the_gene_genie | (no subject)

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Hours later, he couldn't honestly say if he's had any sleep or not. It's like hovering on the edge of consciousness, one foot in the land of the awake and lucid, the other firmly planted in the realm of nightmares. He jerks from images of blood and that gun, and his family, to Alex lying on his chest, comfortingly warm in the crook of his arm. Never awake, never asleep, and it gets to a point he can't stand anymore. During one of the more aware stretches, he jabs himself with a fingernail to make it stop, using the pain to bring himself back. He extracts himself from her, and heads to the bathroom. It's probably a good thing he destroyed the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like at the moment.

The idea of lying down again is unbearable. He needs to move, but he's still too tired. Should go for a walk or something, but he can't contemplate dragging himself all the way downstairs and outside. He pulls his dressing gown from the wardrobe and lights a fag instead, pacing around the other end of the room a bit. Eventually, he sits down and sticks the TV on, flicking through endless channels (one of which, he notes vaguely, seems to be aimed at squid) until he finds football. England even. Euro 2012.

It'll do. He mutes the sound so she isn't disturbed, folds himself up in one corner of the sofa, and stares blankly at the screen. By the time the game's up, the night should be over. It feels like the first step on a long road, getting through this endless night. If he can do that, everything else should be a doddle.

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She sleeps, but not with ease. After he leaves, she rolls over and balls herself up in the duvet, just like she used to do when she was twelve. Evan used to call her caterpillar, she'd cocoon herself up so tightly.

She hears him moving around and waits for him to return. When he doesn't, the distance takes on a weight, making it hard for her to draw air into her lungs. She closes her eyes and tries to still the chaos in her head. He's just there, in front of the telly, not lost, not somewhere she can't lay eyes on him.

He looks like hell. Like a man who's visited his own shallow, unmarked grave and is now coming to grips with it. His eyes aren't focused on anything in the room.

After a long while of just watching him, the pragmatist in her can't take it anymore. She hauls herself up, and disappears into the bath. A cool cloth on her face helps most of the puffiness around her eyes, though the redness isn't going anywhere it seems. She brushes out her hair, leaving it down and simply tucking the length behind her ears. Close enough for government work.

When she emerges, she eyes the room for the house phone, or some other way to contact the front desk. What she finds is the pneumatic tube system, and the tiny handbook with it. She scribbles a note, and sends it down, and then joins him, taking up a place on the other end of the sofa.

'Who's winning?'

Her movement had brought no more acknowledgement than a blink and a return to the present. That was a few minutes ago, so by the time she emerges from the bathroom, he can actually answer her question.

'Nil-nil.'

He's turned sideways, head resting on the back of the sofa. Facing her, now she's sitting down. His gaze runs over her face for a long time, then he pulls it away. Like maybe he's been thinking of something to say, but isn't sure whether to say it or not.

'We won't win.'

She looks back at him, caught between wanting to apologize again, for tearing down the world he'd built for himself, and for all of them, and wanting to scream at him to snap out of it.

She settles for small talk, giving him a weak smile.

'Why not?'

She's ignoring the logo on the screen. (2012. Molly is sixteen this year.)

'They're playin' better than us.'

Usually a decent indication. And it's a deadpan delivery, but with the barest hint of amusement too.

It dies away, and he looks down, examining the sofa cushion between them for a moment, a moment that stretches on and on.

'He was right, y'know.'

It's a soft admission.

'I did want you to stay with me.'

One eyebrow rises, and she studies him for a long moment. This is a far cry from the Gene she knew before, though she thinks, perhaps, she may have seen hints.

'I know.'

He'd forgotten, she reminds herself. As cruel as it seems, he never meant to keep her from Molly. She knows that now.

Slowly, she extends one hand across the back of the couch to him, palm up.

'I'm sorry.'

He looks at her hand. His twitches on his leg, as though he's about to take it, but overrode the instinct at the last second.

'For what?'

Her eyes sheen, but she keeps her palm outstretched.

'That I couldn't stay.'

She wanted to, at the end. She begged him, and she still remembers what he told her. Can't have you putting me off my stride, can I? The words still smart, but it's hard to hold onto the anger in the face of everything else. It's hard to feel discarded when he just spent the night holding her through her tears.

'Did you think I was -- bargaining for my life?'

Maybe she was. Maybe the voice of fear was the loudest in the chorus of those last few moments. But there was more. He should know that.

He takes her hand. It's what she wants, and he's pretty sure he's in no position to be refusing much at the moment.

He's not sure what she means, and it probably shows in the frown and confused shake of his head.

She gives his hand a squeeze, and then lets her grip relax, content to rest her palm in his. Again, just simple human contact, nothing more and nothing less.

'I know what I did, I mean...'

Words don't seem adequate. She chews on her lips, her brow furrowed as it's her turn to stare at the upholstery.

'I could never undo the damage I did. But when I asked to stay, it wasn't because I was afraid to move on. I didn't want to leave you behind.'

There. Not entirely the truth, but then, neither of them are strangers to convenient fictions.

The damage I did - - he doesn't try to tamp down the anger that flares, but it dies out pretty quick. He does pull his hand back, and uses it to run over his face. His stubble itches.

'You didn' know what you were doing.'

Though it doesn't change the fact that he asked her to stop, over and over, and she wouldn't trust him.

...but that doesn't matter, does it? She had reason not to, in the end. And it was...himself, helping her. So he must have wanted- -

He scrubs his hands over his face.

'I'm gonna get dressed.'

He pulls himself up without looking at her. He doesn't look angry. Just like he doesn't want to get into it. There can be no winners in this conversation.

'Gene...'

It's no use.

She did know what she was doing. And in the end, she was doing it for him. He was the young copper with half a face, pushing her on.

'He needed a name. You needed a name.'

He stands still. His jaw clenches. He doesn't look at her.

'Yeah. Yeah.'

Now his head swivels, his eyes hard when they find her face.

'At all costs, right? Doesn' matter if that's what I wanted.'

He shouldn't say it, he knows it, but it comes out anyway.

'Don' try an' pretend you did it for me, Alex.'

Her voice stays level and cool.

'No, I did for my daughter.'

He shakes his head, and opens the wardrobe. How's he supposed to fight against that?

There are no suits in here. Fine. He grabs the nearest thing, and disappears.

She closes her eyes, and forces herself to take a deep breath. He just found out he's been dead for thirty years. He's allowed some leeway.

A knock at the door stirs her from the sofa, and she opens it to admit the rat with the waiter's trolley. She signs for it, and sends the creature along its way before he emerges again.

And then she pours herself a mug of tea, and pours him one as well. Hers gets doctored with milk and sugar, his with -- she counts them out carefully -- seven sugars. It's a seven sugar day.

When he emerges from the bath, she's waiting outside the door, patiently holding it for him.

He'd thought about a few things, that hour in front of the TV. Things that twisted the knife a bit deeper. And she'd come and sat down, and he tried to tell her something honest, and he got that. So...so, nothing. Who cares? He scrubs himself in the shower, hot enough to burn, and then shaves because he's still not a sodding hippy. Old Spice, and the jeans and rugby shirt he'd grabbed. He could still collapse from exhaustion, but at least there's anger enough to fuel him a while longer.

He emerges in a cloud of steam, and is pulled up a bit short to see her there, holding tea.

'That mine?'

She holds it out to him.

'Can we please try again?'

'Try what?'

He looks at her suspiciously, but he does take the drink.

'Being honest with one another. We've never really had the chance, and... Well, it looks like we need the practice.'

'I've always been honest with you. It's not my fault new information turned up.'

But it has. So, OK, things are different now.

'What're we practicing for?'

She wraps both hands around the mug and sips, giving him a Look over the brim.

'Why do we practice anything, Gene? So we get better at it.'

He hasn't always been honest with her. He lied when he told her she was a 'hindrance', at his own admission.

She rests one hip on the back of the sofa, fatigue drawing dark circles under her eyes, and etching deep lines around her mouth.

'After I was shot, I left your world... I went back, and I sent Molly to live with her father. And, I don't know what happened -- whether you pulled me back, or whether I came when you called. But I do know, I came back.'

That should count for something, shouldn't it?

He looks down at his feet. The mug of tea is hot in his hand, so he drinks some.

'I didn' pull you back.'

He came to meet her.

'I came because you were-'

He stops, because he hasn't thought this through. But he knows the answer anyway. And he remembers being pulled back from Spain because of it.

'Dying.'

Her head tilts to one side, and if she hadn't cried all night, her eyes would sheen. But she's too tired for that. The sadness is there, but it's a pebble in the ocean.

'It makes sense now, in as much as any of this makes sense.'

She idly makes her way over to the table, figuring that's safe territory for the two of them.

'So yesterday wasn't the first time I was late.' Nor the first time he'd waited for her.

'Weren't late. There isn' a timetable for this stuff.'

Very few set rules, either. But when he knows, he knows.

He follows her to the table. Why not? He slumps into a chair, and concentrates on his tea.

'It jus' happens.'

She nods, watching the curls of steam rise from the surface of the liquid.

'And you know...'