the_gene_genie | OOM: 3x02. It's a police investigation...

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OOM: 3x02. It's a police investigation...

He wasn't at all keen on this dating agency idea when she suggested it. Seems a bit dodgy to him - for one thing, dating agencies are for tossers. For another, it's quite likely that a murderer is prowling around this one. And lastly, he doesn't really want her going on dates with any of them. Even the ones who are not murderers. Especially not them, really. She'd be more likely to see them again.

But there is more to it than that, of course. He doesn't like putting any of his team at unnecessary risk, and this seems like it's inviting it. Potentially meeting a killer in his arena, on his hunting ground, rather than on their terms. She's probably right though; it'll cause a proper ruckus if they go around interviewing all the blokes registered there, and might scare the murderer off. He's not having that. Not after what happened to all those women. So he does the only thing he can to keep her safe; he gets in there and takes one for the team.

Which is why they're in his office, with an application form each, and he's pouring them a drink. Everyone else has gone, except Shaz.

This is more how it used to be. He likes it.

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Alex puts Sam's file out of her thoughts, as best she can, and settles into her usual place across the desk from him. She can see from the cant of his shoulders, he's still not pleased with her for even bringing the subject up. And it doesn't matter, not in this moment, when they have a case before them and an excuse to be here, alone. She's missed this, truth be told.

'Thanks,' she murmurs, taking the drink from his hand, and going back to the task of flipping through the multi-page questionnaire. 'I have to wonder how much you can learn about a person from seeing their answers to all these superficial questions. It seems rather, well, desperate.'

‘It's a dating agency, Bols. Everythin' about it's desperate.'

He makes a bit of a show of sitting down; the firm placing of his drink, followed by the straightening of his jacket and smoothing of his tie. It's the first time they've really been on their own since the other night in her flat, and she was too wiped out from being in hospital to really be herself. And since then...well. It hasn't been the same. He's not sure why, but he knows it to be true.

This is definitely more like it though. Even if he can't forget her coming to ask about Sam earlier. He bloody knows that won't be the end of it, no matter how many times he tells her shut up.

But she's not asking about it now. So. Job at hand.

‘Reckon Ray's been to one, then?'

She glances up at him, an amused smirk looking quite at home on her face.

'He does rather fit the profile, doesn't he?'

She contemplates the Scotch in her glass, swirling it around, wondering whether or not to ask. It's not her place, is it. Bollocks.

'Don't suppose you ever thought about it?'

It's just a casual question, really. Nothing serious about it.

He looks outraged. And horrified. At the same time.

‘No, I bloody have not. The Gene Genie does not have to go to one of these places for a date.'

The words lack bite. Truth is, he hasn't thought seriously about any women since before he went on the run. He's had his mind on other things. Now he's thinking he might have to change that. But it's only a fleeting thought. This isn't the time to be thinking about his love life, dating agency application or not. Even though he's sitting right across from her, and wondering what sort of answers she's going to put down.

‘Why, have you?'

'Don't get your knickers in a twist. It was just a question, Guv.' The way she's looking at him says otherwise, though he can't quite tell whether it's amusement or relief.

'I'd thought about it, once. A long time ago. But being a mother, and the book, took precedence.'

She glances across at his application, and quickly looks back at her own page, her pen hovering over the paper as she contemplates just what to put down. Is this Miss Winslow's application? Or her own? 'Hmm.'

This is looking to be a fair bit more complex than she'd anticipated.

‘What book?'

Did she ever tell him? He can't remember.

The start of the form is easy enough. Name, age, sex (his brain automatically says ‘yes, please!' the way it always does when that question comes up, but luckily he's grown up enough not to actually write it). Then on to the hard stuff.

OK, the questions themselves aren't hard. But that's not the point, is it? He's willing to bet no one ever just writes the truth on these things. If everyone's trying to pull, then they're bound to spice it up a bit.

Well, he's not trying to pull. And bollocks to it all; even if he were, he'd still tell the truth. Women tend to like his bluntness anyway.

Favourite food...easy enough. Favourite film...yep, that too. He was wrong. Nothing to this.

She chews on her lower lip, carefully printing her answers. Favourite artist. Wait, do they mean music? Or visual? Does she have a favourite painter or sculpter? No, that can't be what they mean. She'll come back to that one. Food, that one's easy. Also, a bit involved, but she supposes that will seem like she's taking this whole thing seriously.

'My book.'

This is relaxing, actually. She leans her chin on her hand and sips her drink, wondering why they don't do this sort of thing more often. He seems to be loosening up, if only just a bit. She knows the never-ending wall of paperwork behind him has taken its toll on him, but not nearly as much as having Keats asking all sorts of intrusive questions about the team, and about him. It's for that reason alone that she wants to shine on this case, to show D&C that they really do know what they're on about.

'Didn't know you were writin' one. Never seen you at it.'

Plenty of things he's never seen her at though. Being a mother, for one, but there's not a chance in hell he's going there, not after what happened last time he brought up her daughter. So he drops his eyes away from her face, and leans his head on his fist, getting on with it. Favourite artist...easy enough. Although he does cheat a bit on that one, because for some reason, birds really do seem to be genetically programmed not to like Johnny Cash. Or Elvis, when they're not looking at him anyway.

Philosophy on the opposite sex...hmm. Well.

...no, not a chance he's going to be completely honest with this one, if only because she'll probably read it. He knows her. But the answer he gives is true on one level, so he doesn't feel bad about it.

The silence feels comfortable. This might be the first time since he got back that he feels relaxed.

Edited 2011-08-02 20:25 (UTC)

Philosophy on the opposite sex: What does that even mean? Is she supposed to sum up all her issues in one succinct little text box? How is that even possible? Nevermind. Doesn't matter. She just starts writing.

A husband should be one's closest friend. A confidante. Reliable, trustworthy, and dependable. A man who enjoys spending time, who listens, and who isn't afraid to acknowledge his emotions. Someone strong, but sensitive, who understands that intimacy is about more than good sex.

She frowns as she runs out of space to write.

'Haven't worked on it since I got here,' she says, a bit distracted. 'Haven't really had the time, have I?'

She looks up at him, studying the lines in his face. She's determined that she's not going to ask why he barged into the Crescent Moon offices after she'd only been gone for ten minutes.

He hears the doors to the main office open and close; a glance up shows him that Chris just left. His gaze flicks back down to the form. Right. Yeah. Three lines should take care of that one.

‘You've got better things t'do than spend your time writing stuff down,' he tells her. ‘You're a real copper, unlike Pencil-Neck.'

'Writing is an honourable occupation, Gene. How else do you think we get books in the first place?' Honestly.

A real copper, she thinks. That's about as close a compliment as she could ever expect from him, so she'll take it. (She doesn't want to talk about Keats right now. Tomorrow will be soon enough.)

Again, she glances across at his page. 'You're almost done?'

That was quick.

‘Books're a waste of time. Anyway, I don' have time t'read.'

It's a lie. He does read sometimes. It's just not something a bloke like him would ever admit, and especially not to a woman like her.

‘Yeah. You?'

'Not quite.'

Her expression is a tad sceptical, but if that's what he'd like her to believe, then so be it. He likes people to believe he's a man of his upbringing, but he's a DCI. And you don't make rank like that by being an uneducated thug.

'Don't suppose you know what's going on with Shaz?'

She'd like to think he'll come up with something more astute than 'riding the cotton pony', but she'll never know unless she gives him the chance.

‘There's something going on with Shaz?'

He'd thought she was just in a mood when she chucked that screwdriver this morning. It's not as though its odd behaviour for women, throwing things.

‘Hadn't noticed. If there is, she's big enough to sort it out on her own. I'm not their babysitter, Bols. Or their dad.'

Right.

She looks across at him for a long moment, chin on her fist, watching as he continues filling out the application with the same care and attention he does all his paperwork.

It's no good. Her curiosity gets the better of her every time.

'Why did you have to come crashing in like that? I was just getting some where with her.'

He looks up to meet her eyes, though he doesn't move his head. It registers vaguely, just before he speaks, that somewhere along the line they both fell into the same posture, mirroring each other across the desk.

‘Because I'm not lettin' you take all the glory with little Jimmy.'

Not that he wants to impress the bloke. But until the man unveils his game plan, he has to keep on the right side of him. He doesn't want to unwittingly hand over ammunition.

'Can't stand not being in control, can you?'

She doesn't quite understand why he's so fixated on Keats. The man is only trying to do his job. It's not like he hasn't expressed an understanding for Gene's particular brand of law enforcement.

‘Y'know, you presuppose that the killer is a man. Well, what if I manage to flush out that the killer is a woman?'

He doesn't understand why she's so fixated on Sam all of a sudden. He doesn't understand why Keats has found a way to lurk about like a bad smell, and he doesn't understand why she, with all her knowledge, can't see that the bloke's a bastard. All in all, there's quite a lot he doesn't understand, but nothing's going to get in the way of solving this case. This one's important.

No way in hell the killer's a woman, though. He's just saying that to try and deflect.

And she knows it, just as sure as she knows her own name.

'Control freak.'

There's no bite in her tone, but she's not about to let him off scot free.

He eyes her for just a moment. He is not a control freak.

...he's not going to argue the point. It's late, he's tired, and this is far too relaxing to ruin.

‘What did you put for ‘favourite meal'?'

She sits up a bit and straightens the page. As if he would even understand.

'It's personal.'

‘S'a police investigation.'

She can understand that.

Plus, he's curious.

Of course he is.

She takes a deep breath, recalling that summer in Paris. Her voice takes on a distant, almost dreamy tone as she remembers.

'I once had the most amazing roast foie gras with gooseberry, braised konbu and crab biscuit.'

Turn about's fair play, isn't it?

'What did you put?'

He's looking at her before she's even halfway finished. He should have expected her to put something like that. He doesn't know what most of that is.

‘Steak an' chips.'

He is unapologetic. But he still hears the note of resignation in his tone. She likes what she likes, he likes what he likes. It's the way of the world.

And she would expect no less from him. Still, it feels natural. Comfortable. Sharing little details like this.

'Favourite artist?'

‘Herb Alpert, an' his Tijuana Brass.'

Hell yes.

'Herb Alpert?'

Not Johnny Cash? Or Elvis? She's taken aback.

He clicks his tongue, jerks his head slightly; a universal gesture of you know it. That's his choice and he'll stand by it.

‘Yes, women love it. Reminds ‘em of sun, an' sea, an' gettin' poked behind an electricity sub-station in Torremolinos.'

He can vouch for that, as it happens. And anyway, he's talking about women like the ones he gets. Real women, who are not...her.

‘What did you put?'

Edited 2011-08-02 22:15 (UTC)

Sometimes she wonders if he practises that raw machismo in front of a mirror, because it feels like a put on. It really makes her wonder what he's thinking behind those eyes.

'George Bratt.'

She at least has the good sense to look a little chagrined at that revelation.

‘Y'know what? You're gonna get every soppy, pustular virgin this side of the Blackwall Tunnel.'

And he will laugh.

'At least I'll get some replies.'

Let him think that, if it makes him happy. She takes up his application, looking down her nose as she reads aloud.

'Favourite drink? Bitter. But only from Central Manchester. Favourite film? High Noon.' Her voice rises a bit. She should have known that one, she thinks.

'Most admired person? Winston Churchill.' Impressive. She never figured him for a student of history. Could it be that she's seeing another side to him? Could that devastatingly attractive air of mystery be hiding untold depths?

Alas, no. She reads the next few lines and any hope of that is dispelled.

'Philosophy on the opposite sex. Maid in the living room, cook in the kitchen, whore in the bedroom.'

Now, that is classic Gene Hunt.

He sits still as she takes up his paper, suddenly feeling a little like a schoolboy when the teacher starts reading your composition in front of you. He taps his thumbs together and swivels his chair lightly from side to side as she starts reading his answers aloud.

Damn right, bitter from Central Manchester. It just not the same from anywhere else. Clicks his tongue again at High Noon – can't beat some Cooper – and is sure that no one can find fault with his choice of Winston Churchill as ‘most admired person'. The man's a legend. He used to listen to him speak on the wireless when he was a lad.

He's just readying himself for the last one. Yep, there it is. That note of...annoyance, almost. And resignation. Like she expected something better.

‘Women admire honesty, Bols.'

His answer was both brutally honest, and not. He put what he wants, but not all of what he wants. A lie by omission, but he can hardly admit that. Anyway, women do like honesty. Or they say they do, anyway. Probably think they do, but he's pretty damn sure they're wrong.

And she is tired of his preening and tired of the façade. Really, some days, it's like it's all a big game to him. She despairs of ever finding a way through the morass of his issues. (When did she start wanting that? When did that appear on her list of priorities? Note to self, she thinks, write this one out again. Get your head on straight, and move passed it.)

'You know how many replies you're going to get? None.'

And she will be secretly relieved.

'Just off home, Guv.' Shaz's voice is flat and emotionless.

'Bye, Shaz.' Alex turns back to him, perplexed. 'What's the matter with that girl?'

He ignores the question. No replies? None?

...Christ, now he's a bit worried. That'd be embarrassing. Mind you, no one needs to know if that happens. It's not like he can back out of joining up now. Anyway, she's wrong. He knows plenty of birds who like a plain-speaking bloke, and are happy to see him right when he comes ‘round.

He nods minutely to Shaz, but she's already turned away, so he picks up Alex's application instead.

‘Favourite film – Thelma an' Louise. Never ‘eard of it.'

'Hasn't come out yet,' she murmurs.

'Favourite drink – Sauvignon Blanc, but only from the south island of New Zealand.'

And she had the nerve to raise her eyebrows at his stipulation of where bitter should come from.

'Where does Shaz live?'

If he's not going to take an interest, then she'd best.

‘No idea, never asked her.'

Not her babysitter, or her dad.

‘An' I've told you more than once, Bolly. Nelson Mandela is a terrorist.'

No doubt about it at all.

'History will prove you wrong, Gene. I'm going to talk to her. You all right to close up by yourself?' She's standing as she asks, leaving her application in his hands.

It's as if she's being drawn along by some unseen force, compelled to follow the young woman, even as it takes her away from this rare opportunity, a moment's peace and quiet with him.

'Night, Bolly,' he says, with added exasperation.

He can't deny that he's a little sorry to see her disappear so fast though. It felt just like it used to. He'd forgotten how much he missed it.

And then he sees her response to the last question. His hand, carrying his Scotch, pauses on its way to his mouth, and he feels a bit guilty – somehow, reading this when she's not in the room feels a bit like prying. Less like a police investigation, and more like snooping in someone's knicker drawer when they're out.

But there's not a chance he's not going to read it. So he does, and his heart sinks a bit. There's nothing there that he wouldn't expect, really. She's the sort of woman who would value all that stuff in a bloke – and on reflection, he thinks he could tick at least a few of the boxes. Not that he's looking to be anyone's husband,but y'know. He'd still be interested in something, if she was.

This list though – it doesn't have any of the other things that he'd list as his main attributes. It sounds like she wants a nice...well, that's it. A nice bloke. And he's not, it doesn't matter which way you twist it. She's always telling him he doesn't listen. And she might say she wants a bloke who can ‘acknowledge their emotions', but that probably she means she wants them to cry or something, not shout louder and hit things. People.

He sets the paper down and finishes his drink, deflated. It's always going to be this way. She's white wine from New Zealand, he's bitter from Central Manchester. Worlds apart. He doesn't know why he bothers holding out hope that that'll change.

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OOM: 3x02. It's a police investigation...

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