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

[the_gene_genie]

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.

Comments

[the_gene_genie]

‘S'a police investigation.'

She can understand that.



Plus, he's curious.

[lady_bols]

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?'

[the_gene_genie]

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.

[lady_bols]

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

'Favourite artist?'

[the_gene_genie]

‘Herb Alpert, an' his Tijuana Brass.'

Hell yes.

[lady_bols]

'Herb Alpert?'

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

[the_gene_genie]

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?'

[lady_bols]

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.

[the_gene_genie]

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

And he will laugh.

[lady_bols]

'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.

[the_gene_genie]

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.

[lady_bols]

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?'

[the_gene_genie]

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.'

[lady_bols]

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

[the_gene_genie]

'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.

[lady_bols]

'Where does Shaz live?'

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

[the_gene_genie]

‘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.

[lady_bols]

'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.

[the_gene_genie]

'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.