lady_bols | [oom] 3x07 (iv)

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[oom] 3x07 (iv)

Whenever Alex needs a moment to gather her thoughts, she writes. Usually, her notes are disjointed, a noun here, a verb there. Names, places, emotions. She prefers to use the tape to keep her journal. It's easier when she thinks she's talking to someone else. (Molly. Where is Molly now? Where is Gene?)

He's down there with his team, but she knows he'll be coming up those stairs soon. She's left her shoes on, tidied up the place a bit, actually made the bed for once. Not that she's slept in it for months.

She feels him before she hears the knock at the door. Like a change in the air just before a summer storm, or that sensation you get when know someone else is in the room even if you can't see them. He has a presence about him. Always has.

She puts her notebook away in the bookshelf, and crosses the living room to her front door. For some reason, she checks the peephole at the door, even though she already knows who it is. She's not sure why, but the butterflies in her stomach feel more like fear than anticipation.

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He waits patiently, bottle in one hand, glasses dangling from the fingers of the other. When she opens the door, he doesn’t smile. This is what it is, and he’s definitely feeling the nerves. But it’s serious as well.

‘I, er...I left the children playing.’

She might have changed her mind. It’s always a possibility.

'You did well. With -- Chris.'

She doesn't step back, not yet. She's not sure if they've lost the moment, again.

He doesn’t want to talk about Chris. There’s only one thing he wants to talk about now.

‘I think we have unfinished business, Bolly.’

Business. That doesn't sound encouraging.

'Yeah. Yeah we do.'

This doesn't feel like she imagined it would. There's an edge of quiet desperation to it. As if this is the last chance she'll ever have to, well -- be with him. She yields, and locks the door behind him, wondering just what it is they both want from tonight.

If this were a normal situation, he might well walk in, put the bottle down and turn and kiss her. But he can’t do that here. Their grip on this thing is tenuous at best. He told her something big tonight, something no one else knows. And then he told her, in his way, how much she means to him, simply by admitting he cared what she thought of him. And he still doesn’t know if it was enough. She’s always been impossible to read in this regard.

So he walks into the flat ready for this to go wrong - while thinking of her face when she said, you’ve pulled. She looked like she meant it.

He opens the wine. There’s hope enough, yet.

'I bought beer. If you'd prefer.'

She never keeps beer here. She's a wine drinker, through and through. She opens the fridge behind him, and pulls one out of the six pack.

'I don't have proper pint glasses though. I don't expect you'd mind drinking straight from the bottle.'

Somewhere around here, there's a bottle opener.

His lips purse, while his hands work the cork free. She got beer in. She was expecting him at some point.

...no point reading too much into that. He used to be here quite often.

‘Bottle’s fine. Ta.’

He fills a glass for her, and manages a half-smile as he holds it out. The nerves are definitely taking hold, for a mixture of reasons. If she was going to turf him out, if she’d changed her mind, she wouldn’t let him get a drink, surely? She’s not that harsh. She’d put the kibosh on it right now.

‘Shall we sit down?’

She trades him a beer for her wine glass, conscious of his proximity now in a way she hasn't been for a long while. 'Sure. Better bring the bottle, hmm?' He's still in his tuxedo, and she'd ask to take his jacket, but for once, she's honest with herself. Once she starts touching him, she's not sure she could bring herself to stop.

Just keep it together, Alex. It feels like all her emotions are just beneath the surface. It's not a pleasant sensation, this razor's edge. But he's here now. Her rock. Stupid, stubborn, pigheaded, misogynistic, brilliant bastard of a man. And he's here, all alone with her. She can do this. She exhales, and actually manages to saunter into the living room.

He lets her lead the way. In the living room, he takes a swig to hide the nerves. Then he places the bottle down on the coffee table, and takes his coat off. It doesn’t feel right to hang it up with hers, so he drapes it over one of the chairs. After only a tiny hesitation, he sits on one end of the sofa.

So far, so good? It’s been a long time since they were comfortable with each other under normal circumstances, let alone when working up to...whatever they’re working up to.

‘Think they’ve found Tobias yet?’

'Honestly?'

She settles at the other end, one leg curled beneath her, and half-turned to face him.

'I'm not sure they'll ever find him. He's educated, resourceful. He has contacts. I wouldn't be surprised if he was halfway to South America by now.'

‘Him? Nah.’

He picks up his drink again. She’s turned towards him, and he could mirror the posture. But it would feel fake, and he’s not about fake.

‘Blokes like that never stop fightin’.’

He picks imaginary lint off his trousers.

‘We lost him for good. Keats’ll be creaming his pants.’

'He's not the murderer we thought he was, Gene.' She's not sure what he was. 'And can we not talk about Keats? All he ever does is make you angry.'

‘Yeah. Fair enough.’

She’s not wrong. And OK, that felt like a tiny jab at him - even he didn’t really think the man was a murderer - but this evening is not about anything that happened at the station today. If this is going to go wrong, it won’t be because they have an argument about work.

‘It’s a shame about-’

He stops. Looked at in a certain way, he could be blamed for what Tzitzi did. But he didn’t mean for her to die - and again, not something he wants to get into now.

‘I’m glad Chris came back.’

Her elbow rests on the back of the couch, her hand under her hair. She tilts her head to look at him, a quiet smile in her eyes.

'I never had any doubt that he would. He adores you.'

They all do.

He snorts quietly, and finishes the beer.

‘He’s a good lad, really. Just a bit thick.’

He loves that bloke like a son, but he’s lost count of the number of times he’s wanted to smack him around the head, and shout ‘wake up.’ Did it a few times, too.

He’s not sure about him adoring him. There’s plenty of evidence to the contrary.

‘Mind if I get another drink?’

'No, not at all. Help yourself.'

She leans forward, and tops off her wine glass.

'I'm sorry I spoke so harshly to de Villiers. No, that's not the truth. I'm not sorry I did. I am sorry Keats was there to see it. It was unprofessional of me.'

Her words are quiet and measured, the hour and the mood evident in her tone.

He stands, and then looks down at her as she speaks.

‘Thought we weren’t talkin’ about him.’

He wanders to the kitchen, and back again. Alcohol helps the nerves, and he’s tired. That helps too. Less energy available to get angry, or jumpy at random comments. It’s late, and the lights are soft and things feel like they’ve finally turned a corner with her. Being honest has its advantages, it seems.

He sits, and slumps back into the cushions. Without thinking, his feet come up and rest on the coffee table.

‘That prat deserved worse than what you said to him. Don’ worry about it.’

She hums, twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. Somewhere along the line, she'd clutched one of the tiny couch pillows against her stomach, ostensibly as something to rest her hands on. (In a distant memory, it still feels like a wound that needs protecting. She wonders if that will ever change.)

'Yeah, but I was wearing white, and I could hardly break his nose and get blood all over me. Though it would have been -- a very satisfying way to shut him up.' She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, and it's clear, she's relaxing as well.

‘Satisfying enough t’make it worth it, if you ask me. You could always buy another frock.’

She looks just as good in these leggings and loose sweater.

‘I should’ve done it. Though Special Branch would probably have swooped in, an’ chucked away the key on me. Git’s probably got diplomatic immunity or somethin’.’

She smirks at him, thinking it wasn't the dress she was worried about, it was that gorgeous fur.

'Maybe we're rubbing off on one another?'

Her nose disappears into her wine glass at that naff sentiment. But it's only the truth. There was a time before she met him when she would have smiled and eaten that shite like a good little soldier. That was another lifetime ago.

Hope we’re gonna be is what his brain supplies, but he doesn’t let it out.

‘What can I say? I’m a bad influence. Or a force for good, depending on how you look at it.’

He cracks the top off his drink.

‘If I start spoutin’ psychology bollocks, feel free to kill me.’

She chuffs a laugh, eyes fixed on the tips of his snakeskin boots. 'You do know that 'psychology bollocks' is just another way of expressing your ever legendary powers of intuition when it comes to people.'

Her voice trails off, feeling a bit daft for even trying to explain the similarities. 'It's not all just mumbo jumbo.'

‘That’s just it, isn’ it? It’s intuition. It doesn’t need a fancy name.’

...and now it sounds like he’s belittling her job. That wasn’t what he meant. He looks down at his hands, and fiddles with a corner of the label on his bottle.

‘You’re good at it, though. Got us out of a scrape or two.’

'Thanks,' she looks perplexed, taking a sip of her wine.

'I only went to school for it. Have a degree and everything.' Now she may be pulling his tail a bit.

He has the grace to look chagrined. Just a little bit.

‘You know what I meant.’

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