[oom] 3x07 (ii)

[lady_bols]

Getting out of the office feels good. Less stagnant. He’d say it was a chance to get away from his thoughts, but that wouldn’t be right, exactly. They go with him, just hidden a little behind the roar of the Quattro’s engine, and the prospect of a nice bit of trouble.

ANC. Bloody terrorists. He doesn’t care to think about it further than that. As they troop down wooden stairs to the drinking den, he can hear angry voice rising up to meet them. Someone’s getting called a Judas, by another person who’s bloody furious.

Tasty.

‘Are we in Dalston, or did we just take a wrong turn into Bogo-Bogo land?’

It’s not the done thing to say. He even registers that it’s out of order, but he’s not sorry. The one who talks to him is obviously the bloke in charge, and that puts him firmly at the front of the queue for any guilt to be assigned. What did he tell Sam, once? First one to speak did it. Whatever ‘it’ is.

‘Is it true that in your country, the police don’t need warrants? They can hang a man by his ankles just because they don’t like the cut of his jib?’

‘You mean the colour of a man’s skin? Yes, it’s true.’

Yeah, that’s what he meant. ‘Ray, take this place apart.’

This isn’t what Viv would want, probably. Though he can’t be sure, can he? Viv was black, and it never mattered a damn to any of them. They never talked about politics. The only thing Gene cares about are the guilty, and these bastards are guilty of something, so they’ll pay for it.

Chris tries to organise them, politely. Every time he looks at the bloke these days, he wants to punch him. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’

‘Guv, there’s no point in giving them a hard time. We don’t know if they’ve done anything wr-‘

‘When I want your opinion, I will ask for it. And I will never ask for it. Prick.’

She looks shocked, and he doesn’t care. ‘Guv, I know you’re upset, but that’s-‘

‘Ray. Get on with it.’ Not interested. She tries to tell him these people are fighting something, and he couldn’t care less. ‘They’re members of a terrorist organisation, and they are on my patch, Bolly.’

‘They didn’t kill Viv. Nor did Chris, and nor did I.’

Not. Interested. The only thing he’s interested in is the body that Ray finds in the kitchen. Terrorists or not, it’s murder, and it’s on his manor.

~ ~ ~

CID’s a zoo again, filled to bursting with Africans, and his lads clamouring for information. And Keats, of course, with his hints about his report and the things he’s put in it to bury them. As Gene points out, there’s ‘nothing a big, juicy collar won’t override.’ Sometimes he even believes it. He has to believe it, otherwise they’re doomed already, aren’t they?

The victim’s name is Oliver Ndlovu. Member of the ANC. Fled South Africa six months ago after organising strikes in township schools. Killed with a kitchen knife. And as a member of the ANC, killed by someone at that shebeen – also a member of the ANC, no doubt – catching the killer will be catching a terrorist. Yeah. Let Keats put that in his pipe and smoke it.

All of them, to a man – or woman – are claiming they were in the bathroom when Ndlovu was killed. The head bastard as well, but he’s not having that.

‘I may not be able to pull your fingernails out, but I’m not stupid. He was murdered on your watch, in your club-‘

‘I was in the bathroom-‘

‘D’you know what I think? I think you killed him.’

‘No.’

He’s a first-class stone-waller, he’ll give him that. Maybe Drake’s getting somewhere with the girl.

~ ~ ~

"There's no need to be afraid, Tzitzi."  The poor girl across the interview table from Alex looks like she's terrified out of her wits.  And it's understandable, knowing what would have happened to her in police custody in her home country.  "I give you my word."

Still, she only watches Alex with wide, frightened eyes.  All right, then.  Start at the beginning.

"Did you know Oliver--"

"I was in the bathroom. I saw -- nothing."

"That's not what I asked."  Again, the girl doesn't respond.  "I understand he had quite forthright views on how the struggle should progress."  She turns the handful of pamphlets and slides them across the table.   "We found these, in his belongings.  Did he upset someone, Tzitzi?  Is that why he was killed?"

Still, nothing.  She sat with her hands in her lap, her jumper buttoned up to her throat, her shoulders up around her ears.  Her whole body language screamed that she knew something, but was too afraid to open her mouth.

"You know, we will find out what happened, and when we do, there'll be discussions as to who should be deported--"

"Please.  Don't send me back."

"Well, I --"

"They will kill me, like they killed my father."

The therapist in Alex cannot resist trying to help someone who is in so much distress.

"How did your father die?"

"They put wires -- in his penis, and shocked him.  The shock cracked his spine, and hurt his vocal cords.  He couldn't even say goodbye to me before he died."

"I'm sorry."  Her voice is barely more than a whisper.  She'd read the journals coming out of the Truth and Reconciliation courts when they'd been published.  She knew that Tzitzi wasn't lying.

"I was in the bathroom."  She says the words again, adamant.  Like they're the only thing standing between her and unimaginable horrors.

~ ~ ~

"Tobias, I can only guess at the experiences you've been through in South Africa."  Alex covered her heart with her hand as she spoke.  "I have the profoundest admiration for your struggle."

This man was much older than the girl, probably in his mid-forties, and as stoic as a block of granite.  His eyes didn't even really focus on her face.  Building a rapport here was going to be very difficult.

"This may sound trite, but uh -- I argued against Apartheid at my school's in-house debating society, and I very nearly won."   She heard the words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them, and her shoulders sagged a bit.  "Does sound a bit trite."

Nothing.  Not even anger.

"I know what you're doing.  You're creating a conversational vacuum that you think my white, liberal guilt will fill with inane chatter and banalities, almost completely without punctuation or coherent syntax, thus taking the heat off what it is we're meant to be here talking about.  Which is murder."

Tobias' gaze remained fixed on some point in the middle distance.

"It's not going to happen."  She hopes.  What if she shares a bit of the truth with him?

"It will all end beautifully, Tobias.  In seven years time, Nelson Mandela will be released and he will become the first democratically elected president in South Africa.  I want you to be there on that wonderful day, not rotting away in some London prison.  But you have to help me."

Nothing.  She'd have better luck chatting up the toaster in the canteen.  This one was going to be a hard nut to crack.

~~~

Tzitzi’s nothing more than a frightened kid. Normally, that would hold some sway. But at the moment, all emotion comes through a veil of anger, and he really, really doesn’t have patience enough for this.

‘I don’t care what happened to you in South Africa. I don’t care what happens to you when I send you back.’

‘No. Please, you don’t understand-‘

‘D’you know, I imagine they’ll probably wire you up like a lightbulb, an’ then plug you into the mains.’ It’s true. He really doesn’t care. It doesn’t seem to matter.

‘Please, don’t send me-‘

‘Who killed Oliver Ndlovu? Was it Tobias? C’mon, you can tell me. He can’t get to you in here.’

Ray turns up with the murder weapon. He found it concealed in the shebeen, along with passports, money and papers. He forces Tzitzi to take her cardigan off, and there they are, bloody handprints all over her dress.

~~~

But that’s not the prize. ‘This isn’t just a drunken murder. This is a fully fledged, one-stop, ANC cell.’

‘Right, I’m going to go call Special Branch.’  She turns to leave.

He leafs through the passports distractedly, the possibilities neat, lining up one by one. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘Guv, we have to. If we suspect a link to a potential terrorist, we-‘

‘There’s a big fish here, and he’s ours. It’ll scupper Keats’ report once and for all.’

He wants to catch a murderer. He wants terrorists in prison. But above all, he wants his kingdom left alone. If the leader of an ANC cell gets banged up for murder, and that cell destroyed along with him, he’ll be a bloody hero. Nothing Keats says will matter.

It works like a charm. Threaten Tzitzi with a murder charge in front of Tobias, the bloke confesses in under thirty seconds. He’s obviously a smart one too – without blinking, he’s got a cover story for the girl all ready. The blood’s there because she tried to revive the dead man. The dead man wanted to bring violence to London. He couldn’t let that happen, so there was a fight. The girl was shagging the dead bloke. All there, nice and clean. Confession, motive and opportunity.

It’s all bollocks. Tzitzi’s got guilt written all over her. He doesn’t care. He just takes Tobias into his office, shows him the IDs and passports they found.

‘Explain this.’

‘You let the girl go?’

‘Illegal passports, forged visas, laundered money…’

‘I’ll tell you about it all.’

‘Everything?’

‘Everything.’

‘Full confession?’

Tobias nods. Done.

Alex stays behind. ‘This isn’t right, Guv. He’ll say anything to get Tzitzi off. You’d let a potential murderer go, just to get a bigger collar?’

‘This is the final chapter, Bolly. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re fightin’ for our lives.’

It’s the only thing that matters. If they’re going to survive at all, he has to do this. There’s no way to make her understand. He can’t explain it to himself. But he knows, more clearly with every passing day, that something’s coming to an end. Him? This place? When was the last time he had a phone call from the Super, or the Commissioner? It’s like they’ve all melted into the dark, and this station is the only thing left. There’s him and his team, and then there’s Keats. Nothing else.

~~~

'A man was killed and another man owned up to his murder.'  He spit the words out like he could make it the truth by just saying it with enough conviction.  'Which means you're free to go.'

Tzitzi stood between the two of them in his office, still the wide-eyed terrified girl.

'Did you kill Oliver, Tzitzi?'  Alex wasn't sure what she was trying to accomplish. Perhaps appealing to the girl's better nature would make her fess up and prevent Tobias from being deported.

'No.'

'Give it a rest, Bolly.'  

'If you've got something to say, you <i>must</i> say it now.'  

Gene stalked between the two of them and jerked the door open.  'Chris!'  He left the door open and smothered any chance Alex might have had at getting something out of the girl.  'Show this young lady out.  And you, tell your terrorist friends to keep off of my manor or I'll hunt them down like rats, understood?  Bye bye.'

She waited until the door closed before confronting him.  'You can't be sure it wasn't her, and you certainly can't be sure it was Tobias.'   

She could tell by the cant of his shoulders and the harsh lines of his mouth, he was spoiling for a fight.  'He's giving me an entire ANC illegal immigrant center.'  Again, he punctuated the sentiment with a fist to the desk. 'He's the prize!'

'And what about the the truth?'

'Oh, grow up.'

Keats didn't even knock, just invited himself in.

'Jimbo! My moods improved.  Murderer apprehended, international incident avoided, and terrorist leader in the cells.  And on something of a promise!"  The last was directed at her.

'In your dreams,' she muttered.  Unbelievable.

'Glad you're in a good mood, Gene.'  Keats straightened his tie, clearing enjoying the strife between them.

'So if you need to know how to spell the word "stupendous" on your D&C report, you just give us a shout, eh.'

'The dead man.  Oliver Ndlovu.'

'What about him?'

'He's Special Branch.'  

Lovely, Alex thought.  Because nothing can ever be simple around here.

Keats was convinced it was some sort of political assassination conspiracy, attempting to cover up a terrorist plot to blow up the visiting South African President while he was visiting London.  Gene insisted the murder looked more like a frenzied attack than an execution, and she had to agree with him.  (The truth, but only when it suited him.)

But no, Special Branch was taking custody of the suspect.  As soon as they could find a copy of the proper form.  The proper form number of which Gene Hunt pulled out of his arse so they could have some more time to get to the bottom of things.

~~~

Turns out her inquiries to Manchester via Ray were all for naught.  The name attached to those epaulette numbers would remain a mystery.  The records were all destroyed in a fire.  

So she was back to square one.  

She was just finishing up for the day, that same strange giddiness bubbling up in her chest, putting her in a good mood, despite all else.  She was having dinner with him.  A date.  A proper date.

'Good night, Chris.'

'Ma'am.  Guv.  Ma'am.'  Poor boy, he always looked so confused.

'S'everything all right?'

'Why wouldn't it be?'

Oh, a myriad reasons.  'Just asking.'  She decided not to press the issue, and he surprised her.

'Do you ever have the feeling, that things are falling apart, and the world as you know it -- is about to end and nothing will ever be the same?'  His words were pitched low, and she could feel the waves of grief coming off him.  Grief they all felt.  Grief they needed to work through, together.  It was the only way they were going to get through, together.

'DI Drake, could I borrow you a moment?'  Of course, if Keats had his say, that would never happen.

'I'm -- I'm -- I'm just...'

'Just a minute.  In my office.'  He wasn't going to take no for an answer.  

By the time she looked back to Chris, she could see any willingness he had to open up was evaporating.  And she had no choice but to follow Keats.

Outside his office, she tried to make the case again.  'We've found no evidence to support Special Branch's allegations.'

He closed the door behind her, and it was clear, that wasn't what he wanted to discuss.

'Do you think this is a game?  Hmm?'  He spoke to her like she was a child, and the question took her aback.  'Some -- flirty, silly little game being played out by me, you, and Hunt?'

'No, I don't think it's a game.'  It was clear, there was a rage simmering beneath the surface of his cool, grey exterior and she was about to face the brunt of it.

'Sam Tyler lost his life. By all accounts, an extraordinary man.  His life was taken from him.  Murdered.'

'We don't know that, not for sure.'  She felt herself waver, felt the tears that had been threatening all day rising in her throat.

'Yes we do.'  He spat the words at her, shouting at her.  'In our hearts we know that.  Now it's down to you Alex, to take that final step.  To find out from Hunt's own mouth, how he did, where he did it and why he did it.'

'It's not that easy, is it, sir?'  She forced herself to stay calm, but she couldn't just stand here and listen to him accusing Gene as if he already knew the outcome.

'Oh actually, it is.  It's about being a solution a problem, a despicable problem.  Or being part of the problem itself.'

There was no reason to give him anything.  No reason to let him see her doubts.  No reason to show him anything other than the truth, she was here to save Gene.  Not betray him.

'I'm -- I'm having dinner, this evening, with DCI Hunt. Hopofully I'll find out the truth then.'  He wouldn't let her down.  She knew that, with all her heart.

'Last chance, Alex. If you don't have the courage to do it, I'll find someone who --'

'Oh I have the courage.  Sir.'  After all she'd been through, that he'd dare to question her intestinal fortitude at this late stage of the game.  

'Get.  Him.'

She didn't even grant him the courtesy of saying goodbye.  She simply turned her back on him and walked out.

Comments

[lady_bols]

She sits at her vanity, combing her hair. It never gets any less strange, seeing this visage of herself. Her hair is so short. Normally, for a date like this, she'd wear her hair up, but there just isn't any length to work with. It's just one more tiny detail she has to face up to in this world. This is who she is now. This is where she belongs.

But she knows things are slipping away. When was the last time she'd heard from Molly? When was the last time she'd heard the hospital monitors, or anything from 2008? How deep has she slipped this time? It's a question she doesn't really want the answer to. She's here for a reason. She has a purpose, and when that purpose is fulfilled, then she can go home.

And tonight, she is going on a date with him. She applies her make up with a care and attention to detail she hasn't done in years. She picks out the outfit, a white dress with a fitted waist and an elegant hemline that hints at something more. It's the perfect match for the exquisite fox fur coat she'd found in the wardrobe.

All white. Maybe he'd get the unconscious message that she was one of the good guys. That she was on his side. Maybe then he could trust her enough to tell her the truth. (Maybe he could finally understand that the choice wasn't hers to make.)

She picked out her jewellery for other reasons. Gold drape earrings and a matching necklace, to emphasis her neck and throat. Simple. Elegant. A dab of Chanel No 5 between her breasts and the insides of her wrists. With the unequivocal message that yes, this night is special. Maybe the last chance they'll ever have to be close to one another, and yes, in the way that they've both wanted for a long time.

A glass of red wine to calm her nerves. And then another, possibly for luck. And another because, hell, she only has to walk down the stairs and turn the corner. Even on a special night like tonight, it seemed like Luigi's is the only possible choice. (The rest of London has turned to a sea of stars.)

Stockings. Dress. Shoes. Coat. She looks at herself in the long mirror, knowing already where she wants this evening to go. It feels like they have so much to lose. And she wants them to figure this out. Together.

They were always at their best when they were together.

[the_gene_genie]

He looks into his own eyes as he carefully shaves lines through the foam on his cheeks. A lot’s happened today, but it’s evening now. They got their man. Or, a man, anyway. The whole case has an aura about it, hints at something bigger, something out of his control. But he’s done what he could. ‘No one goes in, no one comes out,’ he’d said to Chris. The instruction was clear. Lock-down. The station is a fortress. No Special Branch, no Keats. No one touches Tobias, because he’s theirs, and he’s going to save their bacon. So yes, a full day. And now there’s a date with Alex.

It would be nice if she’d have asked him last year, when they were actually getting on. He’d be able to get ready with anticipation, thinking it might go somewhere. She asked him out this morning because there won’t be many opportunities left – so even if something happens, it isn’t going to last. Last year, he’d have laid money on any date leading to something more. But then she told him…something, he can’t remember what. Something that made him angry. And then he shot her, and ruined it all.

A splash of Paco Rabanne on each side of his neck. If this is going to be their only real date, he’ll make an effort. Because maybe, if it goes well…he can hardly bear to think about it going well. The end is coming. It’s been coming all year. But if this date goes well, maybe things will be different. Maybe she’ll stay, and the centre will hold. If she could just block Keats out, turn him away, then they’ll be strong again. Together, they could do that.

Never mind the other stuff, the way he’s dreamt of her arms around his neck, the press of her body against his. Never mind how much he wants to kiss her, and take her to bed. If that’s going to happen, it’ll have to be tonight, and the signs haven’t been encouraging today. But no matter how much he tries to tamp it down, there’s a stubborn flame of hope burning low in his chest. They were great once. They could be great again, if she’ll just learn how to trust him. That’s what it all comes down to. If she trusts him, they’ll stay strong.

He takes a swig from the bottle by his side. It burns all the way down. She’s going to ask him about Sam. And he’s going to tell her the truth. He knows what it is now, and if she gets it, if she believes him, and trusts him, and learns, then everything might just be all right. There’s still a chance. He has to believe it.

In his office, he buttons his waistcoat, and slips his jacket on. The bowtie was too much of a pain, so he’s left it hanging loose around his neck. Just one last thing, some spit and polish on the boots. This might be the most effort he’s made for a date in his life. But then, it’s the last chance. Everything has to be right.

~

He’s engrossed in the menu when Luigi brings his pint over. Or, pretending to be. He’s sitting in a trattoria they’ve been coming to for years, wearing a penguin suit. There’s bound to be a comment.

‘Mr. Hunt. Pleasure to see you.’

‘The pleasure is all yours, Luigi.’

‘Signore Hunt is on a date?’

No need for him to sound so surprised. ‘I am not on a date. I am meetin’ a colleague for a meal, and a professional chat.’

‘Mmm. I know enough about restaurants and men to know a date when I see one.’

‘An’ I know enough about Italians and vats of boiling cooking oil...’

If there was going to be a response, it’s cut off by Alex’s arrival. He clocks her just after Luigi does, and hears the murmur of appreciation in Italian. For once, the two of them are in perfect agreement. She looks stunning.

He’s on in feet in an instant. ‘Luigi, glass of champagne for the lady.’

He even leans over to pull her chair out a bit for her, while Luigi takes her fur coat.

She mutters her thanks.

‘Scrub up well, Bols.’

[lady_bols]

He's wearing a tuxedo. All right, he couldn't manage to get the bowtie figured out, but somehow that only adds to the rakish look. Her mouth has gone dry, and she doesn't sit straight away.

"Thank you. You don't look so bad yourself."

Flirting with him, god it's been ages since they've done this dance. And she misses it. She misses the tension and the well-meaning jibes. This feels right in a way she hasn't felt in far too long.

[the_gene_genie]

He can only nod, and offer a half-smile to the compliment. He’s never been that great at taking them. They sit, arrange themselves, and there’s a moment of silence. It’s obvious on her face that she’s feeling awkward as well. It’s heartening, in its way. At least it’s not just him.

He picks up his pint, and takes a fortifying swig.

‘Been a busy day.’

As openers go, not stellar. But one of them has to say something.

[lady_bols]

She leans back a bit as Luigi sets down her champagne.

"Not unusually so. Not so busy we couldn't get away for a bit. I like the tux." One eyebrow rises a bit as she takes a sip of her bubbly.

[the_gene_genie]

He purses his lips. Really? A potential international case in their laps, and she doesn’t think that’s unusual?

But what he says is, ‘I like the frock.’

Maybe another time he would have commented on its lack of sluttiness, but he really doesn’t want to cheapen it. Won’t be many more opportunities...he’s going to do his best not to ruin it.

[lady_bols]

She smiles at him, and her gaze falls to the table. Anywhere but looking into those blue eyes. She's here for a reason. And all nostalgia aside, she thinks they both deserve the truth. It's been stalking them for months now.

Maybe after dinner. She looks back to his face, her expression soft.

'I thought it was the next best thing to wearing a white Stetson. Or waving a white flag.'

[the_gene_genie]

He has no trouble meeting her eyes.

‘Is that what this is, then? A truce for a bit?’

[lady_bols]

She takes a long moment to just look at him, studying the lines of his face. His hair is still tinged with gold from his months in Spain, perhaps even more so now, though how that's possible, she doesn't know. He looks tired, but undefeated.

'More than that, Gene.'

[the_gene_genie]

He feels defeated. Almost. Not quite. There’s this date, and Tobias ready to push favour back his way at work. It could still be all right.

‘How do you mean?’

Because nothing’s changed, as far as he can see. She’s still not going to let anything go. And if he’s honest with himself, there’s a large portion of his common sense telling him she might be here under false pretences.

[lady_bols]

She sighs, shakes her head a little. They've been at each other for so long now, it's like they've forgotten how to be friends.

'I'm on your side, remember? And I asked you out tonight.'

I don't want it to end with us at each other's throats. Because it is coming to an end. They all know it. Even Chris.

'I was thinking about something you said earlier, in your office.'

[the_gene_genie]

On his side. It hasn’t felt like it for a long time. Every day, he thinks about the way she left with Keats after he arrested Litton.

‘What? ‘Upstairs, outside only’?’

There’s been a lot said in that office. It’s easier to joke.

[lady_bols]

Again, she grins, and if he looks, he can see a bit of colour rising in her cheeks.

'No.' Another sip of champagne, and she licks her lips, her hands fretting with the menu. 'First date. And this, if you recall, isn't our first date.'

[the_gene_genie]

‘Oh.’

He frowns minutely.

‘Yeah, s’pose not.’

That one was so long ago, he can barely remember. A lot’s happened since then. And it never seemed to really count, as she knocked him back at the end. It was like she knew she was leaving, and was just having dinner with him to say goodbye.

This is almost like that. Only it’s not, as well. They’ve both made an effort for this one. It’ll probably be the last one they have, for whatever reason. It does count, in some way he can’t specify.

‘Upstairs, inside then.’

[lady_bols]

Her head tilts as she watches him think, and his response gets a laugh. 'I thought you might come around, you and your undone bowtie.'

If Alex could work the word 'slutty' into a sentence, she might try to tease him about that, but it's no good. It feels like they've lost the rhythm.

Luigi rescues them by arriving to take their dinner order. She chooses the fish.

[the_gene_genie]

He’s not sure what she means by that. ‘Come around’, like, she’s looking for him to make lewd suggestions at her?

‘I’ll have the carbonara, ta,’ he says, without taking his eyes off her face.

He can’t work out what she wants. Impossible to relax until he figures it out, but that doesn’t mean they can’t pretend it’s all all right.

‘An’ a bottle of red. Decent red.’

Luigi bustles off, giving him a wink behind Alex’s back. He ignores it, and has some of his pint. There has to be way to bridge this gap. He needs her onside, but has no idea how to make it happen.

[lady_bols]

'How's your mother doing? Have you spoken to her recently?'

[the_gene_genie]

‘Um. Yeah.’

Bloody hell, he hasn’t thought about her in ages. Hasn’t seen her since just after he got back from Spain. She’ll go mental at him.

‘Yeah, she’s OK. She were pleased you came ‘round all right. Said to send her best.’

Which, for various reasons, he never felt he could mention until now.

‘I’ll have t’give her a ring. I’ll tell her you asked after her.’

[lady_bols]

'I still have that box of chocolates I got for her before last Christmas. Okay, I broke into them in a moment of weakness, so I'll have to get her another.'

Now she's stammering a bit, awkward as a school girl all over again.

'I'll have to get you to write down the kinds she likes.'

Not that she can remember the last time she saw the inside of a chocolate shop, or any shop for that matter. For her, nowadays, the job is everything.

[the_gene_genie]

He snorts a laugh, and finishes his pint.

‘Women and chocolate. I don’ get it.’

Eating is never a ‘weakness’, doesn’t matter what it is. He sends a glare at Luigi, and nods pointedly at Alex’s empty glass. Wine is hurried over.

‘Next you’ll be tellin’ me you’re givin’ up the booze.’

[lady_bols]

'Don't be daft,' she says, following his gaze. 'That'd be like you giving up cigarettes.' Never going to happen. And besides, what would she do at the pub if she gave up drinking?

'Ever since I was little, I've had a terrible sweet tooth. I'd eat a whole box of chocolates in one sitting, if I could. Mother always told me that I'd ruin the taste, by making it common. I never understood that. I can't imagine getting bored of eating chocolate.'

And now she's babbling. Fantastic. Her lips thin as she consciously clamps down on her runaway tongue.

[the_gene_genie]

Her babbling at work does his head in. On a date, it’s endearing. The amusement probably shows on his face, and he even refrains from making a jibe about her big arse (that isn’t really big at all).

‘Next birthday sorted then. Bottle of plonk, and a box of Milk Tray.’

The amusement is dying even as he says the words. Next birthday? They’ll be lucky.

[lady_bols]

'Only if you help me eat it.'

Her tone matches the expression on his face, falling a bit at the end. She tries to think of something, anything, that isn't work. She doesn't know anything about football, and well, that thought only comes back around to West Ham, and Viv's signed ball. She can't talk about her suspicions about Keats, because, again, that's work. And she doesn't even know what he does after hours anymore.

They've grown so far apart.

[the_gene_genie]

He watches her face, his fingers twirling his wine glass first one way, then the other. He wonders how long it’ll be before she asks. Maybe it’ll be easier once she has. Conversation has never come hard for them before, not even on that first date when they didn’t really have a clue about each other. Perhaps that’s the difference. Now they know too much.

‘I never said thanks. For when you told Keats the shootin’ was an accident.’

He had, sort of. He’d caught her eye and nodded once. She got it. But he never said it, and it could be important, reminding her that they really were on the same side, once.

[lady_bols]

Her brow furrows and she looks at him for a long moment.

"You didn't have to." Her gaze falls to his hands, and she wishes she could physically reach across this chasm between them and pull him closer. "But -- you're welcome."

She could point out that he never properly apologised either, but that's a moot point. He'd berated her for falling the wrong way, but he'd never come right out and apologised for putting a bullet in her guts. Her expression flickers with the memory of his face, forty feet high and bellowing her name. They agreed in the garage that the fight was behind them. She's never felt any need to bring it back up.

"That's almost ancient history, don't you think?" He can't think she still holds that against him.