Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tuesday 13/01/2015

George watches through the horizontal slits of his office blinds. Notes the flush of across the new recruit’s cheeks as he jogs down the corridor. Could be embarrassment or exertion or just the burn of the January air cutting through the thin cotton of his shirt.

"Sorry I’m late," Andy says breathlessly, his white collar damp with sweat. Nervous energy radiates from him in almost visible waves. Desperate to make a good impression after failing at the first hurdle, George thinks.

George glances at his watch. Ten minutes late to his first shift.

"Oh, that's all right," he lies. "Not to worry." 

He leads Andy towards the centre of the office, notes the way his eyes scan the room. They move past the noticeboards full of drawing pins and health and safety notices, towards the padded partitions ready to contain calls of confession and crisis and whatever else the telephone wires will carry into this small world under fluorescent lights.

"Now, I thought I'd pop you in opposite Liz," George says, gesturing toward a woman with strawberry blonde curls hair and a knitted beige jumper. "Have you met?" he asks, knowing they haven't. 

"Er, I don't think so," Andy offers a tentative smile to the woman in the cubicle across the way and reaches out to shake her hand.  

Eager. The word forms in George's mind, underlined. He’s eager to please, eager to be useful. Soft around the edges. Unformed. 

"Hi, I'm Andy." 

Liz looks up from her magazine - assessing, sizing him up, deciding if this fresh meat will be her ally in gossip and chatter.

George steps in before she can start yammering on, and steers Andy towards the vacant booth he’s selected for him. Number 9. 

The phone sits in the centre of the desk, glowing under the office lights. The CCTV cameras mounted at each desk capture every hushed conversation. The burgundy dividers either side of the desk create the illusion of privacy. And in George’s office, four quadrants glow on a monitor that he can observe at any time. 

For quality assurance purposes, of course.

"As you can see, it's compact and bijou with a south-facing terrace and en-suite facilities," George gestures at the cramped cubicle, to the windows that are painted shut, the shared bathroom down the hall.

"Don't worry, Andy," Liz calls from her station, curls bouncing as she leans forward. "I didn't laugh either."

George feels irritation flare in his chest. Liz, that bitch, is already trying to undermine him. 

He swallows down his annoyance and continues the induction. The usual stale jokes and rehearsed set pieces he's performed so many times the words have lost all meaning. Andy nods, attentive. Absorbing every word as if his life depends on it.

Or someone else's. 

George continues almost on auto-pilot, until he reaches the part about masturbators and Liz makes a series of obscene squelching sounds and suddenly his jumper suddenly feels too tight and his tie is choking him.

Disgusting, George thinks. Disgusting. To do that in a public place with people around, where anyone can see. Where anyone can hear. 

(We don’t do that in public, George)

He blinks rapidly, nostrils flaring, as he struggles to keep himself contained. Uncontaminated. Andy watches him. Confusion evident in the slight furrow of his forehead. 

"Right then," George says, his voice slightly too high. He pulls the cuffs of his jumper down over his hands and turns stiffly away from Liz's smirking face. "I think that covers the essentials."

He finishes the induction as swiftly as he can and returns to his office, leaving Andy to arrange and rearrange his small space. On the monitor’s glass he watches the new volunteer adjust his chair, test the headset, glance nervously at the telephone. Waiting for it to ring. Wanting to be needed. To be useful. To matter.

It will ring. It always rings.

Wednesday 14/01/2015

George lives alone in a one-bedroom flat in Finsbury Park. The walls are magnolia. The furniture is minimal.  

Earlier that day, during his break, he had observed Andy taking a small photograph from his wallet and pinning it to the fabric wall of his cubicle. A woman with brown hair and thickly-lashed blue eyes, caught mid-laugh with her arms squeezed around his waist. 

There are no photographs on George’s walls. No trinkets collected from holidays or gifted by friends. Nothing as unnecessary as that. The kettle is filled with exactly enough water for one cup of tea. Ready meal punctured and spinning behind the microwave window. 

Muffled sounds filter through from the neighbour’s flat. Family noises. Life noises. Like the noises of the callers that rattle around his skull. Problems large and small, genuine crises and attention-seeking performances. And through it all, Andy's voice. Earnest. Present. Caring too much.

A mechanical hum fills the kitchen. Then a sharp, shrill beep. 

He sits at the small table, eats the single portioned microwave meal, and cleans up after himself. No crumbs. No smears. No evidence of human presence. 

He moves to the living room. The television remains off most evenings. George prefers the radio. Voices without faces.  

Opening his laptop George looks over the shift schedules and volunteer rota. Finds his eyes flicking over the spreadsheet columns and stopping at Andy’s name. He’ll be in five times next week. Five more opportunities to observe. 

George’s mind drifts. He hadn’t meant to listen to Andy’s lunchtime conversation, but it was hard not to hear Liz’s irritatingly shrill voice as she relentlessly peppered him with questions.

"Three months isn't that long," she’d said, offering an unasked for opinion while stirring sugar into her tea with violent enthusiasm.

"It feels longer," Andy replied, a softness to his tone. "I think it’s cos we were friends for ages before we got together."

"So what does she do?"

A pause. George found himself holding his breath, waiting for Andy's answer.

"She's a primary school teacher. Year Two."

"Oh, that's lovely!" Liz had said with bright and brittle enthusiasm that set George’s teeth on edge. "So you're both helping people, just in different ways."

"Yeah, Emma's brilliant with the kids. She’s got a lot of patience. Needs it to put up with me!" 

The memory of it makes George tense up. Emma. Primary school teacher. Brilliant with children. Patient. Understanding. A complete person with qualities and virtues. A real human being attached to Andy outside the confines of the office walls.

That must be the woman in the photo he glimpsed on Andy’s cubicle wall. Brunette. Blue eyes. His mind constructs her from these scraps. Pretty but approachable. Not glamorous, not voluptuous. A girl next door. Did she wear glasses? Maybe. He sketches more details onto the half-remembered image. Full lips. Button nose. A slim figure. Petite.

George shifts on the sofa, uncomfortably aware of the empty flat around him. Emma would be waiting for Andy now. His shift ended at eight. Nine-fifteen, and he would be arriving at her flat. Or perhaps they live together already? Three months isn't long, but if they'd been friends for years...

The image forms without his permission. Andy at Emma's door. The quick, bright smile when she opens it. Genuine delight at seeing him, not the polite acknowledgment George was used to receiving from colleagues. Her arms around his neck, pulling him close after a long day of other people's problems. His hands settling naturally at her waist, comfortable and familiar

George presses his palms against his eyes. Hard enough to see phosphenes sparkling in the darkness. Trying to erase the images.

It doesn't work.

(George has always had such a vivid imagination. Always making up stories. Telling such terrible lies.)

The images persist, frame by unwelcome frame. Andy and Emma at dinner. Not a microwave meal eaten in silence, but real food shared across a proper table. Some small, intimate restaurant with candles dribbling wax down old wine bottles. They would talk easily. No awkward silences. Nothing to hide from each other.

Perhaps she would reach across the table. Take his hand in hers. After dinner, they would walk arm in arm. Shoulders touching. Emma leaning slightly into Andy's solid presence. They would stop beneath a streetlight, face each other in that circle of artificial brightness. Andy would brush hair from her face and gently cup her cheek. She would lift her eyes to meet his under the amber glow. 

And then the kiss. Not their first, not after three months. But still holding a quality of newness and wonder. 

He sees them in a bedroom, kisses deepening from tender to urgent, hands moving purposefully. George imagines he’s no longer in this empty flat, but there. With them. Invisible. Watching. Watching from the shadows as Andy kisses Emma. As Andy's hands trace the curves of her body through her clothes. As his palms stroke over her breasts and she responds with small gasps and sighs. 

George takes a cushion from the sofa and holds it over his lap. As if he can hide it from his sight and that means it’s not happening. That’s the way it works, isn’t it? People don’t see what they don’t want to see. People don’t ask the right questions.

The rhythm of their movements builds in George's imagination. He can almost hear their breathing, the rustle of clothing as they undress each other. He imagines Andy's naked body - broad-shouldered and soft. He doesn’t look like he works out, there’s probably a bit of a belly there. Maybe Emma enjoys stroking it, running her hand down the trail of hair from navel to groin, wrapping her fingers around Andy’s cock and pulling it close while she straddles him, guiding it towards her. Inside her.

George's presses the pillow more firmly against himself, rocking against it with increasing urgency. He grinds against it, his face screwed up in a desperate frown. In his mind, he watches Andy’s hands grip his girlfriend’s hips, pulling her down against him. He can almost hear the wet sounds of their bodies moving together, almost smell the sex and the sweat. His own cock throbs against the constraints of his clothing as he grinds harder, faster, chasing the building pressure.

He's there but not there. Seen but unseen. Observing not participating, remaining in control while watching others lose theirs. It’s not him being touched. It’s not him being fucked. It’s not him being penetrated. It’s Emma it’s Emma it’s Emma.

The mantra pulses through him as he ruts against the pillow. He’s leaking now, the fabric of his underpants rubbing against the sensitive head as he continues to grind. George grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, fighting back a groan as he pictures Andy's flushed face contorted in pleasure. 

His balls tighten as the fantasy reaches its crescendo, Andy and Emma and George panting and moaning together. He pushes against the pillow one final time, his body tensing as he comes in his pants, soaking through the fabric in hot, pulsing waves.

And seconds later, the rush of release leaves him hollow. Empty. The momentary escape from loneliness collapsing into a sharper awareness of his isolation. Of the cold reality of what he's just done, and who he was thinking of while doing it.

But it wasn’t him being fucked. It wasn’t him being made a girl.

George stares at the ceiling, the weight of shame pressing against his chest. The cushion lies discarded beside him. Silently he pulls down his trousers - the wet patch on his briefs has already started to grow cold and uncomfortable. George peels them off, observing the evidence of his fantasy with a mixture of disgust and fascination. The soaked fabric feels heavy in his hand.

Without ceremony, he walks to the kitchen and drops the soiled underwear into the bin. It makes a soft thud against the bin liner. He fetches himself a drink of water from the kitchen tap. 

Thursday 15/01/2015

Sequestered in his office, the glow from the screen paints George’s face in shifting shadows and blue-white light. He watches Andy on the monitor, mouth forming words that George cannot hear.  

It’s perfectly normal - and perfectly legal - for a supervisor to listen in to calls for quality assurance purposes. It’s even in the handbook. But when the volunteers talk amongst themselves, George is cut off. He watches the silent images on the glass, the soundless fluttering and chattering and conversations in mime. Sees them exchange smiles and cups of tea. Observes Liz placing a comradely hand on Andy’s shoulder. 

He can only imagine what they’re talking about. 

George knows his subordinates gossip about him. He’s overheard fragments of conversation. Witnessed the way they cease when he walks in the break room. The lingering glances over his desk, bare where other people have family photos and knick knacks. The topics shifting to avoid the risk of his uncomfortable participation. 

(Everyone can see what you are, George.)

They whisper that he never brings anyone to the staff party. No weekend stories. No holiday plans. No wedding ring no kids no exes. A life absent of the normal relationships that define adult masculinity. No matter how carefully he performs, they will always recognise his difference. His wrongness.

George’s hands rest beneath the desk, fingers spread against his thighs through the fabric of his trousers. The brown wool of his jumper scratches against his wrists where he's pulled the sleeves down. He can feel the ghost of touch, of larger hands covering his own, pressing them down, teaching them stillness.

With a jerk he forms two fists, shaking off the memory. For a few seconds he breathes through his nose, jaw clamped shut. Then he swallows and blinks as if clearing his head, reaches for the mouse and moves the cursor on his computer screen. 

He rotates through the phone stations, letting the sounds of strangers’ conversations filter through his headset. Nothing remarkable - Valerie on 3, listening to some bore droning on about his noisy neighbours. Kath on 6, mumbling sympathetic noises to a lonely old woman with no one else to talk to. Adam on 7 with a squeaky-voiced adolescent whose parents were splitting up.

(Stop snivelling, you sound like a little girl) 

Movement catches George’s attention. Andy has picked up the phone. He has a call.

George flicks over to line 9. 

"I’m here for you," Andy is saying to someone George can't see.

There he is, George thinks. The white knight riding to the rescue. Looking for someone to save. So earnest in his desire to rescue damsels in distress. Always assuming good faith. Always believing the best in people. Babyish, really. What a baby. With his baby blue eyes and dimpled chin and round, earnest face.

The face that George finds himself thinking of when he’s alone in his flat. 

"I can hear how alone you're feeling right now," Andy continues, his voice carrying that soothing quality, warm and immediately present. "But I’m listening."

A face with pale eyes that seem almost translucent in the harsh fluorescent lighting, like shallow water. A face with smooth skin, unmarked by deep lines or worries. A face that smiles too often, too easily. Features he's catalogued and reconstructed in detail, imagined flushed and contorted. It’s starting to become a habit. Part of his evening routine. Eat dinner, fantasise about Andy, brush teeth. 

(You’re a pathetic creature, aren’t you, George?)   

But the memories and imaginings are no longer quite enough. He needs to take a piece of Andy home with him. A talisman more tangible than memory.  

His cursor hovers over the blood red circle on his computer screen.

Of course he would never record the audio of the people who phone the Comfort Support Line. That would be a violation of privacy. Unthinkable.

But recording Andy's half of the conversation was... somehow... different.

Later that night the audio file sits on his laptop like a guilty secret. George swallows a mouthful of wine and the lump in his throat as he presses play and Andy's voice fills his flat with the same warmth it brought to the call centre. But here, separated from the office that birthed it, it sounds different. As if Andy were speaking to him directly.

"I hear you," Andy's voice says, and George closes his eyes, allowing himself to imagine those words directed towards him. Towards the parts of himself he's never allowed anyone to see. "That sounds incredibly difficult." 

Andy would never talk like that to George. Not to the supervisor in the woollen jumper and wire-rimmed glasses. Andy would talk like that to someone else entirely. Someone who could matter in ways that George never has. Someone Andy might care about. Someone worth saving. Someone whose vulnerability would inspire protection and not- 

(It’ll only upset your mother. And you want her to get better, don’t you?)

George's hand moves to his chest, fingers tracing the outline of his ribs through the coarse wool of his burgundy sweater. But in his mind, they’re someone else's fingers. Someone else's touch. Moving over flesh that doesn't belong to him. 

Emma is the caller on the line, reaching out for contact, for connection, and Andy is the voice at the other end, impossibly warm and caring and kind. The voice of salvation. His voice. Himself. Andy and Emma, Emma and Andy. Only Andy. Only Emma. Not George. Not him. Never him. 

In the background Andy’s voice plays on, tender and calming.

George closes his eyes. He wonders what it would be like to be touched with care. Touched as if he were worth something. 

He sinks deeper into his reverie, tracing wandering patterns where he imagines Andy’s fingers moving lightly over Emma’s body. The slim-hipped, full-lipped, mousy brunette vessel for Andy's desire. George’s own form - so traitorous, so disappointing, so unloveable - replaced with different contours. Andy's lips press against Emma's neck and George tilts his head instinctively, exposing his throat to the empty room, feeling the phantom press of lips across his skin. 

George’s hand moves from his chest, trailing down his torso, hesitating for a second. His pulse quickens, blood rushing to his groin as he imagines Andy's hands sliding up Emma's thighs. Andy’s hands, not his own. Emma's thighs, not his own. The fabric of his trousers tugs against his hardening cock as he listens to the gentle purr of Andy’s voice. The sound resonates. Vibrates. He can almost feel the soft buzzing hum of lips on his skin. 

George’s hand moves decisively now. Surrendering to the fantasy. To the shameful, secret need that's uncoiled within him. He keeps his eyes shut tight as he unzips his trousers. He wonders what it would feel like, how the touch would translate differently, as Andy's fingers discover Emma's wetness. Her readiness for him. Feeling him slowly push inside. Deliberate and restrained and drawing out the sensation. George’s breathing gets faster at the thought.

"Yes," George whispers tentatively, his voice pitched higher, softer.

Not his voice at all. Emma's voice coming from his throat. In his mind's eye, George imagines Andy wrapping those strong arms around her waist, gripping her hips, and feels Andy entering Emma, entering him, moving inside him, filling the emptiness, taking him, possessing him. He is soft and wanted and he sees Andy's perfect face, those blue eyes locked on his, a gaze of raw desire and need all focused on him. His body. No, no, Emma’s body. Not George’s body. It’s Emma. It’s Emma. He’s Emma. Andy between his thighs, growing more urgent, more primal, more desperate. 

The expression on Andy’s face is vivid in George’s mind. He’s not watching it from the outside. He’s part of it. Responsible for it. Sharing it. George groans, his voice cracking along with his composure as he clutches harder, and imagines Andy’s hot, sweating skin beneath his hand. Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m close. Oh Andy, Andy, Andy, you’re gonna make me come. His body convulses, and the noise that escapes his lips is high and thin and unfamiliar. He isn't sure if it's his voice, isn’t sure if it’s hers. For a few transcendent seconds, everything dissolves. His hand keeps moving, desperate, relentless, spending every last bit of him until his skin is raw. 

And then there’s no sound in the room except Andy’s voice still playing in the background.

George glances around furtively as if someone might have witnessed his humiliating display. As if the neighbours might have heard something through the thin walls that would expose the pathetic reality of his evening routine.

(I know what you’ve been doing, it’s written all over your face)

His hand lurches towards the laptop. The trackpad drags under his fingertips as he hovers the cursor over the pause button. He clicks. The sound cuts off mid-sentence. Mid-syllable. Andy’s voice disappears into silence. The kind of all engulfing absence that follows confessions or accidents or moments when the facade of family life cracks open to reveal what’s really underneath. 

George sits motionless on the sofa, laptop screen glowing with the frozen timestamp of Andy’s stolen words. His hands rest in his lap, fingers curled into loose fists. 

Chapter Text

Friday 16/01/2015 

The black screen of his monitor reflects George’s form back at him. He should turn it on, check the shift schedules, review yesterday's call logs. All the things he's paid to do. But instead he finds himself studying his reflection in the glossy surface. Silver-rimmed glasses catching fragments of light. Cardigan buttoned up as high as it will go.

Through the frosted glass of his office, he can hear the occasional muted ring of phones. The afternoon shift is humming along and Andy is out there, taking calls with his usual gentle attention. Slowly, George removes his glasses. Sets them carefully on the desk. The world dissolves into a gentle blur. His reflection in the glass is both familiar and strange. The darkened surface makes him look like he’s floating in a sea of black ink.

George tilts his head, watching his reflection mimic the movement. His hair falls across his forehead, softening the lines of his face. He squints deliberately, blurring the image further. Through the dark curves of his lashes he sees his cheeks filling out, his jawline feathering. He tugs at his cardigan, pulling it tighter at the waist. The folds of fabric shadow suggestively across the formerly flat plane of his chest. He relaxes his mouth. Replaces the careful straight line he’s practiced since childhood, allowing his lips to part slightly into a soft pout. Like this, the face he sees could... almost... be...

(Everyone else can see what you are)

He straightens immediately, squares his shoulders. His hand releases the fabric it holds and moves to grasp sharply at his glasses. He fumbles the wire frames and for a panicked moment he can't get them seated properly on his nose. But they settle and the world's harsh focus is restored. His reflection becomes ordinary again. Just the tired face of a greying middle-aged man in an ill-fitting cardigan. George clears his throat and takes a moment to sweep his eyes over the glass partition. Reassuring himself that no one is looking in, no one witnessing this moment of weakness. He straightens his cardigan with movements more violent than necessary. Smooths wrinkles that don't exist. Tugs down the cuffs.  

With a jab, George pushes the monitor’s power button. The screen flickers to life and his image is hidden beneath the closed circuit facsimile of the office. Today's volunteers processing human suffering and boredom on the office floor. He rotates through the audio feeds, trying to distract himself from the thoughts perforating the edges of his careful boundaries. He watches the familiar scenes playing out and his uneasiness fades. This is better. This is safe. Observing from a distance, maintaining control, keeping watch over his small kingdom of contained misery.

"Hello, Comfort Support Line. How can I help you?" 

George's attention narrows immediately. Filters out all other sounds, all other feeds, all other possibilities except this single voice. 

"Hello?" Andy says again, his voice dropping to a careful, gentle register George has heard countless times. "Are you there?"

There must be silence on the end of the call, George thinks. Most likely another PPI scam. Or some heavy breathing pervert. 

"That's OK," Andy says. His voice is calming. It’s the kind of voice you can trust. "Sometimes it's hard to find the words. We can just sit together for a moment if you'd like."

A smile plays on George’s lips. Andy is comfortable with silence in a way that most people aren't. The other volunteers would have filled the empty air with gentle prompting or reassuring platitudes. Andy simply waits. Patient. Present. 

After a few moments, Andy speaks again. "That sounds really difficult," he says, his voice warm and intimate and genuine. "Not sleeping can make everything feel so much worse."

So there is someone on the end of the line. Another wounded creature supping on salvation from Andy's endless well of compassion. George’s fingers creep to the computer mouse, moving the cursor over to the recording button. He clicks and the waveform begins to unspool on his screen. He doesn’t take his eyes off Andy, observing the way the man’s whole body leans into the conversation. As if he could reach through the telephone line to offer physical comfort. He cares, George marvels. He cares so, so much.

"Do you want to tell me a bit about what's going on? What's keeping you awake at night?"

Andy's eyes flick toward the photograph pinned to his cubicle wall. Just a brief glance, but George catches it. A tell. A response that suggests this conversation has triggered something personal. Andy's unguarded face showing... sadness? Longing? Guilt? 

That’s interesting.

"Are you thinking about hurting yourself?" Andy asks. His voice is steady, but George can see how Andy's hand has tightened around his pen, knuckles whitening against the blue plastic. Usually he's so relaxed during calls, but now there’s rigid tension running through his shoulders. George purses his lips as he puzzles through Andy’s reaction. Wonders why he’s glancing at Emma’s photo while trying to assess the caller’s likelihood of suicidal ideation. 

His mind begins to construct a narrative. Maybe, George thinks, Emma has dark thoughts. Struggles with anxiety. That would make sense - someone for the White Knight to rescue. Perhaps that's why Andy volunteers here. Perhaps he's practicing for the conversations he has to have at home.

He can picture them now. Emma, poor Emma, so quiet and fragile and deserving of protection. Struggling with the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders. Sitting on the edge of their shared bed, slim fingers twisted in her lap. Tears streaming from her big blue eyes. Andy reaching to cover her hand with his, warm and firm and grounding, as she fights a pain too vast for words. 

"I’m sorry," she would say, quiet and demure. Not wanting to make a fuss. Not wanting to trouble this kind, patient man who loves her.

"Hey," Andy would shush her. Lift a hand to gently cup her cheek. Tilt her head until her shining eyes were looking up at him. Remove her glasses and set them aside with care. "You don't need to apologise for anything."

Then he'd lean forward to press his lips tenderly on her forehead. Brush away her tears and plant soft kisses on her temple, her cheek, her mouth. Emma would respond, her hands finding Andy’s shoulders, his strong arms, pulling him closer. 

"I love you," Andy would whisper against her lips. Sounds that George has heard in films but never spoken or received himself. Three words that might as well be a foreign language. 

Emma would smile through her tears. A grateful expression, knowing how rare and special Andy’s feelings were. How rare and special Andy was. How rare and special Emma must be to inspire such love. 

He would hold her, her face pressed against his chest, his heartbeat steady in her ear. Wrapping her in gentle care. Keeping her cocooned and safe. George allows his eyes to close for a moment. Imagines the solid, steady, comforting pressure of encircling arms. Imagines being cherished and wanted regardless of any darkness inside. 

The fantasy dissolves as Andy's voice pulls George back to the surveillance feed. His voice sounds more raw than George has ever heard before.

"I know what it's like to lose someone," Andy is saying. "You wish you'd seen the signs, think about what you could have done differently."

Andy's eyes move to the photograph pinned up on his cubicle wall. This time they linger.

George's pulse quickens. The photograph is a memorial. A shrine to someone Andy couldn't save, couldn't protect. Could it be? Was Emma the one he’d lost? Rationales and reasons tumble into George’s mind. They’ve broken up. She’d chosen self-destruction rather than exist in a world without his love. 

Or.

Emma had been diagnosed with a terminal condition. They’d stayed together but she’d taken her own life rather than burden Andy with the responsibility of caring for her as she deteriorated.

Or.

Emma had been dead all along. Dead before Andy even set foot in the Comfort Support Line offices. And Andy is finding it hard to let the memory of her go. George feels something unfurl in his chest. If Emma is gone, if Andy is grieving and alone, then perhaps... perhaps there might be room for someone else in his life. Someone who understands loss and loneliness and the weight of carrying other people's pain. Andy can move on. Learn to love again.

(I’ve had just about enough of you and your silly stories.) 

Andy's hand moves, fingers touching the edge of the photograph. Like he’s making sure it's still there. Still real. He gazes at the photographic portrait.

"Yes," Andy says finally. "My sister. She was twenty-three."

The feeling in George's chest sinks and congeals in his stomach. 

His sister? That can’t be right. That’s Emma, that’s…  

George searches his memory for the image he’d seen, trying to remember the details. Andy, younger, his arm around someone. A woman with dark hair. Brown hair and blue eyes and a soft smile.

The rush of blood roaring in his ears blocks out the rest of the call. His heart thumps in his chest, panicky. His sister. His sister. 

(You’re sick in the head, George)

George rips off his headset, the plastic clattering against his desk. He can't listen anymore. Doesn't want to hear about the corpse he's defiled with his filthy thoughts. He wipes sweating palms against the corduroy fabric of his trousers. He's disgusting. Disgusting and pathetic and obscene and he always has been and his stepdad was right and everyone can tell.

The waveform of the recording continues to roll across his screen, spiking and dipping with Andy's murmured words. George smacks the stop button. He hesitates only briefly before deleting the entire file. On the monitor, Andy’s posture has relaxed slightly. He's smiling now, a tired smile. The caller must have stepped back from whatever edge they'd been standing on.  

After the call wraps up, Andy leaves for his break. George silently counts to one hundred then rises from his chair with measured steps. Casual and professional. Just a supervisor conducting routine rounds, checking on the workplace, making sure everything is running smoothly. No one could tell that his heart is pounding and his head throbs. No one can see the fists of his hands are squeezed so tight that his nails are digging into his palms. 

Finally he reaches booth 9.

And there, pinned to the fabric wall of the cubicle, the photograph that has occupied so much of his attention.

Now, examining it closely for the first time, the family resemblance is unmistakable. Up close he can see all the small details that aren't visible through the surveillance cameras. The same nose, the same face shape, the same dimples. Andy’s sister, captured in a moment of genuine joy. No sign of the darkness that would later claim her.

George pushes his glasses up his nose in a nervous gesture and continues his examination of Andy's workspace. He's beginning to accumulate personal knickknacks. A stress ball shaped like a wrinkled brain. A dishwasher-scratched Sports Direct mug with its faded logo and ring stains. And there, tucked against his monitor, another photo. Small, unframed, a holiday snap of a sunkissed couple by a swimming pool. His arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder. Some tacky souvenir from a cheap beach resort. 

George stares at it.  

This is the woman who shares Andy’s life?

Buxom. Coppery red hair. Laughing at something off-camera, a cigarette held loosely between fingers decorated with chipped pink nail varnish. The real Emma. Confident and uninhibited.

And wrong.

All wrong. 

Something sours in George’s stomach, a feeling so intense he feels physically nauseous. A sense of betrayal, as if Andy had somehow lied to him by connecting with this loud, messy woman who looks nothing like the mousy brunette George had constructed in his imagination. This woman doesn't need protecting. She looks like she could take care of herself just fine. She looks like the kind of person who watches reality TV and has opinions about things that don't matter.  

Andy needs someone quiet. Someone vulnerable. Someone who would appreciate his attention and care. Someone more like… 

(You made it up, didn’t you, George? You made it all up) 

The sound of voices growing louder pulls George back to the present. Liz and Andy, returning from their break, their conversation audible even from across the office floor. He can hear Liz's irritating laugh, can picture Andy's polite smile as he endures whatever gossip she's sharing. They'll be back at their desks in moments, and George can't be found here, staring at Andy's personal photographs like some sort of stalker.

He flees.

Back to his office, back to his chair, back to the safe distance where he can observe without being observed, where he can maintain the illusion of control while his carefully constructed fantasies crumble into disappointment.

When George was younger, some of the boys from school had discovered a stash of dirty magazines in the woods behind the playing fields. He’d stumbled into their group by accident, a conspiratorial circle gathered by the toilets in the science block. When the stuck-together pages were pulled apart to reveal their secrets, he’d realised his mistake. But it was too late to leave without drawing even more attention to himself. Too late to back out without someone noticing his retreat. 

One of the group had suggested tearing out the pages and sharing them around. The centrefolds were divvied out like playing cards around their dirty congress. George tried to mask his mounting discomfort as the images were passed from hand to hand. Images that made the other boys giggle and leer, pointing out favourites, boasting about experiences and fantasies he could not comprehend or echo. He had forced himself to hold the page he’d been allocated even while the panic rose in his chest and the sweat dripping down his back was making his shirt stick to his shoulderblades.

He’d escaped as soon as he could, concealed himself in a toilet cubicle with their leers and laughter ringing in his ears, mortified by the implications in their imaginations. Sitting on the closed lid, he’d unfolded the page and stared at the women’s exposed bodies, searching for the response his peers had demonstrated. On one side of the glossy sheet was a bleach blonde with her legs splayed open. Vivid red lips and coarse black bush aggressively displayed. Repulsive. On the other, two women with their naked breasts pressed together. Marginally better. But still failing to trigger the appreciation he was supposed to feel. It seemed impossible. Unimaginable. The only thing the pictures aroused in him was numbness and disgust.

Instead his eyes focused on his fingers where they gripped the page’s edge. They looked thin and starkly pale against the tanned skin printed on the paper. Bloodless, like they belonged to someone already dead. He imagined the women reaching out, touching him back, their hands cold and clammy. He recoiled at the thought. He wondered if they’d recoil from contact with him, too. If they’d recognise in him something missing. Or damaged beyond repair. 

Revulsion and shame and inadequacy and envy swirled in George’s chest. The feeling built until it was unbearable, a pressure behind his sternum that threatened to crack his ribs and force its way up and out through his mouth, or his eyes, or both. He began to tear the page, separating the two figures looking back in faux ecstasy. The glossy paper resisted initially, then gave way. He ripped it in half. Then quarters. Then smaller pieces. The careful tearing became more violent shredding until the women were reduced to pieces of confetti scattered across his palm. He dumped the pieces of torn flesh in the toilet bowl, observed them floating briefly on the water before pulling the chain. 

As they spiralled away he felt a rush of relief, a fleeting satisfaction that the thing that had shamed him could be obliterated so completely.

And now, decades later, he wants to rip Emma’s photo to shreds in the same way.

The afternoon passes in a haze of routine administrative tasks. He reviews call logs without reading them, updates volunteer schedules, responds to emails from head office about budget cuts and policy changes with the kind of bland professionalism that reveals nothing of his internal state. All the while, the images from Andy's desk burn in his memory. The dead sister, the living girlfriend.

George tries to focus on the reports spread across his desk, but the numbers blur together. His breathing feels shallow, constricted. Angrily, he flips through the audio feeds. Seeking distraction from these unwelcome thoughts and uninvited memories and the knowledge that he is and always will be wrong in ways that can't be fixed or forgiven or explained away.

He lands on station 6, and Liz's hateful voice fills his earpiece. Immediately something is wrong. Her tone is too casual. Too animated.

"Well, I'd put them all in the green ones, but lose the headdresses," Liz drawls. "And you don't want to go all Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, do you?"

George scowls. It’s a personal conversation. That bitch is using the Comfort Support Line to chat to her stupid airhead friends. Appropriating resources meant for people in crisis. Each mindless syllable taking another second when someone in genuine need might be unable to reach out. 

"And how much are they?" she continues, completely unaware that her transgression is being witnessed. "Well, do Primark not do them?" 

(Some people need to be taught respect, George)

George rises from his chair, propelled by anger. Liz is flouting the rules of his domain. Making him look weak. Her entire body language broadcasts disregard for the environment that George has spent years maintaining. Look at her laughing and chattering like she hasn't a care in the world.

The call floor spreads before him as he emerges from his office. George approaches number 6 with quick steps as the afternoon shift continues around him. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and Liz sitting in her chair with her back to him. Her strawberry blonde curls catch the light as she gestures animatedly. 

He positions himself directly beside her desk, close enough that his shadow falls across her workspace. Close enough that any professional - any competent - volunteer would recognise the signal to conclude their call.

"Liz," he says, warningly.

"Just a minute, George," Liz says, waving him away like an inconvenient interruption. She returns her attention to the phone conversation as if his presence carries no weight whatsoever. Like he's just an annoyance, a speck, a buzzing fly to be swatted away.

"Terminate that call, please," George says. He tries to modulate his voice, keep it professional but stern. Completely reasonable but unmistakably serious. The tone that should remind Liz exactly who signs her volunteer agreements and who has the power to make her life significantly more difficult.

"I'm with a client," Liz responds, her tone suggesting that George's inability to recognise this is a profound failure on his part.

"No, you're not," he seethes, feeling heat rise in his chest. "Terminate the call." 

For a moment, Liz pauses in her conversation. George allows himself to hope that she's finally recognized the seriousness of the situation, that some vestige of respect might reassert itself before the situation escalates. But instead, Liz maintains eye contact as she speaks into the handset with exaggerated politeness.

"I'm sorry, caller, but my supervisor's instructing me to terminate this call. Would you wait just a sec?"

She covers the mouthpiece and fixes him with a look like a sullen teenager.

"What?" 

"You're not allowed personal calls," George says tightly. "How many times have I got to tell you?"

"She called the helpline," Liz responds. Smug smile on her stupid fucking face. As if she’s found a loophole.  

"To talk about bridesmaids' dresses."

"She's upset about it. It's a big decision."

A defence so absurd it borders on parody. George can see the calculation behind her eyes. The stupid cow thinks she's being clever, thinks she can twist the situation to make him look unreasonable.

"This is completely against the rules. To clog up the lines with personal calls-"

"Oh, piss off, George!" Liz snaps. And there it is, the contempt that she holds for him. The climax of years of accumulated disrespect. All the times she's rolled her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking, all the conversations that stopped when he entered the break room, all the subtle ways she's undermined his authority. "I'm working. Some of us are here to help people."

That bitch. That fucking ginger bitch. How fucking dare she?

Around the call floor, George can sense rather than see the other volunteers' reactions. They keep their heads down. Don’t make eye contact. But he knows they're aware of the confrontation unfolding at booth 6. Watching to see how he'll respond to this public humiliation.

"Hello," she says, returning to her call with syrupy sweetness. "Yes, you were saying."

George’s breathing comes faster. His hands clench. 

"Put that phone down," he impotently commands. 

"Well, I'd go for the white shoes..." Liz continues, spinning her chair away from him. Her voice louder, designed to demonstrate that George's authority carries no weight whatsoever. 

He turns on his heel and storms back towards his office. Then stops. Doubles back.

He can’t let that cunt win. 

Liz is still talking, still laughing, as he moves with laser focus toward Station 6. The phone cord stretches as she gestures, and George can see exactly how this is going to end. How it has to end, really, because some people only understand one kind of language.

He reaches for the phone, fingers closing around the handset, making to wrench it away from her.

"What are you doing?!" Liz shrieks as George's fingers make contact. He can feel the imprint of sweaty warmth her hand has left on the black plastic.

"Give me the fucking phone!" he screams as they wrestle for control. The push and pull of their struggle crashes against the padded partition of Liz’s cubicle. The office watches in stunned silence as they grapple. Kath has risen from her chair, mouth open in shock. Ed is backing away from his desk as if the conflict might spread. Even Andy has appeared in the doorway of the staff room, two mugs of tea in his hands, his face reflecting a mixture of confusion and concern.

Liz's voice climbs toward hysteria as George manages to slam the phone back into its cradle. The handset makes a satisfying crack against the desk. 

"Are you for real?" she shouts to his retreating back. "Did you see that, Valerie? It was an assault!"

He storms back to his office with as much dignity as he can muster, though he can feel the eyes following him. George sits down heavily in his chair, feeling the heat in his chest begin to transform into something colder. 

Through his office window, and repeated on his monitor, he can see the aftermath of the confrontation. Liz is at her desk but she's not taking calls. Instead she's engaged in animated conversation with Valerie, no doubt recounting the incident with embellishments designed to cast George as the villain. Her gestures are over-the-top, her face flushed. 

He's not sure how long he sits there, gazing at the scene. But eventually the phone on his desk begins to ring. The call ID flashes up: Regional office. George stares at the device for several rings before reaching out. He finds himself oddly calm. The rage has burned itself out, leaving behind a kind of cold clarity that feels almost peaceful.  

He picks it up.

"George? It's Pauline from Wood Green. I've just had a rather concerning call from one of your volunteers..."

Chapter Text

Saturday 17/01/2015

At 5.54pm the sound of the shipping forecast drifts from the battered radio. The announcer's voice carries the list of names in a lulling rhythm. Viking. North Utsire. South Utsire. Forties. Cromarty. Forth. Meaningless but soothing words about the wind and the rain and the state of the sea. It's the only sound except for the fridge buzzing to life in the kitchen and the sloshing of wine as George pours another glass.

The meeting with the trustees will take place next week, in the big boardroom that the regional office uses for important job interviews and performance reviews. The place where branch managers gather for interminable quarterly planning sessions, discussing statistics and council tenders and whatever banal bollocks the fundraising campaigns team has dreamed up this time. The minutes will arrive in his inbox afterwards, annotated with the usual condescending remarks from Pauline.

George swills red wine around his mouth, feeling it coat his tongue before he swallows. He isn't sure if his career can survive this. But he knows that turning the focus on Liz is the only way it might. To make the trustees understand that her unprofessional conduct undermines the mission and vision and values of the Comfort Support Line.

(You can tell George is lying because his lips are moving)

He leans over and switches off the radio, flips open his laptop instead. There's a report to write. Evidence to collect. George squints as the screen spills blue white light across his face. He tells himself he's looking for more proof of Liz's lapses as he navigates to the folder of audio recordings. But now that the temptation sits at his fingertips, cursor hovering over files that contain hours of Andy's voice, George finds himself unable to think about anything except those stolen conversations and the image seared into his mind of the holiday photograph on Andy's desk.

He lets out a sigh as he recalls the details of the image. Taken somewhere cheap and hot - somewhere like Tenerife or Mallorca, full of tourists temporarily escaping the British weather. All those drunken stag groups and hen parties, the kind of enforced "fun" that leaves everyone sunburned and dehydrated and convinced they've had the time of their lives.

George has never been on a holiday like that. Has never been on a holiday at all, really, not unless you count those week-long trips to Devon as a child. Days spent hiking in enforced silence, long nights in a damp caravan holding his breath and pretending to be asleep. And once his mother got ill even those trips had stopped.

That tacky holiday resort was probably Emma's choice, Andy going along with it to make her happy. Probably Emma who goaded him into removing his shirt for the poolside photograph. George recalls the way Andy's torso was kissed pink by the sun. The sparkling water droplets stippling his skin. The garish blue swimming shorts clinging to his thighs.

George lets Andy's voice run in the background as he arranges and rearranges the fragments of the image in his mind's eye. He pictures Andy climbing out of the pool, endearingly graceless, all pale legs and broad back. Rivulets of chlorinated water streaming down his neck, through his chest hair, following the contours of his ribcage and stomach down to the blue fabric bunched around his crotch. He would plant his feet wide on the scalding concrete, shake himself off like a golden retriever emerging from a pond.

Emma - the real Emma - would probably clap or whistle or raise her eyebrows in a parody of appreciation. Make bawdy remarks and flash her teeth in mock-sexy snarls. Stinking of greasy suntan lotion and saccharine cocktails. Vulgar and obvious and unsophisticated. Not what Andy needs at all.

George pictures Andy reaching for Emma's hand, his wet footprints marking the path towards their hotel room. Andy's hand resting on the small of Emma's back as he opens the door to their room. Heading to the tiny hotel shower - barely big enough for one person. They'd squeeze in together, bumping hips and knees and shoulders.

But then the fantasy begins to fracture as George tries to imagine what happens next. Emma stripping off her bikini with a flourish. No. That's not right. That's not how it should happen. 

George tries to redirect the scene, but now Emma's reaching out to stroke Andy’s jaw and George can see her hands too clearly: fingers stained with nicotine, nails bitten and painted in juvenile bubblegum shades. Fingers that treat Andy's body casually. Touch him without reverence. He sees Emma running her hands over Andy's skin, her chewed claws leaving red trails as she rakes them down his chest, pinching at his nipples to make him jolt.

Wrong, wrong, wrong. George can't place himself in that scene, can't picture himself slipping into that confident woman's skin. But that red-headed slag won't behave the way George wants her to.

It's like watching a play where the performers keep forgetting their lines. Like watching dubbed dialogue that doesn’t match the movement of the actors’ lips. He tries to rewind, to restart the scene and rewrite the story, but the harder he tries to impose passivity on Emma the more she rebels against his direction. Her loud, throaty, tarry laugh echoes through his imagination. Mocking him.

George opens his eyes and drains the rest of his wine, feeling the alcohol burn his throat as reality reasserts itself around him. The sun disappeared two hours ago - January days are short and it’s winter dark outside the window. He takes a deep breath in through his nose and absent mindedly plays with the cuff of his grey-brown sweater. After a moment of deliberation, he switches off the light, plunging the living room into darkness. The black silence makes Andy's voice seem more immediate, more present.

"I know it feels strange," Andy's voice says, "But I promise it'll get easier."

George wants to believe him. But there isn't room for him in Emma's story. She exists in a world he can’t access.

And there isn't room for her in Andy's story either.

Because Andy’s calling is fixing broken things. Andy offers shelter to damaged creatures. Not bolshy, gobby women who have never needed protection from anything more dangerous than sunburn and hangovers. The narrative only makes sense if Andy is with someone who can appreciate his capacity for rescue.

What Andy needs - what George needs Andy to need - is a clean slate upon which George can inscribe a new story.

The woman he’d pictured with Andy, George considers, was never really Emma at all. The photograph of Andy’s sister was an inspiration for her image, but it hadn’t been a template. It wouldn't take much to push that creation further away from both of them, to divorce her completely from any unpleasant connotations.

The wine working its way deeper into George's bloodstream makes it harder to keep the material world in focus. But the portrait of the softly spoken brunette sharpens behind his closed eyelids. He recalls the details of her facial features. She's pretty but she thinks she's plain because no one ever notices her. Not in the ways that matter. Maybe he could make her nose a bit less narrow. Give her slightly rounder cheeks. The lips… No, the lips were good as they were.

She should have a fringe, George decides. Soft hair that falls into her eyes in ways that would make Andy want to brush it back, to see her face clearly. And she should definitely wear glasses. Andy's sister wasn't wearing them in that photograph, but it seems right somehow for this new creation. Makes her eyes seem larger and more doe-like, giving Andy the opportunity to gently remove the frames and tell her she's beautiful and make her blush and stammer and believe it for the first time in her life.

She needs a name now, this growing collection of wounds and needs. Something classic and dependable. Sarah. Olivia. Fiona. Louise. Chloe.

Chloe.

Yes, that feels truest somehow.

George lets the details accumulate as he pours another glass of Merlot by the glow of his laptop screen. He can see her so clearly now - Chloe needs rescuing from people who don't ask the right questions, who don't notice that something is wrong, so very wrong. A young woman trapped in a suffocating house with her horrible stepfather and a mother who says "It's not easy to find someone at my age. And he's been so kind to us" when Chloe tries to explain. Tries to make her understand without using words that would shatter the careful fiction of their happy family. Because she knows who her mother would side with, if it came to that.

The construction feels so real that George can almost see her sitting in the darkness of his living room. Can almost feel her slight weight on the sofa beside him. Can hear the sound of her tense little breaths. Shoulders hunched, hands clenched tight in the sleeves of her cardigan, desperate not to be noticed but more desperate to be seen.

A new sound enters the darkness: the end of the audio file, the faint click of the disconnection, followed by the sound of the next file in the queue starting up. Andy's voice returns. A new call. A new introduction.

"I can't give out my personal details, but you can tell me your name, if you like," says Andy.

"Chloe," says Chloe.

Sunday 18/01/2015

Sunday nights can be quiet. There’s only a skeleton crew on right now, spread out amongst the office, and even they are winding down and packing up their belongings. Meanwhile Andy is settling into his cubicle as the lone voice on the late shift. He’s brought in a small puzzle book - a wordsearch or a crossword. Something to help pass the time.

On George's desk sits a small mobile phone connected to his bluetooth headset. Casually, so that no observer could tell, he reaches out and starts recording the video feed. The camera set on Andy’s cubicle partition, a full screen image of Andy. He observes as their colleagues filter out through the corridor into the outside world. The gradual winnowing down to essential personnel.

To Andy. Alone at station 9.

George's throat feels dry as he dials the CSL number.

The Comfort Support Line number is printed a dozen times on the walls, on laminated lanyards, on every badge in the building. It’s burned into George's brain, more familiar than his own date of birth. But he still needs to double, triple check before he dials. He takes a breath to steady himself. He's been on this line countless times. Now he's on the other side of the glass. Shifting from supervisor to supplicant. Just another voice crying out in the dark.

The phone rings once. Twice.

"Hello, Comfort Support Line. How can I help you?"

George's heart pounds as he feels the familiar warmth that spreads through his chest whenever he hears Andy's voice.

He almost hangs up. The urge is sudden, overwhelming, a powerful animal instinct to run and hide. But Chloe speaks up before he can act on the cowardly impulse.

"Hello?" says Chloe. "Is Victoria there?"

Victoria, who'd left six months ago. Victoria whose departure had created the opening that brought Andy into George's orbit.

"Ah, sorry, no. Victoria's not in tonight." Andy's tone remains gentle.

"What's your name?" Chloe asks, voice wavering.

"I'm afraid we're not advised to give out our personal details," Andy responds. Exactly as he's supposed to. George feels a moment of appreciation. Chloe sees a challenge.

"Victoria did."

"Well, she's no longer a volunteer here, but I am."

Through his monitor, George watches Andy lean back in his chair. He's wearing a light blue shirt today. It suits him. Matches his eyes.

"You can tell me your name, if you'd like."

"It's Chloe." The name emerges from George's throat with ease. He's been practicing. But he wonders if his breath or his cadence or the sounds of his vowels will betray him, if Andy will wink and say "Come on, George, I know it’s you." But there’s nothing. No sign that Andy hears anything but the voice he wants to hear. A troubled young woman, waiting to be rescued.

"Hi, Chloe. I'm… here for you."

"Will you talk to me?"

"Of course."

"What..." Chloe's voice catches, as if gathering courage. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Well, I'm just here to listen, so you tell me."

Through the monitor, George watches Andy lean forward in his chair, puzzle book forgotten as his attention focuses entirely on the voice on the line. It's the kind of undivided attention that George has craved for longer than he can consciously remember.

"Well..." Chloe takes a breath and the words come tumbling out. "I hate my life. I hate my mum. I hate my stepdad... I especially hate my stepdad."

A memory surfaces like something dredged from deep water. A November afternoon, walking home from school. His breath forming small damp clouds. Rehearsing phrases. Whispering his fears into the sleeve of his jumper just to hear how they sounded in the air. Things he could never say to anyone else. Things he could never say to himself. Would you still love me if I told you something bad?

(You want her to get better, don’t you?)

"I haven't done anything with my life," Chloe continues.

"How old are you, Chloe?" Andy asks.

"I'm sixteen."

I'm legal, Andy. 

"Well, there you go, you're still very young." Andy responds optimistically. "You've got your whole life ahead of you."

"Yeah..." Chloe's voice carries George's own bitterness.

When George was sixteen he didn’t feel like he had his whole life ahead of him. He felt like his life was over. Felt that the future stretching ahead of him was blank and bleak and empty.

(Don’t you dare cry. Don’t you dare show me up)

George shifts uncomfortably. The office around him seems smaller suddenly. The walls closer. The air thinner. The wool of his jumper scratches at his skin. This is getting too close to the truths of his own life. He needs to stay in control.

George realises his breathing has become audible through the phone line. His eyes find Andy's on the screen as he lets Chloe’s voice shiver, panting lightly, working up to a convincing little moan. A soft, desperate sound. He sees Andy raise his eyebrows, glance over his shoulder.

"Chloe…" Andy says, and George relishes in the exquisite discomfort in his voice. Some part of him expected Andy to hang up. It's one of the only situations where the volunteers are allowed to terminate a dialogue: If the caller’s intent is sexual gratification. Hang up. Report it to your supervisor.

Andy's voice sounds strained as he stammers through his words, trying to maintain his professionalism. "Chloe, I don't want to be rude, but if you're doing what I think you're doing, I'm going to have to ask you to stop because..."

George can't help but grin triumphantly. He's done it - made Andy think that Chloe is masturbating. Made him imagine a teenage girl with her hands in her knickers. Made him complicit in it. A witness. An accomplice.

He wonders if Andy is getting turned on. Imagining Chloe breathing heavily into the phone with her skirt hiked up around her waist. Maybe he's getting a hard-on thinking about her, picturing Chloe's shining wet fingers.

George squints at the monitor, trying to glean more details from the low resolution image. Were Andy’s cheeks getting red? Was he shifting his hips under the desk? Struggling to keep his mind from wandering further into inappropriate territory? George could see it, could hear it. The soft sympathetic hum, the way Andy tried to gently clear his throat after Chloe’s feigned moan. The evidence was in his voice. 

The thought makes George feel dirty. Violated. Excited. Contemptuous towards Andy for having such sordid thoughts in the office. In the office! Where anyone could see! 

But there was no one else. They were the only two people there. 

Andy was as dirty as he was. And he could stop feeling alone in his own filth.

In a waking dream, George emerges from the glass prison of his office. Passes through the hush of the corridor, into the warmth of the office and towards booth 9. He could see Andy hunched over his desk, knowing he was fighting the desire to palm himself through his trousers, or slip off to the toilets and jerk himself raw. 

George stands behind him just long enough to watch the tension creep up Andy’s neck, the way his shoulders drew in tighter. Then delicately clears his throat, and Andy turns, his face registering a flash of fear. He’d been caught and he knew it.

But George would be merciful.

Lightly, carefully, he places a hand on Andy’s shoulder. Leans in and murmurs softly: "I can help you with that... If you like."

He savours the flicker of confusion on Andy’s face giving way to understanding, like a slow exhale. He lets his fingers drift down Andy's front. Feels the heat radiate through the fabric. Slides his hand against the unmistakeable bulge in Andy’s lap and feels it twitch.

George unzips Andy’s trousers and lightly strokes over the soft grey cloth of his boxer shorts. Runs his fingers delicately over the fly. He catches a glimpse of Andy’s engorged flesh already straining at the gap in the cotton, desperate to be freed. George takes his time, slow and exploratory, memorising the shape and texture of him. Then curls his fingers into the opening in the fabric. Hears the sharp intake of breath at the skin to skin contact.

Andy is gazing up at him, pleading silently. George wraps his hand around Andy’s length, marvelling at how it could feel so soft and so hard at the same time, letting Andy feel the coolness of his palm against the heated skin. He runs his thumb over the weeping tip, watches Andy close those beautiful blue eyes and hears him groan. See, Emma? This is how he likes it. George slowly works Andy's cock, feeling the skin glide under his loose grip, watching him squirm in the chair. Breathing out a single word - "yes" or "fuck" or George’s own name, though George wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not.

"Chloe? Are you still there?"

The voice in his ear brings him back to the present. George is still in his office. He hasn't moved. Hasn't taken any action at all. 

(Little liar. Making things up for attention)

"Uh, yeah, sorry," Chloe mumbles, "I - I have to go, my stepdad's just come home."

"Chloe? Are you alright? Are you… safe?"

The rescuer's instinct, George can’t help but marvel even now. He lets an uncertain tremor creep into Chloe's voice.

"I shouldn't have called. Sorry."

"No, no, you did the right thing," Andy hurries to reassure her, "You can call CSL any time you want. We're here for you."

"Mm. Maybe," says Chloe, noncommittal.

George wonders if Andy will replay this call in his own mind. If he’ll be kept awake by the memory of Chloe’s voice and the ambush of his imagination while Emma slumbers beside him.

"You could ask for me specifically. I want to make sure you're OK."

"Could I... could I really ask for you?"

"Of course. Just tell whoever answers that you'd like to speak to Andy."

"Andy," Chloe repeats shyly, "Is that your real name? Or do they make you use fake ones?"

"It's my real name," Andy admits. Another line crossed. So blatant, so easily obtained, George almost feels disappointed.

"I'll call again soon, Andy. I promise.”