lady_bols | [oom] Late Christmas Eve, Manchester, 1981

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[oom] Late Christmas Eve, Manchester, 1981

They'd stayed passed last call, and last last call, and no really last call. They'd stayed till Nelson turned up the lights and put all the chairs up. Alex's chin was heavy on her hand as she watched him try to focus on the bottom of his pint glass. He was lucky he was still upright in his chair.

Nelson wandered over with a rag draped over his shoulder, hands clasped before him and a far more patient look than Luigi ever managed.

"Listen, Guv, you don't 'ave to go home yet but you can't stay 'ere, now. Take your little lady 'ome and tuck 'er in, won't you? So you can bot' be bright eyed for Christmas dinner tomorrow."

Alex smirked at the 'little lady' comment, and without turning her head, managed to look at him.

She held out her hand to him, palm up, fingers beckoning. "Keys."

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He shakes his head, slow, too far to the left and too far to the right.

'No one...driveshh, my car. Bu' me.'

He swivels on his stool suddenly, looking up to face Nelson blearily.

'Was goo' wasn' it?' He nods, answering his own question. 'Was goo'. Alll 'f it.'

'Seeeya Nelshon. Goo' man. Nex' year.'

'Or sooner, mon brav. C'mon man, out'choo go.'

He propels himself to his feet, nearly falls headlong into the doorframe but grabs it at the last minute to steady himself. The walks out of the place by dint of leaning his shoulder on the wall and dragging himself along with the pub holding him upright.

She's not quite so blotto and she figures she's safer to drive than he is.

"Thanks, Nelson. Happy Christmas." The man nods his returns and doesn't stay to watch this part.

She rolls her eyes at him, and slips an arm around him, letting his drape over her shoulder. That means her hand is in his pocket and she palms his keys.

"This way, Guv. Come on then. Home and bed for you."

'Mmmyou comin' wiv me, Bolsh?'

He leers at her, which puts him off balance and he nearly goes down. Rights himself just at the last minute.

It is quite probable she's never seen him this bad before. Heard him slurring yes, that first day they worked together. But then he went right back to work.

Right now? Not going back to work.

"I am indeed. I am entirely, at your, mercy."

She steers him round to the passenger door and opens it.

"Watch your head."

He seems to forget, she was a plonk before she ever made DI, and handling drunks three times her size was a fact of daily life. He's only an inch taller than she is in these shoes, and a few stone heavier, yes, but that's manageable.

"There. You have to let go of my jacket Gene. Else I can't drive us home."

Her tone is gentle, but insistent.

He nods, doesn't let go of it. And then his eyes snap up, scowling.

'No' drivin'. I'm drivin'.'

He totally doesn't move though he probably thinks he's getting out of the car, taking the keys and bundling her into the passanger seat.

's'my car.'

He lets go of her jacket so he can find his fags.

"Yes, of course you are. Of course it is. Your Quattro," she singsongs, resting her head on the door frame for a moment to catch her balance when he lets her go.

"There. Have a smoke. We'll be home in a jiff."

She closes the door behind him, bumps it shut with her hip, and moves round to the driver side, fingertips resting on the bonnet of the car as she goes. (This a full sensory hallucination.) The crisp night air fogs her breath, and she takes a puff from an imaginary cigarette. The deep breath clears her head somewhat. She climbs into the driver's seat and puts the key in. Lucky for him, she doesn't even have to adjust the seat.

"Think, Alex. Which way did we come."

She starts the engine and can't remember.

"Gene. If we wanted to get to your mum's house from here, which way would we go?"

'U-turn. An' then down th' road.'

He has lit a cigarette and it's currently about half an inch from his trouser leg while his eyes are closing and head bobbing forward.

'Lef'.'

"Got it."

She turns to look at him, frowns at the head bobbing. That won't do at all.

"Guv. No passing out in here. I won't have you freezing in the car and I can't carry you in at the other end. So wake up."

She takes the hand brake off and pulls out, gingerly turning them around at a safe intersection. That done, she shifts and puts the pedal down, pulling a surge of power up from the engine.

"Oh, this is fun."

'Ice. Ice!'

His head jerks up as something in his subconscious waves and yells we're moving in a very loud voice.

'You scratch i' an' I'll fire you an' your nice roun' arse c'n fin' 'nother poor sod to tormen'.'

His words are running out of steam after the initial outburst and he remembers the fag just as his trousers start to crinkle in the heat.

'...bollocks.'

Her voice is level and calm, almost dreamy. "I know, I know. I may be a bird, but I'm not complete rubbish behind the wheel."

She demonstrates, taking the left turn at a clip that's probably best left for daylight hours, making the tyres chirp but not sing.

"And you wouldn't fire me for scratching the Quattro, I think."

She considers the lay of the land, recognising the street they're supposed to turn on.

"Whoops. Guess we'll have to go the long way."

The Quattro growls its approval as she downshifts again.

'Bloody would.'

It's quite likely that he actually would, too.

He groans and shuts his eyes, unable to look. The back streets never get gritted and it's below freezing; the Quattro might be a four wheel drive but it's still a couple of tons of metal being driven fast over a slick surface.

'Jus' don' kill us.'

She glares at his reflection in the mirror, biting her lip.

"Shut up and enjoy the ride, cowboy."

She only goes about couple miles before turning and heading back. It just was too good an opportunity to pass up.

"Here? Right. Here."

She makes a sane and sensible turn, and it's nowhere near as fun as the way he usually drives. She pulls up in front of his mum's place and sets the hand brake.

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig."

'Gonna mek you pay f'that.'

Just as soon as he coordinates himself enough to get out of the car. Yeah.

'Keys.'

"I'm sure you are. Later."

She gives him the keys and then totters round to his side of the car.

"Come on. I'm cold." She's careful to keep her voice down, not to wake Betty.

'Mmm. Need a good warmin' up.'

He makes it out, even manages to lock the car on the first try. And the drive home has sobered him a little, enough to make him aware of the need not to wake his mother.

'An' food. Lots o'food.'

He never even ate that egg mayo sarnie. No wonder he's so pissed.

"How can you even think about eating at this hour?"

She leans down to peer at him where he's sitting, half in, half out of the car.

"Are you going to sit there all night or are you coming in to warm me up?"

He has possibly never moved so fast in his life.

'Mam does good cookin'. An' iss Chris'mas.'

And he needs to soak up some of this booze. The front door is opened and he ushers her inside with a loosely-waving arm.

Warm. She asked him to warm her up. he goes and puts some coal and another log on the fire, though it's not the kind of warming he has in mind.

She strips out of her jacket and hangs it on the hook, and then slips out of her boots, taking a moment to massage her feet. Which is an exciting trick, balancing on one foot and then the other. After a moment, she gives up and sits on the stairs.

She can hear him puttering around in there, and can hear the faint snores from upstairs.

Here she is, caught between. Always between, neither coming nor going. Not allowed to have a solid footing.

"Aren't you the regular George Bailey," she mutters under her breath, pushing herself back up and heading into the kitchen. She can damn well cook too. And anyway, he hasn't eaten yet. No wonder he's so pissed.

'Bols?'

She's not in here. He'd assumed she'd follow him in.

He goes in Search.

'What're you doin'?'

"Feeding you."

She turns and fixes him with a Look.

"Sit."

A quick reconnoitre comes up with some eggs and bacon (enough left over for breakfast as well), and some bread that will fry up nicely. Pan. Stove. Butter. All quiet as a mouse.

'Oh.'

He sits.

Cigarette.

'You're pissed.'

He feels obliged to point this out, in case she felt the need to be careless and burn herself.

"Thank you, Mister Hunt, for that astute observation. You -- should go into police work. You'd be brilliant at it."

Bacon gets the first go, so the bread and eggs can soak up the fat in the second go.

It's just a few minutes of her puttering around and a plate appears in front of him, accompanied by a large glass of water and a bottle of paracetemol.

She joins him with her plate, watching him with wide eyes for the verdict.

He looks at it for a long minute, then transfers his eyes to the water.

'Wha's tha'?'

Too much to hope for that it's vodka.

But he tries the breakfast.

'Mmmm. Bloody 'ell, Bols. Keep this up an' I migh' 'ave to marry ya.'

"In your dreams," she murmurs, grinning nonetheless. "Drink your water, for your sweet mum's sake, if not mine."

She tucks in, basking in a new, warm little glow that's huddling behind her breast bone.

'My dreams, I'll 'ave you know, are a bi' less poncy and a bit more...'

He waves his fork vaguely, unable to think of the word.

'...summat.'

He drinks the water. Some of it. And he never just drinks water.

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