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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'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.

She doesn't take her eyes off his face, and it hurts in a way she can't quite articulate that he can't look at her when he asks.

'I already told you. I have a second chance to be with you, and I want to take it and hold on for dear life.'

He needs her, yes. But she needs him, too. They never hit their stride, and yet, they were good together. Even when they were fighting tooth and nail, they were good together. She can't help but imagine what they'd be like if they actually had a chance to get to know one another.

'With me? You mean...with me?'

He looks up now. He can feel the hope ready to explode in his chest, but it's tethered as well. Mostly by disbelief, and not a small measure of confusion. Because her saying that really doesn't make sense to him at all.

Plus the fact that there's a nagging voice telling him this is really just like the time she was drunk, and offered herself to him. Not drunk now, but just as vulnerable.

'Yes. In all possible contexts of the word.'

The corner of her mouth lifts, and maybe he can catch the way she's breathing a bit faster. He certainly can't miss the way she's not looking away from his face.

'I know it's different now, for both of us. But I told Nelson, I couldn't stay. Not yet. It didn't feel right being there without you.'

He bites the inside of his cheek, and finds himself glancing from her eyes to her lips, and back up. But there's been something on his mind since this morning, and those hours in front of the TV on his own.

'Y'know, there's a...there's this thing, but I don' know what it's called. When something happens, whether you want it to or not. And after, things are different and-'

This isn't coming out right.

'-what I mean is - well, look, when I used to walk aroun' Manchester, people would look at me, an' say hello, and come an' talk and it was good. And then there was this case that got splashed all over the papers, an' Jackie Queen made me out to be some kind of monster. And for bloody months after, people looked at me like I was shit they'd jus' stepped in.'

And wow, it still stings, even now. He has to actively remind himself that it wasn't real. Real for him, but not anywhere that counts.

'It got better, right. But even a couple of years after, sometimes I'd run into people and the first thing out of their mouths was, 'you're the bloke who shot that lad', and they hated me. See?'

He's not sure that made sense even to himself, but he wants to get it out before the hope disappears for good.

'What I mean is - sometimes things happen, and you look at someone an' they're different, no matter what. You can't go back to seein' them the way they were, even if you want to.'

And he can't understand how that isn't the case here. After what she saw rolling on the floor of CID, after the things she found out - how can she be sitting here, thinking he's the same bloke she nearly slept with one night? That's what he doesn't get.

If it were him, he doesn't think he could do it. It would have destroyed too much.

Her expression softens and her shoulders fall.

'You're not different, though, are you? You're still the same Gene Hunt who grabbed my breast the first day we met. I just know more about you, now. I know why you're the most immature, stubborn, misogynistic, reckless,' she's starting to grin proper by now, 'and the bravest man I've ever known.'

'You died for us, Gene, in a very literal way.'

'Bloody hell, I'm not Jesus.'

Yuk.

He lights a fag, pulls on is and discards it in the ashtray. He just needs something to do with his hands.

'An' I didn't choose to. It just happened.'

Which sort of negates the bravery angle, in his opinion. But still. Her words do make his chest swell, just a tiny bit. Even if he can see the negative in them just as easily.

Eventually, he shrugs a shoulder and meets her eye.

'Alright.'

She chuffs a laugh at his observation, and again, rests her chin on her hand, taking a long sip on the straw of her lemonade.

'All right?'

One eyebrow goes up, and her eyes narrow.

'Care to -- elaborate?'

He manages a nonchalant snort, as though he's cool and calm and his stomach isn't trying to crawl up into his throat.

'Well, you're here. I'm here. We can...see how it goes, yeah?'

He's pretty sure it'll be difficult to get...anywhere. But if they have time, and she still fancies him, then how can he say no?

Edited 2012-06-27 01:16 (UTC)

Like it's no big thing. Like they haven't come through hell to get here.

She dips a finger in her ice water and flicks it at him.

'Yeah, we can see how it goes.'

He smiles, and then pulls a mock-glare at the flicked water. And because it seems like an alright thing to do after that sort of conversation, he half-stands, and leans across the table, and kisses her.

Just like upstairs, it's still pretty chaste. But it is warm, and soft, and it lingers. He'd touch her if his hands weren't braced on the table, so maybe it's a poor attempt to show that he's happy with the turn of events. But it wouldn't feel right to not to do it, and Gene Hunt always runs with his instincts.

She can't help herself, she has to take his face in her hands, lightly. His skin is warm and his lips touch hers with a gentleness that makes her heart ache. When it's over, she holds him for another moment, savoring being allowed this close to him.

'People will talk...' Her voice is warm velvet, and for the first time, she smiles at him with real hope in her eyes.

Maybe he can find it in him to forgive her. Maybe.

Edited 2012-06-27 05:03 (UTC)

He jerks a shoulder in a shrug, also with a smile. Let them talk.

He sits back down, and can't deny the way things seem a bit better, now. Maybe it's just having something to look forward to, or maybe it's because something's sorted out. Maybe it's just because it's her, and he's wanted this for three years.

The food comes. Result.

The sense of relief is a bit surprising. She hadn't realized how much was riding on that simple decision. But he's open to exploring a relationship, and from the looks of him, it's something he was concerned about, too.

She sits back as the food is presented, still smiling, but painfully aware of how far they still need to go to be anywhere near 'okay'.

'After we eat, I'd like to stop by the infirmary.' She picks up knife and fork, and slices through the thick slabs of cheese and tomato.

Edited 2012-06-27 14:32 (UTC)

His eyebrows go up at once.

'Why? What's wrong?'

'Nothing, I just -- I have questions. And I'd like to see if there's something they can give you to help you sleep.'

She's giving him the serious Look. The Look that says she's concerned, and if he has any sense, he should be concerned, too.

'I know, you'd rather crawl into a bottle of Scotch. But I'm worried, about both of us. The stress alone...'

'No,' he says, and it's firm.

'If you wanna talk about your stuff, that's up t'you. But I'm not...'

He sighs, and attacks his steak.

'Guppy's always in the infirmary. He's a mate, an' I told him...well, he saw me the other day. I'm not bloody goin' back in there, like a bloody nonce. And you don't tell 'em anythin' about me an' sleep.'

If there was ever a nancy problem to have, that's got to be number one.

'You told him, what precisely?'

She eats as well, finding a certain familiarity in this dance of advance and retreat. Getting information out of him has always been a challenge.

He looks at the chip on his fork. Still not appealing.

'I told him what happened. Back then.'

He looks uncomfortable about it.

'He's a mate. Didn't seem right not to.'

She pauses to take a drink, eyes fixed on his face.

'How much did you tell him?'

She seems to be getting at something. He sets his fork down, and eyes her.

'I told him I got killed, Alex.'

His tone is hard again.

'Why?'

She takes a deep breath, wiping her mouth with her napkin and tucking it under the edge of her plate. Her chin is set, taking the brunt of his anger and setting it aside.

'I've spent the last three years, off and on, remembering -- my final moments. The first year, I couldn't close my eyes without seeing that bullet hovering in front of my eyes. The last year, well... I can honestly say that last night was the first time in months I have slept in a bed. Usually I fell asleep on the couch in front of the television. It's a wonder I didn't experience a full on psychotic break, considering how sleep deprived I was. But I was managing to sleep, even if it was catching cat naps in the front seat of your car, or at my desk.'

'My point, Gene, is that sleep is important for the health of the brain. Lack of sleep is indicative of a serious problem. The same way that lack of appetite, for food or sex, is an indicator of a serious problem. Now, sometimes it can work itself out on its own. But if it goes on for any longer than a few days, I'm going to insist that you get checked out.'

'You're goin' to insist.'

His tone is deadpan.

'Because I'm just the stupid boy who doesn' know how t'look after himself, yeah? Because I need you to do it for me, like you're me mam.'

Yeah. Not impressed.

'I've had one bad night. I reckon I'm bloody entitled to that. So, leave it.'