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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He shakes his head, more to rid it of pictures than to dispute her words.

'Need a fag.'

He's trying to get up, to move, while her hands are still on him. He's not good at sitting still, but his legs and arms aren't properly awake yet, and he's sluggish.

'Let me up.'

She does so, shifting back out of the way, dragging a hand through her hair.

'Hold on.'

He left them on the table, and it takes her a moment to orient herself. The display on the side table reads 2 o'clock.

'We missed lunch time.'

She returns and places his cigarettes and lighter on the arm of the sofa, and then gently touches his arm again.

'You should drink something other than Scotch, at least until you get something in your stomach.'

He grabs for them, and then hauls himself up, pacing around a bit while he sucks smoke back. Despite what she says, he drinks straight from the nearest bottle. But only a bit.

'Yeah.'

She's probably not wrong, though nothing appeals.

'I'm hungry.'

Without adding more, he heads for the bathroom. Cold water, and clean teeth, and a slash - he's calmer when he emerges, like nothing happened. Because he can't keep being this weak, not in front of her, and not every time he closes his damn eyes. The only way he knows to deal with stuff is by pretending it didn't happen.

'Wanna go downstairs?'

She's going through the wardrobe when he emerges, a handful of clothes draped over her arm, waiting for her turn.

'Sure. Let me get cleaned up first. I'll only be a moment.'

She disappears into the bath, taking a few minutes to change, brush her hair, and take a flannel to her face. The bath kit he brought back the night before has enough of her things to allow her to put on eyeliner and mascara, though it's much more subdued than the style she wore in 1983.

When she emerges, she's wearing a silk tunic over faded jeans. The wardrobe gives her a pair of flats, and one last check in the mirror proves her ready to go.

'Lead on, Mac Duff.'

She looks different. She looks good. Not that she doesn't always, to him, but this is something new. He gives her the once over from where he's been pulling his boots on, and then averts his eyes.

'Need t'get her to give me my proper clothes back,' he grumbles, but really only for something inane to say. He wears jeans on his days off back home. The rugby shirt is just insulting though, even though it is just all black.

Out in the corridor, he shoves his hands in his pockets, as if all this were normal.

'That what you wear in...2008?'

He cannot comprehend her being from any time other than the 80s. It's just wrong.

'Sort of. Mostly on my days off, or if I'm working in the garden. Why?'

It's been so long since she's even had a choice in the matter, it's a little disconcerting to her as well.

That said, he looks good in jeans. But she knew that. And she's totally not checking him out. No, she would never do that.

He shrugs, and slows going down the stairs so he doesn't stride off ahead of her.

'Jus' different, that's all.'

'Oh.' She still has the same long legs as before, though the flats make her a little shorter than he is.

'Good different or bad different?'

He looks her over again. It's never been a hardship.

'I like it.'

Beat.

'Might miss the more slu...revealin' numbers, if you're going to keep it up, though.'

Hands tucked in the back pockets of her jeans, her eyebrows rise at that statement.

'That rather depends on the occasion, doesn't it?'

It's a deliberately vague answer, but one that comes with a tiny smirk.

His eyes flit right to her, and then away again. Hmm.

He's trying to recreate their old banter, for the sake of normalcy. He wasn't really expecting her to respond like that.

'Yeah?'

Yeah.

OK. Good.

'Yeah.'

She follows him into the bar proper, sticking close to his elbow, her gaze playing over the faces in the room.

This place is a light years from Fenchurch East. And it's her home now. At least until she decides to into the pub for good.

'Let's find some place quiet, hmm?' She picks one of the darker corner booths and gestures at it. 'How's that look?'

'Fine.'

He's glad she didn't make him suggest it. There's no way he wants to be out front and centre today. He feels more human for the hours of kip, but he doesn't want any hard questions from people who saw him the other night.

He collars a rat as soon as one comes near.

'Pint of bitter. Boddy's. And steak an' chips, an' whatever the lady wants.'

She almost asks for a menu before she remembers just where she is. 'I'll have the Caprese salad, and a strawberry lemonade.'

She can order whatever she wants now, can't she?

'Oh and some sparkling mineral water, please. No wine for now.' She glances at him, one eyebrow raised. 'Not sure my tolerance will be the same here as it was before.'

His face falls a bit.

'Nice to know there are some advantages to bein' dead.'

There's no real bite to it.

'What's a Cap...that salad? What's that?'

Hasn't he had enough of her acting like a daft bint without worrying about her stumbling around drunk in the middle of the day?

'Don't worry, I haven't gone on the wagon. It's from the isle of Capri. Roma tomatoes, fresh mozzarella cheese, and basil. Usually served with a balsamic vinegar, and some bread on the side. You're welcome to try a bite when it gets here.'

'...nah, you're all right.'

Wow.

No.

He lights a fag, and rests his head back on the side of booth. His gaze flicks around the room, and comes to rest on her.

'So. What now, Bols?'

She meets his gaze, searching his eyes for a long moment. The corners of her mouth unconsciously mimic his pout, and she covers by leaning forward on her elbows, resting one cheek on her hand.

'Is that question small talk? Or -- ?'

To be fair, it is the kind of question she could take completely out of context. And has. And will again, no doubt.

His eyebrows quirk up.

'Bit past small talk, aren' we?'

'Mmm, yes, I suppose we are.'

Again, she just holds his gaze, drinking in the sight of him. Sleep has helped somewhat. He doesn't look quite as haggard as he did when she got here, but he's no where near as golden as he was when she left him on the street in front of the Railway Arms.

'I suppose that depends on you.'

It's terrifying to admit that, but it's true. She's stuck here, regardless of the decision he comes to. But she's here, if he still wants her.

He lets her look, though it makes him uncomfortable. Never know what she might see, these days.

'Why?'

He doesn't know what she wants, or expects, so how can he answer that?

'It depends on when you decide to go back. It depends on what you decide you want from me.'

She gives a little half shrug, trying to smile, though it's clear she's struggling.

The one burst of anger he's directed at her gave her the distinct impression he hasn't forgiven her for unearthing his bones, and she can't find it in her heart to blame him. Gene Hunt has never been one to go quietly towards the difficult truths. But he's still talking to her, so she hopes she's been granted at least a reprise for now.

'I'm not your DI anymore. And Molly...' She glances away, willing the tears back down again. That one is going to be awhile in healing.

'Said I'd stay for now, didn' I? But past...well, this...I don' know what I'm staying for.'

This being this bloody nightmare they find themselves drowning in. And he wouldn't leave her to face it on her own, even if they weren't...what he thought they were, that last night before Keats ruined everything.

He leans forward suddenly, resting forearms on the table and searching her face. He's always had trouble understanding her.

'You know I have t'go back sometime. And no, you're not my DI anymore. But I'm not-' he's struggling a bit too, though he's doing a pretty good job of hiding it, '-I'm not a DCI, Alex. It's pretty obvious it's not up t'me to decide anything.'

He's a twenty-two year old kid, who built a sandpit for others to play in. Keats was right. What right does he have, seriously, to state what he wants from her?

Edited 2012-06-27 00:25 (UTC)

'You are a DCI, Gene. You're my DCI, and you're Sam's DCI, and you're the DCI for the next poor sod who comes along after we're gone.'

Now he's poked a hornet's nest, and her eyes flash as she leans closer to him.

'And outside of that, in spite of all that, we have something. What it is, I'm not sure, but I have a good idea and I think you do, too. If you want me to make the decision, I will, but I'd rather make it with you.'

He sits back and avoids her gaze, putting one arm across his chest to grasp the bicep of the other, an unconscious defensive gesture from his youth.

'It's not the same if you've made it all up,' he mutters, but that's not the real point to discuss, is it?

The rat brings the drinks. He waits for it to leave, and downs a quarter of his pint.

'If the decision were just up t'you, what would it be?'

Still can't look at her.