He takes care of it. If there’s one thing Gene Hunt can always be relied on for, it’s to refill an empty glass.

‘Well, it would, wouldn’ it?’

Manchester. God’s Own Country. Nothing at all like here, and isn’t that a bloody shame? He looks forward again, puts his feet back on the table, toys idly with his hair. It feels wrong, somehow, to go into detail about home. Like he’s in London now, and should only talk about Fenchurch. The thought pulls him back into himself. And then, the situation they’re in.

And tonight. How - if - they’re going to move from semi-comfortable chatting to...more.