Rating: K+, just URST and alcoholism
Disclaimer: Not mine you know whose. And do I really have to say where the lyric is from?
Spoilers: Up to 2.04.
Pairing: Gene/Alex all the way
Summary: Sits between 2.03 and 2.04, sort of a post-ep for the first and pre-ep for the second. Gene tells Alex about his impending transfer. Things get touchy-feely.
-x-
…Wonder if you'll understand it's just the touch of your hand behind a closed door…
She closed the bathroom door, emerging freshly showered and dressed in striped pyjamas. Scuffing through the kitchen in woolly bed-socks, she found him where she'd left him. Slumped on her couch, signature boots propped on the coffee table and a vast collection of bottles spread out before him. His eyes stayed glued to the Western ensuing on the television screen as his hand lifted a glass of Merlot to his grimly pouted lips. Whenever Gene got morose, he reached for Merlot. When he was angry, which was most of the time, it was whiskey. When he was cheerful, a Manc bitter. He'd join her in a glass of champagne when feeling celebratory. But Merlot was always Gene Hunt's beverage of choice when something was weighing on his mind.
Moving round the coffee table, Alex dropped down on the couch. "What's bothering you?"
He barely moved a muscle, barely opened his mouth to mutter, "Leave it, Bols, m'not in the mood."
"I can see that." She tucked a leg under her, turning to face him. "That's why I asked."
He sipped his drink. "I don't wanna play tonight, okay?"
"Fine." She held up a hand, budged back on the couch. "No games. Just truth."
Gene heaved an irritated sigh and gestured at the television. "Would you mind? I am tryin' to watch somin' 'ere."
"On my telly," she pointed out, eyes wide, "in my flat, which you invited yourself into, bringing half of Luigi's wine cellar with you."
"Cos there's a Robert Mitchum movie on," he protested, voice rising then subsiding again, "Not cos I felt the need for some physiotherapy."
"Psychotherapy," she corrected, before adding dryly, "Neither of which I am qualified to perform."
"Good," he humphed definitively, refocusing on his film.
Alex rose, walked to the television and flicked it off, mid-gun-battle. Then she turned to face him with expectantly raised brows.
Gene finally met her eyes. "Y'can't force me to talk to you."
She made her way back to the couch. "They all eventually do."
"How'd you get the old man to pop then?" He leaned forward, poured her a glass of wine and handed it across. "Robin Whatshisface."
Alex sat, accepted the wine and sipped. "I touched him."
Gene stalled as he shifted back on the cushions. "What…figuratively speakin', or…?"
"No, I literally reached out and touched him." She scooted backwards, tucking both feet beneath her butt.
He sniffed, eyes giving her a brief onceover. "And that worked?"
She shrugged, passing her wineglass to her other hand and resting it on her knee. "He was a lonely man. I don't think he'd been touched by a woman, by anyone, not in years…" She paused, voice dropping lower as she went on, "We all need human contact. Even if it's as simple as…" she extended a hand, placed it over his, "this."
Gene went silent, eyes lowering to where her hand lay over his on his thigh. It didn't stroke him or grasp him, it just lay there. Still and light and warm. His jaw twitched and brow furrowed. And something passed across his face, an expression she couldn't read, a strange sadness that prompted her to ask in her softest voice:
"How long…since you were touched, Gene?" She added, with a slight smile that anticipated one of his customary retorts: "And I don't mean shoved up against a wall or slapped on the back. I'm talking about soft," she lifted her hand, grazed the back of her fingers against his cheek, "intimate," she reached out further, slid her palm to cup the cheek turned away from her, "caring…touch."
Gene didn't move for a moment, didn't speak. Then his face turned a little way towards her, half-permitting her touch. He let her stroke his cheek, let her fingertips skim his whiskers and her thumb trace the dint of his chin. He let it happen for a moment – then a moment longer. He swallowed roughly, let out a big breath. Then seized her wrist and pulled it down from his face.
"Mac's transferrin' me."
She blinked at him. "What?"
"Plymouth."
She blinked again, lips parting. "No."
He released her wrist and raised his glass, chucking the dregs of Merlot down his throat. "Say bye-bye, Bolly."
"No," she insisted, voice faltering and head shaking. "No, I mean no, that…can't happen. I need you here. I have to stay here and you, you're my—"
"Your what?" He turned his head to look at her.
She gazed at him a moment in shock, mouth working wordlessly. Then she watched him rise and head into her kitchen. She heard him flick on the light and open the fridge, selecting a beer and pulling the tab. She gathered herself and rose, following him and facing him across the chilly tile.
"We'll fight it," she told him with a stoic nod. "We'll move on Mac, take him down before he can even think about signing off on a transfer."
Gene just looked at her. He took several gulps of ale, sucking the bitter taste from his teeth and leaning back on the counter.
She took a step closer. "Gene…?"
His head lifted, his mouth shrugged in some approximation of an assuring smile. "Oright, Bolly."
He moved to head back to the couch but she took another step, not blocking but impeding his path. "Promise me," she murmured, eyes intent on his. "Promise me you're not going to leave me here alone."
Gene looked down at his beer then injected some levity into his tone as he answered, "S'that sound like something the Gene Genie'd do?" He slipped past her, turned the television back on then sank down on the couch with a weighty sigh.
Alex trailed behind him, still somewhat thrown. She stood opposite the couch, the coffee table between them. Behind her back, arrows wizzed and bullets pelted. A stagecoach rattled across a barren brown landscape. Her eyes remained fixed on her boss. Gene glanced up at her as he refilled her barely touched wine.
"Quit frowning, Bols, can't have that pretty face o' yours sproutin' frown-lines before y'time. Can we?"
He lifted the glass, offered it to her as if was a question. She nodded once and took it, sipping deeply as she returned to the couch. She sat beside him, this time facing the television.
"We'll be fine," she told him, glancing into her wineglass then sideways at him. "Everything…it'll all work out."
Gene nodded, "'Course we will." He gave her knee a pat, returning his attention to his film and adding in a lower voice, "'Course it will…"
His hand didn't immediately retract and she kept still, unwilling to give it any such hint. After a while, it relaxed there, his palm cupping her leg and one finger occasionally drawing pensive patterns on her inner thigh. The movement, minute though it was, made her heart pulse in her chest, restoring the blood to her body after the revelation of his possible departure momentarily halted her whole being. She'd grown reliant on him, more than she'd realised. And that was bad. At least, something inside her told her it was bad, that being pulled towards Gene Hunt meant being pulled away from someone else. Someone she couldn't always remember, someone who hardly ever visited anymore. The only person who came to her flat now, the only person ever in it apart from her was right there beside her.
So she let his hand rest on her knee. And as the night wore on, as wine and fatigue made her eyelids droop, as the Robert Mitchum movie faded into a John Wayne movie of similar theme, she let her head fall onto the shoulder of the one man who was always by her side.
-x-
A shirt landed on his chest. His eyes cracked open.
"Rise and shine."
The early morning light made a halo round her head. She was already dressed, looking as immaculate and glamorous as ever. Shame. He kinda missed the ready-for-bedtime look she'd been sporting the previous night. He bet not many folks were lucky enough to witness the stripped down version of Alex Drake. By which he meant, stripped of style, of frills, of that stuff she slapped on her face like it was some sort of primitive war-paint. Ordinarily, he preferred never to see a bird without those feminine frills, but in Drake's case, he'd make an exception. In her case, he didn't experience unease or repulsion. His reaction was more like fascination. Attraction. And an odd sort of pull to protect.
Gene shifted his head on the pillow, his temples throbbing with a warning of his inevitable hangover. Goddamn cheap plonk. Alex was already chattering, moving about the room, collecting spent bottles and dumping them in a bin, making more of a racket than was necessary. Every single chink was like a stab to the brain. She stopped all of a sudden and looked down at his prostrate form.
"Come on. We've got work to do. I say we break into Mac's office tonight and plant bugs in every orifice we can bloody-well find."
He shucked his blankets and swayed to his feet, trousers sagging round his hips. "Oright, hold your horses, will y'? Lemme at least get me pants on…"
Alex averted her eyes as he zipped himself up, fastened his belt. "There's um, coffee in the carafe," she said, pointing towards the kitchen then the bathroom. "And…razors and…shaving cream in the bathroom."
"Right." Gene straightened himself, running a hand over his mussed hair and stubbled jaw. "Right…" he said again, socked feet heading for the bathroom. He doubled back a moment later only to find that Alex had anticipated his next move. She'd grabbed the fresh shirt from the couch and now threw it in his direction. It hit his chest, his reflexes just alert enough to catch it. "Good." He nodded, turned in a circle on the spot, "Great," and proceeded to the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, he met her at the door. Freshly shaved, his wrinkled shirt had been replaced by the fresh one. His suit jacket and tie were back in place, and his boots back on his feet. Alex pulled a leather satchel from a hook by the door and slung it over her shoulder, then took a long cardigan from another hook, folding it over her arm. He side-stepped his way past her, reaching for the door.
"Just a minute," she murmured, trapping him in the narrow little corridor. "You, ah…You've nicked yourself." She licked a thumb and reached out, swiping it against his cheek.
He stopped, straightened. And let her do it, let her touch him, fix him. Just like he'd let her touch him, fix him – or undo him – the night before. In the dim, flickering light from the television with spirits raging through his bloodstream, even a simple touch had seemed dangerous. Undoing. Unnerving. In the cold light of day, it seemed…less so. This time, he was able to look at her, able to say with a little lilt in his tone:
"One o' the hazards of single life. Eh, Alex? No one to check you're decent before facin' the world."
Alex smiled at him. She pressed fingers to his chin and turned his face one way then the other, inspecting his no doubt haggard appearance. "Well, you're decent now."
He sucked in a breath and reached for the door. "As I'll ever be." Holding it open, he waved a hand to usher her out. "After you, my fine accessory in intra-office espionage."
Her smile turned into a chuckle and her head ducked down as she slipped out the door.
-x-
Downstairs, Luigi was at his reception desk, preparing for yet another day and relishing the rare morning quiet. He hummed as he perused the evening's bookings, only pausing when a cheerful, familiar voice sang out:
"Good morning, Luigi."
He looked up, smile wide. "Buongiorno, Signorina—" But he stopped when he saw another figure joining his upstairs tenant in the small vestibule.
Gene Hunt took his long, black coat from the coat-rack and shrugged it on. "Mornin', Luigi," he muttered with much less cheer.
Luigi emitted a polite smile that only hinted at his glee. "Signor Hunt," he gave a nod, watched him open and hold the door. "A very good morning to you both..." Resuming his jaunty hum, Luigi craned his neck to watch the hand of the crabby old DCI land on the back of his beautiful lady colleague as together they ascended the steps, the restaurant door swinging shut behind them.
END.