OOM: Right now, last seconds on Earth...

[the_gene_genie]

'What's up with you today?'

'Just because I'm stuck here, doesn't mean I have to pretend to like it.'

'Fine. Leave you to it then, Sulky Knickers.'

He can't help but wonder what's wrong with her. And why, after she asked to be transferred here, does she spend all her time talking about leaving?

Maybe it's his aftershave.

* * *

He hates drugs. Hates them more than just about anything; Tyler once told him that drugs would some day become their number one concern but he hadn't believed him. So catching a couple of bastards with a couple of hundred garden gnomes stuffed full of the shit should've been a good day's work. But her mood must be rubbing off or something; he's finding it hard to be happy. Maybe it was finding that bird who won't do anything but shake and not talk to anyone, maybe it's Drake trying to put him off interviewing her.

'I don't think she'll open up with a man present.'

'Plenty of women've opened up to me withou' so much as a shandy down their neck.'

'She's scared of you. Can't say I blame her. Trust me.'

He gives her a look but lets her get on with it on her own. He wants to know what's up with the bird, something's obviously happened to her and if this is what's going to work, fine.

It doesn't work. The girl won't talk to anyone. And then his day gets even better, courtesy of a grinning Chris.

'Wait 'til you 'ear this one, Guv. Prozzie wants t'make a complaint of rape.'

'...rape?'

Give me strength. He's not sure if life's always been this mental and he's only just noticed, or if he's just having one of those days.

* * *

'Trixie. Real name Patricia Walsh. Recently promoted from the street to escort work; seen more beaks than Daffy Duck at a family knees-up. Raped? Who's she tryin' to kid?'

He really can't be bothered with this. It's a total waste of time. Not that Drake's having it, of course.

'And they say it's hard for rape victims to be believed. I wonder why.'

'She gets paid fer havin' sex.'

'It's not about sex is it, it's about...'

She rambles on and he's had enough.

'Maybe you can tell me abou' it some other time, y'know when I'm in a coma or when I'm dead.'

Interview commences. Interview ends. His guts tell him this bird is more full of shit than a constipated elephant. Her story's vague, lacking details, she was drunk...he takes the piss, tells her to drop it before he books her for wasting police time, he has better things to do. But Drake's there, taking her seriously, looking all soft at her and asking him silently to sit down and give the woman time. So he does, though he'd rather be anywhere else.

And then it gets complicated because this woman who's obviously, to him, talking crap, turns out to have a similar injury to a woman who turned up dead eight weeks previous. Delphine Parks. Raped, beaten and strangled, no suspects.

'We 'auled in the usual pervs and psychos, nothin'.'

If there's one thing he does hate more than drugs, it's murdering nonce scum who prey on women.

* * *

Drake seems affected by the pictures of the dead girl. So much so that he even asks if she's alright. It's a strange sort of day, today. He feels unusual.

'God is in the detail.'

It sounds odd, coming from her mouth.

Sam used to say that.

* * *

Talking to the parents of dead people is part of the job, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. Delphine's mother is at the church when they go to find her. He can't resist glaring at the crucifix by the door as he walks in.

'Where were you when she needed you?'

Sniping at God doesn't make him feel any better either. Unsurprisingly.

Neither does the discovery that Trixie was sacked by her former agency and is probably trying to get one over on them by making a complaint of rape. Drake obviously still believes her but all women stick together on stuff like this, don't they? And while her pleas to be believed might seem convincing, he's not buying it. He doesn't know why. It just feels wrong.

* * *

She's only bloody gone and stormed out of CID. What is wrong with that woman?

And yet, he doesn't have it in him today to get angry at her for it. She obviously cares about what that prozzie said and true, OK, the woman had been slashed so something obviously went on. Ray and Chris and...well, everyone else in CID just thinks it's a waste of time. And it probably is. But still, he finds himself putting himself in Drake's shoes - a bird storms out of work because she feels like she has to do something.

Shopping? Nails done? New hairdo?

No, of course not. She's going to talk to other prozzies.

It takes a while to find her and when he does, he only watches for a minute. She's talking to them like they're people, respectful, asking for help and telling them to look after themselves. Sort of like a caped crusader only without the costume. Though he wouldn't be adverse to seeing her in that costume.

'Maybe I should go down to King's Cross.'

'Why, we not payin' you enough?'

'I just want them to be safe.'

'...am I missin' somethin' 'ere but erm...why are you so bothered about 'em?'

'Does there have to be a reason?'

'Yes.'

She tells him she was once a prostitute. And he bloody believes her, for the thirty seconds or so before she tells him she's lying and babbles on about perceptions of people and judgements of people and blah blah blah, she just made a fool of him.

He hates her. Despises her. He doesn't move an inch as she gets up in his face and he can feel her breath on his mouth she's so close, telling him he could never afford her, telling him that she's too good for him, that she's better, that she's a class above. So he means it when he says that she's a clenched-arsed, toffee-nosed bitch. Means it for those few seconds anyway and then he doesn't think about it any more because she's slapped him hard across the face. And then punched him, rocking him back on his heels.

To be fair, her left uppercut's not bad. Can't feel his gob for a bit, that's for sure.

* * *

They get pissed.

No, that's not right. He gets pissed.

She gets very pissed.

He's not quite sure why, when she asks him if he's lonely, he tells her the truth. The drink, most likely. Maybe because with that punch, the ice was well and truly broken. Perhaps because he likes it when women stand up to him. Or possibly because she's just told him she has no friends to speak of and she looks sad, and drunk, and he wants her to know that she's not the only one.

When he leans in, she doesn't move away. He doesn't understand what she's talking about but that doesn't matter. He does understand that look she's giving him, the way her eyes flick to his lips, the way she's asking what he'd like to do right this second.

Gene Hunt is a lot of things. Bastard, yes. Violent git, yes. Sexist, homophobic asshole, yes.

But he does not take advantage of drunk women, even when they really seem to want him to. Not ever. So he picks up his smokes and puts them in his pocket, ignoring the pang of regret.

'What are you doing?'

One last mouthful of wine. 'I'm doing the righ' thing. And you...should go t'bed, Bolly.'

He leaves, ignoring her pout, and calls himself a stupid bastard all the way home.

* * *

They're all talking about her the next morning. And he's...upset. That after he left her, she apparently went and shagged some yuppie scumbag in red braces, practically getting her kit off in front of everyone in the bar.

He tells himself it's bad for morale, that the team would see her like that. He ignores the thought that he rather wishes it had been him, even though he'd had the chance and turned it down. Is she so stupid that she can't appreciate a bloke doing the right thing? Maybe she just wants to be treated like a slag in which case, good luck to her.

He tries to talk to her about it the next morning, when she turfs up to work two hours late, looking like utter shit.

It does not go well.

* * *

He was right about Trixie. She'd made the whole thing up, which Drake seemed disappointed about. Maybe she's not used to constantly being lied to by random people, though she's a DI so she should have plenty of experience of it. And in the end...well. Turns out Trixie was alright. Covering for that traumatised kid that they'd picked up, the one who wouldn't say anything. The murdering bastard got off of course, weak evidence - but Ray fitted him up with enough drugs to send him down for five years, so it turned out all right in the end.

They all get pissed, again. It's a good night. And what sticks out most, when he thinks about it later, is how that yuppie twat had come up and propositioned her again; she'd looked over to him and then turned the guy down flat, telling him she was with a friend.

He's not sure you're supposed to want to shag your friends. But it's a start.

And she's marginally less annoying than she was at first. So that's good too, yes?

Yes.