the_gene_genie | OOM: Driving Lessons

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OOM: Driving Lessons

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?'

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Her eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.

She's not sure she likes the sound of that 'are you', but lucky for her -- and unfortunately for Gene -- she's got a lot more information on him in her back pocket than he currently has on her.

"What's that?"

She indeed does follow after him, her slender legs hurrying in large steps as she tries to keep up with him. It's not so hard back in the bar, but out here, wearing this skirt that already feels more than two feet too short, she mildly resents those stupidly long legs of his.

"Where are we headed?"

'See a mate.'

He opens the door for her - but doesn't stand holding it open like a ponce, just lets her get in the car herself - and then walks around and flings himself into the driver's seat.

The Cortina is bronze. It's large, it's powerful, it squeals delightfully when it goes around corners, even if it's only doing about ten miles an hour. It is, without question, the love of his life.

It also smells of smoke and worn leather and one of his team has left some rubbish on the backseat. One of them'll be getting a slap for that come Monday morning.

'Hang on t'something.'

He spins the wheels before letting the handbrake off, jamming his foot down on the accelerator and shooting off down the street. Gene does, in fact, drive like a pissed-up crackhead. If Kate doesn't hang on to something, she'll be flung all over the place every time they go around a corner.

Charming.

Utterly charming.

A few months ago she might have resented him for not helping her into the passenger seat and closing the door for her, but she's more than used to making up for the differences in culture, and damn well capable enough to take care of herself. Besides, it's Gene.

She slides into the ~~boat~~ car, looking around in wonderment. It's barely anything at all like the automobiles she'd seen in France. It doesn't look the same, feel the same... it certainly doesn't smell the same, but that doesn't surprise her.

"Hang--?"

She doesn't finish the puzzled question, because suddenly there's the monstrous roar of a revving engine, and Kate's hands fly to the dash and the door on instinct. Good thing, too -- it saves her the nasty bruise she would have gotten once he lets off the brake.

'You wanted t'learn to drive, luv!' he calls out, over the scream of the engine and the radio that's blaring (it's also fitted with what appears to be an actual telephone - cutting edge in 1973, that radio).

'This is 'ow you do it!'

It's a drive that lasts about ten minutes. Sam doesn't live that far away but he took a slightly longer route so he could show off the motor a bit. First rule of teaching, show don't tell!

'Come on. Out.

...Kate. Isn' it? Kate.'

He's squealed to a stop outside a grubby looking builing, all red brick and bits of concrete and dirty windows. He flings himself again (out of the car this time; Gene does tend to move in dramatic ways) and heads over to the front door. It opens with little more than a push and he's barrelling down a dirty hallway, up some stairs and to the end of a hallway. He doesn't check to see if she's following because...well, she may be fit but he's not going to slobber all over her and he'd rather just get to the bottom of this.

'Tyler. Tyler! You awake? Get your 'and off your knob, I got a lady wi' me.'

Without waiting for a reply, he simply applies his shoulder to the door, shoving it open and splintering the wood around the lock. (Again.)

Edited 2010-09-25 00:57 (UTC)

"What the -- "

Sam doesn't fall off the bed (later he'll thank a God he doesn't really believe in for small favors). But he does reach up and over like a man who's going for his gun.

Except --

"Guv? What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Uh oh, DI Tyler looks pissed.

And confused.

He's not the only one. Kate looks like a kitten who's just gone through a tumble dryer and lived to tell the tale.

She huffs to a stop in the doorway, pausing to catch her breath and, also, because she has no idea where she is other than she's in an apartment with two strange (some stranger than others) men.

An apartment Gene just broke into.

She looks at Sam, all flushed cheeks and diamond-sharp eyes.

"How do you do."

'Her.'

Gene just strides into the room and then swivels, points at Kate.

'D'you know 'er?'

Yeah Kate, sorry. He does this all the time.

Sam, you should be used to it.

"Hi," Sam says distractedly, taking a moment to grab his head in both hands.

Surely that will clear all this up. Surely.

Nope, the Guv and a lady are still standing there. Right.

"Is there a reason I'm supposed to, Hunt? Sorry, ma'am."

Now that Sam's more awake he can muster up the energy to be polite.

She's pleasantly surprised to see he's... nothing much like Gene, yet.

"Kate," she nods -- and she'd offer a hand, but she's still keeping her distance. "Gene an' I met in the Bar."

She puts a slight stress on Bar, keeping her eyes on Sam's. Smiling, a bit cheeky, she adds:

"Either I wasn't very memorable, or he was drunker than I thought. He don't remember me."

'Pub. You ain' in Yanksville now, sweet'eart.'

He rounds on Sam, glaring down at him sitting there on the bed. He may be looking for signs of hangover because surely if he was that pissed, then Sam would have been drinking as well?

'Was she there las' night? Can't remember a thing abou' it an' she's tryin' to get her mitts on the Cortina.'

"We call it 'America' now, Guv."

Or maybe they don't?

He manages a smile at Kate, before bestowing a dark look on his boss. Behind his eyes his brain is whirring as he pulls the facts together, scenarios click-click-clicking away.

Bar. Right. That means --

"And you were all rarin' to let her drive yesterday. 'm kind of surprised it took her this long to take you up on it."

This time his grin is a little brighter. Gene deserves this for breaking his door (again).

The scene unfolding before her is enough to tell her one thing for certain.

She likes Sam.

Smirking, she crosses her arms over her chest, and leans against the doorjamb.

'So she was there?'

The glare fixed on his DI is still highly suspicious. He really doesn't remember a thing about it.

'You sure, Gladys? This ain' some elaborate wind-up so you can get your grubby paws on me motor?'

He absolutely wouldn't put it past him. It's the sort of sneaky, underhanded tactics this boy would employ.

"If I came up with an elaborate wind-up, Guv, it wouldn't be this obvious."

Sam raises his eyebrows, then actually moves to stand up.

"And it wouldn't have led to you breaking down my door, either."

"Gladys?"

Kate chortles, bite still in her eyes from Mr. Hunt's Wild Ride.

"You two wanna be alone?"

Oh, she gets a death glare for that one. And he takes a step back as Sam stands up, to put decent distance between them so she doesn't get any funny ideas.

'Less of tha' darlin', or I won' let you touch me gearstick.'

Punishment indeed.

His look back at Sam is vaguely triumphant. It seems to gloat about the differing ways they're going to spend their Saturdays - him with a sleek young lady (and Kate's very pretty too) - and Sam in a dingy flat with wallpaper that could make Ghandi declare war on the faithful.

'Right then. We'll get off an' leave you to it then.'

Heh.

'No doubt you'll be wantin' to spend the weekend with your paperwork.'

Sam manages not to roll his eyes.

"Considering I keep up with all the necessary forms, I'm actually not behind like some people."

Gene.

"It's very odd how that works. I'll send you the bill for the door, shall I?"

'Nah, stick it on expenses. An' I think you'll find I ain't behind on mine either. I've done as much as I normally do.'

Which is to say, none.

He sticks a fag in his mouth and lights it, looking over at Kate in the doorway.

'Right then, swee'heart. Shall we?'

He holds a hand out to gesture her through the door, then looks back at Sam with a lascivious expression.

'Maybe a result.'

Sweetheart?

She fixes a brief but intense look on Sam; if she has to tie Gene's hands to the steering wheel later, she'll need him to take her home.

"...Thanks for your hospitality."

Sam's smile for Kate is quick and mostly genuine. (He'll wait until they're gone to let the 'gobsmacked' part of his morning register.)

"Think nothing of it, ma'am."

And with a dry yet pointed look toward the broken door --

"I was in need of something to do with my afternoon."

Now she knows where he'll be today.

But if there was ever a time to miss his mobile -- in amongst all those other times -- now would be it.

If Gene knew what a mobile was - and how much Sam misses his - there would be many many unsavoury jokes about the nature of his relationship with the device. As it is, he just waggles his eyebrows at Sam - he's planning on enjoying his afternoon - and barrels out of the door at high speed.

'C'mon then luv, the ride of your life awaits.'

He's probably talking about the car.

Kate wouldn't dream of anything else.

"D'you do everything this speedily?" she asks, heels click-clacking after him.

'Yeah. Ain't no use sitting on yer arse, is there?'

Except when he is sitting on his arse. But he only does that when there's nothing else to do.

The car door is opened once more and left ajar for her but there's no danger of him letting her behind the wheel just yet.

'Righ' then,' he says, once he's behind the wheel. 'I'm no' lettin' a Yankee bird loose on my streets withou' knowin' some basics first.'

He points at the steering wheel.

'Tha's the steering wheel. Now 'old on.'

He fires it up and hits the accelerator again, screeching off to find somewhere less populated to do this.

"Jesus Christ, Gene!"

Her tone is scolding, but it's followed up by a chirruping laugh.

There will be little half moon marks left in his passenger side door.

"Thought y'said you was a safe driver?"

'You see me runnin' anyone over?'

Ergo, he's safe.

She'll have to put up with it for ten minutes or so, while he drives to a flat piece of wasteground between a couple of abandoned mills. If she has the nerve to keep her eyes open, she'll see that 1970s Manchester is a fairly bleak place. It's an industrial city, all red brick and soot stains from the factories; some cobbled streets and ancient old cars on them. But there are green spaces too and kids are out playing on the street (until they see the Cortina bearing down on them, obviously), the sun's out and there's not a hint of modern technology in sight.

'Wha' else did I tell you then? Seein' as you know so much abou' me an' I don' even know your las' name.'

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