DCI Gene Hunt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_gene_genie) wrote2010-06-06 12:27 am
the_gene_genie) wrote2010-06-06 12:27 am
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 gets out as well, stretching her arms over her head. It's chill enough she wished she'd brought a scarf. Doesn't matter. The cold air feels good, wakes her up a bit. The trip so far as seemed a bit of a dream.
She wanders over to the little store front, pokes around through the aisles at all the last minute gift ideas. He's busy paying for and pumping the petrol, so she takes her time and when she's found something she likes, she pays for it and returns to the car, the little paper bag tucked in her pocket.
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He hands her tea; probably disgusting but at least its hot. He drinks half his hip flask before starting on his tea, in no hurry to start the car suddenly. A weariness has stolen over him and he scrubs at his eyes, hating this half-way world between home and work.
'Y'ever been to Manchester before?'
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"Cheese and tomato." It's better than taking her chances with egg mayo. She takes the packet from him, unwrapping it with precise little gestures.
"A few times, actually. Mostly for work. Seminars and the like. You grew up there, didn't you?" She takes a cautious nibble of the sandwich. It's a testament to how hungry she is that it actually tastes not half bad.
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He starts the car and hits the accelerator all the way down the slip road, nearly at 70 even before shooting out back onto the motorway.
'You liked it? When you visited?'
This sounds like a casual question.
It is not.
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"It was all right, I suppose. All I ever saw was the inside of hotel rooms and conference halls."
The North is somewhat off the map for her, not unlike Gene himself. Undiscovered country.
"Going to show me all the romantic little corners of the county, hmm?" She cocks an eyebrow at him, a playful tease. Trying to lighten his spirits now.
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'I'm a copper, wha' romantic bits of the place would I know?'
And...he's not that romantic anyway. He could show her the best places to park with a girl (or prozzie), the best pubs, the best snooker clubs, his favourite walk down to Maine Road. Best greasy spoons, best chip shop.
Things like best restaurant would be hearsay only, for the most part.
'My idea of romance an' yours are prob'ly a bit different anyway.'
His favourite places would probably look like a total shithole to anyone else. But they're so wrapped up in memories for him, they're beautiful in his mind.
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"Oh I dunno. There's been times when I rather thought Luigi's was romantic, in it's own way." She washes down a bite of sandwich with tea. "So what's your idea of romantic?"
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Coming home and finding the wife had fetched him in a cold beer to have with his in-the-oven dinner even though it was her bridge night and he wouldn't see her until the morning. Remembering their anniversary, not because she'd been hinting but because he remembered it and brought her burnt toast and over-stewed tea in bed every year. Taking her out for a dance on her birthday, evenings spent sitting quietly, him drinking and her pottering about, Roger Whitaker on the radio.
He doesn't think about it. He just knows that those things, at home, in Manchester, were solid. That was home. He knows there were girls and one night stands and all-night boozing sessions, far too much work and football and fists and laughing with your mates and team down the pub. But if he thinks about romance, he thinks about simple, quiet, care.
Which is not what he thinks Alex would want to hear - and is more than he'd be willing to admit, even if he could find the words - so he dodges the question.
'I s'pose yours is all walkin' on the beach an' soppy stuff like that.'
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"Not necessarily. A nice meal spent talking quietly. A nice quiet drive along a scenic route, stopping for a walk in the snow."
She'd not think his real answer was far from the truth, but she's thinking more of romance at the beginning of a relationship, not after it's well-established.
"I suppose it's really more about the company than the setting."
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He's wondered to himself, sometimes, if taking her somewhere new would have helped. When he thinks about how it turned out, he feels embarrassed about putting himself out there, asking to come upstairs and hearing her say no. But he also knows he'd be angry at himself if he hadn't asked, so he's not sorry he did.
'S'pose so. Everyone's soppy when they first meet someone they wan' to shag.'
Which is why finding romance is more important after you've been with someone for years on end and seen them at their worst.
'An' we 'ad a meal,' he adds, suddenly, after a moment of silence. And leaves it hanging there, unsure of what to stick on the end.
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"That was -- hardly... I mean, the timing was all wrong." She sounds defensive she knows, and she hates it. That was the night before the Prices were murdered. "We didn't really get away, did we? Not like -- this."
She doesn't know what she's suggesting, but suddenly, she doesn't want that door closed.
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The only thing he can think of why she turned him down was that she was just marking time with him before she left as she kept saying she was going to do.
'...'f you say so,' he mutters, and says nothing about this.
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And his response only frustrates her further.
How many times has he knocked her back? How many times has he deliberately taken the invitation as a meaningless flirtation?
She turns back to the window, folding the rest of her sandwich back up.
"Don't give up on me, Gene. I still need you."
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'Brough' you 'ere, didn' I?' he says quietly, after a moment.
He'll never give up on her. Any of them, but especially her.
...and this mood has got quite dark enough. It's bloody Christmas and he's going home and is going to have a good time.
'So cheer up, Bols! Couple o'nights in the paradise of Manchester with me mam's cookin' in yer, you'll be right as rain.'
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He's right. It's Christmas. Stiff upper lip and all that rot.
She fiddles with the tape player, finds the eject button and flips it over. Herb Alpert soon does his level best to lift her spirits again.
"Anything left in that flask of yours?"
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He grins and hands it over, pulling his spare - one of them anyway - from another pocket and starting in on it himself.
Never too early to get into the Christmas spirit and there's still a long drive ahead of them.
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