"Afternoon, DCI Keats. What can I do for you this afternoon?"
Chief Superintendent Wilkins looks over his glasses rim at Keats as he stands in his office, shivering slightly and cursing Wilkins's rural Yorkshire upbringing for making the man so impervious to the cold. In one hand is grasped a scrap of paper with an address on it, in the other a watch.
"It's come to my attention, sir, that none of the officers in this building are attending the annual Discipline and Complaints Summit in... er... Chelmsford. I was coming to ask if you were going to select a DCI to go- I mean, somebody should go, it's good for the public image of your station and it'll also help the department in question with efficiency, prompt investigations and management. I'm sure you'd prefer a department having those benefits to missing out on this opportunity- we're not inviting every CID in the country to attend, just those we feel could benefit."
"And which department are you suggesting, DCI Keats?"
Keats clenches his hand in his pocket, over the pocket watch flicking between 11:43 and 9:06.
"I would like to see DCI Hunt attending the summit. His management leaves a lot to be desired, his efficiency is at rock-bottom- really, sir, he needs this, him and his team."
Wilkins frowns.
"Hunt's leadership appears to be working, if a little ramshackle at times. He's got one of the best prosecution rates in London. Efficiency is being handled by DI Drake, she's got a very firm hold on the team as well. I know there was that whole business with the shooting, but that was a complete accident on Hunt's part- those guns are treacherous for getting your finger stuck, and if he was avoiding a bullet himself, I'm not surprised it went off. Besides, DI Drake is back at work now, and seems very comfortable with DCI Hunt- closer than ever, it seems to me-"
"Yes, sir, I know," Keats snaps, a little harsher than intended, hating to be reminded of his failure to bring Gene Hunt down for that 'business' and the new intimacy between Gene and Alex. Wilkins raises his eyebrows.
"Sorry, sir, but I just very much feel that Hunt and Drake would benefit from the summit. It would help them both a great deal."
Wilkins nods.
"Well, I'll put the idea to them. I'll need an address, time and date for this summit. I haven't heard anything about it..."
Keats gulps.
"No, no, it's only just started. We're keeping it quiet, you know, to avoid gatecrashers, only inviting those who we feel are very much in need of it. Having surveyed Fenchurch East CID for a couple of months now, I feel there's much room for improvement."
"Well, it's your judgement, and I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll pass a message down to CID."
"Tomorrow, sir, nine twenty. I have the address here."
He hands the scrap of paper over; Wilkins glances at it, tapping the memo out on a typewriter next to his computer and putting it in an envelope, stamping 'DCI GENE HUNT AND DI ALEX DRAKE' on the front, placing it in his out tray.
"Thank you, DCI Keats. Oh, and the heating in your room- is it satisfactory?"
Keats frowns.
"I could do with it being a little warmer, sir."
"Warmer? It's like a sauna in there! You can feel the heat walking along outside! You must have incredibly poor circulation- have you seen a doctor?"
Keats's mouth twists into a sly smile.
"I manage, sir."
He heads out, smiling darkly to himself, a giggle threatening his throat as he attempts to hold onto his professional persona.
Keats shivers, rueing how cold mortals need to have the place; holding the watch up, he makes a dash for his office, rolling his eyes as it switches from 11:43 to 9:06 and back again.
"Focus, it's Hunt you're here to take down."
The watch gives a little hiss, firmly stopping at 11:43 once again. Keats gives a smirk of approval, walking forwards, stowing the watch back into his pocket.
"AIEEEE!"
His scream, several octaves higher than it should have been, reverberates around the corridor just as his foot goes straight through a panel on the floor, leaving him doing an involuntary splits on the icy concrete.
"Ah ow ee ah help!"
He only just glimpses the back of a blond head vanishing behind him, sniggering with someone else he presumes to be DI Drake. His gut twists- he will not be made fun of by a pair of dead bloody coppers!
"You wait until tomorrow, Hunt- you wait!"
"I feel sick."
"We've only been driving for five bloody minutes!"
"Gene, you drive like a maniac. I felt sick after a few seconds. It's not just bloody car sickness, it's fear for my life!"
Alex strongly suspects he's venting his feelings on the road; it had taken the Super two hours of nagging, cajoling and eventually bribery to get Gene to attend the summit, and even then Gene had only agreed to shut him up (and in order to enjoy the incredibly expensive scotch promised). But whatever his reason for doing a passable impression of a rabid and constipated ralley driver, it's making her feel ill and her only thought is of getting him to slow down.
"Don't drive like a maniac."
"You bloody well do."
Gene pouts, changing gear with a thrust worthy of a professional darts player; the car jerks, and Alex covers her mouth, begging for them to arrive in Chelmsford. It's only a thirty minute drive, but the way Gene goes about it it's more like being on a rollercoaster twice over, only worse.
"Gene, for God's sake, slow down!"
At the sight of her paper white skin, Gene silently acquiests, slowing a little and pulling into a lay-by, reaching across her to open the door as Alex realises she's about to be sick.
Unable to stop herself, Alex retches, splutters, and coughs out vomit- all over Gene's arm, the dashboard, and the seat of the Quattro.
For a moment, neither speaks, Gene's mouth open with shock, Alex spitting out a little left-over bile and opening her eyes, realising what she's done.
Gene is speechless for almost the first time in his forty-odd years, his eyebrows rising as the tepid sick begins soaking onto his skin.
"Oh God- Gene- sorry!"
"That," Gene says heavily after a pause, opening his own door and stripping his jacket off, throwing it onto the grass, "was bloody disgusting. Thanks very much, Drake."
"If your driving had been better, it wouldn't have happened," Alex mutters, on the defensive immediately as she recovers, squeezing out of the sick-stained seat and standing up on the verge, her stomach doing somersaults but mercifully managing to conserve what is left of her breakfast. Gene groans, examining his suit, reaching in to open the dashboard and get out some water and a barley sugar, pressing both into Alex's hands as he pulls a spare shirt out from under the driver's seat.
"There, 'ave those. I'll send yer the number o' my dry cleaner's."
"Your driving caused it."
"'S your bloody sick."
Alex huffs.
"Just because you can't pay for your own dry-cleaning. All go on booze and cigarettes, did it?"
Gene's gaze grows hard as he stares her down, growling deep in his throat as she glares right back, her eyes flinty to match his.
"Not that it's any o' your business, DI Drake, but much of my bloody salary goes on the dementia care 'ome in Lancashire that my mother is currently enjoyin'. Shall we move on?"
Alex opens, then shuts her mouth, missing the miniscule red flush in Gene's cheeks as he turns away, diligently avoiding her gaze, clambering back into the Quattro and leaving her on the verge, sponging up the worst of the sick with an empty fish and chip paper and an old towel. She gets in silently, half chastised, half honoured that Gene has entrusted her with this detail about his private life.
As they set off, she silently slips her hand on top of Gene's as he changes gear, and keeps it there.
"Is this the address Keats gave?" Alex asks as the Quattro draws into a car park, purring gently as the engine cuts out. Gene gives her a supercilious look.
"Not unless D&C 'ave thought o' the luxury of entertainin' us in a multi-storey bloody car park. Out yer get, an' try not ter be sick goin' there, I only 'ave the one shirt."
Alex bites back a retort, mindful that if she gets on his wrong side it'll be a very difficult day for both her and anyone unfortunate enough to encounter him, and slides out, unintentionally giving him a first-class view of her arse. He grins to himself, locking the car and striding towards the building on the note, cursing Wilkins's negotiation training. Got me 'ook, line an' bloody sinker. That whisky better be bloody good.
"Just up 'ere, Bolls."
He turns a corner, silently daring a teenage boy to cut them up with his bike, striding forwards as the boy hastily attempts a sharp turn to escape from the Gene Genie's eyes and cycles straight into the side of a building.
"Kids," Gene says carelessly, giving a little tut, leaving a passer-by to pick the boy up and brush him down as they head towards the building hosting the summit. Alex sighs, beginning to complain and petering out as she realises he's not listening. Bloody infuriating man. But... if I just slow down a little... not bad from behind, I'll give him that.
Gene turns into another side street, walks down to an address, and stops, staring up at it. Alex frowns.
"Landmark?"
"That's the address."
Alex joins him in looking up at the ruined, decrepit house, looking down at the paper and back at the street name and peeling front door of the building.
"Bloody Keats... he's sent us on a wild goose chase! There's no summit!"
Gene growls, crumpling the paper up violently in one red fist, a vein pulsing just below his hairline, teeth clenched so hard it hurts. Alex is trying and failing to stop the fury building, punching the fence, imagining it is Keats's smug face.
"Come on, back ter the Quattro. We can think of things ter do ter bloody Keats on the way- what d'yer think of takin' all the labels off 'is files?"
He storms off, his coat swishing behind him, an avenger in an 80s suit; Alex stomps after him, grinding her jaws, her high heels banging like a machine gun in the dilapidated old street, chest jiggling wildly. Gene can't help but have a look, redirecting some of the blood pumping furiously round his body to a slightly embarrassing part of his anatomy; he hopes Alex won't twig why he's pulled his coat round him and done up one of the buttons.
"HANDS IN THE AIR! EVERYONE GET AGAINST THE WALL!"
At the sound of the shout, Gene and Alex exchange a look and run towards the high street, catching a glimpse of a figure wearing a balaclava and clutching a machine gun, gesticulating wildly in one of the shops; Gene eases into position at the back door, drawing his gun from its holster and silencing Alex's question with a glare, motioning for her to get the door open.
"Three... two... one!" he hisses, the pair of them bursting in as the balaclava screams and turns to fire a shot at Gene, missing by a huge margin as Gene swings the barrel of his gun into the man's temple, felling him like a limp rush.
"Lovely little trainin' exercise," he says to the assembled crowd, putting the gun back in his holster and brushing his hands off, giving the man lying on the floor a quick kick just to make sure he's out. "DCI Gene Hunt, Metropolitan Police. Someone want ter get 'im a lift ter the local nick? 'E's otherwise engaged."
Someone in the crowd starts a round of applause, the rest joining in as Gene cuffs the man lying on the floor and Alex hoists him up onto a chair, beaming round at the people, making a quick check to see if everyone is alright. A noise from the back draws the crowd's attention, a few people stepping out of the way as a newspaper reporter bustles through, snapping a picture of Gene and Alex with the would-be robber, grinning.
"This'll make a great headline! Could I have a few words with you, DCI Hunt?"
Gene rolls his eyes, stepping back from the failed blagger and looking straight at the camera, narrowing his eyes.
"Yeah, four. Just doin' my job."
The crowd returns to cheering, clapping and celebrating as a car turns up to book the man and haul him off to the local nick. Gene and Alex make their getaway as soon as they can, Alex unable to keep the smile off her face at the gratitude of the people in the shop, Gene trying to keep the Manc Lion mask in place and gladly accepting a flask of whisky from one of the men in the shop.
Keats, watching from the entrance of the wrecked street, lets his face convulse with hatred.
"Bastard! Bloody do-gooder bastard!"
He yanks a Thermos flask of coffee from his briefcase, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip, yelping and spitting as he gets a mouthful of foam. He empties the flask out on the street, finding a pile of foam, a few globules of Fairy Liquid still left intact and a Post-It note stuck to the bottom of the flask.
"Enjoy, Jimbo. DCI Hunt and DI Drake."
Keats could cry with loathing.
"Oh, I will get you. I will get you... and it will be so satisfying!"
A/N: This was going to be a one-shot, looks as though it's going to turn into a full-blown story! Please remember to review, that's what keeps me going. I can write more! Thanks for reading, and REVIEW! Jazzola :)
