DCI Gene Hunt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_gene_genie) wrote2010-06-08 08:30 pm
the_gene_genie) wrote2010-06-08 08:30 pm
OOM: Pre-Dinner
At this time every year, Gene makes himself scarce from other people. As it used to be him, his mam and his missus this means, basically, he left them in the kitchen and parked himself in front of the TV with a can of beer and a bottle of whiskey.
This year? No different. Especially with the size of this particular hangover. His mum takes him a cup of tea and then returns to the kitchen, where Alex had volunteered to help prepare the veg.
'You really don' 'ave t'do that, luv. I don' mind, it's not often I get t'cook for 'im anymore.'
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"It's no trouble, really. If I wasn't cooking on Christmas, I wouldn't know what to do with myself."
She's trying not to think of Molly and Evan, and gingerbread houses and a living room floor strewn with wrapping paper and ribbons. She's here now, and determined to make the best of it.
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She may be fishing for information a little but she's also genuinely interested. And she puts a cup of tea down beside Alex's chopping board too, then gets on with making bread sauce.
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"Mmm, yes, well. Usually I'd be with my daughter and my godfather, but circumstances are such..." She lets the sentence trail off.
"It's all right. It seemed like Gene needed the company just as much as I did."
That doesn't come out as confident as she'd like.
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''e said he forced y'to come. I told him I didn' think you'd need all much persuadin'. An' if you'll forgive an old woman 'er presumption, luv, I don' think you're here jus' ou' of charity towards 'im.'
The last thing Gene would ever accept is charity of any sort, literal or emotional.
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"No, not charity." She looks up into Betty's face, chewing on her lower lip.
(Is this what it's like to have a mother? Are you supposed to feel like a little girl again, unsure of your own motivations, wanting to ask for guidance? Is this where she'll be for Molly in twenty five years time?)
"He didn't force me exactly. Didn't give me any head's up or choice in the matter either, but he didn't force me."
Alex turns back and grabs another hand full of potatoes, scrubbing them under the water, laying them out on the drainer with careful precise motions.
"It's -- we spend a lot of time together outside of work. At the pub, really. Restaurant. Luigi's. My flat is just up the stairs, and that's where the lads hang out when the day is done, so. It's not like I don't enjoy his company. I do." She tries to keep the tone light, but his mother's gaze is just as heavy as his can be.
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The old lady chuckles, leaves the sauce aside and goes to check if the jelly's set in the trifle base.
'Soun's like my boy. Always one f'just gettin' things done. Bu' you should keep in mind tha' he 'ardly ever does anythin' he don' want to. And never outside o'work. If he brough' you 'ere, it's 'cos he wants you 'ere.'
She starts making custard with the complete lack of care that comes with having done it her whole life, hands operating on automatic.
'I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable las' nigh' pet, jumpin' to the wrong conclusion. You mus' think I'm a daft ol' creature.'
She doesn't think she has got it wrong but she doesn't want to dig too far, too fast.
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Is that why she's still here? Because he wants her here? No. She had one thing to do and she couldn't accomplish it. Who knows if that was her only chance to get home? She'll have to keep looking for a way back.
She rinses the last potato and gathers the peel from the sink. That done, she rinses her hands and dries them.
"And you'll forgive me for saying, but you're Gene Hunt's mother, and that illustrious title comes with no small amount of respect. I'd have to be a right fool to think you had a daft bone in your body."
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'You are a psychologist.'
Custard takes a lot of careful stirring but not much brain power.
'Beat us ten eggs would ya, luv? Forks're over in tha' drawer. An' I coul' poin' out tha' I can only take half the credit f'makin' 'im so he could be like he is 'cos of his dad - but I won' insult your intelligence either.'
She adjusts the heat on the stove before adding,
'He's a good lad. No' withou' his faults bu' you don' need me t'tell you tha'. Reckon you'd be good fer him.'
She has no qualms about speaking her mind. She assumes Alex is grown up enough to hear it and/or tell her to mind her own if it puts her out.
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"I am good for him," she says, without hesitation. "We're a good team, when we listen to one another. He has great instincts about the job, but sometimes he can't keep his prejudice and his gut separate. And I'm a more empirical person. I want facts, evidence, I want each bit to make sense. And he forces me to let go of that sometimes, and take a leap of faith."
"It's hard, sometimes. We don't always end up on the same page, it's true -- and my god, I swear I've never had so many shouting matches with one person in my life. In that respect, he's -- he doesn't take a challenge well, not unless you're willing to stand up to him or be rolled right over."
It's clear she's thinking in a more professional capacity.
She can't bring herself to think of him any other way, not here in the light of day. Not even as she remembers being curled up with him on the couch last night.
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'Yes, luv. I know.'
A moment of silence and she takes the cream off the heat, holding her hand out for the egg bowl.
'His wife wasn' like tha'. Nice girl, mind. But she didn' challenge him.'
The implication, she feels, doesn't need to be spelled out.
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"You think...? Oh please."
The way she disposes of the egg shells, one would think they'd committed any number of heinous crimes.
"His ideal woman is someone who never speaks out of turn, who brings him tea and irons his shirts and and and... never once opens dares to have an opinion in her pretty, vacuous little head."
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'So you're a psychologist who...never mind.'
She's still chuckling to herself.
'When I came down this monrnin', noticed one o' the pans 'ad been used last nigh'. And Gene don' cook.'
Another pause while she starts whisking the eggs into the cream.
'Preten' you don' know 'im, luv, never worked with 'im. A file with his personality spelled ou' lands on yer desk. What sor' of woman would you recommend 'e be with? An' keep in min' tha' men 'ardly ever want what they think they want.'
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She never once thought of actually profiling Gene Hunt.
He's a mass of contradictions, a bull in a china shop, and a childlike tyrant. He's boorish, rude, racist, homophobic, misogynistic, and an alcoholic to boot. But she's seen him be amazingly deft at handling sensitive witnesses, and he commands the respect and really, the love of his entire team. Not a one of them wouldn't wade into battle behind him. They'd follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond.
Her hands go through the motions, taking a rag and wiping the counters down, tidying aimlessly.
"We had a bit of an -- early breakfast, when we got home from the pub," she says, her voice quiet now. "Didn't want to have too much of a hangover for Christmas dinner. And anyway, he was collecting me in lieu of actually eating supper before he came. It was only fair."
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Custard, done. She pours it over the trifle base, covers it with a tea towel and puts it back in the fridge to set. On to the cream.
'Explains why 'e was so pissed though. Normally takes a bit o' bad news to make 'im get tha' bad.'
She had heard the car when it pulled up and peeked out of the window on her way to the bathroom. Just long enough to see that Alex was driving and get the obvious implications of that.
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He wanders in with his empty teacup, casual in black trousers and light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar open loosely. The cup goes in the sink and he opens the fridge for another beer and also, to find some food to steal.
'You two shouldn' be allowed to talk when I'm not 'ere. You made any sausage rolls yet, mam?'
A nod to a tin on the side makes him close the fridge and with one in hand, he leans against the wall and takes a bite, eyeing Alex openly on the other side of the kitchen.
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"Maybe you should have thought of that before inviting me along then. Your mum was just telling me I should work up a profile of you."
Her eyes narrow at him, as if the wheels are already turning.
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''ow do you even know wha' a profile is?.'
'Television, luv.'
'...well, don' you dare, Bols. 'ow am I supposed to retain my devestatin' air of mystery if you go ruinin' it with psychiatry?'
He resolutely ignores his mother snorting with laughter (again) over the 'mystery' comment.
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(Real. He feels real.)
"And I wouldn't worry, if I were you. It is my clinical and professional opinion that you, Gene Hunt, utterly defy explanation."
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'See, mam? Defy explanation. You've got a magic son.'
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'I've go' a son tha's gettin' pissed again and is abou' to go finish whippin' that fer me, 'cos my arm's knackered.'
He stares at it and sighs.
'Alrigh', mam.'
'No' too stiff, mind. It's f'the trifle. Go on, shoo.'
He shoos. He knows better than to get underfoot when his mum's cooking a big dinner. He does cast a look at Alex though, to see whether she's laughing at him getting bossed around by an old woman.
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When he's gone, she leans out to see that he's ended up back in front of the telly. "I bought him a little gift, on the way up. In addition to the bottle I left on his desk at work. Can you keep an eye on him for a moment?"
She fishes in her pocket and comes up with the tie pin to show Betty.
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'He always wanted t'be a Sheriff. Ever since he were a lad.'
A beat of silence, then she looks up at Alex, snaps out of it.
'He'll love it, pet. s'very thoughtful of you. I 'ope the big lummox got you somethin' an' all.'
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Alex knows. Seeing the confirmation in his mum's eyes, though, makes her heart swell.
"I'm just going to go put it in his tie, and we can see if he even notices."
She gives Betty an impish little smile and steals off to see if Gene left his clothes hanging in the bathroom.
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And he sees her head up the stairs and takes the opportunity to wander back into the kitchen, flexing the ache out of his hand from some vigourous whipping.
'Here ya go, mam. What're you two talkin' abou'?'
'You, of course.'
He gives her a Look, which she steadfastly ignores.
'She's a good 'un, Gene. Don' let her ge' away.'
'S'not that simple, mam. I'm 'er boss.'
He speaks in a wearied tone, as though he knew this was coming - which he did, after their conversation this morning. And there are a thousand other reasons, of course, none of which he can articulate clearly.
'An' all she talks abou' is goin' 'ome.'
Betty looks away, takes a breath and sighs. She knows why that'd be a problem for him. He adds nothing else, just takes another beer from the fridge and cracks it open, then helps himself to another sausage roll.
'You'll ruin yer dinner.'
'Nah, I won'. Not wi' your cookin'.'
He gives her a quick peck on the cheek and wanders back out to the TV. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is on, as it is every year. He'll pretend to doze off in front of it in case Alex comes in and catches him but he's watching it really. An old family favourite. He remembers his brother loving it, when it came out, which is why he always watches it.
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