"Give me an 'and wi' the stool, Bolls."

"You could always use your chair."

"If I want ter go arse over tit an' end up somewhere near yer overly-painted feet with a broken neck. Bloody swivel chair."

A single light shines on the small glass-panelled office in Fenchurch East CID, dimly illuminating two silhouettes as they move around quietly in the small space, one's hand sneaking onto the other's rear end as they brush together. A sharp slap resounds through the still air.

"Ow!"

"Stop being such a bloody perv and focus. Where should we put it?"

"Above the door. My bloody 'and... yer've crippled me fer life!"

"I can hit a lot more than your hand from here."

One shadow ducks down as it places the stool beneath the door frame, looking up at the other pointedly; a wince flickers over the face of the taller figure, brilliant blue eyes screwing up in imagined agony.

"Assaultin' a senior officer, Bolly. That'll go down well with Jimbo."

"Well, he won't ever know, if this goes to plan."

"If it does, you owe me a scotch."

"Hey, it's your office. I'm still out there in the war zone. And I'm right next to the bloody door, so I'm the first person he turns to when he comes in. And I'm your DI, so he certainly comes to me if you're inaccessible. And-"

"Christ, Bolls, d'yer ever shut up?"

The female silhouette shoots him a withering look, picking something up off the desk.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, especially with what we're about to do."

"Why, what does Junior want, an apology?"

"It's just a matter of respect, Gene. Respecting other people's beliefs. Like the Super was talking about. Oh yes, that's right, you didn't hear because you were too busy nursing your hangover from the night before after drinking yourself into oblivion at the expense of the taxpayer. Brilliant way to instill the public's faith in us."

The figure now precariously balanced on the stool snorts.

"Rather it went on scotch fer me than another set o' batteries fer Thatcher's vibrator. Yer got it?"

"Yes. Be careful."

"When am I not, Bolly-Kecks."

The shadow standing on the floor sighs, tiptoeing shakily in her high heels to hand something up to the man holding onto the door frame to keep upright.

"You are going to fall off that stool, fall into the desk or me and probably break both of our necks."

"Your lack of faith in me seriously disappoints, DI Drake. Got it- where's the bloody glue?"

"I think... oh, sorry. I knocked it onto the floor. Shit... it's gone everywhere."

"Draaaaaaake..."

The woman stoops to laboriously ease something out of a sticky pool on the floor, flinching at the gloop as it finally comes free.

"Sorry, Guv, it's a bit sticky."

"It's meant ter be a bit sticky... urgh!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

The figure on the chair groans, peeling a bottle of glue from his fingers only for it to get stuck on his other hand.

"Two scotches."

"Only if I get to shelter in here whenever he comes in."

"As much as I love 'avin' yer delectable arse in my office, Bolly, rumours are already flyin' an' I don't think addin' wood ter the bloody fire would 'elp."

"Gene, stick the bloody thing on already, would you?"

"Respect, DI Drake. Remember?"

The silhouette on the ground grinds her teeth, visibly resisting the urge to punch her superior officer somewhere literally below the belt as he stretches up, pressing the object onto the door frame and easing off the stool, surveying it with a satisfied look on his face.

"Luigi's calls, Bolly. Your round, I think."

"When will it be your bloody round?"

"When Hell freezes over, Bolls."

They both look back at the doorframe on their way out, looking over their handiwork.

"Hopefully that'll be soon. You never know."

Gene reaches out to turn the light off behind them, collecting his coat from the hook and giving Alex a mock bow, gesturing for her to walk out in front of him.

"Ladies first."

"Just so you can look at my arse."

"They invented chivalry for a reason, Bolls. 'Ow else were yer meant ter check out the opposite sex's arse in the Middle Ages? So much bloody fabric everywhere. Thank God the 80s 'ave been more considerate ter men an' invented them lovely tight jeans you 'ave."

Alex huffs, but the lack of a fight isn't lost on either of them as she strides through the doorway, leaving Gene in her wake to watch eagerly as she makes her way out.

"Do you think it'll work?"

"If it doesn't, I won't be best pleased. I don't like gettin' my boots sticky fer nothin'."

"Careful where you say that, Guv. We're in the office together late at night with nobody else around."

"Christ. Those bloody rumours'll 'ave bloody rocket fuel added if anyone catches us. Out the back."

"That means going past Keats' office."

"Even better. Nice little surprise fer 'im in the morning."


"HUNT!"

DCI Jim Keats growls, his eyes wide and wild as he realises he's fallen prey to one of the oldest tricks in the book. One hand is pulling at his wrist, trying to ease it back towards his body; the other is firmly stuck to the door knob.

"Can somebody help me? Our lovely DCI Gene Hunt has decided to cover the door knob with glue and so my hand is stuck..."

A pair of WPCs pass by, giggling nine to the dozen. One of Gene's DCs, that Skelton man from Manchester, looks as though he might help and then flees towards CID. Keats can see red creeping into his vision.

"Bloody Northern bastard!"

His hand finally comes free, coated with sticky, opaque glue; he sighs, heading up towards the men's loos. He can pay a visit to Hunt once he's cleaned himself up.

It takes twenty minutes, several sinkfuls of tepid water and thirty-eight paper towels to finally rid him of the worst of the glue; resolving to wipe the rest off on Hunt's disrespectful backside, he storms up towards CID, imagining hellfire surrounding him, empowering him, lightning and screams his diabolical background as he throws the door to CID open and heads towards Hunt's office...

He stops dead, staring up at the door frame, mouth wide open, body paralysed in shock.

Half hidden by the dim lighting is a small crucifix, sitting happily, innocently, right on top of the entrance to Hunt's domain.

"Ah, Jimbo. Can I help yer?"

Keats' vision drops to find DCI Gene Hunt leaning against the door frame, directly beneath the crucifix, a smug smirk threatening to split his face in two. Behind him, DI Alex Drake is perched on his desk, her lipstick failing to conceal the amusement in her face.

Keats' hands ball into fists.

God damn it! Where am I going to intimidate, threaten and irritate him now?

Gene's grin simply widens. Not for the first time, Keats muses the possibility of scratching 'MUFC' on the bonnet of the Quattro.

Alright then, Hunt. Game on. Let's roll out the big guns.


A/N: Hope you liked it! Please remember to review! Jazzola :)