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It’s just a moment, really. A short snapshot of time. That’s all he has the idea for, like any of his ideas—it’s there and then it’s gone. They’re sitting in Detective Murdoch’s office, long after they both should’ve gone home, on the floor, staring at the dried tomato paste that Murdoch’s pretending is blood. Recreating the crime scene; that’s what he’s doing. George is just observing. Murdoch’s mind is brilliant.
And then George has the fleeting idea that Murdoch’s body is brilliant, too—those broad shoulders, the curve of his back, the length of his nose. He has a mature physique: strong and intelligent. His eyes are always so deep and thoughtful, and sometimes George gets lost in them like they get lost in puzzles. Murdoch’s staring avidly at the ‘blood,’ his breath smelling faintly of alcohol. It’s been a long night. They needed to figure out what kind of alcohol it was, based on witness reports of the smell and a murky-headed friend’s taste input. Murdoch doesn’t drink much.
George drank less and feels twice as light. He isn’t thinking as clearly as he usually is, and he’s been staring at Murdoch’s profile for the past several minutes, not the floor. He won’t figure it out, anyway. He’s a good constable, but he’s not a great detective. Not yet.
Murdoch thinks he might be, someday. Murdoch’s so nice to him. Always. Where the Inspector calls him an idiot, Murdoch’s quiet and respectful. Murdoch’s a good man. Why he’s single doesn’t make any sense. He turns to look at George and slurs slightly, “This isn’t working.”
“No, it’s not,” George says, because he always likes to agree with Murdoch. Murdoch tilts his head to the side: that look that says he’s considering George’s input. George feels a warm glow in his stomach that isn’t from the drink.
Glancing at the shuttered off, dark window, Murdoch sighs, “I fear I’ve kept you most of the night for nothing.”
“Not nothing, sir!” George jumps in automatically.
“Oh?” Murdoch turns back to him and raises a hopeful eyebrow.
“Ah, no, I don’t have any idea about the case. But that’s alright—I was able to spend some time with you.”
Smiling slightly, Murdoch says, “You spend time with me all day.”
“That’s work,” George mumbles, gesturing aside with his hand.
“This is work.”
“Yes, but this is...” George trails off, because he’s getting a slight headache and he doesn’t know what this is. Instead he tries, looking right at Murdoch, “It’s always an honour to be with you, sir.”
Murdoch pauses before saying, “Thank you, George, that’s very flatteri—”
He’s cut off by George’s mouth on his, because suddenly the room’s too hot and Murdoch’s the only thing that will do. They’re still sitting side by side, backs against the wall, the door to Murdoch’s office firmly closed, only now their shoulders are touching and their sides are touching and their legs are touching, and George can’t fathom why he’s done this. His uniform’s too tight. Murdoch’s lips are closed, soft but slightly chapped, and a little moist. George keeps his mouth closed, too, because he isn’t a complete heathen. Just a little bit.
When he pulls back, he’s just as shocked as Murdoch is. He’s red in the face.
He half mumbles, half stutters, “I... I’m sorry, I don’t know what—”
Murdoch coughs. “It’s fine. ‘Just the alcohol.” His cheeks are a little pink, too.
George is waiting to get thrown out of the office, but he doesn’t. Murdoch is now staring determinedly down at the tomato paste, mind working again. George can see it on his face. He asks, “Any thoughts?”
“You’re a very good kisser, sir.”
“Thank you, George.”