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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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'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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‘I know.’
A muscle twitches in his cheek. He picks the drink up, and cracks it open. This is veering back towards uncomfortable, if not there already.
‘You don’ have to tell me about me and Sam. I know.’
He says it softly. There’s no anger. But he doesn’t need outside validation on that friendship.
‘Just like no one would need to tell me about me an’ you.’
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'I know.'
There's nothing to do in here, so she drifts back into the living room, settling into the same place, clutching that pillow to her midriff, and pouring herself a full glass of wine.
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‘Be there in a sec.’
By the time he comes out of the bathroom, he brings another beer. Alcohol is definitely helping. He might manage to make a move on her if he keeps this up.
Sprawling back on the sofa feels better this time.
‘I hope he told you about the time we walked into a crime boss’s den to find him sucking off a rent boy.’
Because that was funny.
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'No.' No, that's definitely not something that came up in session. 'Honestly, no. And also? Mmmmno.'
Please, dear God let him change the subject.
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OK, probably not appropriate date conversation. If this is still being classed as a date. He shrugs a shoulder with a smile, and lets it drop.
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‘That was the first time he acted like a human being. I caught him smiling after it.’
Kim bloody Trent.
‘This twat arranged to meet his pals at the baths. We got a tip-off, so went to wait for him. You can’t hang around the side of a pool in a suit, obviously, so we played the part. Trent clocked me, took off - we had t’chase the bastard half the length of the canal before we got him.’
That was another fun morning. The smile dies a little bit though.
‘He ended up shooting one of our lasses. But we got him bang to rights in the end. I saved Tyler’s arse with a well-timed intervention, if I do say so meself.’
The smugness is mostly feigned, and only faint anyway. But this is the first time he’s been able to talk about Sam in three years, and it feels good. Sad, but good.
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She's smiling at him again, and not just because she's amused at the idea of him sprinting down the road in nothing more than his swim trunks. She knows the signs of healing when she sees it.
'I like it.'
Oh look, another glass empty and in need of refilling.
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‘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.
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She also likes the times when he sounds more like London. (Her home.) When he betrays his everyman appearance, and talks about politics or culture in ways that surprise her.
He's a never ending series of conundrums, and she wishes she had time to stay and -- get to know him better. The real Gene Hunt. The one that only ever seems to come out when they're alone together.
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