Green Glass
Title: Green Glass
Rating: G
Words: 1100
Summary: Lewis and Hathaway attend a concert. Sequel to Plastic, Metal, or Glass.
Philip Glass was just as bad as Hathaway had implied he would be, and Robbie spared a moment to consider what Morse would have said about it. It would definitely be scathing, and not for the first time he considered how he’d ended up with two partners who were so similar and yet so different. The universe had a strange sense of humor, that was clear enough.
The interval started, finally, and he nearly bounced out of his seat in his eagerness to get away from that rubbish. Of course, his bones didn’t really bounce, not anymore, but it was a pretty abrupt shift from sitting to standing, and he glanced down to see Hathaway smirking at him from his seat.
“Don’t tell me you’re enjoyin’ this,” he grumbled, and his sergeant went stone-faced as he also stood up.
“Sir,” he said, which as usual he managed to fill with six different meanings and Lewis wasn’t sure of half of them.
“It’s not even chords,” he complained as they walked to the bar at the back of the quadrangle. “Just noise, not even in a tune.”
“Glass’s work is considered to combine rhythmic structure with harmonic progression in a very global way,” Hathaway argued, though it was possible he was arguing just to argue. He’d already said he didn’t like Glass and he’d seemed more resigned than anything else when Robbie followed through on his threat to make Hathaway come with him. He’d seemed especially resigned when Lewis pointed out that this particular event was a gala and that there would be a dress code.
Laura’d had something to say about Robbie bringing Hathaway as his “date”, of course, and most of it had involved asking about china patterns. He’d got out of the conversation as quick as he could, but he had a feeling she’d be making references to monogrammed tea cozies for some time. She’d been the one who insisted he buy two tickets, though, and with her in the concert, it was down to Hathaway or Innocent. He preferred Hathaway.
“Rhythmic progression, eh?” Robbie repeated skeptically, and looked at the options at the bar. Not a decent pint to be seen, but plenty of wines he didn’t know and cocktails he’d never heard of.
“Why’re these things always so posh?” he asked no one in particular, and ignored the various dark looks he received in response.
“Just the way things are, sir,” Hathaway said blandly, “I’ll order if you’d like to try to find a table.”
“Think I spot one free. Thanks,” he said, and worked his way through the crowd, trying not to feel or look even more like he ought to be carrying round a tray rather than putting his glass back on one. In contrast, Hathaway seemed completely comfortable in his dinner jacket, but then he’dve had to wear that kind of thing quite often in university, wouldn’t he? And he’d been prepared to spend practically his entire life with a tight collar round his neck, so the bowtie clearly wasn’t a problem. That wasn’t the case for Robbie, and he adjusted his one more time, not that it actually helped.
He might have fussed with it more had he not seen Hathaway sliding through the crowd with their drinks. One was a basic red wine and the other was a frightfully green cocktail in a martini glass. Nothing should be quite that green and definitely not a martini.
“Your drink, sir,” Hathaway said, and held out the green martini.
“What in God’s name is that?” he asked suspiciously, and did not take the glass. Hathaway put both glasses down unperturbedly, then lit a cigarette.
“Well, they didn’t have orange juice, sir, so I had to settle for orange liqueur,” he said, blowing smoke as he did. It would have been a better explanation if the drink had actually been orange. Or if Robbie’d been in the habit of ordering orange juice in the first place.
“Do you need to have your vision tested again, Sergeant? That’s not orange,” he pointed out exasperatedly.
“No, sir. Cointreau alone would have been too bitter. It’s mixed with Midori,” Hathaway explained in his extremely patient voice, the one that Robbie typically heard directed towards unhelpful suspects and witnesses. “Hence the green.”
“I’m not drinkin’ a green cocktail,” he stated firmly.
“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises,” his sergeant offered, taking another drag and glancing around them in an unconscious visual sweep. He’d known Hathaway was a good copper the first time he’d seen him do that.
“Right. You think it’s so nice, you drink it,” Robbie said. “I’ll go get meself a glass of wine, since there’re no pints on offer.”
Hathaway didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close run thing. Instead he swapped their glasses so the green thing was his and the wine was Robbie’s.
“There, sir,” he said in the patient voice. “Is that better? I’ve not drunk from it.”
“Nor put anything in it?” he demanded far more suspiciously than he actually would have if he’d been serious. He trusted his sergeant with his life, but at the same time, he couldn’t just give in to that voice immediately. It wasn’t how it worked.
“We’re fortunate to have at least one doctor in the house, sir,” he said solemnly, motioning with the green thing to where the orchestra was milling about.
“You’re not filling me with confidence, Hathaway,” Robbie said acerbically. “Or have you forgotten that she generally deals with corpses?”
“No, sir,” Hathaway said simply, and Robbie gave up. The wine was very good, rich and sweet without being cloying. Trust Hathaway to get himself a good wine.
They stood there in comfortable silence, sipping their respective drinks, until the end of the interval was indicated. Robbie sighed and drained the last of his wine, then put it down on the table.
“I suppose it’s back to the rhythmic whatsit,” he concluded and watched James finish the green thing with every Hathawayish sign of pleasure, which was to say none if you didn’t know the man and not very much even if you did. “What was that called, anyway? These things always have odd names.”
“Don’t recall, sir. It was something ostensibly clever, though,” Hathaway shrugged and walked with him back to their seats, then settled in next to him for the rest of the programme. It was likely to be just as bad as the first part, but he didn’t mind all that much now. Must have been the wine. It certainly wasn’t the green martini.
A/N: Hathaway quotes Pedro Calderon de la Barca, a 17th century Spanish writer, soldier, and priest.
Rating: G
Words: 1100
Summary: Lewis and Hathaway attend a concert. Sequel to Plastic, Metal, or Glass.
Philip Glass was just as bad as Hathaway had implied he would be, and Robbie spared a moment to consider what Morse would have said about it. It would definitely be scathing, and not for the first time he considered how he’d ended up with two partners who were so similar and yet so different. The universe had a strange sense of humor, that was clear enough.
The interval started, finally, and he nearly bounced out of his seat in his eagerness to get away from that rubbish. Of course, his bones didn’t really bounce, not anymore, but it was a pretty abrupt shift from sitting to standing, and he glanced down to see Hathaway smirking at him from his seat.
“Don’t tell me you’re enjoyin’ this,” he grumbled, and his sergeant went stone-faced as he also stood up.
“Sir,” he said, which as usual he managed to fill with six different meanings and Lewis wasn’t sure of half of them.
“It’s not even chords,” he complained as they walked to the bar at the back of the quadrangle. “Just noise, not even in a tune.”
“Glass’s work is considered to combine rhythmic structure with harmonic progression in a very global way,” Hathaway argued, though it was possible he was arguing just to argue. He’d already said he didn’t like Glass and he’d seemed more resigned than anything else when Robbie followed through on his threat to make Hathaway come with him. He’d seemed especially resigned when Lewis pointed out that this particular event was a gala and that there would be a dress code.
Laura’d had something to say about Robbie bringing Hathaway as his “date”, of course, and most of it had involved asking about china patterns. He’d got out of the conversation as quick as he could, but he had a feeling she’d be making references to monogrammed tea cozies for some time. She’d been the one who insisted he buy two tickets, though, and with her in the concert, it was down to Hathaway or Innocent. He preferred Hathaway.
“Rhythmic progression, eh?” Robbie repeated skeptically, and looked at the options at the bar. Not a decent pint to be seen, but plenty of wines he didn’t know and cocktails he’d never heard of.
“Why’re these things always so posh?” he asked no one in particular, and ignored the various dark looks he received in response.
“Just the way things are, sir,” Hathaway said blandly, “I’ll order if you’d like to try to find a table.”
“Think I spot one free. Thanks,” he said, and worked his way through the crowd, trying not to feel or look even more like he ought to be carrying round a tray rather than putting his glass back on one. In contrast, Hathaway seemed completely comfortable in his dinner jacket, but then he’dve had to wear that kind of thing quite often in university, wouldn’t he? And he’d been prepared to spend practically his entire life with a tight collar round his neck, so the bowtie clearly wasn’t a problem. That wasn’t the case for Robbie, and he adjusted his one more time, not that it actually helped.
He might have fussed with it more had he not seen Hathaway sliding through the crowd with their drinks. One was a basic red wine and the other was a frightfully green cocktail in a martini glass. Nothing should be quite that green and definitely not a martini.
“Your drink, sir,” Hathaway said, and held out the green martini.
“What in God’s name is that?” he asked suspiciously, and did not take the glass. Hathaway put both glasses down unperturbedly, then lit a cigarette.
“Well, they didn’t have orange juice, sir, so I had to settle for orange liqueur,” he said, blowing smoke as he did. It would have been a better explanation if the drink had actually been orange. Or if Robbie’d been in the habit of ordering orange juice in the first place.
“Do you need to have your vision tested again, Sergeant? That’s not orange,” he pointed out exasperatedly.
“No, sir. Cointreau alone would have been too bitter. It’s mixed with Midori,” Hathaway explained in his extremely patient voice, the one that Robbie typically heard directed towards unhelpful suspects and witnesses. “Hence the green.”
“I’m not drinkin’ a green cocktail,” he stated firmly.
“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises,” his sergeant offered, taking another drag and glancing around them in an unconscious visual sweep. He’d known Hathaway was a good copper the first time he’d seen him do that.
“Right. You think it’s so nice, you drink it,” Robbie said. “I’ll go get meself a glass of wine, since there’re no pints on offer.”
Hathaway didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close run thing. Instead he swapped their glasses so the green thing was his and the wine was Robbie’s.
“There, sir,” he said in the patient voice. “Is that better? I’ve not drunk from it.”
“Nor put anything in it?” he demanded far more suspiciously than he actually would have if he’d been serious. He trusted his sergeant with his life, but at the same time, he couldn’t just give in to that voice immediately. It wasn’t how it worked.
“We’re fortunate to have at least one doctor in the house, sir,” he said solemnly, motioning with the green thing to where the orchestra was milling about.
“You’re not filling me with confidence, Hathaway,” Robbie said acerbically. “Or have you forgotten that she generally deals with corpses?”
“No, sir,” Hathaway said simply, and Robbie gave up. The wine was very good, rich and sweet without being cloying. Trust Hathaway to get himself a good wine.
They stood there in comfortable silence, sipping their respective drinks, until the end of the interval was indicated. Robbie sighed and drained the last of his wine, then put it down on the table.
“I suppose it’s back to the rhythmic whatsit,” he concluded and watched James finish the green thing with every Hathawayish sign of pleasure, which was to say none if you didn’t know the man and not very much even if you did. “What was that called, anyway? These things always have odd names.”
“Don’t recall, sir. It was something ostensibly clever, though,” Hathaway shrugged and walked with him back to their seats, then settled in next to him for the rest of the programme. It was likely to be just as bad as the first part, but he didn’t mind all that much now. Must have been the wine. It certainly wasn’t the green martini.
A/N: Hathaway quotes Pedro Calderon de la Barca, a 17th century Spanish writer, soldier, and priest.