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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.
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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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.'
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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.’
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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.’
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'I never had any doubt that he would. He adores you.'
They all do.
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‘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?’
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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.
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‘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.’
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'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.
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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’.’
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'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.
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‘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.’
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Her voice trails off, feeling a bit daft for even trying to explain the similarities. 'It's not all just mumbo jumbo.'
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...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.’
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'I only went to school for it. Have a degree and everything.' Now she may be pulling his tail a bit.
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‘You know what I meant.’
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She smiles, again, taking the moment to study his features. She wants to remember him like this, golden and relaxed.
'You know, I met Sam, briefly. Before I came here. He was just as you described him. A good man. A good copper.'
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‘Yeah. Yeah he was.’
Sam made him the copper he is now, if he’s honest. Which he has been.
‘You said you knew him. The day we met.’
He glances at her, and half-smirks.
‘It still explains a lot.’
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'What do you mean?'
Another drink of wine, to cover her insecurity.
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She’s attractive when she’s unsure of herself. Hell, she’s attractive when she’s breathing. He'd love to kiss her right now.
‘Both like putting me in my place. Or, tryin’ to. Both annoying as arse.’
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Recently, they haven't got on at all. But she can forget all that for tonight. She wants to forget it all for tonight. They're so much better when they're on the same side.
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No hiding the edge of flirtatiousness in that. There are some things Sammy Tyler wouldn’t have a damn clue about.
‘And he couldn’t have told you that much. Me an’ him were mates. You bloody hated me at first.’
Unless Sam only told her the worst of him, which is possible, but not that likely. Fair-minded, was Tyler. Most of the time.
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She sighs, looking down into her wine glass. Dangerous territory again, the truth.
'He told me about the time, about the way police culture was different. He told me about the brawls, and the copious amounts of alcohol. There was something about you finding him handcuffed to a bed?'
She bites her lip, trying to suppress the amusement at Sam's predicament.
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Not going there. It would only prove his comment about her being mental, and he really doesn’t want this to descend into weirdness. He’s had enough of bloody weird.
‘Thanks a lot. I’ve been trying to scrub that mental image for ten years.’
He smiles, and gets up for another drink.
‘He learned a thing or two that day. With only a touch of bad grace, I’ll give him that.’
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'He told me you were a good man. An honest man, if not perfect. He cared deeply for you. Your friendship meant a lot to him.'
She's not sure if the words she's saying are Sam's or her own right now, but she's had enough wine, she's not sure she really cares.
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