lady_bols | [oom] Room 6620

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[oom] Room 6620

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Alex waits for the door to close behind Ace before turning back to face an utterly boneless Gene. He's laying half on his side, his jacket wrinkled, his hair mussed. One leg hangs over the edge of the bed.

She stands over him for a long moment, before picking up the one errant foot and slipping the boot off. The other soon follows and she tries not to let her hands linger, tries to keep her movements clinical and impersonal. She slips off his jacket and his tie, hanging them on the hook behind the door. His belt follows, and if she rests her head on his chest while her hands work it through the loops, then so be it.

She sits on the bed next to him, one leg folded beneath her. He's warm, and even through the booze and the cigarettes, she can smell his aftershave. She smooths his hair back from his face and makes sure his neck is supported by a pillow. Her hands do slow then, and she bends to brush a kiss against his cheek.

"Thought for a moment I'd lost you today." Her voice is the barest whisper, and the memory of that sickening moment when she didn't know if it was Mac or him that had taken the killing shot makes her throat tighten and her mouth go dry. "And not just when you asked that Glaswegian nutter to marry you," she laughs, biting back the tears that rise.

She rests her head against his shoulder, the strain making her lower back twinge, but she won't stretch out next to him. Ace's warning to not fall asleep across his chest still rings in her ears. (Oh but to wake up with his arms around her...)

The thought makes her sit up abruptly, scrubbing her hands over her face, dragging her fingers through her hair. She rises and toes off her boots, stepping into the bathroom. She fumbles the hot water on and grabs a cloth to remove her makeup. A few minutes later, she returns to the sound of his snoring.

Numb fingers pull the duvet up from the one side of the bed, gently covering him . She turns out the light and slips between the covers beside him, turning to lay with her back to him. Her eyes close and she listens to the sound of his breathing. Each breath, she urges another part of her body to relax. Her shoulders, her back, her legs, willing herself to let it go. Let that shot go. Let Jackie's little joke go. Let Summers go. Let it all go.

She focuses on her breathing, matching it to his, one breath at a time, until the heaviness takes over and her body slips into unconsciousness.

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She reaches for him, and misses. Her hand rests on the sheets still warm from his body, and she closes her eyes, her heart in her throat.

"Take the key," she says, pointing to the bedside table.

Which he assumes is a request for him to come back.

'Yeah,' he says, and picks it up.

He's only gone about ten minutes and along with three packets of cigarettes, has a big bag of food. It's mostly laden with grease because everyone knows that's the best hangover cure, but he does pull out a box of cereal and some milk, in case she's feeling healthy.

Everything's all over the table and he stays sitting over there, smoking (of course) because he's not going to risk going back near the bed. Besides, the bacon butties are over here.

'Hungry?'

Ten minutes is plenty of time for her to get vertical, freshen up, drag a brush through her hair and make the bed. It's more than enough time to talk herself into and out of taking a run at him, three or four times. Which is why, even with the bed made, she's still laying down.

(She can't get the idea out of her head, of just laying down with him, eye to eye, just looking at one another. It's driving her a bit spare. Because she's never been one to just look.)

She murmurs something as he settles in, and forces herself up. The electric kettle is just about whistling, and she makes them both a cup of tea. Another tea cup is commandeered for the cereal, and she sits across from him, reaching for the milk.

"Spoons in the bag?"

He nods and then discovers that that sort of head motion really isn't a good idea just now.

He can't take his eyes off the bed. It's neatly made now but that doesn't mean it isn't hiding evidence. And he has to muse to himself that it's come to something that he's letting himself think about this because it's actually the easier alternative to thinking about work, for once.

'Anythin' happen I should know abou'?'

He asks it without looking at her, keeping his face carefully neutral.

She's rummaging in the bag when he asks, and she stops, her hands falling back to the table top.

Like she would take advantage of him in that state, when he's been such a perfect gentleman with her in the past. Like she hasn't put him to bed herself, and even though it killed her to do it, walked away from that very kind of invitation. And worse, like she would slip and let something happen between them, and then let him get out of bed and walk away like it was nothing. She wonders if he really thinks she's a stone cold bitch.

"You were unconscious when I got here." There's an edge to her voice, anger thinly veiling a deeper hurt.

He raises his eyebrows and doesn't look at her. Her tone of voice is confusing for a moment before he realises she must have got the wrong end of the stick.

'Didn' realise.'

He takes a bite out of a sandwich and swallows before continuing;

'Jus' wondered if there was anythin' I should be apologisin' for this mornin'.'

He wasn't doubting her integrity, he was doubting his own. It hasn't been easy recently, especially with more and more other people openly exchanging looks and asking questions about them. He hasn't been able to forget the look on Viv's face the night they bugged Mac's office and did such a rubbish job at concealing they were going off together. Add Jackie's comments yesterday into it and the way Alex avoided the question he asked about them...yeah, it's not been easy.

Oh if only...

"Not. As. Such."

She gives up on trying to find a spoon for the cereal and steals one of his bacon butties, still fuming a little.

He has to know how much she wants him. Has to. If things were different... She doesn't look at him as she eats. She has no will right now to resist. Not after yesterday.

What he should know and what he does are two entirely different things. And what his head tells him is completely different to what his gut tells him - one says that there has, quite clearly, been no encouragement from her back at home. The other tells him that if he were to make his move, he could be on that bed, between her legs, before the fag in the ashtray has made it down to the filter.

Listening to one of these options leaves a lot less room for embarrassment and hurt and awkwardness. And he's tired and his head feels like it's about to fall off. So his brain gets the benefit of the doubt.

'Wha's wrong?'

It'd be rude not to ask. He even digs the spoon out for her.

She takes the spoon from him, and it seems like such a small thing but it still strikes her as touching. She glances up into his face and just looks at him for a long moment.

So many answers to that simple question, and he's here with her. Not shot dead. Not off with Jackie.

"Nothing. Just still tired. Food will help."

His lips purse and his eyes examine her face for a brief moment. He's acutely aware of how much he needs a bath and a shave and also, how much he doesn't care. All he wants to do is sit here and eat breakfast with her and ignore everything else.

When did they ever get what they want?

'It's goin' to be a mess when we get back. Inquiry after inquiry. I don' even know if they'll squash the Plymouth transfer. Wouldn' surprise me if the Chief Constable doesn' push it through anyway.'

Not that he'll let it happen. After what they just did, he's not going to be afraid of throwing a few threats around if the brass get difficult with him. He just wants her to realise that they're going to be walking out of here into a shit storm.

She focuses on eating the greasy mess of carbs in her hand until he mentions the transfer again.

"You can't be serious. Surely they'll know that he -- I mean, that you -- after all he put us through."

There's that touch of wildness around her eyes again, the same he saw standing in his kitchen. For someone who talks about leaving as often as she does, she certainly seems intent on keeping him close at hand.

'They don' care about us, Bols. They'll care what it looks like.'

He's never been more glad that he resisted signing that false custody report on Kevin Hales, like Mac asked him to. That'd have him out the door already, if he had.

'An' I don' know if it's escaped your notice bu' I'm not exactly well-loved by the brass. They migh' just try an' use this as an excuse t'get rid of me.'

"Then you'll tell them. Everything. Play them the tapes. Tell them you'll go to the press. You can't let them pull this department apart, not with Operation Rose still on the horizon. Gene, please."

I can't do this without you.

He looks over at her now, obviously tired and hungover but still with an expression hewn out of rock and resolve.

'You think I'll let them, after all this shit? Christ Bols, d'you think I wan' t'go to Plymouth? It's got bugger all t'do with Operation Rose; I pushed my boss into killin' himself yesterday an' if they think they're goin' t'get rid of me after I did tha' just to clean up their force, they've got another thing comin'.'

He doesn't mean that.

...it's his force. Not theirs.

Oh hell no.

"Gene, you did not push him into suicide. That was his own doing. His choices brought him to that. Not you and not this investigation."

The therapist side of her is telling her to calm down and listen to what he's saying to her, but there's very little that is rational about her feelings for Gene Hunt. She stammers to a halt, sputtering and for the first time, maybe he can see how truly scared she is.

"He tried to destroy me. He tried to destroy you."

He looks down, picking up crumbs from his shirt, rolling them in his fingers and flicking them on to the carpet.

'...I know, Bols. I know.'

Everything that happened to Mac was his own fault. But there's always going to be the odd doubt, when he's in a reflective mood - if he'd done it a bit differently, or said something at a different time, or something - then maybe they could have had Jarvis bang to rights and it wouldn't have come down to Mac killing him and then himself.

'I wouldn' have let him take you down.'

He looks up at her and maybe she can see how much he means it. But then he looks away again.

'I didn' wan' him t'die, tha's all. Bastard.'

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, chin dropping to her chest. That rage still simmers.

"He didn't have to." She wants to rail against the man, call him a filthy coward for abandoning his wife and child, but Gene knows.

And maybe Gene could have found a way to clear her name. Even now, she knows it's going to be a struggle, even if the charges are dropped. The damage has been done.

And it doesn't matter. She's not staying. (That thought crowds in the back of her throat, makes her eyes water. She's not staying and he's right here.)

She drinks her tea, imagining just standing up and taking his hand, taking him back to bed and explaining it to him, one kiss at a time.

'He was a weak man,' he says simply, and lapses into an exhausted silence.

There's one all-persuasive thought that's bothered him through all of this, has bothered him since Harry all those years ago. She knows, because he's already told her but that doesn't make it any less bothersome.

'Could've been me. Could've been any of us. Well, 'cept you, probably. Could still be Ray, one day, if I take my eye off 'im for too long.'

He stretches for his coat and one of the hipflasks inside it. If there was ever a need for hair of the dog, it's this morning.

'It's the second time it's happened an' I still don' know how t'stop it happenin' again.'

She watches him drink and thinks back to what Summers has hinted at. Operation Rose. Her exit route. But he has to know, she could never betray the Guv like that. She could never betray Gene.

"Not you, Gene. Never you. Not for a man like Jarvis."

Her voice is low, heavy with fatigue, but still threaded through with that same resolve.

How he can stop it happening again, well, she has no earthly idea. To some, those with feet of clay, the lure of an easy life proves too much to resist. Wasn't he the one that told her you never really knew anyone?

He's silent, inscrutable, for a long moment. When he speaks, he sounds just as tired as she does, but still firm.

'No. No' with someone like Jarvis.'

Never that.

He lights another cigarette and pulls a couple of sausage sandwiches out of the bag, pushing one over to her.

'You never been tempted, Bols?'

He knows the answer but it can't hurt to ask.

She takes the sandwich, no longer hungry, but knowing she should eat. She picks the paper open, carefully folding it back.

"Before I came here, I was never important enough to even be faced with the question. Fenchurch East -- is different from any place I've ever worked before. Everyone traffics in favours. It's the quickest way to get things done." She stares at the sandwich in her hand, and looks up at him.

"Have I been tempted? Honestly? Yes, when it seems like the only way to bridge the gap, I have been tempted. But always for the job, never for my own personal profit. And never when it might put someone's safety at risk."

He looks over at her, surprised by more than one of her comments.

'Not important enough? You're a DI, 'ow can you no' have been important enough?'

And he didn't know there was any other way of doing things than trafficking in favours.

She gives a little shrug. It's hard to put into words, and not just because she's from 2008. The details are fuzzy, and reaching for memories makes her head hurt.

"It's academic, at this point." In the end, she just gives a little shake of her head. "I know the line, and I've never crossed it. And I never will."

He wants to ask whether that means she's not leaving. If it's academic. But he doesn't because he's still pretty sure she'd say no, and he'd have to listen to it.

On the other hand, she could admit that she's staying and then he could take her to bed.

But all he does is stare at her, saying nothing at all. He could tell her (again) that she's not going anywhere without his say so but somehow, thats not what he wants her to remember. That he stopped her. If he is stopping her.

...and now his thoughts aren't even making semse to himself and he tells himself he's never touching that Atlantean shite again.

She feels the weight of his gaze and it makes her breath grow thick in her throat.

She looks up into his eyes, those amazing blue eyes, and she wants to tell him all of it. About Sam and the book, about the Prices, about Summers and the roses, about Molly. She wants to tell him who she is, really. She wants to share the burden with him.

She looks into his face, and the words won't come. The headache behind her eyes reasserts itself with a vengeance, the fine lines of tension wrinkling her brow, deepening the creases around her eyes.

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