceptional student," said Julia. She was very well spoken, positively posh, with just a hint of a northern accent. Lancashire, not Yorkshire.

  They were so loved-up it warmed Morgan's heart. He glanced at the drinks table. Hunter was listening to Poppy, who was talking fast, waving her hands around in an animated sort of way. Like she'd been waiting a long time to say whatever she was saying, and now it was all coming out in a rush.

  "So," he said to Julia, before she or Alice could register that Hunter was taking a while with the drinks. "Are you working on a new project?"

  "Nothing focused yet. I'm looking at a series of portraits based on wedding photos. I'm still doing research, though, so I'm working as a wedding photographer."

  "Julia specialises in same-sex weddings," said Alice. "You should take her card."

  "Oh, no, we're not, I mean… We haven't been together that long." Morgan laughed nervously and then blurted out. "What about you?"

  "What about us indeed," Julia muttered.

  Alice shot her a cross look and said, "I'm waiting for a divorce."

  "I'm sorry," said Morgan. "Oh, look. Drinks!"

  Hunter and Poppy arrived carryi
ng wine and orange juice as ordered. Poppy had ended up with something that looked like pop but smelled a lot like one of those flavoured ciders. Morgan raised an eyebrow at Hunter, who gave him a bland, innocent look in return.

  "I was telling Damian about school," Poppy said, excitedly. "He thinks Hebden School's a great idea."

  "Well," Hunter said. "I should declare a bias. I went to a progressive school myself."

  "Did you?" asked Alice.

  Morgan had the same question on his lips. Was this true, or was it part of an elaborate attempt to extract information?

  "The Olive Tree, in Staffordshire," Hunter said. "It suited myself and my sister very well."

  "Really? We've been looking at options for Poppy for a while, but it's hard to know what to do. She has her heart set on Hebden School, but honestly, when she's been in the system so long, and she'll probably need to retake this year–"

  "What Alice means is that Poppy's father wouldn't approve," said Julia, pointedly. "And unfortunately he still has a say."

  "He can fucking put up with it," Poppy said. "I'm sick of him. I've done what he wanted all this time–"

  "Not here," said Alice.

  "Don't fucking stifle my self-expression!"

  Julia sighed. "See?" she said to Alice. "Switch your grounds to adultery. Cite me as co-respondent. Get rid of him. Look after your daughter."

  Alice looked desperate, caught between her lover, her daughter, and her control-freak husband. Morgan didn't see a laid back bohemian in her at all. He saw someone who in some ways was just as new as Poppy, a butterfly straight out of her cocoon, beautiful and fragile, and just a bit lost. He wondered if that was patronising of him. He hoped not.

  "Well," Hunter said. "It's been lovely to meet you. Unfortunately, we need to catch a train, so…"

  Everyone pulled themselves together in a very English sort of way, all drama swept aside for a flurry of 'goodbye' and 'nice to meet you' and 'I hope the trains are running on time', and 'please, have my card, don't hesitate to call'. Morgan engaged professional mode for his goodbyes, until he came to Alice. Impulsively he gave her a hug and whispered in her ear, "It'll work out, I'm sure." She squeezed him in return.

  Then, to Morgan's astonishment, Hunter took his hand - actually took his hand, like they were proper boyfriends - and led him out of the Bell Jar, tossing a wave to Poppy over his shoulder as they went.

  They walked out of the old mill, down the road, and they'd got to the canal before Morgan said, his voice thick with regret, "Ozzie's going to eat them alive in court."

  They stopped. It was nearly dark. A houseboat moored nearby was decked in fairy lights that made the surface of the water glow in warm reds and greens and golds.

  "I don't think so," Hunter said.

  "He isn't?"

  "Not if Alice really trusts her girlfriend. I checked up on Julia while you were looking in that crystal shop earlier. D'you know what she did before she gave it all up for art?"

  "No?"

  The victory-smirk appeared on Hunter's face. "Divorce lawyer."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously. If we let Ozzie go to court it would be like throwing him to the sharks. She was really good. Made an absolute fortune. Plenty to send Poppy to the hippie school and keep Alice in lentils while she finds herself."

  His turn of phrase could be kinder, but Morgan found himself beaming all over his face just the same.

  Hunter continued, "We'll go back and tell our client that things are complicated, unfortunately, and dearie me, it was a pity he didn't tell us everything, but if he wants to see Poppy, the best way is to play nicely. Hopefully, he'll still pay us. If not, well." Hunter shrugged. "We've still got the police contract. And we had a nice day trip. Didn't we?"

  Apart from the blazing (nearly literally) row, more vulvas than Morgan had expected to see in a lifetime and the fleeting belief that Hunter was a complete money-grabbing git… Yes. It had been an amazing day. It really had. He'd really got a taste for investigating.

  And Hunter was still holding his hand.

  "It was okay," said Morgan, fighting to keep his grin at sub-luminous levels.

  "Just okay, eh?" Hunter's eyebrow went up, but the smirk stayed. Morgan wanted to kiss that stupid-sexy smirk right off his face.

  So he did.

  "More than okay," he admitted, pressing his lips to Hunter's. Warm, soft, lingering. Hunter wrapped his arms around Morgan but he didn't push anything; he just let Morgan flutter kisses at the corners of his mouth, then the middle, then press a little harder, until Hunter conceded and let his mouth open, allowing Morgan's tongue to slip inside and flirt with his. Morgan felt the cool night air flutter through his hair; the warmth of Hunter's body; the strength of his arms. He let it build to a point where he had to either stop or throw Hunter down on the ground and have his way with him. As they were standing on a public tow path within sight of several over-the-shop flats and a couple of houseboats, he stopped. He wasn't sure even Hebden Bridge was that progressive.

  He rested his forehead on Hunter's, and buried his fingers in his thick, silky hair.

  Hunter 'mmm'd and swayed his hips a little, like they were dancing. Morgan kissed him again, just three quick pecks.

  "I–" Hunter started.

  "Don't," said Morgan.

  Hunter didn't.

  Morgan breathed it all in: the working-water smell of the canal in the background and the dewy dampness of the air were a backdrop to the fresh scent of Hunter. Clean skin, clean citrus cologne, clean clothes, and under it all something deep and rich, like leather.

  Hunter kissed his neck, and Morgan's breath fluttered out of him with a noise somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

  "You are one continual surprise, Morgan Kerry," Hunter whispered against his skin.

  Morgan smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  The flat was in darkness, presumed empty. It wasn't far shy of midnight, and Caleb was out with Jennifer and Dave. Morgan crept in on tiptoe just in case, navigating the living room by the moonlight that poured through the bare windows. He went to the kitchen, turned on the counter-top lights, and poured himself a glass of water.

  He'd said goodbye to Hunter on the train, when he had to get off at Leeds, leaving Hunter to carry on to York. All the way back they'd sat close, but not touching, just talking. He'd asked Hunter whether he'd really been to a progressive school, and it turned out he had. He'd hated it. But he had a lot of stories about camping in the woods and building tree forts and the time the school democratically decided that there should be a total ban on wearing socks, for reasons Hunter could no longer remember.

  It was surprisingly easy to imagine him as a boisterous, sandy-haired boy, rebelling against the lack of authority. No wonder he'd ended up in the police force.

  Morgan had traded a few school stories of his own, focusing on the 'gifted and talented scholarship' and carefully leaving out the one third of the curriculum that had fallen under the remit of Ms Rosero.

  Then they'd arrived at Leeds, and he'd picked up his rucksack and Hunter had got up to let him past, but at the last minute he pulled him close and kissed him, and as the train had shuddered to a halt at the platform Morgan stumbled, and Hunter caught him and sent him on his way with a soft, "See you tomorrow, Morgan."

  Morgan looked out of the kitchen window at the moonlight and the laundry he'd forgotten to bring in and realised something important. He wasn't planning to give Hunter the 'we can't do this' talk tomorrow. He wasn't planning to call Pearl and say he'd have to leave for any of the number of perfectly valid reasons he could give her, either. He didn't care about magic, or fraternisation clauses or Hunter's ex. All he cared about was Hunter. He was planning to go into the office and pick up with Hunter precisely where they'd left off on the train.

  The front door crashed open and Caleb staggered in, turning all the lights on by bumping his shoulder at the switch.

  "Morgan!" he said, drunk-loud, pink-cheeked. "Guess what?"r />
  "Um," said Morgan, blinking at the sudden light.

  "I've just been to a sex party! An actual sex party!"

  And then he wilted like a poppy on a dry day and passed out cold on the couch.

  When Morgan got up the next morning to go to work, Caleb was still on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket Morgan had fetched for him. He had panda eyes from his eyeliner and he was snoring into a cushion. The bucket Morgan had left by the couch just in case was mercifully empty.

  Morgan ate a bowl of cereal in the kitchen, then got his washing in and folded it neatly on the kitchen counter into two separate piles for ironing and putting away respectively. He balled his socks up in pairs, thinking about Hunter, and caught his reflection in the window. He was grinning his head off.

  Caleb slept on. Morgan went back to his room to do his morning meditation.

  After meditation he came back to find Caleb sitting up, blanket pooled over his legs, yawning.

  "Morning," said Morgan, chirpily.

  "Morning, what… What the fuck?"

  "Eh?"

  "Your dragon's right there! On your shoulder!"

  Morgan glanced at Aiyeda, who preened her golden scales at him. She looked a little smug. And, seeing as she was a manifestation of his magic, more or less, that meant he was a little smug. Well, why not?

  "Just burning off a bit extra," Morgan said. "Say hello to Caleb, Aiyeda."

  Aiyeda snorted at Caleb. A wisp of steam came out of her nose.

  Caleb made a squeaking noise.

  "Don't be a baby," said Morgan. "She won't hurt you. Are you okay?"

  "Surprisingly so, which probably means I'm still drunk. Or high. One of those things."

  "Do you have work today?"

  "I'm not a moron, Morgan. I wouldn't get wasted the night before a job."

  Morgan snorted.

  "Damn, it was a wild night, though."

  Morgan budged Caleb up the sofa so he could sit down. Aiyeda hopped off his shoulder and started nosing about on the coffee table.

  "So," said Morgan. "Sex parties, eh?"

  Caleb blanched. "What about you? Don't you have to be at work yourself?"