lady_bols: (s1 drunk crashed out w gene)
[ cont'd from here ]

Alex waits for the door to close behind Ace before turning back to face an utterly boneless Gene.    He's laying half on his side, his jacket wrinkled, his hair mussed.  One leg hangs over the edge of the bed.

She stands over him for a long moment, before picking up the one errant foot and slipping the boot off.  The other soon follows and she tries not to let her hands linger, tries to keep her movements clinical and impersonal.  She slips off his jacket and his tie, hanging them on the hook behind the door.  His belt follows, and if she rests her head on his chest while her hands work it through the loops, then so be it.

She sits on the bed next to him, one leg folded beneath her.  He's warm, and even through the booze and the cigarettes, she can smell his aftershave.   She smooths his hair back from his face and makes sure his neck is supported by a pillow.  Her hands do slow then, and she bends to brush a kiss against his cheek.

"Thought for a moment I'd lost you today."  Her voice is the barest whisper, and the memory of that sickening moment when she didn't know if it was Mac or him that had taken the killing shot makes her throat tighten and her mouth go dry.  "And not just when you asked that Glaswegian nutter to marry you," she laughs, biting back the tears that rise.

She rests her head against his shoulder, the strain making her lower back twinge, but she won't stretch out next to him.  Ace's warning to not fall asleep across his chest still rings in her ears.  (Oh but to wake up with his arms around her...)

The thought makes her sit up abruptly, scrubbing her hands over her face, dragging her fingers through her hair.  She rises and toes off her boots, stepping into the bathroom.  She fumbles the hot water on and grabs a cloth to remove her makeup.  A few minutes later, she returns to the sound of his snoring.

Numb fingers pull the duvet up from the one side of the bed, gently covering him .  She turns out the light and slips between the covers beside him, turning to lay with her back to him.  Her eyes close and she listens to the sound of his breathing.  Each breath, she urges another part of her body to relax.  Her shoulders, her back, her legs, willing herself to let it go.  Let that shot go.  Let Jackie's little joke go.  Let Summers go.  Let it all go.

She focuses on her breathing, matching it to his, one breath at a time, until the heaviness takes over and her body slips into unconsciousness.
lady_bols: (Default)
After pouring through the files Gene had brought home with him, Alex found she couldn't sleep.  She was still operating on a sleep deficit from the previous week's case, so she did pass out in front on the couch with the files stacked around her, but only for a few hours.  When she woke up, it was early Sunday morning.

And she thought, what better time to go diving for dirt in the Fenchurch East records room than now?

She wore old jeans, a grey knit blouse (mouse colours for mouse work), boots, and swept her hair up off the back of her neck. She made herself a thermos of tea and stuff a packet of biscuits in her handbag.   The walk to the office took her five minutes, and when she got there, she had to let herself in.  It was eerily quiet without the hum of the fluorescents, and her footsteps rung in the hallways.

She did have to turn on one light in the records room. 

"Please, let today be a good day," she prayed quietly to herself, squeezing down the narrow aisle.  "No roses.  No white clown.  No defibrillator.  Just good -- honest police work."

For some reason, this kind of research felt the absolute opposite of boring.  She knew there was something here they could use to bring SuperMac down.   And before he managed to transfer Gene to Plymouth.  That was really the key, wasn't it?

"Her name is Molly,"  she murmurs, pulling down a box of files and settling on the floor.  "Today is her twelfth birthday."

The mantra doesn't even hold much anger anymore.  Just a quiet resolve.

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December 2013

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