[oom] Late Christmas Eve, Manchester, 1981

[lady_bols]

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."

Comments

[the_gene_genie]

'Yeah.'

Beat.

'...'course, migh' change me mind tomorrow, by the time you an' me mam've finished with me.'

He'll still be glad, even then.

[lady_bols]

She laughs under her breath.

"I promise we'll go easy on you."

Such a lie.

"I confess, it'll be interesting to see you in a space dominated by women. Not something you get much of, I imagine."

Not since his wife left him anyway.

[the_gene_genie]

'Don' make promises you've no intention of keepin'.'

He looks down at her, half-amused, half-sleeping.

'Suits me. Rather be in the pub with me mates. Up 'ere. My boozer. They bloody love me, up 'ere.'

Apart from the ones who don't.

[lady_bols]

"What and we don't?"

She tilts her face up to look at him, a touch hurt.

"I mean, you're not exactly the rock star down south that you are up here, but you're the Guv."

The remote possibility that he might be considering moving back flits across her mind and her hand tightens on his shirt.

[the_gene_genie]

'S'not 'ome though, London.'

He sighs and finishes his brandy, knowing he's going to be asleep soon. Part of him knows, too, that he's idealising this place in his mind - it may be paradise but it wasn't perfect, or he never would have left.

'Doesn' matter. C'mon Bols, I'll show you yer room. Time t'call it a nigh' so we can put on a respectable face in the mornin'.'

[lady_bols]

"If you insist."

She was just getting comfortable too. Just the way of things between them, always has been, always will be, she supposes. She does linger against him for another span of heartbeats, not quite willing to be parted just yet.

But eventually, yes, she sits up, stretches, fights back a yawn.

[the_gene_genie]

Too comfortable, both of them. Gene doesn't do well with comfort. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

So he hauls himself to his feet and helps her up too, leading the way up the stairs. There's a room at the right and he opens the door; inside are two single beds pushed against opposite walls, one wardrobe and one desk against the other. The wallpaper bears pictures of racing cars and one of the headboards is covered with stickers of cars and footballers.

'Take whichever one you wan'. There's more blankets in the wardrobe if you ge' cold. Bathroom's opposite. Don' flush the loo in the middle o' the night, it makes a hell of a racket. An'...I'll see you in the mornin'. Later in the mornin'.'

He turns away without looking at her.

'Nigh'.'

[lady_bols]

A boy's room. Her boys. He had a brother. He never mentioned a brother.

She feels him leaving, and something in her chest clenches.

"Where will you be?"

[the_gene_genie]

He glances at her, pausing at the door.

'Downstairs, on the sofa.'

And again;

'G'night, Bols.'

[lady_bols]

"G'night, Guv."

She looks back at the two beds, and then at his back, disappearing down the stairs.

This is so stupid.

But she's not going to quarrel with him about it. His choice.

(Not hers.)

"Happy Christmas."

[lady_bols]

[ cont'd here ]