Chapter Text
It wasn’t intentional at the start. He was irritable with Goodfellow, yes, but he was irritable with everyone; Goodfellow just happened to be the nearest target a lot of the time. Mallory had always been sullen and irascible, and he’d built a career on being as intimidating as his height would allow. When he was sent to Kembleford, he had no intention of staying, let alone making any friends there.
But then there was Goodfellow, all cheery smiles and little acts of kindness. A man so determined to get along with everyone, he gradually eroded even the inspector’s cantankerous walls. Colleagues became friends. Friends crossed a line they never expected to, then crossed it a few more times for good measure. And Mallory should have realised that a sergeant who got to kiss him outside work would grow more confident within it too.
But even if he had seen it coming, he would never have foreseen the effect it would have on him.
It caught him off guard the first time it happened. The set jaw. The “With respect, sir”, spoken with firm determination. The way the sergeant drew himself up just that little bit taller, making their height difference feel even greater. He looked up, startled, into those stern blue eyes, and a shiver of an altogether unexpected kind ran through him, from his head to the tips of his toes. The kind of shiver he got when Valerie was in one of her fiery, take-charge moods. The kind that sent warm tingles spreading over his skin and a spike of heat rushing to his cock.
That's when somewhere, amid the giddy swirl of emotions, understanding finally dawned. What he wanted wasn’t the patient endurance Goodfellow usually displayed, not at all. What he really wanted was for the man to stand up to him. Put him in his place. Take charge and discipline him.
He stared up at the sergeant, wide-eyed, as his brain tried to stumble its way back to coherent thought. But unfortunately for Mallory, his mouth has rarely bothered to wait for his brain.
“Make me.” The words could have been a challenge, but they emerged as a plea, his voice husky with longing.
“Sir?” Goodfellow’s frown shifted, annoyance giving way to confusion.
Abruptly, Mallory realised what he was doing. He tore his gaze from the sergeant’s, clearing his throat and turning away to hide the heat flooding his face. "It’s nothing", he mumbled. "We’ve caught the culprit, and that’s final. The case is closed."
He grabbed the nearest sheaf of papers from the desk and pretended to study them, trying to ignore the way they shook in his trembling hands. His heart was racing, his breathing shallow, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the hesitant touch of a hand on his arm.
“Is something the matter, Inspector? Only, I could’ve sworn you said—”
Mallory whirled around. “It’s nothing!” he yelled, so loudly that even the muffled hum of voices from the corridor outside ground to a halt. He saw Goodfellow’s expression harden again, kind concern giving way to annoyance, and all at once, it was too much to bear. Abandoning the papers, he sagged against the edge of the desk and put his head in his hands, his stomach churning with a tumult of fear and want and desperation.
“Gerry...” Goodfellow lowered his voice and stepped closer, glancing nervously at the windows before laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If there’s something you want to say to me, I wish you’d just say it. I had hoped we were past all this.”
“I want you to stop holding back with me”, the inspector mumbled, his face still hidden in his hands. “Tell me what you really think. And when I go too far, I want you to—” He broke off and took a deep, shaky breath. “—To make me behave.”
There was silence for a moment, and he squeezed his eyes shut, a chill of dread creeping up his spine. Then a shift in the air told him Goodfellow had moved to stand between him and the interior windows, shielding him from any prying eyes.
“Are you trying to say what I think you are, sir?” the sergeant asked in an undertone. “Only, I wouldn’t want to get the wrong end of the stick here.”
There was no trace of disgust or accusation in his tone. Mallory hesitated for a moment, then risked a peek between his fingers. He was rewarded with the sight of a bright blush spreading over the man’s face.
He dragged his hands from his face to push himself up off the desk, moving a pace away to put some distance between them. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to”, he said gruffly, still looking away. “I don’t suppose it would appeal to someone like you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Gerry.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of Goodfellow’s mouth. “I must admit, I’ve thought about it more than once when you’ve started yelling at me. I didn’t think it was worth the risk, though. You don’t exactly react well to people arguing with you, as a rule.” He ran a nervous hand over the flushed dome of his head. “And it’s not just me speaking my mind that you’re asking for here, is it?”
Mallory hesitated. To hell with it, though; he’d said too much to take it back now. Clenching his fists in his pockets, he took a deep breath and let the words fall out of him. “I want you to stand up to me more”, he admitted. “Speak your mind and take command. And then if I don’t listen...” His voice dropped to a mumble. “...I want you to punish me.”
“Let me get this straight, sir.” A mischievous gleam appeared in Goodfellow’s eyes. “Are you saying if I’m firm with you, you’ll give in and carry on with the investigation?”
“That’s right.” The inspector cleared his throat, rocking on his heels. “If you don’t want to, though—”
“Like this, sir?”
Before he could react, Mallory's back hit the door, and he found himself pinned firmly in place. A distinctly un-inspectorly whimper escaped him, and he swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly bone dry.
“That—” He broke off and cleared his throat before trying again. “That’s roughly the sort of thing I had in mind, yes.”
Goodfellow’s smile widened. “In that case, I think I could enjoy this.” He raised his hand to cup the inspector’s jaw, running a thumb over his lower lip in a way that almost made Mallory’s knees give way. Then he shook his head. “We’ll have to save it for later, though. If we’re doing things my way, we’ve got work to do. I’m still not convinced we’ve got the right man in the cells, and I doubt the chief super would see this as a proper use of police time.”
The chief super could go hang, in Mallory’s view, but the sergeant had a point. Just because they’d made an arrest, that didn’t mean it was the right one. And besides, if they didn’t solve the case quickly, Father Brown might get there first. He wasn’t about to let that happen without a fight.
Fast forward a few weeks, or should that be months? Time moves in mysterious ways, and Kembleford time even more so. Amidst the flow of the days, though, a new routine takes shape. To the casual observer, it would appear that nothing has changed. The inspector is still full of bluster and barked orders, making a show of being in charge. But now, beneath the surface, there are hidden rules in play. Mallory behaves himself at work – for the most part – and in return, he gets to misbehave outside it, in ways just bad enough to earn himself the sort of penalty they both enjoy. It’s a mutually satisfying arrangement.
Or at least, it was until now.
Gerry Mallory is sulking. This is not, in itself, unusual, especially on a Monday morning like this one. But for once, this isn’t the bad mood of a lazy man back at work after a weekend of freedom. Instead, it’s the bad mood of a lazy man who had a weekend shift and still needed to come into work again today.
To make matters worse, Goodfellow spent the weekend on a jaunt to the coast with his family, quashing any remaining chance of their usual Saturday fun. It’s no wonder Mallory is even grumpier than usual as he slouches into the station just before nine.
“Morning, Inspector”, Goodfellow greets him with a cheerful smile, a new layer of freckles dappling his face despite the earliness of the season.
Mallory scowls. “Is it?” he snaps, and the sergeant raises his eyebrows.
“Well, it’s not afternoon, sir. You can check the clock if you don’t believe me.”
Mallory opens his mouth to say something he would no doubt regret, but he’s saved by the shrill ring of the telephone beside them as it erupts into jangling life.
At once, the sergeant is distracted, mumbling a quick, “Excuse me, sir”, as he hurries to pick up the receiver.
The inspector scowls at both him and the offending instrument, but there’s nothing to be done. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he stomps away into his office, slamming the door behind him.
He slings his hat and coat on their stand, then sits down at his desk with a flump. From the corridor outside, he can still hear the soft tones of Goodfellow’s accent, muted by the wall in between, and he can’t help straining his ears to listen. Not that he can make out the words with the door shut, however hard he tries, but in the two days without the man, he missed him more than he’d be willing to admit.
There’s a pile of case reports on the desk, and he takes the top one with a sigh, opening it up and trying to focus on reading. The bright spring sunshine slants in through the exterior window, but it does nothing to lift his gloom. He fidgets in his chair, his pen tapping restlessly against the desktop as his eyes scan through page after page of text without registering a word.
It’s not that he’s bored, as such. As a rule, Mallory considers a day in his office a day well spent. No fields to traipse through or suspects to grill, and no keeping his eyes peeled for that familiar black cassock that sends his blood pressure sky high. If anyone asked, he’d say it’s because it means no serious crimes have been committed, which is surely best for everyone. The truth, though, is rather less selfless: he likes his job best when there’s not much to do. When he can sit in his private office, with his smart desk and his name on the door, and enjoy letting his mind stagnate.
Today is different. There’s a restlessness gnawing at his bones, and as the morning drags on, he can’t shake the sense of being off-balance in some way. He keeps catching his eyes drifting to the interior windows and the dark, blurred shape of the sergeant’s tunic just visible beyond the glass.
He’s in the middle of yet another soulless account of a minor crime when a knock on the office door shatters his fragile concentration. It’s a quick, confident rap, and that alone is enough to tell him it’s Goodfellow. The constables are always more hesitant to disturb him, tiptoeing around as if he might yell at them at any moment – which, to be fair, he often does.
A jolt of eagerness spikes in his chest at the thought of seeing the sergeant, but he’ll be damned if he’ll let it show. “Come in”, he grunts, not looking up from a line he’s already read half a dozen times.
The door creaks open slowly, as though Goodfellow's hands are full and he's being careful with the handle. When Mallory looks up, he finds him holding the station's biscuit tin in one hand while the other carefully grips the handles of two mugs of tea.
“I thought you could use a tea break, Inspector”, he says brightly, “So I’ve brought you some elevenses. I know you’re not a fan of Monday mornings.”
“You wouldn’t be either, if you’d had a weekend shift instead of gallivanting off to the seaside”, Mallory grumbles. He tries to suppress a smile, but it tugs irresistibly at the edges of his moustache as Goodfellow crosses the room and places a steaming mug on the desk beside him.
“I know, sir; I missed you too.” The sergeant leans down and presses a kiss, whisper soft, to the top of his head. “I thought maybe we could have a catch-up now, while we drink our tea.”
His voice is warm as sunlight, the touch of his breath leaving lingering tingles on Mallory’s scalp and sending a molten fondness spreading through his chest. So much for playing hard to get; it’s all he can do not to melt at having the man so close to him once more.
“Go on, then”, he mumbles, his burning face betraying the emotions he tries so hard to hide.
Goodfellow beams, slipping into the seat on the opposite side of the desk with an easy familiarity. Any nervousness he might once have had about making space for himself in the inspector’s office has long since faded away, and he settles himself comfortably in the chair, wrapping both hands around his mug. He blows across the top, sending ripples across the surface and steam billowing in the direction of his breath. Then he takes a sip and sighs with contentment.
Mallory sniffs and twitches his moustache, tapping his fingers on the desk for a moment before picking up his own mug. He takes a cautious sip, then frowns down at the tea as if it’s personally offended him. “This is different”, he splutters accusingly.
“It’s a special blend I picked up while I was away. Do you like it?” The sergeant sounds so hopeful that Mallory can’t bring himself to disappoint him.
“I’ll get used to it”, he mumbles, trying another taste and forcing himself not to wince as he puts the mug down and pushes it aside. He clears his throat and, hoping to distract the man, asks, “How was your trip?”
Goodfellow, always easily distracted, takes the bait, his face lighting up. “Well, the sea air was a bit bracing this early in the year. We had a good time, though, thanks for asking, sir. It being off-season, there weren’t too many crowds around, even if we did have to wrap up warm.”
He glances over his shoulder to the windows, then reaches out to brush his fingers lightly over Mallory’s where they rest on the desk. “I did miss you, though, sir”, he says, lowering his voice to a murmur. “I hope you behaved yourself while I was away.”
Mallory, his voice deserting him, can only nod.
“Glad to hear it.” Goodfellow smiles, withdrawing his hand to wrap around his mug once more. “I’ll admit, it did seem strange, not having your family there for Saturday teatime. Still, we made up for it with a cream tea at a café on the seafront. Had a window seat with a great view of the waves crashing against the sea wall. The kids loved that.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I have to admit, sir, much as I love Kembleford, it was nice to have a change of scene.”
He rambles on, as he’s inclined to when given free rein to do so, waxing lyrical about the delights of the coast and how good it was to get away. As he talks, the warmth begins to seep away from Mallory’s chest, leaving a cold ache of resentment. He knows he’s being unreasonable. The man deserved a break, for God’s sake, and picking a weekend when he knew the inspector would be busy was a thoughtful gesture Mallory should appreciate. Still, he sinks deeper into his chair, unable to shake off the sourness overtaking his mood.
The moment there’s a lull, he seizes his chance. “Yes, well, I’m sure it was delightful”, he says briskly, “But I have work to be getting on with.” He’d pushed the case report aside when they started their chat, but now he drags it back over, casting his eyes down the text to find where he left off.
“Right you are, sir; I’ll let you get back to it.” Goodfellow drains the last of his tea and stands up. “I’ll leave the biscuit tin with you, shall I?”
“You do that.” Mallory is still frowning at the report, skimming through paragraph after meandering paragraph. He was so distracted when he tackled it the first time, it’s hard to recall what he has or hasn’t read.
“Is that one of Constable Reuter’s reports?” A shadow falls across the page as Goodfellow leans over it, craning his neck for a better view. “I’ll have to have a word with him again about sticking to the important facts. I know he gets carried away and rambles on.”
Mallory sighs heavily. “He’s not the only one”, he grumbles, scowling up at the sergeant. “Don’t you have any work to do? You’re blocking the light.”
Goodfellow grimaces. “Sorry, sir. To be honest, it’s been a quiet morning, so I haven’t had much to do. I’ll go and let you get on with your reading.”
Mallory grunts in acknowledgement, not looking up as the sergeant’s shadow retreats. A part of him very much wants to keep the man here, but he knows better than to listen to that part while they’re at work. After all, there are a dozen potential witnesses in the building, and it would be far too easy to get carried away.
Even so, dissatisfaction curls in his gut as he hears the door open, and he knows he can’t leave things this way. Sighing, he drops the paper back onto the desk and opens his mouth to say something, anything to smooth over whatever the hell mess he’s made of the conversation. But before he can find the words, Goodfellow himself pauses in the doorway and turns back.
“Oh, I forgot to mention, sir. Apparently, there’s been a spate of burglaries in a few of the other villages in the area. They’ve given us a description of the suspect and said to let Gloucester know straight away if we have any trouble here. I’ve circulated the description to the lads, so they’ll know what to look out for.”
At once, the guilt in Mallory’s chest is swamped by annoyance, and he glares at the sergeant. “Why didn’t you say so before?!” he snaps.
Goodfellow’s eyes narrow, his usual friendly expression falling away. Stepping back into the office, he pushes the door closed behind him with a soft click.
“What?” Mallory demands, but the sergeant says nothing, crossing back to the desk in a few measured strides. The inspector stares up at the looming figure and feels a jolt of adrenalin as a familiar heat floods through him.
“You’re on thin ice, Gerry”, Goodfellow tells him with quiet firmness. “If we weren’t on duty, you’d be heading into trouble for that.”
A shiver runs up Mallory’s spine, and he presses back into his chair, bracing himself against the wood in an effort to ease his trembling. He picks up a Garibaldi and waves it defiantly as he shoots back, “Well, we are on duty, so what are you planning to do about it?”
Goodfellow plucks the biscuit from his fingers and drops it back into the tin. “For now, I think I’ll take these away”, he says firmly, replacing the lid with a soft thunk. “You can have them back later if you learn to behave yourself.”
A moment later, he’s gone, whisking the biscuit tin away with him. Mallory stares after him, wide-eyed with shock. The loss of the Garibaldis barely registers, eclipsed by the abrupt realisation that this is what he’s been wanting. He’s been aching for the sergeant to stop focusing on work and give all that attention to him. To take command of his wayward inspector here and now, instead of waiting until the weekend to show how much he cares.
And, as the awareness settles in, a new curiosity unfurls in his mind: what would it take for Goodfellow to snap on duty?