OOM: Alex

[the_gene_genie]

'In case of you 'adn't noticed, we are about to witness the joyous union of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer.'

Bloody Special Branch. All over him when they should surely have more important things to worry about, like the IRA and their threats, or whether off-white was really the best colour for Lady Di to go with.

'In the meantime, we've got a bunch o'jessies on the Isle o' Dogs about to stage a protest.'

She tries to put on a seatbelt in the car. What does she think they are, girls? She seems to look forward to him driving straight through a pile of boxes though, which is weird. Does she really think he's going to scratch the Quattro just see cardboard flying everywhere?

Some idiot family have locked themselves in the flat above their pub. Whinging on about some shit. He couldn't care less.

'It's like a powder keg round 'ere, just waitin' for a spark. s'not gonna 'appen, not this week, not on my patch, not for Di. Chris, get up there an' kick the door down, let's get 'em outta there.'

Of course, the bird can't keep her mouth shut. She bloody calls them constructs in the most supercilious way imaginable and struts out of the pub.

He puts his hands on the bar, talks to his boys who aren't, thankfully, as annoying.

'Right, let 'er do her stuff for a minute then break the soddin' door down.'

Even worse than her idea working is the way she doesn't say anything, just grabs the keys as they're dangled down from the window with a smug smile on her chops. She even leans in she passes him, a silent told you so that sort of just makes him want to throw things.

But it's made a bit better by the fact that she quite obviously, for all her posh bollocks and psychiatry bullshit, doesn't have the first clue how to talk to normal people. He sits and drinks his tea, compliments the biscuits, listens to the man rant about the Docklands development, openly calls him a 'cheerful bugger' with good-humoured sarcasm and cordially asks him to stay put and keep quiet until after the royal wedding. Which he agrees to, all done and dusted, lovely. Problem solved.

Until she opens her mouth and declares that this is her fantasy and she will be listened to. Gene listens all right, listens with horror, then apologises for her as she openly insults them, shits on the idea of their protest, patronises them in the worst way possible. For someone so clever, she's bloody useless. And a bit insane as well, talking about having seen the future like that.

From the problem being sorted, it goes to suddenly being twice as bad.

'It's all about profiling. It takes a little time.'

He slams the car door.

'Bollocks.'

* * *

She doesn't seem to appreciate the importance of team morale. Does she really think he wants to see her arse? But it has to be stamped, end of. Happens to every bird and she's not different just because she's posh. But she seems to think that it's not going to happen; also, he's trying to brief the team about the exploding dog and the dynamite on his patch and all she can do is laugh. It undermines him. Not badly, but enough to grate on his nerves. What does she think this is, playschool?

'Lets round up all them anti-establishment toerags, all the usual lunatics an' losers and put the fear o'God up 'em. Questions?'

Her hand goes up like he's the teacher and she's a naughty schoolgirl, complete with cheeky smile.

'What?'

'Can I come? Please?'

She doesn't seem so amused when he's got one of said toerags spread out naked on a snooker table, after giving them all a rousing pep talk on how unwise it would be to piss him off this week. A little demonstration seems to be in order, despite her protests of whether it's really necessary.

'Brown or pink, Guv?'

'God Save the Queen!'

A fitting battle cry, as he smacks the cue ball and watches it rocket up the table into the man's nuts. Drake doesn't seem to enjoy it much but he thinks it's been a splendid afternoon's work.

* * *

He has never, ever, ever heard anyone talk as much crap as her. Emasculating the unions? Rise of New Labour? Slagging off the Great Handbag herself?

'You'll 'ave to excuse the ramblings of my DI.'

'Don't you apologise for me.'

'Well, someone 'as to!'

And she's all over that community-destroying, yuppie wanker Danny Moore as well. Who's even more of a wanker because he won't accept protection from the threats against him and also, incidentally, handed Drake another opportunity to tell him that she wouldn't be staying here long.

As he said to her, he'll be the judge of that.

* * *

Quarter past eleven and it's just him and Ray in CID. Chris is supposedly sick and Drake's off giving protection to Moore. And hopefully using some.

The dynamite is from World War Two, its too late in the day for any posturing and he's tired - for once, nothing to stop his brain actually working on the case.

World War Two.

'Who'd hang on to explosives f'forty years and then blow up a dog?'

'If I knew that Raymondo, you and I could be out there shagging Thatcherites like the rest of the team. As for Danny Moore, he might be one step above a flea-ridden mongrel but it's our job to protect the bastard.'

'What from? The dynamite or Drake?'

His head snaps up and his eyes harden as they fix on his DS. If anyone's going to slag off the woman, it's him. She's not the butt of the office jokes. Just his own.

'She migh' be a bird, Ray. But she's your superior officer and don't you forget it.'

Ray looks shocked.

He's quite shocked himself. That had come out stronger than he meant it to, fuelled by something he wasn't really aware of.

'...alright, Guv. Alright.'

* * *

She's talking a lot. Again. And pissed, if he's not mistaken.

'Last time I saw you, you were doin' a pretty passable impression of a useless bimbo.'

'I was distracted. I am not distracted any more.'

She thinks that pub bloke's son is threatening Moore, wants to pull him in. It's a load of shit. She's practically pleading and he's not refusing just to be stubborn, what she's saying doesn't make any sense.

'You think our future King of England wants to become a tampon, so your views don't count!'

'Please.'

'No.'

Beat.

'I'll let you stamp my bum.'

'...

...I'll get me coat.'

* * *

'You're a coward, Hunt! You wanna 'ave a go at someone, 'ave a go at me!'

So says the old man brandishing a baseball bat. Gene looks at him for all of two seconds and decides, alright.



* * *

This case is a pain in the arse.

Lawyers - especially Caroline bloody Price - are a pain in the arse.

DI Drake is a pain in the arse. But she looks good when dressed like a tart and is surprisingly fun to get pissed with, even if she does try to comandeer the wine while he's waxing lyrical on the enjoyable bits of being a copper and getting to make a difference in the world.

And then...inspiration.

* * *

In the end, his satisfaction at being right over the real identity of the bomber is short-lived. It was nice to prove to Bolly Knickers that she could be wrong, no matter how clever she thought she was. It was nice that the royal wedding went off without a hitch (he reckons the same probably can't be said of the royal wedding night but he'll never know), it was nice doing the conga in the street and getting to discreetly molest Moore's posh bint at the same time.

Not so nice when the kid blew himself, and his family pub, to kingdom come in front of everyone. Bloody lunatic.

But at the end of the day, when one toerag's in jail and the other safely dead, the streets are that bit cleaner. And then you can go to the pub with your team, get pissed and collectively moon DI Drake in the street.

It's nice to see her laugh. Job done.