Hunter and Morgan: Gatecrasher

by H. K. Nightingale

  "Can I come in?" asked Caleb.

  "Sure." Morgan glanced down to the bed. Aiyeda had faded while he'd been asleep. "What time is it?"

  "About two." Caleb sat next to him.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "I didn't mean to wake you."

  "No problem. What is it?"

  "I just feel… We had sex. Me and Jennifer. And Dave. At least, sort of, but… I dunno, man. They're married."

  "What, like, an open marriage?"

  "Obviously. There was a photo by the bed. She's in a white floofy dress and everything, and there were bridesmaids. So I asked and they said, yeah, but that was between them and whatever they did with anyone else was separate. It killed the mood a bit, for me at least. I left as soon as I could. I felt kinda used. Does that make sense?"

  He sounded small and fragile. Morgan put an arm around him. "Of course it makes sense."

  Caleb's propped his chin on Morgan's shoulder. "I don't want to be someone's boy toy, you know? It changes the whole power thing. Like they're a unit and they could gang up on me. I don't know. I'm probably being a total prat."

  "You're not a prat."

  "And it plays up to the pansexual stereotype. Will fuck anything. Not satisfied with one gender, must have them all. Like Pokémon. Oh shit, I'm not even making sense to myself anymore. I'm sorry, Mor, I shouldn't have woken you up."

  "It's okay." Morgan hugged him.

  "I wasn't sure you'd be back tonight. Thought you might have sailed off into the sunset with wonder boss."

  "He's not a wonder boss. He's a bit of an arse, actually. That and I'm incredibly naive."

  "Do I need to punch him?"

  'I don't think that'll be necessary. Besides, he's been in hospital most of today."

  "Did you punch him?"

  Morgan laughed. "No, Caleb. I did not punch him. I'm pretty sure he works out an actual gym. Punching him would be foolish."

  "It's not about strength. It's about intent. Or something. What did he do?"

  "His boyfriend called the office while he was out."

  Caleb pulled back a bit so he could make eye contact. "Seriously?"

  "Yep."

  "God, we shouldn't be let out. The world is full of bastards and we are just two innocent twinks with 'prey' written on our foreheads."

  Morgan couldn't argue with that.

  They sat there for a little while, nestled up to each other. Then Caleb sighed.

  "Want some hot chocolate, twink?" said Caleb.

  "With whipped cream on," said Morgan. "Twink.

  Chapter Five

  The door to the office was open when Morgan arrived for his last day, and he could see Hunter's silhouette through the frosted glass. Morgan cleared his throat, as if he expected Hunter to be in the middle of something he wouldn't want him to know about.

  He opened the door. Hunter stood by his desk, with his phone in one hand. The other arm was in a sling.

  "Are you all right?" asked Morgan, with a lot more concern than he'd planned.

  "I'm sorry about yesterday. You've made great progress here."

  Morgan glanced at the relative calm that was the South-West quadrant: its sticky filing cabinet, rather lovely print of a Caribbean island and acres of freshly hoovered carpet. "Thanks. I should be able to get the rest finished today. I still haven't found those invoices. What happened to you?"

  "I had a run in with an old client. Nothing to worry about."

  "Oh. Good." He wanted to ask about Peter, and the hospital, and what was wrong with Hunter's arm, but he stopped himself. It wasn't any of his business. "So. Um, I'd better get on."

  Hunter frowned at him. "I have to go out for a while." He sounded reluctant, for some reason. "Would you like to join me for lunch?"

  "With a client?"

  "Well, no. Just the two of us."

  "I'm sorry. I'm already meeting someone." Amazing how lies could just fly out of Morgan's mouth when he was angry. Whoosh, just like that. Normally he was terrible at it. But he'd gone through shocked and sad and disappointed and now here he was. Furious.

  "Oh. Well, some other time, yeah?"

  Morgan smiled politely. There wouldn't be another time. After today he never intended seeing Hunter ever again.

  "Right," said Hunter, with a confused sort of smile. It obviously hadn't even occurred to him that Morgan could have found out about Peter. "Well, I'm going to see Poppy White's boyfriend now. You could come along if–"

  "I'd better not. As it's my last day. And, you know. Invoices."

  "Right," said Hunter, again. Now he looked defeated. Good. Served him right.

  It was only when Hunter had gone, and Morgan was alone with his storage boxes and files, that he realised how much he would have loved to meet Poppy White's boyfriend. Not to be with Hunter. But because he'd encountered a mystery, and Morgan yearned with every fibre in his being to solve it.

  Just before lunch, Morgan found the invoices. They were in a pile on top of Hunter's desk, covered by a mountain of old Time Out magazines and some take out leaflets. Morgan dropped the invoices in Hunter's freshly discovered and cleaned in tray. Job done. Now he just needed to devise a filing system that Hunter might actually use in the future and he could leave with the knowledge of a job well done.

  Not that it mattered whether Hunter used the filing system or not when it was done. That wasn't Morgan's concern. At all.

  There was a buzzing sound. It took Morgan a moment to place it as the buzzer for the office: there hadn't been a single visitor all week. He hurried over to the button by the door and pressed it. "Hunter Private Investigations. Can I help you?"

  "Well, I could do with investigating." Caleb's voice came through the speaker, all deep and sultry.

  "What do you want, Caleb?" said Morgan.

  "Thought you might like lunch. Unless you're otherwise engaged?"

  "No. I mean. Yes. Lunch is fine. I'll be down in a sec."

  He grabbed his rucksack, locked the door behind him and jogged downstairs. Caleb was waiting for him out on the street.

  They went to Costa, because Caleb was fussy about his cinnamon lattes. Morgan glanced at Sophie's on the way past, then firmly looked the other way. Costa was busy and noisy as usual, but at least they got a table away from the counter so they could hear themselves think over the squeal of the coffee machine.

  "So I was wondering." Caleb picked at his chicken and Caesar wrap. "Maybe I should give Dave and Jennifer another chance. And then I thought, don't be stupid, Caleb. I mean, didn't it hurt enough the first time? Right?"

  "Right."

  "And after that I thought, well, who's fault is that? They're not mind readers. They weren't to know I'd feel weird about them being married."

  "They lied to you."

  Caleb scowled. He'd probably been trying to ignore that part.

  "By omission, admittedly," Morgan added. "But it was a pretty important thing to omit."

  "What about your boss? Has he paid for his crimes yet?"

  "I don't know. He did something to his arm. It doesn't matter, anyway. Four more hours and I'm done. Pearl's already lined me up with some work at an estate agents for next week. Are you really thinking about getting in touch with Jennifer and Dave again?"

  Caleb sighed. "I don't know. I know I shouldn't. But then I remember how good it was before we got to the bedroom and I saw that stupid photo. The anticipation, the flirting…"

  "Yeah."

  "And then, heartbreak. Maybe it's best to give the whole thing a rest for a while."

  Morgan bumped his cup of tea against Caleb's latte. "I'll drink to that. Stay strong, Caleb."

  "Yeah. You too."

  Caleb walked back with Morgan after lunch, as he was done for the day and it was on the way to the station. They were deep in conversation about potential co-ownership of a small air-con unit for the flat when they arrived at Hunter PI. Only to find that Hunter himself was standing there, pulling his keys out of his pocket.

  "Hi,"
said Morgan. "Here, let me." He put his own key, that he'd had out and ready since they turned the corner into the street, into the lock and opened the door.

  "Thanks," said Hunter. But he made no move to go inside. He was too busy cruising Caleb. Or at least, giving him a curious glance. Bastard.

  "Aren't you going to introduce us?" Hunter said.

  "This is my flatmate, Caleb," said Morgan. "Caleb, this is Hunter. My boss-for-the-week this week."

  "Hi," said Caleb. He wasn't looking at Hunter with quite the measure of hostility Morgan would have preferred. But that was Caleb for you.

  "Flatmate, eh?" said Hunter. "Well."

  "We just had lunch," said Morgan. See, he could even back up his lie now.

  "We did indeed," said Caleb. "And now he's all yours for the rest of the afternoon."

  Hunter's smirk appeared. Morgan tried not to look at it. "Best get back to it." He nodded at Caleb. "See you later."

  "Absolutely," said Caleb, and winked at him.

  Okay, that was a bit strange.

  "Right," said Hunter. "Nice to meet you."

  He shook Caleb's hand, which was a surprise to both of them, and then Caleb strode off down the sheet, hands in pockets, whistling the Ghostbusters theme. It was one of the few things Caleb could actually whistle.

  Morgan gave Hunter a platonic, professional flash of a smile and led the way upstairs.

  Hunter paused in the doorway to his office, his eyes wide with wonder.

  "All right?" said Morgan. "I found the invoices."

  "You found the desk," said Hunter. "And a whole carpet. And a floor lamp. Did I always have the floor lamp?"

  "Yes. I left a pot of wax in the top drawer. You should polish the desk once a month or so. Especially when it gets colder again. It's real oak."

  "It is?" Hunter looked at the desk as if he'd never seen it before. It was truly magnificent: so big it dominated the room, with sturdy legs carved into lions paws at the bottom. There was a secret compartment under the built-in leather blotter, and another one in the top right hand drawer, which had a false bottom. The locks and handles were brass, gleaming now that Morgan had polished them up. It was a work of art. The battered leather office chair Hunter had been using looked better just for being next to it. As if the batteredness was somehow manly and deliberate. It could do with a desk lamp and a few tasteful accessories. And not the giant PC screen Morgan had initially imagined. No, that was far too modern. Just a discrete laptop. A MacBook Pro. Timeless and stylish.

  "I feel like I've had a makeover," Hunter said. "Thanks so much."

  "Just doing my job."

  "I thought you were an office temp. Not an interior designer."

  "Absolutely. I was just looking for those invoices, after all."

  Hunter did one of his trademark bark-laughs.

  "I've got a system in mind for the filing. Can I run it by you? Then if you agree I'll be able to get everything put away before I leave tonight."

  "Oh, right. It's your last day."

  "That's right."

  "I was wondering if you'd like to stay on a bit."

  "Sorry. I've already got my next assignment. But I'm sure Pearl can find someone else for you. Now, that system…?"

  Hunter ran his fingers along the edge of his desk. "Right. Yes, of course. Whatever you say, Morgan, I'm sure it'll be fine."

  Morgan insisted on explaining it anyway. Hunter wasn't really listening most of the time, but he nodded and agreed. It was a bit disappointing - normally Morgan went out of his way to match the system to the client, but Hunter hadn't been around enough for him to get much of an idea as to how he worked. Other than that he was clever, charming (when he wanted to be) and a fucking liar who lied about his relationship status.

  System explained and approved, Morgan set to clearing out the storage files and loading up the filing cabinets. Hunter sat at his big, impressive desk and got out a notebook and pencil. He doodled for a while and then said, "Can I ask your opinion on something?"

  On what, exactly? Fidelity? Open relationships? Kissing people and running away? "Of course."

  "Poppy White's boyfriend confirmed what we thought." (Morgan noted the use of 'we'.) "They weren't having sex, even, just snogging, so he says. Although he thought he might have had his hand up her shirt." (Morgan had a sudden, visceral imagining of sliding his hand up under Hunter's shirt, because his imagination was a traitor with no moral compass.) "Poppy's dad went ballistic, got into a big fight with Poppy and chucked the boyfriend out of the house. Threatened to call the cops if he ever came near the place again. A bit extreme, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Funny thing, though, Poppy hasn't been in touch with this guy since. And that was the first time she'd let him near her. She'd come on to him out of nowhere in dance class, practically dragged him back to her place. And she must have known there was a good chance she'd get caught, because her father usually got home around that time."

  "She was spoiling for a fight?"

  "Looks like it. But, why? And why did it have to involve a guy like that?"

  Morgan thoughtfully slipped papers into their newly-labelled files. "I'm assuming that whole 'goading people into having heart attacks' is just a TV thing?"

  "Pretty much."

  "What if she wanted an excuse to run away?"

  Hunter raised an eyebrow.

  Morgan continued, filing more rapidly as his mind worked at the problem. "She was a big Daddy's girl, but for some reason she wanted to go live with her mum. So she picked the one thing she knew he'd lose his temper over, lit the blue touch paper and stepped back. Boom! Daddy goes off on one, she fights back, runs to her mum and says she has to live with her now because her dad had a jealous fit over her boyfriend."

  "Heh." Hunter leaned back in his chair and grinned at him. "You're good at this."

  "Did I get it right?"

  "I won't know for sure, not without talking to her or her mum. The so-called boyfriend wouldn't know, and I don't want to challenge Ozzie's view of things until I'm certain. Thing is, I can't get too close. Obviously Ozzie doesn't want either of them to know he hired me to find dirt on them."

  'Tricky," said Morgan. He introduced another case file to its new home: Cold (blue tab) > Divorce > Client dropped.

  "Stay another week, Morgan. You're not a known PI. You could go in undercover. Ask a bunch of innocent questions."

  A thrill of excitement fizzed in Morgan's belly, but he couldn't indulge it. How could he solve the case - or whatever it was - if it meant being in close quarters with a man who'd lied to him, just as all these poor pillocks in the divorce cases had been lied to? A man whose kiss Morgan could still remember. Still wanted.

  Yeah, sorry Ozzy. No can do.

  "I told you. I'm already assigned. Sorry. I really hope you find out what happened."

  Hunter's face fell. A tiny muscle in his cheek twitched. "Yeah. Okay. Not to worry. I'll work something out."

  "It's for the best," said Morgan, firmly. He might have said it to convince himself as much as Hunter, but it was also the closest he'd come to saying, 'keep your kisses to yourself, you philandering git', so it was important.

  Hunter's phone rang. Predictably, after a brief and one-sided conversation which Morgan had come to realise was typical of Hunter's introductory call with a new client, Hunter said he had to go out. Presumably to meet the client. It might take him a while to realise he had a perfectly serviceable office to meet people in now.

  The filing cabinets filled up fast; faster than Morgan had expected, in fact. There was a lot of stuff. By the time he reached the last storage box (not even including the archive) the only drawer left was the bottom one in the filing cabinet by the door.

  The sticky one.

  Morgan gave it a tug. It was the only thing left in the whole office that didn't work as it should. He wasn't sure he could have left it even if he hadn't had a whole stack of files all labelled up with nowhere to go.

  It didn't budge.


  He tried to pry it open with a ruler. A letter opener. A screwdriver. (He'd found some truly fascinating and useful things in the drawers of Hunter's desk.)

  It still didn't budge.

  Dammit. Morgan really wanted to finish the job. And he really wanted to open this fucking drawer.

  There was one way.

  He reached out his hand.

  Morgan's magic wasn't about spells or magic words. His magic book wasn't really a book of spells. It was a conduit, an enchanted object that helped him to channel his magic safely.

  Much like the necklace he pulled out from under his shirt, where it usually lay. Nothing remarkable: a narrow but sturdy strip of leather thonging from which dangled a small, flat, polished stone with a stylised tree of life etched on it; but it helped Morgan to focus his magic when intricacy was more important than power. Morgan held the tree, reached for the cabinet and called to the metal of the battered old filing cabinet.

  There. A snag of steel, bent out of shape when it had taken a boot to the lock. A long time ago now: rust was moving in and eating away at the folded metal.

  Morgan curled his fingers in the air and sculpted steel. Slowly, with a soft groan, the filing cabinet straightened and flattened and tucked its way back into its original shape. Morgan formed a fist and pulled in, towards himself.

  The drawer opened.

  Morgan shook out his hand, releasing the last little fragments of power he hadn't used. He was good, these days, at taking just what he needed, bit by bit. No surges.

  Inside the drawer was a shoebox. Nothing else. Morgan took it out and lay it on the carpet in front of him. He took off the lid. It was full of keepsakes, notebooks, journals. Instinctively he knew he shouldn't be looking; the whole collection of stuff screamed 'private' at him. But he did pick up the topmost photograph. An old photographic print, fading with age. There was a woman in the photograph, with a baby in her arms. She was standing in the porch of a pretty substantial-looking house. She had long blonde hair and wore a dress with hefty shoulder pads that screamed '80s'.