the_gene_genie | OOM: 6620, #3

'I expected you to believe me. I trusted you -- enough to tell you what my version of the truth was.'

She's facing away from him now, and it feels like she can still feel his anger radiating off him in waves. It hurts her skin to feel it.

'I still trust you. And picking it over is the only way we're going to sort this rotten mess, so we can get back to what we both want. What we both need. A place where we can be intimate with one another, without fear of old wounds opening every time we let ourselves be vulnerable.'

That's what this dance feels like to her. Reel her in and cut her open, one slice at a time. She suppose she deserves it on some level, but it's not what she'd call fun.

'What person in their right bloody mind would believe that? Seriously now, Alex.'

So what if it turned out to be the truth? He didn't know what he knows now.

'An' if you still trust me - Jesus, you didn't trust me when you wandering off with Keats, listenin' to him pouring poison in your ear.'

Yeah, that still cuts.

He snarls and she moves farther away from him, this time opening the wardrobe and idly shuffling through the contents.

'I had to listen to him, Gene. He was the only one who seemed to know what was really going on. You said it yourself, he's very good at what he does.'

Her hand lights on a speck of blue wool, tucked into his jacket pocket. It's her scarf, the one he gave her at Christmas that very first year. She tugs it free, winding it around her hand.

'If I hadn't listened to him, I'd be like the others. Trapped in purgatory. Forgetting who I was, where I'd come from. Forgetting my little girl.'

Weren't there nights when she wanted to forget? Just for a few minutes. Just so the pain in her heart would subside and she could take a free breath? Weren't there nights with him when she wanted so badly to forget, so she could take some comfort in his arms?

'That's what you wanted, wasn't it? For me to give up and stay? For me to forget, like you?'

Isn't that what she'd asked for at the end? Begged, even pleaded for?

'It's not Purgatory,' he says immediately, like a father defending his child.

'No ones atoning for sins.'

He sees the scarf and deflates a bit. He was going to give that back to her. And her words - he can't defend against an accusation like that, and he doesn't have the energy to try.

She's folding that thing around her hand, and he remembers that Christmas. She as much as told him it would never happen, and he'd been quietly gutted. But now...they're here. And ruining it all over again.

He looks down at the floor, the fight draining out of him.

'It wasn' about giving up,' he mutters. 'I just want the team to work, an' when someone doesn't fit in...'

He shrugs. As far as he's concerned, it's man-management. Like he said to Sam once, he spends his time listening to the cogs in the machinery. She was out of sync, just like he was.

'When you talked about leaving, I thought you were on about transferring out. Going back to where your daughter was. Or, I think I did. I didn't give it much thought.'

He pulls smoke from his cigarette, and blows it out carefully. Christ, he is knackered.

'I just didn't want you to go away.'

'And yet, at the end, you told me I couldn't stay. That I was a hindrance. That you couldn't have me around because I'd put you off your stride.'

She finally turns and looks at him, and maybe he can see just how much his words hurt her.

'Why did you say that? If you didn't mean it.'

'I did mean it.'

He looks up, confused about her misinterpretation.

'Not about you being a hindrance. I already told you that. But you would put me off my stride.'

There must be Scotch. He gets up and pours one for himself.

'The new bloke's already turned up. It was weird enough putting him in his place while I remembered. If you were there an' all...the place isn't built for me to know what I'm doin', Alex. If I felt like I do now every day, I wouldn' be any use to anyone.'

They need him to be the one fully sure of himself. When they stumble in, scared and not having a clue what's going on, they need him to say 'be here at nine tomorrow', and 'that's your flat, go and live in it', and 'pub, now, and first round's on you'. With a purpose, they can start to sort themselves out.

He drinks, and watches her over the rim.

'When I was on the floor in CID, Keats told all of you that what you had there was living. Somethin' poncy about how you breathe, and love, or somethin'. And you shook your head, and said no.'

He puts his glass down, and crosses his arms. His voice is quiet, but firm.

'You wouldn't want that life, an' you know it. Because it's not real, and it's not Heaven for anyone but me. If I let you stay, I'd be doing everyone a disservice. Probably you most of all.'

'But we'd be together.'

Wasn't he just telling her, just this morning, how he's not sure the bar will let him come back?

Didn't he tell her he loved her this morning? Or did that all happen to someone else?

'Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what you fought so hard to have happen?'

'Yeah, it is.'

He passes a hand over his forehead. If this is what talking about things is like, he's glad he doesn't make a habit of it.

'That's why I kept tellin' you to leave it. That's why I-'

OK, how to say this?

'-I had the idea that if the date went well, we could stop what Keats was doing. You and me, together. That's why I kept telling you not to help him, and not to trust him, and you just wouldn' listen.'

Not angry this time. Resigned.

'If I could stop Keats, then the world would hold and you'd still be there with me. All of you would, an' it could be like always. Of course it's what I wanted.'

He walks towards her. Stops a foot away, and looks her in the eye.

'You probably did the right thing.'

She feels like she's twelve years old again, sitting on the foot of the bed in the dark with her arms wrapped around her knees, waiting to hear her parents coming up the stairs. Willing them to come home with every fibre of her being, knowing that it wasn't going to happen just because she wanted it to. She thought if she could only wish hard enough, if she could undo whatever mistake she'd done, that she could have them back. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough to bring them back.

She's holding onto the blue scarf like it's the only solid thing in her world, and when he approaches, she unconsciously takes a step towards him, catching herself when he stops.

'Right now, it doesn't feel like it.'

Because he's there, and she's here. And it feels like the chasm between them is measureless.

'I don't want it to be like it was, Gene. I don't want to fall asleep every night on the couch because I've been waiting for the bloody television to give me some bit of news. I don't want to wake up alone, wondering where you are and what you're doing.'

She remembers the snippet of that Billy Joel song, and laughs through tears, looking down at the scarf again, unable to hold his gaze.

'I want so much more than that.'

He's quiet, just watching her.

Eventually;

'I have to go back, Alex.'

He's said it already, and he knows she knows it, but it has to be clear. She couldn't stay, because he has work to do. He won't give it up for anything. And she never asked him to, on the street outside the pub. So he knows she knows that as well.

'And I don't know what's going to happen when I do. If that's something we can't get past, then I dunno what to tell you.'

Another pause, and God, he hates to see her cry. So he stretches out, and takes her hand.

'But I hope we can.'

She's nodding when he says it, because of course she understands. She'd never ask him to give it up, not even for her.

She lets him take her hand, still not looking up at him. The idea of losing him all over again is enough to almost take her legs away.

'You said you'd ask. About -- a thing.' He seemed to know what to do, and she's completely at sea over this. She's lost her home all over again, and has to reinvent herself anew.

'I don't want you to forget me.' The words drag a ragged sob up from somewhere deep in her chest.

He blinks. And, against all odds, snorts a laugh.

'Bloody hell, are you serious?'

A laugh from nowhere, and his mood breaks. Not into euphoria, or even great cheer. But suddenly, not so black. he squeezes her hand.

'Why would I forget you? How would I forget you? I haven't forgotten anyone else.'

She looks up at him, incredulous. Again, she shares her deepest fears with him, and again, he laughs at her.

'I mean, this. You said you don't remember the bar when you go back. And I don't want you to forget that I love you, Gene. I don't want you to forget what's happened here.'

She looks down at their hands, and as much as she wants to pull away, she can't. She needs him. She needs him in a way that's so bone deep, she can't begin to articulate it.

'Oh.'

The moment of lightness dies. He drops her hand.

'I can't control that, Alex.'

'No, you can't.'

She studies his face, as if she could read his thoughts.

He means so much to her. She wonders if he even knows.

'But I have an idea, and you're going to laugh at me again, but -- I want this to work. And I know you do too.'

He studies her face back.

'What's the idea?'

'Marry me.'

'...I'm sorry, you what?'

'Marry me. When you go back, be wearing my wedding ring. And then you'll know that I didn't leave you for some posh bastard. You'll know, somewhere deep down, that I'm wearing your ring.'

He, literally, doesn't know what to say. And it shows.

Edited 2012-07-13 22:11 (UTC)

She smiles at him, tight-lipped, and terrified.

'Do you want me to get down on one knee? Gene Hunt, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of whatever strange life I have with you. Will you marry me?'

OK, he has to say something.

'...Bolly, we haven't even had sex yet. We haven't even had one day since we've been here where we've been normal.'

His tone is nothing but incredulous, but not in a mean way. Just...of all the things he would have expected her to say to him today, that wasn't even in the top thousand. The top million.

Okay, now she laughs. And her mood does lighten a bit, but only just. Since when has any day they've known each other been normal.

'Do you think I'm going to be terrible in bed? Is that what you're worried about?'

If he's going to make her do it, with her in a robe and him in nothing more than a towel, she'll get down on her knees.

'If you crack a joke about me waxing your knob while I'm down here, I will snatch your knackers off and feed them to you one at a time.'

'Bolly no, don't...'

Too late.

He looks down at her, and can't formulate a coherent thought, let alone a decent response.

And he can't ask her to get straight back up, because that would be rude.

He gets down on the floor as well. He can't speak down to her. It feels twattish.

'I dunno what to say. I think...'

No idea what he thinks. Not a Scooby.

'...you'd best ask again when things are a bit better, alright?'

Should he say thanks? He doesn't know. He's never been on the end of a marriage proposal before.

'But - thanks?'

She looks at him, smiling and shaking her head as he gets down to her level. One hand comes up to touch his cheek, because she can't not touch him.

'All right, I will ask again when things are better. But until then, will you wear a ring? Just -- consider it a place holder?'

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