the_gene_genie | OOM: Christmas Eve

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OOM: Christmas Eve

Gene Hunt likes Christmas. Even though he tends to have to work like a bastard on the run-up (criminals seem to decide that they need some extra spending money, so try to nick it off the poor, working folk who can barely afford to put a turkey on the table), he generally has the day itself off and it's usually spent getting pleasantly drunk in front of the TV, devouring the missus's excellent cooking and seeing his mam smile a lot more than usual.

Of course, that was last year. This year there'll be no missus, less drinking than he'd like and his mam'll be the one slaving over a hot stove. He'd offer to help but they both know he'd likely burn the house down with his efforts.

At least he's got family though. Since that conversation over the darts game with Drake a couple of weeks ago, he's wrestled with himself...well. Wrestled with it for about a day, then made his mind up and has been waiting impatiently ever since. And now it's Christmas Eve, they all knocked off at four (mostly still suffering from immense hangovers from the Christmas do the night before) with well wishes for the holiday all 'round and a good bottle of something from the Guv to let them know he appreciated their efforts this year.

He'd gone home, packed a bag, shovelled a few tabs of paracetemol down his neck and headed out again. He's got a long drive ahead of him, but there's a stop to be made first.

'Bolly! Open up!'

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Of course he comes in, and of course she closes the door behind him. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives him a look.

"What are you on about? What do you mean 'pack a bag'?"

'I wasn' speakin' French, was I?'

He gives her a Look right back, then makes a motion with both hands that she's seen in the office, encouraging his boys towards the door.

'Bag. Put clothes in it.

Mush.'

She doesn't budge.

"Would you care to explain a little further? What am I packing for? Where are you taking me? Do I need comfortable shoes?"

He sighs, as though he hadn't forseen her being so bloody stubborn. When in actuality, this is pretty much what he expected, i.e a normal person's reaction.

'You, Bollyknickers, 'ave the supreme privilege of spendin' Christmas with me in Manchester. I don' suppose you'll need comfortable shoes though seein' as you'll probably be 'elping stuff the turkey, they migh' be a good idea.

Hurry up, I'm already an hour behin' schedule.'

And that said, he walks further into the flat to search out the whiskey. He knows she'll have it out here somewhere.

It's in the same place it was the last time he raided her liquor stash. On the sideboard.

Alex is still rooted to the floor, staring at him like a freshly gaffed halibut, only with less flopping and wriggling.

"Manchester? You're kidnapping me to Manchester?"

Gobsmacked only just begins to cover it.

'Well, if you wan' t'be all dramatic abou' it.'

Of course she does.

He pours drinks.

'You're still standin' there, Drake. What part of 'I'm late' don' you understand?

Bag. Clothes. Or I'll do it for you.'

She puts a hand on her hip and stares.

"You can't be serious."

He throws back his drink, swallows and then stares at her.

Then walks past her, into her bedroom and opens her wardrobe.

'Bloody 'ell, 'ow many clothes does one bird need?'

Outfits are pulled out at random, inspected briefly, and generally shoved back in. One or two items are approved enough to be tossed onto the bed.

That gets a response. A shrill one.

"Gene! Get your mits off -- bloody hell all right you win! Now get out!"

She snatches her clothes out of his hands and points. He is not allowed to be here, in her bedroom, pawing through her delicates. Not even in her own psyche.

"Of all the nerve. And if you think I'm cooking for you, you're out of your bleeding mind!"

He grins and retreats, secretly glad that she intervened before he was forced to find out where she kept her underwear.

...maybe glad isn't the word. There probably isn't a word in the English language for what he thinks about it.

'You don' have to cook. Just 'elp me mam out,' he says, as he exits towards the Scotch bottle and leaves her to it.

She'd been trying to think if she even had an overnight bag. Typically, these things tended to be in the logical place when she looked for them. Which meant the bottom of the wardrobe. Yes. And then his words filter through.

His mother.

He's taking her to meet his mother.

Well, then.

"Does she know I'm coming or will it be just as much of a surprise for her?"

Wardrobe choices are quickly being calculated.

'Does it matter? She's me mam.'

If he turned up with a football team of lads and asked her to make a full English for all of them, she would.

...this may have actually happened, at some point.

'C'n give 'er a ring if it'll make y'feel better but she won' mind either way.'

She sticks her head out and quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Your call. Obviously."

She thinks perhaps he hasn't thought this through. Bringing a woman home is a world away from bringing the lads round for a fry up.

She packs quickly, and moves into the bathroom to grab her makeup, trying not to think about sleeping arrangements.

'You ready? No time then.'

He knows his mam. It won't be a problem. He opens the front door for her, gesturing her through.

'Come on Lady Bolls, I wan' t'get there before closin' time at me local.'

"All right. Don't get your knickers in a twist. I still have to change."

She doesn't even realise she's smiling as she drops the bag at his feet.

"I'll only be a minute."

'Can I watch?'

Teasing! Just teasing. He consults his Casio.

'One minute an' countin'. Any longer, you get to spend Christmas sittin' gettin' wankered on yer own.'

There's a part of her that wants to say yes, but she doesn't dare give it air. He teases. He's not interested.

(Except that he's taking her to meet his mum.)

"Have another drink, Gene. It's going to be a long drive."

She clips her hair up, and picks a turtleneck in a dark green, over her nice jeans. That with the white leather coat and white boots seems nicely festive without being too trashy. White earrings complete the look.

"Right. Come on then"

He has another drink.

'Finally. If I knew it'd take this long, I wouldn' 'ave listened to you pleadin' to come with me.'

He takes the bag off her and firmly shuts the front door, heads down to the Quattro without looking back at her and without looking to see whether Luigi is noticing what's going on.

Yes, ten whole minutes after he knocked, they're finally getting on the road. Of course Luigi notices his two best customers leaving. And of course he doesn't say a word.

She takes her place in the passenger seat, still a bit on edge, but hopeful. She can't help but think he has an agenda, but just what it is, she isn't prepared to guess.

"How long's the drive, do you think?"

She is shot a Look, even as he's squealing away from the pavement.

'On quiet roads, which they will be tonight, I know it takes abou' three an' a half hours.'

No 'thinking' about it. And he drives like a loon anyway, so it might even be quicker as long as it doesn't start snowing or similar.

'Why, think you'll get bored?'

"Just curious. Seeing how long I'll have your undivided attention," she muses, settling back. "And wondering when you're going to tell me just what it is you're up to."

He's taken aback. And a touch hurt. Just a touch.

'Don' you always have my undivided attention? An' why would I be 'up to' anythin'?'

Her head rests back against the seat, and she turns to look at him. Her expression softens, and she just drinks in the sight of him for a long moment. (She's not staying. She can't stay.)

"Not like this," she murmurs, her tone telling him all he needs to know.

The night closes around the car, darkness broken only by a few street lights and the occasional Christmas display. He's rescued her, she thinks, watching his profile. Again.

She's giving him too much credit. He's not all that good at picking up on the nuances of women's vague statements.

'Afraid it's all gettin' a bit personal, Drake?'

He says it like an accusation, swinging through the cold streets like he owns them.

'Jus' thought you needed some cheerin' up.'

That comes out as a mutter, barely audible. And what he might have in mind for cheering her up is unclear.

Right. Her gaze doesn't move from his profile, but something shutters in her expression. Just a colleague. She can do that.

It doesn't feel like a professional relationship. It's gone beyond that, she knows. Hasn't it? She knows she's told him she's going home, a million times, and hasn't he said right back to her, not until he said so? And now she's here, at his request -- no, his demand-- heading deep into personal territory with him.

Perhaps this isn't the date she turned down. She turns away, looking out the window.

"I don't need cheering up, thanks."

Good company, a shoulder to lean on, a good hard shag in the back seat of the Quattro, yes. But she doesn't need coddling. Not from him.

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