[oom] 3x07 (iv)

[lady_bols]

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.

Comments

[the_gene_genie]

That wasn’t what he was expecting her to say. He pauses to make sure he heard her right. And then;

‘No! Gene Hunt does not dance.'

He sits around and drinks. If she needs a demonstration of that fact, he’s doing it right now.

[lady_bols]

'No,' she answers, looking for the right tape. 'He doesn't hug Christopher Skelton either, does he?'

She finds the tape, and pops it in the cassette deck, pressing the play button firmly. The sound of Spandau Ballet quietly fills the room, and it takes her a moment to gather her courage again. He's still seated, and that just won't do. It feels like she's crossing a country mile to get to him again, but she holds out her hand, making it clear she won't take no for an answer.

[the_gene_genie]

He’s still seated because he’s drinking. But as soon as the music comes on, everything shifts. Because this is what happens on dates, isn’t it? Dinner, drinks, dancing, and then...

‘OK.’ He plants one foot on the floor. ‘Let’s get the dancin’ out of the way.’

As if this had been a foregone conclusion all the time. As if his throat hasn’t gone a bit dry, despite the amount of beer he’s poured down it.

He takes her hand, and follows her to the middle of the room. Her hand is warm in his. There’s a brief moment when they arrange themselves; he’s wondering if this is the slow dance it should be. But she seems to have no qualms about them sharing space, and he sure as hell doesn’t.

He’s been dreaming about holding her this close for three years. The butterflies inside ramp their action up a bit, but he’s not complaining.

[lady_bols]

She can't help but step in close, taking his left hand in her right, leaving the other at his waist. Letting the rhythm take over, as they rock in time to the music.

She leans into him, unable to keep from glancing at his expression, wondering if he's just as desperate for this as she is. She's shaking, and it doesn't matter. This close, she can smell his cologne, the beer on his breath. His scent catches in her throat, and a wave of emotion causes her to inhale, as if she could take him into her and hold him there, safe from the rest of the world.

[the_gene_genie]

The conversation they just had melts away. The nightmare of today fades to black. This whole awful year - doesn’t matter. She’s holding his hand, she’s pressed against him, her mouth is an inch from his cheek. And she’s looking at him. He glances at her, then away. But he can’t help looking back, and she’s still there. She’s leaning in so close he can feel her breath on his neck - and then their eyes catch, and he can’t look away.

He doesn’t know what to do with the tension. He’s always backed away from emotional stuff, and he doesn’t know how he should act here. So he does what he always does.

‘You got any Herb Alpert?’

[lady_bols]

She holds his gaze, steady and calm, and shakes her head.

'No.'

She knows what he's trying to do, and it's past time for that. They're here, finally. After all they've been through, they're in each others arms.

Her forehead drops to his temple, and she closes her eyes, nuzzling against his cheek. Only for a moment, and then she gives in. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, her nose tucked up against his throat. She sighs, letting the smell of his skin fill her lungs. The hand at his waist pulls him closer, as if that were possible.

[the_gene_genie]

He’s glad she doesn’t fall for his deflection. Because when she says ‘no’, he gives in. This is what he wants, and it’s OK to let it show. It’s the most natural thing in the world to tilt his head to the side, and give her room to rest on his shoulder. It’s the most natural thing in the world to let her settle on him, and then lock them together with his cheek nearly brushing her hair. The nerves subside finally, turn to excitement because this is right, and it’s OK to listen to the music, and enjoy her body against his. Just as, a long moment later, it feels right to turn his head, and press a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

[lady_bols]

She feels that kiss, and it aches, somewhere down deep in her heart. It feels like hello and goodbye all tangled up in one, and she doesn't want it to end.

But it has to, because that's not the kind of kiss she wants from him. She doesn't want chaste, and safe. She doesn't want comforting. She wants so much more, and after a moment, she decides she's done waiting. Her eyes open, and she lifts her head again, seeking out his gaze. Willing him to feel this, too, before it overwhelms her.

[the_gene_genie]

He feels it too. Just before her head comes up, there’s a moment when his cheek rests against her forehead and he just breathes. Relief, and desire, and then she looks into his eyes and he looks back. Their movement slows, almost stops, and his gaze falls to her lips, her breath ghosts across his mouth and he lets his eyes close because this is everything he’s been waiting for, everything he’s hoped for for three years and it’s finally happening. She’s an inch away, and it’s finally happening.

[lady_bols]

His breath is warm on her lips, and it feels like her heart is racing a thousand miles an hour. How many nights has she dreamed of this chance, this one moment? How long has she been fighting herself, telling herself this is a mistake, that it will destroy their working relationship? How long has she been trying to convince herself that that kiss in his mother's sitting room didn't mean anything?

Oh she was wrong, so very wrong. And glad of it, in this moment. In this moment, he is all she wants, and want is a very pale word for the emotion roaring in her head.

Which is why the sharp three knocks at the door literally steals her breath away.

[the_gene_genie]

But of course.

Of course.

He breathes out, and swallows, trying to get a handle on himself and tamp down the flare of anger at the same time. Why can’t the world just sod off for One Bloody Night. Half an inch, less, from finally getting there and...this.

He lets go of her hand, but doesn’t step away. She might (won’t) ignore the knock. It could be important (he knows who it is); all he can do is hope the moment isn’t lost, and she’ll come back to him.

[lady_bols]

'Go on.' There's an urgency in her voice, almost a plea. 'Wait in the bedroom, I'll get rid of them.'

God, what now? What could possibly be so important that it justifies pounding on someone's flat door at 2 o'clock in the morning? She tucks her hair behind her ears, her thoughts skittering madly from one disaster to another. (And she knows who it is; how could she not?) Just -- how to get rid of him. How to make this right again?

She's still thinking the evening is salvageable when she opens the door...