the_gene_genie | OOM: New Years Eve

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OOM: New Years Eve

The female strippers had arrived first and very nice they were too, to Gene's drunken eyes. In the state he's in he can ignore the cheap clothes and tarty makeup, ignore the way they chew gum and talk with some of the strongest Cockney accents he's ever heard. But it's all going well for the first five minutes, until the male strippers arrive.

Gene's never heard of the Chippendales before but he's not likely to forget them. All of them over six foot, bronzed and beefy and rippling muscle; every bird in the room perks up (including the cheap strippers) and every bloke in the room takes instant umbrage. Luigi looks from one group to the other, sees the faces of the coppers and immediately begins to panic. There are a few shouts as the guys start to do their thing; the girls take it as a challenge and start on their routine. The predominantly male audience cheers them on, the volume from the women increases...and so it goes. The place is a zoo and Gene's scowling. Not that he has anything against a good scrap but this is New Year's Eve and his local and who's fault is this anyway?

He pushes his way through the room to find her, putting his glass down on the bar next to her with more force than is strictly necessary.

''appy now?'

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Alex is smirking like the Devil himself. She's nowhere near sober, her hair a little tousled from the dancing, a flush of colour in her cheeks.

"Oh don't even start. You're the one who insisted on -- oh look, they really are bigger than your head, good Lord. That girl'll be lucky if she doesn't give herself a black eye. Shouldn't you be over there with the lads, drooling and waving them on?"

'I insisted on women because, in case you 'adn't noticed, this room is full of men.'

He casts his eyes around the place, wondering why it's bothering him so much.

'But you 'ad to go an' stick y'beak in and now we'll be lucky if the whole place doesn' go up before midnight hits. This is me local, Bolly, an' I don' wan' it ruined just 'cos you 'ad to prove a point.'

Edited 2010-06-17 17:36 (UTC)

"Oh full of men is it. Except for her, and her, and her. Is it our fault that your lads can't handle a little good clean competition?"

Alex turns her head as she talks, taking in the sight of one of the Chippendales, her eyebrows going up appreciatively.

"Come on, Gene. It's a party! You're supposed to be having fun!"

He doesn't know why he isn't having fun, all of a sudden. He was looking forward to this! Even if he hadn't planned it. But now he's suddenly annoyed at the sight of all this melee, and even more so at her look at the male slag shaking his perfect chest around over there.

'I am 'aving fun. But if this kicks off, I'm holdin' you responsible.'

He walks away to go and start having fun, face as black as thunder...right up to the moment where Ray pushes a half-clad stripper in his direction and tells her to entertain the Guv. Which she does, easing him into a chair so she can start a lap dance.

The evening is looking up again all of a sudden and he pushes his irritation at Alex away for the time being.

Alex's throat clenches as she watches the sight, and it's plain for everyone in the room to see the savage look in her eye. He's putting his hands all over that skank and all of a sudden, this isn't fun any more. (Maybe she did die in the hull of that barge. Maybe this is Hell.)

She turns away, unable to watch for even a second longer, trying to get into the swing of things. It's impossible, with this cold chunk of lead in her stomach now, but she plasters a smile on her face anyway. Shaz gives her a look and she waves her off.

One of the male strippers sees her pulling away and pounces on her, dragging her back into the centre of the room, trying his best to get her to dance with him. She's blushing furiously, pulling her hands away from him, and eventually just pushing him away all together. She pushes through the crowd and makes a break for the stairs.

...and now things have kicked off, because as she heads for the stairs, Gene is punching that Chippendale in the goddamn face. A cheer goes up from the squad, there are a few surprised squeals from the female 'dancers' - none more so than from the one who got unceremoniously dumped onto the floor off his lap - and some of the lads are holding back the unfortunate bloke's mates.

He ignores it all. He's following her, shaking his hand out vaguely.

'Bols!'

Half way up the stairs, she turns at the sound of the ruckus, and sees him coming up the stairs.

"What on earth -- " She sees him shaking out his hand and her eyes go wide. "Oh for fuck's sake, did you just hit that man?"

'I won' have some tart molestin' a member of my team.'

Because that's the reason.

Yeah.

To be honest, he's more startled that she just swore like that. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to his ears and then he's blinking at her; and then, wondering if she's angry.

'...you alright?'

"I'm fine, Gene."

She's angry all right. She's furious. And right up in his face, chin jutted out, eyes flashing.

"And much like that tart that was molesting you, it's his job. That's why we hired them."

Well, if she's going to be like that about it.

He stands his ground, head drawn back and looking down his nose at her, not giving an inch.

'An' that'd be fine if you looked like you wanted to, but when you're sayin' no an' pushin' him away and he won' give up, what'd you expect me t'do?'

She's so ungrateful.

Her brow furrows. She sucks in a lungful of air and just vibrates in place for a moment. She turns away and heads up the stairs, whirling on him as he follows her, her fingertip sharp in his chest.

"I'm a police officer, Gene. You think I can't take care of myself? That I need you to rush in and rescue me? Bloody hell, why don't you just go back down there and have that that that skank whore rub her fake tits all over your face. I'm sure you'll feel much better. Happy Fucking New Year's."

She's fumbling for her keys now, cursing a blue streak when she drops them.

His mouth is a thin, furious line, eyes flashing with anger and confusion. He's definitely a bit more sober now though.

'Seein' as you've needed me to rescue your bony arse more than once in the past few months, excuse me if I don' automatically assume tha' you're alright. If you reckon you can take care of yourself, you've got a bloody funny way of showin' it.'

He takes a step back and lets her retrieve the keys herself.

'But seein' as I'm so unnecessary 'ere, I think I will jus' go back down to that bird. She migh' be cheap but at leas she isn'...'

He trails off, unsure of how to finish that. It doesn't matter. He turns away, cursing himself for even bothering to try.

She snatches up her keys, thoughts of the vault flashing through her mind, thoughts of the warmth of his hands on her ice cold skin after he'd rescued her from the Kale's meat locker.

"Isn't what? Go on, say it, Gene. 'A bitter, twisted, toffee-nosed, clenched arsed bitch' like me? At least have the decency to say it to my face instead of whinging about me behind my back."

Maybe if she can drive him away, it'll be easier, for both of them.

Her eyes take on a sheen, and she's shaking too bad to get the key in the lock.

The merest hint that he might not have the guts to say things to her face has him whirling around in a split-second.

'I don' need t'say it now, do I? You jus' did it for me, jus' like you decide how everythin' is before givin' anyone else a chance to 'ave their say.'

He doesn't really think she's bitter. Twisted, maybe. All the rest of it, right now, yes.

'You don't listen, Alex. An' you won't let me help you and then get angry and swear like a whore when I try an' step in. Why the 'ell should I bother?'

She finally gets the door unlocked and disappears into her flat, trying to slam the door behind her. Which is rich, really, as she still yelling at him as she goes.

"Oh and now my language isn't suitable for you? And I don't 'listen'." She throws up her fingers around the word, knowing it riles him

"You really want to help me, Gene? Quit trying to put me on a pedestal, or make me into something I'm not. I can and I will fucking swear if I like! And I know how everything is because it's my bleeding hallucination!"

She loses it a little on that last bit, fists clenched at her sides, skin flushed, rage and anguish making her whole body shake.

He sticks his foot in the door without even thinking about it. Perhaps the sensible thing would have just been to let her go but reflex stops him; reflex and anger.

'Who the 'ells tryin' t'put you on a pedestal? I'm not tryin' to make you be anythin', I'm tryin' to understand why you jus'. Won't. Stop. Fightin' me!'

The banter at work he can take, he thrives on it. But the blatant insubordination, the in-the-face insults, the way she tells him she wants him to be there and then shoves him away again, the flirting and then the rejection...he doesn't know whether he's coming or going and it's getting to the point where he's sick of it.

She's talked about hallucinations before, many times. So much bollocks she comes out with. He's drunk and furious and does the first thing that springs to mind, something she did a long time ago. He reaches forwards and grabs one of those fists, pulls it hard over his heart.

'Beatin', remember?'

He doesn't know whether he's trying to tell her he's real or just trying to prove he has a heart, one that she stamps all over nearly every time she opens her mouth, these days.

Every line of her body is tense, and she does fight him until he puts his hand over hers.

And in that moment, she stills.

That simple touch is like throwing a hood over a fighting cock's eyes. Her eyes close, and she breathes through her mouth, breathes in the scent of cigarettes and booze, the faint hint of cheap perfume and his aftershave.

Her fist uncurls slowly, until her palm is pressed flat against his chest, and she draws closer to him. Eyes still shut, her head tilts, as if she's listening, as if she could hear each discrete beat of his heart. He feels more real to her than anything else in this mad house. He feels like home.

"Start as we mean to go on," she breathes.

He can feel the pressure of her palm spread out on his chest as her fist uncurls, feel the way she stills as her eyes close, hyper-aware of how close she gets when she steps in. But he doesn't move, not a muscle.

'I reckon we already 'ave.'

She told him at Christmas nothing was going to change. And nothing has changed, they're still fighting like the proverbial cat and dog. He's tired of it, they never get anywhere.

But he still doesn't move. If he steps back now, she'll be gone; if he moves closer like she did, he'll just have to listen to another bullshit reason why he's not good enough. And he's too drunk to make any sensible decisions anyay.

"No, not yet. It's not begun yet. We have time."

She looks up at him, her other hand reaching out to grasp his shirt. Her eyes are wide and dark, and she looks at him like he's the only real thing in her world. It's been weeks since she's heard anything of Molly, weeks of just trying to hold on until she figures out just what it is she's supposed to be doing. She's perpetually caught in his gravity well, and -- that's not a bad thing, she knows.

"Please. I don't want it to be like this between us. I miss my -- I need you." The words are spilling out of her mouth before she can catch them. And they're true, she knows.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, the world starting to swim. As if from a great distance, he can hear shouts and laughter from downstairs, music again, so maybe a scrap has been averted. But it's quiet up here and she's hanging on to him again; when he looks down, he finds he can't pull away from her eyes.

'I'm always where I'm needed,' he murmurs, without thinking about it.

'But you keep telling me you don' need me. You did it five minutes ago. You can' keep...'

He shuts his eyes and stops talking. He can't tell her that she can't keep coming to him. He wants her to. He doesn't want her to stop. He just doesn't want her to then start yelling at him to leave her alone, that she can do it all herself.

'...I'm drunk. We should go back down.'

"Please don't." The words come out in a breathless rush, and her grip on his shirt front tightens. She has him here alone. She doesn't want to give him back to the world just yet. Her hand comes up briefly to touch his cheek, to make him look at her again. She meets his gaze, all pride set aside.

Her hands smooth the front of his shirt, his lapels, and eventually she reaches down and takes his hands in hers. There's an odd reverence to her touch.

"I have champagne."

'I know. I gave it to you.'

She's gone from shouting at him and shaking with rage, to touching him and whispering and inviting him in, all in the space of about three minutes. This is what he finds so hard to understand. He knows women are unpredictable but this is extreme by anyone's standards.

'An' I'm not sure we've got anythin' to celebrate.'

He wants to go in. He likes it when she does this. But since last week, when she told him he had to accept things the way they were, he's out of hope and he's not fond of the idea of torturing himself further in there.

He reeled her back in by putting her hand on his chest. He brought her in close by making her touch him. He anchors her to this world. He soothes her rage and her fear. Evan is sweet, but ultimately, distant. He always has been. Her mother was never the most affectionate at the best of times. And her father, well, she can't ever think of him the same way again.

She literally has no one but him. And he's good for her. She knows that as surely as she knows she can't stay. He makes her think, he challenges her, he's there for her when she stumbles.

"Truce," she murmurs, looking down at his hands in hers. "I've been so wrapped up fighting my own problems, sometimes I forget -- you're not the enemy."

He smiles without humour; just barely and it's gone in an instant.

'I'll remind you of that next time you do somethin' like this.'

He doesn't pull his hands back and doesn't agree to the truce. Not yet. He's half afraid he will and then she'll smile and knee him in the bollocks.

'An' I told you before, I can 'elp. If you'll let me.'

Her brow knits for a moment in frustration. How can she explain this and make him understand?

She doesn't speak for a long moment, her thumbs drawing idle circles on the backs of his hands.

"If there was anyway that I could, don't you think that I would? You think I want to fight this all alone? No, I have to. But it doesn't change the... it doesn't change..."

The words crowd behind her teeth and she blinks rapidly.

'...what? What doesn' it change?'

He wants to hear her say it, whatever it is. Even if it's something he doesn't want to hear. He's tired of having to guess and his blue eyes are searching her face, travelling over her lips, hoping for some bloody answers. She's close and caressing his hands; he knows the sensible thing would be to step back. He knows that she'll stand there and say things and then go inside, leaving him wanting; problem is, it feels nice right here in this moment and he doesn't want to let it go yet.

Someone down below shouts that there's just ten or so minutes left to midnight, everyone should grab a glass to toast.

She's drunk and tired, and worn thin from the fight. But she meets that gaze, and for a moment, she lets herself want him.

She doesn't let him go, just backs into the flat, pulling him along with her, into the long shadows cast by the street light outside her window.

He couldn't stop himself following if he wanted to. Maybe he'll blame it on the alcohol later but he just knows that he's been wanting her for months and now she's leading him into her flat by the hands.

Just for a bit, he tells himself. Promises himself he'll leave if it gets weird. But for now, he can try it and see what happens.

She keeps one hand in his, reaching past to close the door behind him. She doesn't bother turning on a light. The kitchen is just a few steps away, and there's a dim glow from the range that's enough for now. The bottle of Bollinger's is in the middle of her table.

"Champers, straight from the bottle," she says, remembering back to one of the first cases they worked together. Her voice is low, like she doesn't want to break the spell.

"Start as we mean to go on," she repeats, interlacing her fingers with his, drawing him close, almost as if she's afraid he'll change his mind.

He swallows and looks away. This is a bad idea. This is such a very massive, awful, terrible idea that he can't get his head around the magnitude of it and ends up doing nothing. His fingers tighten around hers a little bit, then loosen, as if testing to see if she'll drop them.

'We're drunk, Bolly,' he says, quietly.

And nothing has changed.

She doesn't. No, she squeezes back, smiling, not taking his words the way he means. "Bit of a given, that."

She's seen him be bashful before, and while it's adorable, she doesn't want him to be uncomfortable around her. Not now, not ever.

"Here. Hold the bottle." She picks it up and puts it in his free hand, using hers to peel off the foil and starting on the wire.

He is. He can't help it. And it's ridiculous because it's her, her and him. They've been dancing around this for so long and it's not like he doesn't know what to do with a woman. It's just so complicated.

He holds the bottle and tries to think of a way to break the tension, even if he's the only one that's feeling it.

'Hurry up. Be next New Year before we ge' a drink at this rate.'

The noise of the crowd down below is ramping up, and they can hear someone shout the one minute warning.

She still doesn't let go of his hand, wriggling a bit to get the wire off. "Okay, hold it steady." Her tongue sticks out between her lips, just a little, as she concentrates. "Bollocks, that's not going to work -- here."

She puts his hand on her hip. "Stay."

That gives her two hands free, and careful to point it away from anything breakable, she uses her thumbs to pop the cork, trusting him keep a grasp on the bottle.

The crowd down below starts the final countdown. Ten! Nine!

It fizzes out over his hand and if that gives him flashbacks to...well. Probably best not to think about that at this moment, when his hand is on her hip and he's desperately trying to remember all the ten thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea, why it can't happen. Not like this. There's something so wrong about it, on a fundamental level that he can't explain. And he doesn't want to explain it because then he'll have no choice but to back away.

He offers the bottle up to her as the crowd hit six!

'You first.'

Her hand covers his and she puts her mouth to the bottle, drinking a swallow or two, letting it run over her chin.

Five! Four!

"Quick, now you."

It's just a moment in time. A moment she wants to spend with him. Even if it is wrong, and there are so many reasons why she shouldn't be here, she doesn't care. She wants this, just this.

He never needs a second invitation to drink but doesn't have much and doesn't make a mess.

Three! Two!

He eyes her in the dark, wondering if she knows how often he's dreamed about being in a situation like this with her. Well, almost like this. The dreams usually involve more ripping off of clothes, and desks. But she's in them.

One!

'Happy New Year, Bols.'

She sets the bottle down and takes his face between her hands, looking into his eyes for a moment before drawing him down. Her words feather against the side of his mouth.

"Happy New Year, Gene."

This kiss is nothing like the peck he got under the mistletoe. It is not chaste. It is soft and insistent, though somewhat hesitant, as if her confidence is failing her at the last moment. As if she's waiting for his answer to her question.

He knew it was coming and still, he's surprised. For the briefest of seconds he doesn't kiss her back, his brain yelling at him to stop this now before it's too late. But her lips are soft and he's wanted this; his eyes fall closed against his better judgement and he gives in, kisses her back, just as soft, just as insistent, his hands resting lightly on her hips.

He reciprocates and she feels as if the whole world has tipped slightly. She closes her eyes and melts against him, her hands slipping around his neck, fingertips weaving in his hair. She tastes champagne and whiskey and him. (He feels real.)

Just another moment, God please. In all the rest of this madness, please, just one more sweet moment here, with him.

For one minute, he lets himself go. For one minute, he slides his arms around her waist and pulls her against him, kisses her properly, feels what it'd be like to be able to hold her close and do this all the time.

And then he pulls away. Not abruptly but inexorably. He doesn't want to but knows that if he doesn't now, he never will. His hand finds the champagne bottle and he takes a drink, not looking at her and not speaking.

For one minute, anything seems possible. For one minute, he's holding her and kissing her and nothing else matters. But it could never last.

He pulls away and the madness reasserts itself with a vengeance. She doesn't have Molly, she couldn't save her parents, and she can't have him. Why should she have ever hoped differently?

She looks away too, not wanting him to see her face, not wanting him to see how scared and alone she really feels. She steps away, into the dimness of the kitchen, one hand over her lips, eyes closed, sealing that one sweet moment into her memory.

He's right. She knows it. She scrubs at her eyes and takes a deep breath. (This is her fight. Hers, alone.)

She fumbles in the cupboard for glasses, and returns, sitting down at the table and letting him pour her a glass.

Maybe that's the best way to play it. A simple New Year's kiss, nothing more.

Only that's stupid because they both know it's more than that. Gene looks at the floor, then sighs in exasperation and runs his hand over his forehead, through his hair.

'Should really go and check they 'aven't killed each other,' he mumbles, right before sitting down at the table opposite her.

He'll check on them later, when he goes down to drink himself into oblivion.

There's a voice speaking from far away, and it sounds reasonable and rational. Comfortable even. It takes a moment before she realises it's hers

"They'll be fine for another little bit."

She leans on her elbows on the table and takes a long drink of champagne.

"I never did get to say thank you, for the Bolly. And the scarf." She wants to ask if he likes that colour blue. It's not her place to ask.

He waves it off with a vague gesture and starts fiddling with his glass. He's not all that good at being thanked, not when it's genuine.

He doesn't know what to say, so says nothing.

She watches him across the table, a soft smile on her features.

"This war I'm waging, in my head. This -- thing I have to do on my own. It doesn't change -- how I feel about you. You need to know, nothing will ever change that."

He sighs again, then flicks his eyes up to meet hers.

'Is tha' supposed to make it better?'

It makes it worse. That they could have what they both want but for some reason he's not allowed to know, they're denied it.

He drains his glass and stands up.

'It won' happen again, Alex. An' I don' wan' t'talk about it again, either. Alright?'

He doesn't sound angry. Just firm and detached. He can't hear this again - and with any luck, he wont remember of it anyway. He fully intends to walk downstairs and drink Luigi's bar dry.

"Right." The word is nothing more than a breath, sharp and short. She looks away again. This is so ludicrous. How did she ever fall this far down the rabbit hole?

She doesn't stand. Doesn't know if she can.

"Goodnight, then."

Her hand reaches out for the bottle and she fills her glass, all the way to the brim.

He hesitates for just half a second, then he's moving for the door.

'Night, Bols.'

He doesn't wish her a Happy New Year. It'd seem cold. He just goes downstairs, fends off the inevitable jokes and starts in on the Scotch like a man possessed.

He gets the feeling 1982 is going to be a hard one.

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OOM: New Years Eve

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