Gene lay still in the darkness. Where the bloody hell was he? He shifted uncomfortably. And what the bloody hell was he lying on? Springs creaked and groaned beneath him. Ah, it was all coming back to him now. Along with the fuzzy head and foul taste in his mouth.
He'd stumbled up Luigi's back stairs to Bolly's door, wine and glasses in hand. The problem was, it had taken him so long to actually make the decision to head up to her flat that he was half-cut by the time he got there. He'd hung on as long as he could, mainly to prove to Luigi that Alex Drake was the last thing on his mind as he sat drinking, alone in their corner. Eventually though, his need to see her won out over his stubborn desire to irritate the foreigner, and when Luigi's back was turned Gene had slid out of the corner and made his escape. He remembered using his head to knock on Drake's door as both his hands were full, and practically falling onto her when she swung open the door. Bolls hadn't batted an eylid mind you. It was almost as if she were expecting him. He'd been steered gently and efficiently into her living room, coat removed and wine poured, all in what seemed to Gene the space of a few seconds. Classy mare his Bolly, ready for any eventuality. Deal with anything with no fuss or bother. Well, unless she's having one of her Miss Fruitcake moments…. He remembered, remembered – what? Gene rubbed at his eyes and began to sit up. Well, at least he was still dressed, no shoes or socks on though. He rolled his head on his shoulders trying to get the crick out of his neck – no tie or jacket either. Bolly must have taken them off him – and he couldn't remember! Bloody hell, he'd dreamed of that woman removing items of his clothing and when it actually happens he's too pissed to notice! As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light shining in from the street outside, Gene noticed a blanket lying on the floor next to the sofa. She must have covered him up, made sure he was warm and comfortable. He smiled to himself in the gloom, she cared about him, his Bolly-Knickers. She might not show it all the time, well, hardly ever, but she cared enough to let him into her flat, drink with him, then put him up on her sodding back-breaking sofa, tucking him in before heading off to her own bed. Wonder what had woken him? Usually it would take the Veteran Police's Brass Band to drag him out of the land of nod if he'd had a skin full. Gene heaved himself up off the protesting sofa and headed to the bathroom. A jimmy riddle and a swish round with some of that mouthwash stuff should sort him out, then he'd find his clobber and head for home. Or the station if it wasn't worth going back to bed; he could always grab forty winks in his office before everyone else arrived.
Gene was in the living room scooting about trying to find his tie, or jacket, well anything really when he heard the sound. What was it? He stopped, tilting his head to one side, eyes narrowed in concentration. There it was again – crying? Groaning? Moaning? Lord preserve us, Bolly lying in her bed, moaning. How much can one man take. He stood balanced on the bare balls of his feet, not knowing what to do next, eyes glinting in the darkness. Maybe he should just go and check on her – listen outside her door, make sure she's ok. It wouldn't make him a pervert, just a concerned friend. A colleague. A mate. Before he knew it, Gene found himself facing Alex's bedroom door, bare footed and bare chested in the darkness, listening.