Title: What Time We Have
Fandom: Rejseholdet/Unit One
Rating: PG13
Length: 1126
Disclaimer: I don't own any recognisable characters ... they all belong to DR.
Summary: Twenty-four hours isn't really long enough but they'll make do.
Authors Note: Set after s4e2 (ep.32)

It’s not that Fischer hates Europol – well, maybe he does – it’s more that it isn’t Rejseholdet. It’s never going to be Rejseholdet, even if it tried. Not only is he the only Dane in his division but the rest of them are all so bloody by the book. Bloody Europol with all its rules and regulations. He can’t even smoke inside. There’s none of the sense of family that came with Rejseholdet and he misses them all so much that he’s willing to admit it. Not for the first time – and definitely not for the last – he curses Palsby under his breath; it’s all his bloody fault. If it weren’t for Palsby then he’d be back in Copenhagen with the team that he loved, the job that he loved and the people that he loved.

It could be worse, he tries to tell himself that all the time. It’s not as bad as the six months that he spent in Horsens. Then, he’d only had La Cour and that had been intermittent at best. Now, he’s allowed contact with all of his old team which has at least made it bearable.

In a move that surprised him, he heard from Ulf the most; weekly phone calls where the older man rambled on about a variety of subjects. Ingrid’s calls weren’t quite so regular, maybe every fortnight and a little stilted and awkward, full of hypotheticals about cases that they obviously didn’t discuss. IP discussed everything except work so mostly about football and the fact that Ingrid refused to replace Fischer permanently so there was an endless stream of temporary assignments. What IP did acknowledge was the fact that Ulf was indulging her and letting it happen without a word; everyone knew that Fischer would be back, it was just a matter of when.

It didn’t surprise him that he heard from Gaby the least; intermittent emails with photos of little Asta and Johnny’s recovery. Gaby may not have said anything out loud, but Fischer knew that she blamed him for Johnny’s accident and he didn’t fault her for that at all; he blamed himself as well.

And then there was La Cour.

A day didn’t go past when he didn’t hear from the other DI. The method of communication varied from nothing more than a brief text when one of both of them was on a case to long, rambling emails to phone calls lasting several hours. La Cour had even sent him a letter more than once, honest to god letters on proper stationery with pages written in La Cour’s impeccable, tiny penmanship. It was through La Cour that he heard the news about Victor, Mille using La Cour as a go-between to send messages and photos. Fischer missed his son, of course he did, but it was La Cour who he missed the most.

So much so that, when he left Europol for the day, stopping to light a cigarette as he always did, he thought he was imagining the oh-so-familiar lanky figure lounging against the wall opposite him. The last time they had spoken, La Cour had said that they had finished their case in the arse end of nowhere and he was going to be spending a couple of days with Marie. This definitely didn't count as spending time with his daughter. Still, La Cour looked relaxed as opposed to tense so nothing too bad could have happened. It was most likely that Helene had reneged on their visitation agreement, which made Fischer angry on his friends’ behalf.

Then again, who the fuck cared why La Cour was here. The important thing, the only thing that Fischer cared about, was that he was here. Leaning against a wall outside Europol as though it were the mobile office, and this was just an ordinary day.

Before Fischer could think too much, his legs were moving, seemingly of their own accord, each step bringing him closer to La Cour. He came to a halt when he was so close that their chests were almost touching. Grabbing hold of the lapels of La Cour's bloody overcoat - did he not own anything else - and all but smashed their lips together. It was only when he registered that yes, he was really kissing La Cour, Thomas, that Fischer realised just how long he had wanted to do this. A hundred different things suddenly slotted into place, finally making sense.

Was this why it hadn't worked with Mille and Ida? How long had he wanted La Cour without realising it? Looking back, he acknowledged that it wasn't normal to take your best friend on holiday with your wife and your new baby. That he had missed La Cour far more when he had been sent home over that ridiculous case in X than he had ever missed Ida when she was doing the FBI course in the States. That he had a relationship with La Cour that was completely different to those he shared with everyone else. He was drawn out of his revelatory thoughts as La Cour spoke.

"Well that wasn't quite the welcome I was expecting."

As soon as the words registered, Fischer cycled through a myriad of emotions before he settled on defensive, squaring his shoulders and preparing for the fight to come. Only, it never came. Instead, La Cour ducked his head the necessary inch and pressed a kiss of his own to Fischer's lips, before pulling back with a wry smile.

"Took you long enough, Allan."

"Fuck off, Thomas."

"How long are you here for?" Fischer couldn't tear his eyes away from La Cour, still not quite able to believe that he was here. That they had kissed. More importantly, that it had felt right. He knew that he should ask about Marie, about why La Cour was here and not with her and Helene but he couldn't bring himself to. Selfish it may be, but he didn't care as long as La Cour was with him.

The answer, when it came, was reluctant, as though La Cour was anticipating the fact that Fischer wouldn't like it. "Twenty-four hours, give or take. Maybe a little longer."

Fischer groaned, holding onto La Cour's coat that bit harder, as though his grip would change things. As though it would keep La Cour here. "It's not long enough."

"Maybe not. We'll just have to make the best of the time that we have. And there's always next time."

Fischer brightened at the words 'next time' and the implication that this wasn't just a one-off. "That's true. Come on then, not a minute to waste. You weren't planning on seeing anything outside of my bedroom, were you?"

"Glad to see Europol hasn't changed you, Allan."