lady_bols | [oom] Room 6620

Entry tags:

lom!gene,
oom

[oom] Room 6620

[[ after this & this ]]

God, not again.

She was only getting up to use the loo in the middle of the night. She'd just left this place a few hours ago, after it swept her away and stuck her in that ludicrous costume for Halloween. She hadn't intended to come back any time soon. (The bullet's out, for Christ's sake. She just wanted to go home.)

But no, she found herself standing in the bar, in her pyjamas and robe, feet covered in thick woollen socks. She didn't even bother taking a seat. Just reached her pocket and found the key to the room 6620. (She never set it down anymore. It'd become some strange sort of talisman for her.)

Loo. Kip. And then she'd try again, Bar's reasons for kidnapping her be damned.

So that's where he found her, sprawled on the bed in his room again. Dark blue silk pyjamas. Hair messed. Makeup removed. Dead to the world (ha bloody ha).

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He leans on the wall by the door for a long few moments, smoking and watching her sleep. The Scotch she'd left for him is still in his hand; he'd meant to leave it up here for the nights he stayed over. Like tonight. It is his room, after all.

But somehow, he's not overly surprised to see her here. And while he's still angry, it's not the trigger-happy fury that it was earlier. The farewell tone of her note eased that and replaced it with confusion.

He takes his coat off and hangs it up, then sits and starts unscrewing the cap of the bottle.

'Oi, Drake.'

It's not right, sitting here without her knowing. A bit pervy for his liking.

Her head turns at the sound of his voice, but it's clear she's still asleep. Her face contorts in a mask of confusion, and a wave moves through her body, twisting her spine, like she's pinned under something heavy and she can't break free.

"Gene?"

'No, Batman.'

The eyeroll is probably lost in the dim light. He reaches out and clicks a lamp on.

'Wake up.'

One hand comes up to block the light and she squints up at him.

"What's wrong?" She rolls to one elbow, blinking as her eyes acclimate, and it takes her another few moments to see who it is.

"Oh god, look -- I'm sorry -- I'll clear off, just let me get my--"

He sighs theatrically and pours into two glasses.

'Didn' you get my note?'

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands holding to the edge of the mattress. Her eyes close for a long moment, the memory of the kiss the night before warring with the knowledge that this is not the Gene Hunt who sat in the Edgehampton vault with his arm around her; this is not the Gene Hunt who rescued her from the freezer or from Summer's sick little game.

Her voice is still husky from sleep, and barely more than a whisper.

"No."

She doesn't look at him. Maybe if she doesn't look at him.

"What did it say?"

'That I wanted t'talk t'you.'

It's easiest to slip into DCI mode. Not interrogatative, just firm and guarded.

'I want to know wha's goin' on.'

Her shoulders sag, and she laughs, a dry, weary sound. She stands, and pulls her robe shut, tying it closed.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

She beckons for the drink, still not raising her eyes to his face.

He keeps his eyes firmly on her face as he hands her her glass.

'Wouldn' I?'

He finds that hard to believe.

'Shouldn' be that hard to explain why you thought you could play wi' me like that.'

She winces visibly at his words, and responds without hesitation.

"I wasn't playing with you -- I mean I was trying to play -- but not -- I didn't mean to toy with you. That wasn't at all my intention."

Play. Flirt. Initiate a sexual encounter.

All with the wrong person, and for all the wrong reasons. She knows that now, and as she takes a large swallow of whiskey, gritting her teeth against the burn, she wonders why he's here. He doesn't know her. He doesn't care about her.

His arms cross, his face stony.

'Then wha' was? What're you tryin' to pull, Drake?'

Apart from him, obviously.

She looks up at him, her eyes bright and intent, the strength of the drink having stripped away some of the layers of sleep.

"Don't play the fool for my sake. As if you don't already know the answer to that question."

He just looks at her for a long time. A multitude of thoughts go through his head starting with his wife, rushing through London and ending ten years down the line.

'I don' know why.'

This is not some display of humility, or him fishing for compliments. What he means is that he doesn't get the circumstances. She doesn't seem the type that would be fine with encouraging adultery. She doesn't look like a tart, Halloween costume notwithstanding. So something doesn't add up right.

She meets his gaze, and myriad emotions play across her face. She's never been one to hide her emotions well, especially not when it comes to him.

She searches his face, looking for something different, something to identify him as the Other Gene, something other than his slightly longer hair or the camelhair coat. His eyes don't look as tired, perhaps. There's a bit of a harder set to his mouth. And the beer belly. That seems to be the most obvious feature that's missing.

Whoever she is, he's comfortable with her. (His wife.)

In the end, she just gives a little headshake and drops her gaze back to the drink in her hand.

"Again, you wouldn't believe me if I told you." All the sharpness in her voice is gone.

There's another long pause, where the set of his face and demeanour doesn't change.

'You're not givin' me much t'go on, here.'

He doesn't like grey areas. And she is one big grey area.

"I know," she says. "And I'm sorry, believe me when I say that. I wish --"

She cuts herself off, scrubbing a hand over her face and into her hair, acutely aware of her state of undress now. She pulls her robe tighter, and forces herself to think it through. (She knows he won't let it go until she tells him something to satisfy his curiosity.)

"You already know that I'm your DI. You already know we're close enough that you brought me home to Manchester for Christmas."

She hesitates, the next thought caught behind her teeth. You already know how much I want you. If you were paying any attention at all, you know that one truth about me.

His forehead creases.

'We're havin' an affair?'

If so, it'd be his first. He doesn't do more than one night stands, at most, at the moment. He can see why she'd catch his interest, maybe.

'Or we're thinkin' about it.

...no, tha's not right, is it?'

He looks down then, face dropping as something clicks. Something he suspected but hadn't allowed himself to dwell on.

She sees it and it breaks her heart in an instant. She starts talking, trying to

"No. No, nothing like that, God. I'm an idiot. I'm a grown woman pining after a man I can never have. It's nothing more than that. It sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but it's the truth."

Half of it, anyway. Maybe less.

He doesn't look up. Lets her talk but doesn't really listen. And when she's quiet;

'She doesn' die, does she? You can tell me tha' much.'

He'd prefer to hear it was a break up than that.

"No. No, no she doesn't die."

Alex has never felt like more of a selfish little shit in her entire life.

Another moment and he raises his head; he catches her eye and looks away. One deep breath later and he's back to stoic.

'Well then, wha's the matter wi' me? If we're both available, why haven' I got your ankles behind your 'ead yet?'

(When you're on shaky ground, shout louder. They might get scared and go away.)

"Nothing's the matter with you."

She looks back at him, her heart in her mouth.

"The circumstances are all wrong." Her jaw clenches as she says it, because her body remembers what it's like to kiss him. Even now, her response to the memory is visceral, setting up an ache that resonates in her entire body.

"And anyway, it's not like that."

Because he doesn't have to touch her to make her feel like that. The touching was just a confirmation of everything else.

I heard the nurses talking, Alex. And in the whole time you've been in hospital, you've only said one word. 'Gene.'

Gene sighs and massages his forehead briefly. A headache is starting to form, no doubt an early-onset hangover from the drinking he started early today.

'You can't 'ave it both ways, Drake. Either it's like tha', or it isn't.'

She obviously wants him, or will do. He now knows he'll be available. If it isn't 'like that' then something's wrong somewhere because he can't see it being him that says no.

Maybe there's something off-putting about her that he just hasn't seen yet.

The notion that he might think differently in eight years time, or have been affected by becoming single, doesn't enter his head. He can never imagine himself changing.

"Alex," she corrects, her voice still quiet.

"If we're going to talk about this, use my name."

She looks down at the second half of her glass and throws it back, finishing it in a few long drinks. Maybe it's her liver that deserves punishing, in lieu of actual atonement.

'So talk abou' it.'

He's not sure he wants to. But he's bloody sick of not knowing.

'Alex.'

Hearing her name in his mouth, said with such vitriol, is more than she can take. Her anger flashes over in an instant.

"Don't. I know you don't trust me. You don't know me from Adam, and you can't begin to understand the things that you and I have gone through -- will go through together. I understand that you're confused, and I'm sorry, that's entirely my fault. But knowing the details won't change anything."

Somewhere in there she stood up and started pacing the floor.

"We're colleagues. We're friends. We've -- got a connection."

We're unbreakable.

He watches her pace, her anger making his rise.

'An' tha's what you do with blokes you've got a connection with, is it? Lead them on an' then take the piss?'

He stands, not liking her looking down on him. And it's easier to express himself when he can stand and glare.

'I don't know you from Adam, you're right. But you don' know me from Adam, either. You just think you do because we're mates down th' line. You don' know anythin' about me now. You haven' worked Manchester with me. You can't sit around down there thinkin' you're clever 'cos you know stuff I don' an' use it against me. That's not what friends do, Alex.'

"I know that, Gene, and I said I was sorry. I am sorry." The sentence starts out angry and twists into something anguished at the end.

She turns her back to him, fists clenched.

"It's been so long -- since you and I have flirted like that. It felt good. It felt -- like a gift. And then you put your hands on me. And I --"

She closes her eyes, bites down hard on the inside of her lip.

...God, she really wants him.

He sticks his hands roughly in his pockets, anger deflating in the face of her anguish. He really doesn't know what to say to that.

'...just couldn' help yourself?'

Well it's good for his ego to believe it, anyway.

She's quiet for a long moment.

And then she manages a dry little laugh.

"What woman could?" She shakes her head, and shakes out her hands, like a fighter coming into the ring for another bout.

"The mere touch of the Gene Genie and that was all she wrote."

Irony and sarcasm are more her strong suit. Self-deprecating humour dressed up as sarcasm, less so, but she can't see any other way out.

'You wouldn' be the first to say it, luv.'

Yeah, this is much easier. Swagger and bullshit, laced with a grin and a glare. He can do that.

He lights a cigarette, snapping his Zippo shut. It sounds loud in the room, to him.

'So, what now?

...an' how come you're in my room, anyway? Can't afford your own?'

Again, another long silence.

"It won't happen again."

He sucks in a lungful of smoke and blows it out in a long huff.

'Goin' to get mardy on me, now?'

He sits down again. He needs another bloody drink.

'I didn' say you couldn' use it. I were only askin'.'

She turns her head, listening to him move.

"No, I mean -- I won't be coming back here again. I wasn't planning on coming back after I left the last time."

She doesn't want to say it out loud, because that makes it real.

"I'm going home soon."

And not just to 1982.

He almost, almost, lets his eyebrows shoot up and his tongue suggest a quickie for the road. It's what he'd do with any other girl. But after their last couple of meetings, he's pretty sure it wouldn't be a good idea in one way or another.

Though it might be fun. And maybe that's the problem. It's clear that forming any attachment to this one, however casual, would be awkward.

'Fed up of it? Don' see how. It's interestin'.'

She smirks, hearing the little hitch in his thought process and knowing it for the kindness it is.

"No. It doesn't matter."

She's watching him again with dark, sad eyes.

"Enjoy the bottle, Guv. I should be -- getting back."

'What, no goodbye kiss?'

He couldn't help that one. And there's only a touch of sarcasm in it, around the edges.

She vapour locks, lips parted.

If she does go home, and she passes up this chance, she'll spend the rest of her life regretting it. If she doesn't pass up the chance, will she be able to focus on Operation Rose and all that will be required of her in the coming days?

She can't answer him.

He's not going to help her out. Not after last time. But he doesn't retract the comment either. He just sits casually and waits, eyes flicking between her eyes and her lips, his own mouth pressed into that pout she knows so well.

Regret is looking like the only option she has that will allow her to keep any remaining shreds of dignity.

Her jaw sets and she shifts her weight towards him, the small movement utterly unconscious.

"Best not," she says, the words clipped and the regret very obvious in her tone.

Her weight shifts that way and he copies it, just as unconsciously, leaning forward in his seat a little as though expecting her to take the steps. When she says no he frowns, like he wasn't expecting it, though he was.

'S'pose.'

He doesn't stop looking at her though. She might be a fruitcake but she is beautiful.

The next step isn't unconscious. If he'd looked away or down, she might have been able to turn back, but he keeps looking at her.

"Bloody hell," she mumbles, the next steps carrying her across the floor to him.

Half his mouth turns up in a smile and he eases his way to standing as she approaches. It occurs to him that he could make a crack about how he's going to think about this in ten years time but he can't be bothered, ultimately. He just holds out his arm to draw her into him. One more kiss can't hurt.

"Forgiven?"

She steps into his welcoming arms, her chin already wobbling.

He snorts quietly, leans down and presses his lips to hers, just briefly.

'Dunno. Still don' know what you were on about.'

But now he knows he doesn't want to know, so he's let it go for now. And if she's really going for good, then it doesn't matter anyway. She's just another pretty girl he can snatch a moment with before she disappears.

Her hands catch the front of his shirt, holding on so tightly her knuckles go white.

But she lets it be just that, a brief, chaste kiss.

He doesn't know her. Doesn't know how forced the smile on her face is. Doesn't want to know.

"Take care, Guv. Tell Sam I said hello."

And with that, she turns and leaves, not looking back.

He frowns at the mention of Sam. He didn't realise they knew each other and that adds a whole new dimension of strange to this.

He doesn't. Want. To know.

'...bloody women.'

He'll sleep it off. it'll all be fine in the morning.

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[oom] Room 6620

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