lady_bols | [oom] 3x08 (iii)

Entry tags:

alex,
canon,
gene,
oom,
s3

[oom] 3x08 (iii)

They’d walked out to the car. He couldn’t look at Alex. Keats stuck to his side like a jailer, as if he thought he was going to do a runner. When he held out his hand, Gene handed him the keys without a word. Who is he to argue? His usual no one drives this car but me would sound worse than stupid. It’d sound childish.

Keats had opened the passenger door for Alex, and pulled the seat forward. As she climbed into the back, he’d smirked at Gene in such a way that if there weren’t a cold hand around his heart already, it would’ve turned up then. That bastard lied to her in there. Lied, right to her face and she ate it up. He can’t blame her. He can blame himself – well, for all of this, but most of all because Keats lied to her in there, and he didn’t say a bloody word. Telling himself she wouldn’t listen to him now is not a good excuse.

Hearing the blast of a gunshot, remembering what he saw after, remembering…everything. Not a good excuse.

He’d turned his back on the smug bastard, and looked away, up the hill. The scarecrow remained, of course. He wondered if she put the soil back after she…

…his mind had shut down at that point. He didn’t ever want to think about that again.

And now Keats is whooping and hollering, virtually messing his pants over how much he loves this car, and sodding Club Tropicana blasting out of the stereo. And she’s telling him that the others need to know all about it, as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

‘What does it matter, now?’ he says, and means it. Nothing matters now. Tell them, don’t tell them. They’re all finished either way. Humiliating him further won’t make a blind bit of difference.

He probably owes them that much. And they’ll hate him. So be it.

He closes his eyes. A shotgun goes off in his head.

What does it matter now?

~ ~ ~

Just a little further, she thinks. She's come this far, she can stand to go a little further. For Shaz and Chris and Ray. They need to know the truth about this world. They need to know that, whatever reason he brought them here, it's resolved now. Whatever reason he's keeping them here, it's all for naught.

And when she has helped them escape his grasp, then she can go home. (Jim as much as promised her that.)

That's all she can think about. Home. Molly. Her own flesh and blood. (It's so difficult to remember her face. Long brown hair. Her eyes. She can't remember what her eyes look like.)

Home is all that matters.

(Not the sorrow on his face. Not the broken cant of his shoulders or the way his eyes refuse to focus on the road. Not the fact that he is a passenger in his own chariot. Not the way his reflection in the glass seems to shimmer back and forth when she catches a glimpse out of the corner of her eye. The young copper and the Lion of Fenchurch East, alternating in the shadows. And Keats, singing at the top of his lungs. Crowing about his victory.)

She thinks of nothing but helping the others. She's come this far. Just a little farther. That's all she has to do.

And when that is done, she can finally go home to Molly.

~~~

Time passes, slips through her fingers like water, and before long, they're back at CID. Keats leads them back down the corridor towards the squadroom, and in her head, Alex is trying to find the words. She can't make this personal, not for them. For Ray and Chris and Shaz, they need to know that it's time to move on. That he thought he was helping them, but it's done now. They need to know about the real Gene Hunt. She's taken her place at his shoulder, like nothing's changed. The appearance of normalcy is reassuring she knows, and they will need that.

She's had to break difficult news to family members before, and she thinks she can set aside her issues with him long enough to help them understand what's really going on here. It's time to lay it all out on the table. There will be anger, yes, and a sense of betrayal (oh how she knows that one), but in the end, knowing is better than the alternative.

So when Keats stops outside the squadroom doors, she's completely unprepared for what he has to say. He stops and squares his shoulders to Gene, face to face, all business.

'Right. Before we go in, just one little thing.' Gene looks to her and she meets his gaze for a moment before he looks away.

The headbutt comes out of nowhere, and the fist to Gene's gut almost topples him.

She's screaming before they tumble through the doors. 'No! Get off him!' Keats cracks Gene across the jaw so hard it sends him flying, and he doesn't even try to defend himself. One, two, three hits and he's down on the ground, on his hands and knees. She can't move. She can't breathe. This isn't at all how this was supposed to play out.

Keats proceeds into the room as if he were the ringmaster of this perverted circus, shouting at the top of his lungs. 'All up to speed on health and safety? Good! So now you know you've been denied the truth,' Keats spins on his heel and plants his shoe in Gene's gut, 'by him!'

The body on the floor changes before her eyes, and she sees him. Really sees him. Her ghost, in the flesh, made real by whatever magic Keats is wielding now.

'A skinny little kid.   Look at him.' When she looks again, it's Gene on the floor, his nose bloodied, his suit crumpled. Defeat is written in every line of his body. 'Look at your Guv.'

She waits for him to stand up, to meet this indignity head on. But he doesn't. He simply lies there, eyes unfocused, blood running down his face. This is not the truth. Whatever this is, it's not what happened here.

Keats loses his mind, roaring like a mad man, kicking over the desks and flipping over filing cabinets. 'Yeah! Come on!' He's shouting and screaming, laughing with an unholy glee, shattering lamps and tossing papers around, completely out of his mind. And it feels like he's desecrating the one place she's called home for the past three years. Ray, Chris and Shaz watch, stunned, and she keeps glancing down at Gene, willing him to stand up and fight for them.

Still shrieking, Keats picks up a chair and hurls it across the room, forcing her to duck out of the way.   'You want to know the truth!' He picks up a typewriter and holds it over his head, his grin maniacal. There's one final roar of defiance, and he slams it to the floor, and she feels the impact put a crack in the world. Above them, the ceiling of CID dissolves into nothingness, and above them, the whole firmament stands dark, strewn with stars.

And all they can do is stare in dismay, silent and terrified. The void looms overhead, and suddenly, she feels very, very small. Powerless.

Keats climbs up on a desk, sending the files and coffee cups flying with a vicious kick, and raises his arms over head in triumph, letting loose a victory whoop reminiscent of a football hooligan.

'Isn't it beautiful?' His laugh makes her blood run cold, and behind her, Gene is struggling to sit up. Keats continues his victory celebration and slowly, finally realises he's the only one not cheering like an idiot. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and he looks around at them all with wild eyes.

That gaze fixes on Alex's face, and he seems confused. 'Oh come on. You didn't think this was like a real police station, did you? What -- you think they actually work like this?'

He's shouting again, incredulous that they all didn't see right through the charade. 'It's his game! He lied to you!'

'He didn't lie.' Alex's voice is quiet, but resolute. And with her declaration, the familiar checkerboard of the ceiling comes back, as solid as ever. 'He didn't lie, he'd just forgotten.' No, no tears now. They need to know what happened.

'We just wanted to make him proud,' Ray says.

'Don't you make him into a liar, Jim.' Even as she points a finger at Keats, the bitter edge to her tone may be half-directed at herself. She knows who he is, and he would never deliberately deceive them. How could she ever think that about him?

'Guv says 'jump', and you ask how high,' Chris interjects. 'I have done that before. I have followed a man who told me to jump and I jumped into a bullet. I...' The thought stalls on his lips. 'I can't think. I can't think.'

Now, she can point out the damage he's done with this little display. 'This isn't helping anybody.   This is just -- sick gloating.'

'It's not fair. I'm 26 years old. I want to see my mum.' Shaz speaks and the shock is apparent on her face and in her tone. 'Chris, I need to see my mum.'

'Shaz.' She cries quietly and Chris takes her in his arms.

'You can all still have that life.' Keats, again, doing his best to sound reasonable. 'You're living one now, aren't you?'

'No. No, they're not.' This is not a life. This is (a place where we come to sort ourselves out)... 'They're....'

'You breathe, you laugh, you love. Oh trust me, this is living. This is all the life you need.'

'No,' she pleads. She can't stand by and let them be fed these lies. This is not the truth she wanted to bring to them.

'I'm offering you life on your terms,' Keats continues, a salesman deep in the hard sell. 'Your dreams. Your way.   I have a whole new department waiting for you.'

Ray turns his back on them all, his head down.   Beside her, Gene manages to push himself up to sitting, leaning heavily on the filing cabinets, still battered, his head still bowed in defeat.

'We can transfer you there right now, where you will all get what you deserve.'

She's not listening anymore. She's watching Gene, silently pleading with him to put an end to this rubbish.

'What, Scotland Yard?' Chris, daft as ever, sounds like a kid on Christmas morning.

Shaz sets him straight. 'There is no Scotland Yard, Chris.'

Ray stands stock still in the middle of the room, seething.

'The important thing is that you're happy and fulfilled. He oppresses you. I won't be on your backs.'

She whispers to Gene, desperate now. 'Get up.'

'Bullying. Belittling. And every night the drinks are on me. Ray?'

'Get up.' But no, he's not moving.

DI Carling turns to face Keats, listening intently. 'You've still got something to give, haven't you? You want to forget all that pain. Your dad. The disappointment of a failed son.'

Chris's voice is pitched low. 'Ray. What do you want to do?'

Behind her, Gene's breathing is laboured. She's worried he's injured. And they're actually thinking of leaving.

'You can't... You can't just go, not like this.' What can she say in his defense?

'Why not?' Chris is full of himself now. 'What is there here, boss? Ma'am? I mean, look at it. Look at it, Alex.' He's never called her by her first name.

Ray picks up a sawed off shotgun off the desk, and grabs his coat.

'Shazza, come on.' Chris takes Shaz's hand in his and drags her towards the door.

'No,' Alex finds herself begging again, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. 'Not after everything.'

Ray fixes her with a gaze she cannot describe. The tone of his voice is nothing short of accusatory. 'Do you know why I put that rope around my neck? After bottling the Army, I just... I just fell into being a copper. I took it out on a young lad who was only pissing up the side of a pub.' The self-loathing comes through now, thick as bile. 'But I ended up killing him. And my DCI, who was not a million miles away from him...' He gestures at Gene with the shotgun and Alex shifts to protect him, the movement completely involuntary.

Ray sniffs, and shakes his head, lowering the barrel. '...Covered it up.'

She can't believe she's watching them fall apart like this. Ray, of all people. She never thought. And yet, she still keeps her body between him and Gene as he heads for the door. There's no denying the rage beneath the surface. It's all been for nothing.

Keats is smirking again, and she's not paying attention. They all need to know.

'I'm not leaving him.' She can't. She won't. 'Not like this.'

Chris opens the door for the team and they file out, heads hanging in shame.

Keats pops the collar on his overcoat and looks down at Gene, his voice thick with disgust. 'He's done.'

He opens the door and holds it for her. 'Alex?' As if he's doing her a courtesy. As if he thinks she's still onside and is ready to walk away from him for good.

She steps up right into his face, and the words are quiet but edged with contempt. 'You go to hell.'

He looks her up and down, one last time, almost smiling. 'All right.'

And just like that, they're gone.
~~~

He hadn’t expected Keats to get violent. It’s not his usual style. But he’s taken worse knocks. Just one more surprise on a day of nasty revelations, the final fall from grace.

He had to show them, didn’t he? If they looked at Gene, they’d see him as they’d always known him. But Keats knows what he’s doing. Knock enough barriers down, and the construct slides away. Force his memory back, take his people, destroy his world – the body is the last step, the ultimate strip down.

He doesn’t feel any different, lying there as himself, truly himself, for the first time in thirty years. There’s nothing left to feel, only defeat. The uniform is a source of shame for the first time (so proud, that first day), the ultimate admission of what he really is. It’s only for a moment, and then his defences slam back up, bringing him back. The ‘him’ he wants to be, the ‘him’ he’s presented to the world all this time. As unreal as everything else here, yes, but it’s served a purpose, hasn’t it? Hasn’t he helped people?

You wouldn’t think it, hearing their reactions. They’re so quick to walk out on him, and he’d probably do the same, if the roles were reversed. But it still hurts. He can’t look at them, though he can feel them staring, absorbs their contempt. The shame is the worst thing. He’ll never be able to look any of them in the eye again, let alone explain that he didn’t mean any harm. He just didn’t want them to go. That’s all.

Keats takes the roof off his world. He doesn’t look up to see the stars. He’s seen them before, and once was enough for him. They might stare in wonder, but he never got it. Surely a working police station, a job, and a purpose is better than staring at the sky? Surely having a chance to sort yourself out is better than it just being…over?

It seems not. He doesn’t watch as they leave.

He can’t blame them. He hates himself too.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She squats down next to him. It takes a moment for him to meet her gaze, and he can’t hold it for long. He looks at the ruin of CID instead, and tries to pull himself a little more upright. Keats really did a number on the place, and what does it matter? He won. He gets to do what he wants.

She stayed, though. It feels like a victory of some kind, though maybe not for her.

He has no idea what to say, and doesn’t try to fill the silence.

After a moment of gazing on his bloody nose, and his tousled golden hair, Alex schools her features to something a little less pitying. Her hand fishes inside his jacket to come up with a handkerchief, and she gingerly blots at the blood at the side of his mouth.

'How's your breathing? Did you break a rib?'

He snorts softly, and leans his head away. The last thing he wants is to be mothered. He takes the handkerchief from her, and looks down at the spot of red on it.

‘I’m fine.’

Which OK, is ridiculous. But physically, he knows he’ll be fine. What’s going to hurt him, here?

Of course he's fine. He's always fine, isn't he? (Is that how he forgets? Is that why she's forgetting? Because it feels fine here, so far from her home. From Molly.) She sighs, and nudges a toppled chair out of the way with one foot before sitting down opposite him, hands on her knees, bright red shoes keeping her modesty safe.

'So you didn't lie. You forgot.'

Her words are simply put. No judgement, no contempt, one way or the other. Just a statement of fact.

‘What difference does it make?’

Whether she hates him or not, it doesn’t matter. Whichever way this finishes, the outcome will be the same. Chris, and Ray, and Shaz will still be gone. It hurts to imagine her thinking badly of him, but he’s not going to try and influence her by pleading ignorance.

And truth be told, he doesn’t want to think about any of it. He just wants it all to go away.

She wishes she could indulge him in that desire, but this war isn't over yet. (Did Sam commit an act of war?) She knows their cause is not hopeless, not yet.

'It matters to me.'

She does want him to know that. She thought, no... She still thinks they're in this together. That his fate and hers are intertwined. (The ghost was you. You were the one who lead me down this path.)

'I know you think it's psycho-bollocks, but I've studied this sort of thing, you know. Trauma and whatnot...'

He shakes his head, still looking at the floor.

‘Don’t.’

He’s not a lab rat. He doesn’t want to think about trauma. He can’t even process...there’s that noise, and the blood, and he knows what it was, but...it doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t think about it, it’ll go away. Isn’t this whole place proof of that?

Besides, ‘trauma’ is just a word. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

She looks down at her hands, thinking how ridiculous she must look in these glittery red shoes. (There's no place like home. There's no place like home.) A wave of emotion rises in her chest and throat, and she closes her eyes, willing it back down.

'Sam figured it out, didn't he? The other pictures on that roll of film. They were his pictures.' Clearly, it wasn't Gene taking snapshots for his scrap book. Who else could it have been? 'He left them for you.'

He shrugs. He never developed the film, so he never knew. But it’s the sort of thing Tyler would do. Leave his mate a helping hand.

Those last days are just another thing he doesn’t want to dwell on. But he can’t tell her to stop. He’s not in a position to tell anyone, anything.

He touches the handkerchief to his nose instead, testing the pain. The world’s definitely off, because it hurts like a bastard. He lets his hand drop.

‘Sam was a clever git,’ is all he says.

She wants to say, I was clever, too. But she wasn't, was she? It took his ghost to point the way to the truth. She would have been content to keep right on by his side, letting the currents of memory pull her farther and farther from home. And Keats...

'Keats...' She starts, and has to swallow, one hand rubbing her eyes for a moment. 'Why didn't I see that coming?'

The words are uttered to herself, dismayed. She feels like rube who'd been hooked through the nose and dragged through the entire investigation. And all this time, the truth was right in front of her, so close she could reach out and touch it.

'I was so worried about -- clearing your name.' That memory seems like it's from a thousand years ago. Being shot and falling onto the pavement stones outside St. Joseph's. Waking up in that hospital bed with him standing over her, her cheek still stinging from the flat of his hand.

He snorts again, still quiet and still not looking at her. He can’t help it, any more than he can help the small stab in his chest at the thought of her needing to clear his name. Like it could ever have been in doubt.

‘Keats is good at this.’

He knew what he was trying to do from the start. He said it to him, didn’t he? ‘Turning them all against me’ - that conversation seems so long ago, now. Back when he was still sure he’d win.

‘An’ you’re not the first person to doubt my good name.’

It comes out more hurt than defiant, though there’s a dash of that too. But he’s too...finished, to sustain it. Turns out there was reason to doubt, wasn’t there?

She laughs bitterly, quietly, shaking her head, her chin rippling with emotion. 'And you're a terrible liar.' She looks up at him again, her dark eyes brimming. 'I never doubted you until --'

No, that's not a place she wants to go right now either.

'Keats is a bastard.' The anger rises up to cover her embarrassment, the awkwardness of having touched his bones with her bare hands, but it's gone just as quickly as it came. She takes a deep breath, and rests back against the edge of her desk. 'I never liked him.' (It's a lie, she knows, but she tells it anyway.)

His eyes flick up to meet hers, then away. Never liked him? Right, yeah. OK.

It’s not important. Keats is good at this. And she wanted to believe he’d help her. He can’t blame her for that.

‘Me either. In case that weren’t obvious.’

If she’d listened to him, if she hadn’t been so focused on unearthing the ‘truth’, maybe Keats wouldn’t have been able to...

...oh, who cares? It’s already happened. There’s no going back. He pulls himself to sitting more comfortably, and tries not to wince.

‘He got what he came for.’

She nods, the movement so small it's almost nothing. He still won't look at her, and for some reason, that's starting to make the ache in her chest thrum.

'You know, I... I never meant, to be a hindrance to you, Gene.' She only wanted to do what it was she was meant to do, and go home. Falling for him, that was never part of the plan.

‘You weren’t.’

He should never have said that. It’s what sent her up north. And it wasn’t true.

He wants to tell her he was just angry, and embarrassed, but the humiliation he felt that night has paled to nothing compared to today. Pus, it was him that was the hindrance all along. Can’t forget that.

‘You really weren’t.’

Again, she nods, trying for a bit of a smile. It's not much, but it's something. Her hands clasp around her knees, and she feels like she's twelve years old again. Nothing about this makes sense, but they have to soldier on, regardless.

"You know, when I first came here, I can't tell you how scared I was. I'd spent half my life studying psychosis, and there I was. I thought I was as mad as a bag of bees.' Living out scenes from Sam Tyler's therapy sessions, only in London, not Manchester.

He wipes the blood from under his nose, finally. He remembers when she first came here, yeah. He thought she was insane. And a pain in the arse.

‘You looked good, though.’

'I was dressed as a prostitute.'

‘My point.’

'And there was this car...'

Her voice drifts off as she remembers the Quattro, red as a bull fighter's cape, tyres squealing, throwing gravel.

'And those boots.' Those ridiculous snakeskin cowboy boots.

'And you. Gene Hunt.'

Larger than life.

‘My real name is Nigel Perkins.’

She just looks at him. He looks back. OK, so it’s not funny.

‘Nah, I’m joking. It’s Gene Hunt.’

She takes a deep breath, trying to find the words to bring him to his feet.

'You know, you're the most difficult... stubborn...'

The tears come, unbidden.

'Obnoxious, misogynistic, reckless human being I've ever met.' She's grinning, genuinely smiling at him by the time she gets to the end of the list, because it's true. It's all true.

And she says it without anger, with...affection, he thinks. That’s what it sounds like, anyway. And it’s almost amusing, because what is it with people throwing lists of his so-called ‘faults’ at him?

‘Come on, surely you missed one out.’

He sniffs, and looks away, a hint of their old relationship in there somewhere, maybe.

She missed out on more than one. Her gaze lingers on his face, and she realises, there's not enough time to tell him all the things she left off that list. And she's not sure he'd believe her anyway.

'And yet somehow, you make us all feel safe.' Another simple, straightforward, statement of fact. She's never felt safer in her life than when she's with him.

He knows what she’s trying to do. He can’t let it continue. So he eyes her for just a second, and looks down again.

‘It’s over, Bolly. No use trying to cheer me up.’

Though it does, a bit. Even though they’re finished.

'Just tell me.'

She knows it's over. She's just trying to find her way home, now. Without leaving her heart in little tiny pieces all over the floor of CID.

'What happened to Sam? You said the last thing you did was go to the pub. Why?'

‘You don’t need to put the word ‘why’ after the word ‘pub’.’

She’s only after one thing. He knows it, and she knows it. But that doesn’t mean he can just...let go. He’s going to have to. But not yet.

'Why?'

There is no anger in her voice, only a gentle pressure. He can't dodge this question, not this time.

...no. No, he can’t.

‘Because that’s what you do. After a job.’

He can’t explain it further. It’s what coppers do at the end of a day of work. It just is.

'You foil a blag, you go to the boozer.'

It makes sense, if she'd just stop and think about it. Sam told me he was gagging for a pint. I told him to get one in for me an' all.

'But is that how it's meant to end, Gene?'

He huffs a small breath out through his nose, and looks away. The small rise in his mood dips again. Why’s she asking him? Hasn’t today proved he has less clue about any of this than the people who turn up here?

And asking him how it’s meant to end just feels cruel. Nothing was supposed to end the way it did. Now this will finish too, and he has no idea what comes after.

She watches him for a long moment, trying to decide what to do.

You foil a blag, you go to the boozer.

So, what's the investigation of the week? Surely someone has been keeping up appearances while they were out and about. She pushes herself up, dusts her hands off, and tries to locate the remains of the whiteboard in and amongst the debris.

'According to this, Ray's planned a raid at the London East Aerodrome. Eric Hoorsten.' The file has to be here somewhere. Yes, here it is, right on top. (Right where she'd imagined it would be. Just the same way she found the corkscrew in her flat, by simply looking where she knew it would be.) 'They're planning to put Shaz in undercover, arrest them in the act of receiving the gems. That's very ambitious.' It's impressive, really. Something she might have come up with. 'Well done, Ray.'

He watches her get up. As she walks away, when she can’t see him, he takes a deep breath and looks down. She’s not going to leave it. When does she ever leave it?

And he realises - if she dropped it now, they could still both forget. Keats is gone with the others. He won’t come back. But she won’t leave it alone, and that means he does know how this is going to finish. It’s a thought both painful, and dreadful. Not just because of what it means for him.

He looks across to the other side of the room as she figures out Ray’s plan, toying with the handkerchief in his hand. Doesn’t she get that it doesn’t matter? It’s not a real crime. The crooks don’t really exist. The plan to catch them is real, but the success of it, or not, holds no more weight than the air in her palm. He can’t mask his irritation. They could do anything right now. They don’t have to sit here, in this fantasy he made real, pretending like any of it’s important.

‘Why do you even care?’

He knows why she cares. She just wants to go home, and get away from this. From him. Just like old times.

She throws his words right back in his face.

'Because we're coppers. That's what we do.' She turns to look at him, starting to get annoyed.

'Have you got any better ideas?' She stands, her hands swinging at her sides, her chin lifted.

‘Yes! And it involves eighteen pints, a dozen whiskey chasers, and a barmaid with honkers like a pair of Wermacht Zeppelins!’

He’s a kid. He’s allowed to talk like one.

'Oh Guv!'

That's not what she meant and he knows it.

‘Don’t call me that!’

Anything but that. He doesn’t care that it sounds petulant.

Right. She looks between the board and him. If he doesn't intend to foil the blag, then she'll just have to do it on her own. (Or appear to be, anyway. He can't help himself, she knows.)

'The flight's at twelve. High Noon.' She calls him out, bold as brass.

He glances over, and away.

No, Alex. Not even High Noon is tempting. Appealing to his sense of theatrical heroism really isn’t going to cut it today.

She scoffs, exasperated. It's like pulling teeth, sometimes. Such a stubborn arse, she'd like to … She tosses a pencil down and stalks up to the board. There are plans to be made. Forces to be deployed. Scum bags to be captured.

'Back up.' She uncaps the whiteboard pen, and stares up at the blank spaces that need filling. How badly can she screw this up, and yet not have it appear to be intentional. 'Put Terry on the perimeter fence...'

‘Terry!? Any idea how bad his eyesight is? They call him Mr Magoo behind his back.’

'All right, Bammo.'

Fine, she'll take direction, if he'd like to render an opinion.

He sighs, and drops the handkerchief. For God’s sake.

‘Why don’t you draw them into the cargo hangar?’

'Cargo hangar.'

Her gaze scans the map of the Aerodrome, looking, letting him tell her how it should be.

‘Put Bammo and Cottsey on perimeter. You keep ‘em well out of it ‘til things start getting a bit tasty. Keep the pandas well out of it.’

Even here, plod are mostly useless.

‘They can stay up on the apron road...

…oh, give over, woman.’

He drags himself up to his feet. If she’s going to do this, she might as well do a proper job. He strides over to the map, and points.

‘Here. Just west of the runway. This line of trees…well, you won’t see ‘em from there, useless bunch of woodentops.

...why are we doin’ this, Bolly? I’ve lost my bloody team.’

If he can put everything else aside for a moment, that one thing remains unchanged. Without his team, he’s nothing. There’s no point carrying on this raid with no coppers, no real coppers, to play their parts. The whole point of these jobs is to help the officers, isn’t it? To push them towards resolution. Without them there, everything loses its meaning. Including him.

'No, they'll come.' Again, there's a quiet surety in her voice. 'Chris took a radio.' She can save them. (Save him.) 'They don't want to lose you, Guv.' (The truth will set them all free.)

Her hand finds her radio, and she clicks it on with one practiced thumb. 'Chris, can you hear me?'

Nothing but silence.

'Chris? DC Skelton, can you hear me? Please respond.'

Still, only static. And then, the click of a return transmission. 'This may not be appropriate, ma'am.'

'Stand by, DC Skelton.'

She holds out the radio to Gene.

‘No. Can’t.’

Facing them again, so soon…no. It makes him feel sick.

'You can.'

He has no choice.

‘I can’t.’

But if he doesn’t give them a reason to leave Keats behind, will he really have done his best for them? If they go with Keats, they’ll end up the same way as Viv.

It’s enough to make him force a deep breath, hesitate…and take the radio from her hand. No, he can’t let them go without one last try. It doesn’t matter how much he doesn’t want to.

‘I’ve had a look at your investigation. It’s bloody impressive. You’re just missing one crucial element – me.’

The bravado in his tone - he’s never told such a bare-faced lie in his life.

‘Granger. I’m promoting you to DC, effective immediately. Which is my way of sayin’, get your stocking-tops back here, pronto-tonto. We need that jewel switch, otherwise a decent brief's gonna have them Dutch boys clog-dancin’ their way out of court.’

He clicks off for a moment. Her smile is encouraging, and he’s not too proud, now, to admit that if she weren’t here, he wouldn’t be able to do this. He’d still be on the floor.

‘Christopher. Raymondo. What is a Sheriff without his finest deputies?’

He tries not to think about their faces on hearing him. They’ve been with him longest of all, and taken most of his shit. Never mind that they needed it. Never mind that they were the quickest to leave.

‘I’ll tell you what he is – he’s nothin’. I don’t like bein’ nothing. It’s not attractive. I need you lads. An’ when it’s all over – we’ll go to the pub. The boozer. Our boozer.’

There’s no response from any of them. It’s hard, speaking into a void. The swagger he’s forcing starts to feel stupid, and he falters a bit.

‘I know you won’t let me down. You never have. Well, maybe once or twice, but…uh. Mostly not.’

She’s not smiling now. She looks a bit sad, like she really thought they’d talk to him. He takes a breath.

‘See you in the field.’

He tosses the radio down next to her, and refrains from saying told you. But at least he tried. And just like always, the decision’s up to them. It’s apt, really. That’s all he’s ever done; give them the opportunities, and leave it to them to step up if they want to. That’s the theory, anyway. They’ve all managed it this year, so…no, he’s not going to hope. If they’re going to walk away from Keats, and back to him, it has to be their choice.

He looks down at her. There’s nothing left to say. He just shrugs one shoulder and walks away, into his office.

Edited 2012-06-19 19:53 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[oom] 3x08 (iii)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject