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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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.

He tsks, roaring on to the M25 without stopping for the just-turned red light.

'You been mopin' aroun' like a bird on the rag f'the last two months. An' I know why.'

Beat.

'Well, I don' know why but I know it 'as to do with the Price's. Just thought you needed y'mind takin' off it for a bit.'

And he doesn't like seeing her miserable. Gene Hunt does what's good for his team. There's nothing he wouldn't do for any of them.

But not this. He wouldn't take Ray to spend Christmas with his mother. This is personal but she turned him down two months ago too and as far as he's concerned, she doesn't want anything from him, even if he does catch her looking at him sometimes.

She hums under her breath, eyes still focused on the blur of the roadside, drifting farther away from him. She couldn't stop it, because she'd only been looking for outside forces. She'd completely missed the most common cause of domestic murder, the inside force. Her father's careful concealed psychosis. She'd looked with child's eyes instead of using all her training and all her resources.

She'd failed.

If that was the only way she'd ever get home, then not only had she failed her parents, but she'd failed Molly as well.

She tucked her hands under her thighs, shoulders hunched up under her ears, chewing on her lip. She was beyond tears at this point. She was numb.

Gene looks over at her, wondering at her silence and how he's supposed to break it.

In the end, he stretches out his hand and clicks his fingers in front of her face.

'C'mon, snap out of it Bols. It's Christmas.'

Some festive cheer is in order. And it's obviously Alex's lucky day as Herb Alpert's Christmas album is slotted into the tape deck and starts to blare out.

Edited 2010-06-06 21:01 (UTC)

She blinks at him, like a sleep walker freshly awakened.

The quiet strains of a horn band turn quickly into something ridiculously cheesy with a quick step beat. The Tijuana Brass's version of Winter Wonderland.

"What's next, are we going to stop along the way for some wassail?" There may be the hint of a smile somewhere, lurking behind her eyes.

'No.'

His good mood of earlier has been tempered somewhat but he rallies. Or tries to.

'My car, my music.'

So there.

"As always," she says, not unkindly. They drive in silence for awhile, before she turns back to him.

She rests a hand on the back of his arm, just for a moment.

"Thanks. For thinking of me."

He never stops thinking of her. But he just grunts in response.

'S'alright.'

More silence, for a short time.

'Me mam'll be glad to 'ave someome to talk to, 'specially a bird. She don' much like hearin' about work, beyon' the basics.'

She smiles, shifts in her seat, stretching her long legs out, getting comfortable.

"Thanks for the head's up. My ex's mum, she used to ask all sorts of questions, and then make these -- faces when I answered her. I learned the hard way that she didn't really want to know the details."

'No mother likes 'earing about violence and drug dealin' and scum, I s'pose.'

He's never given it much thought.

By the miracle of Christmas, the M25 is nearly clear - the only time of the year it is - so it's not all that long before he's pulling on to the M1.

'Well, you'd know better'n me.'

"Know what?"

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