A/N Little G/A drabble, undoubtedly inspired by all the alcohol I consumed. And the complete frustration of knowing that even though series two is currently being filmed, it'll be months before there's any new episodes...
It (Almost) Happened One Night
Gene threw his keys forcefully onto his desk, the bitter air of anger and disappointment that had followed him all the way into the station showing no signs of abating. If he paused to think about the source of that anger he'd have to acknowledge that it lay elsewhere, that it had very little to do with failing to make an arrest today. But he didn't. Heading to his right he sought out the bottle he kept stashed there, along with a glass, and headed for his chair. It was only as he sat down, bottle unscrewed and the neck poised above the rim of the glass, that he realised he'd left his office door open. And that Alex was heading straight for him.
"It's all your fault anyway," Alex shouted loudly, not caring if the rest of CID heard or not. The fact Gene had stormed off into the office ahead of her - after a rather silent and strained drive back to the station which had ended in him bringing the car to a screeching halt outside of the building and turning in his seat to lay the blame squarely at her feet - didn't mean their argument was over. Or that he was right. Though, much to her consternation, he actually was.
He managed to get a dribble of the amber liquid into the glass before her words reached his ears and he slammed the bottle down heavily onto the desk in response. "And just how is it my fault? I wasn't the one who fell asleep!" The image of her softly slumbering in a swimming costume, eyes shaded by sunglasses, and lounging by the hotel pool would probably never leave him - hell, most of the last twenty-four hours would never leave him.
Alex came to a halt in front of his desk, leaning forward only slightly, "Because you kept me awake all night!" She'd briefly thought about slamming the door behind her as she'd crossed the threshold into his lair but there seemed little point - their voices would carry out of the room and be heard regardless and if they weren't she was sure that Ray would come up with his own version of events anyway. Now she wished she had. She regretted the words almost as soon as she'd said them, as soon as she realised what she was admitting to. Somewhere along the line her anger - at herself and at Gene's disappointment with her - had got the better of her and allowed the truth to come spilling out. She didn't think anyone would guess the true nature behind her comment but she was fully aware of how it sounded. The sudden silence from the outer office pretty much confirmed what she feared they'd all now be thinking and she didn't need to glance backwards to know that Ray and Chris, who had remained surprisingly silent during this morning's journey back to CID, were currently swapping grins that just screamed, 'I knew it'. Whose stupid idea had it been anyway to spend the night undercover at a hotel? Oh, that was right - it had been hers. "You snore," she slung on hastily, hoping to salvage the situation by distracting him. And it was partly true.
"I do not snore," Gene countered angrily, fully aware of how insupportable that statement was - he'd be the last person to know if he snored or not on account of being asleep at the time - and also unable to refute her accusation without giving himself away. And she was really pissing him off now by announcing the whole thing to the station. He didn't want the rest of the team to think he'd got his leg over with Drake but he didn't particularly want them to discount the possibility either. Just because he couldn't have her didn't mean anyone else could. Or that he didn't want her.
"Oh, you do," she bit back, safe in the knowledge that she had the upper hand in this particular argument even if it wasn't strictly true. He snored, there was no doubt about that, but that wasn't what had kept her awake for most of the night. She just hadn't been able to sleep with him. There. Next to her. The gentle rhythmic sound of him snoozing mere centimetres away had bothered her but only because he'd apparently had no problems getting off to sleep in the first place. When it had come to saying 'goodnight', after a rather pleasant evening of faking it as a couple in the hotel restaurant, he'd used his usual subtlety regarding the sleeping arrangements and, for her, it had been a stark reminder of where she was and who she was with. Unsure of his intentions, and of her own, she'd brushed him off with her own usual manner but the entire evening had left her feeling unsettled. And the realisation, that he'd not been as ruffled by their situation as she had been, had led to a fitful night's sleep for her, her mind stretching out the idea further and tormenting her with theories; why hadn't he tried harder, why had she wanted him to, and was he just all mouth and leering innuendoes; and why did all of those thoughts bother her so much?
Knocking back the contents of his glass with one quick gulp he found the drink sadly lacking. The short had done nothing to temper his short mood. "Fine," he snapped, unhappy with her words and the glare she was currently throwing at him. This was all her fault, she had no right to be annoyed with him. Bloody woman - he'd never figure her out. It'd been a stupid idea anyway, going undercover - all this surveillance nonsense was only getting in the way of real policing; "Next time you can bloody take Ray!" Even stupider had been his reaction to the initial suggestion that Ray accompany Alex to the hotel; a pang of possessiveness, one that he had no real right to feel, had swept over him, resulting in him taking Ray's place in case the Sergeant cocked it up. At least that was how he'd put it. What exactly had he been thinking? Whatever it had been, the way she had continuously rebuffed his cautious verbal suggestions that they used the night to the best advantage had only proven one thing: she was his DI; he was her DCI. There was something so brain-achingly complicated about all of it that it seemed so naive to think that it could ever be resolved by just a few select words or maybe one perfectly timed kiss. She wasn't interested in him. She probably never would be. He wasn't some Thatcherite banker or leftie lawyer.
"Fine," she snapped back, feeling as if she'd been slapped across the face once again by his rejection. There wouldn't be another night at the hotel; she'd blown it this morning and she had a feeling they'd be taking the more direct approach next time - there'd be no talking him around on the subject as she had done the previous week. She swivelled on one boot heeled foot and made her way out of his office, ignoring the stares from her colleagues and determined not to show how upset she actually was. There were reports to write, some intelligence to catch up on, plenty of things to occupy her mind. Plenty of things to think about other than him. And how she'd spent the previous night in bed with him, straining through the gloom of their room so she could stare variously at his strong profile, at the back of his head where the hair curled deliciously against his ear and draped across the back of his neck, and at the worn features of his face wishing his eyes were open so she could witness once more the blue depths that quite possibly would be her undoing one day. She wouldn't think about the dreams she'd had at the side of the pool, dreams of him when she should have been watching the suspect, nor would she think about the sight of him stood over her, his eyes dark with either lust or anger, when she'd awoken, almost causing her to act upon those dreams. She wouldn't think about those things at all.
"Fine," he whispered under his breath as he watched her take a seat at her desk, her gaze firmly planted on the case-file in front of her. Switching his sight to the now empty glass on his own desk he rubbed his head tiredly. Despite what he'd let her believe he'd managed to get very little sleep last night - how could he with her only inches away from him? She might not have been naked but his imagination, and the few brief glimpses he'd been privy to, had filled in the blanks and it had been very hard to hold back. Once or twice he'd been so hard that he'd had to roll away from her though, like a moth to a flame, he'd inevitably returned to face her. It hadn't mattered that he was feigning sleep and therefore couldn't see her; every eyelash, every lock of hair, every patch of skin was ingrained in his memory - he could imagine how it would feel to trace one fingertip down the soft skin of her cheek, to see reflected in her eyes the desire he felt for her, to brush his lips against hers. And he'd been so close to doing all three of those things. He poured out another, larger this time, measure and sat back in his chair, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He couldn't fall asleep here - not after everything he'd said. He sat forward suddenly, his eyes darting back to her. He'd lied about being asleep; why had she lied about him snoring? What had really kept her awake?
