[ cont'd from here ]

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.

Done and dusted.  The anti-vivisectionist bombing campaign was the work of a dead man and his blackmailed ex-lodger.  She was proud as punch of the team.  They'd done a smashing job.  And after three straight days of being awake and chasing down leads, they deserved a day off.  After a celebratory drink at Luigi's of course.

She'd staggered upstairs at about noon with a head full of beer, and hadn't even bothered to shower first.  She just collapsed on the bed and slept straight through till morning. 

She dreamt of many things.  She'd dreamt of Charlotte Pattison, opening her birthday gifts and blowing out the candles on her birthday cake.  Of Molly, all grown up and gone off to college, finding her own causes to fight for.  And as always, she dreamt of Gene.

She'd watched him sitting at the end of the table, barely looking up, none of his usual boisterous good cheer about him like she'd expect when they'd solved a case and put another scumbag behind bars.  The scene replayed in her mind again and again.  There was something wrong, she could see it in his eyes.

She woke up with his after image burned on the inside of her eyelids, and the persistent and unshakeable idea that he needed her.  Which was ridiculous, she told herself in the shower.  The Guv needed no one, least of all her "bony arse" bothering him on his day off.  Still, the feeling refused to go away, and after she'd had breakfast, she found herself getting in a cab and heading around to his place.

She knocked on the door, and leaned on the door frame, eyes downcast.  This was possibly the stupidest thing she'd done all week, if you didn't count taking on a terrorist loony without back up.

DI Drake closed the door of his office behind her and tossed the file down on his desk, an air of exasperation crackling around her.

"They've stolen six cars this time, all from the same car park, all between the hours of eight and ten in the morning.  Drove them out of the place all at the same time.  And the attendant let them go, because one of them flashed a warrant card."

She crossed her arms and leaned her weight on one hip, glaring out the window.

"I have no idea how you lot survive without CCTV.  One little video feed and we could have solved this weeks ago."

Their return trip after Christmas had started out subdued, but not completely awkward.  She'd rummaged around in the boot of the car and come up with his secret stash of cassette tapes.  The rest of the drive had been spent sampling them and pulling faces at him, with the predictable results.  By the time they'd got back to London, they were easily throwing jibes at one another.  She was Bolly Knickers again and he was the Guv, and that was that.

At least she thought it was, until she found the bottle of Bollinger's champagne and a primly wrapped package on her doorstep the next morning.  The package held a gorgeous cashmere scarf from Harrod's in a spectacular royal blue.  She wrapped it around herself while she read the card. 

Thanks for coming with. 
Mam says to keep in touch.
Happy Christmas, Gene

She'd wore it the whole week.  Was still wearing it on New Year's Eve, tucked up over her nose as she read through the latest case files.  (Even in 1981, the Met didn't see fit to keep the heat up to a decent level in CID.)  There'd been rumours that they were knocking off early for the holiday, which meant Luigi's until well after midnight.  Sometimes there were advantages to living over the restaurant.  Sometimes, it was a mixed blessing.

There was movement in the Guv's office.  She quirked an eyebrow over the top of her file.

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."