Pissed at 3am.
Pissed at 3am, Alex stumbled up the stairs supported by an equally drunk Gene Hunt. Having spent the whole evening bantering about various subjects with Gene, Alex had also whiled the whole night away calling for bottle after bottle of Luigi's house rubbish in an attempt to escape for a little while the reality of missing her daughter and figuring out the fustrating Operation Rose.
They both staggered into the living room where Gene sat down on the sofa, and Alex, as intoxicated as she was, promptly tripped over his feet and fell into his lap. Gene certainly did not mind, and in fact tightened his grip on her when she attempted to get up.
'Unbreakable, Bols. That's what we are. Un-bloody-breakable.'
Gene suddenly looked down at her and lowered his head towards hers. Her breath began to quicken but just before his lips touched hers, he stopped.
'Alex, are you sure? Are you su-..'
He was cut off by her pulling his tie down and pushing her lips against his, into a kiss which quickly deepened in passion. Alex smoothed her hands up and down Gene's back and he groaned into her mouth, his own hands running through her hair. Suddenly, it all became too much and Gene pulled back; tracing circles with the pad of his thumb on her wrist and palm, he slightly smiled at her breathlessness.
'How now Bols, you speechless? It seems this is my lucky day…'
Alex regained her powers of speech, only to whisper huskily three words which made Gene's stomach flip.
'I want you.'
Gene stood, picking her up and cradled her in his arms.
'I know it's hard to resist the charms of the Gene Genie, but you are pissed and I am pissed, and so it's time for bed for you.'
He began to walk gingerly towards the bedroom and as he got closer to it, Alex's insistence that she wasn't drunk began to quieten, and her eyelids began to droop as her head lolled against Gene's shoulder. He deposited her on the bed, and after removing her leggings (and drinking in the sight of her bare, slender legs), he tucked her into the bed. Standing there quietly, he looked at the woman in front of him. His Bols. Not Evan White's. Not some Thatcherite wanker's. Not Boris Johnson's. His, beautiful, stubborn, pain in the proverbial arse, DI Lady Bols.
And he loved her.
However much he hid it from her and himself.
He sighed and turned to leave when a feeble mumble came from the bed.
'Stay.'
After a moment, he took off his jacket and tie, and crawled into the bed behind her. 'Sweet Jesus have mercy...' he thought, as she scooted into him. He placed his arms around her, and as her breathing evened out, he marvelled at how perfectly they fitted together.