the_gene_genie: (LoM - Heh/Smirking/Good One)
It's not that often they have the whole weekend off. Someone must be smiling down at them though because it's happened - for Gene, that means the match at Maine Road (and City pull off a frankly magnificent win against the poncey Londoners), home for the wife's dinner and then the pub, where he knows he'll be met by his team for a big night.

He knows this, because he told them so the night before, stalking out of his office at six to bellow;

'Weekend off, you lot! You know what that means. Railway Arms, half six tomorrow and raid your piggy banks. Any of you fairies cry off, I'll have you cleanin' the cells all of next week, got it?'

There had been mutterings of 'Yes, Guv' from all around the room and none of them had seemed reluctant - not even Tyler, really - so he knows it'll be a good 'un. It was slightly confusing to find a note in his pocket, in his own handwriting, informing him that he's got a bet on with Sam but that sort of thing has been happening more and more recently, so he's getting used to it, even if he still doesn't understand it. It generally works out in the end though.

So, when he stalks into the Railway Arms (ten minutes late, so they'll all be there and waiting) he doesn't even look around before hailing the room in general.

'Who's got me pint in, then?'
the_gene_genie: (LoM - You What?)


Gene holds the door open for her with a small smile. The view outside is of a street, red brick houses and a car parked on the corner. There's a high-rise behind the houses; it's all typically 70s. If Kate looks back behind them when the door's closed, she'll see a regular looking pub with a sign hanging near the door, declaring it to be The Railway Arms.

She'll also see Gene standing stock still, glaring at her like she's standing right in his way. Which she is, as far as he's concerned. She might also note that there is not a single spark of recognition on his face.

'You gonna shift yer arse, luv, or am I goin' to 'ave t'do it for ya?'
the_gene_genie: (LoM - O Rly?)


''ere, Guv. Dabs are back on that Post Office safe.'

'About bloody time.'

He tosses this month's Just Jugs down on the desk, leans back and intertwines his hands behind his head.

'Hit me with it, Raymondo. I wan' to be blinded with shock and intruige at the revelation you're abou' to bestow on me because God knows, if I 'ave to spend another hour sittin' here listenin' to Chris moan on about some slag he's only known for five minutes, I'll stick him in a cell with tha' pillow-biter we picked up on Canal Street las' night and withhold the jelly.'

Ray looks amused at the prospect. Chris? Shuffles his feet in the doorway and keeps his mouth shut.

'You will be surprised, Guv. There's no record of the prints.'

Gene stares at his D.S, unmoving.

'What?'

'No records, Guv. It's got ter be someone we 'aven't picked up before.'

'...that, Raymondo, is not possible.' Or not a notion he's willing to entertain, anyway.

'Well, we knew there were a chance, Guv. Dickie Fingers is banged up, Ernie Jacks is dead and no one's seen Slippers fer three years. An' it can't be 'im because we've got 'is dabs.'

Gene pulls a thinky sort of face and stares at Gary Cooper for a minute. He really can't be arsed today.

'Wha's the name of tha' kid we brought in a couple o' months ago, tha' one who tried to jimmy the lock on ol' Marge Patterson's ready cash box?'

'Uhhh....Charlie somethin'. I think.'

'Find out. Charge 'im with it.'

Chris grins but doesn't open his trap, Ray pulls an expression of amused - and fake - consternation.

''e were a bit thick, Guv. Don' think he'd be up to pullin' off a Post Office job.'

He's already zipping his jacket up.

''course not, Raymondo. He did, 'owever,' Gene stands, hitches his trousers and reaches for his coat, 'key my car when we 'ad to let 'im go. So go nab him.'

'Right y'are, Guv. Evidence against him?'

'Got it 'ere.' He opens his filing cabinet and tosses Ray a wad of notes left over from the last over-the-counter they finished. 'That'll do it. Excellent work on your arrest, D.S Carling.'

Ray smirks and pockets the notes; Chris is wiping ketchup off his woollen tank top and cleaning his hand off on his trousers.

'An' you two pair o' tits meet me to discuss the case after.'

'Alrigh', Guv. You gettin' the first round in?'

'Seein' as you're about to collar me a notorious blagger Raymondo, I reckon I can stand you a pint. Hurry up abou' it an' all, me throat's as dry as Chris's bird after he worked 'is magic on 'er last night.'

Ray grabs Chris and pulls him out of the office by the collar before the objection can leave his mouth; Gene watches them leave, stretches and grins because he's been waiting for the perfect case to shove on to that little toerag. No one keys the Cortina and gets away with it.

The clock says 3:30pm. He pulls his coat on and heads out of CID because its obviously lunchtime and, seeing as today is so quiet, that should segue nicely into beer o clock by the time the lads get back.

'Phyllis! If the missus rings, tell 'er I'm working late on a case. An' if the Super rings, take a message and call me at the pub.'

'She'll be off with the milkman soon, Guv.'

'And go without the Gene Genie? Never.'

It's a good day. A good, normal, enjoyable working day in Gene Hunt's kingdom. The front door of The Railway Arms beckons as he wanders up the road, the sun is warm, the sky is blue and everything is right with the world.

Except when he steps into the pub and...it isn't.

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DCI Gene Hunt

January 2014

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