A/N I hated the ending (well, the last few minutes of it anyway) and as I can't seem to wipe it from my memory I'm taking it from theirs instead. Well, Gene seemed destined to forget all over again anyway and Alex is probably better off forgetting what happened to her.
Blessed Are The Forgetful
Slamming the door shut behind him with so much force that it rattled in its frame Gene, with a scowl fixed on his mouth, took a hard right in search of one of the many bottles of booze that he kept stashed about his office for just this sort of occasion. It'd be far easier - and quicker - to drink it straight from the bottle but he wasn't the tramp that lounged on the steps to the station, a bottle conspicuously hidden in a brown paper bag; he was a DCI, he was the Guv, so he grabbed a glass as well as the bottle and headed for his seat. He needed a drink, maybe even two or three, because his job and some of the useless pricks that made up CID were pushing him towards the limits of his patience today. They did most days lately; if his hands weren't tied by procedure they were busy with paperwork or trying to knock his team into shape - the latter, unfortunately, not literally. He wasn't even supposed to touch suspects these days, never mind his own officers. As he sank into his seat the radio outside was finally turned off - he really should have flung it across the room as soon as he'd stepped into the office - and the strains of the most annoying song he had ever heard, one that comprised of completely nonsensical lyrics and was 'sung' by bloody puppets of all things, died away.
He poured out a very generous measure of whisky and, rubbing his head resignedly, decided to leave the bottle open. There was still the afternoon to get through, after all. Knocking back half the contents of the glass in one go, he let his gaze wander outside, where his little part of the world was visible through open blinds and a thin layer of glass. It was relatively quiet out there, a verbal rebuking from their Guv enough to settle the team down. For now, anyway. It'd been like a bloody youth centre when he'd first stormed in, with the radio playing and his officers laughing and joking with each other when they should have been working. Useless bloody idiots. His temper had already been soaring thanks to a frustrating interview with a smarmy bastard who Gene knew in his gut was responsible for a string of sexual assaults on young women but couldn't prove. And gut feelings didn't count for much these days though. Not for the first time, he found himself longing for the days when he could interview suspects without solicitors; times when every word - and slap or punch or blood curdling scream - wasn't recorded for posterity; the good old days when if he couldn't get the piece of deserving scum put down for the crime they had committed then he could ensure they went down for something else instead.
As he continued to survey his kingdom, a semblance of professionalism settling over CID before his eyes, his stroll down memory lane inevitably led him towards his old team; they hadn't been perfect by a long shot but they made his current bunch look like school kids - and not the smart ones who put their heads down, destined for university and beyond. The glass made its way to his lips again and he sipped leisurely at the liquid this time. His old team had all moved on a few years ago, just after a particularly close call with a slimy two-faced bastard from D and C who had threatened to bring Gene's world crashing down around him. Sticking together had eventually seen off the interloper but before they'd really had time to celebrate that particular victory they'd left him; had all gone on to bigger and brighter things whilst he'd stayed here, in Fenchurch East, where he belonged.
In his gut he knew that it'd been the right time for them to move on; they'd been with him long enough, had learnt all they could, and it was time for them to make their respective ways in the world without him on hand to wipe their noses and tuck in their shirts. And he must have done a good enough job on that front because he'd not heard a peep from any of the ungrateful sods since they'd transferred out. They'd just disappeared from his life like Sam had, albeit without the flair for dramatics that Tyler had insisted upon. Maybe he'd look them up one day, perhaps even Sam too, find out what the hell they were playing at and give them a deserved bollocking. Turning the glass absently in his hand, watching the remaining whisky swirl around the bottom, he quietly conceded that his stubborn pride would never let him go after them. No matter how much he missed them.
A flicker of movement from the outer office caught his attention, mercifully dragging his thoughts back to the present before he could wallow any deeper in the past and he raised his eyes in time to see his DI walk into the outer office looking distinctly pissed off. That would no doubt turn out to be his doing, of course, and he quickly finished off the rest of his drink in anticipation of the scolding that was about to come, courtesy of his earlier behaviour in the interview room. Thankfully, he got something of a reprieve when Sergeant Jones - nice lad, nutty as a fruitcake though - followed his Inspector into the office looking just as annoyed as the Inspector. And he got something of a floor show, too as he watched his DI verbally lay into his DS. He smiled slightly at the sight, his spirits lifting further than the corners of his mouth because despite his longing for the past there was one bright light in his present that made everything worth while.
Alex Drake was the only one to have stayed during the mass exodus, to which he thanked whatever Gods existed every day for; gorgeous, with great tits and that arse, and admittedly the best copper of the lot of them, she was the only one he'd wanted to hold onto - and not just as his Detective Inspector. He had come very close to losing her along with Ray, Chris and Shaz though; she'd had an offer to move on just like the others and despite how strongly he'd felt about her even back then, he'd actually encouraged her to take it. He'd even said his farewells to her, had sent her ahead into the pub, had practically ordered her to celebrate her transfer along with the others whilst he'd remained outside in the freezing cold, all by himself, wishing he could just walk in there and get her back. No one else; just her. But he hadn't been able to. Instead he had sloped off into the night, determined to drink himself into oblivion and to forget the only woman who'd ever managed to get under his skin.
Some days, when she was lying naked and sated in his arms, he'd briefly wonder how he could have ever thought that saying good-bye to her at that point, and in such a manner, was the right thing to do when they'd been on the cusp of something that had turned out to be pretty bloody spectacular. The conclusion he'd come to was always the same: it'd been such a great opportunity for her that he'd have hated himself for holding her back, for asking her to choose a life with him when the only thing he could offer her was a career spent catching Southern scum and himself - even if that was what she had wanted. It had been a noble sacrifice on his part, and for her sake, but in the end it hadn't really mattered; Alex Drake had always made, and always would make, her own decisions. She'd waltzed back into CID the following morning, just after a fraught and heated induction with his then newest recruit, and had told him, quite matter-of-factly, that she'd changed her mind and was staying at Fenchurch East. With him. He'd been thoroughly annoyed to see her at first; the bloody infuriating and wilful woman never could follow orders - still couldn't to this day. But he'd been just as relieved, too and the opposing feelings had made his verbal reaction to her return present itself as a bit of a backhanded compliment. She'd only smiled, ever so beautifully, in response though and thoughts of finally concluding their unfinished business had quickly overtaken everything else. Within ten minutes she'd settled straight back into CID, taking the new boy - who thankfully hadn't stuck around for too long - under her wing. She'd settled into his bed, and his home, not long after that having made her way into his heart long before then.
Setting his now empty glass down onto the desk his gaze strayed to the drawer on the left, the object that was hidden inside calling out to him as it often did when he thought about his Inspector in a less than professional way. His heart beat a little faster as he stared at the desk drawer in silent debate. With a quick glance around he slid the drawer open and slipped his hand inside, fingers searching about blindly as he kept his gaze on the goings on outside. It wouldn't do to be caught red-handed, especially by her and he should probably retract his hand, close the drawer and wait until there was less chance of being disturbed but he'd been putting this off for too long. She was still having words with Jones so there was time to sneak the sought out treasure into his pocket before she came in and before he changed his mind. Again. As his hand continued to search hurriedly about the drawer it brushed against something small and metallic that, as he was almost elbow deep by then, must have been nestling towards the back. Frowning to himself he retracted his hand, the unfamiliar object grasped carefully within it and brought his closed fist along the top of the desk until it was directly in front of him.
Uncurling his fingers he was surprised to find a shoulder badge bearing the number 'six six two zero'. It stared up at him rather benignly from the centre of his palm, almost as if it had every right to be there. Intrigued by its presence he started to turn it over, and around, with his fingers, the harsh light from above hitting in turn the second 'six' and the 'zero' at the end and he recited the numbers silently in his head as he fiddled with the object. But he couldn't recall ever seeing it before and he had absolutely no idea how it had got into his desk drawer to begin with.
"There was really no need for that, Guv," Alex complained loudly, barging into his office without knocking but closing the door with more grace than Gene had employed. Sergeant Jones, the young man who kept on insisting that he was from the future and whose mental state, and ability to follow orders, she was really starting to worry about, had borne the brunt of her anger but she had some left over for the Guv. "I think I've managed to convince Stephenson not to press charges but his lawyer isn't too happy."
"I barely touched him. And he's as guilty as Maradona's left hand anyway," Gene defended, his gaze quickly drawn towards Alex and the object in his hand just as swiftly forgotten.
"Guilty or not, Guv - you can't behave like that. Not in front of witnesses."
Gene glared in defiance at the tone of her voice but he knew she was right. DI Drake was usually bloody right and as much as that annoyed him, and it did on an almost weekly basis, he couldn't imagine it being any other way. Didn't want it any other way either. Still, that didn't mean he had to agree with her. "Maybe I should catch up with Stephenson in the car park then."
"I don't think so," Alex warned, folding her arms across her stomach, unsure if he was being serious or not. Despite knowing him for nigh on five years, the latter half extremely intimately, sometimes it was still hard to tell exactly what he was thinking. "You dragged him out of a meeting, threw him into the back of the Merc and drove him halfway across the city - he's having to get a lift back to his office from his solicitor."
"Shame," Gene groused, causing Alex to frown further at him. He'd only roughed the piece of shit up in the interview room and the chance of being able to do more had appealed to him.
There was a pout on Gene's lips that was so familiar - and intoxicating - to her that she could feel what little remained of her ire deserting her in favour of dragging him over his desk and kissing it away. Frustratingly, just a few minutes ago she'd been more intent on dragging him over the coals for his little scene with their suspect in the interview room; he had actually shown some restraint this time, something she liked to think she was responsible for, but he had still crossed the line and, like every other time that he went too far, she was the one who had to pick up the pieces. It was amazing - and infuriating - how he could make her go from irritated to x-rated in the space of minutes. More amazing was the thought that life could have been so very different for her.
When she'd first walked - okay, been carried by Gene - through the doors of Fenchurch East she had immediately set her sights on moving on and as quickly as possible. The force was slowly changing but it'd almost felt like she'd stepped back in time and her first impressions of Gene Hunt had not been favourable either; she'd thought he was obnoxious, difficult, stubborn and downright annoying. It had seemed impossible to her back then that she would still be here all these years later or that she would give up everything else in her life just to be with Gene but when the chance had finally come to leave for greener pastures she'd had trouble accepting it. Shaz, Chris and even Ray, who had always been so fiercely loyal towards the Guv, had been happy enough to leave and she herself had tentatively taken steps away from this corner of the world - mostly because of Gene's insistence that she take up the offer - but she hadn't been able to go through with it. She'd caused one hell of a scene by backing out of the transfer but it'd been worth all the hassle. Yes, Gene Hunt was still all of the things she'd originally thought him to be but over time she'd realised that he was also a good, kind, decent man; he was the one and only 'Guv'; he was the man who made her feel safe just with his presence; the man she trusted with her life; the man she loved. Sitting in the pub with the others on the eve of her departure she'd realised that the only place she wanted to be was with him. And as infuriating as Gene could be at times, she'd never once regretted her decision.
"We'll get him," she said firmly but her arms uncurled as she stepped towards his desk. His pout didn't falter and she fought to keep in control of herself, aware of the half a dozen pair of eyes behind her, no doubt watching intently. It was hard to believe that she'd once been able to resist Gene Hunt; that she used to be so sure that nothing could, or would, ever happen between them - that they were far too different. Even now she wasn't sure she could pinpoint the exact moment she'd fallen in love with him or even the moment she'd first noticed her attraction towards him. She was sure, however, that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him; she couldn't remember ever feeling this content with her life before.
"Your way, I suppose," he offered grudgingly. The truth was that he doubted he could do the job these days without her help. There were too many rules, too many restrictions, too many changes for an old-school officer like himself to deal with. He tried his best but he needed her and quite possibly more than she needed him; without her influence he was sure that he'd have been forced into, or more likely would probably have nominated himself for, early retirement by now.
Smiling at him and his concession, he usually came around to her way of thinking even if it was only after his way had failed miserably, Alex perched herself on his desk and let her eyes wander over him. The pout had gone, possibly because his eyes were now focussed upon her chest, though her desire for him was still coursing its way through her veins. She had moved towards him intent on following through on 'her way' of getting Stephenson, because despite Gene's methods they both agreed that they were on to the right man, but her attention was drawn away from the case by a glimpse of a metallic 'six' that sparkled invitingly at her from his hand. "What's that?"
His gaze rose from the low cut of her blouse to her face and then to the quickly forgotten object in his hand. Again, it glinted harmlessly at him from the safety of his palm when he opened out his fingers. "It's an epaulette, Bols. And you call yourself a copper."
"I know that," Alex sighed, leaning forward slightly to relinquish him of the badge number. She let her fingers trail lazily across his open palm as she picked the shiny object up, relishing his reaction to that briefest of touches. From the moment they'd - finally - took their relationship in a different direction they had agreed that when they were at work they would be DCI Hunt and DI Drake, nothing more. She didn't want the insinuations that a relationship with her boss would no doubt bring with it - it was difficult enough being one of the few female detectives in the Met - and Gene had consented fairly easily. It was an agreement that they'd broken completely within the first month when he had confessed to a long held desire about having her on his desk and with no one else around, and completely turned on by the suggestion, she had quickly succumbed. After that incident the agreement had been partly rewritten; longing glances across the office, whispered words of intent in the kitchen, 'accidental' touches when they were within reach were all allowed - and made going straight home instead of the pub an absolute given. They possibly weren't as discrete as she'd have liked but if the others had noticed then they'd not taken it to anyone outside of CID. "Who does it belong to?"
"Don't know. Just found it at the back of my desk drawer," Gene answered absently as he gazed back at her, all thoughts of the officer in question abandoned at the sight of the officer right in front of him and the path her touch had just burnt into his skin. Fingers that had just left their mark on him were now toying with the badge and he reluctantly drew his thoughts back to the latter; it had to belong to someone, and it had to be in his possession for a reason, too. Maybe he'd get a plonk to search the records. "Mean anything to you?"
With the badge number gripped between her thumb and forefinger she stared at the sequence of numbers and something at the back of her mind tugged at her thoughts. It was odd because all she could think of was her desk; not the one she had now but the one she'd used since her first day at Fenchurch and would most likely have still been using if there hadn't been a particularly riotous incident between a group of drunken football fans and CID. At the time she'd been more upset that her desk had failed to bear the brunt of a seventeen stone hooligan falling on to it than the blatant football rivalry fuelled fist fight that had broken out but she couldn't remember now why she'd felt so strongly about a piece of wood. And she certainly couldn't fathom out why the badge had made her think about her old desk. Every now and then this would happen to her; she would get the strangest feeling that she'd lost sight of something that was important but whenever she tried to follow the thought through it would disappear as quickly as it had come. And she'd let it go, too. "No," she replied eventually, shaking her head as she passed the object back to him.
A flash of something sprung into his head and then disappeared so quickly when he took the badge from her that he wasn't sure it had happened or not. He was left with that strange sort of feeling that the poncy French called deja-vu, as if she had handed the epaulette to him before, in another lifetime. Or something. Dismissing the thought as utterly ridiculous he flung the epaulette back into the drawer where it noisily slid along the wood until it reached something else metallic, making a soft clinking sound at the contact. He really needed to tip that bloody drawer out and find out exactly what else was in there. But not now. There was only thing he was interested in right then and that was the small velvet box he'd been hiding in the drawer for the last few months and Alex herself. The two would be forever linked together, hopefully, once he got round to asking her that one little question.
"Right Bollykecks," he said, slamming the drawer shut loudly at the sudden thought that she might somehow see what else was in there. He wanted to ask her properly, not blurt it out in the bloody office just because she'd seen the box. And he was definitely going to ask her tonight. She was the best part of his life, she was his constant, and he'd almost lost her once before because he'd not had the nerve to ask her to stay. And she'd say yes if he asked - he was almost certain of that. She might not have cooed over the Royal Wedding a few weeks ago like the rest of CID but when he'd casually broached the subject in an attempt to assess his chances of making her his wife she hadn't responded negatively to the idea of marriage. And she'd come back to him; had chosen to stay with him. "You and me. Dinner tonight," he half asked, half ordered, as he casually leant back in his chair.
A smile crept onto her lips at the unexpected offer and a question tumbled with familiarity from her lips, "Are you going to take me somewhere posh?" They still ate at Luigi's but the new owner didn't have any of the old one's charm - or culinary skills for that matter - and he wasn't an authentic Italian either, had only kept the establishment's name for appearances sake. CID still tended to use it as somewhere to decamp to every night as well but that was only because of its proximity to the station and the cheap booze that was still on offer. She sometimes wondered, when the team was in there getting royally pissed, what exactly Luigi had told the new owner about his clientele - or if he had simply thought it wiser to keep his mouth shut - before he'd left for his beloved homeland.
"They've got Dover sole on the menu," he replied, leaning forward as he spoke and snaking his hand past the bottle of whisky and towards her. He could manage posh at short notice; he was owed a favour or two, could pull a few strings and he knew just the place. He wouldn't propose to her at the restaurant though, that would be far too public. He'd take her home first, maybe dig out that old tape of hers and partake in some of the dancing she was so fond of - and that he actually quite liked though he'd never admit as much. Then he'd ask her.
She smiled at him, and his reply, as his hand came to rest on hers, the action hidden from anybody else by her own position on the desk, and she met his gaze as his fingers brushed against the back of her hand - and not entirely accidentally. There was something in his eyes, other than desire, that suddenly made her think there was more to his invitation to dinner than it seemed. For a brief moment she panicked and wondered if today was important and she'd somehow completely forgotten but a hurried review of the date brought up nothing. They'd celebrated their last 'anniversary', the day she'd transferred to Fenchurch East, the previous month but that hadn't involved dinner; it hadn't involved leaving the house at all. She studied him closely but couldn't think further than his blue eyes and promptly gave up. "In that case, I'll wear something skimpy," she replied with a smile as she moved her hand to slide her fingers between his own.
Gene didn't reply, just let his fingers play with hers instead, the tip of his index finger brushing against the base of her ring finger, just below her knuckle, as a smile slowly took over his mouth.