Rating: K+, a friendly fic
Disclaimer: Property of Matthew Graham, Ashley Pharaoh, BBC, Kudos, et al. No infringement intended.
Spoilers: To the end of s1.
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Summary: GALEX. Post-ep for 1x08. Little Alex isn't the only one needing a little of the Gene Genie's magic touch following the events of the finale.
-x-
He's alone at the bar.
She rises. She leaves her jacket slung over the back of her chair, leaves her half-consumed drink and Ray's half-told anecdote about his latest conquest. She feels an odd pull to be near him, next to him, joined with him.
He's arguing with Luigi, muttering about something. She doesn't know what, doesn't care. Gene doesn't stop grumbling, he doesn't turn towards her as she pulls up beside him, a little closer than she normally would. Luigi instinctively serves her another drink and Alex lifts it to her lips.
She can almost feel the rumble of his voice in her body, just from their nearness, just through the one tentative point where their elbows graze. Luigi glances at her, brown eyes twinkling as if he knows exactly what she's doing, how much she's needing and enjoying the proximity to her cantankerous old boss. He bows his head and steps backwards, conceding the quarrel with Gene, whatever it was about. Gene humphs in satisfaction. Luigi just looks at her then at him then at her again before retreating to a far corner of the bar to serve a much more appreciative customer. She feels Gene turn and knows he's about to return to the cluster of CID tables, fresh pint in hand. She doesn't want to lose him to the crowd though, not yet. So she faces him, taps his sleeve with her fingers.
"Gene. I, ah…"
Traces of his row with Luigi linger so he snaps at her, not quite looking at her. "Yes. Wot?"
"I just," she says haltingly, "I wanted to thank you."
He looks at her, frowns at her. "Wot for?"
She opens her mouth but can't speak the truth. She can't thank him for running to her aid. Taking her hand, holding her close. For the safety and strength he provided in that pivotal, unbearable moment. For sweeping her up in his grasp and delivering her from the horror of the flames. Flames that robbed her of everything she ever knew. Robbed her of innocence, of life, of love. She can't thank him for bringing her to a place she felt protected, for couching down and speaking low and calling her sweetheart, for stamping on a tape that would've shattered what remained of her small world. She can't thank him for any of that. He wouldn't have the faintest clue what she was talking about. He'd think her dafter than he already did.
Alex ducks her head, eventually stammering out: "For dinner. Last night. I…enjoyed your company and I hope we can do it again sometime." She looks up, smiles at him. "Maybe we could watch that film, like you suggested. I don't know much about Westerns but I'm sure you could educate me."
Gene nods a few times then looks away. "Prob'ly not a good idea, Bols."
"Oh." The response shocks her, especially since it wasn't a conversation she was planning on having. Her head drops again. "Right…"
"Considerin' I'm your superior an' all." He shuffles back a bit, shrugs his shoulders. "We have to, you know. Work together."
"Yeah, no," she lifts her head, her features contorting as they try to smile, "of course."
He nods over her shoulder at the cluster of detectives swigging their beers and throwing their garlic bread. "S'fine when the rest of 'em are about. But wouldn't want things gettin'—"
"Complicated," she nods in reply, her voice fading. "No. No, absolutely…"
"Well, don't look like that about it," he mutters in horror as her face starts to crumble.
As soon as he says it, she can't help it. She waves a hand in front of her face to stem the tears. "I'm not. I'm fine, it's fine..."
"Blimey…" Gene glances about, body shifting in his clothes. "Never 'ad a woman cry over me turnin' her down."
"It's not that," she gasps, pressing two fingers to her trembling lips. "It's just…it's been a big day."
"Yeah. Well…" He gives her shoulder a little punch, "you're a big girl, ain't you?"
The fleeting contact is all it takes. She falls towards him, seeking more, seeking the unparalleled security of his embrace. Seeking the smokey-whiskey smell of him and the warm sanctuary of those arms. One of them curls around her shoulders, hand giving her a puzzled, perfunctory pat. The other hand holds his pint safely aloft.
Luigi passes by, pausing to ask, "Is the signorina…?"
"She's fine," Gene grunts, giving her another awkward pat. "Bugger off and go get the lady her tea. She needs feedin' is all."
She snuffles against his shirt, clutches the lapels of his jacket with both hands.
Gene slides his beer onto the bar without spilling a drop then tries to pull her back with both hands. "C'mon, Bols, people are startin' to stare..."
"No—" She resists, wagging her head and squeezing her eyes shut. "Just a little longer..."
He clears his throat and waves a hand, probably indicating that their curious co-workers should proceed with their drunken antics. Then she feels Gene sigh and acquiesce. His arms sling loosely about her, not holding her as tightly as she'd like but holding her at least.
"They'll all think," he mutters, voice rumbling under her cheek, "I've said somethin' awful to you and, in this case, I'm an innocent man." He pulls his head back, tries to peer down at her, get a look at her face. "Just tryna do the decent thing 'ere, Bolly."
She doesn't answer. She doesn't care what he says, doesn't care how it looks. She just needs another moment of this. She breathes him in, cheap aftershave and spicy sweat and pen ink and Quattro leather and petrol smoke and all, her face heating against his wet shirt and the warm skin beneath.
"Oright, oright…" he goes on, shuffling a little closer and holding her a little tighter, "We'll, ah…we'll watch that flick, go out for dinner. Somewhere swanky, wherever you want. I'll get you sole, I'll pay for everythin'. But please," he rubs her back, looks down at her, "stop cryin', Bols. If there's one thing I can't bloody stomach it's a woman's tears."
Her eyes crack open, her grip loosens on his jacket. "I'm not crying."
He gives her a moment, lets her hands retract and her spine straighten in their own time. He waits for her to wipe her nose on her wrist like the small child she no longer is. Then he takes her shoulders in both hands and rights her. "Liar," he murmurs, peering at her misty eyes and ruddy cheeks. "Buck up, Bolly-Kecks," he gives her shoulder a final, hearty pat, "You've got yourself a second date."
She sniffs and shakes her hair out of her face. "I really wasn't crying about that."
He grabs a paper napkin from a nearby table. "'Ere, dry your eyes, you look like a raccoon."
"Thank you." She takes it, swipes under her eyes.
Gene rocks on his heels, one hand sliding into one pocket. "Oo, two thank yous in one night. Aren't I a lucky bastard?"
She wads the napkin into a ball, eyes swollen but clear. "You're not a bastard."
"What am I then?" He picks up her drink and hands it to her. "You tell me."
Alex takes her drink, gives the straw a few thoughtful stirs. "Today?" She moves in and places a kiss on his cheek. "You're my hero." Then she turns her back on his stunned expression and blinking eyes and heads back to her seat.
-x-
He's not seen her drink so much in a long time, not since the first night she joined them for their customary post-work booze-up. He can remember like it was yesterday how the whole atmosphere of the trattoria altered as she entered. Or maybe it was just him that altered – his temperature spiking, his mind blowing and something much higher than his groin beginning to ache in way that was now just habit.
He'd helped her up the stairs that night too, one of her arms slung over his shoulders and one of his slung round her waist. She'd threatened to throw up on him with every step and he was distinctly relieved to make it to her couch unscathed by the regurgitation of the gallons of alcohol he was continually surprised to see Alex Drake put away. This time, she doesn't threaten to throw up on him. Alex doesn't talk at all. In fact, she's been uncharacteristically quiet all night. Whatever she did say made less sense than usual, which wasn't a lot to begin with. As the night wore on, he watched her slump lower and lower over stronger and stronger drinks. Now, his normally highly verbal, stubbornly independent DI is like a ragdoll in his arms. Her head lolls on his shoulder, her hair tickles his ear. Her supporting arm has fallen off him, offering no assistance at all as he lugs her up the narrow stairwell. One hand still clutches his shirt though, just like both did earlier in the evening when she stole a hug off him. He hadn't seen that one coming. And he's seen Alex Drake drunk before. Plenty of times. He's seen her drunk and sad, drunk and mad, drunk and sloppy and even drunk and horny. But tonight, she seems to be taking things to a whole new level.
By the time they get to the landing, her feet are barely cooperating and her breath has started to fall into the deep, even rhythm of sleep. Gene tests the doorknob, finds her flat open and flings the door wide. Then he bends to slip an arm under her knees, hoisting her up into a loose bridal lift. Her body flops into place, one arm dangling down his back, her head settling onto his shoulder and that same hand still gripping tight to his shirt. He carries her over the threshold then pauses in place, uncertain whether to proceed to the lounge room or the bedroom.
With the conscious, unknown Alex of a couple of months back, there was not much of a choice. She'd ordered him to the couch and he'd obligingly flung her onto it. But this Alex is offering no instructions. She's dead to the world, her long limbs lax and her painted eyelids closed. And she's far from an unknown entity to him now. He's spent nearly every waking minute of the last couple of months with this Alex – fighting with her, worrying about her, running after her, rescuing her bony behind from every scrape she waltzed into without him. This is a woman he knows, works with, likes – most of the time. She's a woman he's dated. Sort of. A woman who earlier that evening cried in his arms.
He turns right, making the decision to put her to bed. After all, if she's gonna go round hugging and kissing the likes of him then the woman is clearly overtired. Her room is dark and he stubs his toe on the edge of her bed. Gene swallows a curse and continues around the foot of the bed to place her on top of the covers. He switches on the lamp then looks down at her. She does not look comfortable. Her head tilts back at an awkward angle so he rights it on the pillow. Her white jacket dangles from her fingertips so he takes it and throws it on a nearby chair. There's a big chunk of hair in her mouth so he picks it out and smooths it away. Then he glances at her boots, figuring he should take those off at the very least. Her first foot is compliant. But the second one tries to brain him. Gene tugs a little harder than he needs to, yanking her body down the bed.
Alex stirs and blinks. "…Gene?"
He chucks her boot to the floor, quashing the urge to feel guilty. "Go back to sleep, Bolly."
He leans over to the other side of the bed, pulls the covers across and arranges them over her. One hand escapes though, catching his as he's withdrawing. She fumbles for it, gets his thumb first then adjusts her grip. Her left hand in his right, like they are about to dance or something. She turns towards him and mumbles something into her pillow, her voice slurry with drink and sleep and sorrow. He's bent over her, feeling captured and awkward and guilty. He doesn't feel like he should be there, like he's got any right to witness what he is. And he knows that by staying he risks irrational rage or icy distrust being aimed at him the following morning when she stalks into his squadroom once again in her right mind – no matter how bloody-minded her right mind may be. Nevertheless, he leans closer, tries to hear what she's trying to say. Sitting on the edge of the bed feels wrong so he crouches down on one knee. His eyes have adjusted to the low light and he can make out the shape of her face, the expression in her eyes as she tells him:
"…in the 'ospital…told Shaz…"
"Y'told Shaz what?" he prompts when her eyes drift closed and her voice trails off.
She takes a deep breath and starts again. "I told Shaz…she was my favourite construct. But after…" Alex squeezes his hand, eyes glistening with emotion, "Think you might be."
Gene nods a few times. Then answers softly, "You're talkin' rot again, Bols." His free hand pulls the covers up to her chin. "Get some sleep and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she repeats as if it's a question.
"Tomorrow…" His tongue wants to tack an endearment onto the promise – luv or sweetheart or darlin' – but his brain intercedes. Alex probably wouldn't remember it. But he would.
Rising to his feet, he releases her hand. It disappears under the covers as her eyelashes fall back to her cheeks. He turns out the light and moves to the door, boots quiet on the worn carpet. On the threshold, he glances back at the softly breathing lump of her. Then Gene eases the door shut and leaves.
END.